-When the sun sets in New York City, one species emerges as the dominant breed – single twentysomethings bent on inebriation and fornication.  While these objectives are nothing novel to us (after all, we’ve been partying and mating for the better part of a decade at this point), the way we go about achieving these objectives has changed.  Each weekend night in the inexorable march toward our late twenties is marked by higher stakes – the alcohol more costly, the women more choosey, and the nagging suspicion in the back of our minds that there’s more to life than binge-drinking and laying pipe.  I’m not ashamed to admit that, for me, the weekend remains an opportunity for release, both mentally and, well, you get my gist.  This is my nocturnal admission.

-No twentysomething in the nightlife scene is more skilled in the art of hyperbole than the promoter.  Promoters are paid by clubs and bars to attract people to their establishments, usually via an unsolicited barrage of calls, emails, text messages, and crazily ornate fliers featuring japanimation cartoons of scantily-clad women who, if they really existed, wouldn’t go within a hundred yards of said establishment.  Never ask a promoter if a party is actually going to be good because this is the answer you’re bound to receive: “It’s going to be off the heezie.  Seriously, dude, off the heezie.  There’s not even going to be any more heezie after this party, man.”  Um, OK, I think I’m just going to stay home and jerk off to this flier instead.

-Never meet your friends out at the bar unless you know exactly where the bar is.  Because once your friends get hammered, the odds of them being able to direct you to a dive with no sign off an alleyway on Avenue B are slim to none.  Drunk friends can’t even comprehend why you can’t find the bar.  They’re like, “Karo, what do you mean you can’t find the bar?  We’re in the bar…we’re in the bar right now, just come inside!”

-Of course, once you finally make it to the bar, you immediately attempt to meet a girl and then leave as quickly as possible.  The worst is when you get in a cab with a girl at the end of the night and she right away tells the cabbie “two stops” – meaning one for her and one for you and your party flier.  I once went home with a girl who told the cabbie to go to my block. I was psyched until she bolted from the cab and into her apartment – which just happened to be across the street.