People forget that not everyone is from their hometown. When I'm over visiting, my friends say stuff like, "Let's hit the strip tonight" or "Poochie is having a party over on Collins" or "Wanna go to the walk and get a Mac Dog?" Um, sure. As long as one comes with a map to what the hell you just said. I never know what to call my friend's parents when I meet them. Sure, I'm 22. Yes, I'm on a first name basis with many people older than them. But when someone lays out a sleeping bag for me, gives me the extra family towels, and cooks me breakfast lunch and dinner before asking when we're going to get the car back that night, referring to them as Herb and Judy just seems wrong. The best part of visiting friends is the pictures their parents have on their wall. Sure, you're an Abercrombie shopping, white baseball cap-wearing stud now, but what did you look like at your Bar Mitzvah? It's fun to see a friend interacting with his parents. Because it's fun to think that it's the same guy who puked all over his roommate last week. All the family traditions are different at your friends' houses. You get there and you don't know whether to leave your shoes on or take them off, put your jacket on a chair or in the closet, or which is the right bathroom to use. You take the next few days to figure out if the garbage can is under the sink, next to the dishwasher, or outside in the garage, if it's alright to sleep late, what to eat for breakfast, and where they keep the forks. And by the time you learn the rules, you're headed back to your dorm where you remember to throw your shoes and jacket on the floor, use the bathroom and garbage cans down the hall, and sleep til 2 when you wake up to stale Chinese food and trying to find your fork. Like this column? Then buy the book!