-Recently a buddy told me that he “never gets hungover.” Of course, the only logical responses to that statement are that my friend is a liar, or he doesn’t drink enough. If he was telling the truth, though, I couldn’t help but be envious. Hangovers are the bane of my existence. There’s nothing worse than going out and having the time of your life, only to wake up the next morning/afternoon without being able to lift your head from the pillow or find your shoes. Hangovers are, in essence, party deterrents. The mere specter of them causes us to curb our boozing quicker than we would otherwise like. Yet we never stop imbibing completely. Because no matter how bad your hangover, it’s still much better than the alternative: sobriety.

-The office hangover is perhaps the most pernicious of all hangovers. You don’t even like sitting in your cubicle on a normal day, let alone one where you can’t stop sweating and the smell of the alcohol in your assistant’s Purell makes you nauseous. And think about how productive an employee you would be if you actually put as much effort into your job as you do scouting for inconspicuous places to vomit.

-After almost fifteen years of drinking, why do I still not make any preparations in anticipation of the morning after? I always wake up with no readily available water and an unopened Advil bottle buried deep in my medicine cabinet that’s both childproof and drunk-adult-proof. I guess I believe that if I don’t think about an impending hangover, it won’t actually happen. So far this has worked 0% of the time.

-The parental hangover – or being forced to suffer in silence while you spend time with your mom or dad – is particularly vicious. They know you’re hungover. They know that you know that they know you’re hungover. Yet they seem to take great pleasure in not bringing it up as they march you around running menial errands. My parents always like to throw in a little “Have fun last night?” comment. Seriously? I’d rather be at work.

-Everyone’s got their favorite hangover remedy – coffee, greasy food, boot and rally. But there’s really only one technique that has ever worked for me: don’t go to bed. If I go away for the weekend or if I’m on tour, I try to fly out as early as possible on the last morning and just get on the plane drunk and pass out. Not having to drag myself out of bed by never getting into it in the first place actually seems to mitigate and delay my hangovers. Of course it also means I frequently stagger through airports smelling like a brewery and unable to get my sneakers off in a timely fashion. Therefore, I propose a third line be added to the security checkpoint – Expert Traveler, Families, and Drunken Degenerates. That lane would be extra wide to accommodate stumbling.

-The accidental hangover occurs when you go out to have a couple of drinks with some friends on a weeknight and wake up in all of your clothes with no recollection of what happened after the second round. Even though I’ve already stated that I don’t prepare myself properly for nursing premeditated hangovers, I hate accidental hangovers the most because they can ruin your entire week. I’ve trudged to my computer with one eye barely open, launched my calendar, and just dragged everything I had to do that day to the next. I then go back to sleep and resolve to take it easy the following weekend – which is obviously as big a lie as my friend’s claim that he “never gets hungover.”

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

-I’ve long observed that in every other city in America, being a comedian is a cool and interesting job, but here in LA no one gives a shit. Case in point: last week me and a buddy were at a bar talking to a chick and she asked us what we did for a living. My friend said that he was a lawyer and I was a comedian. The girl pondered this for a moment, looked at me, then turned to my friend and said, “So how do you like being a lawyer?”

-Ever realize that when you’re friends with a bartender and she hooks you up with free drinks, you end up tipping her extravagantly and spending more than you would have in the first place?

-The main selling point for smartphones and copy shops seems to be that you’ll be saved in the unlikely event you leave your presentation in a cab. That’s like touting a camera that takes pictures in space or a condom’s ability to withstand a foursome.

-As a big soccer fan, I’m pumped for this summer’s World Cup. What I’m not looking forward to is listening to morons tell me that soccer is boring before turning back to their four-hour baseball games.

-There’s nothing more daunting than attempting to figure out how to use the subway system in a city you’re visiting. We definitely take for granted how absurdly complicated the maps are in our own cities. Luckily, we have almost no public transportation here in LA so tourists can rest easy…while they sit in bumper-to-bumper gridlock.

-I really don’t understand the appeal of all my friends “checking in” with Foursquare. The only benefit of knowing where you are at all times is that I can avoid you. You’ve visited one supermarket more than anyone else in the city? Congratulations, you’re now Mayor of Doucheville.

-LeBron James is the athletic equivalent of a newly single hot chick. There’s gonna be a lot of courting, a lot of teasing, and a lot of late night phone calls from John Calipari. Okay, so it’s an imperfect analogy.

-And, finally, the worst hangover I ever experienced was in Australia in 2005. As I wrote in Ruminations #81, I went out drinking with Triplet #2 to celebrate his birthday. The next day we were scheduled to climb the Sydney Harbour Bridge, but I was so banged up that I failed the requisite breathalyzer test at 3pm – yes, that’s 3pm the next day. My friends went without me while I stayed behind to lick my wounds and lament the $200 deposit I had just lost. The administrator wouldn’t tell me what my blood alcohol level was, but he remarked that it was one of the highest readings he’d ever seen. And to think, any other clowns who failed had probably been drinking the actual day of the test, whereas I was merely hungover. “I’m actually kind of proud,” I joked to the staff, before being unceremoniously escorted from the building and into the harsh, Australian sunlight. Fuck me.

HOME

-Viewers of the television show Lost come in three varieties. There are those who watched one episode out of curiosity, had no idea what the fuck was going on, and promptly gave up. There are those who watched from the beginning but got so confused and frustrated by season four that they angrily deleted the show from their DVR’s series recordings. And then there are those like me – hardcore, unabashed Lost nerds who watch entire scenes in slow motion to catch fleeting references and share message board theories with religious fervor. There are no casual fans of Lost. Either you don’t watch it at all or you’ve once considered getting a tattoo of the Numbers. And so, when the series finale airs next week, millions of us will no longer be able to get our Oceanic fix. The Island will be done with us even though we’re not done with the Island.

-One of the most amazing (and confounding) aspects of Lost is that there are about nine million fucking characters. Losties brace themselves whenever a new character appears onscreen because we know we will soon know them front, back, and sideways. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I know some of the main characters better than I do my own friends. I just found out my buddy’s parents got divorced over a year ago. But I can tell you exactly where and when Jack had his appendix out. Poor Jack.

-One reason a show like Lost won’t come around again any time soon is that watching it is actually a lot of work. You need to recall obscure details from five-year-old episodes in order to fully understand the new season. The fact is, today’s television viewers are lazy. Personally, I’d rather watch my screensaver than Jersey Shore. But, sadly, more people would rather watch reality TV than remember that the sailboat Sawyer took to Hydra Island is the same one Desmond used to compete in his race around the world.

-If there’s a bright side to Lost going off the air, it’s that I’ll stop spending so much damn money on it. From my BlackBerry wallpaper, to the $90 Dharma Initiative jumpsuit I wore for Halloween, to all the episodes I bought on iTunes, this show has cost me a fortune. There are non-monetary costs as well – like the hair loss I suffered in season two when my DVR cut off the crucial last thirty seconds of every episode, or all the valuable time I’ve spent on Lostpedia when I could have been, you know, talking to girls.

-I’m aware, of course, that some people fucking hate Lost – both because it’s such an absurd show at times, and because people like me won’t shut up about it. But one of the joys of being a fan is meeting kindred spirits. Finding out someone you know is also a Lostie is like running into someone from your hometown or meeting your biological parents for the first time. There’s so much to talk about at first that you don’t know where to begin. How Hurley is so fat after all this time is generally as good a place as any.

-For me, Lost has been so much more than just a source of entertainment and Facebook gossip. It’s also brought me closer to my mom. After all, I can always bond with my dad over the Yankees. And my sister and I can always discuss how annoying our parents are. But for mothers and sons, common interests are not always as easy to come by. For me and my mom, it’s Lost. She dutifully watches every episode and then calls to have me explain to her what the hell just happened. Unfortunately, yesterday was the last Mother’s Day of the Lost era. When we spoke, I asked my mom what we would talk about after the series finale. “Aaron,” she said, “I still don’t understand season one.” “Well then, Mom,” I replied, “we have to go back.”

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

-Someone stopped me in the mall the other day and asked me to try a new hangover recovery detox drink. My first thought? That it would taste great with vodka.

-Fact: the guys who stick fliers underneath your windshield wipers are a species of mole people who have never actually been observed in the wild.

-“Why, yes, lovely lady whom I just picked up at the bar and brought to my apartment, I do have champagne. What’s that? You want me to open the bottle? No, no, you have to do that yourself.”

-Shrubs that smell like weed and shit are curiously popular in the landscaping community.

-My buddy Jeff took a day off work to go to Coachella a few weeks ago. Upon further discussion, I realized he took Monday, not Friday, off. I guess that’s another way to tell you’re getting old: when you take a day off at the end of a weekend trip in order to recover, instead of a day off at the beginning in order to start getting fucked up earlier.

-Why must surgeons spell orthopedic as “orthopaedic”? I get it; you’re better than me.

-Why are sushi restaurants the only ones that require you to write down your own order? And why do the tiny pencils they provide always seem like they were salvaged from an ancient bowling alley ushered unwillingly into the electronic age?

-I currently have a stray strand of floss stuck in my teeth. I guess it will be there forever.

-Unless it’s actually moisturizer, if a product says “moisturizing” on the bottle, it doesn’t really moisturize.

-And, finally, since Lost has been on for almost six years, it’s incredible to consider just how much has transpired in our own lives as we’ve followed the show. For instance, the person who first got me into Lost in 2004 was my girlfriend at the time (known to longtime readers as simply “Girlfriend”). It had a profound effect on our relationship. At the time, I didn’t have DVR but she did, and the late nights we spent watching Lost in her apartment drew us closer together. On the other hand, we once got into such a vicious argument over a plot twist that we actually had to go to couples counseling (the therapist had not seen the episode in question and thus was unable to issue a ruling). I don’t talk to Girlfriend much anymore, as she’s busy planning her wedding, but I do know that she’s still a Lostie. In hindsight, that might have been the only thing we had in common. It’s appropriate, then, that her wedding and the Lost series finale are so close to each other. Both events mark the end of an era. One I’ve already made my peace with. The other I’ll be watching in slow motion. Fuck me.

HOME

-In 1994, my friend’s father applied for a permit to whitewater raft the Colorado River. Sixteen years later, his name finally reached the top of the waiting list. When my buddy asked me if wanted to join the adventure he and his dad were planning, my first response was, “Absolutely…not.” After all, I’d never been camping, I hate the outdoors, and there’s no way I could survive for long without cell or Internet service. But after being subjected to weeks of pleading, cajoling, and taunting, I finally succumbed and agreed to go. And go I did. Earlier this month, I actually spent nine nights and ten days in the Grand Canyon. When asked to describe the trip upon my return, I was at such a loss for words that I had to create a new one – “epiculous.” Yes, the trip was both epic and ridiculous. I survived. But rest assured, I will never go outside ever again.

-This was a privately organized trip with no professionals or tour guides, just a handful of hardcore outdoorsmen who invited their friends to join and essentially serve as human ballast. There were sixteen people and four rafts total. We set up camp and cooked for ourselves every night, and broke everything down and rigged the boats every morning. As a hardcore indoorsman, I brought nothing to the table except witty banter and obsessive compulsiveness. I quickly learned my place. I could not help with rowing, knot-tying, or scouting rapids, but I did have four different types of Purell handy at all times.

-Since our rafts were each fairly large, it was unlikely that one would capsize during a rapid. Nonetheless, every single thing on board needed to be secured just in case. The number of straps and ropes and carabiners was astounding, and tying everything up took forever. Plus, between the sun, the corrosive river, and the sand, your fingers soon begin to split open, making handling the straps extremely painful. After about a week, though, you become desensitized to the pain and embrace the system. I even began to have dreams about life jackets and straps and ropes – like some kind of aquatic dominatrix.

-Bathing on a trip like this is another adventure. Here’s the protocol: get ass-naked, dive into the ice-cold river, come out, lather up with soap, dive back into the water and rinse, then run out before you freeze to death. It took me until day four before I finally worked up the nerve to do it. I stripped down, dove in, and promptly dislocated my shoulder. As I mentioned in Ruminations #158, I first injured my shoulder at a wedding last year. Since then, it has popped out twice more during what I can only describe as two of my more memorable one-night stands. Luckily, two of the guys on the trip were doctors, and after my shoulder popped back in on its own, they fashioned a sling out of one of the straps from the boat. When I finally returned to our tent, my buddy Rob was shocked to see what had happened. “Didn’t you hear me screaming in pain?” I asked. “Sure,” Rob replied, “but I just figured the water is really cold and you’re a pussy.” Thanks, pal.

-After going to the bathroom, you can’t just bury the results in the Grand Canyon, otherwise every campsite would be full of, well, buried shit. Instead, you sit on a portable contraption and go into a box, then carry the whole thing with you. Seriously. It was just one of many indignities on the trip that I never thought I would suffer. But the truth is, you adapt. I went from putting band-aids on my fingers to wrapping them with duct tape to just crazy gluing the cuts closed. I eventually began bypassing the toilet altogether and shitting right in the river, like a fucking animal. On day eight, after I had gotten the hang of bathing without injuring myself, my buddy Justin, an accomplished camper, spotted me emerging nonchalantly from the water clutching soap and a toothbrush in my lacerated hands. Smiling, he said to me, “Look what you’ve become.” My metamorphosis from indoorsman to outdoorsman was evidently complete. I promptly retreated to my tent and rubbed myself down with Purell.

-As always, here are some random things about camping in the Grand Canyon I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-We made our own drinking water by purifying river water through an arduous process that I avoided helping with for as long as possible. When my turn came, my water was deemed “barely drinkable.” In order not to waste it, we mixed the water with about a pound of lemonade powder and then mixed that with alcohol. So, mission accomplished.

-Whenever the rafts approached a large whitewater rapid, we would go ashore and scout it first. Basically, the boatmen would stare at the rapid for twenty minutes and discuss strategy while the rest of held our dicks. Then we’d row into the rapid and immediately be doused with waves of freezing cold water. Apparently, the strategy was to get me as soaked as possible in retaliation for complaining every time we stopped to talk strategy.

-Rob and I shared a tent we borrowed from a couple that used it to climb Everest – a feat made even more amazing when you consider how complicated this tent was. Every night we were left with extra poles and zippers that wouldn’t close. Eventually, we scrapped the tent and just slept in sleeping bags under the stars. That’s as close as I’ve ever been to nature. One morning Rob found a tick near his groin. We decided the tent wasn’t so bad.

-On the first day, we spotted someone in the water and made an emergency rescue mission. It turned out to be a basketball with a face drawn on it like the Wilson volleyball from Cast Away, and he became our mascot. Another time, someone dropped an unopened Bud Light into the river, which we rushed to retrieve. In fact, only one guy went overboard during our trip and he was able to swim to safety. So we ended up expending more energy rescuing a basketball and a beer than we did saving an actual person. At least this group had its priorities straight.

-And, finally, with a few days still remaining on the trip the group made a horrific discovery: we had run out of alcohol. My friend’s father had not budgeted properly for the seven thirty-year-olds who took part and promptly plowed through all the beer and box wine. Everyone seemed resigned to continue the journey sans booze. This of course was unacceptable to me, and I resolved to take action. Here was one arena in which I knew I could add value. The next day, I commandeered a raft and an oarsman and we rowed upstream and waited. When other boats passed, I accosted them and bartered for alcohol. I returned to the campsite several hours later with a handle of Jack, a Nalgene of tequila, and a case of beer. I basked in the glory of a hero’s welcome. But my friend’s dad, who had waited sixteen years for this trip, looked upon my acquisitions with a hint of contempt. Seemingly unimpressed, his attention quickly shifted to my makeshift sling. “How’s your shoulder?” he grumbled. “A little better, I guess,” I responded. Then, without a hint of compassion, he said, “Good. We need that strap back.” Fuck me.

HOME

-Everyone’s had that feeling of helplessness when you can’t find your cell phone or forget to charge your laptop or are unable to get an Internet connection. The first phase is panic. The second phase is anger. The third phase is nostalgia, as you hark back to a time when you didn’t need an app to order pizza. The fourth and final phase is surrender, as you realize you can’t get anything done and resign to take a nap instead. Technology has given us the power to booty-text five girls at once, the power to reconnect with kindergarten classmates we had no desire to reconnect with, and the power to check email at times and in places God and Google never intended. These days, everybody is drunk with power – which means we’re all setting ourselves up for a nasty hangover.

-Having a buddy who can’t send personal emails from work is like corresponding with someone living in another hemisphere. By the time they get home and reply, whatever you were talking about has become obsolete and you’re already asleep. If your company installs a new firewall, you might as well move to Australia, because that’s what it will feel like to your friends anyway.

-Remember that one random time that you called tech support ranting and raving, then rolled your eyes when told to make sure the device was actually plugged in, before realizing it in fact wasn’t plugged in? Well that’s the reason why customer service reps treat us all like idiots.

-I recently had a power outage in my apartment building that lasted so long I finally just gave up and went out run to errands. While I was gone, a friend informed me that power had been restored. When I returned home, I fully expected all my gadgets to have come to life in my absence, like a scene from that movie “Batteries Not Included.”

-As many of you know, I do all my grocery shopping online to minimize the amount of human interaction I have to endure. It’s also quite convenient. The only drawback is that it’s really difficult to gauge sizes when all the products are displayed in thumbnails. A 128-fluid-ounce drum of soy sauce? Yeah…that looks about right.

-My BlackBerry is set to “Vibrate + Tone,” meaning it will vibrate first, and then either ring (if I’m getting a call), beep (text), or ping (BBM). The brief moment of silence after it vibrates but before the subsequent tone is akin to hearing screeching tires and waiting to hear the car accident. It’s almost always a letdown. 90% of my incoming BBMs are from friends just saying hi, 90% of texts are from iPhone chumps who can’t BBM me, and 90% of calls are from shady Unknown Numbers or are fundraising pleas from my alma mater. There should be a setting for “Vibrate + Disappointment.”

-I haven’t had an office job in nearly eight years, but I recall that during my time on Wall Street it was kinda frowned upon to talk on your cell phone at your desk. Nowadays, though, I rarely call my friends’ work numbers during the day. A lot of my friends are big shots with assistants and that’s just one more instance of human interaction I can do without. When I call my friends’ cell phones while they’re working, they usually don’t have a problem picking up and chatting. So I guess cell phones are now so ubiquitous, the stigma of using them at work no longer persists. It also means there’s no reason not to return my personal emails in a timely fashion. Last I checked, the email firewall on your work computer doesn’t affect your iPhone, so write me back when I ask if you want to go to Happy Hour. You may be drunk with power, but I just wanna get drunk.

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

-How can this special, personalized offer be available to me “or Current Resident”?

-It’s pointless to refer to an athlete as an “11-time All-Star” in a sport where the fans vote. That doesn’t tell me how talented a player he is, just that he’s really popular.

-If you didn’t have an email account when you were a freshman in college, then you are officially considered old. That’s the cut-off I’ve just decided on.

-I recently saw a dog whose owner had dyed its fur pink. Instead of ripping into this chick, I’m gonna give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe when the dog sheds, this makes it easier to clean up because the hair is more visible. Or perhaps she believes it will be easier to find the pink dog when it inevitably runs away because its owner is a raging psychopath.

-For whatever reason, my cleaning woman left the mat in my tub upside down, so when I got in to take a shower the next day, I stepped on the suction cup part. I’ve never been more terrified. For an instant I thought an octopus or something had crawled through the drain. Jumping three feet in the air while shrieking is not a good look when you’re naked.

-I don’t drink coffee, but meeting for coffee is a thing normal people do I guess, so oftentimes I’ll just get a decaf iced coffee. Then I started getting the mocha flavor. Sometimes they’ll put whipped cream on top. Let me tell you, it’s really hard for people to take you seriously in meetings when you’re basically drinking a glorified milkshake.

-My car key has a little release switch that allows me to remove my house keys from the ignition key so that I can give only that key to the valet. What exactly am I worried about? That while I’m inside the restaurant, this guy is gonna make a copy of my apartment key and run my license plate through a database to find my address? I just paid someone nine bucks to park my car – I’m already getting robbed.

-And, finally, even though I’m not “old” – at least according to my definition – I haven’t always been so receptive to new technology. In fact, in the October 2003 issue of this column, I wrote: “Memo to people who email me asking me to join Friendster: I already have a network of friends. They’re called my friends. Clearly you are not one of them.” My more recent fondness for Facebook and Twitter proves that I’ve changed my tune when it comes to social networking. However, the deeper sentiment behind my statement about Friendster remains true: urging me to jump on the latest tech trend will only cause me to resist it. I’m stubborn like that. Right now, you’d have to pry the BlackBerry out of my cold, dead hand. But whether I ever cave some day and get an iPhone depends on only one thing. When I go out drinking and am stricken with a horrible, throbbing hangover – is there an app for that? Fuck me.

HOME

-After enjoying a peaceful, engagement-free existence for the first few years after college, 75% of my friends got married between the ages of twenty-six and twenty-nine. This first wave were pioneers – introducing me to the wonders of bridal registries, destination weddings, and tuxedo vomit stain removal techniques. But now, a second wave is coming. Those couples (well, the ones who aren’t already divorced), are now shedding light on a phenomenon I’ve had little prior experience with: pregnancy. I can’t tell you how shocked I am by the fact that my married friends are starting to have kids. Not because I don’t think they’re ready, but because I just assumed they no longer had sex.

-The first baby I ever held was my cousin Daniel, a few days after he was born in 2001. He was so delicate that I remember being terrified that I would somehow break him. Now when I visit Daniel he comes flying at my blind side – usually face or feet first – and I end up getting clocked in the balls. I should have taken him down when I had the chance.

-I was hanging out with my pregnant friend a few weeks ago when she said she was hungry. I started to tell her what I had to eat in the house, but by the time I turned around she was already elbow deep into a box of cereal. I asked her if she wanted a bowl or a spoon…or some milk, but her eyes were already glazed over. Now I have to buy more Rice Krispies.

-I’ve long espoused in my books and stand-up act that if you’re dating a girl and you decide to make your relationship “official,” always have that conversation on Valentine’s Day. Cheesy as it may seem, every year henceforth your anniversary will fall on that holiday, enabling you to combine both gifts in one. I call this the “relationship extra-value meal.” Coincidentally, my Israeli buddy Gadi just had a baby girl who was actually born on Valentine’s Day. So if the guy who eventually marries her plays his cards right, he’ll only have to buy her one present the entire year. In other words, she’s a keeper.

-As I mentioned in Ruminations #162, I recently had brunch with two married couples, one of which brought their ten-month-old daughter. The baby was cute and I was several potent Bloody Marys deep, so I started tickling her. My buddy chided me for touching his kid with my germy hands. Um, hello? I bathe daily, carry Purell in my car, and am currently drinking nearly pure alcohol. You’re lucky I’m letting your baby touch ME!

-I firmly believe that all employees have the right to maternity leave. But how anxious are those last few days in the office when you’re trying to get shit done before the baby comes and your co-worker disappears for twelve weeks? “How far apart are the contractions? Do we have time for one more meeting? Shit, her water just broke on the Polycom.”

-Of course, most of my married friends don’t even have kids yet – which means the second wave is just beginning. When my time comes, though, hopefully I’ll have plenty of practice. I sure as hell need it. My cousin Daniel’s little sister Emily has taken to calling me from her mom’s cell phone (likely because “Aaron” is listed first in the address book), and expecting me to chat with her. But what do you say to a five-year-old? “How are you?” “Good.” “What are you doing?” “Nothing.” “How old are you?” “Five.” And then I’m out of questions. I can’t wait until Emily’s mom teaches her what a Bloody Mary is. Then Emily will be the one asking me questions: “How are you?” “Hungover.” “What are you doing?” “Sleeping.” “How many did you have?” “Five.”

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

-Even if I’m explicitly reminded to “read from the bottom up” when forwarded an entertaining email conversation, I still read from the top down and ruin it.

-Utilizing both a smiley face and parentheses in the same sentence is a complex maneuver few should attempt.

-Ever notice that in Word when you right click on a plural term in order to find a synonym it merely gives you the singular version of the same word? No one wins.

-Have you ever mistaken a soap dispenser for a hand sanitizer dispenser and spent five minutes futilely rubbing soap into your dry hands?

-I last lived with a roommate five years ago and 3,000 miles away, but I’m still finding his shit. The other day I called Brian and said, “Dude, I’m pretty sure I have your pillow case.” “No way,” he responded, “How do you know?” “Well, for starters,” I said, “it has your name written in it.”

-Time Warner Cable just signed me up for “PowerBoost,” which is supposed to make my Internet faster for a few extra bucks a month. Clearly this is the 21st century version of being sold magic beans.

-You know you’re not religious when people offer you salutations for holidays you had no idea were happening.

-This morning my treadmill abruptly stopped mid-run and the screen read: “Maintenance necessary.” That’s just a low blow.

-I actually bought the Axe shower tool. Now I feel like one.

-And, finally, I’m the oldest child and my parents had me five years after they were married. I think five years is a good number. You get to enjoy each other’s company for a while (and make sure you don’t get divorced) before starting to pop out babies. The problem is, with people getting married later and later these days, waiting so long to conceive isn’t always an option. This has a disproportionately adverse effect on women, who now face dual pressure – from society to get married, and from biology to have kids. Meanwhile, I can stick to dating twenty-three-year-olds and not worry about either. The fact is, though, women are saints for putting up with all this. As I wrote in Ruminations #108, my mom left her career to stay home and raise my sister and me, only to return to the workforce shortly thereafter because I was such a pain in the ass. It would not be an exaggeration to say that I owe my life to my mom. And she owes hers to daycare. Fuck me.

HOME

-All it took was a three-word text message and I knew it was on. My buddy Chi is getting married later this year and the text from his brother Danny simply read: “vegas or coachella?” And with that, the planning for Chi’s bachelor party had begun. Bachelor parties are an odd phenomenon, perpetuating the tradition that the sacred bonds of holy matrimony be preceded by 48 hours of drunken mayhem and utter debauchery. But while a strip club isn’t the type of place that I’d want to spend my final nights as a single guy, I do understand its appeal. Only once a man is paying topless women to cavort on poles can he truly be in a position to fathom the magnitude of his impending nuptials. Enjoy the lap dance, my friend. That’s the most action you’ll be getting for a long time.

-The husband of a friend of mine had his bachelor party in one night – on a Wednesday. I guess no one had the heart to tell him he was doing it wrong. That was one of the few times I’ve been truly happy to see a guy get married – that chump needed be removed from the single male population immediately before he gave the rest of us a bad name.

-Personally, I’m not that big into strip clubs. It’s a lot less enjoyable than you would think to get a lap dance from someone who is dead inside. Plus those places are so dirty. Washing my hands in the restroom actually makes me want to wash my hands again.

-There’s always that one stripper at the club who’s really good at pole dancing. She’s upside down, balancing with just her legs, and generally showing off. I always think to myself, wow, that’s really impressive. That must have taken a lot of practice. But wouldn’t that time have been better spent, I don’t know, trying not to be a stripper?

-There’s also always one guy in the bachelor party who falls in love with a stripper and decides it is his duty to rescue her. “Listen,” he’ll say, “I’m an investment banker. Here’s my card. I can take you away from all this.” Because nothing says true love like blaring Def Leppard music and strip club buffet popcorn shrimp.

-Another common bachelor party character is the guy who is obsessed with finding out the strippers’ names. “What’s your name?” he’ll ask. “No, I mean what’s your real name?” Dude, just let Magenta do her thing. You don’t need to know her name. I doubt she has a Twitter page.

-Some dudes get their strip club rush not from the girls themselves, but from the negotiating. Everything is negotiable in these places – lap dances, private dances…other stuff. At one bachelor party, my buddy got a little overzealous and started negotiating immediately upon arrival. He was like, “Hey, beautiful. How much for, you know, a little extra?” I was like, “Dude, relax. We’re still at the coat check.”

-The last bachelor party I attended was for my buddy Gadi in Tel Aviv. Somehow it fell to me to calculate the tip on our tab even though the bill was in shekels and the waitress didn’t speak English. I either stiffed her or paid for a summer home. Interestingly, Israeli strip clubs are a little different in that the lap dances last much longer than just one song. You really get to know your stripper. Nevertheless, I did not leave my business card. After every bachelor party I like to wash my hands of the whole experience – literally and figuratively.

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

-If some of these UFC fighters don’t have six-packs, what chance do I have?

-I have never not been perplexed by a piece of mail. Anything that’s addressed to me that’s not junk mail I just stare at with a quizzical look on my face. What the fuck could this possibly be?

-Ever notice that the best play is very rarely #1 on SportsCenter’s Top 10 Plays?

-My three-year-old laptop is like a three-year-old child. If it goes too long without sleeping it gets cranky and stops cooperating.

-I love being an innocent bystander to reply-to-all email chains where my buddies are good-naturedly bashing each other. Inevitably, someone goes too far and crosses the line. It’s a real treat when that person is not me.

-Whenever I see some kind of leaked camera phone picture, I can’t help but admire the image quality. How do these weirdos have so many pixels?

-I bet the founder of Carfax vehicle history reports was really pleased with himself when he came up with a name for his company that explains how the reports are distributed and also sounds like “car facts.” Less so now that fax machines have disappeared off the planet. Not so clever anymore, huh?

-Olympic athletes are daredevils for sure. But when I attempt to take my hoodie off while running on the treadmill, I come pretty close.

-I was recently at a club in West Hollywood and the music – which I never notice – happened to be really good. Soon I realized that I actually knew the DJ, and began to send him a tweet. Then I remembered where my testicles were, put the phone away, and started to talk to girls.

-“Sex rehab” sounds hot – which seems counterproductive.

-And, finally, as the ranks of my single friends dwindle, I have increasingly found myself as one of the only guys at a bachelor party who isn’t engaged or married. Being a single guy at a bachelor party is an immense responsibility, as the other guys live vicariously through you. Sure we can all hit the bars after the strip club and chat up girls, but I’m the only one who can both look and touch. If I don’t take advantage of that freedom, my defeated, married friends and their doomed, engaged counterparts won’t know what they’re missing. It’s a line I want to use on a chick I’m trying to hook up with one day: “Listen, don’t do this for me, do it for them.” And home we shall go, while my poor friends in relationships can only look on in envy and think to themselves, “Fuck me.”

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-Valentine’s Day is nothing more than an over-commercialized sham of a holiday exploited by restaurants, jewelers, and greeting card companies that just want to make an extra buck. Couples don’t deserve their own day, and those not in relationships certainly don’t deserve to be subjected to an endless barrage of hand-holding and heart-shaped confectionary. Those who ignore Valentine’s Day and flout its conventions are the ones who should be celebrated. Some call us heartless. I call us single.

-Besides a wedding band or the presence of a significant other, there are more subtle ways to ascertain if someone is in a relationship. An acquaintance of mine recently asked to show me something on Facebook, but I noticed he was having trouble accessing his account. “I forgot my password,” he remarked, “I haven’t logged on in like two months.” “Oh, so you’re not single?” I asked. “How did you know?” he replied. Dude, I just do.

-The background image on my BlackBerry is the logo from “Lost.” If I pull my phone out to get a girl’s number in a bar and she either doesn’t recognize the picture or doesn’t notice it, I let it slide. But if she snickers or cracks wise at my choice of wallpaper I will delete her number and disappear like the Island.

-I silently praise advancements in technology every time I send a perfectly worded, flirtatious text message. But if she doesn’t reply within the hour I’m immediately stricken with the desire to travel back in time Terminator-style to kill the mother of the inventor of the cell phone.

-Ladies, if I ask you out to drinks for our first date, don’t ask me if I’m hungry halfway through the night. No, I’m not hungry. I wolfed down three slices of pizza before I picked you up because I explicitly said we were going for drinks. I specifically avoid dinner on the first date because I don’t want to embarrass myself by eating in front of you and don’t want to break the bank when I’m not sure you’ll put out. Please plan accordingly.

-My latest fetish is that I really want to date a chick with lots of tattoos. I’m talking full sleeves, shoulders, neck, the whole nine yards. So sexy. Plus, girls like that just don’t run in the same circles that I do. I could take her to trendy lounges that play Jay-Z and Ke$ha on repeat, and she could take me to hipster bars that play bands I’ve never heard of. It’d be a totally hot, opposites-attract situation…until my parents met her and disowned me.

-There seems to be a lot of confusion about proper post-first-date protocol. To me, it’s very simple. Ladies, if a guy takes you out, common courtesy calls for you to email, text, or Facebook message within 48 hours to say thank you. You can’t believe the amount of courage it took me to ask you out. So even if there is no connection and you never want to see me again, at least thank me for trying. It’s like the participation trophy of dating.

-Another crucial dating convention is the art of the blow-off. I have friends of both sexes who can neither execute this maneuver nor recognize when it is being done to them. Blowing someone off politely is not rocket science; just send a vague message about a benign topic (work or the weather are popular), and then don’t ask any questions that require follow-up. If the other person replies anyway, just stop responding. Eventually, they will get the hint that this is another Valentine’s Day you’d much rather spend alone.

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

-I hate when I unlock my car doors in anticipation of picking a friend up, only to have some guy walk by at that very moment, hear the click, and assume I was actually locking the doors in fear.

-My life will never be complete until I am issued a STAFF t-shirt.

-The side of the cereal box in my kitchen has a message for kids: “Learn how to live a healthy lifestyle! How many sit-ups or push-ups can you do during commercials of your favorite shows?” Is that really the best advice? So basically what you’re saying is, don’t go outside, and definitely don’t stop watching television, but while you’re at it, maybe throw in a crunch or two, fatass.

-You know you went to the bar too early when the bathroom attendant is still setting up.

-I have trouble empathizing with friends who lose weight when stressed instead of gaining weight. I’m really sorry you got laid off, bro, but you look fabulous so I fucking hate you.

-I’m much more civil to people on my return flight home. If you try to jack my armrest on the flight out, I will engage you in a vicious elbow war. But if you step on my seat in order to reach the overheard bin on the flight back, I will bite my tongue. Just in case you turn out to be my next-door neighbor or my agent’s grandma.

-You know it’s a shitty hotel when you actually recognize the bathroom fixtures. I hate checking in, washing my hands, and realizing the hot/cold knobs on the sink are the same ones my parents had when I was growing up.

-Each month, I compare my American Express statement against all the receipts I’ve collected. On my last bill, I noticed that a couple of the bars here in West Hollywood added a few dollars to the tip I signed on the receipt. Now I’m a very good tipper, and sometimes even tip too much when I’m wasted, so this is absolute bullshit. The individual amounts are too little to bother disputing – which I’m sure was done on purpose – but it’s the principle that matters. Karma is a bitch, bartenders, so don’t be surprised if your wannabe acting careers never get off the fucking ground.

-And, finally, it turns out that the only thing more unstable than a single girl is her mother. Last week, a woman in Long Island read an article about me in her local paper and decided I’d be perfect for her daughter. So like any sane parent, she called every listing for Karo in the phone book until she somehow reached my dad, and then asked him if I was available and might want to be set up. Seriously. The incident left me with so many questions. What did this woman actually think was going to happen? Which one is more desperate, the mom or her daughter? And who the fuck still uses a phone book? Ultimately, I guess everyone treats single people differently. Some pity them and others try to help them. This Valentine’s Day, though, I wish single people would simply be left alone – which is just the way we like it. Fuck me.

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-It amuses me that after all these years, my parents still ask what I did this weekend and expect a meaningful response. After all, I’m single and thirty. My Fridays consist of furiously emailing with the boys to figure out which bar to hit, going to said bar, then getting obscenely drunk. My Saturdays consist of sleeping late, trying to remember what the fuck happened the night before, furiously emailing with the boys to determine which bar to go to, and then ending up at the same spot we hit on Friday. Sundays are for recapping and napping. I’m a weekend warrior, Mom. There’s no time for hiking or museums or culture. That shit is for couples…or days when you and Dad are visiting.

-A few weeks ago, I went out with some buddies and we all got totally demolished. Several days later, my friend called me and said, “Listen, Karo, I feel really bad about last weekend. I shouldn’t have said that to you, it was offensive, and I’m sorry.” But there was one thing I don’t think he realized – I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. In fact, I don’t even remember him being there. So of course I responded, “That was fucked up, man! But if you buy me a round next time we’ll call it even.”

-Fact: if the DJ plays “Girls” by the Beastie Boys, at least 50% of the bar will prematurely sing the line “Jockin’ Mike D. to my dismay.”

-I recently spent twenty minutes insisting to a Hollywood bouncer that my friend’s name was on the list and therefore he should let me in. He snootily claimed he couldn’t find her name and brushed me aside. Pissed off yet determined, I called my friend to come outside. Turns out she was on the list – but I was using her maiden name. She’s been married for nearly four years. I wish I never left the house.

-When you’re hitting on a girl in a bar and she orders food, it’s time to give up.

-Even though everyone calls me by my last name, when I’m in a loud bar I usually just introduce myself as Aaron because it’s easier to understand. When I’m on the West Coast, though, and I meet a girl named Erin, she’ll inevitably say, “Oh wow, we have the same name!” What? No. In the real world, Erin and Aaron are not pronounced the same. But while I loathe discussing regional dialects, you have a great rack so I’ll humor you.

-Two weeks ago I was in the bathroom of a bar in West Hollywood when I dropped my BlackBerry and it exploded everywhere. I ended up scrounging around on my hands and knees to gather up all the pieces. I felt like a stripper after someone makes it rain, only more pathetic.

-Last weekend I went out for brunch with two married couples, one of which brought their ten-month-old daughter. As I dove into my second Bloody Mary, it struck me: I’m getting drunk at noon while sitting next to a baby in a high chair. (The kid had a portable seat cushion to make her high chair more comfortable, and a bib with a built-in pocket to catch dropped food; it also struck me that today’s babies are fucking soft.) Such a sight might have made some weekend warriors doubt their standing, but it only reaffirmed mine. Fatherhood can wait, but my third Bloody can’t.

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

-I hate when my entire day revolves around getting a quick answer from someone who is legitimately unavailable. “What? Jim’s dog got hit by a snow plow and his wife is crowning? Well, you think you could just ask him which file I’m supposed to use?”

-I just bought a new nail clipper, but before using it, I put it in the dishwasher. I can’t decide if this is totally gross, overly hygienic, or an unfortunate combination of both.

-The dude who invented the refrigerator was totally trying to bang the chick who invented the magnet.

-I imagine the moment a military commander accidentally hits the button to launch an unprovoked missile attack is quite similar to how I feel when I accidentally delete an unwatched program from my DVR.

-I despise feigning polite confusion when I call someone for a scheduled conference call and they don’t pick up. I say, “Hey, Barbara. I’m pretty sure we had a two o’clock appointment but, uh, maybe I got it wrong or my calendar is screwed up or something. Just give me a call. Thanks!” But what I’m really thinking is, “Where the mother fuck are you, Barbara!?”

-I ran into my usual barber right after getting my hair cut by a different guy. He totally looked directly at my hair. I was like, “Excuse me, my eyes are down here.”

-I abhor reality television and those who watch it. But nothing pisses me off more than the overuse of the word “juggle” in the description of every single unscripted show. Watching a C-list celebrity work on his/her career while “juggling” a spouse and kids is not compelling. That’s called life. Most people don’t get paid for it. Cancel that utter fucking drivel.

-I saw a dude in the mall wearing a MySpace t-shirt. It felt like the Internet version of Colonial Williamsburg.

-Nice; the chick in this Facebook thumbnail looks slutty and is showing lots of cleavage – click to enlarge! Oh wait, she’s wearing a wedding dress. Wow; fail on multiple levels.

-Nothing is more annoying than watching Family Guy with lawyer friends. After every video cutaway, they spout, “I wonder how they got the rights to that.” And I wonder how you passed the bar.

-And, finally, whenever I spend the weekend rampaging and my parents ask what I did, I always respond, “Not much.” Back in Ruminations #11, I wrote that when your buddies visit you in college, it always happens to be the worst weekend ever. And even though you insist that your school is usually much more fun, they never believe you. More than eleven years later, that same paradigm holds true. My friends from New York will visit me in LA and it rains for the first time in six months or some douchebag celebrity is filming a reality show in a bar and we can’t get in. But a true weekend warrior must always prevail, and I will show my buddies a good time no matter what. In other words, if you visit LA and then tell your parents we didn’t do much, you sure as hell better be lying to them. Otherwise, fuck me.

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-One of the consequences of turning thirty is that the drunken holidays I used to adore I now dread with a passion. On Halloween this year, my costume-clad buddies and I stood around at a party thinking to ourselves, “Are we really doing this right now? Really?” A few weeks later, I bypassed Thanksgiving Eve altogether, opting instead to experience a Thanksgiving dinner where I’m not so hungover that cranberry sauce reminds me of vodka cranberry and makes me puke. But New Year’s Eve, the granddaddy of them all, is quickly approaching, and the hype is unavoidable. As the ‘00s come to a close, I’d like to take a painful look back at my New Year’s experiences. This is my Decade in Review.

-To ring in the year 2000, my buddies and I took a road trip to Montreal. We were only twenty, but the drinking age in Quebec is eighteen. Sure it snowed like a bastard and the French-Canadian chicks didn’t particularly care for us, but once I had my first legal sip from an overpriced, watered-down New Year’s Eve open bar, I knew it would be the best millennium ever.

-In 2001, I spent December 30th in the hospital with appendicitis. The surgeon advised me to take it easy, so instead of going to a frenetic Manhattan nightclub on New Year’s Eve, I went to a raging house party instead. I didn’t drink, but my fresh scar and prescription painkillers made me the most popular guy there.

-I spent New Year’s Eve 2002 in the bathroom of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas puking my guts out while my roommate Brian held my hair back. I don’t even have long hair; that’s just how much I was puking.

-On New Year’s Eve 2005, I was in Bondi Beach, Australia. Those who’ve been to Bondi know it’s the most laid-back place on earth. At midnight, revelers converge on the beach, and between the jet-black sky and peaceful tide, it’s quite the amazing sight. I barely noticed, however, as I was more concerned with not dropping my camera in the ocean.

-2006 was the first New Year’s I spent in LA. I went to a club on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood. If you’re not familiar with Los Angeles, close your eyes and think about spending a lot of money to go to a mediocre bar in the worst part of your city. It was even more terrible than that.

-In 2007, one of my buddies got married on December 30th. It was interesting to juxtapose the wedding with New Year’s Eve the following evening. On New Year’s Eve, your buddy leaves with a chick and you don’t see him for the rest of the night. At a wedding, your buddy leaves with a chick and you don’t see him for the rest of your life.

-As I detailed in Ruminations #143, on December 31st last year I found myself alone and sprinting through a forest on the outskirts of Punta del Este, Uruguay. I eventually stumbled upon an outdoor rock concert, reunited with my scattered friends, and had probably my best New Year’s ever. It just goes to show that you don’t need to go to some silly club to have a great New Year’s. You just have to fly to South America and risk Uruguayan prison by sneaking into a concert. Nine years after Montreal, my surroundings in Punta del Este could not have been more different. The drinks, on the other hand? Still overpriced and watered down. Some things on New Year’s Eve never change.

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

-Nothing can possibly fit in the model they use to demonstrate what can fit in the overhead compartment of an airplane.

-I had another only-in-LA moment last week when I ordered pizza from a new place. When he arrived, I asked the delivery guy how the food was. He said, “I don’t know; I’m vegan.”

-One of these days I’m just going to arbitrarily deduct a “fuel surcharge” from a bill payment and see how much these companies like it.

-I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about how easy identity theft must have been in the 1800s.

-Thanks for taking the time to reply to each of my points and highlighting your text in red, but I’m reading this email on my BlackBerry, thus rendering your efforts useless.

-I just absent-mindedly used bottled water to make tea. Apparently, I’m a diva now.

-It’s horrifying to discover spots in your apartment that have never, ever been cleaned. I’m pretty sure the top of my refrigerator is a biohazard.

-What’s worse? The fact that my buddy in med school just called me bragging because he hooked up with an undergrad and woke up in a sorority house? Or the fact that my first question was, “Which house?”

-I think it’s safe to take the fax number off your email signature.

-Two weeks ago, I was so hungover on a JFK – LAX flight that I actually had to use one of those air sickness bags. I used it to roll into a little ball and squeeze the shit out of while I violently puked in the toilet.

-And, finally, this year I’ve decided to take a different tack on New Year’s by making no plans whatsoever. No exotic trips to Australia or Uruguay, no $200 open bar tickets to a club. I’m staying in LA and am going to wait until the least offensive option presents itself, then make a decision at the last possible moment. A part of me is actually envious of my parents, who spend every New Year’s Eve happily playing Trivial Pursuit with their neighbors and are in bed fifteen minutes after midnight. I mean, haven’t I puked enough in the past ten years? So, in the end, I guess this decade has truly come full circle. It began in snowy Quebec when I was too young to drink… and ends in sunny California when I’m old enough to know better. Fuck me.

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-I’m an avid sports fan and television aficionado, enjoy travel and working out, and possess a growing shot glass collection. But in reality, I – like most men – have but one true hobby: women. You see, the male mind may be disorganized and easily distracted, but there is a single rule that trumps all others: ladies first. The irony, of course, is that despite our tireless study and pursuit of the fairer sex, guys continue to be confounded by their seemingly arbitrary behavior. It’s that unpredictability that make women so frustrating, inscrutable – and downright irresistible.

-I think that when women turn thirty, they shift from picking apart every little thing a guy does as a reason why he’s an asshole, to rationalizing every little thing a guy does as a reason why he has potential: “Look at the way Jim parallel parks…I really think he could be the one.”

-Ladies, if you ask me a question while your breasts or my junk is exposed, there is a 100% chance you’ll get the answer you want, but only a 50% chance I’ll be telling the truth.

-Why do women run so awkwardly? Tuck those elbows in! You’re jogging, not attempting liftoff.

-A few years ago, I was making out with a chick at a bar, but I couldn’t close, so I took her number instead. Then I called her so that she’d have my number – but when her phone rang, I saw that KARO came up. She already had me in her address book! I had absolutely no recollection of previously meeting her…but even so, why would she make out with me if I never called her the first time?

-Guys in relationships often picture other women in their heads when sleeping with their girlfriends. It’s true – we get bored. So I guess the fact that I picture other women in my head even when I’m having a one-night stand just means I have a very short attention span.

-During interviews to promote my new book, I’m often asked where the best places to meet women are. There are really only two answers, though: bars and Facebook. I mean, it’s 2009. What am I supposed to say? The library? The grocery store? We all know our generation needs alcohol and/or the Internet to get laid.

-Have you even been out with someone who said, “I just love being single”? Well, sure, we all do. But that’s not exactly appropriate first date conversation.

-BlackBerrys should come with the warning “messages onscreen are shorter than they appear.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve glanced at my Curve and seen a two-paragraph email from a girl I slept with once, and been convinced she’s writing to tell me she’s pregnant. Then I look closer, realize it’s only one innocuous sentence, and breathe a sigh of relief. But I never question my life of pulling ass and (sometimes) taking names. Instead, I wonder, how many paternity scares will it take me to use a smaller font?

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

-Studies conclusively show that stress does not actually cause gray hair. I think the myth persists, though, because when you’re stressed as all hell is the only time you ever stare at your follicles closely enough to notice the gray ones.

-I support and admire our troops, but I have no idea how their ranking system works. Oh, you’re a corporal? So…does that mean you shine boots with a toothbrush, or you’re in charge of the entire army?

-Elementary school comebacks are acceptable when talking to yourself and addressing inanimate objects. For instance, I just booked a trip online and was asked during checkout if I wanted to pay to offset the carbons emissions of my flight. To no one in particular I said, “Yeah…let’s not and say we did.”

-The worst part about submitting a maintenance request to my apartment building is not being able to masturbate in peace for the rest of the day.

-Nothing transports you back to college faster than getting in an elevator that smells like beer.

-Why even ask, Mr. Checkbox, if you’re not gonna remember me anyway?

-I hate getting emails with the signature “Sent from my iPhone” at the bottom. Not only are you a douche with an iPhone, but now I know you couldn’t even bother to sit down at your computer and compose a response like a civilized human.

-The fourth mistype or misclick is the worst. The first time is just an honest mistake. The second time you’re still not really paying attention. The third time starts to get frustrating. And by the fourth time you’re actually trying hard not to fuck it up, but do anyway – which sends you into a blind rage.

-I almost got into a fight with an obnoxious Lakers fan at the sports bar in Hollywood where I watched the Yankees clinch the title. “We’re in LA, dude,” he yelled. Sorry, chief, but if I’m watching Game Six of the World Series, you should not be screaming louder than me if you’re watching Game Five…of the regular season.

-And, finally, as my parents’ 35th wedding anniversary approaches next week, I can’t help but marvel at what an incredible milestone it is. Especially since I’ve barely ever even dated a girl for 35 weeks. I don’t know what the secret to my parents’ success is, but it can’t hurt that they watch television every night in separate rooms. In fact, I think that’s one of their more brilliant moves – two DVRs equals true domestic bliss. One thing I do know for certain, though, is that I’m a carbon copy of my dad. So if my mom can put up with him for three and a half decades, there’s probably a girl out there for this intrepid bachelor. Hell, she might even already have my number in her phone. Fuck me!

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