I’ve noticed that there are two bad things about living in the Upper East Side:

1) The 4-5 is the worst train in any transit system in America and it’s only a matter of time before I light it on fire;
2) No one is willing to come over to our apartment and pre-game anymore.

I’m getting more and more used to #1 (which still doesn’t mean that I won’t light that shit on fire), but #2 is a tougher pill to swallow.

Back in the good old days (like, a month ago) when we lived in the Lower East Side, pre-gaming was a natural and weekly occurrence. On an early Friday evening or a late Saturday afternoon, friends would come by, bringing half cases of Bud or liters of liquor, and we’d sit there and put on a fucking clinic. Soon, bacon and/or BBQ chicken pizza would be ordered, more beer runs would be run, and before we knew it, it’d be 1am and we hadn’t left yet, as somewhere along the line we’d gotten tied up in a discussion about any number of serious topics, including but not limited to:

- “Girls – I mean, what the fuck is their deal?”
- “Dude, seriously, the Beatles are amazing”
- “We should really write a screenplay or something”
- “I remember when [insert fond college memory here]“
- “I hate my job”
- “Lindsay Lohan is totally worth going to jail for”

Though our new apartment is much bigger and more conducive to sitting around and drinking, no one bothers to make the trek up to the UES. For this, I don’t blame them. Sure, there’s plenty of stuff to do in the UES, but most of the time we go out downtown anyway. Also, it’s dangerously close to Harlem, so I don’t recommend traveling after dark unless you have been trained like I have in the ancient art of ka-ra-te and you can scream like an attractive woman.

But this past Friday, finally, we had some pre-gaming festivities. Though it was only me, my roommates Ben and Brian, and our friend Alistair, it was still like the old days. Alistair brought over some beers, I worked away at a bottle of vodka, 40′s were consumed, music was listened to, sports were debated, Brian told us that he’s uncontrollably attracted to Dean Cain – it was glorious. So glorious that the night went something like this:

6:30 – 8: Get home from work, eat, nap

8 – 8:01: Show roommate Brian scrotum

8:01 – 8:44: Shower and get ready, drink while doing so

8:44 – 8:45: Show friend Alistair scrotum

8:45 – 1: Get really shit-housed in apartment

1 – 2: Get even more shit-housed at bar

2 – noon: [no memory, but probably showed scrotum to at least two people]

I hadn’t had one of those classic “Wake up with your boxers on backwards in your roommate’s bed with a giant bruise on your arm and half your pubes shaved and holy shit I really need a bacon, egg and cheese bagel and a quart of chocolate milk immediately” mornings in a long time, and I had missed them. I was so fucked up all day that later I feel asleep on my side on my roof deck and got sunburned only on the right side of my face. I was able to even it out a bit yesterday, but I still look like an asshole.

And I hadn’t had a solid black-out night in a long time either, and it’s all because I had turned my back on the power of pre-gaming. Sure, there are some bad things about pre-gaming, like doing it to “save money on drinks” when you go out, but always winding up spending DOUBLE on drinks. And sure, maybe it’s not the healthiest thing to do to drink twelve to sixteen beers BEFORE you go out drinking. And sure, maybe it’s not very social to show up at a bar, grab a drink, and sit slumped in the corner for the rest of the night hallucinating and telling people that you’re telepathic or telekinetic or whatever it’s called when you can move stuff with your mind but refusing to display your powers for fear that you might become a guinea pig for the Government Ministry of Science and Telepathyness.

What’s the point? Pre-game more. Get to know your friends better, have meaningful discussions, and show them your scrotum. We’ll only be young once, so be sure to sit back and enjoy yourself in the quiet atmosphere of your home or apartment. And then, when no one is expecting it, run into the room with no pants on. It’s awesome. Trust me.

I’m not an expert on immigration, but if you’ve recently been deported and you’ve returned to the US illegally, you probably don’t want to hold a baby hostage, create a big police stand-off, then stab the baby and have the police shoot you with beanbags and bullets.

Instead, you might want to try to get a dishwashing job at the local Appleby’s or try working at the neighborhood car wash.

It’s just that I don’t see what good can come of the whole “baby hostage” thing if you’re trying to keep the fact that you’re in the country illegally on the down low, especially when you look like the scariest person on earth.

So to recapitulate: if you want to stay in the country illegally, DON’T take a baby hostage. DO get a job as a busboy at Red Lobster.

This is not very difficult people.

[And yes, I know I'm going to hell. But according to my Catholic faith, I'm going to hell anyway for missing Church for the past 8 years and getting a couple of beejers out of wedlock, so I might as well go out with a bang and hope to get some sort of title (Baron? Duke?) whilst in hell.]