I'm Having More Fun Than You (13 page)

One of my boys is staunchly opposed to me emailing anything remotely risqué to his work account, and I respect that. However, he just got rid of his personal cell phone because he got one through work, and now he doesn’t want me texting him anything dirty either. I’m hamstrung. He says, “Karo, just don’t curse.” I say, “I’d rather not be friends.”

The fact is, if you’re emailing a bunch of buddies and find yourself adding, “PS: don’t forward this on,” you probably shouldn’t be sending it in the first place. My all-time favorite, however, is the one guy in everyone’s group who has an automatic signature in his work email that always seems totally out of place. He’ll email me: “Yo Karo! Let’s get fucked up tonight and score some sluts!” and at the bottom it will be signed: “Warm regards, Jonathan.”

As we move up the ranks of our respective industries, I often find myself engaging with my friends in serious business. While this kind of networking is not surprising, it does take some compartmentalization. For instance, I was working on booking a venue for a stand-up tour with my buddy Brian (a different Brian) who is both a tour promoter in LA and a raging alcoholic. When we’re talking contracts and financials on a Friday afternoon, he’s a complete professional. But still, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking, “We better get this done soon, because in a few hours, this guy’s gonna be obliterated.”

My friends, of course, don’t just use their business connections to help each other professionally, but also to help themselves socially. For instance, when women ask what he does for a living, my high school buddy Eric, who works in fixed income sales at a multinational investment bank, enjoys describing his job in the most unnecessarily complicated terms possible. I’m not sure if he thinks this will impress girls or merely confuse them into hooking up with him, but I have to admit that either way it works pretty well.

Then there are those of my friends who operate outside the realm of normal careers. As a comedian, I’m one of the few outliers. We also have my high school buddy Gadi. A happy-go-lucky Israeli, Gadi has a normal desk job by day—and works as a trance music DJ by night. In fact, he just played a huge trance festival in Acapulco. The show started at midnight and he went on last at 11 a.m., which I guess made him the headliner. The best part is that one of his early DJ stage names was E-Jekt. I guess only in the Israeli trance scene can you get away with calling yourself something that means “stop playing music.”

FIRST OPINION

A lot of people hate doctors—they hate thinking about the doctor and they especially hate going to the doctor. Five of my best friends are doctors: surgeons Shermdog and Triplet #3, as well as Adam, Christina, and Seth, all of whom are anesthesiologists. Each of them fascinates me, probably because being a doctor is one of the few things I can’t do. I mean, let’s be honest, I
could
be a lawyer if I really wanted to. Law school would blow, but I could do it if I really tried. But I couldn’t get past the first day of medical school without puking on a cadaver. That’s why I love hearing about my doctor friends’ jobs and lifestyles. I can’t get enough. Even though when I go to their apartments to hang out they make me wait outside and read
Highlights
magazine.

Although traveling the country as a headlining comedian is thrilling, it will never hold a candle to being a doctor. When she was an intern, Christina called me up all excited and said, “Karo, you won’t believe what happened today! This guy started seizing in the ER and I intubated him right there on the spot and I saved his life!” I was like, “Wow, Chris, that’s amazing! Guess what? Today I wrote a joke about Chi freeballing!” It’s just not quite the same rush.

Sometimes, though, I feel a strange kinship with my doctor friends. I was talking to Shermdog once, and he was telling me that his cardiothoracic surgery rotation was starting in two hours. I was on the road at the time, and I told him I was getting ready for a huge show that started in two hours. He said, “I’m actually kind of nervous.” And I was like, “Me too.” Then he said, “Listen, I gotta go—I’m gonna jerk off.” And I was like,
“Me too!”
Maybe I
could
be a doctor!

I remember sitting around with my buddies drinking beers after they took the MCAT, and they all said, “Some day, Karo, all this work will pay off and I’ll treat you for free.” Then most of them chickened out and became anesthesiologists, which is of no use to me. I did, however, recently have the misfortune of spraining my knee at the gym. A few weeks later, I saw Triplet #3 in New Orleans at his brother’s bachelor party and asked him for an orthopedic consult. As he rolled up his sleeves, he asked me to fully relax my knee so that he could properly examine me. “Karo,” he noted, “I wish all my patients were like you. You are remarkably relaxed.” To which I replied, “Do you even realize how drunk I am right now?”

BOYS

There have been times in my life when I’ve looked around the bar to see Claudio, Chi, and Gadi, and felt like I was getting wasted at the United Nations. But despite our differences in appearance and nationality, those guys have always simply just been “my boys.” Sure, women have “their girls,” but there’s a huge difference. Namely, your girls suck. Your girls change every season. Your girls are catty. One of your girls probably fucked your boyfriend. Female friendships are often contentious, jealousy-ridden, and, ultimately, ephemeral. But not so with my boys. Moving to Los Angeles was difficult, but whenever I get a text message from one of my boys back East telling me how big a shit he is currently taking, along with how little he misses me, I feel like I never left.

Dudes generally don’t make new friends after about the age of twenty-five, so although I was lucky to have met a good group of guys in LA, I never quite knew where I stood. Until the night we sat around boozing in West Hollywood and Zach made fun of me, Justin laughed, and Neil high-fived Brian (the LA Brian). All at my expense. That’s when I knew that I truly hated these guys—and that we were better friends than I thought.

The truth is, though, I was a little nervous when I left my friends behind in New York. I’ve always thought of myself as the connector, the nucleus of the group. Yes, the Triplets are brothers, but would they ever really hang out if I didn’t make the plans? Luckily, I’m able to keep an eye on things at least once every November when my high school crew (plus Chi, of course) gathers at Peter Luger Steak House in Brooklyn for our annual holiday dinner. There we carry on a tradition of determining which one of us had the best year. For instance, the year that Brian got engaged and was accepted to business school, we declared it the “Year of the Brian.” When Claudio got a new job, a new apartment, and a new girlfriend, we declared that the “Year of the Claudio.” Sadly, there’s never been a “Year of the Karo.” That’s not to say I’ve never had a great year; it’s just that my accomplishments always seem to be too spread out. Plus, “new job” and “new girlfriend” aren’t exactly categories I typically compete in. Maybe this will be my year. But if not, at least there will be something comforting about being at dinner surrounded by guys who wouldn’t care if I went missing.

There is another type of brogreement implicit in all friendships: a solemn promise not to let your buddy become an asshole. Ever try to wear a shirt with lots of buttons or pockets, or get a radically new haircut? Your friends destroy you as soon as you enter the room. They’re not doing it out of malice, but out of love. It’s their job to make sure you stay true to yourself. As twisted as it seems, constantly denigrating each other’s self-esteem ensures that no one ever gets too big a head—which is what so often leads to girls’ friends being reduced to an ever-rotating panel of dyed blondes who don’t share any history. For guys, this mechanism can mean giving you job advice or making you take off that fucking thumb ring before leaving the house. It is this solidarity that makes brogreements in the business world carry so much weight. After all, legal contracts can always be challenged in court, but who would dare renege on a commitment to a friend who once stopped you from popping your collar?

At thirty, the crux of male friendship is that our boys are now split into two camps—the single ones we carouse with and the married ones we only see on weekdays. But both groups are equally important. Bachelors need their friends in serious relationships. Whether it’s someone to make fun of, a comfortable place to crash, or a glimpse at what middle age is like, my married buddies are a valuable resource. I solemnly swear to continue to give them shit, eat their food, and occasionally thank them for reminding me how much fun I’m having. The necessity of having single friends is just as crucial. They are not just wingmen, but also a means to better rationalize bachelorhood. My nocturnal adventures will always seem less deviant as long as I can point to a buddy I’ve known my entire adult life and say, “He was there too!”

I
think that people’s reaction when I tell them that I don’t drink coffee is equivalent to my reaction when people tell me that they don’t drink alcohol. The fact is, getting drunk is an American tradition—one could say the values we cherish most include life, liberty, and the pursuit of happy hour. I was indoctrinated into the culture at an early age. The first time I ever got smashed—at the Triplets’ house, in high school—is still the drunkest I’ve ever been. I threw up in a popcorn bowl for five hours straight and haven’t touched a screwdriver since. But that hasn’t stopped nightlife—with its allure of endless liquor and chicks whose principles are degraded by said liquor—from becoming an integral component of my bachelor experience. When presented with the prospect of hitting the bars after a long day, single dudes carefully consider their options. The angel on one shoulder says, “Stay home! You’re gonna have four overpriced beers and get shot down by every girl anyway.” The devil on the other shoulder says, “But if you go out, you might get laid. You don’t want to pass up some ass, do you?” Ever wonder where the devil is later, when you’re paying for those expensive drinks and there’s not a chick in sight? I bet he’s trying to bang the angel.

PICK YOUR POISON

It’s a simple fact that once you get married, you go out and get drunk less frequently. Often this is simply because making plans for two downtrodden people is more difficult than making plans for one person who has no obligations or moral center. Another reason is that married guys really have no need to enter the meat markets I call bars. They’ve found their prize and are now content to have a glass of wine at dinner and cry themselves to sleep. For bachelors intent on landing their next one-night stand, though, there is no other option besides picking our poison and heading out on the town. We’ll rest when we’re forty.

I’m always dumbfounded when, in the movies, one guy asks another guy if he’d like a drink, then just pours into a glass with ice cubes some generic brown liquor, which the other guy proceeds to drink, no questions asked. At what age do all men receive a memo declaring that they must accept and enjoy any brown liquor handed to them? Because I certainly didn’t get it. I stick to the classics: vodka and beer. If I was at a buddy’s place and he asked me if I’d like a drink, and then he just started pouring scotch into my glass, I’d be like, “What the fuck are you doing? You got Amstel or something?”

I hate bars that have a selection of, like, five hundred different beers. If I wanted to feel like an idiot ordering from an overly extensive and confusing menu, I’d drink wine. I’m a man who likes his beer served in a red Solo cup with a hint of Ping-Pong ball residue. Keep it simple. (Side note: Apparently, attempting to cleanse Ping-Pong balls by repeatedly dipping them into the same cup of tepid water is not hygienic. Who knew?)

When I offer to buy a chick a drink and she asks for a martini, I know I’m in for a world of hurt. That is the most poorly designed glass I have ever encountered. When a girl requests a dirty, essentially what she’s saying is that either I’m getting martini all over my sleeve, or she’s getting it down her cleavage as I try to hand it to her.

When I switch to the hard stuff, I follow a few tried-and-true rules. During the afternoon, I never drink the soda or juice that I might be using later that night to mix with liquor. Cocktails taste much better if you haven’t recently tasted the mixers on their own. I also only drink mixed drinks that I make myself. I just don’t like other people making my drinks and I hate the weak shit that bartenders mix. So once I get to the bar, I’m all about vodka on the rocks. And, finally, I try never to buy tequila shots unless I’m in Mexico. Very bad things happen when I drink tequila stateside. I mean, very bad things happen when I drink tequila in Mexico too, but at least I’m experiencing the local culture.

I’m always the guy who gets a stray ice chip in his shot. It’s horrible because, for a millisecond, I think I’m gonna choke to death. Then I finally swallow, remember how much I despise SoCo lime shots, and wish the ice chip had just finished me off.

When I’m at the bar and I take that one extra, totally unnecessary shot, I end up having to give
myself
a pep talk. I rip the ill-advised shot and then start muttering under my breath, “Oh God, that was a bad idea. I’m starting to salivate…please don’t puke. Choke it back. Choke it back, Karo! Try not to cry. Where’s the bathroom?
No,
if you puke you’re gonna have to start drinking all over again and you have such a great base going. Just breathe. Breathe…OK…I think it passed. OK, one more shot.”

DUE DILIGENCE

When I’m going to a bar, I concern myself with only two questions: are there gonna be chicks there, and can I get in? If I tell a girl about a bar, the first thing she asks is, “What kind of music do they play?” Honestly, if I think about the last ten bars I’ve been to, I couldn’t name one song that was played. Bon Jovi could show up and do a surprise set and I’d be completely oblivious.

If I’m researching bars online before going out, I turn to Citysearch. But what always bothers me about the negative user reviews is that they’re often written by someone who only went to the bar once, couldn’t get in, and is really pissed off about it. You don’t see a lot of truly candid positive user reviews. Probably because they’d sound something like this: “I never heard of this bar, but this chick I texted told me to meet her there. I was real fucked up so I don’t really remember what the place looked like. I threw up in a urinal in the bathroom and I lost my credit card. The girl I texted ended up ditching me but I went home with some other girl whose name I did not know and she touched my penis. This bar rocks and I’d go back again if I could find it.”

And if I’m having a birthday party or something, and I ask a girl to recommend a bar, she’ll always ask, “Well, what are you looking for? Because this one place has a jukebox and they play fun ’80s music and then at midnight there’s a DJ and you can dance and it’s
so
fun!” And I’m like, “Um, I’m looking for
not
that.” If one of my buddies says, “I went to this bar once, I don’t know if it was that good, but I met this chick there and I got a blow job—” I interrupt, “Done! That’s where we’re going! Sold to the place where my buddy once got a blow job!”

Here’s an experiment: pick a bar that you go to a lot, then ask a friend how many people he or she thinks it holds. They’ll inevitably respond with, “I don’t know. I’m not good with that kind of stuff.” I’ve never heard one person ever claim basic competence at being able to gauge how many people can fit in a room. I bet even the fire marshals who post those annoying capacity signs are just making it up.

Despite the fact that Los Angeles is full of ridiculous,
Entourage-
worthy tail, I still believe that this city is severely lacking in nightlife. Sure there are cool bars, but there are fewer of them, they’re much farther away from each other, and they’re much harder to get into than any other city I’ve partied in. Plus, the weird thing is that all the venues are either shitty dives or really upscale—there’s nothing in between. In LA, there is no Goldilocks of bars.

Every major city should have a designated district of karaoke bars, thus preventing me from walking into one by accident. Nothing is worse than enjoying a mellow evening of binge drinking with the boys when suddenly some chick starts belting out “Like a Virgin” from a karaoke machine at a volume fifty decibels louder than a space shuttle launch. In a perfect world, karaoke would be limited to bachelorette parties and Tokyo.

THE PRE-GAME

Most sloppy nights in the life of a bachelor are not spontaneous. When it comes to getting drunk, premeditation means knowing ahead of time that tonight you’re gonna do something
dumb.
It’s been a long week of work, you haven’t been out in a while, the whole crew is finally together, and before that first round even comes, you’re thinking to yourself, “In a few hours, I am planning on doing something I’ll regret.”

My buddies routinely call me up and say, “Karo, you have to come to this bar. There’s a 25 percent chance there may be cute chicks there.” And I say, “Dude, I have the flu, I have a funeral at eight o’clock in the morning, it’s pouring outside…I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Girls call their friends and say, “Kate, you have to come to this party, there’s definitely gonna be a ton of cute boys there.
And
it’s open bar.
And
we’ll pick you up.” And she’s like, “I don’t know…I’m wearing really comfy sweatpants.” What is it about an elastic waistband that makes it such an obstacle for chicks to leave the house? I can just imagine the girl’s roommate yelling, “Kate! We gotta go! The building’s on fire! We have to evacuate!” And she’s like, “But I’m wearing these sweatpants. I’m on the couch.
Grey’s
is on…”

I’m sorry, but wasted Saturday night plans must be confirmed. Ever run into a friend you haven’t seen in a while at the bar on a Saturday night, and in between shots of Jäger and your twentieth beer, you make plans to get lunch or something the following week? And then your friend gets mad at you for standing him up when you don’t show? I don’t think that’s fair. Standing someone up implies you knew you had plans and chose to ignore them. But having no recollection of meeting the person in the first place should absolve you of all wrongdoing.

On the East Coast, you have to dress up to go out—everyone’s been negged at one time or another for trying to wear sneakers into a club. On the West Coast, you have to dress down to go out. Really down. When I’m standing in front of the mirror in my apartment in LA on a Saturday night, I often think to myself, “Wow, I look way too nice right now. I match so well they might not even let me in. Hmm, I should muss up my hair, throw on some flip-flops, ripped jeans, a mesh hat, and a weird thrift-store tuxedo shirt. Yeah, then I’d fit in.”

VELVET DOPES

I still enjoy going out as much as I used to, but I’ve long since given up on going to any lounge or club that might be hard to get into or involve waiting on line. I’m so over that shit. And please, don’t insult my intelligence by even mentioning the word “list.” Seriously, I’m thirty years old and I’ve been through this countless times. The list does not work. The list will not get you in. The list does not exist. Get the fuck out of my face. But, um, you know what…why don’t you put me on it anyway. You know, just in case.

Still, every once in a while—in a moment of weakness—I’ll agree to go out somewhere like that and soon find myself arguing with a chick wielding a clipboard. The weekend should be about unwinding with friends and drunkenly hitting on everything that moves—not about playing games with someone beneath me just so I can go inside and take a fucking piss.

When it comes to getting into an exclusive bar, guys suddenly lose all their ability to estimate. You know when you call inside the club and the dude who is going to help you get in asks who you’re with? I quickly survey the eleven guys and one girl that is my crew and then say, “Um…it’s like two or three dudes and, uh, like six girls, six or seven girls.” Then I end up on the sidewalk trying frantically to recruit stray chicks to come in with us in order to counterbalance the aggressive amount of cock that I’m rolling with. The desperation makes me feel like a telemarketer. A girl walks by and I’m like, “Excuse me. Hi, how are you? Would you be interested in coming in—no, wait. No, come back. Shit!”

I often find that the bar next door to the more exclusive bar that I really wanted to get into but couldn’t is more fun anyway. And that’s not because I’m bitter or anything. The truth is, if I show up at a lounge with five dudes, and they laugh before barring us from entry, I fume with anger. But if we go somewhere else with the same ratio and get right in, I question why any decent establishment would allow such a thing.