-Normally, I’m obsessive-compulsive about my cell phone address book.  Everyone is listed with the first letter of both their first and last name capitalized.  No nicknames or exceptions.  That is, until I became single again this summer.  Now my phone is strewn with the malformed remnants of hook-ups past: girls with no last name, girls with no first name, and of course, girls with no name at all who are instead represented by a brief, superficial physical description.  But I think the disarray evident in my address book is merely representative of the chaotic sexual experience of my generation.  Since being released back into the wild, I have been observing firsthand the mating rituals of my single peers.  While prior generations were driven by an innate, and somewhat tidy, desire to procreate, today’s twentysomethings have a far different agenda – total anarchy.  For us, it’s hook up, get off, and then break the hell out.

-One of the first rules of taking girls home from the bar is…actually take them home from the bar.  My buddy Triplet #1 was making out with this chick once when he decided the next logical move would be to try to take her pants off.  When the girl stopped him, explaining that they were indeed still at the bar, Trip 1 uttered the classic response, “So?”

-Another common guy tactic: lie to girls.  Not always such a smart move.  I’ll never forget when my buddy Shermdog excitedly told me he’d just met two hot European blondes at the bar and told them we were from Quebec.  I said, “Good work, Sherm.  But next time you lie and say we’re Canadian, I’d avoid the one French-speaking province.”

-Probably the best book I read all year was “The Game,” a true story about the author, Neil Strauss, joining a secret society of pickup artists and transforming himself into the world’s greatest womanizer.  The book was inspiring to someone like me who’s basically used the same two lines his entire life: “I’m in this fraternity, wanna go upstairs?” and “I’m the guy who writes those funny emails, wanna go upstairs?”  I mean, let’s face it, if I ever move to a first-floor apartment, I’m fucked.