-Birthdays are a lot like New Year’s Eve in that you make a lot of promises to yourself about turning over a new leaf, only to abandon your attempts at change a few weeks later.  Of course, I have no ordinary birthday coming up.  In 52 days, I’m turning thirty.  Yeah, it’s a big one.  So while my time as a twentysomething is quickly running out, I’ve been considering several birthday resolutions, one of which is to be less grumpy.  As I wrote in Ruminations #107, I tend to sweat the small stuff.  Since that time, though, I’ve gotten a lot grumpier, and begun sweating even smaller stuff.  The first step, as they say, is to admit you have a problem.  But sometimes I wish “they” would just shut the fuck up.

-When customer service reps ask for my name, phone number, and address, why don’t they tell me what they need it for?  If you need to enter it into the system, I’ll speak slowly so you can spell everything correctly.  But if it’s just for verification purposes, please let me know so I can tear through this bullshit and get on with my life.

-Incense: noun; a substance burned to produce an aromatic odor.  Incensed: adjective; the feeling I get when someone near me is burning incense.

-Hey guy sitting next to me on the plane, I noticed you constantly peering over at the romantic comedy I purchased and am now watching on the seatback in front of me.  Guess what?  It just got twice as funny.

-Blisters are nature’s way of reminding me about my inconsistent workout schedule.

-I hate being the lead in a line of cars all looking for a spot in a huge parking structure.  There’s so much pressure.  I’ve got a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel because I know I can’t hesitate if I happen to see an open spot that isn’t “reserved for carpools only” or doesn’t have a fucking Vespa in it.  Slowly, I lead my charges higher and higher, even though we all know we’re parking on the roof.

-Riding in a convertible is usually about 75-80% as much fun as I thought it would be.

-I’ve begun to see teenagers with cell phones that double as speakers, just walking down the street blasting their music out loud.  It’s only a matter of time before the first cell-phone-that-doubles-as-speakers-related homicide.

-I believe that sweating the small stuff is a natural reaction to an uncertain world.  At least that’s what helps me sleep at night.  In these trying times, though, some people use more unconventional means to dispel frustration and focus on what’s important.  Like my friend Deb, who regularly sees a psychic, despite my repeated jeers.  Most recently, Deb told me her psychic could sense she was feeling anxious and suggested she concentrate more on her job.  “Deb,” I said, “I could have told you that.  What the fuck do you need some phony psychic for?”  But Deb contended there was no way the psychic could have known what she was feeling.  “God damn it, Deb,” I grumbled, “She’s just giving you obvious advice!  That’s not a fucking prediction!  Now ask to her to tell you who’s gonna win the World Series!”  She hung up on me.  I didn’t see that one coming.

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

-Sometimes I’ll be in the midst of writing and will Google a word to find out how to spell it, only the first search result is a Wikipedia page, and next thing I know it’s 45 minutes later.

-“Encore presentation?”  Oh, you mean a repeat.

-My biceps burn more from attempting to carry all of my laundry from the car to my apartment without making two trips than they do from the most punishing workout I’ve ever done at the gym.

-I would not want to be trapped in a dangerous situation with Bon Jovi.  “It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not?  Right… listen Jon, why don’t you stay here then and I’ll go get some help.”

-Fact: baby powder is the most underrated toiletry.

-“Do not machine wash or tumble dry” means I will never wash this ever.

-I do not own a power drill, so whenever I assemble a shelf or something that requires one, I just vigorously hammer the screws into the wall and hope for the best.

-In honor of Mother’s Day next week, I’d like to admit that I’ve recently come to an earth-shattering conclusion: my mom has never been wrong about anything, ever, in her entire life.  I tried to think of an example where I took my mom’s advice and then afterwards said, “I knew I shouldn’t have listened you!”  But I can’t.  She’s batting a thousand.  It’s pretty incredible that it took me almost thirty years to realize I should always listen to her.  I will do so going forward, but only begrudgingly, because I need to at least save face.

-When I travel, I take two types of pictures.  One set is of ancient ruins, cultural landmarks, and trees.  These are the ones I show my mom and never look at again after I’ve downloaded them from my camera.  The other set is of me drunk, my friends drunk, and strangers drunk.  These are the ones I never show my mom but cherish forever.

-And, finally, whenever I visit my parents and complain about something physically wrong with me, my mom will analyze the symptoms and then always come to the same diagnosis: “Is it gas?”  “Mom, my stomach is killing me.”  “What did you eat?   Do you have gas?”  “Mom, I have a pounding headache.”  “Sounds like gas, honey.”  “Mom, I fell and broke my ankle.”  “It’s all that gas, Aaron, it’s blowing you off balance.”  And you know she’s getting all serious about the gas when she starts to whisper, “Did you try to go to the bathroom?”  Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can say but, “Yes Mom, I did.  You were right.  It was gas.  Do you have any incense I can burn in there?”  Fuck me.

HOME

-Since the temperature varies so little in Los Angeles, sometimes I forget that seasons even exist.  When one of my buddies on the East Coast complains about being bombarded with snow, I have to look at a calendar and remind myself that just because it’s 75 degrees and sunny in LA, doesn’t mean it’s not still winter.  I also have to remind myself not to call my friend and be a dick by rubbing it in.  Spring, however, is a different story, because it’s a season noted as much for its weather as for its significance as a time of renewal.  Spring is when we begin training in earnest for the rest of the year.  The skirts get shorter, the days get longer, and winter is a distant memory to all except those who I remind about it on a weekly basis until December.

-After essentially hibernating for the past few months due to a minor knee injury and a major bout of laziness, I’ve finally begun working out regularly again.  Since my gym is in my apartment building, it’s been a while since I hit the treadmill and then got directly in my car, as I did the other day to run some quick errands.  Driving around while marinating in my own sweat was a good dose of humility.  The world would be a much better place if everyone were occasionally reminded of how much they fucking stink.

-Spring marks the end of flu season, which must be a welcome respite for actors who can’t really take sick days in the middle of filming.  Have you ever watched a sitcom and just been able to tell by their unusually nasal voice that one of the actors is deathly ill?  Sometimes they work it into the storyline, and other times they just assume viewers won’t notice that one of the characters sounds like he’s underwater.

-In Hollywood, pilot season is underway, meaning new shows that will air once in the fall before being unceremoniously canceled are now being filmed.  Soon, my managers and agents will send me out on meetings to start developing next year’s pilots.  My representatives provide me with all the salient information: who I’m meeting, where, and – if I’m meeting with a chick – the size of her tits.  I’m not kidding.  I’ve gone to meetings, looked at my notes, and realized I have no idea what project I’m talking about, but have been fully briefed on every cup size in the room.

-We’ve also officially entered wedding season.  I’m actually in New York right now, where I just witnessed Triplet #1’s marriage to another triplet.  It was like walking down the aisle into the Twilight Zone.  But being back in New York has reminded me just how little we walk in Los Angeles.  In 2007, me and my girlfriend at the time took our first trip together to New York.  Upon arrival, I immediately noticed that, well, she walked kinda funny.  She just had a very peculiar gait that I couldn’t believe I had never picked up on.  In other words, I dated a girl in LA for six months and we drove so much that I never once saw her walk more than five feet.

-Wedding season continues as I leave tonight for Israel to attend the nuptials of my high school buddy Gadi in Tel Aviv.  Planning the trip has been a bitch because every time Gadi Skypes me, the number comes up as “unknown” on my cell phone.  It’s bad enough he keeps forgetting to email me before he calls so that I don’t screen him.  But what’s worse is that in every voicemail he says, “Hey, Karo.  Guess I figured out the time difference wrong and called you at 4am.”  No, fucker!  It’s the middle of the day here!  I didn’t pick up because I just assumed you were a wrong number, a telemarketer, or my alma mater.

-Last but not least, spring is also tax season.  It’s a time to take stock both of one’s finances and station in life.  I felt very mature when I diligently organized and annotated all of my tax documents and mailed them to my accountant for review.  Less so when I put a Ziggy return address label on the envelope.

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

-You know you look non-threatening when the little old lady at the card access-only, after-hours ATM actually holds the door open for you to go in with her.

-Paper or plastic?  Well, that depends.  I’ll take whatever will end this conversation fastest and with the least amount of eye rolling.

-I wish the entire magazine consisted of those short blurbs, interesting quotes, and cool graphs that make up the first twenty pages.

-The only time I ever log out of a web site is when I’m checking something on a buddy’s computer and know that if I don’t, he’ll fuck with my shit.  In all other instances, just closing my browser and forgetting I was ever logged in to begin with seems more than sufficient.

-The voice of my car’s navigation system really is a glass-half-full kind of gal.  Only seven minutes until my estimated time of arrival?  Um, have you ever driven in LA traffic, lady?

-The least effective way of dealing with someone who doesn’t know who you are is shouting, “Do you know who the fuck I am?”

-One of my friends gets watched like a hawk at work, so when we’re on the phone and she sees her supervisor coming, she’s finesses the word “Christmas” into the conversation as a signal that she can no longer speak freely.  I forget that this is the code word every single time and say, “Christmas?  What the fuck are you talking about?”  She doesn’t call me much anymore.

-And, finally, for those who aren’t in the know, Bay to Breakers is a twelve-kilometer footrace that takes place every May in San Francisco.  Although I haven’t participated since 2007 and probably won’t be able to make it this year, it’s one of my favorite rites of spring.  The race begins at 8am and, after the “serious” runners have left the starting line, the real fun commences as thousands of people walk along the route and get seriously fucked up.  My friends roll a pong table through the streets and play flip cup at every intersection.  Other people build tiki bars on floats, dress up in costume, and urinate everywhere.  It’s essentially a daylong Mardi Gras parade.  This year, the city tried to ban alcohol, which, predictably, resulted in virulent protests.  Instead of trying to outlaw the drinking, I think organizers should outlaw the running.  Even though it’s the season to start hitting the gym again, I doubt many people will be ready for a 12K.  But getting annihilated from a keg in a shopping cart?  That’s an all-weather activity.  Fuck me.

HOME

-Last week I found myself alone, disoriented, and holding a hand grenade.  I was alone because I had lost my friends on Bourbon Street in the midst of Triplet #1’s bachelor party.  The hand grenade was not an explosive, of course, but rather the famed half-yard glass full of alcohol exclusive to New Orleans.  And I was disoriented because I’d had four of them.  When I finally arrived at the bar where my friends had been headed at the time we got separated, they asked me how I found them.  I told them I asked someone for directions – forgetting that what I actually did was use the Google Maps application on my BlackBerry to locate my position via GPS, and then stumble off in the right direction.  Though full-fledged virtual reality may still be a work in progress, when we accidentally confuse technology with real life (even while hammered), the future has truly arrived.

-I often find myself ignoring people on instant messenger just like I would on the phone.  While I’m in the midst of doing something else, I absent-mindedly follow the IM and occasionally type: really?  uh huh… LOL! and hope those phrases make sense in context.   Sometimes I’ll ignore someone on the phone and someone else on IM simultaneously.  Now that’s multitasking.

-If I’m not paying attention while typing something in Word, it will sometimes suggest then automatically insert a contact from my address book.  This often results in such eloquent sentences as: “I don’t have to drink to have a good Time Warner Cable.”

-Getting the multi-ball capsule on BrickBreaker is both a blessing and a curse.  I try to keep all the balls in play but inevitably get distracted and end up with none.

-It doesn’t get more desperate than joining a dating web site and under religion selecting  “willing to convert.”

-Out of curiosity, I recently turned off Google’s SafeSearch setting.  Whatever terms I search for – no matter how innocuous – now result in a journey through the most depraved recesses of the Internet.  SafeSearch back on!

-If you don’t know me well enough to realize that I possess neither the time, inclination, or need to join Linkedin, then you certainly don’t know me well enough to send me an invitation to join.

-Please do not text, email, Twitter, BBM, or IM me that you have “something really important to tell me.”  Just fucking tell me.  That way when you inevitably lose cell service or your Internet connection goes down just before revealing the news, I’m not left waiting there with bated breath, wondering what you’re about to rock my world with.  And when you finally reconnect, so help me if what you had to say was frivolous at best.  You will be ignored both online and off.

-When you call a cab in Los Angeles and give them your number, their system automatically tells you when and where you were last picked up.  It can be a useful tool for locating belongings lost after a one-night stand, or returning to a bar you were too blacked out to remember.  It’s a decidedly low-tech advancement, but one whose impact cannot be ignored.  After all, GPS can tell you you’re in a ditch, but it can’t tell you how you got there in the first place.

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

-What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?

-What is the proper way to greet a small child?  I have no idea what to do when I see any of my cousins between the ages of four and ten.  Cheek kiss?  Handshake?  Hug?  Fist bump?  Ah, yes, the salutation that transcends age: the high five.

-I don’t care if you used to run track in college – you’re a girl and therefore I can beat you in anything athletic.  I will race you any distance.  Just name the time and place and give me two to three years to get back into shape.

-Why do my wealthiest friends complain about the economy the most?

-What is the point of the Blue Jays and Orioles even fielding a team this year?

-A recent study has shown that playing beer pong contributes to the spread of mono and the flu. Yeah, if you suck at it.

-You know you’ve gained weight when you get dressed to go out for the night but leave your jeans unbuttoned until the last possible moment.

-Why do overpriced “boutique” hotels assume I want a shower with no door?

-A Holocaust movie can be powerful, enlightening, and heart-wrenching.  What it can’t be is an appropriate choice to play on the television in the gym.  I’m talking to you, Mr. No Common Sense running next to me on the treadmill yesterday.  For the love of God, I’m training to race a girl here!

-I am a twenty-nine-year-old Ivy League graduate.  But I did not realize until several weeks ago that you’re supposed to leave conditioner in for a few minutes and not just wash it out right away like you do with shampoo.  The very foundations of my daily routine have been rocked, but my hair has never been so silky or smooth.

-And, finally, I rarely if ever get heckled at my stand-up shows.  I do, however, occasionally encounter fans so hammered they just yell out unintelligibly.  While drunken belligerence is encouraged (and is in fact the subject of much of my act), when it affects the enjoyment of the rest of the audience, it’s time for me to take action.  First, I warn the offender to shut the fuck up, which usually draws cheers from the crowd.  Should the interruptions continue, I observe the offender, taking note of his or her appearance, demeanor, and choice of drink.  Next, I engage the offender, tearing him or her a new asshole while making them wish they were never born.  Lastly, I turn my attention to the offender’s nearby buddies, who also deserve blame for not regulating their companion in the first place.  Friends don’t let friends be douchebags in public.  Friends do, on the other hand, abandon friends on Bourbon Street.  Fuck me!

HOME

-In the past few weeks, two new world records were set: a man in Sweden watched television for 72 hours straight, and a woman in Thailand spent 33 days living with 5,000 scorpions.  It seems odd to me that the scorpion-living record is so much longer than the TV-watching record.  I also think it’s worth noting that one of the amenities that the “Scorpion Queen” had to pass the time was a television.  If she had just kept the thing on the whole time, she could have set both records.  Personally, I’m terrified of all bugs, especially deadly ones that look like lobsters.  I do, however, currently follow over twenty different television shows religiously.  Give me a DVR and a comfy couch and I’ll give that dude in Stockholm a run for his money any day.

-If you’ve already watched a show but know I haven’t seen that episode yet, do not tell me anything that happens – even if you preface your statement with, “Don’t worry, it won’t ruin it.”  Yes, it will.  Because I’m gonna spend the next hour wondering when the part you told me about is coming.  Just keep your fucking mouth shut.

-I don’t understand how The Roots is going to be the house band on “Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.”  Is ?uestlove gonna interject with witty banter when Jimmy is interviewing Miley Cyrus?  Is this some sort of elaborate practical joke?

-I hate when loud, suspenseful music plays at the end of a scene just before the commercial break, even when what’s happening really isn’t all that dramatic.

-Working in Hollywood means that everyone around me is obsessed with television ratings.  Given the importance of ratings, it boggles my mind that they seem to be calculated so haphazardly.  I’ve never met anyone who has a Nielsen box attached to his or her television set.  I’ve never met anyone who has ever met anyone who has a Nielsen box.  Ipso facto, television ratings are based on the viewing habits of complete weirdos.  I’m telling you, American Idol is totally overrated – in both senses of the word.

-Two summers ago, I had a meeting at CBS to pitch a sitcom I had been working on.  When I walked in, Terrell Owens was also there to pitch his own project.  But his name wasn’t on the security list in the lobby so they wouldn’t let him upstairs.  He stood there sulking while his handlers tried to sort out the problem.  Hey, T.O., maybe people would recognize you better if you took off those fucking sunglasses when you’re indoors.

-I set my remote control to only go to the HD channels.  If I wanted to watch things in standard definition I have my life.

-Why is sitting on the couch while reading a magazine the default activity for sitcom characters?  All of my magazines are in the bathroom.  I don’t want them anywhere near the couch.

-Nothing makes my heart sink faster than realizing my DVR didn’t record something it should have.  Why the fuck does it do that?  To prevent further heartbreak, I now monitor my DVR settings carefully, checking the recording schedule daily and deleting shows as soon as I watch them to free up additional space.  When my DVR is working properly, it’s glorious and I can bask in the glow of HD for days.  But when it cuts off the end of “Lost” I feel like I’ve been bitten by 5,000 scorpions.

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

-I just realized that my iPod pauses automatically when the headphones get yanked out of the jack.  I don’t know what makes me feel like a bigger idiot – that in the past I always thought this was just a coincidence, or that I get my headphones caught on doorknobs and dumbbells so often.

-I was working on a screenplay recently when I found myself spending half an hour tinkering with the font that I used for the title of the movie.  It felt just like procrastinating in college – that fucking cover page gets you every time.

-If I mention a historical figure or recent event in an email, don’t reply asking me to explain who or what I’m talking about it.  Are your fingers broken?  Google that shit.

-Whenever I get a call or email from a friend that I haven’t hung out with in like three years, I always think, damn, now I’m gonna have to invite him to my wedding.

-Why do doctors ask you to count backwards before knocking you out?  If I were an anesthesiologist, I’d say something really random just before I put the patient under.  Like, “Dude, your mom is totally hot.  Bye bye!”

-If you’re gonna to be in town, I need to know at least one week ahead of time in order to meet up.  If I’m gonna be in town, I expect you to drop everything at a moment’s notice.

-I was with a friend in an office building whose ducts, wires, and bricks were all exposed.  He asked me if I knew what that style of architecture was called.  I said, “Lazy?”

-Even though Los Angeles is a city notorious for gridlock, I manage to rarely drive simply by ordering everything online and working from home.  My car doesn’t get dirty; it gets dusty.  You know you don’t use your car often when you have a spider web on your windshield wipers.

-And, finally, I believe that the triumphs of contemporary television (such as “Lost” and “House”) have been overshadowed by utter garbage (like American Idol or T.O.’s new reality show).  I continue to fight the good fight, and although I’ve spent the last few years in LA trying to create the next great sitcom, my first forays into screenwriting actually took place back when I was still living in New York.  One day in Union Square, I was eating lunch with my frat buddy Zach, a budding producer, and we were discussing a concept for a new show.  Neither of us had yet to experience the bitter rejection that Hollywood dishes out on a daily basis.  It was a great time to be alive.  In our excitement, we must have been speaking loudly, because an elderly woman approached our table and said something I’ll never forget: “Excuse me, young men.  I overheard your conversation and just wanted to let you know – that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard in my life.”  Fuck me.

HOME

-Since I’m twenty-nine years old and Valentine’s Day is coming up, I’ve been thinking a lot about dating and romance in the thirties.  That is, the 1930s.  Recently, I visited my ninety-seven-year-old Grandma Zelda and asked her a bunch of questions about what life was like when she was single.  As my only living grandparent, Zelda is the last remaining tie I have to that generation, and I thought she would have fun reminiscing.  She played along for a while, then made me wheel her into the common room of her nursing home so she wouldn’t miss Bingo.  As it turns out, the game (of dating, not Bingo) hasn’t changed much in the past seventy years or so.

-My grandma worked in an Army Navy store in Queens with her father and uncle.  One day, the guy who would become my Grandpa Sam came into the store trying to sell raincoats and kick a little game to my grandma.  Though her father didn’t like the raincoats and turned Sam away, Zelda’s uncle knew she had a crush and thus placed an order anyway, enabling my grandpa to come back and see her again.  Although I never met my great-great-uncle, obviously he was a pretty awesome wingman.

-On their first date, Sam took Zelda to dinner and then to see “Gone with the Wind.”  (My reaction: “Grandma, you went to see ‘Gone with the Wind’ on your first date?  Damn you’re old!”  Luckily her hearing aid was on the fritz.)  The movie was playing at the historic (but now demolished) Roxy Theatre in Manhattan where each film was preceded by an elaborate stage show performed by the Roxyettes (precursors of the Rockettes).  Despite this lavish spectacle, my grandpa fell asleep before the movie even began.  Hey, the guy was on his feet selling fucking raincoats all day!

-I asked Grandma if Sam kissed her after that first date.  She bristled, “Of course!  What were we waiting for?”  Sorry, Grandma, I didn’t know you were that kind of girl!  Then I asked her if they had been drinking.  She said they hadn’t and they rarely did.  Quite frankly, now I wonder how they ever conceived my mom.

-As time progressed, Grandma would bring a change of clothes to work and then go out with Sam afterward.  Sometimes they would double-date, although she didn’t really like some of my grandpa’s friends (nothing new there).  Grandma also said that Sam always paid when they went out – it was expected of him so she never even offered.  “Really?” I said, “You never even did the fake reach-for-the-purse move?”  She waved me off and asked how much longer until Bingo.

-After only a few months of dating, Grandpa got down on one knee and proposed.  Grandma said she expected it might be coming and said yes right away.  I know my very existence hinged on that moment, but still.  Marrying a raincoat salesman who fell asleep on the first date and had obnoxious friends?  That doesn’t really seem like something you rush into.  Then again, even though I was only eight when Grandpa passed away, now that I think about it he was kind of a pimp.

-At this point, I could tell Grandma was getting restless so I asked her one last question: “Was Grandpa Sam a good kisser?”  I could tell by the melancholy yet nostalgic look that swept across her face that the answer was yes, but that I had also struck a chord.  She simply responded, “He was a good husband.”  No other words needed to be said.

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

-The guy at the dry cleaners remembers my name about every other time I go in there.  I seriously get heart palpitations whenever I walk to the counter.  Is a familiar nod sufficient or does he need my ticket?  Fuck it, I’m never wearing a white shirt again.

-Have you ever been on the phone with an incompetent tech support rep who just runs with one of your ridiculous, offhand remarks about why the problem might be happening?  I’ll be like, “I don’t know, the router is pretty dusty.  Can that be it?”  And twenty minutes later the guy is like, “Unfortunately, there’s nothing more I can do on this end.  But it could very well be the dust.”  It’s not the fucking dust, jackass.

-Every year, when I renew my Sports Illustrated subscription, they send me a tote bag.  The bags are handy, until the zippers fall off and the entire bag spontaneously combusts.  This usually happens around Week 51.  Well played, SI.  Well played indeed.

-Ever reveal a weird habit or idiosyncrasy about yourself to somebody and they turn around and reveal one of their own?  Um, hello?  We’re talking about me here.

-Frustration is driving around with the air conditioner on full blast and having no idea why you’re still sweating your balls off until you realize the seat warmers are on.

-Frustration is being the drummer for a soft rock band or a female teen pop star.

-Frustration is being asked by Kodak Gallery to log in every single time I want to view someone’s photo album.  Just remember my shit!  You’re worse than my dry cleaner.

-If you yawn at the gym, you’re doing it wrong.

-Sometimes, if I’m really hungry, I just say fuck it and order a sandwich with a side of another sandwich.

-And, finally, I will be spending this Valentine’s Day with a very special lady – my sister Caryn.  She’ll be in town for work the week before and, since she lives in Boston and we don’t get to hang that often, she’s staying for the weekend.  We’ll catch up, drink some wine, and have some laughs about how it took two of us to interview Grandma (me to ask the questions, Caryn to break down the questions into simpler words and yell them directly into her hearing aid.)  When Caryn and I are both old and gray, I truly hope we’ll be fortunate enough to have inquisitive grandchildren of our own who want to hear about our respective love lives.  Unfortunately, I guess those stories won’t start until at least Valentine’s Day 2010.  Fuck me.

HOME

-Until I have a family of my own, my “home” will always be my parents’ house on Long Island, where I lived until I was eighteen (and where my mom and dad still reside).  Twentysomethings tend to lead a nomadic existence and I’m no exception, having lived in five different apartments on two coasts since college.  At two and a half years, I’ve inhabited my current apartment in West Hollywood the longest.  Though I love my place and have taken great care to furnish it properly, to call it a home would still be a stretch.  Sure I have birth announcements and holiday cards on the refrigerator, but there’s also a beer funnel in the cabinet above it.  Yes, the two works of non-fiction I’m currently reading rest on my nightstand, but on the shelf below sit two shotglasses, a flask from a sorority date party, some Mardi Gras beads, and a piggy bank in the shape of a miniature Yankees helmet.  An apartment?  Yes.  A frat house?  Perhaps.  A home?  Not so much.

-My dream is to one day live somewhere that doesn’t have wires from my TV and router running all along the walls, under the carpet, and around doorways.  Because nothing says “classy” like exposed coaxial cable.

-Sometimes I think I enjoy traveling not so much for the experience, but for the opportunity to show off by displaying all of my Frommer’s guides on the bookshelf.

-The other day I noticed that the little tray thing that holds the silverware in my dishwasher had some dried food stuck to it.  I thought to myself, this really needs to go in the… oh wait.

-Whenever the cleaning woman leaves my apartment, I notice little things are out of place.  No big deal.  But last time she left, I noticed the settings were changed on the trimmer I use to manscape my balls.  I’m pretty sure that can’t be caused by dusting.

-If filling up the garbage can in the kitchen as much as possible before taking out the trash was an Olympic sport, I’d be so dominant that people would accuse me of being underage.

-Why are the instructions on my resealable plastic bags printed in English, French, and Spanish?  You mean to tell me that not only are these same exact bags sold around the world, but that Ziploc has also deemed all of us too fucking stupid to figure out how to use them on our own?

-My vacuum cleaner is broken.  I’m pretty sure it just needs a minor, inexpensive part.  But when I started Googling to find a local repair shop, a sponsored ad for Amazon.com popped up in the search results.  Wait, they sell vacuums on Amazon?  Problem solved.

-I speak to Angie, my cleaning woman, in broken Spanish and she speaks to me in broken English.  So I guess, in a way, those multi-lingual plastic bags bring us together.  Still doesn’t explain what happened to my ball trimmer, though.

-No matter where I’ve lived, my reaction when someone knocks on the front door is the same: sheer terror followed by tiptoeing around, and then spying through the peephole.  On TV, they answer the door about a nanosecond after someone knocks.  Not me.  Is it a FedEx guy or a murderer dressed as a FedEx guy?  I’ll find out just as soon as I can figure out where the fuck Angie put my big, scary steak knives.

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

-I was reading about this new diet where you’re not allowed to drink alcohol.  Well, I read the first sentence at least.

-If every time I tell you that no, I don’t have a CVS card, you go ahead and swipe the one you keep next to the cash register anyway, that seriously diminishes my motivation to actually sign up for one.

-Radio DJs always seem a lot more excited that it’s Friday than the average person.

-If I’m giving directions to someone who doesn’t follow football, I always give the distance to a nearby landmark in feet instead of yards.

-My web designers sent me an overly extravagant gift basket for the holidays.  Memo to my web designers: next year please forget the gift basket and give me the equivalent value in services.  Also, I will be sending you my medical bills for the diabetes I may have contracted from eating all that caramel cashew crunch.

-Sorry, “the economy” is not a valid excuse for everything.

-Why do I always get stuck on a plane next to someone who has obviously experienced a personal tragedy or is traveling to a funeral?  Not to be insensitive, but the pain of being forced to listen to you try to choke back tears for five hours straight is surely more excruciating than the loss you’ve just suffered.  Next time, take Amtrak.

-When my MacBook Pro starts to run slowly, I run a handy freeware program called Disk Inventory.  It’s essentially a utility that analyzes the mounted volumes on my hard drive and generates a sophisticated graphical representation of how much porn I have.

-There’s nothing that people who get off work at 5pm hate more than being at work at 5:01.

-And, finally, this winter I’ve been thinking that the only time it’s acceptable to turn down a free vacation is if it could possibly result in serious injury.  Thank you for inviting me to go snowboarding with your family, but I actually have other plans: not dying.  You and your buddies are going scuba diving?  Sorry, I can’t make it; but can you pencil me in for a drowning next month?  The thing is, I’d just hate to be a hypocrite and fly back from a trip sniffling the whole time because my friend was impaled in a freak hang gliding incident or something.  Though, if the annoyed passenger next to me asks why I’m upset, I can always say, “The economy.”  Fuck me!

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-When I was a teenager growing up in the suburbs, if we couldn’t find a house to drink in we’d simply kick back beers in the park until the cops inevitably came and chased us through the woods.  We were young and stupid and it was fucking awesome.  More than a decade later, that exhilarating sensation borne of adrenaline infused with alcohol comes much more infrequently.  Which is why since college I have endeavored to take a foreign adventure with the boys at least once every eighteen months or so.  Much to my dismay, however, this year’s trip was difficult to organize, because married guys are not allowed and the ranks of the unmarried have dwindled precipitously.  Thus when me and three friends – two from high school (Matt and Triplet #2), and one from college (Danny) – embarked for Argentina and Uruguay three weeks ago, there was an unspoken air of finality about the proceedings.  This would be the last bachelor party.

-Upon arriving in Buenos Aires, I quickly discovered that, when absolutely hammered, I am fluent in Spanish.  Though I haven’t studied or spoken it since high school, when I get a few drinks in me I become like one of those head trauma victims who mysteriously speak French flawlessly.  At one point, Matt and I were spitting Spanish so well that a few locals asked us to produce our driver’s licenses to prove we were American.  Unfortunately, I look so fat and he looks so young that they just didn’t believe they were our IDs.

-Twentysomething Argentines eat dinner at 11pm, hit the clubs at 2am, and stay out until 8am.  It’s like living in a bizarro world.  After five straight nights of that I had no idea what day of the week it was or if my next meal should be breakfast or dinner.  I once tried to go to a bank but the sign said they don’t open – open!! – until 4pm.  I just don’t understand how they live like that year-round.  I’m sorry, but it’s not healthy for Happy Hour to be at midnight.

-Argentina is super cheap.  We went out every night and made it rain but never even came close to dropping $100 US in a restaurant or bar.  They’re also not big tippers.  If Argentines tip at all it’s max 10%.  It’s funny how the American brain is so hardwired.  We physically could not bring ourselves to tip less than we usually do.  As a result every cab driver and waitress from Palermo Viejo to Plaza Serrano loved us.  Forget Obama – me and my boys single-handedly brought international goodwill back to America.

-Argentines love PDA.  And I don’t mean BlackBerrys or iPhones – which we saw none of except our own – I mean public displays of affection.  But they don’t just make out, they fucking maul each other – in clubs, on the beach, at bus stops.  It’s probably a function of the fact that most Argentines don’t move away from home until they get married, so they literally can’t “get a room.”  But that still doesn’t make it OK to fondle your boyfriend right in front of me.

-Buenos Aires is really an amazing city.  The people are friendly, the food is amazing, and I’m sure there’s lots of cultural shit that I was too hungover to see.  We came for the nightlife of course, though that usually meant going to a crazy dance club the likes of which I would never set foot in back home.  I couldn’t help but feel out of place – partly because I was sipping champagne at an absurdly cheap, exclusive VIP table, and partly because I can’t understand Spanish when it’s drowned out by techno.  Then I’d look at my watch to see that it was “only” 6am.  I felt old; but the night was young.

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

-From Buenos Aires we flew to Punta del Este, a resort town on the southern tip of Uruguay, where we met up with two of Matt’s frat buddies to bring our crew to a total of six.  Since Punta is a mostly undiscovered travel destination that’s a few years from blowing up and being swarmed with Americans, we thought our presence would be welcomed with open arms.  Not so.  For one, the Uruguayan dialect of Spanish is pronounced much differently and thus, even after dozens of beers, no one could comprehend what the fuck we were saying.  Plus, Argentines and Uruguayans who can afford to vacation in Punta are inherently more sophisticated, and therefore not impressed that we were from “Nueva York.”  In other words, our novelty quickly wore off.

-Our inability to communicate or ingratiate ourselves notwithstanding, Punta does have two things going for it: Bikini Beach and Jose Ignacio – two beaches filled with the most ridiculous, absurd, jaw-dropping, gravity-defying, gorgeous women any of us had ever seen in our lives.  And they all wear microscopic string bikinis.  But while I enjoy ogling as much as anyone, I was much more fascinated with the men these women were with.  Who are they?  Are they rich?  Do they have huge junk?  And most importantly, how the fuck do you pull an 11 while wearing a Speedo?

-Hitchhiking is both legal and encouraged in Punta; it’s how a lot of people get to and from the beach.  But while two chicks in bikinis can hitch a ride easily, let’s just say six pasty dudes from Long Island had a bit more trouble.  At one point I actually had to remind Matt that the international sign for “I need a ride” is an extended thumbs up, not thumb down – as if he was signaling a fallen gladiator to be condemned to death.  The six of us eventually scored a hitch for the bumpy, thirty-minute jaunt in the flatbed of a cramped pick-up truck.  No wonder hitchhikers always get murdered in the movies – all our complaining about how painful the ride was must have been really annoying.

-And, finally, I learned a lot in Uruguay.  I learned to never ask a girl in a bar how old she is because the answer is almost certainly very illegally younger than you thought.  I learned that if you eat lunch at an upscale, beachside cafe where all the waiters are decked out in white Lacoste polos, wearing a white Lacoste polo yourself can be confusing for everyone.  And I learned that the more things change, the more they stay the same.  On New Year’s Eve, we were told about a huge house party on the outskirts of Punta.  But when we arrived, all we saw was a huge line at the edge of a forest, a metal barrier, many bouncers, and no house – or party for that matter.  All we knew was that people were desperate to get in and so were we.  After attempting to bribe one of the bouncers with an American 100-dollar bill surprisingly failed to gain us entry, Danny and Triplet #2 noticed that some of the locals were sneaking under the barrier.  Danny went first and slipped in undetected.  I followed, but two tremendous bouncers spotted me.  I immediately took off toward the forest at top speed and, next thing I knew, I was seventeen again – running through the woods with the Man in hot pursuit.  Fueled by alcohol and adrenaline, I tore past trees and through brush, lost the bouncers, and emerged out of the woods.  There I gazed upon a giant bandstand that had been erected in the clearing, and thousands of people rocking out to a huge concert – complete with makeshift bars.  I had stumbled upon what looked like the Uruguayan Woodstock.  I eventually found my high school friends and we rang in 2009 partying like it was 1996.  It was a blast and, more importantly, it felt right.  That afternoon we flew home, knowing we’d saved the best for last.  Fuck me.

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-Life progresses through a series of questions.  “Can I have some juice?” becomes “Why is the sky blue?” becomes “Why doesn’t she like me?” becomes “How am I gonna pay the rent?” becomes “Will you marry me?” becomes “Weren’t you on birth control?” becomes “Did you notice all these gray hairs?” becomes “Where are my teeth?”  And then, once again, “Can I have some juice?”  We are taught from an early age to question everything.  But I’ve spent far less time pondering life’s great existential crises than I have obsessing over life’s inconsequential annoyances.

-Why do companies think that giving me a five-dollar rebate will be enough incentive for me to refer a friend?  I don’t like your product that much, and I certainly don’t like my friends that much.

-What is the non-athletic equivalent of a linebacker in short sleeves running out onto the field in freezing cold weather?   Going out drinking with no jacket on a Saturday night in freezing cold weather?

-Why do rogue government agencies in the movies always seem to keep a list of their undercover operatives in an easy-to-copy, portable hard drive that often falls into the wrong hands?  Some things are just better off committed to memory.

-How do I know where to hang a shelf on the wall?  If people are watching, I’ll knock in different places and pretend to listen to the sounds to determine where the beams are.  But really I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.  If people aren’t watching, I just keep making holes until I find a good one.

-Why do television shows utilize dream sequences?  I have never watched a dream sequence and then said, “Wow, that was a really good scene.”  Instead I’m like, “Wait, so none of that actually happened?  Then why the hell did they just make us sit through that utter nonsense?”

-Why do some guys think it’s OK to power walk on the treadmill?  It’s not OK.  And neither is the fact that you were at the gym when I got there and were still there when I left.  Here’s a hint: pick up the fucking pace.

-Why do I get my apartment cleaned the day after people come over – when only I can enjoy it – instead of the day before people come over, so that others may benefit?

-When I call T-Mobile, why does the automated voice ask me to say my phone number, but then chime in with more instructions just as I begin speaking?  This causes me to say, “917 – goddamn it!” and be told that my number cannot be recognized.  No shit.  Now stop interrupting me.

-To me, the interesting thing about questions is that, throughout our lives, we vacillate between asking a lot of them and not inquiring at all.  We’ve all seen annoying little kids continually ask, “Why?” and be encouraged by their parents.  Then in high school it becomes uncool to ask questions in class; and in large college lectures it’s almost impossible.  But when job interviews begin, we’re asked, “Do you have any questions?” and are expected to fire away thoughtfully.  Even though at this point in our lives, all most of us want to do is curl up in a little ball and ask the interviewer, “Can I have some juice?”

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

-There is no slideshow setting that could possibly allow me to plow through the barrage of pictures you just sent me fast enough.

-The power walking guy was evidently taking a day off, because last time I went to the gym, there was a chick running on the treadmill next to me.  I have never heard such sexual panting.  She was listening to her iPod so she was probably unaware, but she was exhaling and moaning in such a way that I actually paused my own iPod just so I could listen to her.  Then I wondered if the sounds are reversed when she has sex – and she pants and grunts like she’s running on the treadmill.  Definitely not as hot.

-Sometimes I make judgments about people I’ve never even met based on whether or not their car is in their spot in my apartment’s parking lot.  “Well, well, well,” I’ll think, “Mr. Silver BMW is out pretty late on a weeknight.  Must be problems at home.”

-When I’m running to catch the subway in New York, but the doors close just before I can get on, I always get a little embarrassed.  I can’t make eye contact with anyone on the platform immediately afterward.  I also try to act nonchalant but really I’m fuming with unbridled anger that I have to wait three whole minutes for the next train.

-My mom wants me to set her up with a Facebook account.  I always feared this day would come.  Thankfully, I don’t think she really knows what it does, and only wants to join in order to see the videos my filmmaker cousin posts to her profile.  Plus, my mom can’t even add me because my account is at the 5,000-friend maximum.  Still, having your mom on Facebook is like having her come out with you to the bar – she isn’t necessarily going to see anything she doesn’t already know about, but you’d rather her worst suspicions not be confirmed.

-I love that tight, sore feeling I get in my abs when I work them really hard and push myself at the gym instead of just half-assing twenty crunches.  I also wish I didn’t get that feeling so rarely that every time it happens I get confused and think I pulled something.

-And, finally, we’ve reached the end of another year of Ruminations.  What a wild ride 2008 was.  I began the year with an exhausting, nationwide stand-up tour.  At a stop in Philadelphia, I met Amy, a fan with quite a story.  It turns out that at my last show in Philly, Amy had gotten so wasted that she fell on her way home and tore her ACL.  She had to get surgery, was on short-term disability, and endured six months of physical therapy.  But there she was, two years later, back at my show and fully recovered – and wasted again.  Good work, Amy!  As 2008 continued, the hits kept on coming.  In August, I celebrated two milestones: the launch of my new web site Ruminations.com and my performance on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson on CBS.  And of course, last week Comedy Central Records released my new stand-up album.  It was a very successful year and I can’t thank you all enough for making it possible.  Next week I’m headed to Argentina to blow off some steam before getting back to work on making 2009 even better.  People keep asking me if I’ll ever run out of material about being a twentysomething.  Sadly the answer to that particular question is yes.  But the only reason I’m not worried… is that I turn thirty in six months.  Fuck me.

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-I’m regularly amazed when fans email me to say they want to try stand-up comedy, but don’t want any of their friends to come watch them.  To me, the very definition of a friend is someone who will cheer you on while you’re attempting something terrifying for the first time.  Of course, different friends serve different purposes.  Some you call for advice, and others you call because they know hot chicks.  In a way, your buddies are like specialists, each serving important but unique roles in your life.  So whether you’re being booed off stage or booted from a bar, it’s good to know you have friends that will be there, never passing judgment, and always laughing both with you and at you.

-Some of my friends have dual personalities – one that is displayed in person and one that comes out via text message.  For instance, my buddy Shermdog is a fairly wild party animal.  But he has a completely different texting personality.  He sends me such thoughtful, nuanced messages that it’s sometimes hard to believe he’s the same guy who was shoving tequila down my throat only hours earlier.

-It’s possible to be really tight with a co-worker, to the point where you actually look forward to seeing him or her every day, but still have no desire to ever hang out with them outside of the office.  It’s weird because you share all the intimate details of your life with them while shooting the shit in your cubicle, but as soon as they ask you what you’re doing that weekend, you automatically start spewing a string of lies about why you can’t get together.

-I was out to dinner with three of my friends recently and realized that one was big and fat, one was tall and skinny, and one was medium-sized.  They looked like a team from the original Nintendo ice hockey game.

-I often notice that some of my friends have certain catchphrases that they always use.  One buddy always says “super” instead of “very.”  Another calls anything bad “brutal” and anything good “outstanding.”  Never one to keep my mouth shut, I call them out on this, which immediately makes the offender self-conscious.  I’ll say, “You know you just referred to three different situations as ‘bananas’ in this conversation?”  And they’ll reply, “Huh, I never realized that.  I really don’t think I say it that much, though.  That’d be banan – fuck!”

-It’s weird when your parents give your friends advice that is usually intended for you.  When I was a little kid playing defense in soccer, my dad would always urge, “Stay on your feet and stay between the man and the ball.”  This sort of evolved into an all-purpose pep talk throughout my life, long after I stopped playing soccer.  When my dad found out that my sister Caryn’s college housemate was an athlete, he was proud to dust off his once-again relevant words of wisdom and tell her, “Stay on your feet and stay between the man the ball.”  No one had the heart to tell him that she played water polo – goalie, no less – thus making this the worst advice possible.

-I hate to admit it, but sporting events that go down to the wire are sometimes better to watch alone at home than at the actual game with friends.  Much of the fun of going to the big game is the anticipation, the tailgating, the inebriation, and the camaraderie.  But this was all a lot better when games weren’t six hours long.  Now I find myself at tight games with my buddies wondering what’s worse: the fact that we’re all freezing, hungover, have to piss, or about to hit the worst traffic in American history.

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

-Whenever the music dies down while I’m on hold with tech support, I always anticipate that the customer service rep will pick up, not realizing that it’s merely the end of the song.

-The other night I was slogging through my nightly routine for getting ready for bed in such a trance that I accidentally put Clearasil on my toothbrush.  Luckily, it was vanishing, not tinted.

-Sometimes when I’m typing on my laptop I’ll hit the spacebar twice and be confused as to why that doesn’t create a period like on my BlackBerry.

-Enough with the mock outrage when a brawl breaks out on the field or court during a sporting event.  Yes, we all know such behavior is untoward and has no place in the game.  But it’s still fucking awesome to watch.

-I hate long walks on the beach.

-When I was home visiting my parents last week and finished driving my dad’s car, I made sure to move his seat back, re-adjust the rearview mirror, and, most importantly, change the satellite radio from gangster rap back to smooth ’70s hits.

-I still keep a ping pong ball in my apartment.  Just in case.

-When I lift at the gym, I put CNN on mute and listen to “The Ricky Gervais Show,” a podcast from the creator of “The Office.”  I think it’s the most brilliant piece of comedy out there today.  The downside is that it makes me laugh out loud – usually when CNN is reporting about some atrocity being committed in a Third World nation.

-And, finally, this holiday season marks the twelfth anniversary of the introduction of Tickle Me Elmo.  This was a watershed moment for me because, as I mentioned in Ruminations #73, my dad was an executive at the company that made this must-have toy and, for a little while at least, we were the most popular family in town.  I liked to joke that while some people had oil money, we had Elmo money.  My dad even got the voice of Elmo to call my mom on her birthday and leave her a hilariously dirty voicemail.  Life was good.  When I was back at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving, sleeping in the guest room that used to be my bedroom, and looking at the original edition Elmos collecting dust in our basement, I was reminded how much simpler life used to be.  Before satellite radio, before iPods, before BlackBerrys, these silly, red-furred little monsters used to captivate us.  All these years later, everything has changed.  Well, except for the fact that I still use Clearasil.  Fuck me!

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-The exact origin of Thanksgiving is the subject of debate among historians and scholars (at least according to its Wikipedia entry, which was probably written by a fifteen year-old kid in his basement).  Before we eat Thanksgiving dinner in my family, we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.  It’s a nice though somewhat kitschy tradition.  But while I’m fortunate enough to have had a prosperous year, when holiday season arrives it’s still difficult to feel grateful with so much annoying shit going on around me.  That’s why this Thanksgiving, I’ll instead be discussing what I’m unthankful for.

-Please do not tell me there’s a book I have to read about “how to get rich.”  I’ll agree with you on one point – the author is indeed a genius.  But only because he became wealthy by suckering so many people into buying his book.

-I hate when people agree to do me a favor, which enables me to make arrangements assuming the favor is being executed, and then the person leaves me hanging, which in turn forces me to beg them to follow through – which wouldn’t be necessary had they simply refused my favor request to begin with.

-There’s a lawyer in New York who recently sued to stop nightclubs from running “Ladies Night” promotions because they are allegedly discriminatory against men.  First of all, I don’t think I’ve been to a bar that had Ladies Night since I was about nineteen.  I believe the establishment also had plastic pennants with beer logos strung across the ceiling.  Second of all, aren’t clubs that don’t do everything they can to attract chicks actually the ones that are discriminating against men?

-ESPN analysts should not be allowed to make predictions.  It’s fine if you want to break down the games after they happen, but please do not tell me who you think is going to win – or even go so far as to guess the score – based on your “expert” opinion.  You’re just a jackass who is less accurate than a monkey with a dartboard.

-Why don’t employees at Chipotle understand that the ingredients in a burrito need to be mixed before the thing is wrapped?  Otherwise, the result is just a bunch of layers.  I should never have to go two bites without getting more than one ingredient in my mouth at a time.

-Why do car wash attendants and valets return my car with the parking break on?  The chances of me driving without remembering to turn it off – and the potential damage that could result – are far greater than the odds of my car rolling backwards down a non-existent hill.

-Although I first discussed this eight years ago in Ruminations #21, for the life of me I still cannot understand why people don’t know how to leave a proper outgoing voicemail message.  We don’t need instructions on what information to leave after the mother-fucking beep.  We don’t need your number or to be told that you’re not there to pick up the phone.  Don’t record your greeting while at the opera, or in a wind tunnel.  Stating your name and adding “thanks for calling” is more than sufficient.  So before you shut your cell phone off and sit down with your loved ones this Thanksgiving, do me a favor and listen to your outgoing message first.  If it runs afoul of any of these guidelines, please change it.  You may not notice a difference, but at least you’ll seem like much less of a douchebag to everyone else.  And that’s something we can all be thankful for.

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

-I’m a really fast typer.  Sometimes, when I’m pecking along at high speed, my fingers will accidentally press two or more keys simultaneously, producing an esoteric symbol on the screen I’ve never seen before.  I erase it with some regret, knowing I’ll never be able to duplicate that particular combination again.

-I’ve realized that if I can’t easily see something in my refrigerator, I won’t eat it.  So I started lining up everything in a row at the front of each shelf.  As a result, the back two-thirds of my fridge are completely barren…and I still only eat the food on the top shelf because it’s at eye-level when I bend down.

-Your web site should not have a guestbook.  This isn’t 1997.

-I’ve found that most food companies try to put an absurdly low number as the “serving size” on their packages, that way the product seems like it’s a lot healthier than it actually is.  The one exception?  Pepperoni.  Recently I purchased two different brands of sliced pepperoni to make pizza with, and they both had a serving size of fourteen.  Fourteen?  How many pieces of pepperoni are on one slice of pizza?  Three?  My only guess is that these companies are taking the opposite approach and hoping that consumers will plow through the packages fourteen pieces at a time and then have to buy more.

-Why does the first speed of fast-forward on my DVR seem slower than normal playback?

-I take extraordinarily long showers.  Maybe it’s because I live alone, or that I don’t have an office to get to, but every morning I take a vacation in the bathroom.  I didn’t even realize I had a problem until I went to a destination wedding and stayed in a hotel room with a female friend.  After fogging up all the mirrors and using most of the hot water, I got out of the bathroom to find her completely pissed at me.  Though it also might have been because I used all the soap and all the towels and ate the chocolates on both of our beds.  What can I say?  I have trouble sharing.

-And, finally, next week I’ll be back in New York for my third Thanksgiving since moving to Los Angeles.  But despite having spent a lot of time in both cities during the past three years, I can tell that my association with Manhattan is starting to fade.  I know this because I’m losing my hometown “ish.”  You see, when you live somewhere long enough, you learn the lay of the land so well that you’re able to add an “ish” suffix to the areas where two neighborhoods border each other.  For instance, where I used to live on East 25th Street could be called “Gramercy-ish.”  Unfortunately, my knowledge of NYC-ish is rapidly being replaced by LA-ish (“Where’s the restaurant?”  “It’s Beverly Hills-ish.”).  And since I don’t have an office to go to, my familiarity is being reduced even further – to just my apartment.  Ask me for some milk and I might respond, “It’s in the fridge, eye-level, pepperoni-ish.”  Fuck me

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