-To me, true success is not marked by scoring that big promotion or landing that sweet apartment, it’s whether you can still stay out until last call.  I think that shutting down the bar is like the triathlon of twentysomething life – you need to have the money to spend, the ability to drink, and the stamina to stay awake until 4am.  Last call is also a great time to meet chicks.  After all, what’s a better time to pick up women than when they’re poor, drunk, and tired?

-I’ve noticed that you have to be really vigilant at the bar these days, otherwise the busboy, waitress, or bartender will swipe your drink away before you’re even finished.  And they always hold the bottle up to the light to see how much is left before handing it back to you with a smirk.  Hey, I paid eight bucks for this fucking beer.  If I want to lick the moisture off the side of the bottle and then eat the label, I think that’s my prerogative.

-Drunk guys sure like to exaggerate.  I was out boozing when the Pacers-Pistons brawl broke out last week, so over the course of the night I heard a series of accounts of what happened from several increasingly inebriated guys.  By the time I got home, my understanding was that the incident lasted three and a half hours, the fans and Pacers had engaged in West Side Story-style choreographed fight sequences, and Ron Artest had invaded Iraq.

-I have friends who, when I call to see if they’re ready to go out, always say something like, “Yeah, I’m just putting a shirt on.”  Yet, somehow, they don’t show up for forty-five minutes.  Unless “putting a shirt on” is the new slang for beating off and taking a shower, in which case I’m way out of the loop.

-The other night, when positively describing a new bar that had just opened up, my friend Chi mentioned that the place only serves pints of really good beer.  See, that’s the opposite of what I want.  I’d like a bar that only serve cans of really cheap beer.  And not Coors Light, mind you, I’m talking about Natty Light, Keystone, or Schlitz.  Beer so cheap it’s clear, only costs a dime, and has a label pronouncing it “World’s Greatest Beer.”  The kind you don’t really mind if the bartender grabs before you’re finished.

-Last month, I performed at the University of Florida and then after the show went to the Swamp, the campus bar.  I had a kick-ass time.  The only disconcerting thing was that all the kids were ordering drinks I’d never even heard of.  I felt old.  Then again, if taking fuzzy Mrs. Doubtfire shots is what’s cool these days, then I don’t want to be young.

-At this stage of the game, there is no reason that, at any point in the night, the word “list” should be mentioned.  Seriously, I’m twenty-five years old.  We’ve all been through this countless times.  The list does not work.  The list will not get you in.  The list does not get you comped.  The list does not exist.  But, um, you know what…why don’t you just put me on anyway.  You know, just in case.

-Of course, the polar opposite of shutting down the bar is what’s universally known as a “slow night.”  The slow night can strike at any time.  Maybe there’s a light drizzle.  Maybe the night before was pretty wild.  Whatever the reason, forces conspire to create a night where nobody wants go out.  Nobody except for you.  But hey, a night without going out, getting wasted, and staying up late is good for you, right?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  Hold up, I’ll join you.  Just let me put on a shirt.

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

-Is it weird that I only like riding elevators by myself?  When the doors open and someone’s in there, my heart sinks.  The elevator ride is happy alone time for me.  I don’t want to spend it looking down at off-color tiles in awkward silence.  It reminds me of taking a shit at work.

-Two of my buddies, Jason and Jeremy, just passed the bar exam.  Now they’re real, live lawyers.  I’ve never been friends with a lawyer before.  I’m psyched.  Now I can make bad jokes about them at dinner parties and everyone will laugh.

-Three of my med school friends, Adam, Christina, and Triplet #3, all have girlfriends or boyfriends that are also in medical school.  I don’t buy the excuse that med students often date other med students because they spend all their time in the hospital.  I just think that misery loves company…socially awkward company wearing lab coats.

-Think that’s an unfair jab at med students?  Recently, I asked my single med school friend, Seth, if he’d ever, you know, examined a naked dude.  He said, “Karo, I’ve seen more penises than you could ever imagine.”  Now, would you date him?

-Ever send a text message and, right after you hit send, realize you might have sent it to the wrong person?  Since cell phones have no outboxes, you have no idea where your text may have gone and you can only imagine what your mom or boss will think when they get a text that says, “i m taking a huge shit at work right now.”

-I experienced a true New York City moment the other day.  I got hit by a bicycle.  I was knocked down but was luckily unhurt.  It was very surreal.  I was stunned.  Bystanders were stunned.  The bike messenger who hit me didn’t even stop.  It was a hit and ride!  I couldn’t get a license plate number but I’m pretty sure it was a Schwinn.

-I haven’t done anything in the past few days except watch Seinfeld on DVD.  It’s kind of like when you get a gourmet new porno and don’t want to leave the house.

-How come whenever I go to Hooters, my table always gets the one ugly waitress?

-How come whenever I get out of the shower, I can’t remember if I put deodorant on and end up sniffing myself like a dog?

-And, finally, I recently had to move down a notch in my belt.  Not in the good direction, in the fat direction.  That’s always a sad day, isn’t it?  You spent the past month ignoring the warning signs (i.e. the crease in your belly every time you took your jeans off) but now it’s time to face the truth.  You vow to get back that notch but know in your heart it may never happen.  I guess that’s what I get for sitting around watching Seinfeld all day, eating at Hooters, and getting hit by a bike…instead of riding one.  Fuck me!

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