-Nine months ago, I moved to Los Angeles for the opportunity to further my writing and stand-up careers and possibly touch a fake breast.  Hollywood is usually not kind to newcomers, but I’ve had a blast so far.  I think it’s partly because I’m a naive New Yorker and partly because, well, people in this business just crack my shit up.  Though I did finally get to touch a fake breast, I still consider myself an outsider in this town (and probably always will).  You knew it was only a matter of time before I wrote this column.  Ladies and gentleman, I present my “Ruminations on Hollywood Life.”

-Unlike when I worked on Wall Street, I love having meetings in Hollywood.  Probably because they include free lunch, I don’t have to shave, and we get to talk about me.

-In LA, if you have a lunch meeting, it’s automatically from 1 to 2pm.  Isn’t that weird?  Everyone in the whole place has lunch at the exact same time!  It’s just like elementary school, except without the immaturity, petty fighting, and unwillingness to share.  OK, actually it’s exactly like elementary school.

-I’m honestly still not sure what producers do.  As near as I can tell, as long as you have a big wooden bookshelf in your office filled with dozens of unread scripts that have the title written in black Sharpie along the spine, you’re a producer.

-During my first big meeting in Hollywood, I was told repeatedly that an idea I’d just pitched was “right in my wheelhouse.”  I nodded and said, “Totally.  It totally is.”  When the meeting ended I immediately ran out and called my agent to ask what the fuck a “wheelhouse” is.  Turns out it means “one’s area of expertise.”  As in “Chicks in wife-beaters who’ve had too much to drink are right in Karo’s wheelhouse.”

-I enjoy saying, “Have your people call my people” and being completely serious about it.  These days, I have people coming out the ying-yang.  At last count, my people consisted of nine agents, an attorney, a publicist, and an accountant.  My accountant especially gets a kick out of being included in that list.  But I tell him, “Andy, we’re cousins.  You’re automatically my people.”

-The concept of an “assistant” was so foreign to me when I moved here, but I’ve come to recognize it as the dominant sub-culture in Los Angeles.  Every producer, executive, and agent has an assistant – usually an overqualified and underappreciated twentysomething – to answer their phones and do their bidding.  Assistants work late nights together, go out boozing together, and of course, fuck each other.  For you Hollywood newcomers, I offer this advice: always pay utmost respect to every assistant you deal with, but keep in mind that their bosses often let the assistants listen in on their conference calls.  My first six months in LA I didn’t realize this fact and mistakenly began most of my conference calls with something like, “Hey, is your assistant hot?  She sounds hot.  And dirty.”

-In the end, I believe I am poised to succeed in Hollywood for two reasons.  One, execs like that I’m a “multi-hyphenate,” an overly fancy term for writer-comedian.  Personally, I prefer to be called a “slashie,” but not everyone gets the Zoolander reference.  And two, I’m also what they call “good in a room,” meaning when I’m in a meeting, everyone seems to laugh and have a good time.  And that’s why I’ll always prefer Hollywood, where cutting people up is rewarded, over Wall Street, where it’s punished.  For lack of a better word, I’ve found my wheelhouse.

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

-The other day I came across an ad for an apartment that said a non-refundable deposit was required for tenants with pets.  My first thought was, why on earth would anyone ever want to live with an animal?  My second thought was, what the hell is a “non-refundable” deposit?  Isn’t that just a fee?

-A few months ago, my friend Shermdog’s sister got engaged and I sent her congratulations via text message.  When my grandmother passed away a few weeks ago, my friend Heather expressed her condolences via e-card.  I gotta tell you, I’m loving this trend toward less and less personal communication.  By the time one of my friends has a baby, all I’m gonna have to do is think really, really hard about how happy I am for them.

-Well, I never thought it would come to this, but I’ve been blackballed by my own high school.  I was invited to speak to the senior class last year about college, and I did so the only way I knew how – with the honest truth.  The kids loved it and I felt I’d done them a service by letting them know what actually to expect in college without sugarcoating it.  Apparently certain faculty members were offended by my discussions of “syllabi,” “fraternities,” and “throwing up on chicks,” and I am now banned from speaking at my alma mater, Plainview Old-Bethpage John F. Kennedy High School.  And to think I bled my own blood on that soccer field.

-I think the worst job you can have is host or hostess at a restaurant that doesn’t take reservations.  Because all day long you have to pick up the phone and say, “Sorry, we don’t take reservations.”

-I want to give a special Mother’s Day shout to my mom.  Mom, sometimes I just don’t get you.  You start telling stories right in the middle and expect me to piece together what the hell you’re talking about.  Your cell phone battery dies every single day even though you only talk for about fourteen minutes total.  And you consistently refused to DVR “The West Wing” because, you reasoned, it was your favorite show and therefore you “shouldn’t have to.”  But you raised me, and for that you deserve the Medal of Honor.  Even though I grew up in the rough and tumble streets of suburban Long Island, you always kept me out of trouble.  And I’m still so sorry about getting kicked out of high school that time.  But hey, at least it happened nine years after I graduated.  I love you Mom!

-And, finally, I truly believe that if you work hard, if you follow your dreams, if you never give up…about 85% of the time you still fail.  I mean, come on, let’s be realistic.  Hollywood is littered with the dreams of those who tried really hard.  It’s the other 15%, who by some combination of luck and the X-factor have fulfilled all their wildest fantasies, that I strive to join.  This week, in New York City, the annual “upfront” presentations are taking place, which is when the television networks traditionally announce their new shows for the coming season (only to abruptly cancel them a few months later).  All week, Hollywood producers, executives, agents, and slashies alike will be getting shitblasted together throughout Manhattan to celebrate the occasion.  But I’ll be here in LA, writing, plotting, and biding my time.  It will be worth the wait.  And when I do make it, I’ll have my people call your people and say, “Fuck me!”

HOME

-In three weeks, I will be returning to where this column began – the University of Pennsylvania – for my five-year reunion.  While I don’t expect quite the shit show that was my first Homecoming, when I fell one girl short of the hook-up cycle (a freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior in one week), I am excited to see old friends I haven’t kept in touch with, then later make fun of them with the friends I have kept in touch with.  But there will be one major distinction between myself and the rest of the members of the Class of 2001:  both in mind and body, I’ve never really left college.  For the past few years, I have been traveling the country, performing stand-up at schools big and small, and even waking up in the occasional sorority house.  Therefore I thought it appropriate, on this landmark occasion of my five-year reunion, to ruminate on the current status of college life in America, and how much things have changed – and remained the same – since I graduated.  This is my State of the Student Union Address.

-The most salient trend on college campuses these days (besides ogling FSU chicks on Facebook) is the misguided attempt by administrations to curtail full-scale drunken debauchery.  My favorite example of this is the ads I’ve seen in a half-dozen schools’ newspapers and dorms that say something like: “67% of Students Have Four or Fewer Drinks When They Party.”  I mean, is that not pure comedy or what?  You know who these ads are reaching?  The 67% of students who have four or fewer drinks when they party.  The other 33% –  i.e. the kids having fun – are way too blindingly drunk to read a newspaper or make it back to their dorm anyway.

-Statistics!  Oh the statistics they’ll show you to prove that the War on Alcohol is working on campus!  Well let me share some compelling anecdotal evidence that it’s not working at all – in fact, kids are getting drunker than ever, and creatively so.  At Northwestern, I discovered a group of students that actually invented a solitaire-style drinking game.  That’s right, a drinking game you can play against yourself.  It’s basically flip cup, but instead of two teams, you play your right hand versus your left hand.  Long live higher education.

-And let’s just say that college students are drinking less – if only because of the increasing inconvenience it is to even purchase alcohol without getting hassled.  You know what kids are doing instead?  Drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.  I never even saw cocaine until I was a senior in college.  Now freshmen are blowing rails like Amtrak.  The first time I ever took prescription painkillers was when I had my appendix out six months after graduation.  Now fraternities are electing Presidents, Treasurers, and Pharmacists.  That’s right, administrators.  Your alcoholic kids now have a drug problem.  Good work!

-Of course, the more things change, the more they stay the same.  The tradition of jamming as many stubble-faced male residents as possible into one dilapidated, stale-beer-smelling off-campus apartment is still alive and well.  As is students’ entrepreneurial spirit.  Rare is it that I visit a college and don’t overhear at least one kid saying to a friend, “Dude, if we started a store on campus that’s open 24 hours and only sells porn, forties, and bagels, we’d be zillionairies!”

-In the end, I call myself a “recovering frat boy” because I’m still recovering from my own college experience while being fortunate enough to relive my glory days with subsequent generations.  Still, there have been some trying times.  Like running up a $175 tab on $2.50 pitcher night at a campus bar.  Or getting ID’d at Indiana only to have the bouncer look at my license and say, “Oh, sorry.”  Or catching myself referring to a period of time as “next semester.”  But I’ve endured these minor embarrassments in order to maintain the lifestyle I desire – and to report back in detail to you guys.  So to all you high school seniors:  fear not next year.  I’ve surveyed the State of the Student Union and – for at least 33% of us – it’s as strong as ever.

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

-The Do Not Disturb sign I hung on the doorknob of the last hotel I stayed in was printed in five languages.  Housekeeping knocked anyway, waking me up.  Afterwards I thought, even if by some chance someone didn’t speak any of those five languages, it’s still a fucking red hanging thing on the door!  That’s practically the international sign for “I’m masturbating.”

-And another thing – I’d be much more receptive to recycling my towel if the little card in the hotel bathroom didn’t spout some transparent bullshit about the environment and just told the truth instead:  “Not laundering towels will save the giant, faceless corporation that owns this hotel money.”

-In two weeks, I will be attending my first bachelor party, for a man you all know and love: my old roommate Brian.  We’re heading to Vegas with thirteen – count ‘em, thirteen! – dudes for a weekend to end all weekends.  According to centuries-old bachelor party tradition, I will not be allowed to discuss the weekend in my next column, but I will say that, as the Best Man, planning this thing has been like a second (or, let’s face it, first) job.  The real pain in the ass has been laying out money for everyone and then trying to get them to pay me back.  It’s not that my boys are cheap.  It’s that they’re lazy and they’re dicks.  So far I’ve called one guy every day for six weeks to no avail, foiled an attempt by a different friend who tried to pay me all in Sacagaweas, and received a check from another buddy who for some reason found it necessary to write in the memo section the words, “Go fuck yourself.”

-I’d like to take a moment to recognize my Grandma Babe, who passed away last week at the age of 91.  I gave her my first book a few years back, and while I’m not sure she understood the concept of “funneling” in Chapter Five, she nonetheless proudly showed it to all her friends.  G-Babe rocked it out like no other and will be dearly missed by all those who knew her.

-And, finally, I’m really looking forward to observing my fellow classmates at our upcoming reunion.  I’ll especially be on the lookout for those who have crossed over to the Dark Side and aged twenty years in five – i.e. the ones sporting popped collars, loafers with no socks, glasses instead of contacts, or furiously wielding the stylus on their Treo on a sunny Saturday afternoon.  (Though, considering this is Penn we’re talking about, that pretty much describes 50% of the guys back when they were freshman.)  Since the reunion coincides with graduation, it will also be interesting to observe whether the seniors are dreading their departure or have made their peace with it.  And if there happen to be any underclassmen around, besides trying to hit for the cycle again, I will advise them to cherish the moment and to not take their remaining time at school for granted.  Because, let’s face it, they will never have so little to worry about ever again.  Unless of course they write a book about college and travel to colleges to talk about college then hook up with college chicks.  But that’s just preposterous.  Fuck me.

HOME

-To me, being single is like having diplomatic immunity.  I come and go as I please.  I answer to no authority.  And if accused of lewd behavior, I can just claim ignorance: “Sorry, I’m not from around here and don’t understand this concept you call dating.”  My status as a bachelor is particularly significant at the moment because I’m back in New York City for the week and I just realized that virtually every last one of my buddies has a girlfriend.  It seems as if the only remaining holdouts are Triplet #2, who moved to London, and Shermdog, who is currently visiting said Triplet.  How did it come to this?  I’m alone.  My wingmen have all been picked off.  It’s me against the world.  Shit…I’ve been singled out.

-I find it annoying that girls physically have trouble admitting that they’re single.  Ask a girl if she’s single and she’ll invariably stammer, glance at her girl friends, giggle, mention something about some guy in Chicago she’s “sorta seeing,” and then finally confess she’s unattached.  On the other hand, ask me if I’m single and I’ll be like, “Absolutely!  Why, did a chick want to know?  Where is she?  I’ve never been more single in my life than right now!” and my belt’s already halfway off.

-If you’re a girl in a bar who has a boyfriend, instead of “hello,” I think the first word out of your mouth should be required by law to be…“boyfriend.”

-My cell phone number happens to be comprised of multiple variations of the numbers “6” and “9.”  When I give it to chicks, they look at me like I’m a dirty bastard.  Some guys get a bad reputation from sleeping around.  I got mine from T-Mobile.

-An ancillary benefit of emailing with thousands of people every week is that I’ve developed nearly impeccable online game.  I can converse with a girl via MySpace, email, or text message, and by the time we meet in person, the deal is already pretty much sealed.  Sometimes my friends even outsource those skills.  One night last year, Shermdog got an IM from a chick he barely knew.  Seeing the conversation going nowhere fast, he asked me to stand behind him and tell him what to type.  A few hours later, he was nailing her.  Seriously, I’m like an electronic Cyrano.

-It’s been about eight months since Ex-Girlfriend and I broke up.  And while there are certain things I miss about our relationship (for instance, my apartment at the time didn’t have DVR but hers did), there are also a lot of things I don’t miss at all – like awkwardly calling temporary timeout on a heated argument because the waiter has approached the table.  I’m pretty sure that all waiters know that the phrase “We just need another minute to look at the menu,” is couple code for “No one is getting laid tonight.”

-In the end, being singled out has its ups and downs.  I should be able to thrive without wingmen this week because, as an author and comedian, if I meet a new girl I can regale her with literally hundreds of funny stories she’s never heard before (I usually get old around week three).  At the same time, I’ve often been in the middle of hooking up with a chick and had her say to me, “Karo, you have to promise me you won’t write about this.”  Of course, I never agree to such a stipulation because it would compromise the integrity of this column.  You’d be surprised, though – it actually turns girls on when I stand my ground.  Though, considering our only prior communication is usually via text message, perhaps it’s not me, but rather my cell phone number that’s doing all the dirty work.

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

-Ever say goodbye to everyone after a long night and then get halfway down the block only to realize you forgot your jacket?  You always have to go back, acknowledge the weird looks everybody’s giving you, respond to irritating little gibes like “Hey!  Back already?” then reclaim your jacket and hoist it skyward while doing a half lap around to demonstrate to the gathering crowd that all is well and you’ve simply returned to retrieve the North Face you now rue ever having purchased.

-Question for people who place a towel over the display on the treadmill so they can’t see how far they’ve run:  Are you and that guy at the free weights who’s actually wearing a bandanna in some sort of contest to see who looks most like a jackass?

-I noticed a few weeks ago that the janitor cleaning the bathrooms at BWI Airport had a copy of Good Housekeeping magazine in his little cart.  I thought, damn, this guy really keeps up on the trends.

-I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m actually too good at remembering birthdays.  As an attentive friend, I’ve taken the time over the years to log everyone’s birthday into Outlook.  But lately I feel like when I call someone on their special day before even some of their closest relatives have, I’m looked upon suspiciously.  As if, even though I technically haven’t done anything wrong, my thoughtfulness has somehow been artificially aided.  I’m like the Barry Bonds of birthdays.

-“Lost” remains my favorite show on television, though the second season has been a little trying at times.  I mean, come on, they have a laundry machine now, it’s kind of ridiculous.  But there is one real world lesson that I’ve learned from “Lost.”  After all they’ve been through – the crash, the monster, the Others – they’ve never, ever given up hope on pulling ass.  It’s like the first week they were concerned with getting rescued.  The second week they were concerned with getting water.  And by the third week they were concerned with getting head.

-And, finally, I’ll admit that sometimes I wonder how I of all people became one of the few of my friends to remain single.  Let’s face it, I’m a catch:  successful writer, Ivy League graduate, eats right, great family, sense of humor.  But then I remember why I’ve never had a relationship last longer than eighteen months – I’m obsessive, neurotic, and downright strange.  For instance, I sometimes Google misspelled words to find web sites with poor proofreaders.  When using a new bathroom, I often search for the little indent where the doorknob keeps hitting the same spot on the wall.  I’m not really a lover or a fighter.  It really bothers me that the American League West has only four teams even though I know it was done for scheduling purposes.  I still have the lucky t-shirt that I took the SATs in – and I wore it yesterday.  I fret, worry, observe, write, and repeat.  In essence, when it comes to romantic relationships, it’s not that I’m high maintenance, it’s more like there’s no instruction manual and they stopped making the parts.  Thus, most likely I’ll continue my current holding pattern of hijinks and hook-ups indefinitely, while continuing to wonder if I’ll always be singled out.  One might say I’m running the treadmill of dating, but, ironically, have no idea how far I’ve gone.  Fuck me.

HOME

-When Penn clinched the league championship my sophomore year of college, fans rushed the football field and tore down the goalposts.  When security locked the gates of the stadium, we used one of the uprights as a battering ram to plow our way through, at which point I fell and was almost trampled to death.  A few months later, when the basketball team clinched a berth in the NCAA Tournament, we rushed the court, at which point I was again trampled, this time dislocating my shoulder.  These incidents taught me two things.  One, I’m not a very good field/court rusher.  And two, “supporting the team” is probably one of the most exhilarating, addictive, and sometimes downright dangerous activities that a twentysomething can engage in.  But I can’t help it if I’m hooked.  My name is Aaron Karo, and I’m a sports fan.

-I am a Yankees fan, as is my father, and as was his father before him.  Therefore, I hate the Red Sox.  Hate, hate, hate them.  I don’t even like when my phone rings and a 617 area code comes up.  However, I will say that I’m very jealous of Red Sox Nation for winning it all in 2004.  I mean, it must have felt so good to bust that 86-year-old nut.  I’m guessing it probably felt like back in the day when you were afraid to masturbate at summer camp so you held out for eight weeks until you got home and then let loose.

-In 2000, I was desperate to get tickets for the Subway Series between the Yankees and Mets, but the line was busy for hours.  So I decided to try something I saw on TV once – only I didn’t quite think the whole plan through first.  I called the operator and was like, “Operator, operator!  I need an emergency breakthrough!”  And she was like, “OK sir, right away, what’s the number?”  And I was like, “Uh…1-800-555-TIXX?”

-Everybody has that one male friend who knows nothing about sports.  I actually have two: Chi and Big Dave.  I’m not sure what they were doing between the ages of six and sixteen, but it clearly wasn’t assembling and memorizing the entire ’87 Topps baseball card set with the wood paneling background, like I was.  What losers.  Non-sports-fan guys sometimes try to fake it but are easily exposed.  Just ask them to get a score for you.  If they return with two digits but forget to say who’s winning or what quarter/period/inning it is, you’ve found yourself a childhood comic book collector.

-My mom a sports fan?  Not so much.  In 2003, I was in a bar in Manhattan with Triplet #1 when all of a sudden the New Jersey Devils rolled in with the Stanley Cup.  Despite being a die-hard Rangers fan, I eagerly took turns with Trip 1 gulping Michelob Light out of the exalted chalice – which is quite an unwieldy task.  A few weeks later, I excitedly showed my mom a picture from the night and she was like, “Oh honey, look at your shirt, you spilled all over yourself.”  “Mom,” I urged, “Do you see what I’m holding in this picture?  It’s the Stanley freakin’ Cup!”  “That’s wonderful honey, but I don’t think that stain’s gonna come out.”

-In the end, being a sports fan can be a crushing experience – both figuratively and literally.  I still haven’t quite recovered from scalping one ticket to Game Seven of the ALCS in 2004 and sitting by myself in the last row of Yankee Stadium, only to watch the Red Sox complete their historic comeback.  And I still can’t properly throw overhand after being trampled on the basketball court in college.  But I want all the face-painting, game-DVRing, constant-box-score-refreshing, PTI-watching, ticket-scalping, girlfriend-ignoring, field-rushing fanatics out there to know that I feel your pain.  The Final Four and Opening Day are both this week.  Let the pain begin!

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

-The fact that “socialite” is even a word makes me angry.

-Why is it that whenever I call a wrong number, the person who picks up is always completely psychotic?  The other day I made a call and I swear Sloth from “The Goonies” picked up.  I was like, “Uh, is Andrea there?”

-I love Family Guy and have seen every single episode.  But do you think they could at least try to make somewhat of an effort not to make every secondary character sound exactly the same?

-A few weeks ago, for lack of better options, I bought a bottle of water and a scone at 7am at the Indianapolis airport.  When the cashier rung me up for $3.87, I asked, “Oh, did you get the water too?”  The cashier laughed unusually hard then said, “Of course – that’d be a pretty expensive scone, wouldn’t it?”  I actually had to think about it for a few moments before realizing that, no, I had no fucking clue if that’s an expensive scone or not.

-I don’t know why, but I’ve always wanted to marry a doctor.  I think maybe it’s because being a doctor is probably one of the few things I can’t do.  I mean, let’s be honest, I could probably be a lawyer if I really wanted to.  Law school would blow, but I could do it if I tried.  But I find doctor chicks so hot because I definitely couldn’t get past the first day of medical school without puking on a cadaver.  Well, either that’s the reason, or I’ve been watching too much Grey’s Anatomy.

-Memo to waiters:  please stop describing entrees as “very nice.”  That’s how my grandma describes me and it’s not true either.

-And, finally, probably my finest athletic achievement took place on October 14th, 2003, during Game Five of the American League Championship Series between the Yankees and Red Sox at Fenway Park.  Despite rocking my Yankees cap and Derek Jeter t-shirt, I went unharassed for much of the game.  That is, until I went to take a piss after the sixth inning.  The bathroom was absolutely packed of course and while I’m not pee-shy per se, I’m still somewhat “pee-introverted.”  Thus, urinating was already a bit of a struggle before the inebriated Red Sox fan on line behind me noticed my shirt and screamed, “Hey Jeetah!  YOU SUCK!”  Instantly I became the focal point for a vicious torrent of anti-Yankees epithets.  But, despite being screamed at like a fat sorority pledge, I hung in there, and with my face turned beet-red from effort, managed to finish my business.  As I zipped up, the Red Sox fan at the adjacent urinal turned to me and said, “Dude, I hate the Yankees, but that was the most clutch piss I’ve ever seen.”  “Thanks,” I responded with a tip of my cap, “But I think I just shit myself.”  Fuck me.

HOME

-This Saturday I woke up feeling very strange.  I felt unusually refreshed and alert, but I couldn’t figure out why.  Then I suddenly I realized it – I wasn’t hungover.  After a month straight of traveling, performing, yelling, and drinking, I decided it was time to take a weekend off.  While in the throes of sobriety, I realized that much of twentysomething life is comprised of determining whether or not to get fucked up.  When someone asks me if I’d like a drink, I often hesitate for a brief moment before deciding.  In that moment, I subconsciously extrapolate that one drink into the fifteen drinks that will inevitably follow.  If vomiting and/or hooking up with a wideclops (i.e. a girl whose eyes are too far apart) is an acceptable next-day scenario, I quench my thirst with a cold Amstel and let the bloodbath begin.  After all, when you’re in your twenties, the worst thing you can possibly hear is a buddy proclaim, “Dude, you missed a great night.”  To go out or not to go out – that is the dilemma.  And this is the strife of the party.

-Even when you decide to go headlong into the night, there’s always one foe who’s determined to make you wish you stayed home: the bouncer.  My all-time favorite bouncerism is when he says he can’t let anybody else in to the bar because the fire marshal will shut the place down.  I always imagine some fireman with a giant hat and an axe and a hose running up to the bar yelling, “We got a call that this place is full of dudes!”

-Junior year of college, my buddy Shermdog suddenly began suffering from chronic vertigo.  For weeks he struggled to find the cause until finally he discovered that he only got dizzy when he was sober, and that imbibing alcohol made the symptoms go away.  I like to believe that this remarkable self-diagnosis led Shermdog to become the doctor he is today.  I also like to believe that I won’t let him near me with a scalpel unless he’s had a few jagerbombs first.

-I think that people’s reaction when I tell them that I don’t drink coffee is equivalent to my reaction when people tell me that they don’t drink alcohol.

-In college, the decision to go out or not is generally based upon one thing: drink specials.  College kids actually use two types of syllabi: one that lists which bar has twenty-five-cent pitchers tonight, and another that lists all the assignments that spending $1.75 on beer will cause them to miss tomorrow.

-Despite a solid ten plus years of drinking experience, I am still struck by my friends’ complete inability to purchase the right amount of booze.  It’s an inexact science by any measure.  I feel like half the time, the cups, ice, and liquor run out in about 45 minutes, leaving desperate partygoers to suck down the plastic bottle of margarita mix they found in the back of the cabinet.  The rest of the time, the party’s host is left with a bounty of alcohol so great that nine months later I find myself back at my buddy’s place polishing off a frosted-over bottle of Goose and asking, “Wait, dude, is this left over from St. Patrick’s Day?”

-In the end, the strife of the party is such a vicious struggle because of the uncertain consequences.  This weekend, I didn’t go out but slept until noon.  But when I get hammered, for some reason I have trouble sleeping more than five hours.  And if I do decide to go out, should I bring a condom?  I don’t want to jinx myself, but I don’t want to end up drunk and unprepared with a feisty wideclops, either.  These are the decisions we are forced to make every day.  To booze or not to booze – that is the question.  A question, I believe, that should be answered with a drinking game.

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

-I knew I had made a mistake when I recently told a salesgirl that I was trying to buy a shirt for my sister but didn’t know what size she was.  I could have abandoned ship when the salesgirl asked me what my sister looked like in comparison to her.  Instead I put my foot directly in my mouth and responded honestly: “Well, she’s a lot skinnier than you.”

-I always hated those cliche sitcom moments when a character is about to drop a bomb, but just before he does, the other character drops a bigger bomb of her own and then says, “So what were you going to say?”  Cue awkward, contrived pause and canned laughter.  But then I realized that that very situation actually happens almost every day on instant messenger.  You ever type a message and then are about to hit send when the other person writes you something crazy that makes your unsent response obsolete?  I usually then carefully delete what I was about to send and slowly back away from the computer.

-The other day, my sister asked our four-year-old cousin Daniel if he had learned anything in school.  Daniel replied, “Yes, but I can’t say those words out loud.”

-My friend Christina is getting married in August, and last week she said to me, “Everyone is so excited about the wedding!”  I blatantly said to her, “That’s not true.”  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m Christina’s oldest friend – I definitely couldn’t be more excited for the wedding and will be drinking and dancing up a storm (in that order).  But I mean, listen engaged people of the world, let’s be realistic here – not everyone is excited to go to your wedding.  How about that random second cousin’s husband who’s never even met the groom?  Does he want to take a day off from work and travel to an inconveniently located reception?  Does everyone want to buy overpriced stemware from the registry that the couple will never use once?  Probably not.  By the way, if you happen to be going to Christina’s wedding, you’ll find me under the place card “Bitter single guy.”

-You ever get the feeling that when you set your iPod to “shuffle” the songs that play aren’t random at all?

-I think my brain is locked into the order of the last mix CD I burned before I got an iPod.  Wherever I am, if I hear “Here Without You” by 3 Doors Down, I automatically expect “Holidae In” by Chingy to play next.  On a side note, do you think there is a legally determined amount of letters that a rapper has to change in the name of a song in order to avoid being sued by a large hotel chain?

-I’ve had the chorus to “Grillz” in my head for about two weeks now.  I’m telling you, that’s the kind of shit that makes people write REDRUM in blood on mirrors.

-And, finally, when I go out partying, I stick with a few simple rules.  I never order a mixed drink at a bar (too weak) – only vodka on the rocks.  I never buy shots of tequila unless in Mexico (though I will still shoot tequila stateside if asked nicely).  If someone offers to get me a drink, unless they’re a Top 25 friend, I ask for a beer (anything more expensive would be uncivilized).  And last but not least, the golden rule: Go hard or go home.  Once I leave the confines of my apartment, neither mythical fire marshal nor chronic vertigo nor ravenous wideclops can get between me and a good time.  So when I return to the fray next weekend and awake with the pounding headache and nausea that mark my signature hangovers, I’ll merely happily proclaim in the newly-learned words of my cousin Daniel: “Fuck me.”

HOME

-In the past month, I have performed in Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco, followed by New York City, Philadelphia, and Boston.  It was a unique opportunity for me to compare the twentysomething cultures of the East and West Coasts.  Are West Coasters really the laid-back, hippie surfers they are stereotyped to be?  Are East Coasters really all bitter, stressed, and business casual?  With both shorts and sweatshirts in my suitcase, I set out for the frontlines of the East vs. West battle to put an end to coastal feuding once and for all.

-People on the West Coast are never in a rush.  If something’s gotta get done, it’ll get done, eventually…maybe.  You can’t get anywhere quickly, cabs actually slow down at yellow lights, and pedestrians patiently wait on the corner for the “walk” signal.  West Coasters who’ve moved East often tell me that New York is too loud and busy and crazy for them.  I’m always like, that’s not busy and crazy – that’s the sound of humans operating at a normal pace.  If you think it’s acceptable to have to wait so long for a sandwich that you actually could have become certified to operate a deli slicer in the time since you ordered, the West Coast is where you should stay.

-On the East Coast, you have to dress up to go out – everyone’s been negged at one time or another for trying to wear sneakers to a club.  On the West Coast, you have to dress down to go out.  Really down.  When I’m standing in front of the mirror in my apartment in LA on a Saturday night, I’m thinking to myself, wow, I look way too nice right now.  I match so well they might not even let me in.  Hmm, let me muss up my hair, throw on some flip flops, ripped jeans, a mesh hat, and a weird thrift store tuxedo shirt.  Yeah, now I fit in.

-West Coasters are also not used to wearing their resume on their sleeve.  In New York, Boston, and Philly, it’s expected that if you meet someone at a bar, you’ll be asked where you work, where you’re from, where you went to college, what year you graduated, what fraternity/sorority you were in, where you went on Spring Break sophomore year, and what your blood type is.  But people out West act like you’re being nosy.  They do have a point, though.  Someone in San Diego wanted to know why I was asking such questions.  And I stammered, “Well, uh…I’m not sure.  I guess I just wanted to know if you knew my cousin’s friend’s friend from camp.”

-They play a lot more Biggie than Tupac on the radio on the East Coast, and vice versa on the West Coast.  I’ve noticed that Tupac rhymes the word “penitentiary” in pretty much every single one of his songs.  Even more impressive – I swear he once rhymed it with “banana.”

-Where do guys on the West Coast buy their Ryan Atwood-style wristbands?  Can I just walk into a store in San Francisco and ask for a generic leather band that doesn’t even tell time?  And where do guys on the East Coast buy their Nike sweatbands to wear while not exercising?  Can I just go into a Foot Locker in a mall in Boston and ask for a wristband suitable for wearing while shopping at a Foot Locker in a mall in Boston?

-Perhaps most importantly, I think that twentysomethings on the West Coast just don’t party as hard as they do on the East Coast.  And it’s not because they’re lame or anything, it’s because they, gulp, actually get up early on the weekends and do shit.  Countless times out West I’ve been asked on a Saturday night to go biking, kayaking, hiking, or play flag football the next morning.  I always decline.  I may live on the West Coast but I was born and raised back East.  And it says clearly on the resume on my sleeve: “No Kayaking.”

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

-I’m convinced doctors are completely incapable of functioning outside of the hospital.  I emailed a link to my doctor friend Shermdog and he called me ten hours later to tell me he couldn’t figure out how to click on it.  I asked him what he’d been doing all day and he replied, “Brain surgery.”

-I first noticed it in the airplane bathroom while on the redeye from LAX to JFK – I’ve become that guy whose chest hair climbs up and out of the front collar of his t-shirt.  I don’t know how it happened – I don’t even really have a very hairy chest.  But I guess a few wayward hairs took it upon themselves to go for the light and grow straight up.  I bet they’re gambling I won’t be man enough to pluck them.  Sadly, they’re right.

-And why is it that when the flight attendant comes around with the beverage cart, people lose all sense of logic and reasoning, and request drinks that no airline would conceivably carry?  Hey, buddy, I’m not sure when the last time you flew JetBlue was, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have birch beer, diet cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper, or pomegranate juice.

-Fact: people who met their roommate via craigslist always describe them the same way – “He’s pretty cool…a little weird though.”

-What the hell is a hemi?  I’m aware that I’m not the target audience of pickup truck commercials, but those guys seem pretty excited about their trucks having hemis.  A little too excited if you ask me…

-Things I dislike about hotels: Little bottles of “conditioning shampoo” that neither condition nor shampoo.  TV remotes that require fifty pounds of pressure to push any button.  When they put the coffeemaker in the bathroom.  The constant lack of even one available, readily accessible electrical outlet.  The need to put all twelve lamps on in order to provide any semblance of light in the room.  And last but not least, the fact that each lamp uses a different arcane method to be turned on, most notably: switch on the wall, knob next to the bulb, knob on the base, and my personal least favorite, the hanging scroll wheel that’s hidden behind the desk so you can’t figure out how the fuck to turn the lamp on for fifteen minutes.

-And, finally, when I first got to college, I was perplexed that my new friends from the West Coast always talked about the weather.  It seemed like all they talked about was the weather and Kobe, the weather and Kobe.  Living in New York my whole life and then going to school in Philly, I never really understood the big deal about the weather in LA (or about Kobe, for that matter).  But now that I live in LA, well, I sorta get it.  It’s pretty gorgeous here.  It’s almost never cold.  It rarely rains.  But let me tell ya – you wouldn’t think the weather outside makes much of a difference when you’re stuck in your car in traffic all day…and you’d be right.  In fact, I’m even paler in LA than I was in New York.  So the debate continues.  You see, to me, in the end, there are no winners in this East Coast vs. West Coast feud.  Only losers wearing wristbands.  Fuck me.

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-Twentysomething males often refer to their guy friends as “my boys.”  Likewise, women often refer to their female friends as “my girls.”  But there’s a huge difference between my boys and your girls.  Namely, your girls suck.  Your girls change every season.  Your girls are catty.  One of your girls probably fucked your boyfriend.  Female friendships are often contentious, jealousy-ridden, and, ultimately, ephemeral.  But not so with my boys.  I started with a group of friends in elementary school, gained a few in high school, added several recruits during college, and all those guys remain my boys to this day.  Moving to Los Angeles last year was difficult, but whenever I get a text message from one of my boys back East telling me how big a crap he is currently taking, along with how little he misses me, I feel like I never left.

-All my boys have an understanding that they will endure vicious but good-natured verbal abuse from one another.  For instance, a few months ago my boy Gadi gathered our high school crew together and told us he would soon be moving back to his native Israel permanently.  With a lump in his throat, he explained that his “soul just feels better in Israel.”  At which point we all broke down laughing.  Now he can’t say a word without getting made fun of.  Gadi: “So what do you want to do tonight?”  Us: “Not sure, how does your soul feel?”

-But at least Gadi was able to take the abuse face-to-face.  My old roommate Brian was not so lucky.  He once made the unfortunate mistake of going to Europe with a friend and leaving a cell phone voicemail message that said, “I will be out of the country for two weeks.  If you need immediate assistance, please contact my fiancee.”  Oh sweet mother of God how could you leave a message like that?  When Brian returned home he had about twenty-five voicemails from the boys requesting “assistance” from his fiancee for, among other things, eating his own ass.  Even Gadi left a scathing message, which presumably made his soul feel much better.

-Clearly, your girls are clouding my boys’ heads.  Like recently when the boys received an Evite from our friend Seth’s girlfriend, announcing Seth’s birthday party that Friday, 10pm, at Stir Bar.  Fair enough.  That is, until Seth, demonstrating an egregious error in judgment, emailed the boys a few days later asking for suggestions on where to throw his girlfriend her own, separate birthday bash the following weekend.  Triplet #1 was the first to respond, emailing, “Yeah, I have an idea – how about this Friday, 10pm, at Stir Bar…at your fucking party.”

-I’m far from immune from taking shots myself, however.  In fact, my moving away has provided the boys with a virtually unlimited supply of ammunition.  When I visit New York this week, my every move will be met with a chorus of “Karo, you’re so LA.”  Me: “Let’s start getting drunk early tonight.”  Them: “You’re so LA.”  Me: “What do you think of this new Yankees hat?”  Them: “You’re so LA.”  Me: “I hate LA.”  Them: “Then why do you love it so much?  Nice shoes, fuckface.”  Where’d that come from?

-Of course, you could have easily just read this description of my boys and concluded we’re all evil and hate each other.  You might think we’re no better than the girls I earlier so handily excoriated.  But the truth is, guys bond by making fun of each other.  As twisted as it seems, I think that constantly demolishing each other’s self-esteem ensures that no one ever gets too big a head – which is what I think often leads to your girls being reduced to an ever-rotating panel of dyed blondes who don’t share any history.  My boys in 1996 are my boys in 2006 and will be my boys in 2016.  And that really does make my soul feel good.

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

-Has someone with a form ever asked you to initial one section and sign another?  Why my entire signature over here but just initials over there?  I’ve already got the pen in my hand – let me just polish off those seven other letters.  Maybe initialing is reserved for the shit that companies only wish you’d do.  It’s like, “By signing here, you agree not to sue us.  But by initialing here, you promise not to tell anyone we suck, OK?”

-I’ve become a bit of an ellipsis whore when I write emails.  I just can’t resist…putting those three dots…in between all of my thoughts…even where…grammatically inappropriate.  And I’ll tell you what my latest weapon is – two dots.  People don’t know what the fuck to make of it.  A girl will email me and I’ll write back: That’s what you think..  It’s not quite a period, not quite an ellipsis, but it sure is confusing.

-Besides marriage proposals and requests to perform at sorority houses, probably the question that I get emailed most frequently is: Why in my books and columns do I say waiting “on line” instead of waiting “in line”?  And the answer is…I have no fucking idea.  I guess theoretically “in line” makes more sense than “on line.”  But I’ve always said “on line” so I guess it’s just part of the Northeast vernacular.  Quite frankly, whenever I’m “on line” for a bar, I’m far less concerned with the syntax of my situation than the fact that hordes of “gourmet broads” are walking in while I’m stuck outside losing my “goddamn buzz.”

-Every Sunday morning, I get woken out of an alcohol-induced slumber by a deliveryman bringing me the groceries I order on albertsons.com.  (The guy is usually thrilled when it’s toilet paper day and he has to carry an 18-pack of Charmin mega rolls.)  He brings the groceries into my apartment, I sign the receipt in one spot and initial in another, and then the guy leaves.  But what I’ve always found to be strange is that, when I close the door, and the guy is still in the hallway scanning his clipboard for his next delivery, I turn the lock on my door really, really slowly.  Why?  First of all, as everyone knows, locking your door slowly does not make any different sound than locking it quickly.  But more importantly, why am I so concerned that the delivery guy will be offended if I lock the door on him?  Yes, I do see him much more often than my own mother.  And, yes, he knows my eating and toilet paper consumption habits better than anyone on earth.  But does that mean we’re friends?  Do you think he walks away thinking, “I can’t believe he locked the door while I was still standing here.  I really thought he was going to invite me in this time to watch daytime television and nosh on those Sun Chips he’s so fond of.  Well…patience, patience.  Maybe next time.”

-And, finally, people also often ask me if my friends dislike being written about in my column.  Actually, most of them treat it as a badge of honor and enjoy the attention.  In fact, I’m considering changing the column’s tagline from “Writing what you’re thinking since 1997” to “Helping Triplet #1 get laid since 1999.”  I’m sure he’d love that.  The truth is, though, I was a little nervous when I left my boys behind and moved to Los Angeles.  I’ve always thought of myself as the connector, the nucleus of the group.  Yes, Triplet #1 and Triplet #3 are brothers, but would they really ever hang out if I didn’t make the plans?  This weekend in New York, over a few thousand beers, I hope to find out.  The litmus test is simple.  I’ll ask, “So how are you guys doing without me?”  And if the response is, “Bite me, Karo.  How does your soul feel in LA, you LA-loving asshole?” I’ll know everything is just fine.  Fuck me.

HOME

-Our nocturnal culture gets all the glory.  Putting in a late night at the office, pulling an all-nighter before an exam, partying until the brink of dawn – this is the stuff of legends.  But there is another side, an untold story.  There are a select group of twentysomethings, of which I am a part, who thrive during the daylight hours.  We are a group that doesn’t have an office or a classroom to go to.  Our time to shine is, well, when the sun is shining – but we do so from the comfort of own homes.  We are the self-employed, the unemployed, the writers, comedians, actors, and freelancers.  We may not have anywhere to go all day.  We may masturbate a lot.  And we may not have proper health insurance.  But we’re people, too.  Welcome to the world of daycrawlers.

-I’ve been a daycrawler since the summer of 2002, when I left Wall Street to focus on writing and stand-up full-time.  I quickly upgraded to a fully-equipped home office (i.e. I bought a stapler), and here I sit to this day.  In fact, when I’m not on tour, I’ve been known not to leave my apartment for days on end.  When I still lived with my roommate Brian, I used this fact as leverage.  I’d say, “Listen man, you left your dirty dishes out again.  I’m not threatening you, but just so you know, I’m gonna be in the apartment all week.  If you don’t clean up, there’s a chance my balls may graze your pillow.  A good chance.”

-When you’re in your apartment all day, you start to develop strange habits.  For instance, I like to sniff my tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.  I’m telling you, it smells fucking amazing.  Give it a whiff, you won’t be disappointed.  I’ve also become pretty adept at fending for myself in adverse situations.  Like when I chipped a tooth a few months ago.  I really didn’t want to drive to the dentist, so I just filed it down myself with a Swiss Army Knife.  What can I say?  Sniffing margarine makes you do crazy things.

-On the first of every month, like clockwork, I get a copy of Outside Magazine.  I don’t know why I get a copy of Outside Magazine.  After all, I don’t have a subscription.  One day, they just started sending it to me.  It’s quite ironic, too, because I rarely even go outside.  What I’d like to read, if it existed, is Inside Magazine.  Now that I could sink my teeth into.  Especially if it featured the latest advances in air conditioning.  To me, A/C is pretty much the peak of civilization.  As far as inventions go, the wheel was OK, the Internet, not bad.  But I mean, I think there’s gotta be room on the calendar for a holiday dedicated to the guy who invented air conditioning.  I’m thinking some time in summer.

-Anyone who’s ever suddenly been unemployed or who has finally gotten their first week off in a while, knows what those first few days outside the office are like: absolutely wall-to-wall packed with running errands.  I’ll be honest, I have no idea how people with “real” jobs run errands.  My entire life outside of my apartment consists of shopping lists, going to the bank, and getting home in time for the cable guy to fix my DVR.  Daycrawlers absolutely require DVR.  You want to know what’s on live on ESPN during the day?  Arm wrestling, professional juggling, and the Spelling Bee.  Believe me, it’s time to get worried when you actually take the time to Google “How do a lefty and a righty arm-wrestle each other?”

-In the end, working from home means being able to avoid my three least favorite things: tucking in my shirt, shaving regularly, and waking up early.  But us daycrawlers pay a price for such comfort by being consigned to a sort of twentysomething limbo.  Days off on holidays no longer have any meaning (even those dedicated to air conditioning).  Stationery and danishes are no longer free.  And calling a friend at the office and being told by his capable assistant that Mr. So-and-So is not available at the moment makes us second-guess our career choices.  Thankfully for me, though, such fleeting regret is easily dispelled by one glance at my facial stubble, one overt scratch of my balls, and a hearty whiff of margarine.

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

-I work out 0-5 times a week, every week, no exceptions.  And so I’ve studied a lot of workout plans.  But I’ve finally found the one that’s right for me.  It’s called the “Whatever the Person Before Me Did” workout.  Here’s how it goes: whatever the person who used the machines or weights before you did, that’s what you do.  Lat pull-down bar already hooked up?  Lat pull-downs it is!  Bench already set at 150 pounds?  Looks like I’m benching 150 today!  The best part about this workout is that it combines exercise with laziness.  And you thought it couldn’t be done.

-It’s been a long time since I’ve written one of these, but here’s my latest list of people that irk, annoy, or otherwise piss me off:  People who send Evites that rhyme.  People who call their grandparents some weird nickname instead of “grandma” and “grandpa.”  People who always call me from a blocked number yet wonder why I screen them every single time.  Anyone who comes within fifty yards of me with a lit mother-fucking cigarette.  People who don’t write their names at the end of emails because they have an automatic email signature (i.e. Yo Karo, let’s get fucked up tonight you douche!  Kindest Regards, Joe Smith).  People who cry at movies they’ve already seen.  Really annoying people who complain about other people being really annoying.  People who insist on sharing dishes when eating Chinese food.  People who want to work out while on vacation.  The dude with the silver BMW in the tiny parking spot next to mine who hasn’t moved his car in three months.  People whose MySpace profile picture is an inanimate object or landscape.  And, finally, anyone who watches, tapes, supports, discusses, follows, votes for, or otherwise enjoys American Idol.  Phew!  That felt good to get off my chest.

-I want to give a shout-out to my sister Caryn, who celebrated her birthday last week.  My sis proofreads all my columns before I email them out, something she might be a tad overqualified for since she just got her Master’s degree.  But in my eyes, she really earned her stripes this past Thanksgiving Eve – the traditional holiday where everyone originally from New York returns home, goes out in the city, and gets absolutely hammercanned.  Usually this results in me missing most of the festivities the next day while nursing a five-alarm headache and getting made fun of by my sister.  But this year, I was a good boy and was back at my parent’s house on Long Island by 5am.  She, on the other hand, had five martinis, made out with the left wing on the New York Rangers, vomited in a diner, and passed out in the city.  The next day, as I spied my massively hungover sibling, unconscious in the next room and oblivious to the cranberry sauce flowing like water nearby, I thought to myself, “Wow…so THIS is what Thanksgiving is like!”

-And, finally, when I first thought about writing a column on daycrawlers, I was still living in New York, where it’s quite a novel concept.  But here in LA, nobody has an actual job and everyone’s around all day.  Here, the daycrawler is king.  Still, there’s one thing that daycrawlers everywhere complain about – the fact that our friends think that just because we work from home, we don’t actually do work.  Listen, just because I sat in my air-conditioned apartment today, flipping through Outside Magazine and looking at ads for Swiss Army Knives while watching juggling on ESPN, doesn’t mean I didn’t do any work.  This column doesn’t write itself you know.  Come on people, wake up and smell the margarine.  No, seriously, smell it.  Fuck me!

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-As I took off from Sydney Airport last week, headed back to LAX after a two-and-a-half-week Australian adventure, I suddenly realized my flight was following the same exact route as the ill-fated passengers on the show “Lost.”  Thankfully, my plane landed safely in Los Angeles and not some mysterious netherworld populated by bizarre characters of uncertain ilk (though, admittedly, it’s pretty difficult to tell the difference).  However, I think the flight (in which some dude actually had the pilot propose to his girlfriend over the loudspeaker) was an appropriately strange ending to an overall absurd trip.  Here’s the recap of my blunder Down Under.

-The primary combatants on the trip were my buddies Jen and Triplet #2, and our first order of business upon arriving in Sydney was to take Trip 2 out for his birthday.  Due to Jen’s extensive business travel, she was able to get us upgraded to a gourmet suite in the Sydney Marriott.  This worked out well as I was able to utilize the bucket that held our complimentary champagne to vomit in profusely after taking three birthday shots for every one of Trip 2’s.  The following day, we were scheduled to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the top of which offers spectacular views of the Opera House and the rest of the city.  Unfortunately for me, one of the prerequisites to scaling the bridge was passing a breathalyzer test.  Let me tell you what I discovered – no matter where you are in the world, when you fail a breathalyzer at 3pm solely from drinking the previous night, most people are laughing at you, not with you.

-On my list of most annoying people to travel with, the very worst are people who get really tan and won’t stop discussing their tanning strategies.  For over two weeks, I had to hear Jen and Trip 2 talk about how much “color” they got and how they hoped to get more “color” and where they might be lacking in “color.”  Nobody mother-fucking cares, you assholes!  I need two coats of SPF 45 just to avoid getting burnt to a crisp on an overcast day.  But, hey, at least I’m not bitter.

-I studied abroad with Trip 2 in college, so I knew he’d be a good person to travel with because we have similar sightseeing protocols: see the major sights, take a picture or two, and then get the fuck outta there.  What is it about girls that makes them want to linger at every single plaque, rock, or tree?  Guys are much more efficient.  While swimming in Lake McKenzie, a top tourist spot in Australia featuring crystal clear freshwater surrounded by white beaches and lush green forest, Trip 2 said to me, “Wow, this is beautiful.”  And I was like, “Yeah, it really is.”  We both admired the landscape for a moment and then Trip 2 said, “I could leave in fifteen minutes” and I was like, “Totally.”

-The grand finale of the trip was three days sailing in the Great Barrier Reef, where we met up with another college friend, Mike.  Me, Mike, and Trip 2 made up an intimidating triumvirate of recovering frat boys crammed on a boat with a dozen Aussies, Brits, and Scots.  Things got interesting one night when I awoke to find an Aussie chick climbing into bed with me on the deck of the ship, clearly wanting to hook up.  In my drunken/sleeping haze, it took me a few minutes to realize she thought I was Mike.  Noticing she had already removed her bra and fearing an international incident, I hesitantly told her that I was not, in fact, Mike.  Incredibly embarrassed, she flitted away crying, “All you Americans look the same!”  I smiled and fell back asleep.  My work here was done.

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

-Have you ever been walking down the hallway toward your apartment and happen to get a glimpse through a half-opened door of the inside of an apartment down the hall from you?  It’s usually such a rush to finally see how the other half lives, quickly followed by the crushing realization that, though architecturally identical, your neighbor’s apartment is much more lavishly decorated – wait, is that a leather sectional where my canvas futon is? – and finally you pledge to never again avert your eyes from the well-worn strip of carpet that runs directly from the elevator to your poor excuse of an apartment nor ever leave your own door open enough to enable others to view your pathetically furnished hovel.

-Is there anything more awkward than attempting to bribe someone who doesn’t realize they’re being bribed?  When I first moved into my apartment, I tried to grease the Comcast guy to upgrade me from a single-tuner DVR to a then-rare dual-tuner DVR so that I could tape new episodes of “Lost” while simultaneously watching old episodes of “Lost.”  He just didn’t get it.  He was like, “I can’t do that for you because then headquarters will know I installed it.”  And I was like, “Welllll… is there anything I can do to make it worth your while?”  And he was like, “You should probably call customer service and get on the waiting list.”  Finally I just said, “How about I secretly give you money in exchange for you helping me out?”  He paused for a minute and then said, “Um, I don’t think I’m allowed to do that.”  Of course you’re not allowed to do that, jackass!  God damn it.  You know what?  Just hook up Skinemax and get the fuck out of here.

-About a month ago, I was having dinner with my cousin in Santa Monica when she told me that she had just broken up with this guy she had been dating for a long time and thought she might even marry.  I was the first person she had told.  And as she was telling me what happened, and getting a little upset, I started to feel really, really bad for her.  I mean, overcome with grief.  But not so much because of the end of her relationship.  No, all I could think about was how many times she would have to tell the same story to different people.  I could just imagine the coming weeks and how she would have to repeat herself over and over again – the same boring, drawn-out explanation of what happened for every person that asked.  My God, that must be so agonizingly annoying to do.  The end of a relationship, well, that’s one thing.  But telling the same story more than once?  Oh, the horror.

-And, finally, during my blunder Down Under, I learned a lot about Australians.  For example, the girls are extremely hot and always bikini-clad (apparently from the age of three on up).  Everyone has great “color” and is into outdoor adventure sports (as for me, I took surfing lessons for three hours then called it a career).  But most of all, I learned that when it comes down do it, Aussies are just plain old nice.  Everyone’s like, “You first, mate,” “No worries, mate,” “Go right ahead, mate.”  I was like, “Will somebody just fucking move first?  I gotta take a piss!”  It all came together for me in Byron Bay, a beach town north of Sydney, when Trip 2 accidentally spilled a beer all over me.  Within thirty seconds, a random dude at the bar had bought me a new beer.  When I insisted on paying him, he refused, saying, “No worries, mate.  It’s the Aussie spirit.”  Maybe that’s what the world needs more of – the Aussie spirit.  After all, extremely polite, tan chicks wearing bikinis and speaking in a hot accent never hurt anyone.  That is, unless they think they’re hooking up with one American, but it’s really his friend.  At that point, the Aussie spirit really just wants its bra back.  Fuck me, mate!

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-Like many twentysomethings, I get a little depressed around the end of the year.  I look back and think, shit, what the hell have I been doing with myself for the past twelve months?  I feel like I sat down to watch the Super Bowl, drank fifteen beers, and next thing I knew it was July 4th.  The fireworks were sub-par, I drank another fifteen beers, and woke up on Thanksgiving.  I think that the best way to combat my depression (besides another fifteen beers) is to take a light-hearted look back at 2005.  This is my Year in Review.

-The year started ominously enough with a gig at the Ft. Lauderdale Improv in which a guy in the first row walked out right in the middle.  Actually, he didn’t walk out.  He rolled out.  In a motorized wheelchair.  Because he was eighty years old.  Apparently he was offended by my joke about experimenting with progressively thinner condoms until finding a brand so thin it carried the warning label: “Not for use with cock.”

-I did notice one particularly salient trend in my travels – people tend to get blindingly drunk at my shows.  For example, the guy in the audience at Emory who, when I asked him what his zodiac sign was, responded, “I don’t even know what’s going on right now.”  But that doesn’t compare to the chick who got so housed at my show at the New York Improv that, after being asked to leave by the club manager, turned around and clocked the manager in the face.  Four cops arrived on the scene, arrested her, cuffed her, and took her away in a police car as the crowd cheered her removal.  Only one word could describe my reaction to someone getting that fucked up: Impressed.

-One of my favorite parts about writing this column is hearing funny stories from the friends I frequently mention in it.  Like in Ruminations #70 when I wrote that my buddy Triplet #1 prefers hooking up with younger girls.  The Triplets’ dad read the column, called up one of his sons and asked accusingly, “Are you Triplet #1?”  And his son responded, “Dad, I’m Triplet #2, have you not realized it’s in birth order?”

-I also love hearing from fans about the spread of “gourmet,” the slang expression meaning “cool” or “dope” that I have been popularizing since Ruminations #49.  Now that gourmet is out there (which is pretty damn gourmet if you ask me), I’m going to introduce another term into the twentysomething lexicon: “bloodbath.”  I’ve actually been using it for quite a while to mean “an event of epic drunken debauchery.”  As in, “New Year’s Eve is gonna be a fucking bloodbath,” or “Karo’s show tonight is gonna be a bloodbath.  I hope we don’t get arrested.”

-In the end, I really hope the people who read my columns and books and came to my shows this year realized that I love to laugh at myself.  And I think everyone should laugh at themselves now and again, too.  That’s what keeps us young at heart.  At a show in Cornell, I jokingly ripped into people taking the LSATs who never before in their life have expressed any interest whatsoever in studying law.  Lo and behold, a girl who was studying for the LSATs got upset and walked out, thereby proving my point.  Ironically, at that very show, some guy brought his four-year-old daughter with him.  Once I noticed her, I did a 90-second bit about Elmo then warned her dad, “Listen, at the 37-minute mark, this set is gonna get ugly really fast.”  But they stayed.  And though I’m pretty sure my condom material was over her head, that little girl giggled the whole damn time.  She was probably my best audience member the entire year.  Let that be a lesson for us all.  And when I’m eighty years old and tooling around in a motorized wheelchair, not getting any of the jokes either, I hope I can still laugh too.

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

-I enjoy realizing that people have just given up.  Like the other day I saw a bag of Doritos emblazoned with the words “Now Better Tasting!”  Now better tasting?  That’s it?  That’s all they could come up with?  You know your marketing department needs work when it’s all downhill from “Nacho Cheesier.”

-It always amuses me when people quote a dollar amount by only using the first digit and nobody has any clue what they’re talking about.  Like if I ask a friend how much a recent purchase cost and he’s like “Oh, around eight.”  I don’t know if he means $8, $800, or $8,000!  And whichever one I guess, the response is always a chortle accompanied by a sarcastic repetition of the number.  I’m like, “Wow, $800?” and they’re like, “Psh, yeah, it cost $800.  What are you crazy?”  Actually, I still don’t know if I’m high or low.

-When I recently picked up my first batch of clothes at a new dry cleaner, I asked them how they kept track of everything without stapling a little paper tag with a number on it to the bottom of my shirts.  The dry cleaner was taken aback I even suggested that.  “We would never staple anything to your shirts!” she said, vehemently, “We write your name in permanent marker on the inside of the collar.”  Oh, great.  That’s much better.

-You know what’s really weird about living in Los Angeles?  Thinking you know someone from real life when they’re actually an actor.  I was at LAX a few weeks ago and I just felt compelled to say something to the girl standing next to me.  I was like, “I’m sorry, do I know you?  From Penn maybe?”  And she was like, “Oh, no, but I get that a lot because I had a small part in Clueless.”  I mean, where else in the world could that happen?  Imagine I was back in New York and met a guy at a party and was like, “Hey, you look really familiar.  Didn’t we use to work on Wall Street together?” and the guy was like, “I don’t think so, but I am Matthew McConaughey.”

-This New Year’s Eve, I’m stepping it up a notch and heading to Australia with Triplet #2.  Needless to say, it’s gonna be a bloodbath.  The only thing I’m concerned about is that Trip 2 only shits about once every five days.  He’s like a freakin’ bear.  Meanwhile, I need to be within 200 meters of a proper restroom at all times.  Personally, I prefer to travel with someone less interested in spotting kangaroos and more interested in trying to find Charmin ultra rolls in the middle of the outback.

-And, finally, when I truly look back on 2005, I can’t help but feel, well, exhausted.  After all, I moved from an apartment in Manhattan to my parents’ house on Long Island, then from my parents’ house on Long Island back to Manhattan, and finally from Manhattan all the way to Los Angeles.  I broke up with the most serious girlfriend I’ve ever had.  I published my second book.  My first book reached its ninth printing.  I wrote a sitcom pilot.  I wrote my 4,000th joke.  I appeared on two television shows.  I crisscrossed the country about a dozen times on my stand-up tour.  It was truly a wild year.  You guys all helped make it wilder – for that, I say THANK YOU!!  And trust me, I’ve got plenty more in store for you next year.  There is, however, one goal I have for 2006 that I would like to share: I really want to sign a tit.  I’ve signed my share of autographs and books, and even a fat kid’s stomach at Ohio State once, but I’ve never signed a naked breast.  If I can accomplish that in the next twelve months, I’ll be a banner year.  What can I say?  I aim high.  And ladies, if you care to lift your shirt and indulge me but can’t find a Sharpie, don’t worry.  Just ask my dry cleaner, they’ve got plenty.  Fuck me!

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