One of my favorite groups, Band of Horses, is playing a free show tonight in my neighborhood. It doesn’t start until 1:15 a.m. Doors are at 12:30. I am exhausted. It is 9:10. My options include: A) two hour nap B) shower and walk the dog for natural invigoration C) Starbucks

Last night I went to a club and I somehow wound up in the middle of Cosmopolitan Magazine’s Man of the Year party. I don’t actually know what it was called, but it was the culmination of readers voting for their favorite guy from each state. Each of these guys were wearing black shirts with the state they were from in white writing. Anyone who knows me knows this situation is like Candy Land for me, not so much because of the attractive dude factor, but because I love U.S. geography. I was hollering things like: “Ahh! You’re from New Hampshire? Do you ever go to that antique barn in Keene?!” and “Alabama! Do you know my friend Danimal who lives in Mobile?” all night, and I came to the conclusion that everyone should wear a shirt with where they are from written on it every night. It would make it so incredibly easy to figure out who to talk to. Of course, I took pictures with you guys in mind. It was a strange, strange night.