I Think My Calendar Is Misprinted. Says Today Is March 21.

I used to be the worst kind of party guest. (And maybe I still am; I don't go to many parties these days.) I was Last Call Guy. I was Lionel Richie—all night looong. I was the Viagra boner of every party: up all night, even after most everyone else had had all the fun they wanted.

Almost invariably, be it Oscar party, Fourth of July barbecue, an art gallery fête, book release gala, charity ball, or cocktail hour after work, I would close the place down. When the other guests were collecting their coats and saying their goodbyes, I'd still be going strong. Later, with my hosts in pajamas and shooting icy get-him-out-of-here looks at each other, I was opening a fresh bottle of wine. I swear one time I made it all the way to breakfast the next morning, sharing the table with two tots excited about their field trip to the zoo and wondering where the guy with the stubble came from and what that sound like grinding teeth was.

I didn't think much at the time about being such an imposing, mooching douche. Still don't. In fact, to this day, I find it difficult to empathize with my hosts, all the people I'd been an irritating asshole to; people kind enough to put up with me long after I'd overstayed my welcome. I'm sorry, I just can't.

Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go shovel my walk for the 30th time this year.