I'm Having More Fun Than You (12 page)

WINGMEN

A guy’s primary responsibility to his friends is to act as a wingman. As I always say, “These chicks aren’t gonna hit on themselves.” An interesting dynamic I’ve noticed among my guy friends is how we take on different roles depending on whom we’re with. For instance, although I’m quite gregarious and usually have no problem approaching girls, if I’m with Shermdog, I defer to him. He’s even more adept and I’ve never seen him get shot down. But if I’m out with Triplet #2, who rarely speaks to strangers (unless he’s in Hulk mode pummeling them into the ground), I’ll be more assertive. The only time there’s an issue is if two guys of equal strength are hanging out together. Then we end up approaching groups of women simultaneously and speaking over each other. We come off as aggressive and unorganized. Chicks can sense that bush-league shit a mile away.

There are times, though, when two guy friends are operating in perfect harmony, wingmanning each other into conversation after conversation with attractive women. If you spot two guys, one in front of the other, taking casual sips from their beers and slowly walking clockwise around the bar, they’re doing what’s known as “making a lap.” Essentially we’re flying in formation with the wingman in lead position. Results from this technique can be inconsistent, however. It’s a great feeling when a buddy and I go out boozing, pick up two girls, and head to another bar with them. The only downside is when I get stuck sitting shotgun in the cab and have to awkwardly kick game to a girl in the backseat through the money slot in the partition.

While I always have my boys’ backs, it’s awkward when I’m at the bar and one of my buddies is hitting on a chick, but he’s so sloppy drunk that I actually feel bad for the girl. No one likes to give his own friend the hook. But sometimes you gotta do it. And it’s like dealing with a two-year-old. I have to approach my buddy delicately and say, “Hey man, it’s time to go. Come on, let’s clean that drool off you. No, let go of the nice girl’s hand. Let go of her dress. No, she doesn’t want your number, dude. Don’t give her your cell phone. You’re not helping. Look at her finger, bro. Will you look at her finger? You see that? Yeah, that’s a wedding band. You got no shot, dude. What are you saying? Fine, I agree that married people should not be allowed in bars. That’s a fair point. But we can’t—no, we definitely can’t kill her.”

The frustrating part about wingmen is that they can turn on you so quickly. For instance, if a buddy introduces me to a chick in a bar, and I take her home and fuck her, it’s congratulations all around. But if I dare admit that I have any feelings for her other than as a one-night stand, I get ripped apart unmercifully. I’ll say to a buddy, “Hey, you remember that girl I hooked up with last week? She’s actually pretty cool. I was thinking about maybe giving her a call and seeing if she wanted to go to the park or something.” And my buddy will mockingly respond, “Oh, so you love her?” I’m like, “What are you talking about?” And he explains, “Well, if you’re gonna take her to the fucking park,
obviously
you love her. You don’t take someone to the park unless you’re in love, Karo. But it’s cute that you love her. Just admit that you love her. Admit that you love her right now in front of everyone!” And I’m like, “No, fine, I won’t call her. I hate her. She’s stupid!”

INSIGNIFICANT OTHERS

Every girlfriend I’ve ever had has said to me, “Karo, you’re my best friend.” And you know what? It’s true. I
am
her best friend. Because when girls have a boyfriend, they rearrange their lives way more than guys do. You ever notice that when two close guy friends both have girlfriends, those girls always end up hanging out together? But the opposite is never true. When two girls who are friends both have boyfriends, those dudes don’t spend time with each other unless absolutely necessary. That’s because we still talk to our same twenty friends from high school and college every single day. You’ll never hear a guy say to his girlfriend, “Baby, you’re
my
best friend.” Because it’s just not true. Guys value longevity. You may be a great girlfriend, but in the scheme of things, you just got here. There’s a pretty good chance I’m gonna do something dumb soon, and you’re gonna break up with me. I don’t run that risk with my boys.

When my frat buddy Jason moved in with his girlfriend (now wife), I always felt so awkward and immature when I called their home number and had to leave a message. It usually went something like this: “Hey Jason, it’s Karo…uh, and, um, hi to you too, Jocelyn. Hello to the both of you, um, together. Uh oh, am I calling too late? Oh man, I’m definitely calling too late. You guys are probably sleeping. Or having sex. Oh God I shouldn’t have said that. OK, uh, Jason, just give me a call back. Or Jocelyn, you can call me back too, I guess. I mean, I was calling for Jason but, you know, I don’t want you to be insulted or anything. You know what? Maybe it’s best if we never speak again.”

Another frat buddy, Adam, lets his wife, Beth, access his email account and send replies pretending to be him because he’s too lazy to write back himself. The best part is that she even tries to replicate his horrible grammar and spelling—though she hasn’t quite perfected his unique syntax yet. So if I get an email from “Adam” that’s properly capitalized or contains words with more than two syllables, I’m pretty sure it’s an imposter.

I have a few platonic female friends who, before hanging up the phone, always say to me, “I love you.” This usage is fine with me; after all, I do love them as friends. Take my college buddy Jen, for instance. The only problem is when she calls when I’m with a girl that I’ve been seeing, but haven’t dropped the L-bomb on yet. We’ll be lying in bed and my phone will ring. I pick up and the girl only hears my end of the conversation with Jen: “Hey, what’s up? Yeah, uh huh. Listen, let me call you later. OK. Um, yeah…I love you too.” And I can just see that look on the girl’s face that says, “How much longer do I have to put up with shit before
I
get one of those?” My biggest fear is that a girl I’m dating is gonna come over to my apartment one day while I’m in the middle of something, and I’ll say, “I love you.” And she’ll be like, “Oh my God, I love you too!” And I’ll point to my ear and say, “Actually, I’m on my Bluetooth with Jen. Sorry?”

I think the relationship that guys have with their best friends can be summed up by the day in 2001 when Claudio’s girlfriend dumped him. It was the same day that Brian and I, both single at the time, had finally secured entry to an exclusive Manhattan nightclub we’d been dying to hit up. That night, as Brian and I pre-gamed in our apartment, Claudio, obviously upset, called Brian. The phone rang and rang. I looked at Brian, but he didn’t say anything or pick up. Finally, I understood—we couldn’t get into the club with another dude, so Claudio, distraught or not, had to be sacrificed. We didn’t tell Claud what happened until six years later, at which time he merely shrugged it off with a laugh in typical Claudio fashion. He accepted our explanation that we couldn’t give up a night of possibly getting laid just to console him. That’s not what friends are for.

MANCATION

His pugilistic tendencies notwithstanding, I’ve traveled with Triplet #2 to London, Sydney, and Buenos Aires. He’s a great person to travel with because we have similar sightseeing protocols: skim the major landmarks and then hit the fucking bars hard. What is it about girls that makes them want to linger at every single plaque, rock, or tree? Guys are much more efficient. While swimming in Lake McKenzie, a top tourist spot in Australia featuring crystal-clear freshwater surrounded by white beaches and lush green forest, Trip 2 said to me, “Wow, this is beautiful.” “Yeah, it really is,” I replied. We both admired the landscape for a moment and then Trip 2 said, “I could leave in fifteen minutes,” and I was like, “Totally.”

I always like to have the most up-to-date information when I travel, so I splurged for a brand-new Fodor’s Japan guide when I went to Tokyo with my Wall Street buddy Rob. The ever-miserly Rob, however, toted around an old, dog-eared Lonely Planet. I have to admit, though, occasionally he put me in my place. At one point, as he was trying to navigate, I said, “Dude, you have no idea what you’re talking about; that guidebook is four years old!” “Karo,” he replied calmly, “I’m not too worried. This temple was built in 738 A.D.”

You know what I really hate about couples? That how long they’ve been in a relationship is directly proportional to how far in advance they make plans. You ever try to make plans with one of your married friends? I’ll say, “Hey dude, wanna come over and watch the game?” He replies, “I can’t, but how about six weeks from Tuesday?” My parents have a calendar in their kitchen that’s booked until 2012. What are they doing, training for the Olympics? Plus, couples never make interesting plans. If I make plans eight months in advance, it’s because I’m going to Barbados. If my married friends make plans eight months in advance, it’s because they’re going to brunch.

Bachelors and guys in relationships should also never go away on vacation together. Our objectives are completely different. If you’re in a relationship and you go to an exotic country—even if you’re not with your significant other—you want to explore, immerse yourself in the culture, eat interesting food, and walk along the water. When I go to a foreign country, I want to spend seven minutes at each of the five most famous sights, take three pictures, and then go find strange pussy.

The easiest way to tell if a guy is in a relationship is if the Facebook album from his trip contains a photograph shot while lying on a beach chair, looking past his feet and out onto the crystal blue water. What the fuck is that? I don’t want to see your feet! Single dudes never take pictures like that. If I go on vacation, I will only show you pictures of some chick’s tits, some dude vomiting, or a donkey. If I’m lucky, all three in one shot.

I’ve traveled around the world, but please don’t ask me to do anything that involves roughing it. A few of my buddies went camping once and asked me if I wanted to come along. I asked them if there’s a word more negative than “no.” Since I moved to LA, my friend Scott has been trying to get me to go hiking with him. I always tell him, “Hiking really isn’t my thing.” And he’s like, “How do you know if you’ve never even tried it?” I say, “Dude, I’ve been outside before. I get the gist.”

BUSINESS CASUAL

Nothing brings the boys together like a never-ending game of reply-to-all. I don’t know what it is about guys, being bored at work, and email that brings out the worst in all of us. It usually starts innocently enough. Once I sent an email to the crew asking for a bar recommendation. The first response came from Triplet #1, who—and I’m quoting verbatim here—suggested “Club Loser on 32nd and Nothington.” That was followed by an email from Chi who recommended the ever-popular “Bar Blow Me on 69th and Your Mom Avenue.” And those were the least offensive suggestions. The conversation soon degraded into name-calling until someone inevitably dropped an F-bomb, everyone using their work accounts feigned outrage, and then appended their Gmail addresses to the chain so that they could follow the discussion uncensored on their BlackBerrys. Just another day at the office.