-If you’re anything like me, this weekend you’ll spend both nights going to six different bars to celebrate ten different people’s birthdays.  And what’s weird is that I’ll go weeks and months without a birthday party, and then all of a sudden I simultaneously get a dozen Evites for various shindigs, blowouts, and the occasional bash.  This Clustered Birthday Phenomenon (or CBP) is without any logical explanation.  It just seems as if, even though my friends come from varying backgrounds and geographic locations, all of their parents happened to have fucked during the same February weekend in the late 1970s.  CBP is a dangerous epidemic too, usually resulting in exorbitant amounts of money being spent at annoying bars with people I don’t like.  Every Evite should come with a disclaimer that says: “Warning, this party may suck.”

-Last weekend, which was thankfully birthday-free, I had a pretty wild Saturday night.  But when I woke up the next morning, I actually didn’t feel that horrible, only slightly horrible.  I rolled out of bed, made a piece of toast, and promptly devoured it.  About half an hour later, I was in the bathroom vomiting Exorcist-style with no regard for life, limb, or porcelain.  When I finally recovered, the first thing I said to my roommate Brian was, “Dude, I think I have food poisoning.”  Isn’t that just so apropos of the twentysomething mentality of denial?  We go from bar to bar ordering beer after beer and taking shot after shot, and then when we throw up the next day, what do we blame our sickness on?  Toast.

-I was out a few weeks ago with Triplets #1 and #3.  We were having a bite to eat and some beers at a local bar.  After we ordered drinks, the waitress asked us for ID.  As twenty-five-year-olds, we weren’t really insulted, more like bewildered.  We were like, “Wait a minute, underage people actually exist?  And they come here?  That’s impossible!”  I think that, soon after you turn twenty-one, you block out all recollection of ever being underage.  For me, the only reminder of that time is the picture on my driver’s license – in which I look about eleven years old.

-I have a girlfriend.  But if I’m going to a bar with some of my boys, the first thing I ask is, “Are there going to be any hot chicks there?”  Why should I care, since I’m not going to hook up anyway?  Well, some people like bars with dim lighting and cool paintings on the walls.  I like bars with hot chicks everywhere.  It’s just for atmosphere.