-A little over two years ago, at the end of my senior year of college, I started to feel like I needed a change.  After all, for the past several years, I had been hanging out with the same fifteen people every day.  We all went to the same bar, the same movie theater, and the same deli.  I was ready to graduate and move on.  So I moved to Manhattan where I now live within a ten-block radius of my entire crew from high school and about a dozen fraternity brothers.  We all go to the same bar, the same movie theater, and the same deli.  In other words, besides the 400% increase in my rent, not much has changed.  While I was initially disheartened by this stagnancy, I soon learned that being surrounded by old friends isn’t a bad thing.  In fact, having a lot of friends around actually makes it easier to meet new people.  And those new people sometimes know cute chicks.  And that’s a very good thing.  In the daunting streets of New York City, your friends are all you’ve got.  Each one serves a specific purpose – some to make you laugh, some to get you drunk, and some to get you laid.  Taken together, your friends form an intricate support network of checks and balances, from wingmen to designated drivers.  I call this well-oiled machine the Buddy System.

-My friend Claudio is a bad-introducer.  I’ll be standing next to Claudio at the bar having a beer and a succession of girls will come up, kiss him on the cheek, and make small talk, but he doesn’t even acknowledge me.  It’s like for three minutes, I no longer exist, then the girl leaves and I reappear.  Unlike me, Claudio is friendly and nice, so he knows tons of people.  But I’ve never met any of them.

-My friend Eric is a shit-talker.  These are the guys that are incapable of telling you a story without exaggerating.  When you become close enough friends with a shit-talker, you learn to discount everything he claims by 75%.  So if Eric claims he got a $20,000 raise and slept with four chicks last week, I know he only got a $5,000 raise and hooked up with one chick.  Tops.

-One drawback of the Buddy System is the constant amount of peer pressure being placed on you.  For instance, over the past year, I’ve partied like a wild animal in Manhattan, South Beach, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Mardi Gras, and Rio de Janeiro.  I’ve spent thousands of dollars on martinis and Michelobs.  I’ve hooked up a lot and been shot down even more.  I’ve thrown up on myself and others.  But when one of my friends calls me at midnight on a rainy Tuesday night to see if I want to grab a beer and I decline, the response is always the same: “Pussy.”

-In several past columns, I’ve mentioned my high school buddies who are fraternal triplets.  I thought I’d take a moment to elaborate on these characters, who I refer to by their birth order.  Triplet #1 is a consultant who spends most of his free time watching the World Series of Poker on ESPN.  He has an extensive collection of twenty-dollar Movados and Rolexes that he buys off the street.  Triplet #1 also has the biggest cell phone I have ever seen, complete with a digital camera that takes pictures that never come out.  He never cleans his plate and is currently single.  Triplet #2 is an investment banker with an enormous head.  Literally.  His skull is so large he needed to get a specially made helmet shipped in from Taiwan to play football in junior high.  In high school, he fainted in Health class while watching “If These Walls Could Talk.”  Triplet #2 is also a karaoke microphone-hogger, refusing to let anyone else participate as he belts Tracy Chapman songs from memory at the top of his lungs.  He suffers from low-grade narcolepsy, always cleans his plate, and is also currently single.  Triplet #3 is a med student who has a serious girlfriend.  Because of that lethal combination, I hang out with him the least of the three.  Medicine is obviously in his blood.  In high school, when an inebriated friend tripped and hurt his ankle, he rushed to scene yelling, “Everyone out of the way, I know what I’m doing – my uncle is an orthopedic surgeon!”  Triplet #3 has great hair, still lives at home, and is fond of stealing Triplet #1’s fake watches.  Some people ask me, “Karo, how do you remember who was born first?”  That’s easy, their initials are on their mom’s license plate in birth order.  Triplet #2 isn’t allowed to sit in the back though, his head gets in the way.

-My friend Chi is an unnecessary drink-buyer.  When 4am rolls around at the bar and you’re nauseous and bloated, you can count on Chi to order two double rounds of the most disgusting shots available.  Chi is also my male friend with the least knowledge of sports and holds the distinction of being the only person I know who used all his cell phone minutes for the month in one night by passing out drunk while on the phone with someone.  I guess he shouldn’t have taken that extra shot.

-The linchpin of the Buddy System, the place where it all begins and ends, is of course, the roommate.  While Brian and I have been friends for about fifteen years now, we have not yet tired of trying to one-up each other.  In fact, our relationship is defined by competition.  In our junior year of high school, I completely bombed a math test.  Brian has kept my test for eight years, and it now hangs on the refrigerator of our apartment.  We once took an IQ test to determine who was smarter.  When he beat me by a point, I declared the results null and void, seeing as his mom, who scored the test, was more biased than a French ice skating judge.  And last year we made a handshake agreement that if either one of us ever won the lottery, we’d split it with the other.  This was not to increase our chances of winning, but rather to ensure that neither of us would have an unfair advantage in the race to get rich first.  I mean, I love the kid, but I ain’t going out like that.

-Brian is a meal-describer.  Meaning that when he comes home from dinner, I get a detailed, play-by-play account of everything he ate: “Karo, you should have seen this sandwich I had, man.  It came on a semolina roll with the mozzarella melted just right.  The chicken was topped with red onions, bell peppers and…”  I’m like dude, will you shut the fuck up, I’m trying to watch VH1 here.  Of course, my efforts are in vain, because Brian is a connoisseur of all things culinary.  He once almost got into a fistfight with his girlfriend’s parents during a friendly game of Scattergories because he insisted olive loaf was a food that started with the letter “O.”  And after inspecting a new gourmet bakery that opened up down the block, he stormed out declaring he would never return.  When I asked him why, he said, “They can’t fool me, those are store-bought croutons, I can tell by the texture.”  Brian loves Wow Chips, family-style restaurants, a lemon slice in his ice water and, appropriately enough, his plate-cleaning abilities put Triplet #2 to shame.

-Quote of the Month.  Despite the shit I give him on a daily basis, Brian has always been there for me, even when I don’t need him.  When we first moved to the city, we went out drinking to celebrate.  At one point in the night, some idiot starting fucking with me.  We got into a bit of a shoving match until cooler heads prevailed, at least temporarily.  Brian, seeing the altercation from afar but not seeing that we had already quashed the fight, came flying across the room and, in a fit of drunken friendship, clocked my adversary in the face.  The melee that ensued spilled out into the street and resulted in Brian fighting two kids at once in a pile of New York City curbside garbage bags.  When the dust settled, Brian looked down to see that his watch had fallen off, and this wasn’t a twenty-dollar Rolex that Triplet #1 would buy.  Hearing of the fight, the rest of our friends converged from around the city, but by that time the only thing left to do was search the trash for the expensive watch.  As I picked up yet another disgusting garbage bag, I asked, “Brian, what does your watch look like?”  Brian, with blood on his face, looked at me incredulously and said, “Karo, you asshole, if you find a watch, chances are it’s mine.”

-Despite Brian’s heroics, there was no greater test of the Buddy System than the blackout that shut down Manhattan three weeks ago.  Here’s what really went down.  When the lights first went out, I had no idea what had happened.  Probably because in true unemployed fashion, I was lying face down on the couch at the time.  I only figured it out when Brian and Chi showed up at the apartment after being sent home from work.  Now many news reports praised New Yorkers for pitching in to help during the crisis by directing traffic and evacuating the elderly.  Not us.  We grabbed some flip-flops and a flashlight and headed straight to Hook & Ladder, a local bar owned and operated by firefighters.  There, New York’s bravest served their city by dispensing the only cold beer for blocks.  Several more of our friends soon joined the festivities, some carrying battery-operated shower radios as our only means of getting information.  The local news told us to avoid using any expendable resources but that the Mets game at Shea would go on as planned.  We all thought, what’s more expendable than the Mets?  As nightfall descended and with a steady buzz going, we returned home to find that although all of the high-rise doorman buildings in our neighborhood were equipped with emergency exits, those stairwells did not have backup lighting, thus making ascent nearly impossible in the dark.  To prevent injury, no one was allowed back inside for some time.  My twentysomething brethren were undeterred however, and spilled out into the darkened streets and courtyards to hang out, drink beer, smoke weed, and play music.  It was sort of like an impromptu Jewish Woodstock.  When finally allowed back inside, I made the climb to my roof to see what the famous Manhattan skyline looked like when pitch black.  To my surprise, this once-in-a-lifetime view was ruined, as Triplet #2’s nearby investment bank was fully lit, no doubt powered by the steady pedaling of first-year analysts in the basement.  The next day, Brian and I wandered the streets, starving because we had spent all of our cash on lukewarm 16-ounce cans of Budweiser and ATMs still weren’t working.  But as the lights began to flicker on, our friends around the city were quick to offer us food and air conditioning.  And when power was finally fully restored, I took stock of what had happened during the previous 28 hours.  Claudio got laid.  Eric said he did too, but he was probably just talking shit.  Chi spent the afternoon tanning on his girlfriend’s roof while Triplet #3 spent it studying reproductive endocrinology.  Triplet #1 got flashed Mardi Gras-style but the picture he took with his camera-phone didn’t come out.  As for me and Brian, with nothing else to do we almost came to blows over the board game Guess Who? (recommended age: eight).  And so I learned that although you can’t trust the nation’s power grid, there’s one network that’s always there when you need it – the Buddy System.

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

-A lot of times when I fill out a form or something, I’m told to keep one copy for my records.  Uh, what records?

-I think that when people leave a list of reasons why they called you on your voicemail, the last one is always the real reason.  You know it’s like, “Hey Karo, yeah, um, just calling for a few reasons.  First of all, just wanted to see what’s up, haven’t spoken to you in a while.  Also, I heard you did a stand-up show last night, wanted to see how that went.  Oh yeah, also, um, I was just wondering, do you think I can crash at your apartment next week?”  Could you be any more obvious?

-Have you noticed that nothing ever gets done in the American economy after May?  I feel like in every industry I’ve worked in, from Wall Street to Hollywood, people are always using holidays as excuses.  It’s like “Yeah, well Memorial Day is coming soon so we can’t meet then, and after that the summer starts and people start going away, and the week of July 4th is totally shot, and right after that is Labor Day and I’m not available, and then it’s hard to schedule a meeting around Columbus Day, and next thing you know it’s Thanksgiving and then Christmas and so we’ll just have to get back to you in January.”

-Sometimes I wonder what percentage of all the mail the U.S. Postal Service delivers in a day is unsolicited credit card applications.  I must get at least twenty a week.  And I love when there’s fake “handwriting” on the envelope that is supposed to be a personal note imploring you to open it.  Are people actually falling for this shit?

-I hate talking to people in the morning.  Luckily, by the time I wake up, my roommate is long gone.  I usually get up, check my email, throw on my headphones, and head to the gym.  When I get back from the gym, I check my email again, maybe buy some shit online, and then shut my phone off and lie face down on the couch for a while.  Some days I can go almost ten hours without speaking to a soul.  And you know what?  I really don’t mind it.

-It bothers me that all sports video game commercials show the game in “replay mode,” you know where all the players look so big and life-like and they’re high-fiving each other and doing end zone dances?  But the real game is never really like that.  In fact, you spend most of your time hitting the start button to skip over all the replays and touchdown celebrations.  All I’m looking for is a little truth-in-advertising here.

-Listen people, if you don’t know how to use a computer, stay off the fucking Internet.  For instance, people who have the time on their computer set wrong so that their emails to you say they were sent like October 21st, 2016, so no matter when it was actually sent it always shows up in your inbox as the most recent message.  Then you have the people who don’t include your original message when they email you back and therefore you have no fucking clue what they’re talking about when they respond only with “Yes.” three weeks later.  And of course you have the people that send you pictures they’ve taken with their digital camera except they haven’t shrunken them and the files are huge and they send you like twelve of them thereby clogging your inbox and preventing you from receiving emails from all the other idiots.

-I’ve gotten a lot emails lately from people who lived in New York this summer for the first time.  They told me about what an amazing time they had and about all the museums and attractions they saw and incredible restaurants they ate at and all the unusual people they met and how they couldn’t wait to move here.  And I thought to myself, how come I live here year-round and never do any of that?

-Memo to the citizens of California: all this absurdity regarding the gubernatorial recall election has only confirmed what those of us here in New York were already thinking – you people are out of your mother-fucking minds.

-Memo to the club owners of New York: what is the point of having an exclusive VIP room in the back if there’s no bar or bathroom?  Seems to me like the rest of the bar has all the perks.

-Memo to guys who propose to their girlfriends on the scoreboard at baseball games: could you be any more unoriginal?  Can’t you think of anything more romantic than popping the question while thousands of drunken slobs yell from the bleachers, “Say no!”

-Memo to people who only take small amounts of money from the ATM at a time so that they won’t spend as much: what’s the point if you’re just going to run out of money and then borrow from me?  I think I’m going to start charging a fee.

-Memo to people who ask for a “taste” of ice cream before deciding what to order: what the fuck is wrong with you?  These flavors are not new, they’re just combinations of other flavors you’ve already tried.  Besides, you look like an idiot slurping out of that miniature Dixie cup anyway.

-Memo to people who haven’t been to the dentist since college: do you still need your mom to schedule your appointments?  Stop eating that ice cream and get off your ass!

-Watching MTV leading up to last week’s Video Music Awards was just painful.  Because every single goddamn show from late July on was about the VMAs: “Best of the VMAs,” “Worst of the VMAs,” “Things You Didn’t Know About the VMAs,”  “Things You Don’t Care About the VMAs.”  Enough is enough already guys.  Oh and by the way, 50 Cent, listen man, we get it.  You’re a pimp.  Now let’s move on.

-After a long flight, when you put your seat back in its upright position, doesn’t it seem like you’re so far forward your body is actually at an acute angle?

-Have you ever cut the price tag off of a pair of pants and the little plastic “T” that was holding the tag on the inside just disappears?  Where does it go?  I think that when I move out, I’ll find a little hidden nook somewhere in my apartment filled with plastic Ts, missing socks, stray Cheerios, and the original stylus that came with my Palm Pilot.

-It’s pretty amazing to me, but my sister Caryn can actually tell which episode of Friends is on by only watching the first six seconds of the show.  The credits will roll, Phoebe will walk in the room, and before she even says anything my sister is like, “This is the one where Joey’s tailor molests him!”

-Is there really any point to a martini glass?  Are we that obsessed with cool-looking glasses?  I mean, is it possible to drink a martini without spilling it all over your hand or to buy a martini for a girl and bring it over to her without losing half the contents on the walk over?  I think “martini run-off” is one of most serious problems facing twentysomethings these days.  Something must be done!

-As I write this, it has instantaneously become fall in New York – it’s already freezing outside.  Great, so the summer was like six days long.  You watched some fireworks, ate a burger, saw someone propose at a Yankees game, and next thing you know it’s snowing and everyone is wearing stupid-ass wool Von Dutch hats.

-Have you ever gone home to visit your parents and then had to perform a task that you didn’t pack for?  On Labor Day, I went home to Long Island and decided to go for a run but hadn’t brought home any of my workout gear.  So I dug up a decrepit Walkman and a pair of foam headphones stolen from American Airlines.  I listened to a mix tape that I made in junior high that featured “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins and “Tennessee” by Arrested Development.  Then I headed to my high school track wearing a Bat Mitzvah t-shirt, a pair of Umbros, and my old Nike Bo Jackson sneakers.  It was not a pretty sight.

-The other day I actually read the articles in Playboy.  They’re not bad.

-I love how I look at the Nutrition Facts on a box of food like I have any idea what I’m reading.  I’m like, ooh, 50% of my recommended daily intake of Riboflavin?  I’ll take two!

-And, finally, as a Wharton grad, me and my buddies from college always keep a close eye on our classmates to see how they’ve fared since graduation.  I was recently talking to one of my friends who is in the know in order to get the inside scoop.  I asked about one guy I knew from school and he told me that he was trading bonds for Lehman Brothers.  Then I asked about another classmate, and he told me he had just started at a hedge fund.  Given that I thought my slothful comedian lifestyle trumped both of those career paths, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself.  Then I asked, “And what about that kid that used to sit behind us in Venture Capital class, you know with the long hair?”  “Oh him,” my friend replied, “He’s dating Lara Flynn Boyle.”  Fuck me.

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