Ruminations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-And, finally, whenever I spend the weekend rampaging and my parents ask what I did, I always respond, “Not much.” Back in Ruminations #12, I wrote that when your buddies visit you in college, it always happens to be the worst weekend ever. And even though you insist that your school is usually much more fun, they never believe you. More than eleven years later, that same paradigm holds true. My friends from New York will visit me in LA and it rains for the first time in six months or some douchebag celebrity is filming a reality show in a bar and we can’t get in. But a true weekend warrior must always prevail, and I will show my buddies a good time no matter what. In other words, if you visit LA and then tell your parents we didn’t do much, you sure as hell better be lying to them. Otherwise, fuck me.