I'm Having More Fun Than You (11 page)

SHERMDOG

Shermdog is my fraternity brother whose prodigious success with the ladies is legendary, dating back to the night he lost his virginity…in a threesome. I still remember when Shermdog told me he banged a chick on the roof of our fraternity house—which shocked me because I didn’t even know there was a way to get on the roof in the first place.

Junior year, Shermdog suddenly began suffering from chronic vertigo. For weeks he struggled to find the cause, until finally he discovered that he only got dizzy when he was sober, and that imbibing alcohol made the symptoms go away. I like to believe that this remarkable self-diagnosis led Shermdog to become the successful orthopedic surgeon he is today. I also believe that I won’t let him near me with a scalpel unless he’s had a few Jägerbombs first.

After college, Shermdog continued doing what he does best. One time I was out to dinner with him in New York when these cute chicks sat down at the table next to us and ordered sushi. I made some lame-ass joke, which they totally ignored. Then I went to the bathroom. By the time I came back, Shermdog was actually sitting at their table and feeding one of the girls a spicy tuna roll. He literally had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

My world was shaken in 2006 when Shermdog got a serious girlfriend, Sylvia, whom he now lives with. Just like with Chi, I’m the one who introduced them and thus deserve all the credit. Well, sorta. At my annual birthday pub crawl that year, Shermdog came with me, and Syl came with a friend of Chi’s. They hit it off, and voilà: Shermdog missed the two subsequent crawls in order to attend girlfriend-related excursions. You see? I try to do something nice for my friends, and I always end up getting fucked.

BRIAN

That brings us to Brian, my childhood friend, my roommate in Manhattan from 2001 to 2004, and the first of my guy friends to get married (I served as his Best Man in 2006). Brian is the frequent recipient of barbs in my books and column, but with good reason: he is one of my major sources of comedic inspiration. The man has three basic needs: steak, sleep, and sports. His daily goal is to consume as much of each as possible. If he accomplishes that simple task, he considers it a day well spent. The guy is not out to save the world.

Throughout the years, I have commented on Brian’s many strange quirks. But perhaps the most confounding is his quasi–speech impairment. Keep in mind that Brian is an Ivy League graduate (if you count Cornell) and works in finance. Yet for some reason, he pluralizes words that shouldn’t be pluralized. For instance, he’ll say, “Knock on woods,” or call his wife “Babes.” Once we were watching an old episode of
Saturday
Night Live
and he referred to the comedian onscreen as “Colins Quinn.” Where he gets that extra
s
from, I have no idea. Brian also has a tendency to fumble over common phrases. He’ll say, “I hunked the horn” (honked), “They’re very tight-knitched” (tight-knit), “I was thrown through a loop” (for a loop), “I wrote it on a Post-Em” (Post-It), or even “She gave me the fifth degree” (third degree). And when I correct him, he’ll say, “Odviously that’s what I meant.” And I’ll say, “Brian, I love you to death, but the word is ‘
ob
viously.”

One might describe Brian and me as being like an old married couple, except instead of finishing each other’s sentences, we finish each other’s arguments. I’ll ask him a question, but before he even opens his mouth, I’m able to recite his likely sarcastic response, followed by how he’ll make fun of me for asking that question in the first place. I then start making fun of him for making fun of me. All before he’s said a word. It’s easier to just eliminate the middleman.

The last time Brian was job hunting, he asked me to give him a hand. Not wanting to pass up the opportunity to mock him—a newly minted MBA—for asking a comedian for help, I happily obliged and took a look at his résumé. My first piece of advice? Take out the “Hobbies” section. “Brian,” I said, “you’re married and almost thirty. Unless you’ve been building a soapbox derby racer that I don’t know about, you don’t have any
hobbies.”

Despite Brian living the life of a husband and me moving away to enjoy single life in LA, I still get a kick out of pretty much everything he does, especially when he employs his fondness for finance in seemingly pedestrian situations. When he was in LA recently, we went out for lunch. When I returned from a trip to the restroom, I found Brian studying the menu intently. Soon, he looked up and declared that if he ordered the regular Caesar salad and then added chicken, it would be five cents less expensive than if he just ordered the chicken Caesar. I was perplexed. Finally, he proclaimed proudly, “Don’t you understand, Karo? I found an arbitrage opportunity in the appetizers!”

BRIAN AND BLAKE

When Brian and I moved in together after college, he was still dating his girlfriend from Cornell. When that relationship fell apart in a flaming wreck, we were both single for a while. Living in New York City with your best friend, both bachelors and making unnecessarily generous Wall Street salaries, well, that was the life. Alas, it was short-lived. One rainy night, at a bar on the East Side, Brian met a girl named Blake (this one I can’t take credit for). Nothing would ever be the same. I did my best to stop their impending relationship after they started hooking up. I told him not to call her. I told him not to see her. I was the typical single asshole roommate. But it was too late. Brian’s parents came to the city for dinner one night and took him and Blake out instead of me. Not only was I losing my friend, but I was missing out on free meals as well. And that hurt more than anything.

While Brian and Blake have been married for three years now, and I love her very much, I was present for their relationship throughout its nascent stages. Very present. Because Blake spent most of her time in our tiny apartment. I once calculated that in one hundred-day period, Blake spent the night roughly ninety-five times, Brian stayed at her place three times, and twice they slept apart. One time, Brian and Blake went away for ten days on vacation. They came back after a really long flight and Blake came over directly from the airport and stayed for the next week. Don’t you need a little break from each other? Don’t you want to unpack? What the fuck is wrong with you people?

I explain all this because, in a way, Brian and Blake have had a major influence on my view of relationships. They had—and have—a great partnership. But, to me, it just seems so claustrophobic. I need my space and my independence. But most of all, I need to play the field. Twentysomethings were not meant to spend their days and nights with the same person. Variety is the spice of life. Instead of Brian and I acting like an old married couple, Brian and Blake
became
an old married couple. You know how traumatizing that was for me? I actually used to yell at Brian for keeping the toilet seat…down!

One of the aspects of their relationship that was most uncomfortable for me—and the part that will always scar me for life—was jockeying for couch position. If I’d come home from work and Brian and Blake were already on the couch, there would really be nowhere for me to sit comfortably. Even worse, they were always touching. Sometimes lightly caressing, other times massaging, maybe even a little tickling, but definitely always in contact with each other. Hello? Do you see me? I’m here too! Have a little decency, for the love of God. Sometimes I would try to plant myself in the middle of the couch long before Brian and Blake got home, thus forcing them to sit separately. It was like camping out all night for concert tickets, though even more pathetic.

After Brian told me that he and Blake would soon be moving in with each other, I began to wonder if, in his mind, he was already married and living in the suburbs. One day, I borrowed his keys and noticed that on his keychain were rows and rows of those little plastic bar code tags that you can swipe at the drugstore, the supermarket, Costco, etc. People are always telling me that I’m turning into my dad. But I never realized that Brian was turning into my mom.

Shortly after Brian and I parted ways and I moved into a studio a few blocks away, I had some friends over to booze and christen my new apartment. Everyone brought the requisite sixer. When Brian arrived with Blake, I noticed he was carrying a bottle of champagne. Immediately, I sensed something was amiss. Brian would never shell out for a bottle of bubbly just because I got a new place. Instinctively, I glanced over at Blake—and happened to spot a rock on her finger. And that’s when I figured out that Brian had gotten engaged. Holy shit! A diamond ring? Dom Perignon? At age twenty-six? What happened to the Brian we all knew and loved? Then he whipped out some cheap plastic champagne glasses and I thought, “Oh, there he is.”

As an engaged man, Brian’s testicles quickly retracted. He once made the unfortunate mistake of traveling to Europe with a buddy and leaving an outgoing voicemail message that said: “I will be out of the country for two weeks. If you need immediate assistance, please contact my fiancée.” Holy. Fucking. Shit. How could he leave a message like that? When Brian returned home he had about twenty-five voicemails from the boys requesting “assistance” from Blake for, among other sexual favors, “kissing my ass.”

Though the beginning of their relationship left an indelible impression on me, I’m happy to report that Brian and Blake are doing quite well. I’ve wondered, however, how Brian and I could know each other for so long, graduate from similar colleges, get similar jobs, move in together, and, eight years later, he could end up married and content and I could end up single and hungover. It gives new meaning to the nature versus nurture argument. Apparently, Brian was predisposed to marriage, because if he were influenced in any way by the environment I created in our apartment, he would still be my wingman. Instead, he’s thinking about having kids and I’m thinking I could use another beer.

HOME AND VISITORS

My buddies in New York make a concerted effort to visit me here in LA. Customarily, when I crash at a buddy’s place for more than just a night or two, I either take him out for a nice meal or buy him a bottle of vodka as a gesture of thanks. Last time Brian and Triplet #1 came out to LA, when the check came for our final breakfast, they announced they’d be picking up the tab to thank me for my hospitality. My share of the bill? Twelve dollars. Without compunction, I promptly began giving them shit for not having picked up a bigger check. Whoever said, “It’s the thought that counts,” probably never shamed his friends into buying him a handle of Goose.

I’ve noticed that when chicks have friends fly in to visit for the weekend, they don’t go out that first night. They’re like, “The girls are tired from flying. We’re just gonna stay in and catch up.” When my boys fly in for the weekend, they show up
wasted
and ready to go. I open the door when they get to my apartment, and they stumble in slurring, “We’re not allowed on JetBlue anymore.”

When girls visit each other, all the host has to do is organize one sixteen-girl dinner where everyone takes four hours to get ready and then just orders a salad. When my buddies are in town, it’s like looking after little alcoholic baby chicks. I try to get them to all go in the same place, I have to feed them, clean up after them. When they finally decide to go to sleep at six in the morning, I make them a little bed of newspapers. My buddies don’t really need anything to sleep on when they’re crashing for the weekend—they’re like MacGyver. I’ll say, “Sorry, bro, the couch is taken, and I don’t have any extra pillows or blankets or sheets or anything.” And my buddy will be like, “Don’t worry about it, Karo. Just give me a mouse pad, a couple of garbage bags, and a wool hat. I will pass out!”

I’ve found that, when visiting my buddies, flying in on Thursday instead of Friday in order to get the long weekend in is never a good idea. Because every time I spend seventy-two hours drinking with friends I haven’t seen in a while, by the final day, some shit goes down. The first night I get in, it’s all, “What’s up, dude, long time no see, let’s get fucked up!” The second night it’s Friday, it’s the weekend, and my buddy is like, “I want you to meet some of my boys from work. Let’s get fucked up!” The third night, a fight breaks out, someone gets arrested, chicks are crying, and I end up throwing up half in my friend’s toilet and half on the side of his bathtub.