Thursday, December 29, 2005

Help Support The Kinsey Institute!

As I was linking my very favorite research institution to my last post, I started reading their website. I ended up taking part in their 2005 MART study online. You learn a lot about yourself when you have to sit there and quantify your lifetime of sexual activities. Brought back some fun memories, too. It was probably the most fun I will have today. I suggest you all take it when you get a chance:

http://www.kinseyinstitute.org/research/surveylinks.html

Dr. Kinsey, You Have Ruined Me

My friend, he is dating a freak. I mean a bona-fide, tie-me-up-and-tell-me-you’re-my-daddy freak. This guy has told me some stories about things he’s done with this girl that make me want to cry. Think the sex montage of Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz in “Blow” and you have a typical Monday in this guy's bedroom. I have been standing with this guy in a bar and he gets a text message to the effect of “God, I need you inside me right now. Let’s go fuck.” Did I mention that this girl is tall, blonde, and 20? My friend, he has had his share, some better looking, some younger, but this one, man, this one takes the taco. I knew the guy in undergrad and he was a spectacular failure with women, so how all this happened I have no idea. But his lack of experience at the collegiate level robbed him of one extremely valuable lesson that I am going to impart to him here: Enjoy it while you can.

I, like he, was a virgin until my Sophomore year of college. Not wholly uncommon, but I missed out on all the fumbling and insecurity that goes along with High School sex. My first time, and subsequently first sexual relationship, was with a girl that makes his friend look like an Afghan virgin bride. Her name, appropriately enough, was Kinsey, and, honestly, that institute in Indiana should be named after her and not Dr. Alfred. ‘Cause this girl knew a lot. The first time we did it she got on top of me and put me in, just like that. Didn’t even ask. Quick, easy, no thought to it, and no condom. The next two and a half years were filled with slamming me up against walls, public places, toys, porn (lots of porn), handcuffs, blindfolds, food, ice, wax, Lords of Acid, and pretty much every conceivable sexual act that two people could engage in. Like Nine and a Half Weeks, but longer. She was into girls, and talked to no end about wanting a threesome, but somehow it never materialized. How I blew this I have no idea either. She was multi orgasmic (and, yes, I’m sure she faked some, but no one wants it that much if they’re not getting off). All my friends would tell me how good I had it, but I just figured they were being nice. I had a few others during this time, but none were even in this girl’s league. She taught me how to be good at sex, and for that, Dr. Kinsey, I am eternally grateful.

After we broke up, well, I just assumed every girl I dated would call me at one in the afternoon and say “Hey, wanna fuck?” I figured they would all wake me up at 3 AM with a blowjob and a half hour of “Did we have sex last night?” sex. Twice a day is normal, right? And where do you keep your box of sex toys? HA! No, no, not quite the case. Apparently, and I did not know this, but apparently most girls are not as into sex as guys are.

What do you mean you don’t do anal? Excuse me, I just woke up, why are you not ready to go? Hello, we only had sex once today! What gives? You mean to tell me you don’t like watching porn? You think getting with a girl is gross? You didn’t orgasm? Really? You don’t like being on top? You don’t like oral sex? Why am I even wasting my time? Unfortunately, I have asked these questions of 90% of the girls I have been with since. This is why I am rarely satisfied by a sexual encounter. Entertained, yes, but rarely satisfied.

So my point in this? My friend, I know you have probably fucked this girl’s brains out more than any other female you have had the pleasure of sticking your undersized penis inside of. And therefore she will become your standard to which all others will now be held. You are setting yourself up for a lifetime of spectacular sexual dissatisfaction. I am guessing your lifetime total is still in the single digits. This means you have not been with enough women to know that your girl is the gross exception and not even in the same universe as the rule. You must understand that it will probably never be this good again, especially if you continue to date attractive, younger girls. Go ahead, go and have your wild, crazy threesome next week, but don’t let it ruin you. Once this girl is out of your life (and she will be, eventually) you will more than likely spend a lot of nights in bed with your next girlfriend jerking off to memories of this one. Girls this good are usually nuts or fat or old, occasionally all three, and therefore not exactly girlfriend material. Exceptions? Of course there are. We have both found them. But I warn you, my friend, you may be dooming yourself to a lifetime of ungratifying sex if you do not understand what I am telling you: Don’t expect it to ever be this good again. Enjoy it while you can.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Fun with Tourists

Tourist season has befallen Greater Miami and the Beaches. And what better way to welcome our friends from New York than to prey on their ignorance of Dade County customs and coutesies and make a few quick bucks? Here are some quick things you, the local, can say that should net you a good amount of cash:

1) I’ll bet you $50 you can’t close down Space on Saturday
2) $100 says Miami has a rapid transit rail system
3) See that blonde over there? $50 says she Hispanic.
4) I’ll bet you a night of drinks that that skinny white guy in a sweater and jeans standing next to the impeccably dressed, muscular doorman and the smoking hot hostess can override both of them and get our group of fifteen guys past this line, get us in for free and get us an open bar for an hour. All free of charge. And no, he does not own the club.
5) I’ll bet you the cost of a DUI I can get pulled over completely wasted and sent home with a “Have a nice evening.” Sometimes it’s nice being white.
6) See that blonde over there? $100 says she’s a man
7) I’ll bet you a lap dance at the spot of my choice I can take you to ten strip clubs within a ten mile radius
8) Give me a quarter every time you hear the word “Bro” while we’re on the beach. I’ll give you a quarter for every minute that I don’t hear Reggaeton.
9) Just go ahead and give me cash for the tip. Let’s see, 20% of the total is….
10) See that blonde over there? I’ll bet you whatever she costs she’s a hooker

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Thanks a Lot, Google!

For two years I wrote a newsletter for the supplement company, and for two years I put my name on every issue, and for two years it was virtually invisible to the internet. Where did I show up when I Googled my name? Middle of page two, behind a driving instructor from New Jersey, some guy in Ohio, a college bowl contestant from Georgetown, and a famous writer with a different first name. And only one of the two dozen newsletters I wrote was there. In retrospect, this is probably a good thing when trying to avoid creditors. I start a blog, and I Google the title and the post titles for a month and a half, and it’s still as if I’ve never written a word. But write something incriminating? BANG! Number one answer! Immediately. Thanks a lot, Google. I guess you guys must have figured potential dates would never want to read about vitamins.

To this point, White Dade has been buried so far in the internet my own mother can’t seem to find it. But you know who can? The one person who might actually not want to read what I have to write. And this person who found it had to look to find any kind of offensive writing. I mean, like deep into the archives. That’s a lot of work. I suppose I should be somewhat flattered that this person took so much time to read all these posts until they got to what they were looking for. Or maybe it was just a slow day at work.

So, you know who you are, if you are out there and still reading, how on Earth did you find this? Did you Google my name and come up with my Escort Service letter? I didn’t even know you knew how to spell my name. I’ve known people for years and they still spell it wrong. And once you got there, how much time did you spend reading through my mindless garble? Did you find it entertaining or were you just looking for dirt? Why am I even asking, I know the answer anyway. Taking the advice of Stephanie Klein's boyfriend, I am asking questions I already know the answer to.

I probably should have realized something like this would happen if I put my name anywhere on this blog, so I have remedied that situation as well. No matter. The offending posts have all been taken down. If you try and look at them again to re-horrify yourself, you will come up empty. Oh, and I got your blank email. I have a comments section, you know. Feel free to say whatever you like to me there. I publish them all, no matter how bad you may rip me.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

A Typical Date in Dade County

Kathy suggests that you take her to dinner, and since you do so love when a girl suggests you pay for her meal you ignore this blatant red flag and agree. She suggests a Tapas restaurant in the Grove which sounds acceptable. During this conversation, she uses the word “like” 47 times in 10 minutes. You counted. Perhaps once she figured out where your 949 cell phone number was from she decided to change her faux-Americana persona to “Dumb California Blonde.” No matter, not everyone can be the master of verbal communication that you are.

You drive out to Westchester (pronounced Weh-Cheh-Ter by the locals) to Miller and 107th to pick her up. There are two pickup trucks, a red Honda Accord and a silver Jetta in the driveway. You don’t bother asking which one is hers, because it is in section 27 of the Dade County Code that all single Cuban girls are required to drive Jettas or 3 series BMW’s. I know ladies who have been ticketed for otherwise. She gets into your car and immediately begins to complain about how much she hates her job, doing whatever the hell it is Cuban girls do until they find some Latin guy who insists on “Taking care of them.” This conversation lasts the entire drive to the Grove, save for two interruptions to tell you that you are going the wrong way.

During dinner, you actually get to talk a little about yourself and she seems fairly interested in what you have to say. She seems even more interested in the $8 glasses of wine she is drinking like they are tap water You begin to do the math in your head and realize you have easily eclipsed the $40 threshhold.

You meander over to Green Street, a bar that, as many times you have been to the Grove, you have never bothered to go to. You immediately realize why when the clientele is not the American UM crowd or blue collar Miami crowd that populates your usual Grove hangouts, but rather a collection of upscale Cubans and South Americans that would fit in better at Noir or the Four Seasons at Happy Hour. You sit on a couch on the sidewalk, one of the lovely features of this place, and she immediately orders a bottle of expensive wine. You inform her that “This is on you, right? Since I paid for Dinner?” ($85, by the way. Tom Leykis would be disgusted). She agrees, with a smile. The wine comes and you take two sips and she says, “You’re very laid back with girls, aren’t you? Like, most guys would be all over me by now. Like, do you expect me to make the first move?’ “Absolutely,” you tell her. With that, you immediately begin making out on the couch. It is pure foreplay with clothes on. Grabbing, licking, touching. You can only imagine the show the Argentines at the next table are getting.

“I feel like I have to hold back with all these people around,” she tells you. You inform her that you basically live alone, and that she is more than welcome to not hold back there, and that you would be happy to take her back to Mama’s house in the morning. "That far??!!" she wines, "I’m not going all the way to Palmetto Bay! Ew, I, like, hate that place. There is not shit down there. God, I totally wish I had, like my own place. My mom, she waits up for me.” And you are 28, right? And you still live at home? This may be a downgrade from the cokehead stripper. At least she had her own place. You continue making out and try to persuade her to come home with you, which she declines over and over while shoving her tongue down your throat in front of about 150 strangers.

You drive her home, making out at every red light, and drop her off at her Mama’s house. She invites you in to sleep on the couch, but you politely decline, opting instead for the comfort of your own bed and the Hotel Erotica you TIVO’d while you were gone. “When do you get back?” she asks, “Tuesday?” “Yes,” you tell her. “Good,” she says. “Next time you can come in and meet my family. Eventually you can stay here.” “Why don’t you just come to Palmetto Bay?” you ask. “I told you, I hate driving. I’m totally not driving that far.” Palmetto Bay, for the record, is closer to Weh-Cheh-Ter than the Grove. “But we can like, go to dinner or something when you get back. Call me.” Frustrated, angry and sad at the same time, you begin to wonder if this is the type of girl Leykis was warning you about. Are most girls this bad and have you just been lucky thus far? Or is this chick the exception to the rule? Having avoided Cuban girls as best you can, you wonder if perhaps this was the reason. She leaves her sweater in your car, maybe on purpose, maybe in drunken forgetfulness.

So, of course, you will call to tell her and ask her out again. Why? Male logic. As awful as this girl seems, she does show a strong physical attraction to you and would probably be at least decent in bed. Or she may follow the “The Way we are in Bed is the Way We Are in Life” philosophy and expect men to do everything for her. She let you get far enough in the car, so you reason she will probably sleep with you within a couple more dates. You just have to stick to the 3-date rule better than you did the $40 one.

Sound Bites From a Date With A Cuban Girl

“I love going out to dinner, to nice restaurants. Like, when I go out on a date, I expect to be taken somewhere really nice. That whole experience, I really love it. And I think it’s worth the money to do that.” Of course it’s worth the money, Katarina, because IT’S NOT YOURS!

“I know after I have kids I’m going to be one of those women who never loses the weight. I don’t even know if I want kids, because I like nice things and I don’t want to have to spend money on anybody else.” Well, good to see we have one thing in common

“Oooh. So you’re a trainer? What can I do to get rid of my belly? Oh, and my ass, I totally need to get my ass smaller.” How about eating at less of those fancy restaurants you do so love to have men take you to. That might be a good start.

“I like nice bars, you know? Where you can like sit, and order some nice drinks and not have to talk over everybody like in a dirty bar or a big club. Like I would never set foot in Barracudas or Moe’s or Sandbar or, eww, no, never The Tavern.” Really? Those are the ONLY places I go.

"My sister says I'm rude to waiters. Like, I'm totally not rude, but its like, take my order and go away. I'm short with you because I don't want to talk to you. Don't you get it?" If by "it" you mean "spit in my food," then yes.

“I know this might be a turnoff, but my goal in life is to marry a man who is going to take care of me and support me.” So I guess a Baby Blue ’02 Saturn must just scream “I’ll pay your bills.” Why are you out with me again?

“I really only like to date good looking guys. Like, I have to be totally physically attracted to you to go out with you. Does that sound shallow?” No, not at all. You’re lucky I don’t hold myself to the same standards, though.

“My ex-boyfriend was totally gorgeous. Like, perfect, he could have been a model. God he was hot, I was totally in love with him.” Hmm. My ex-girlfriend was a coke addicted stripper who used to hit me all the time. Shall we drop this subject now or wait until one of us starts crying?

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

The Rules of It's Over

To continue my jovial holiday theme of ending relationships:

I have a policy of never talking to ex’s, at least not within two or three years of a breakup. As the Hag once put it, “What good can possibly come form that?” Maybe a sexual encounter, but not much else. And the sex does not outweigh the stress, emotional pain and confusion that come with it. Unfortunately, it seems, I am in the minority in this respect, as more and more people I meet seem unable to let go.

Kids these days, they seem to love to hold on longer than they should. Not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s that dating is harder than it used to be, or maybe the people I hang around all have low self-esteem. I don’t know. I do know that I have endured a few breakups in my day, and each one has gotten successively easier and cleaner. How? Because I have started to live by The Rules of It’s Over, a phrase I am unabashedly stealing from that magical songstress known as Dido. Nobody ever seems to follow them exactly, including myself or The Hag, another proponent of erasing people from your memory. But I do my best. I thought Eternal Sunchine of The Spotless Mind was onto something with that idea, at least for the first half of the movie. After a breakup, I don’t want to “Just be friends." I don't even want to be acquaintances. Hell, I don’t even care to “Just be people who run into each other at Publix,” but that one can be tough.
So, I Give you The Rules of It’s Over. If you live by these you will be temporarily totally miserable, but ultimately much stronger:

1.) One night of breaking up is enough. Once you have parted ways the next morning no communication of any sort should be attempted except maybe to get whatever stuff you have at their place back. Just make sure you don’t sleep together when you go to pick it up or you may end up with a child like Jeff Zanotti.

2.) Delete your ex’s number immediately after the breakup. The first thing I do after after a breakup conversation is erase that person’s number from my phone (I have an uncanny memory for phone numbers, so this is more symbolic than it is functional, but it still works). Delete them from your buddy list and address book on your email. This gives you at least 10 number pushes and/or 15 keystrokes to think about if it is really a good idea to talk to this person

3.) “I don’t want to talk to you” means “I don’t want to talk to you.” Unless you are John Cusack, nobody will like it when they tell you to go away and you don’t.

4.) Along the same lines, do not attempt a grand romantic gesture like flying across the country or driving all night to see someone who has told you, in no uncertain terms, that they do not want any part of you anymore. Trust me, they will not appreciate it and you will look and feel pathetic.

5.) Do not pick up the phone when your ex calls. This may be the hardest one to deal with. Deleting the number helps because their name does not show up when they call. But resist.

6.) Remove any object reminding you of your ex from your immediate domicile. Hide, but do not destroy, any pictures. You will regret destroying them later, but reminders may lead you to calling him/her.

7.) Remember that you probably broke up for a good reason. Unless the reason was “I liked ‘Love, Actually,’ and you didn’t” there was probably a breaking point or one of you realized it was going nowhere. Don’t get back together as a band aid for your pain. That is the easy way out.

8.) Don’t be afraid to hurt your ex’s feelings. Sometimes hearing “No, I don’t want to speak to you and I don’t love you anymore, goodbye,” makes you realize that you are, in fact, no longer loved.

9.) Mean what you say, and act accordingly. If you say, “I don’t want to talk to you,” don’t talk to the person. Don’t hold hands or show affection to someone you are trying to break up with. And for the love of God, don’t have sex with them, no matter how good it was. It will only serve to complicate things

10.) Showering with gifts, affection and compliments does not work. When you’re dumped, you’re dumped. Get over it and move on

11.) Do not attempt to be friends. You are not Jerry and Elaine, and that was a sitcom for crying out loud.

12.) Once a cheater, always a cheater. There are no exceptions. Once you’ve cheated on someone, you will do it again.

13.) When someone is out of your life, don’t let them back in. They will only serve to screw up your relationships with other people. See: Mr. Big

14.) When considering contacting an ex, think to yourself “What good can possibly come from this?” 99 times out of 100 you will hang up the phone before you’ve finished dialing the area code.

15.) While “Closer” is an excellent movie that I highly recommend, “closure” is overrated. If you have something to get off your chest, write a letter and don’t send it. Everyone I ever knew who needed “closure” actually needed “sex.” As my mom said when I told her this was the reason for my sister's hanging around with her ex again, "Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?" The only “closure” that you need with an ex is the kind that a flip phone does when you are hanging up on them.

16.) “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” – Lucas’ Mom on “One Tree Hill." Best motherly advice I have ever heard on the WB Wednesday.

After some bad experiences this year, I have made a new policy of not dating girls that have anything more than accidental contact with an ex. Personally, I find it very hard to leave. But once I’m done, I’m done. It may take me a couple times to finally do it, but once I am done I am pretty good at making clean breaks. When I truly feel a relationship is over, I make no attempt to call my ex and do not respond when they contact me. If more of us could get out while the getting is good, and stay gone, life would be much simpler for everyone. Having been on all possible sides of this equation, I have come to the conclusion that severing all ties and erasing people from your life is the best way to go for all parties involved. So sack up and give it a shot. Because last time I checked, Lacuna Inc. wasn’t ready for business yet.

Monday, December 19, 2005

The Road to Dunzo

My relationships, to this point, have been viewed by me as learning experiences. I have never thought of any of my girlfriends as potential life partners, but rather people to work out the kinks with until the right one came along. This way I know what I want and don’t want, and what to put up with and what I will not. They were all, in essence, ex-girlfriends that I was still dating. This is not uncommon with people in their twenties as we try to learn as much about the real world as we can. And relationships are no different. My problem has come in realizing when I had learned all I was going to, and when to get out. I am at a point now that I can realize when a relationship has reached its apex and is on the downslide to Dunzo. As soon as it is headed downhill, I know it is time to get out. Because it only gets worse. Do I apply this enough? Absolutely not. But I would like to pass on to all of you the things that, if they are going on in your head or your heart, should tell you to break away as soon as possible. Because the longer you wait, the harder it gets.

1.) When you look at a calendar, and see a future date, and think to yourself, “I wonder if we’ll be together then?” you are done. It is only a matter of time.

2.) When you are lying in bed and watching her get dressed, or look at her naked, and think to yourself, “Someday, someone else will be doing this,” DUN-ZO.

3.) When you begin to think how a story of whatever you are doing will sound to future dates, you are with a future ex. Get out before it gets messy

4.) If you ever look at the two of you having sex in a mirror, and think it should be someone else, it probably should be.

5.) If you are still in regular contact with an ex, or think about an ex on a regular basis, you are wasting the other person’s time. Make sure you have moved on before you attempt another relationship. If you notice your partner doing this, get out. You will never measure up.

6.) When you find yourself wanting to cheat within the first year, get out. "Getting it out of your system" is a myth. You are not into the other person enough or haven’t been around enough to appreciate what you have.

7.) There is a defining moment where you realize your partner’s sexual boundaries. If they are not where yours are, the sex will only get worse and more predicable. You will either want it less and the other person will cheat, or you will cheat to find someone who satisfies you.

8.) When you are cheating, just leave. It’s easier that way.

9.) If you strongly suspect the other person is cheating, they may not be, but they are still ignoring you and avoiding you for a reason. They are probably done, even if you aren’t. Try the pre-emptive breakup, George Constanza style

10.) If you are miserable more often than you are happy, remember that breakup misery ends, relationship misery can continue until death

11.) Relating to #10, if this is happening early on, you are really wasting your time. Because remember: IT ONLY GETS WORSE

12.) If you want sex a lot more than your partner does, you will soon be the one cheating. Again, just save yourself the drama and get out easy

13.) If you never have conversations where you feel like friends, you probably aren’t. And, as Michael Bolton once so poignantly asked, “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?”

14.) Similarly, if every conversation is a fight, there is an underlying cause. Identify it, see if you can solve it, and if you can’t, time won’t either. Leaving will.

15.) If you are physically assaulted and do not outweigh the other person by at least 100 lbs, you better get out now. If you stay around or take someone back, you are just pathetic

If more than few of these things are true about your relationship, you are done learning. Get out before you do something stupid like marriage, or kids or even a signed lease. Or up and moving somewhere where you don't know anyone for somebody. I reiterate, it is never easy to break up, but the earlier you do it the better People are like busses, you miss one and there is another one along in five minutes, no matter how many you missed before. It just may be headed down that proverbial road to Dunzo.

Friday, December 16, 2005

CSI and Dietary Supplements

For those who don't know, one of my "jobs" is as a nutrtional consultant for a supplement company in Orange County, CA. I get a lot of eMail questions, and sometimes, okay, all the time, I am so bored I feel the need to give unorthodox answers. I have decided I am going to post these from time to time. These are actual answers to actual questions from acutal customers, mind you. This week's winners:


Why do we list “Malic Acid” separately on our Mega Magnesium product? Why would consumers find that a key feature?

Malic acid and magnesium are often prescibed together to help promote energy production, especially for people who are active. Though commonly used as an excipient or mineral binder in other products, this one contains it for a specific reason and as such is listed as an added benefit. This is something not too many people know, only those who are extremely knowledgable about sports supplementation.

On that note, I saw a really cool CSI last night where this Doctor of Nutrition (does such a thing exist?) was harvesting human organs and drying them into protein powder for supplemental consumption. There was a lot of really cool stuff about supplements and what they're used for in the episode, including such classic lines as "You're a little slow, there, Grissom. Coenzyme Q10 can help you with mental acuity." I think we should use this episode in future trainings, or at least clips from it. Anyway, the crazy cannibal doctor (who was, of course, rediculously hot) said that human organs are the single best source of nutrients that we can intake. I say you bring this up at the next Product Development meeting. I can just hear the calls now, "Hi, this is Renee from PCC and I have a customer here who wants to know if the humans used for this powder are grass-fed?" "Yeah, I just wanted to know if you test your human livers for heavy metals?" "Are the people you use for Human Protein Powder - Strawberry non-GMO?"


5. If something is in a gelatin capsule, does the powder inside the capsule have residual gelatin from being inside the capsule? For example, if something comes only in a gelatin capsule, and if someone who is a vegetarian breaks open the capsule to use the powder inside would they be getting some residual gelatin??

If Gil Grissom and his crack CSI team were investigating a murder where someone was extremely allergic to gelatin, and the "vic" had been given L-carnitine powder by his wife/mistress/jealous co-worker that, unbeknownst to him, had been encapsulated in a gelatin capsule before he consumed it, and Dr. Robbins determined his cause of death to be asphyxiation through poisoning, then, yes, I believe Grissom and his team of scientists would discover the microscopic amounts of gelatin in his system and trace it back to supplement powder, and said wife/mistress/jealous co-worker would be hauled in by Lt. Brass. If you are a strict Jew/Muslim anything that has come in contact with pork products is stricly "traif" and therefore should not be consumed. This includes plates, forks, glasses, countertops and vitamin powder. But, for your average run of the mill vegetarian/vegan that doesn't want to consume any animal products, the amount of residue in there is strictly microscopic and not much cause for concern. But I suppose that depends on how strict you are. (And, yes, I have gotten this question before, I just wanted to answer it in a different way)

Yes, I know I watch way too much CSI, but its much more entertaining than the evening news.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Dinner on Miami Time

The concept of time is lost on most Miami residents. This became disgustingly obvious to me when I got a last minute invitation to my friend Alex’s birthday dinner the other night. It was to be held at Porcao , a Brazilian Steakhouse on Brickell. This style of restaurant is known more commonly as Rodizio, where waiters come around with skewers of delectable meat and you eat as much as you want all night. Quite the gluttonous experience. Porcao is probably the best and fanciest one of these places in Miami, and well worth the forty bucks or so you have to throw down to eat there.

So I am told to arrive at 7:45 as the birthday boy is going to arrive at 8:15, and this was to be a surprise party. I had to meet The Hag in Hollywood at 9:45, which meant leaving the restaurant at 9 or a little after, but that still gave me a good 45 minutes of steak gorging before I had to leave, right? Yes, well I seem to have temporarily forgotten where I live.

We are seated on time and I immediately flip my card to green, which means “I am a colossal pig and wish to eat every ounce of meat you have in this restaurant.” Instantly, I am scolded by Frank, my Dominican friend who set the party up. “Wait. It’s Alex’s party and we have to wait for him.” I give Frank a frustrated look, but flip my card back over to red so as not to offend.

Meanwhile, the rest of the table is getting restless. 8:30 rolls around, still no birthday boy. Everyone is starving and the waiters are beginning to come by with these succulent cuts of filet mignon, top sirloin and bacon-wrapped game hens dripping with juice. The meats are overwhelming our senses and yet we are stuck at the table with nothing but slices of Cuban toast and Diet Coke. And starving.

8:45, still nothing. “Frank,” I say, “What time did you tell Alex’s wife to have him here?” “8:00. But, you know, with Hispanic people, that means he’ll be here about 9.” “You do realize, Frank, that I have to leave at 9?” “Yes,” Frank replied, “Hispanic people won’t eat until he gets here.” “Well, why not?” I was quickly reverting to my 7-year-old self. This happens when I am hungry. I flipped my card to green and yelled for the first waiter I could. As he began to cut the steak, I reached for it with my tongs and Frank slapped my hand away. “No!” he yelled. “But, Frank,” I whined, “Why nooooot?” “Do I have to treat you like a little kid?” he asked. “Yes!” I told him as I slammed down my tongs and crossed my arms, sinking back into my chair. I proceeded to sulk for the remainder of the evening. “Suit yourself,’ Frank said and took away my eating card and utensils.

This soon devolved into an experience akin to walking down the street in South Beach and being forced to look at all the beautiful women you will never have. Constant frustration. The thing you want most in the world is right there, right under your nose, but if you reach for it your hand will be smacked away like a child reaching for the cookie jar. This is why I don’t go to South Beach much anymore, and why I won’t go to Porcao with a bunch of Hispanics again either.

An hour after we were seated, Alex finally walks in. No apologies were offered, although I did let his wife know we had been there for an hour. “Oh, yeah, I know,” she said as she took off her jacket and ordered a beer. That was all I got out of her. Thanks for the consideration. Apparently my time is about as valuable the Venezuelan Bolivar.

The next 15 minutes was the most disgusting display of meat eating ever put on in a four star restaurant. My card went to green, and I requested, with a full mouth, “Tuh pithiss” from every waiter who came by. I shoveled steak into my mouth with every available tool: Fork, knife, spoon, hand, beer bottle. Anything capable of delivering steak to my mouth was fully in play. My mouth was full of beef for twenty solid minutes. Some of it ended up in my lap, on the floor, on Frank’s plate. I didn’t care. I did not talk to anyone (probably a good thing since they were all speaking Spanish anyway) and did not ask to be passed anything. I simply took and ate. I may have muttered a “Happy Birthday” to Alex at some point, but I don’t really remember. And I did not feel guilty about any of this. After all, it’s not my fault the guy showed up an hour late.

The thing is, to most everyone else, he wasn’t an hour late. He was right on time. This is how it is in Dade: Everything basically happens an hour after it is supposed to. This amazingly frustrating phenomenon is known affectionately by the Latins as “Miami Time.” Americans find this term about as affectionate as an elbow to the face. I have tried to refuse to do business or associate with anyone who operates on “Miami Time,” but this is impossible. If you want to have any friends or conduct any business in Dade County, you must understand that your time is respected about as much as traffic laws. This is something one must accept before moving here, much like the fact that English is not the primary language. Nothing operates on time, be it a business meeting, a dinner, or a court date. If you expect someone to meet you at 9 when they say they will meet you at 9, you will be gravely disappointed when you show up at 9 and no one else shows up for over an hour. Get there at 10:30 and you may not be the first to arrive. Because while patience seems to be a virtue most Latin people have, punctuality most certainly is not. And for a former Marine living in Dade County, this can be a tough bite to swallow.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

New York, New York: The City so Overrated, They Named it Twice

I hate hype. I hate things that people think are so great that are, in fact, no better than most other things. So, in order to stir up a little debate, and hopefully invite myself a little vitriol, I will now list my top 10 overrated things of 2005. These are all things I hear friends, radio personalities and TV talk about to no end, and they are all OVER-RATED (clap, clap, calp-clap-clap):

10. Michael Vick – Given, Ron Mexico is a freak of an athlete and could probably be a pro in whatever sport he took up. But when was the last time he put up unbelievable numbers and/or won anything other than a divisional championship? That’s right. Never. Let’s hold off on that “Quarterback of the Future” stuff until Vick, or a guy like Vick, wins the Super Bowl. The only black quarterback to win the big game was Doug Williams, a pocket passer. I see why he is so popular in Atlanta though; His on-field antics mimic the nightly activites of your typical Atlanta resident: Cruising around aimlessly, showing off for no particular reason, looking good to the uneducated eye, winning small battles occasionally but never landing the big prize. And he gave that dumb groupie the Herp.

9. Los Angeles – Although people love to rip it all the time, it is still for some reason considered some sort of tropical paradise full of beautiful people, great nightlife and warm weather. The clubs close at 2, and “finding a house party” is not something you should have to do in a city with world class nightlife. I have never had to “look for a house party” in Miami, New York or Las Vegas. There are about five people from LA I would ever choose to be friends with and the weather in the summer is comparable to a winter in Miami. There are hot girls in Hollywood and Santa Monica and the South Bay, but they are easily offset by some of the fabulous females of Cerritos and Southgate. This place can’t support an NFL team, a feat even the sports wasteland known as South Florida is able to accomplish. Oh, and Orange County? NOT LA. Not in the slightest. Perhaps the worst place in the country to live, as far as I’m concerned. Except maybe Buffalo.

8. Angelina Jolie – Her lips are the size of my head and she looks vaguely like a cave painting. I never understood her appeal and never will. Maybe if you’re into that "uber-collagen" look, but let’s not forget that you would be getting Billy Bob Thornton’s sloppy seconds. Oh, and she’s freaking nuts. Not that that’s a bad thing, but unless you can reap the sexual rewards of dating a certifiable head case, there is no reason to fantasize about it.

7. Scarlet Johansen – So-so actress who would not turn a single head if she walked into Prive. As a matter of fact, I don’t think she’d turn a single head if she walked into Burger King. She is obnoxious, has a terrible dye job, and basically comes across as condescending and sniveling at the same time. Why she gets work I have no idea.

6. “Walk The Line” – Okay, I will give you this – Joaquin Phoenix does a nice job and Reese Witherspoon is always charming. But you cannot honestly expect me to believe you can make an accurate movie about the life of Johnny Cash and have it rated PG-13. That guy did not lead a PG-13 life, at least not during the time documented in the movie. I think he curses twice in the whole film. Johnny Cash cursed twice in every sentence he ever spoke. The guy inhaled blow like it was air and drank more liquor than he did water. Yeah, the only drug he ever had a problem with were presciption amphetamine pills. Right. I am sure he had his share of groupies, too, even with he was on tour with June Carter. So, while it was all in all an okay movie, no Oscar should be awarded to a movie that Disneyfies the life of one of America’s great degenerates.

5. USC – This team managed to come along when perpetual powers Michigan, Miami, Florida State, Ohio State and Nebraska were all going through lean times. And the Pac-10 is not having its greatest run in history either. Their biggest competition has been an even more overrated Notre Dame team, Aaron Rogers, and perhaps this year’s Texas squad. I predict they will be exposed as the frauds that they are at the Rose Bowl. Of course, Texas could be pretty overrated too.

4. Jessica Alba – The only person on this list I’ve actually met. I danced with her briefly at Crobar one night two years ago and had absolutely no idea who she was. The Hag later showed me her picture in FHM, where she was rated the 17th hottest woman in America. Gentleman, I can safely say she was not the 17th hottest woman at Crobar on a Monday. I remember seeing her and thinking “Yeah, she’s kinda hot” and dancing with her for like two minutes (and, yes, she ditched me), during which time several girls approached her to say something. But no guys. This means her WB popularity among twenty-something females far outweighed her sex appeal. Paging Sarah Michelle Gellar. She looked good in Sin City, but, really, not turning any heads in the Beach.

3. Eva Longoria – If I see this broad on one more magazine cover I am going to toss it clear across Circle K to the Slurpee machine. She rates barely third on my “Girls on Desperate Housewives I would Bang” list, lagging miles behind Teri Hatcher and Nicollet Sheridan. I’d probably even prefer Bree Van De Kamp on a good day. Short, dark and not overly attractive. Don’t believe the hype, at the end of the day she reminds me more of the kind of girl I’d see hanging out at Gatsby’s or Café Iguana Kendall (if it still existed) than someone I’d see in South Beach.

2. Tom Fucking Brady – This one gets me almost as riled up as #1 does. Yes, he won 3 Super Bowls, but if Adam Vinatieri does not have the golden foot of God, he’s in the same category as Jim Kelly or, dare I say, Bernie Kosar. He is a strong cog in an effective machine, but by no means deserves any more credit for the Pats success that Teddy Bruschi or Vinatieri does. He led two drives of about fifty yards each to set up field goals. Wow. Sage Rosenfels put on a more impressive performance against the Bills last week. He is not even in the league of a Montana. He's definitely no Dan Marino. He's not even Dan Fouts. Remember that time Montana had that Monday night classic against Elway where he drove the Chiefs to victory on a last drive? Can you name one other guy on that team besides Marcus Allen and Derrick Thomas? And the kicker does not count. The point is Montana could pull off his magic without Rice, Taylor, Rathman and Craig. I doubt Tom Brady could win 10 regular season games without the Belichick system. I think if he played for Arizona or New Orleans or Washington, he’d be hard pressed to make the Pro Bowl. I am glad he is being exposed as the massive fraud he is this year. And it's good to see the focus going to the quarterbacks in this league who have actual talent, like Peyton Manning and Carson Palmer. And please do not deluge me with Tom Brady stats, I simply don't care. He couldn't put those numbers up with any other team. Montana could. Marino put up Hall of Fame numbers with a supporting cast whose most notable player was Mark Clayton. End of story.

And, the winner, for the fourteenth year in a row…

1. New York City – So overrated it doesn’t even deserve a tirade. I just don’t care about what goes on in this city, yet every major media outlet seems to think I do. Nope, could not give two shits what’s going on in New York. An irrelevant city to most Americans that is still perpetually shoved down our collective throats. Do I get coverage of the Houston mayoral election on the CBS evening news? No. So why do I need to know about New York’s? There is one decent sports team in the entire city, yet ESPN seems to think their nationwide viewing audience is dying to know “What’s wrong with the Knicks?” Hey, what’s wrong with the Magic? Ugh. Just a place I am tired of hearing about. I’ve been there. I wasn’t all that impressed one way or another. Not that dirty, not that clean. Not too rude, not too polite. Not too homogenous, but not overly ethnic. Rather unremarkable, actually. Just another American city choc full of franchises and chain restaurants. Like Jacksonville with more skyscrapers. Not impressed at all.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Dreaming of a White Dade Christmas

I do just love being looked down upon by a bunch of people my own age. Granted, I made the mistake of wearing jeans (nice, pressed, designer jeans, but jeans nonetheless) to a “dress-up” Christmas Party, but that was no excuse to ignore me all night. Unfortunately, if you are underdressed and American at a Christmas party full of rich Cubans, you may as well have showed up with a sign saying “I have the Ebola virus” because nobody is going to risk talking to you. All night I was pointed at and referred to as “the guy in the jeans,” and as such I blame myself for our little American group’s exclusion from the festivities.

I had the fortune to be invited to Cliff’s Christmas Party this weekend, which was hosted by him and his roommate, also an American. So I figured it would be a good ol’ fashioned White Dade Christmas party full of Palmetto High School’s finest alumni. Dream on. Cliff’s roommate went to Columbus. For those of you unfamiliar with High Schools in Dade, Columbus is a private all-boys school populated almost entirely by upper middle-class Cubans. And Bob Gresie’s kid. Their sister school is Lourdes Academy, a factory for Cuban Princess’ with black BMW’s and oversized sunglasses. Imagine JAP’s speaking Spanish, and you’ve pretty much got your typical Lourdes girl. So you can imagine my surprise when I walked into the common room at Whisperwood Condominiums and was greeted with a chorus of “Hey Bro’s” and kisses on the cheek. Lovely. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised going to a party in Kendall, but a boy can dream, can’t he?

Needless to say, there were no girls there that piqued my interest, seeing as how the only Americanas were Miss M and Miss K, who is Cliff’s girlfriend. A minor disappointment but, hey, who am I to be a party pooper? After all, I am fully capable of enjoying myself at Frank’s All-Dominican barbecues he has from time to time, why should this be any different? I’ll just put on some meringue and pop a Presidente and fit right in like I do at his house. Perhaps I’ll even get wasted and start speaking Spanish, something I refuse to do sober. Well, I guess Dominicans in North Miami and Cubans in Kendall are not the same thing. Frank’s guests are not rich Cubans who, unlike working class Dominicans, pretty much regard Americans as clueless cheeseballs from Wisconsin. The only interaction I think I had with any of them was during the “Chinese Gift Exchange” (a term Asia found quite distressing) when I got into a heated argument with one girl over a pair of Stewey Griffin Bedroom slippers.

So, since none of the boys from Columbus or the girls from Lourdes Academy bothered to take the time to talk to any of the Americans in the room, me, Cliff, Asia, and the two white girls sat in one corner of the room and got completely wasted and ate cookies. Asia, who is actually Cuban-Chinese, still sat with the white people since he is from St. Louis and therefore seems to relate a little better with Americans. I still managed to have a good time, despite being relegated to the Whisperwood Common Room equivalent of the Warsaw Ghetto. I had not seen such a stark chasm in social congregations at a party since my 7th grade Winter Formal. I may have said five words to the Cuban guests, and I even knew a couple of them from The Tavern. None of them ate my pepper-crusted round eye and sun-dried tomato hours d’ouvres. I was quite insulted.

It was kind of an awkward night since there was a contingency of about five of us that had to sit in our own little bubble in one part of the room. There should have been a “Quarantine: Americans” sign in front of us. Perhaps we were not overly sociable with the Cuban guests either, and perhaps we just chose to talk to each other instead of mingling with strangers who we had nothing in common with. But by the end of the night it was starting to feel like “The Yard” at Everglades Correctional. And while the party itself was good time and I enjoyed myself for the most part, it just went to show where exactly “Americans” stand in the eyes of the Dade County majority.

Friday, December 09, 2005

Miami - It Ain't Kansas

So poor little Zach Rubio got suspended for speaking Spanish, huh? Un-believable. I read this story and literally started laughing out loud. Not with some sick sense of schadenfraude at poor Zach’s misfortune, but rather at how warped you can become after living in Miami. It dawned on me that the rest of the country has not resigned itself to having to hear Spanish all the time, and that there are parts of America where it is frowned upon to speak a language other than English. Imagine that.

There are entire schools in Dade County, public schools, mind you, that teach only in Spanish. The kids don’t speak English in class, or on the playground or in gym class, unless it is to quote rap lyrics or talk shit during basketball games. And I have begun to take this as everyday fact. Sure, taxpayer money, much of it from the English-speaking part of Florida (aka Everything North of Dolphins Stadium) goes to fund Spanish language public education. What’s so weird about that?

What’s so weird? Well, apparently in the United States there is a huge debate going on about whether or not taxpayer money should be used to print signs and other public notices in Spanish. Such a debate seems incomprehensible to your average Dade County resident. We have entire grocery stores in Spanish. I spent yesterday recording the gym’s new phone system in English and Spanish. Living here is like living in Canada; everything must be done in BOTH official languages. English being the secondary one.

I wonder if some principal at Miami Senior High School back in like the 1960’s pulled a similar move when a bunch of Cuban kids started speaking Spanish in the halls. That poor, poor misguided American. Didn’t he realize that he was simply putting his finger in the dyke? That the unstoppable force of immigration would soon topple his little American tropical paradise? Perhaps Kansas City will be next to fall. Although it is hard to get a raft to Kansas.

My point in this is that when you live in Miami, you forget that the rest of the country still has this apparent backlash against things being in Spanish. The bilingual world that is Dade County conditions you into believing that doing things in Spanish is normal in the US. Then you remember that you don’t really live in the US anymore. If you suspended every kid in Dade County for speaking Spanish at school, nobody would make it out of Kindergarten. So I guess the rest of the country is up in arms about too much Spanish being spoken and written. They would not last one week west of I-95. This raises a very interesting question, though: Is Miami simply a precursor to what much of the rest of the country is going to become? Or will the American majority continue to put their collective feet down in places like Kansas? Stay tuned.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Bad Sex Appendix: What Makes You Bad?

So one might ask what makes a girl good in bed? That is hard to explain, and I can’t really materialize a list right now. I will in the future. But since I am generally more of a negative person anyway, in the spirit of Jeff Foxworthy, here is a list ways a girl might know she is bad in bed

If you view sex as a bargaining chip for meals, clothing, jewelry or household chores, you are probably bad in bed.

If you have ever used the phrase “I let him fuck me” you are probably bad in bed

If you fake all of your orgasms, you are probably bad in bed

If you don’t masturbate, you are probably bad in bed

If you initiate sex less than 40% of the time, you are probably bad in bed

If your list of things you don’t do is longer than the list of things you do, you are probably bad in bed

If you never suggest, nee, demand, a position change, you are probably bad in bed

If you do not know what “the rabbit” is, you have never watched “Sex and The City,” and you are probably bad in bed

If you don’t like sex more than three times a week with your significant other, and you have no kids, you are probably bad in bed

If you refuse to try anything other than intercourse, you are probably bad in bed

If you don’t like foreplay, some men may love you, but you are still probably bad in bed

If you are only fucking a man because you want him to like/love you, you are horribly misguided and you are probably bad in bed

If you think sex is a beautiful act meant only for people who are deeply in love, don’t even waste your time with it, because you are probably bad in bed

If you have ever used the phrase “I don’t like being on top” you are probably bad in bed

If you find sex painful, it’s not your fault, but you are probably bad in bed

If you don’t even have a passing curious interest in porn, like maybe you do with football, you are probably bad in bed

If you think hooking up with a girl is gross and disgusting, this is a horrible, horrible double standard, but you are probably bad in bed

If you are afraid to go with me to the Hustler store, you are probably bad in bed

If you go with me to the Hustler Store and spend the whole time in the coffee shop nervously drinking a latte, you are probably bad in bed

If you expect me to read your mind, you are probably bad in bed

If you blame the guy 100% for your not getting off, you are probably bad in bed

If a large penis scares you instead of excites you, you are probably bad in bed

If you talk about having sex incessantly, not just for fun, but ALL THE TIME, you are probably bad in bed (this is the female equivalent of “Those that talk about it the most get it the least.”)

If you have to be drunk to want it, you are probably bad in bed

If I have slept with you in the last 19 months and you are not an accountant or a bartender on Brickell (and even then, you only rate “good”), you are probably bad in bed.

So, girls, I know you all can’t change. And some of you are just not open-minded enough to fulfill all of these criteria. And that is why only 10% of you are the subjects of fantasies years after the fact. I’m sure the same goes for us, but if you want to be the best someone ever had, avoid all of these things. Otherwise, you fall into the great mass of “other.”

Bad Sex is Your Fault Too

Girls, I hate to burst your precious little bubble, but a lot of you are pretty bad in bed. I have been with enough girls at this point that I can say roughly one in ten rates the term “Great.” A few may rate “good” and some “okay” and a lot “bad,’ but very few are memorable. Do you really think just because I finish that you were doing anything right? Remember, there are men that have sex with pieces of plastic and get off. I may have been fantasizing about a girl from three years ago or thinking about a porno I watched last week or any girl from the cast of “One Tree Hill” for all you know. Your performance is not directly correlated to my orgasm.

I have a few female friends, and read a lot of female blogs, and I hear this constant stream of women saying “God, guys think they're so great in bed, but most of you suck.” Girls, right back atchya. Did it ever occur to you that you aren’t doing anything to motivate us to perform? Giving us thirty seconds of oral then lying back in the missionary until we decide to change it up does not absolve you of any responsibility for bad sex. Neither does occasionally biting my ear. Neither does moaning or even screaming with milk toast enthusiasm. You want me to perform better? Give me a reason to. Let me know you want it more than I do. Let me know you are a beast waiting to be uncaged. I will react accordingly. Do not lie back and expect me to get in my cardio for the day trying to get you off. That is the sexual equivalent of a woman expecting a man to pay all her bills and shower her with gifts. Sex, too, is a 2-way street.

I know you fake orgasms. I have been with girls and thought to myself, “Nice faked orgasm” when they did it. I think I may have contributed to about four real orgasms this year, but of course the girls I was with probably think I believed it was four every time (and why, girls, is that the number you always use when you are lying? Much like the customary “7” when asked how many men you’ve slept with) How about you take responsibility for your own orgasm? If a position isn’t working for you, you switch it up into one that does. If we are going too fast/slow/shallow/deep for what you like, scream at us to do it like you want. That’s hot. Faking orgasms and complaining how bad we were? Not so hot.

I have had almost nothing but mediocre sex this year and I'm starting to wonder if I’m ever again going to find a girl who really knows what she's doing. I am extremely energetic and try to be creative when it comes to sex. But so many girls just lie there and don’t say anything or squirm if I even bring up the idea of trying something different (and, no I do not mean anal sex) that it makes me wonder if great sex is just as elusive as great love. Why do so many girls have such inhibited sexual attitudes? Are they afraid that if they show too much enthusiasm for sex that I will consider you a whore? Better I think that than that you are bad in bed. Which is what the majority of younger women are.

I have even gone so far as faking orgasms with girls I am with because they are so dull. So I understand why women do it. This is preferable to not getting off, which all girls blame on themselves. As well they should because nine times out of ten it probably is her fault. Again, we can get off fucking inanimate objects, so if I can’t get off with you, you are probably pretty awful. But girls get a complex and start crying if you tell them it’s not going to happen, so if I have a condom on nobody knows the difference. It is usually at this point I find a reason to leave and go home to “Barely Legal Summer Camp 4.”

This is not to say that you have to be a slut to be good in bed. I know a good number of girls who do not sleep around and do not have one-night stands but when they have a guy, they are insatiable. Like three times a day insatiable. And experimental and fun and usually complain to me about how their boyfriends are so lame because they only want it once a day. These guys are sad, and are definitely missing out. Although, I will say I had a girlfriend that probably said the same thing about me. But she was so dull it got to be like eating vanilla ice cream: Really good the first time but after a while you can't eat anymore unless you get some srpinkles.

This begs the question: So, White Dade, you think you’re goddamned Cassanova? No, quite the contrary. I know there are things I do well and things I don’t do well, and some girls think I’m great and some think I am altogether forgettable. And some compare me to Negra Modelo. But I will tell you when I am with a girl who is into it and energetic and exited, I perform extremely well. The uninhibited, crazy and insatiable ones are usually the ones who think I’m great. But I’m not good enough to bring out the whore in a librarian.

I am sick of women blaming men for bad sex. Unless we finish in two minutes, it’s not all our fault. If you are lying there in missionary and expect me to magically figure out how you like it and what gets you off, then your expectations are way too high. We are not mind readers, and no, we do not figure things out from your moans and groans, most of which are faked anyway. So speak up, move your body to a pleasurable position and let yourself go, mentally and physically. Being uninhibited is about the hottest thing a woman can do. Like an actor on the stage, I play off of your energy and enthusiamsm. Give me nothing, and you get nothing in return.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Marines Do the Darndest Things

I have been out of the Marine Corps for two years this week, and as such have forgotten how absolutely stupid a good percentage of Marines are. I remember being in boot camp and talking to some of these guys and thinking “I didn’t realize people this stupid actually existed. No wonder they volunteered to be on the front lines.” Oh, wait. So did I. And the sad thing is these people of questionable intelligence can actually pick up rank and end up in charge of hundreds of young lives. Such seems to be the case with my friend Biff’s unit.

There are intelligent Marines, and those are generally the ones I became friends with during my six years in the reserves (and most of the smart ones I met were reservists anyway. That’s why we were in the reserves). One of them was Biff, who got a 1400 on his SATs despite selling crack through much of high school. He is now a sergeant in a unit near Oakland (I suppose crack dealers just tend to naturally gravitate there. It's in the blood). They were activated this week and will be going to Fallujah in March.

Last weekend they had a mobilization brief for the families of the departing Marines, and had to take the families by bus from the Reserve center to a local community college for the briefing. Well, on the ride over, apparently some Rhodes Scholar-turned-Marine decided to drive one of the white government busses a little too fast, hit a speed bump the size of a Kia, and some poor old lady hit her head on the ceiling of the bus. She complained profusely to the commanding officer and threatened to sue. Because suing the military during wartime is such the American thing to do. At least in this day and age.

Biff’s Sergeant Major was none too pleased when he got this complaint. He came into the Monday morning briefing and said, “Alright, Marines, we had a little incident this weekend when one of you Devil Dogs decided to play Mario Andretti in the parking lot and somebody’s mamma hit her head on the roof of the bus. So we gotta have ourselves a little investigation here. What’s gonna happen today is we’re gonna take the busses out to the parking lot and see how fast we gotta move ‘em to get our grapes (Marine for head) slammed against the ceiling.”

Biff stood up at this point and said “Excuse, me, Sgt. Major, you mean to tell me that we are leaving for work up in three weeks and you want to spend a whole day finding out how fast you have to drive a bus over a speed bump to hit your head on the ceiling?” “Yes, Sergeant. Any other questions?” the Sgt. Major replied curtly. I would have loved to see the risk management assessment on this little mission the Sgt. Major thought up. We are losing half a dozen Marines a day in Iraq, but we’re probably going to have to paralyze at least four finding out why Grandma hit her head on the bus ceiling? And what do we say to the community college when there is a busload of Marines flying through the parking lot repeatedly at three times the speed limit? Government business? Riiiight. God, I miss the Corps.

So out to the parking lot went 44 of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children and piled into the white school bus and headed over to the community college. Upon arrival, the Sgt. Major instructed the Marine driving the bus to go over the bump at 10 miles an hour. They did this and got barely a jarring out of the seat. “All right, Devil Dog, I don’t have time for this shit,” said the Sgt. Major, “Back her up and take it at thirty.” Now, if you have ever driven a Honda over a speed bump at 30 mph, it is a pretty head knocking experience. Never mind a white school bus full of Marines. Needless to say, the driver backed up, paused, and floored the bus like the Duke Boys trying to jump a haystack running away from Sheriff Roscoe. They hit the speed bump and not only did every single Marine on the bus hit his head on the ceiling, many were launched out of their seats and into the rows ahead of them. When the bus finally came to a stop it looked like a transport that had been hit by enemy fire. Bodies strewn in the aisles. Marines grabbing their heads, complaining, wondering what hit them. All in the name of an “investigation.” What a fabulous way to spend a morning as you prepare for war.

This is not to say that the Marine Corps is run by a bunch of idiots. Officers all have college degrees (although, supposedly, so does half the NFL) and there are many senior enlisted men that would not see much merit in sending a school bus full of Marines barreling into a super-speed bump on the eve of war. Never mind the danger to civilians. Thucydides, a Roman scholar who used to teach about the scholar-warrior and how important it was to an effective society, said something to the effect of “You must have your scholars fight and you must have your warriors educated. Otherwise what you will have are universities full of cowards and battlefields full of fools.” Sound familiar to anyone?

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Escort Service Form Letter

My sister’s friend was screwing her boss. Perhaps not the best idea for a young paralegal fresh out of UC Irvine, but I am not one to judge people’s sexual ethics. At any rate, this created a bit of a dilemma for said friend when last year’s office Christmas party rolled around. She would no doubt piss off her boss if she brought an actual “date,” but at the same time she couldn’t very well have the whole office knowing that she was, in fact, screwing the boss. He was single and relatively young, so it wouldn’t have been a career ending scandal, but a scandal nonetheless. I didn't talk to this girl a whole lot, since she was one of my sister's friends and therefore off-limits. But for whatever reason, she decided that I would be the perfect hired escort. I was paid with free food and liquor at the party, a pretty cheap date if you ask me. She gave me her e-mail address and told me to e-mail her so she could send me the details. Well, I had about as much to do at my last job as I do at my current one (I am incredibly lucky in this respect) and came up with the following letter. I think if I ever do open an escort service, I will send this to all of my clients.

Dear Ms. Miranda –
Thank you for your interest in White Dade Professional Escorts. We strive to provide the highest quality, discreet escorts at a price you can afford, depending on what you want. Your request for Mr. Dade’s service for Saturday, December 18, 2004 has been received. We assure you that Mr. Dade is a professional in every sense of the word, having escorted contestants at the Miss Florida pageant on multiple occasions, including former Miss America Erikah Dunlap. Just be sure you do not give him excessive amounts of alcohol or cocaine. White Dade Escorts, LLC, cannot be responsible for his actions should this occur. Such actions may include, but are not limited to, belligerency, excessive conversation, disclosure of personal secrets (yours and his), crying, fighting, mental breakdowns, sexual overtures towards overweight women, tirades about how much he hates his family, and possible public nudity. This will serve as our official disclaimer.

In order to properly process your request we will need some additional information:

VISA # :
Expiration Date:
Time and Location of Event:
# of Hours requested:
Method of Transportation:
Requested Attire:
Acceptable topics of conversation:
Unacceptable topics of conversation:
Cover Story:

The cover story, of course is optional so that your peers/co-workers/family members do not know that you are using our service.

As soon as we receive confirmation of your reservation, Mr. Dade can begin preparation for this event including tanning, eyebrow waxing, facial, manicure/pedicure and wardrobe selection. These services will be performed free of charge so long as your reservation is kept. Should you cancel your reservation, however, you will receive an invoice for expenses incurred by White Dade Escorts, LLC. If you have any questions, we can be reached at 949-609-4051.

Thanks Again For Your Reservation!

White Dade
CEO, White Dade Escorts, LLC

Ironically enough, she was found out by her big boss like three days before the party as her and her younger boss were spotted leaving Home Depot together with a plunger on a Sunday. Not exactly something coworkers get together to do. I still got to go to the party, though. Seeing as how I am now scrambling for a date for my own Company Holiday party now that Miss X pulled her disappearing act, I am thinking I should call in this favor. So, Ms. Miranda, can you be in Miami by Saturday? If so there’s a catered dinner and a host bar in it for you.