-Everything is calculated in miles when you travel for business – the length of your flights, the distance from the airport to the hotel, and the size of the frequent flier bonus you get for stopping in Atlanta for no fucking reason. What’s not measured is the wear and tear that jet setting inevitably exacts on your soul. One can only take so much. As I’ve crisscrossed the country over the past few weeks on tour (yes, I realize calling that “business” travel is a stretch), I feel I’ve reached the limit of how many indignities one person can suffer. If frustration, helplessness, and discomfort could be measured in miles, I’d be a platinum member greeted by name and given hand jobs in the Admirals Club.

-Nowhere in the airport is there more silent tension than between the anxious people waiting around to board, and those smug fucks who have just landed. No one likes you; keep walking, assholes.

-It boggles my mind that more vagrants don’t just steal luggage from the baggage claim. There’s no security down there and hundreds of free life-starter kits are just circling around, ripe for the taking. It’s a hobo’s wet dream.

-Whenever I’m traveling somewhere random, I’m astonished that there are actually other people on the flight. Nashville to Minneapolis on a Wednesday? Who else could possibly need to take this route but me?

-Mark my words: the next airline hijacking will be attempted by passengers disgruntled about having to pay to check a bag. How the fuck did they slip that one right under our noses? That’s like a restaurant serving you a burger and then assessing a chewing fee.

-If I’m staying in a hotel for three days or less, I keep the Do Not Disturb sign on the entire time. I’ve never changed my sheets or towels after three days in my life, and I can’t comprehend how that amenity is worth allowing a complete stranger to enter my room and perhaps touch my pajamas.

-Even if I don’t allow them in the room, I always leave a tip for housekeeping. Not for good service, but because it makes me feel like if I happen to leave something in the room after checking out, they will be grateful enough to return it. Like receiving $3.62 in dimes, nickels, and pennies is incentive not to jack my MacBook Pro.

-Really, though, housekeeper has got to be the worst job ever. Not only are you a housekeeper, but you’re the one who always finds the bodies.

-Whenever I fly between two cities that are a couple hundred miles apart, people ask me why I didn’t just drive. Whenever I drive between two cities that are a couple hundred miles apart, people ask me why I didn’t just fly. I hate people.

-In the end, travel is just plain bad for your self-esteem. No one looks good in a hotel room mirror after a two-hour unscheduled layover in Chicago. When I occasionally stay in a shitty, off-brand, cheapest-I could-find-online hotel, I find myself looking at the worn placard on the bathroom sink that reads, “Forget anything?” and think, “Yeah. My dignity.”

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

-Definition of conflict of interest: having tickets to your team’s “if necessary” playoff game.

-I’m calling for an immediate embargo on OOO TMI. I don’t care that you’re out of the office for maternity or bereavement leave. Just let me know when you’ll be back so I can get on with my life.

-Be wary when you’re told that “only a few candidates are being considered” and then are given an interview slot at exactly 2:50pm. Clearly they’re doing this in ten-minute intervals in order to herd as many chumps through as possible.

-I just sent an email to my best friend. His wife replied from his account. Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

-Torture means only seeing the Auntie Anne’s in the airport concourse when you’re already on the moving walkway and having to double back for that pretzel-y goodness.

-Orange juice that sorta tastes like grapefruit juice is both confusing and suspicious.

-I just assume that every plate is microwave-safe. I believe this will ultimately lead to my demise.

-You know how you can’t find the original of the crucial document that’s so important you made a copy of it for your files? Yeah, you left it in the copy machine. You can thank me later.

-I have never seen a radar detector that was either helpful or not annoying.

-When someone says, “Oh, well, I have a wireless network so you should just be able to print from your laptop to my printer,” you can save time by just skipping to the part where you give up in frustration because it won’t fucking work.

-And, finally, the most frightening part of having so many miles under your belt is that you begin to transform into the people you hate the most. For instance, I was waiting in line at airport security last week, wondering why the “Expert Traveler” queue was populated with expecting mothers and pre-dementia elderly, when I struck up a casual conversation with the woman behind me. I shared my annoyance about having to pay to check luggage and my joke about transients robbing the baggage claim. She simply smiled patronizingly and turned away. Oh. My. God. I’ve become one of those people who talk to strangers in airport security lines. I’m a monster. Shunned by other travelers, I trudged glumly through security, only to set off the metal detector. “Forget anything?” the harried TSA worker asked. “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “My dignity.” Fuck me.

HOME

-Of all the places you’ve ever been half-naked, the doctor’s office is most likely the least fun. You’re uncomfortable, cold, and being groped and grilled with questions about your sexual history. It’s like a one-night stand gone horribly, horribly wrong. My biggest concern, though, about going to the doctor, is that everything seems so exposed. The other people in the waiting room know something is wrong with you, the pharmacists know what medicine you’re taking, and my doctor types her notes into a computer that’s seen by God-knows-who. Increasingly, receiving quality healthcare means sacrificing some modicum of privacy. Our only choice, it seems, is the public option.

-Since I’m a borderline hypochondriac, I always tell my doctor about every minor bump or discoloration I’ve discovered in the past year. To assuage my unfounded fears, she sometimes shows me that she too possesses a few harmless marks on her skin. That doesn’t really make feel any better, Doc. Now we both might be dying.

-I receive healthcare at a facility in Los Angeles that also serves the Screen Actors Guild, so every once in a while I’ll spot a minor celebrity in the waiting room. Instead of thinking, “I wonder what he’s got,” I think, “Hey, isn’t that guy the 7th lead on 30 Rock?” And then: “I wonder what he’s got.”

-I plan on sending my cardiologist bill directly to the designer who placed the switch for the lights in my kitchen right next to the switch for the garbage disposal.

-If you tell someone you already got a flu shot this season, the first question they’ll ask you is, “Was it for swine flu?” No, jackass. First of all, the regular flu shot and the swine flu shot are two different things. Second of all, the swine flu vaccine isn’t even out yet. But if you continue coughing in my face, I’ll be first in line.

-Is there any history of high blood pressure in my family? Well, Doc, does the stress I’m feeling right now about remembering my “paternal grandfather’s cause of death” for your form count?

-I recently suffered a shoulder injury trying to catch a buddy of mine as he stage dived at his own wedding. After weeks of pain, I went to see Shermdog, my fraternity brother who’s now an orthopedic surgeon. It was bizarre seeing a kid I pledged with totally enter the zone as he gave me a full work-up. I was cracking jokes and he was completely serious. “Could you ever imagine this scenario when we were freshmen playing beer pong until we puked?” I asked. “What’s that?” he said, momentarily distracted from the exam. “Nothing,” I mumbled, having never felt more immature in my life.

-In the end, Shermdog diagnosed with me an anterior subluxation of the shoulder (otherwise known as “fat, drunk groom falling on you”), and a second injury, patellofemoral syndrome, to my knee (“Usually only found in twenty-five-year-old chicks who run too much.”) Although my ailments would most likely not become aggravated, Shermdog explained, the symptoms would only go away completely with rest and a series of simple stretches and strengthening exercises. “Thanks buddy,” I said, grateful to have finally received a logical diagnosis. I then proceeded to take absolutely none of his suggestions.

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

-It doesn’t say much about your marketing department when I’ve had a credit card in my wallet for over a year and still couldn’t tell you without looking at it whether it’s a Visa or MasterCard.

-The first thing I do when my alarm goes off in the morning is estimate how late I would sleep if could I go back to bed at that instant. Average guess: 6pm.

-Some people in my gym wipe down the machines after they use them. Some before they use them. I prefer the “only when someone is watching” method.

-It’s really frustrating working with people who don’t understand sports metaphors: “Listen, we’ve been hitting doubles, and that’s great, but we really need to be swinging for the – wait a minute, you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

-When there’s a power outage, I am easily confused about what will and won’t work without electricity. Can I use my BlackBerry? My toilet? My car?

-I thought my buddy very eloquently summed up how it feels to be engaged when he said of his fiancee, “She’s like a roommate you just can’t shake.”

-I was entertaining a very lovely lady in my apartment recently, so I decided to class it up by buying a bag of those cheap-ass miniature white candles I used to spruce up my room in the frat house when we had a party. You know what? That shit still works.

-Listen, guy, I realize the valley can get unseasonably warm, but you’re still in public. Put your fucking shirt back on.

-It’s good to know your blackout tendencies just in case your buddies try to pull a fast one on you the day after you get wasted: “Karo, dude, you totally told that chick you loved her.” Nah, that doesn’t sound like me. “OK, well, you tried to steal a bottle of Goose from the bar but instead almost dropped it.” Now that sounds more like something I would do.

-And, finally, while I’ve never liked going to the doctor, I’ve always thought it was a really cool job and – as I wrote in Ruminations #111 – am kind of obsessed with the day-to-day lives of my friends in the medical profession. It’s incredible then to realize that, after all these years of living vicariously through them – med school, internships, residency, and countless arguments over how Grey’s Anatomy is completely unrealistic – my friends are just now becoming attending physicians and making serious coin. It’s easy to forget that they were basically paid peanuts for all the grueling years it took to get to this point. Yet doctors are still being vilified by some in the current healthcare debate. Doctors are not the enemy. I for one feel comfortable knowing that the hand that gropes my privates is well compensated, several years removed from beer pong, and, hopefully, has been wiped down both before and after use. Fuck me.

HOME

-Someone recently asked me what I do in my free time. Laughing, I responded, “What free time?” But, secretly, I knew the answer – running errands. There are days, in fact, when I spend more time running errands than doing actual work. What happened to the lazy days of our youth? When I was a teenager, an afternoon was not complete unless I played at least four hours of NHL ‘94 on Genesis. In college, studying slowly began to compete for attention with napping and drinking games involving a quarter, ping pong ball, or pledge. In my twenties, I finally acquiesced and got a CVS card. And now, at thirty, the fucking dry cleaner knows me by name. Some are admittedly frivolous, others seemingly crucial, but no matter what I do these days, I feel like I’m running fool’s errands.

-I get some of my button-down shirts dry cleaned and others laundered. But the dry cleaner always seems to return my shirts hanging in no particular order. At least separate the laundered shirts from the dry cleaned shirts so I can continue to pretend it actually makes a difference.

-This being Los Angeles, a lot of the people I encounter while I run errands speak Spanish. I’m conversant in Spanish, so I can chat for at least a minute or two. But for some reason, I always feel extremely self-conscious using the words “hola,” “por favor,” or “gracias” with a Spanish speaker. I fear it makes me look like those are the only words I know.

-To me, the epitome of a quick errand is getting out of the car, doing my business, and then returning to the car while the same song is playing on the radio.

-I must not have noticed when I bought it at the drugstore recently, but apparently Right Guard has subtly changed the scent of the deodorant I’ve been wearing for over a decade. It’s honestly the weirdest thing ever when I smell myself. I feel like another man is following me around all the time.

-I live in a very residential area, so when I return from running errands, I drive pretty slowly on the blocks leading to my apartment. But if God forbid the driver ahead of me pauses for a moment to find an address, I will peel around him at highly unsafe speeds while ruing the loss of twelve nanoseconds of my day.

-Thankfully, though, many of the errands that plagued us in days of yore can now be completely outsourced to the Internet. I do my grocery shopping online and have the food delivered each week. I usually buy my deodorant from drugstore.com rather than trudge to an actual CVS. And as an Amazon Prime member, I can order copious amounts of unnecessary shit that arrives at my door within 24 hours. Even tasks that don’t involve going anywhere – like making dinner reservations – can be done with the click of a mouse. But I must admit, when I request a reservation via OpenTable and they have my exact time available, I’m both suspicious that the restaurant might not be up to snuff and concerned that my reservation will not be recorded. I guess some things are just better done in person…even in Spanish.

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

-Attempting to rotate your mattress by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing – and dangerous – parts of being single.

-I probably shouldn’t be eating a “meal replacement bar” for dessert.

-There are few situations more awkward then picking your buddy up in a cab and having to sit there idling with a surly cabbie while you wait for your stupid fucking friend to get his act together and come outside.

-When I call my dad with a dilemma and explain to him the problem, if he doesn’t know how to respond he’ll just ask, “Why?” like a little kid after everything I say.

-I just got my first Save the Date notice for 2010. My buddy is getting married in Vegas. I’ve only been to bachelor parties in Vegas, never a wedding. So, I’m just gonna treat it like a bachelor party and see what happens.

-I don’t think all these brawls in baseball are the result of headhunting and retaliation by pitchers. I think everyone is just bored. This is the most anticlimactic season in history. I bet even the players are watching football in the clubhouse.

-Do you ever wonder what goes on at the gym when you don’t go for a month?

-As much as I dreaded turning thirty this summer, I’m now really looking forward to turning thirty-three. Why? That’s when my driver’s license expires and I can retake my picture. I really screwed the pooch last time around. Seriously, the DMV camera is not supposed to add forty pounds.

-Although I’ll be in some college towns on my stand-up tour this fall, I won’t be playing any actual colleges. I’m both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed that there are probably no kegstands in my immediate future. But relieved that I won’t have to spend another minute explaining to some snot-nosed frat boy that Beirut and beer pong are not the same fucking thing.

-And, finally, this is one of my favorite times of year – the new television season is upon us. As many of you know, I’m a huge TV buff and follow over twenty shows religiously. I love the conversation that ensues when I meet another television addict. Them: “Oh my God, how can you not watch Dexter or Mad Men?” Me: “Oh my God, how could you not watch Californication or Friday Night Lights?” Eventually we agree to disagree but not before vehemently arguing over whose DVR settings are more overloaded (damn you, Mondays!). In fact, I get just as self-conscious around other TV aficionados as I do around Spanish speakers. When someone asks me what my favorite program is, I never merely say, “House,” “Lost,” or “Chuck.” I fear it makes me look like those are the only shows I watch. Fuck me.

HOME

-A few weeks ago, within a fifteen-minute period, I received phone calls informing me that not one but two of my ex-girlfriends had just gotten engaged. When I was in my twenties, I would have reacted to such news with shock, disbelief, and finally relief (that it wasn’t me getting hitched). These days, though, finding out that one (or two) of your exes is tying the knot is simply another pedestrian event in the thirtysomething experience. Those of us who’ve remained single pause for a moment to absorb the news, before quickly resuming our lives of dating, drinking, and debauchery unrestrained by the bonds of marriage. If we happen to run into our exes, we congratulate them, feign awe at the ring (even though we have no fucking clue what a diamond is supposed to look like), ask if they’ve decided on a date yet, then make an excuse to leave and scramble to catch two-for-one pitchers at the bar. We say, “I’m so happy for you,” but what we really mean is, “I’m having more fun than you.”

-Note to self: when a woman you don’t know that well changes the last name on her email account, don’t write, “Congrats on getting married!” She may have gotten divorced.

-Nothing is more confusing for a guy than when a girl he’s hitting on mentions her ex-boyfriend in conversation. Did you mean “ex-boyfriend” to imply that you’re single now, or that you have a new boyfriend? Please advise me so I know whether I can stop pretending to give a shit where you went to grad school.

-When my third book, “I’m Having More Fun Than You,” is published tomorrow, I hope it will illuminate the courage of single people who persevere even though most of their friends have succumbed to marriage. The title of the book is actually based on a t-shirt I received when I performed during Greek Week at UMass in 2005. Trying (perhaps misguidedly) to refute the anti-Greek sentiment on campus at the time, the shirt read: “We’re Having More Fun Than You.” I pitched that title to my editor at HarperCollins, explaining that it meant “We” (single people) are having more fun than “You” (people in relationships). She suggested that the “We” be changed to “I.” Hesitant, I said, “But won’t that make me sound a little obnoxious?” She replied, “That’s why it’s perfect.” Stupid t-shirt.

-Ladies, if your middle name sounds like a maiden name, I will reject your friend request on grounds of suspicion of marriage.

-Last weekend, I saw my buddy running game on these two fortysomething women at the bar, so I joined the conversation. Cougars aren’t really my thing, though; in fact, I was kind of turned off. Sure, I guess it’s cool that you’re still attractive and independent. But if hanging out at loud, crowded bars at 2am and being hit on by my friend whose moral fiber is questionable at best is what you’re doing now, then what God-awful things were you doing during your thirties?

-One of my agents, who’s about ten years older than me, recently got engaged. I must admit I’m genuinely happy for the guy. Not only is he a good dude, but I feel more comfortable paying 10% of everything I earn to someone who’s settled down and reliable like him, as opposed to someone single and unstable (like me). Upon hearing the news, I told him that he shouldn’t feel obligated to invite me to the wedding. Besides fearing the possibility of sitting at a table full of cougars, I just don’t like mixing business with pleasure – in this case, the business being a wedding full of Hollywood types, and the pleasure being the spectacle of holy matrimony… happening to someone other than me.

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

-The “clean filter” light on my air conditioner just went on. I immediately went searching for the instruction manual – not to figure out how to clean the filter, of course, but to figure out how to turn that little light off.

-The other day I ran into a friend of mine in the parking lot of our apartment building. She said she was in a rush to catch the half-price early bird special at the car wash. Then I saw her peel out in a Lexus SUV. Only in LA.

-Once you break a glass in the kitchen, you can never really clean up every single shard. Eventually you just go back in there barefoot and pray you don’t cut an artery.

-I wish there was a support group I could join for people who are convinced that the Seinfeld reunion on Curb Your Enthusiasm can’t possibly live up to expectations.

-I don’t even like driving forward over those spikes that cause severe tire damage if you back up.

-If yourfirstname.yourlastname@gmail.com is not available, don’t go with yourlastname.yourfirstname@gmail.com. You just look like a moron. Especially if you get divorced.

-There’s a new bar a few blocks from my apartment that’s supposed to be a secretive, speakeasy-type establishment – no signs, no photography allowed inside, and no reviews in the press. What did I see when I went a few weeks ago? A three-foot placard out front – complete with the bar’s name – advertising $10 valet parking. Only in LA.

-The other chick Taylor Swift describes in that song seems pretty hot.

-I had Grey Goose with Capri Sun last weekend. I like my cocktails with a splash of nostalgia and a strong dose of irony.

-Getting one of your buddies to pick you up at the airport is awesome. But if they are any more than three minutes late and you have to wait at the curb in front of the terminal like a petty commoner, you rue the day you ever met them.

-And, finally, the release of my new book tomorrow also corresponds roughly with the twelve-year anniversary of this column. To this day I’m still amazed that something I began in my freshman dorm room in 1997 has grown to be so widely read. It is both heartening and humbling. To be honest, there have been times over the past twelve years when I have considered retiring from Ruminations. Recording every observation that pops into my head every hour of every day is neither normal nor healthy. But making people laugh is addictive, and I’m ever thankful for the opportunity to be a part of your lives. Just don’t get any crazy ideas like inviting me to your wedding. Fuck me!

HOME

-Earlier this month, I spent a week in Mexico with my parents and sister. The upside to being thirty years old and going on a family vacation is that you don’t have to pay for anything. The downside is that you’re thirty years old and on vacation with your family. Regardless, August is when everyone who can take time off does, and everyone who can’t take off just zones out bitterly in their cubicles anyway. Even if you do have the luxury of taking an exotic trip, it only serves to make the week you return twice as miserable as usual. In essence, we’ll never truly be happy until we can take a permanent vacation. But that doesn’t stop us from packing our bags, leaving our worries behind, and promising ourselves we won’t get sunburned the first day and then just doing it anyway.

-If you are unprepared for the logistics of checking in or going through security at the airport, I will curse you under my breath. But I reserve special vitriol for those who are overprepared at the airport. There’s no reason to be wearing your passport in a transparent case around your neck, you fucking moron.

-Without question, the best part of my vacation was the swim-up bar at the hotel. Is there any greater bliss than drinking before noon, outdoors, shirtless, submerged in water, and on your parents’ room bill? I think not. Plus if you drink a lot and have to take a piss, the bathroom is nearby. And by “nearby,” I mean I was treading in it.

-There must be a lot of pressure among restaurants in the airport to offer breakfast to travelers who are there at all hours. I saw that Papa John’s even has an omelet pizza. I thought that was too gross to have at six in the morning, so I had a pepperoni instead.

-Text messaging needs vacation auto-reply capabilities.

-Why do the travel size versions of my toiletries never seem to smell, feel, taste, or work the same as the regular size ones?

-I noticed that the receipt for the shuttle that took me from the airport to my hotel in Playa del Carmen was addressed to Mr(s). Karo. Why even bother to personalize it with my last name if you are going to leave the Mr./Mrs./Ms. part so vague?

-Truth be told, my family vacation exceeded all expectations. I hate to say it, but we kind of, like… bonded. The sole rough patch came on the second day when my mom woke me as I lay peacefully in a hammock and told me that I needed to curb my drinking. I protested, “Mom, I’m thirty years old!” To which she replied, “I don’t care; a Long Island iced tea does not count as breakfast.”

-Besides the fact that it was free and I got to hang out with my family, I think the main reason this trip was so great was that I did close to nothing. Save for thirty minutes on a WaveRunner and two hours riding an ATV through the jungle (both equally fun, terrifying, and conspicuously lacking the requirement to sign any sort of release form prior to use), I barely left the swim-up bar. My sister and I even had lunch there. Which begs the question – if you’re not supposed to swim until thirty minutes after eating, what happens when you pound three Tecates and down a quesadilla without ever actually leaving the pool in the first place? I’ll tell you what happens: best vacation ever.

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

-The other day I noticed the chick running on the treadmill in front of me was wearing not one but two sports bras. Intrigued, I ran eight minutes longer than usual just so I could be there when she turned around. I literally went the extra mile to see her tits.

-Have you even been looking at something totally random – like the channel guide on your TV or your phone bill online – and noticed a little envelope icon in the corner with the words “You have two unread messages”? Unread messages? I didn’t even know I had an inbox.

-My TV remote sticks frequently and it’s so fucking frustrating. When it won’t fast forward, I hit every button imaginable fifteen times. When the DVR finally unfreezes, it then carries out the function of every single button I pressed, in order, like an instant replay of my insanity.

-If you #FollowFriday @aplusk, you’re doing it wrong. (Don’t worry if you don’t get this; it’s a Twitter joke.)

-If you’re a shitty band playing in a shitty dive bar, please do me a favor and don’t preface your songs by explaining what they’re about. Nobody fucking cares.

-Upon being told that someone has food poisoning, my second question is, “Are you OK?” My first question is, “Where did you eat?”

-Last month, I marked my four-year anniversary of moving from New York to Los Angeles. I celebrated the occasion by gawking at unapproachable, insanely hot girls from a distance and then getting stuck in traffic. You know, the usual.

-Why do sushi places list “special” rolls on their menu without explaining what’s in them? Your Happy Firecracker Roll sounds gourmet but I’d like to know if there’s any shellfish in it so I don’t get food poisoning. In a way, sushi restaurants are the opposite of shitty bands in dive bars: they always give less information than necessary.

-And, finally, I often daydream about taking a real permanent vacation – just retiring, packing up all my shit, and traveling the world. But then I remember that no matter how amazing the trip, I always get sick of being away and want to come home after seven to ten days, max. I just miss my bed and my bathroom way too much. Sometimes I think I like the idea of travel more than the traveling itself. Probably similar to my mom liking the idea of taking me on vacation with her more than actually standing over me disapprovingly as I lay passed out drunk in a hammock on her dime. So does a Long Island iced tea count as breakfast? Probably not. But I still contend it’s better than an omelet pizza. Fuck me.

HOME

-A few weekends ago, I was locked in a do-or-die battle and thought all hope was lost. Dripping with sweat, my back to the wall, I nodded nervously to my teammate Devon. When he proceeded to sink our final ball into the cup of beer across the table, thus forcing overtime in our game of Beirut, the other barbeque attendees roared and I leaped into Devon’s arms, almost knocking us into the pool. Perhaps my elation was over the top, but as a thirtysomething guy and rabid sports fan, it felt warranted. Sure I root for my teams even when they’re not contenders, but all I really want in life is an excuse to go nuts and jump up and down like a maniac. Yes, athletics are about strategy and teamwork, but when you’re not the one competing, sports are also about wildly celebrating something you had no direct impact on. At the end of the day, we’re all championship pretenders.

-If you show up to a sporting event wearing the opposing team’s jersey, I dislike you but respect you. If you show up wearing a random third-party jersey, the jersey of the home team’s rival that’s not actually playing that day, or the jersey of the home city’s rival in a completely different sport, you might as well get the word “douche” stitched on the back.

-It’s amazing to me how so many NBA teams (including my Knicks) are purposely suffering multiple seasons of mediocrity just for the potential opportunity to sign LeBron James in 2010. In no other industry is this acceptable. No CEO ever says, “Our plan is to suck for the next three years just in case something awesome comes along.” Well, unless you’re General Motors.

-I have never once gleaned an interesting or unexpected insight from an interview with an athlete or coach. We get it – you played tough defense, you never gave up, it was a team effort, and you’d like to thank Jesus. I’d honestly rather watch a continuous loop of the burning Yule log than subject myself to live coverage of a post-game press conference.

-Remember before the Internet when SportsCenter would tease you by not actually revealing who won the game until the very end of a highlight? Now, they’re just like, fuck it, and announce “Dodgers won” during the opening credits.

-You know it’s been a slow week when “Top Ten Plays” includes a catch by the ball girl.

-Soccer has gotten a lot of buzz in the US lately because of our stellar performance in the Confederations Cup and the new David Beckham book. While I don’t give a shit about the MLS, I do love watching soccer at the World Cup and Olympic levels. I truly don’t understand people who think it’s boring. It’s nonstop action and over in ninety minutes! Baseball is my favorite sport, but have you ever sat through an entire game from start to finish? It might actually be more painful than the press conference that follows.

-Back in June, my dad and I went to our first game at the new Yankee Stadium. My favorite part is the ridiculously gourmet 6,000-square-foot HD jumbotron in centerfield. The only downside is that they never replay close calls that go against the home team, ostensibly so that the crowd doesn’t go ballistic. This always rankles me. If I’m gonna spend all this money to hike up to the Bronx and deal with douches in Patriots jerseys, the least you can do is let me berate the umpires. After over three hours but only seven innings, my dad and I took off. Not to worry, though; we got home just in time to catch SportsCenter – and were promptly told the Yankees won during the opening credits.

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

-Nothing is more emasculating than standing idly by while my handyman changes a light bulb that I can’t reach.

-Usually when a chick tells me, “That’s not my name,” she doesn’t give me any more guesses.

-I hate when automated voice systems mistake my exasperated sighing as a selection.

-Just to hedge my bets, any time a friend introduces me to someone who doesn’t look familiar, I squint and say, “Oh, we’ve met before, right?”

-I hate when I email someone for input or advice, but they get back to me before I feel like dealing with the problem again.

-Sometimes when I drink heavily, I simply pass out. Other times, I also black out. One particularly sloppy night, I fell asleep for an hour, then woke up and had no recollection of where I had just been. I blacked out my nap. A new record!

-I love when I go to a web site that I haven’t been to in years, and am not even sure I ever actually registered for, but as soon as I start to type it fills in my username and password. “Well,” I squint, “I guess we have met before…”

-Too many non-Italian restaurants serve pizza these days. You’re a Thai place. Lose the fucking brick oven.

-Whenever I’m in a friend’s apartment and need to grab a cup, I wind up playing the “If I were him, where I would I keep the glasses?” game. I have never succeeded in fewer than four cabinets.

-And, finally, in 1996, I wrote my college application essay in the form of a flashback in which the various life lessons I had learned from playing soccer were recounted while I lay writhing on the ground, after getting hit in the balls during a varsity game. While the essay got me into Penn and I still get requests from teachers asking to share it with their students, my memories of high school soccer are bittersweet. My team played in a division that sent only one team to the playoffs each year and, alas, we never made the cut. To this day, whenever I run into my former teammates, we commiserate about never having been able to celebrate like madmen when we clinched a title. So yeah, I get a little competitive when it comes to drinking games. It’s all I’ve got. As Beirut went into overtime that day at the barbecue, I sensed that victory was at hand. Indeed, perhaps I would even achieve some modicum of vindication for the athletic heartbreaks I suffered in high school. Alas, I got hammered, blacked out, and have no idea who won. Too bad that’s one highlight that won’t be shown on SportsCenter. Fuck me!

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-Whenever I eat any of the whole wheat bread, low fat cheese, or diet whatever that I keep in my apartment, I think to myself, “This isn’t that bad. I can’t even tell the difference.” But when I’m somewhere else and eat the real stuff, I exclaim, “Sweet Lord, what have I been missing!?” The truth is, I’ve never been much of a food connoisseur. I know what I like and proceed to consume too much of it. My attempts at healthy eating generally fail as soon as I leave the confines of my own kitchen. Nevertheless, to me, meals are like one-night stands: as long as I don’t wake up feeling regret the morning after, I consider myself a winner.

-Not all side dishes are created equal. Let me get this straight – my choices are mac and cheese, french fries, stuffing, cole slaw, or steamed broccoli? Why are the last two even on the fucking menu?

-You know you got wasted when you wake up so late the next day that your first meal is dinner.

-Once you’ve had chopped salad you can never go back. Do you really expect me to chew through a whole piece of lettuce now? That just seems like a lot of work.

-Nothing causes me to lose my appetite faster than chicken with “grill marks” that look like they’ve been painted or stamped on.

-My garbage disposal is a luxury unmatched in its simplicity and convenience. The only problem is that people without garbage disposals find me uncouth when I absent-mindedly sweep half-eaten foodstuffs into their kitchen sink.

-My appetite for sushi is insatiable. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t go out to eat sushi with friends because I’m embarrassed to order as much as I’d actually like. Are you seriously only eating a hand roll and a couple of pieces of spicy tuna? I thought that was to tide us over before we order for real.

-I’ve purchased goods and services worth thousands of dollars on the Internet. But online food delivery? I don’t trust it. What if my order doesn’t go through? What if my information is stolen? What if – gasp! – they send me the wrong sides?

-I never gained the Freshman 15; I gained the Junior 15. In fact, I never stepped foot in a gym until my third year of college. I’ve worked out pretty religiously ever since, but I’ve never lost those fifteen pounds. I have, however, learned to suck in my gut so much that it’s become a workout in itself. When you meet me, rest assured I’m doing abs.

-When I lived in Manhattan, I subsisted on take-out and the occasional meal reluctantly prepared by my roommate Brian’s girlfriend. West Hollywood, on the other hand, is not a city that caters to take-out – food delivery takes forever and the additional fees make it overpriced when ordering for one. Faced with no other choice, I learned to cook. And while the three or four things I know how to make won’t win any culinary awards, they do keep me satisfied. The one thing I continue to order in – despite the cost – is sushi. On those occasions, the garbage disposal remains silent.  There shall be no fish left behind.

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

-If you ring up my total using a calculator instead of the cash register, I’m just going to assume you don’t pay taxes.

-If I have a few minutes to kill and have a choice between updating Twitter and calling my mom, I’ll choose the former. Twitter never tells me it can’t hear me because it can’t figure out how to work the Bluetooth headset I bought it for Mother’s Day.

-It really irks me when people quote famous movie lines and give the actor credit. No, the fucking screenwriter came up with that. The actor just read it off of a piece of paper.

-I carefully choose the underwear I’m going to wear out to the bar on a Saturday night. Not because I think I might get laid and a chick will see it, but because those boxers are most likely what I’ll still be wearing come Monday morning.

-I love to read. Once I start a good book, I usually devour it within days. Except from September through May when new TV is on.

-My buddy Chi has become obsessed with getting wasted at brunch this summer in New York. Now don’t get me wrong, no one enjoys a mid-afternoon bloodbath more than yours truly. But when your friends call you hammered every weekend at 2pm to proclaim, “Daytime is the new nighttime,” it’s time for a brunchervention.

-If you work as in-house counsel for a law firm, do you hate your job twice as much?

-Please do not set your out-of-office reply to say you have “limited access” to email. Bullshit. You either have access or you don’t. “Limited access” is just an excuse not to respond to the people you hate.

-I recently went to the doctor and had to pee in a little cup. I nailed it exactly with a perfect pour. So why did I flush anyway?

-Nothing is more terrifying about driving in LA than speeding down the right lane and being unable to tell if the cars up ahead are merely slowing down or are actually parked.

-And, finally, I’ve begun warning people that going with me to a fancy steakhouse is a waste of time and money. First of all, I still have no idea what the different cuts of meat mean. I once ordered a New York strip because I’m from New York and thought it sounded cool. Second of all, red wine gives me heartburn, and apparently attempting to order white wine at a steakhouse is a capital offense. Lastly, I just can’t tell the fucking difference between a twenty-dollar steak and a fifty-dollar steak. I can spot top-notch yellowtail sashimi a mile away, but rib eye is completely lost on me. The sides I’ve got a handle on, but when it comes to selecting a steak, I’m forced to stall as long as possible – and pray no one laughs when I order the chopped salad. Fuck me.

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-The first day of freshman year, I sat in my dorm room as everyone else on the hall moved in. Each time I heard footsteps, I cocked my head to listen closely in the hope I could glean any evidence that my new neighbors were female, hot, and promiscuous. I was eighteen at the time and had never before felt such anticipation. Eleven days ago, as the last seconds of my twenties ticked away and I prepared to celebrate my thirtieth birthday, I can’t say I felt the same level of excitement. I was both nostalgic and apprehensive. In fact, now that I’m thirty – wow, it’s weird even saying that – I feel a bit self-conscious. Like the next time I get drunk before noon or bang a chick whose first name I’m fuzzy on, I’ll somehow get reprimanded for behavior inappropriate for a thirtysomething. Even though I’m equidistant from both, I just feel a lot closer to twenty than I do to forty. Thirty gets a bad rap – but I’m not ready to give up the good life.

-Hitting on chicks younger than me has suddenly become slightly awkward. “Oh, you’re twenty-one? Cool. I’m twenty-nine,” sounds fine – something about us both being twentysomething is strangely comforting. But even though the age difference is the same, saying, “Oh, you’re twenty-two? Cool. I’m thirty,” just sounds so very wrong.

-I have some friends who are still trying to figure out what they’re doing with their lives. I hope they realize that thirtysomethings don’t have that luxury. If you’re going back to grad school and you’re older than thirty, congrats. You’re that weird old dude.

-I was in New York a few weeks ago and ended up at this NYU house party. That’s the kind of thing that doesn’t happen in LA. You can’t just stumble into a UCLA party without looking like you did it on purpose. People will ask you how you got there. But in Manhattan everything is fair game. Me and my buddies were welcomed with nary a glance. Of course, we said we were twenty-five.

-People keep telling me that your thirties are the best years of your life, and I believe them. The only problem is that I was told that about my teenage years and my twenties. I smell a conspiracy. If fifteen years from now someone tells me that “life begins at forty-five,” I think I’ll know the jig is up.

-You know how you can never tell a kid’s age when they’re between, say, six months and twelve years old? I’m finding I have the same problem with twentysomethings. I’ve already completely forgotten the benchmarks. A chick tells me she’s twenty-six and I don’t understand why she looks at me curiously when I ask if she just graduated college.

-Females who are in a relationship when they turn thirty are like a ticking time bomb. I don’t care if you’ve only been dating for three weeks, if you’re together when she crosses that threshold, you can bet she’s wondering what’s taking you so long to pick out a ring.

-Obviously, I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about age. It has varying effects on me. When I see someone older than my parents working as a cashier, it makes me depressed for about a week. On the other hand, I recently spent some time with my 97-year-old, wheelchair-bound grandmother, and noticed she was wearing Nike socks. Just do it, Gram! I guess, as they say, age ain’t nothing but a number. Unless that number is thirty and all the UCLA chicks are staring at you.

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

-Whenever someone at a wedding remarks, “Wow, this ceremony is going quickly,” rest assured it will last at least half an hour longer.

-Having a high alcohol tolerance is more of a curse than a blessing.

-Ever ask a stranger to take a picture, show him or her where the flash and zoom are and how exactly to line the shot up, then return to pose with your friends and say to yourself, “There is no fucking way this is coming out”?

-I’m positive that accidentally swallowing a pill with warm water instead of cold water immediately eliminates the effectiveness of the medicine.

-Why does my car dashboard have the latest in futuristic gadgetry but an analog clock?

-Success means being the last one connected to the conference call.

-When a reality show contestant becomes a reality show judge, isn’t that kind of like a Ponzi scheme for talentless people?

-I feel like my laptop warns me with triple negatives: “Click cancel to save and exit or OK to continue and cancel.” Wait, what?

-Ever load up Excel or whip out your trusty calculator to perform addition or subtraction you think is complex only to realize that the answer is something even like 100?

-And, finally, the morning of my thirtieth birthday I woke up late, fielded calls from my family and friends, and measured my self-worth by the amount of Facebook wall posts I received. The fact that my twenties were over still hadn’t fully sunk in when I rolled downstairs to get the mail. As I was returning to my apartment, something caught my attention. I don’t know if it was a certain sound or smell, but something told me to backtrack down the hall. And that’s when I noticed that I was getting new neighbors. I stood there stealthily for a while, trying to distinguish between potential tenants and mere movers. Memories of my freshman dorm came flooding back. I saw a flash of pink here and a glimpse of high heels there until finally there was a confirmed sighting: two chicks, cute, and promiscuous. (OK, I’m not sure about the last part. Yet.) But while their appearance next door made me think back, it also caused me to look forward. Sure I’m thirty – wow, that still sounds weird – but the halls of my life will always be filled with new neighbors moving in and new opportunities to be had. So thirtysomethings of the world, unite – it’s gonna be one hell of a ride. And if not, well, I heard your forties are the best years of your life. Fuck me!

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-Congratulations, Class of 2009, you’ve just received your college degrees! If I were you, by now I’d be sick of everyone telling me how this is the worst job market in a generation and that my graduation is coinciding with near-certain apocalypse. I feel your pain, though, having graduated in 2001 during the dot.com collapse. When I got back from spring break in Acapulco my senior year, I had a voicemail informing me that the division of the company where I had lined up a full-time job no longer existed. Not the kind of news you want to hear when you’re hungover and sunburned. But fret not, my young apprentices, it’s not all bad. In my annual address to the nation’s graduates, I’d like to present you with some reasons why you’ll fare better in the real world than you think. Or at least fare better than your gloomy douchebag commencement speaker thinks.

-In today’s economy, thrift is the new bling. Which is good since you’ve spent the past four years living as cheaply as possible. If you own one pair of jeans, eat ramen for breakfast, or have found more uses for red Solo cups than MacGyver, then take heart: you’re more prepared than most for trying times.

-Despite their best efforts, you will still know more about the Internet than any of your older co-workers. And you should, given how many hours during finals you spent in the library Facebook stalking instead of studying. If you want to make an impression at your first job after college, simply tell your boss you’d like to set up a Twitter page for the company.  He’ll be so impressed with your ingenuity that he won’t even realize it only takes fifteen seconds and not the two weeks you estimated.

-If you don’t have a job, try to refrain from dating someone in the same predicament. All of my girlfriends since college have either been unemployed or freelancers or grad students. And since I’m home all day too, we’re always just…around each other. Which is a problem, because everyone needs a buffer zone. Work is a place where people go to get away from their significant others and have free reign to just make shit up. “Honey, I really have to get drinks with some guys from the office” is just code for “I’d rather not come home yet.”

-If you’re in dire straits, you may even have to move back in with your parents. Though this is the worst nightmare of many college graduates, it’s becoming more and more common. I did it myself when I was twenty-five. Your experience will most likely be similar. Generally speaking, your mom will be thrilled to have you, and your dad will be just as eager as you are for the day when you finally get the fuck out.

-Perhaps the biggest benefit to graduating this year is that everything is now negotiable. From food to cars to cable, everyone’s more willing to cut you a deal just to get you in the door. How best to capitalize on this climate of haggling is a bit more uncertain. For instance, my lease is up in a few weeks. I’ve been contemplating for months how I’m gonna get my landlord to reduce my rent. I keep wondering what to do if he says no. Do I threaten to move out? But I don’t want to move out; what if he calls my bluff? What good is my degree from Wharton if this basic negotiation spooks me? But, much like I urge the Class of 2009 to do, I remain optimistic. The economy, as it always does, will rebound. And next time I find myself contemplating the worth of my diploma, I’ll simply consider just how many wonderful things I can do with red Solo cups.

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

-When a customer service rep tells me that I need to call another company in order to get technical support for a product, I always say, “I already called them and they told me to call you,” even if it’s not true – because I know that’s gonna be the inevitable chain of events anyway.

-If you are seated next to me on a plane, the social contract calls for an acknowledgement of one’s presence via head nod or brief smile. That’s the end of our obligation to each other. If you even so much as ask me a simple question once I’ve closed my eyes, I will point you in the wrong direction of the exits should we attempt an emergency landing.

-I just got a new air conditioner with a remote control. The remote only seems to work when I hold it one inch from the air conditioner. Even when the desired controls on the unit itself are easily within arm’s length, I refuse to use them. I will show that inanimate object who’s boss.

-Television interview guests should never be seated on a stool. They always look so rumpled and don’t know where to put their feet. Plus there’s the unavoidable crotch shot. It’s just awkward for everyone.

-For me, “quick shower” is an oxymoron.

-Girls over twenty need to realize that babysitting is not a career.

-Animated emoticons have gotten out of control. The sad face on AIM has a simple frown. The sad face on BlackBerry Messenger looks like all of his emoticon family got wiped out in a horrific accident and he just came from the funeral.

-Since Father’s Day is coming up, I’ve been thinking a lot about when I moved back in with my parents.  My dad works from home as well, so we were both in the house all day, and I was able to compare our work habits. My dad gets completely dressed just to work in his home office; my version of business casual is boxers without holes. He eats when someone with nearby co-workers would eat: breakfast at 7am and lunch around noon; I ate breakfast when he ate lunch. We mostly stayed out of each other’s way, though we often bonded when the house’s fickle Internet connection went down. I’d come downstairs to his office to commiserate, and together we’d lie to the cable company and tell them we already called the router company.

-And, finally, I share yet another milestone with you, my dear readers. This is the final Ruminations of my twenties. Of course, the column won’t change much once I turn thirty in June, but I’ve spent so much time lampooning “twentysomething life” over the past decade that I thought it merited a mention. I started writing Ruminations at eighteen and I enjoy it now more than ever.  I’m confident my thirties will only bring more material, more escapades, more highs, more lows, and, of course, more reasons to say, “Fuck me.”

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-A recent article in Time Magazine stated that half of all college students have four or more credit cards.  Four or more?  That’s fucking ridiculous.  I’m twenty-nine and have one credit card.  Why?  Well, I simply did the research and calculated that it would be most beneficial if I accumulated all of my rewards points in one account.  Actually, that’s not true; I just really hate carrying a thick wallet.  OK, that’s not completely true, either.  I also got burned so many times with free t-shirts that were XXXL and promotional towels as thin as paper that I finally stopped accepting all the credit card offers that were foisted my way.  College kids be damned, I’m comfortable with my decision.  Packing a single Amex (alongside a near-useless debit card), I stride confidently cashless through malls and bars.  Call me crazy or, more accurately, call me Plastic Man.

-Whenever I buy something at, say, Banana Republic, and the cashier asks if I’d like to save 10% by applying for a store credit card, I immediately weigh the pros of saving fifteen bucks with the cons of spending three minutes filling out an application.  I usually decline.  I’d be much more inclined to accept, though, if the store offered certain incentives – such as the option to receive said card in the mail already cut into five pieces and shredded, thereby saving me the trouble.

-My buddy has been carrying a balance on his credit card for years.  Every month, he just pays off the interest.  This, of course, is one of the worst financial decisions he could possibly make.  A part of me thinks he knows this and he’s just punishing himself for getting into debt in the first place.  Another part of me wishes he’d just cope by binge drinking like a normal person.

-I’ve only seen an American Express Black Card once.  I was in a bar after a gig in Ann Arbor and the kid who had it was about twenty (most likely it was only one of the four or more cards he carried).  I didn’t say anything, but my internal monologue unfolded as follows: 1) “Wow, Black Cards do exist.”  2) “Why does this fucking kid have a fucking Black Card?”  3) “Wait, he’s using it to buy me drinks.”  4) “The bill is only nine bucks?  He just ruined it.”

-Forgetting your credit card at the bar is one of the great annoyances of twentysomething life.  Returning to retrieve it during the day, only to find out the bar is closed, is bad.  But attempting to go back at night and being barred from entry by a bouncer who doubts your sob story, well that’s just not fair.

-If your web site does not allow Google Toolbar to fill in my credit card details, I will be taking my business elsewhere.  You really expect me to go dig out my wallet, find my card, and manually enter all those digits?  Methinks you’ve overestimated my resolve to complete this purchase.

-When I worked on Wall Street following graduation, I was issued a corporate card.  Sure it was no Black Card, but still heady stuff for a twenty-two-year-old.  That is, until the rules were explained to us.  The investment bank I worked for didn’t actually pay the card balance, we did, then expensed the charges, and after a lengthy and arcane approval process, were eventually reimbursed.  What’s the point of the card then?  No free t-shirt, no towel, not even 10% off khakis.  It merely thickened my wallet needlessly and tempted me to use it to open a tab, neglect closing out, and then have to explain to my superiors why a mean bouncer wouldn’t let me have my corporate card back.

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

-I’ll admit there are a lot of pretty gourmet applications for the iPhone.  But the most important app still does not exist: the one that turns it into a BlackBerry.

-When a customer service rep tells me I’ll have the option of filling out a survey about our call and requests that I give him all perfect scores, I really respect him for trying to game the system.  I mean, not enough to actually fill out the survey, but I respect him nonetheless.

-I am terrified of winning the World Series and getting stuck at the bottom of the pile on the mound.  How do they breathe?

-Why do the drivers of two-door cars always force the passengers in the back left seat to get out on the right side of the car?  My knees have been pressed against my chin for the past hour, the least you could do is get the fuck up and let me out.

-I hate riding in a car that is only a few months newer than mine, but is next year’s version of the same model and thus has features and doohickeys I could only dream of.  Jealousy comes standard.

-Someone just sent me a recent Facebook photo of one of my frat buddies posing next to the beer pong table in our fraternity house – with his newborn son.  My emotions ran the gamut from proud to nostalgic before settling firmly on depressed.

-Listen, dude, there are only a few legitimate reasons why you should be taking up valuable real estate at the bar when the place is packed: you’re ordering drinks, you’re distributing drinks you just ordered to your friends, or you’re closing out your tab.  However, all of these excuses are considered null and void if you are performing said tasks while wearing a fucking fedora.

-And, finally, another rite of passage from my Wall Street days, besides receiving the useless corporate card, was being reprimanded for sending inappropriate emails.  I used to love when HR would specifically outline which topics were strictly off-limits, namely: intoxication, fornication, masturbation, and defecation.  I even coined these taboos the “Four Sins of Tion” after the common suffix each word contains.  It was a simpler time back then, when my primary concerns were wording my emails to circumvent the company filters and getting away with expensing as much frivolous shit as possible.  A part of me, though, wonders if I’d remained in finance whether I’d have a Black Card of my own by now.  But another part of me realizes that, even if I’d requested perfect marks on all my performance reviews, that’s one survey I was unlikely to ever fare well on.  Fuck me!

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