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It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize, somewhere around age 25, that the part I liked best about going out drinking was the “coming home” part.

I’d be in a cab going back to my apartment after downing ten bucks’ worth of 80 cent drafts at some “ladies entrance”-type “hotel” out on the then-ungentrified stretch of Queen West.

The blessedly silent driver would have on some jazz station I could never, ever find on my own radio dial when I tried.

As the car swept through puddles, I savored the simple, best-of-both-worlds sensation of “going somewhere” at deliberate speed without actually having to exert myself.

It was dark. I could see semi-cool stuff out the window — the somewhat glamorous, slightly menacing city at night — but none of it could see (or touch) me.

How much cheaper and easier it was, I discovered, to just stay home alone on Saturday night, listening to music I already knew I liked.

No lousy service or sight lines. Toilet paper in the bathroom!

The beer was cheaper, the weather didn’t matter, and transportation no longer a hassle.