It seems to be a couples' night (which is every night when you walk into a bar alone). Do I stand and ogle at them or look to the AARP member winking his one good eye at me? Do I just sit and get really drunk till I go home with whichever guy has the least belly fat?

The neon "Bar" sign is turned off, so all it is now is a series of short-circuited fluorescent tubes, waiting to be flicked on and occupied. It won’t be — not for another few hours at least. The streets are cracked and filled with mirrors.

After almost being turned away from Dave and Buster's it dawned on me: All the red state, true-blooded bulging veiny necks, Sarah Palin chanting, altar boy touching, Nascar watching, beer guzzling, babymaking, Playgirl posing PASSION that is the Mid-American manifesto had finally made it’s way to the cultural mecca of the world. New York City is fucked.

Another night, another event — though this time I was prepared for something low key compared to my usual outings, but Tracy Morgan's reading from his new book caught me off guard.

A lot of people in college feel nostalgia for their adolescence, often talking about the numerous times they threw parties at their house when their parents left them home alone while they went on vacation. Or they laugh hysterically and remember all the times they suffered a panic attack trying to get back into the house at 3 A.M. after sneaking out. Unfortunately for me, I have none of these stories.