Nothing good happens after midnight. 

You cannot make reasonable decisions. It's not that you don't choose to, it's that you are incapable. Often, alcohol isn't a factor. Sure, slinging back drinks can lead to messy situations, but that applies to all times of the day. 

Once the clock strikes midnight, you are no longer in control of your brain. It's is hardwired to find rest at all costs.

Drunk? No problem, you still need to go from Point A to Point B.

Companionship? Why not? If sleep is on the horizon, you're going to go wherever bed is closest.

Food? Sometimes the stomach overrides the brain. But you'll be paying for those calories in the morning, which still makes this a dumb move.

Your brain at night doesn't know the law. It has no desire but to keep you warm and fuzzy and at rest in its normal sleeping position. That's lying down. Whether or not it's on your bed, someone else's, or the floor of a jail cell is up to your conscious behavior.

Nobody ever goes home happy after midnight, anyway. Everyone is always looking for their Uber, frustrated at the world for their modern inconvenience of ordering a car from their phone and not knowing precisely what a Chevy Cruze resembles.

Nothing good happens after midnight because very few good things happen before midnight. Rarely, if ever, do happy single people leave the bar at 10 p.m., alone. 

In a race to push themselves to new levels of inebriation before the illuminations of the final lights, bargoers will attempt more and more dangerous feats they wouldn't dare try in the daylight.

Mess with the bouncer? Hit on the bartender? Write on the walls? Trash the floors? Stand on tables? Grab someone's behind? Do drugs in the bathroom? Get in a fist fight?

All fair game. Because it's 1:15 a.m. and you can't tell me what to do because I'm special and everyone else is trash.

But nobody is special. Nobody is trash. You are under the influence of a tired brain.

And it and I are on the same wavelength. It's time to rest easier, dream bigger and reclaim your sanity. If you insist on staying, you must deal with the consequences. 

P.S. Your brain will be kinder to you than I will.

Friday Fake No. 1 (323): Temper Trap

Losing your cool is never fun. Losing your cool in front of strangers is even more upsetting. You may have fallen in a tub of tapioca pudding in Times Square.

Friday Fake No. 2 (324): Confessions of a Dangerous Minor

Henry was 5-foot-9. Henry was using his brother's ID. Henry's brother is 6-2. Henry was in deep doo-doo. But the thing that gets me is Henry asking for the manager. 

"You're not going to like what you're going to hear," I said.

"Just get him, please."

Authority walks up

"So I was using my brother's ID, and I need it back. I'm sure you can understand," Henry said.

That might be the fastest confession to date. 

Friday Fake No. 3 (325): Never Say Never Again

If you see a group of girls walk up, all dressed scantily clad for 16-degree weather, the logical thought is underage teenagers. 

The trailing behind isn't worth an extra look. 

And yet, there was the fake ID, right in the palm of his hand.

Friday Fake No. 4 (326): Buzzer Beater

There's no greater feeling than ruining someone's hopes for ill-gotten gains by normal means. Unless, of course, you're doing so to get out of the cold. With the final minute of customer allowance, I receive a gift from the ID Gods. 

A crisp ID from a 5-9 woman with brown eyes describing herself as 5-3 and blue eyes.

Saturday Fake No. 1 (327): The Risk Taker

There are some fake IDs that are plain bad: Illinois, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin and South Carolina, to name a few.

I took Carlos' Illinois ID and the bargaining began. 

"Well, I'm getting a few new ones next month anyway. You'll let me inside with them, right?

"Are they still fake?"

"Yeah, but they're Michigan, so you'll let me inside?

"I'm confused. Are they still fake IDs?

"Yeah, but Michigan. If it was Michigan would you still take it?"

...

...

...

"Yes."

Were they always this dumb?

Don't answer that. I already know.