Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Simple Pleasures

Days like today are easy. Tara tagged me and so now I am supposed to write a list of 10 Simple Pleasures that I have. Good. NO pressure to be creative or witty or write anything of any worth. Just ten things I like doing that don’t require a whole lot. Perhaps “Blog posts I don’t have to think about” should be #1. Or not.

  1. Ephedra fueled workouts. For those who have not done it, it makes you feel like the king of the world for about two hours while you lift large amounts of weight and stare at yourself in the gym mirror. Then you sing along with whatever is on at the gym, even if you hate the song. And the crash just gives you a nice peaceful nap.
  1. Trance Music in the Car at Night. I call it Club Matt. Throw on some Judge Jules or Tiesto and drive up and down the Turnpike at night going about 80 (faster if I’m not in the Saturn). This, too, is especially fun after an ephedra-fueled workout.
  1. Speaking fast English to a Spanish Speaker – No greater joy than frustrating someone who has not taken the time to learn the language. I’m sure some Hispanic blogger would write the complete opposite “Frustrating some dumb gringo by pretending not to speak English.”
  1. Old Cutler Road - If you live in Miami, you know this is arguably the prettiest drive in the county save for maybe Big Cypress Preserve. And much calmer than US-1, even when there is traffic. Great, now everyone is going to join me. Sorry.
  1. Deleting Emails I Don’t Want to Read - I used to open them all up out of curiosity. Now, if I can tell that it is going to be a string of insults or an argument that will go nowhere, I just ignore it. Call it growing up.
  1. Twilight - There is no better part of the day. Period. Even on unbearably hot days in Miami the weather at this time of night is always perfect. Unless it’s raining.
  1. Marlins Games - Not so simple, but you get to see big league baseball extremely cheap. The food is good, there are never any lines, and you can park 20 feet from the entrance if you want. Just make sure you go at night.
  1. Beer Pong - I wrote a whole post on this in January, but a GOOD night of beer pong is one of the more satisfying experiences a person can have. Even when you lose, you still have a good time since you are drunk at a bar with friends. Usually
  1. Cooking - I never really do it anymore, since it is cheaper for me to eat out, but it is something I really enjoy and am fairly good at. I don’t advertise this too much since then people expect me to cook for them. Although that can be fun too.
  1. Clean Sheets - Is there a better smell in the world than a detergent-scented duvet cover? Yeah, probably. But I always seem to sleep better the night after laundry day.

Wow, that was hard. It is difficult for someone like me, who writes almost exclusively about why things suck and what’s wrong with everything, to write about positive things. Thanks for the challenge, though, Tara. Maybe I have turned over a new leaf and can rename this blog “Cupcakes and Sunshine” or something. But somehow, I doubt it.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Dwyane Wade is The Next Michael Jordan, and Not in A Good Way

I have made my dislike of professional basketball pretty well known to anybody who associates with me. Never was this better demonstrated than last night when I watched all nine innings of the Marlins-Giants game, opting for that over the entire first half of the Heat's playoff match-up with Detroit. But I came to yet another revelation last night as I watched Miami take one more step towards their first Finals appearance: I don't like them either.

Now, anyone who knows me knows I pretty much only root for underdogs. And the Heat, at least at the beginning of this series, were definitely not the favorites. But they are the type of team I don't like: That is a team with superstars. Since the fall of the Laker Dynasty, the NBA has gotten a lot better. The team game has started to return and the champions have been teams like Detroit, whose first title team lacked an All-Star, and San Antonio, a team without a marketable superstar (Tim Duncan is about as dynamic as a paperclip). While commentators constant adoration of Duncan got a little old, it was nice to see teams winning championships that were not media darlings. But now come the Heat, a group led by the biggest of all big-market forces in Shaq and the NBA's new poster boy, Dwyane Wade. Both guys are likable, both guys are talented, and both will reap millions if the Heat win it all. The problem is, should the Heat win, the NBA model will once again change to a "let's find a star and win with him" game rather than a "let's find a bunch of guys who play their roles well and win" game. Michael Jordan had the same effect and almost completely ruined the game. Had it not been for the Pistons and Spurs, the NBA would still be unwatchable.

If the Heat win, every quick kid is going to hog the ball and insist he is the next "D-Wade." Every big guy is going to insist on getting "fed" and act like he is the next Shaq. Not that they aren't already, but it will lead to another generation of "me first" players as opposed to team-oriented guys. This is arguably why the world consistanly beats us at basketball since the concept of a team game was lost as soon as Jordan got his first shoe deal. If teams like Detroit, who play that team style of basketball, dominate the NBA for the next ten years or so, perhaps they can undo a lot of the damage that Jordan did. The Heat winning will just further validate the "I can make acrobatic shots and therefore I am the best player ever" philosophy that made the post-Jordan era perhaps the worst since the late-70's.

And while you can't dislike Dwyane Wade, I am entirely tired of hearing about how AMAZING he is. We get it. He's good. Can we talk about something else? Please? It's like watching any Packer game and listneing to them drone on and on and on about Brett Favre. I'm sure Bill Walton is happy the Heat are winning as he will have someone to verbally fellate during the finals. I'm not sure what Bill Walton would do during a superstar-less chamionship series. Perhaps shut up, which would be a blessing for us all.

So, again, I am coming out of the closet. Go Pistons! You are good for basketball. I like Dallas, too, as they also lack that one player who everyone loves to suck off (Dirk Nowitzki is constantly criticized for his lack of defense, although this year he has been vastly improved) and would be a good team to see win as well. Maybe even better than Detroit since they actually try and, you know, score. But if the Heat win, and God forbid win multiple championships, it will put team basketball back to 1998 and we will again be thrust into the "me" era that just recently seemed to be subsiding.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Summer and Suffer are Just A One Letter Difference

So you love summer? Good for fucking you. So I guess it’s Memorial Day and all the people in those snowbound and unattractive northern cities are jumping for joy because the temperature has risen above Freezing-To-Death degrees and women are wearing less that ten layers of clothing. Congratulations, rest of the country. Have a glorious summer. May it find you tanned, happy, and oversexed. But here in South Florida, we look forward to summer about as much as your average Buffalonian looks forward to January.

It started raining last week, and it’s not predicted to stop until, oh, about October. Now, this is not like Seattle, where you don’t see the sun for 9 months of the year. If it were we wouldn’t have all these darned traffic problems, now would we? No, no, Charlie Gas Ball beats down on his namesake state all day long, making everyone dirty and pissed off, until about 4 PM, when the sky decides to piss all over us. After an hour or two, he comes back to evaporate the rain, effectively creating America’s largest outdoor steam room. This makes everyone particularly hot, surly and frustrated since they must now go about their drive home in either A) A driving thunderstorm B) A soaking wet shirt that is made even colder by your blasting A/C or C) A car with no A/C, requiring you to leave you windows down, soaking your left sleeve and making your car reek of mold for the rest of its miserable life. And you wonder why we’re #1 in road rage.

Going to the beach is really fun. There are many days where the sand is so hot you have five less layers of skin when you walk from the street to the shore. Lying out is a not the best idea anyway, since most of that sunscreen you put on to protect you against the UV 112 is sweat out within about a minute and a half. You can try reading, but you’d better make sure you bring a hardback that will give you muscle cramps from holding it over your head all day, since the glue in softbacks tends to melt after a couple of hours causing the pages of your Clive Cussler to go flying three blocks south. Go in the water to cool off, you say? Well, aside from the inevitable thieving of all your personal possessions unless you can learn to say “Can you watch my stuff?” in Spanish, there is the little issue of the Atlantic Ocean being roughly the temperature recommended to cook a lobster. Which is ironic, because that is what most Americans look like after a summer afternoon in South Beach.

And remember all those American tourist girls that you picked up at the bars and played with in the sand? Yeah, well, they won’t be coming around for a while either. But you know who will be coming around? Rich South Americans. Because THOSE girls are always down for a romp on the beach after a couple pitchers at The Playwright. The UM girls are gone too, being replaced in local bars by local girls (and by “local” I think you know what I mean) home from UF or Florida State for the summer. Goodie. More of the lovely ladies of Lourdes Academy. I can’t wait.

Baseball? Don’t get me started. I love the Marlins to death, but read my paragraph about going to the beach above, place it in a mostly empty football stadium with no wind, and put a borderline unwatchable team on the field. Night games are a blast, too, especially when the afternoon thunderstorm has decided to stick around and try and watch the game with you. Rain delays are great, even better when you stay until 1 in the morning to watch your bullpen give up their 14th game winning homerun in a row.

Then there’s that little weather phenomenon we like to call the Hurricane. Mercifully, the season doesn’t start until June 1, but it has now been extended, I believe, into Valentine's Day. Even if we are spared a storm, there will be a minimum of three “scares” spaced just far enough apart so that as soon as you take your shutters down, you are putting them back up again. And when you’re not putting plywood or aluminum all over your house, you can go wait in hour-long lines at Publix to buy water and potato chips, or wait in a gas line to ensure that you can get around what’s left of the city when there is no gas to be had. I am convinced that Home Depot, Publix and Exxon/Mobil are seeding the clouds.

So yes, yes, enjoy your summer you condescending assholes. Just because it’s hot doesn’t mean we can’t be having the same fun you are. We’ll just need a lot more water to do it. And then, when fall rolls around and your girls’ clothes come back on and your barbecues turn back into Foreman Grills? Yeah, I’ll be sucking down a Call-A-Cab at Wet Willie’s and sending you pictures of palm trees from my phone. Have a great summer. KIT

White Dade

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Stripper vs. Bartender: Which One's Worse

Many of you, I am sure, are regular readers of my good friend The Assimialated Negro. If you keep up with his blog, a few weeks ago he had developed a crush on a local bartender and had decided to pursue her, stating that “I think dating a bartender or stripper should be one of the items on every guy's ‘100 Things To Do Before I Die’ list.” Yes, TAN, I suppose it is if you also include “Pouring Habanero Sauce on Your Scrotum” and “Spending a Week in a Turkish Prison” on that list. Unless you like to learn your lessons the hard way, dating bartenders and/or strippers is actually something more along the lines of “things I better make sure I stay the Hell away from before I die.” I have already explained to you all why dating a stripper is an idea on par with jumping into a piranha tank with a Porterhouse strapped to your neck, but believe it or not there is one occupation that is worse to date than the professional naked girl. And that would be the bartender.

Bartenders and strippers (and I’m not talking about “working my way through college” girls, but women who’ve been at it for more than a couple years and may or may not be doing it to support their kids) generally come from the same social class as your typical US Marine. That is not to say that they are bad people, but it is to say that they are much more susceptible to pregnancy and Crystal Meth than your run-of-the-mill accountant. These are women who trade on their looks, but lack the discernable talent to make it as models or actresses and lack the discernable brains to make it as anything that requires complex thought. And so they sling drinks. Or g-strings. As you might guess, this bodes really well for any relationship that you would want to last past her first period.

While your typical stripper or bartender will always have enough baggage to fill a U-Haul, a stripper makes a much better girlfriend (well, “better” in the same way George Bush Sr. made a “better” president than his son). “But White Dade,” you say, “I would much rather have nasty men staring down my girlfriend’s cleavage while they order domestic beer than staring at her kidneys as she slides around a pole!” Would you? Would you? Let’s think about this for a minute, gents. What kind of guys go into a strip club? Yeah, you get your occasional group of frat boys or businessmen with nothing to do, but your typical strip club patron is either a dirty old man, an illegal immigrant or a lonely pervert. Possibly all three. These are not men you really need to worry about your girlfriend going home with, now are they?

But what kind of guys go into bars? Regular, normal, good-looking clean cut guys. Guys who are, for lack of a better word, your competition. It is your girl’s job to flirt with them and they will invariably flirt back an may posilby ask for or give her their number. And she may take it. And she may use it. The bartender I dated, for example, had multiple numbers in her stuff when she stayed over after work, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she met up with these guys later "as friends." Right. Because if a stripper fucks a guy form the club she is basically a prostitute. But if a bartender fucks a customer she’s just being friendly and will probably start getting better tips.

Furthermore, bartenders are party girls. That chick who studies and wants to go med school? She’s not taking 6 years to graduate community college and paying her tuition with tip money. THAT girl is out partying, drinking, and hooking up with random guys, hence her inability to graduate in under half a decade. This is not to say that strippers don’t party. They do. A lot. But they party by doing coke with their girlfriends and going to expensive lounges where they pay for all their own shit because they have a lot of cash and are tired of guys hitting on them all night.

Bartenders also like to “go out with the coworkers” after their shift and “get drinks.” And by “get drinks,” they mean “go and flirt with the cute manager/bartender they work with, and possibly a cute customer.” And you are NEVER invited. Strippers, on the other hand, generally mandate that their boyfriends pick them up at work, and do not complain when they show up early. If they do decide to go out with coworkers, it is likely other strippers. That is, girls, not guys. Strip club managers usually resemble the taxi driver from “Wings,” the security guys are bloated juice-monkeys and the DJ’s are either too ghetto or total dorks. Point being that the male coworkers aren’t exactly enticing to your garter-wearing girlfriend, so you have little to be concerned with.

Strippers may be fucked in the head, but contrary to popular opinion most of them are not sluts. You see, strippers are the girls who had extreme Daddy issues and look for a strong male figure to fill that void in their lives. When they find him, they don’t ever want him to leave like Daddy did, so they will not risk that abandonment on some random affair or one-night stand. Bartenders, on the other hand, while still not exactly the cream of the emotionally stable crop, are not as psychologically fucked as strippers, so losing a boyfriend will not send them into a month-long coke binge. Cheating, which she will have an opportunity to do every time she clocks in, is not nearly as big a deal; if you leave, 300 of your replacements offer her their number ever night.

So, gentleman, if you do feel that you MUST date one of these types of women before you die, avoid the bartender at all costs. Strippers may be an emotional rollercoaster and may land you in jail and/or the emergency room from time to time, but you rarely worry about their fidelity. And I’ll take a loyal basketcase over a cheating whore any day.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

NBA: Nothing But Ads

There was a time, in the mid-90's or so, that basketball was far and away my favorite sport. But over the past ten years, I have come to notice that the games have become like one giant Sprite commercial with a few dunks thrown in. It is the most blatant pander-to-the-tv-money-and-advertising-dollars league that has ever disgraced this country with its presence. The players are perhaps the most distasteful, the tickets are beyond affordable for anyone who wants to be able to actually see, and it is only a matter of time before the NBA goes all Premiere League on us and starts putting ads on uniforms. Yes, college basketball is more or less watchable, but the NBA just makes my head hurt. And here’s why:

1. A 48 minute game should not take 3 hours. Remember back in the day when games took about 2:15 or so? Regular season games between Charlotte and Portland might be over that fast, but God forbid you try watching a game that anyone cares about. If the game is moving too fast, they CREATE a timeout to sell ad time. If the game is close, every “20 second” timeout called at the end is actually a “2 minute” timeout. And, you know what? That Budweiser ad was funny when I saw it in the first quarter, but not the 18th time I’ve seen it since halftime.

2. The first three quarters are irrelevant. It drives me nuts when people insist on watching an entire NBA game form start to finish. Look, with 6 minutes left in the fourth, it will be a 7 point game. I guarantee it. I think shortening the game to like, 7 minutes would have little effect on the reults. Becasue, basically, the score is tied at that point anyway.

3. The end of the game takes an hour. Now, I understand that fouling and timeouts are necessary to create dramatic moments such as buzzer-beaters and clutch foul shots. So I can’t complain about that. What I can complain about is every timeout at the end of the game lasting a minimum of two and a half minutes and taking commercial breaks before foul shots. Pay the players less and you won’t have to sell so much goddam airtime. It’s not like they deserve it.

4. The playoffs last a year and a half. The NBA Playoffs are like a James Bond Movie. You are led to believe, in your suspension of disbelief, that James Bond might actually not make it this time. Oooh, maybe that giant laser saw really will cut him in two. Kind of like Oooh, Sacramento won a couple of games at home, maybe they really will beat the Spurs. But you know goddam well that Bond is going to live and that Tim Duncan is going to be playing well into May. Back when series were five games, you got an occasional upset. But now? C’mon! There is no need for me to see the Pistons beat Milwaukee four times. Even the Phoenix-Lakes series was a foregone conclusion. And do you remember when they used to play playoff games on back-to-back days? What a concept. But no. No. More ad time needed, more games added, and series now take up to 18 days to tell me what I could have told you on November 3. The final four or five teams are more or less a forgone conclusion by the All-Star break. If you insist on including eight teams, make the first two rounds best of five and the last two best-of-seven. If you want to really make the playoffs interesting, take each division winner, plus one “Wild Card,” like baseball does and play your best-of-sevens. THAT would be a great playoffs.

5. The Players are not likable. Most of the players are jackasses. It’s really like a league full of Terrell Owens, except most of them lack his stand-out talent. Shaq, for instance, is held as a pillar of sportsmanship simply because he never gets arrested or does drugs. Great standards. Even the NFL has quarterbacks who, unless your name is Michael Vick or Daunte Culpepper, are generally Golden-Boy pillars of the community. But the NBA is hard-pressed to find a single star not named LeBron or Dwyane that is acceptable to Middle America.

Yes, I know, the league will continue to prosper as long as the people eat it up. Much like so many other disgusting popular phenomenons like American Idol and Maxim. I really don’t ever watch unless I’m in a bar where I can distract myself form the horrible disgrace on the television with a stiff drink. Get a clue, NBA. Stop pandering to the money and put out a decent product. Because, eventually, your bubble will burst.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Sexual Harrassment and The Publix Deli

Don’t ever let it be said that men cannot be the victims of sexual Harassment. Yes, yes, I know we all saw that movie with Demi Moore that was supposed to convey some sort of power-harassment thing, but, let’s be honest, every man on Earth would do pretty much whatever Demi Moore told him. At least they would have in 1994. No, no, what I am talking about is having to go to a grocery store 5 miles out of your way because the deli lady thinks you’re her baby daddy. Or at least wants you to be.

Since my good friend Graig was a little bug-eyed toddler, he had shopped at the Publix on 144th and US-1. His mom bought him formula there, his dad used to take him to buy ice cream there, he bought his first 20 sack of weed in the parking lot there. That Publix held many fond memories for old Graig spanning the last 25 years. That was until one fateful day this fall, when Graig came in after a late spinning class looking for nothing more than a quarter pound of turkey with which to make his evening sandwich. But it would not be so simple.

Working the Deli counter that night was a woman who we shall call Tanya. Tanya was not exactly Graig’s type, insofar she was over five feet tall, weighed over 95 pounds and was not Hispanic. She was, in fact, the complete opposite. Unfortunately, Graig was exactly Tanya’s type and she spent the entire incident cutting his turkey using sexual innuendo like “You like it thick and juicy or skinny and dry?” Graig more or less ignored her, until he went back two nights later after spinning. Again, Tanya was at the counter, and this time asked Graig if he wanted to be her Baby Daddy as he attempted to purchase a few slices of Munster Cheese. “No, just the cheese, thanks,” responses Graig, ever the diplomat.

It was after two more episodes that involved the showing of a thong (and, man, you have never been turned on until you have seen a pink thong under a Publix Deli Apron) and a seductive handling of a Hebrew National Salami that Graig decided frozen entrees might make a better dinner selection. So, when he returned to his local grocery the next day, he made a B-line for the frozen foods aisle. Having selected his Hungry Man entrée for the evening, he walked down the aisle, turned right, and ran head-on into a large wall of humanity named Tanya. “Hey baby,” she said, “My girls told me you was here. How come you didn’t come by and get no meat? Cuz I know I sure love me some meat.” Graig, slightly frightened, swallowed hard and meekly told her that he wanted to try something different. “Hmm, well, you better come visit me when you done.” Graig nodded and proceeded to the checkout counter, bought his dinner, and immediately broke his promise to Tanya, sprinting to his car like had just stolen the entire contents of the Publix safe.

The next week Graig thought maybe he would go on a different night to throw her off. He walked in, looked over at the deli, and did not see Tanya. Whew. Still, not taking any chances, Graig opted for a Lean Cuisine bag rather than perhaps let anyone think he was going to visit his deli-dwelling admirer. As he turned on his feet to head over to the frozen foods section, he heard a voice coming form the deli. “Oh, look, there’s Tanya’s man. Yo, Tanya, yo’ man is here!” And with that, Tanya came bouncing out of the back of the deli and jiggled her way over to Graig, who was trying to pretend he didn’t see her. No such luck. The next thing Graig knew, he was suffocated in a bosom that smelled of old Pastrami and cheddar. It was during the 30 seconds that his life flashed before him in a green-and-salmon blur that he decided he would have to find a new Publix. And so he did.

Now Graig does his shopping at the Publix on 162nd. On the West side of US-1, which is, to put it mildly, a slightly less desirable neighborhood. Gone is the organic foods section, the deli the size of small hardware store, the full service pharmacy and the bank. In are people with stacks of 400 coupons who bring their 9 kids with them to the store. Gone are the rich housewives stocking up for the week. In are the throngs of construction worklers buying Gotarade and Lotto tickets. Graig can no longer shop at the Publix he loves, all because he made the egregious error of wearing a revealing wife-beater and shorts to Publix. Well, at least we know he will never sexually harass any women at his place of work, as he knows the pain of having to change your life due to someone else’s unrequited obsession.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Mayor Has Solution To Miami's Road Rage

MIAMI – In response to his county’s recent designation as the America’s worst city for Road Rage, Miami-Dade County Mayor Carlos Alvarez has taken radical action to solve the problem and made his county the first in America to completely legalize Marijuana. On the Freeway. During Rush Hour. In your car. In a prepared statement delivered today at Bicentennial Park, home of Miami’s annual MarleyFest, Mayor Alvarez stated that this step would, at the very least, make people a little less angry about traffic.

“I do understand that this will probably make slow drivers drive even slower, and cause a few more accidents here and there,” Alvarez said. “But really, if you’ve got a blunt hanging out your driver’s side window, is that extra 15 minutes on US-1 really going to bother you that much? Not really, Not really.”

The theory behind the recent legalization is simple: High drivers will be less stressed, and therefore less prone to road rage. Potheads are hard pressed to get off the couch to change the channel on the television, much less start a fistfight in the middle of The Palmetto. People may even begin to enjoy being stuck in traffic, as their elevated mood and feeling of relaxation will be associated with sitting in their cars on the freeway. But not all are excited. Miami-Dade Police Assistant Director Naim Erched was livid in his condemnation of Mayor Alvarez’s actions.

“Is this man insane? We are setting back drug enforcement 100 years! How the Hell are we supposed to stop anyone with this (stuff) in their vehicle? These worthless dopehead scumbags are just going to be like ‘Hey, man, I’m saving it for rush hour. Chill out.’ Unbelievable.”

The Mayor has set out guidelines as to who can and cannot legally be smoking in their cars. And when they can do it. The smoking lamp will be lit on US-1, I-95 and Florida’s Turnpike going North between 6:30 and 9:00 AM daily, and southbound between 4:00 PM and 7:30. "That's what you get for living in Browrad," the Mayor added. The Dolphin Expressway as well as all major arteries will be deemed “green-zones” at the same times Eastbound and Westbound respectively. Old Cutler Road will not have any legal smoking times, as police departments in Coral Gables, Pinecrest and Palmetto Bay claimed that a reduction in traffic citations would undermine their budget by nearly 95%. The Palmetto Expressway, however, will be America’s first and only 24-hour weed-smoking highway.

“Since The 826 generally moves at the same speed as your typical pothead, no difference is expected to be noticed on that road,” Alvarez continued, “Our construction crews are really looking forward to the reduction in profanity and blunt objects being hurled their way as well. Who knows, maybe some of our more drug-ethics-friendly drivers will adhere to the ‘Puff, puff, give,’ mentality and hook some of them up. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

So it seems that the days of mayors getting in fistfights on the 826 are over, being replaced by a large cloud of herbal smoke. The noxious fumes of diesel trucks and stench of burning rubber will be replaced by the pleasant smell of burning blunts and blazing bowls. And while traffic in Miami-Dade will certainly only get worse, it seems that Mayor Alvarez is at least trying to improve people’s attitudes about it. Because, if a problem exists and nobody cares, is it really that much of a problem? Like the proverbial tree falling in the woods, we will never know. But what we do know is that form now on, that hour long drive home in bumper-to-bumper at 5:00 may very well become the highlight of your day.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

That's Right, Buy It Bitch!

We are The Guys form South Florida, we don’t pay for shit. We are masters of the open bar. We tip well and stockpile 18 drinks in under 45 minutes, finishing them all before the ice melts and before either of us yack. And we’re not giving any to you. So don’t fucking ask. We’re so fucking good, we go out to clubs you only see on Extra and Us Weekly, and pay about $20 each for the entire night. And we’re lit. We don’t buy ANYTHING for girls, ever. No matter how hot they are, we’re not giving them shit. But some guys do. Some guys are stupid and think buying a drink will get them laid. Guys with names like Cam and Trev and Topher who wear striped shirts and jeans, fall prey to pretty girls every day and never seem to learn their lesson. And for this they should all be shot. Because without them, girls wouldn’t think they deserved things they don’t. Of course, without them, I wouldn’t have had the euphoric experience I had Friday night.

Before the stabbing, there was an hour-long Open Bar at Mansion. Right next to me and my stockpile an extremely attractive blonde, probably about a 9, was chatting up Cam and Topher (in town from Portland, I would guess) dressed in their Banana Republic Best. After a couple of minutes, Cam, being the sucker that he is, throws down his Platinum Visa for a round of expensive-looking mixed drinks for the blonde and her three slightly-less-attractive friends. He was greeted with a thank you and a prompt migration by said blonde to the other side of the club. Our Striped-shirted hero was left about $48 poorer and with about the same chance of fucking the blonde as the homeless guy outside offering to sell me his shirt. Although said bum was pretty ripped, so he might actually have a leg up.

Fifteen minutes later, we are about four drinks each into the stockpile, with roughly ten still sitting on the bar, and who should walk by but Hot Blonde in a Miniskirt. Yep, the same one that took Cam for that quick fifty bucks. She looks at our stockpile, and then proceeds to stand directly to my left without saying a word. And then she starts dancing. Not with anyone, mind you, or really by herself, but close enough to me that her ass and the occasional hand touch me. Just enough so that I’ll turn around, thinking she’s interested, and start a conversation. A conversation just long enough for me to offer her some of the stockpile. Except she picked the wrong bitter local to fuck with. Living in Miami, you can sense these things, and while it is not every day a tall, hot blonde tries to dance with me, I paid her about as much attention as I did to the guy cleaning up litter on the dance floor. The more she tried, the more I talked to my friend, and the more free vodka-cran I dumped down my throat. That she wasn’t getting.

After about ten minutes, she finally gave up and asked the bartender for two drinks. She gave me a quick glance and smile after she ordered, which I promptly ignored. As she dug, defeated, into her Fendi Bag and took out her LV wallet, I looked at my friend and smiled. “Aw, look at that. Hot girl has to pay for her own drinks. Out-fucking-standing.” We stood with shit-eating grins as she pulled out the only $27 in her wallet and grudgingly handed it to the bartender. I couldn’t help thinking I’d taken one small step for mankind. If no other sucker bought her shit, she would either be stuck drinking tap water or busting out her credit card for the rest of the night, and it was only 11:30. I made her use up all her allotted cash, which she was probably hoping to spend on weed or pizza or something later. Nope, not today honey. Today you made the egregious error of thinking that I was dumb enough to give you anything. And for that you must pay. I think $25 for a couple of dirnks is an appropriate penalty. And not that Grey Goose Martini that Cam would have bought you, but a delicious, delicious Skol and 7. Drink up, you paid for it.

I’m sure you figured we were gay, and that was why I was able to resist your cheap solicitation disguised as a mating dance. But no, I am not. I’m just smart and seasoned, and take pride in teaching lessons to inflated-ego tramps like you. Not every guy is going to be fooled by your looks, so don’t assume you can get whatever you want just because you’re hot. White Dade 1 Hot Chick 0.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

The Stories Behind the Stories

A lot of people ask me where I get the ideas for a lot of these rants. Well, many are told as stories, so I guess those explain themselves, and some give some back story to explain. But several rants are inspired by events, conversations, and people who do not get mentioned. So here is a giant thank you to all of them…

: My roommate and I, some years ago, actually coined the phrase “White Dade.” My apologies to him, since I forgot who actually said it first, but it is a term we use to describe the Americans left in Miami. (I actually wrote a post about this a few months ago). We agreed that if we ever started a band, it would be called “White Dade,” and feature all band members on the cover wearing Polos tucked into shorts with loafers and no socks. Since the band never came to fruition, I used the name for the blog. Funny that he stumbled on it three months after its creation. Countless other posts have been inspired by hypothetical conversations we’ve had, or rants we have gone on while sitting at the corner table at the Tavern They include: Sports Knowledge is Not A Turn-On, Anything involving getting away with Drinking and Driving (ironic, I know), Bumgear, a concept he created long ago, The Correlation between “The Fire Inside” and the month of March, The March Conversation, and, most recently, my "special" counsin's inner monologue. This is a hypothetical we actually threw around every time “Let’s Get Retarded” would come on at a bar. Also, he provided some of the answers, indirectly, for my interview with anonymous since he was one of my better anonymous commenters before his retirement. Although that post was much more inspired by a commenter’s manifesto on This is What We Do Now.

Alice: Aside form showing me how to set up a blog, post pictures, link shit, and pretty much everything else on Blogger, Alice has given me a great many post ideas via our daily email/chat conversations. The Golden Girls post, I think was the first, but also her discussion of some of her friends’ activities inspired Hookers Don't Count. The rant against New Yorkers and their dating practices was also mostly directed at Alice, and the stalker piece was directed at, shall we say, someone she knew but didn’t want to.

Stripper Ex: Any piece on here that talks about my non-attraction to ethnic women, the joys of being single, avoiding relationships and strippers is inspired by my Asian Stripper Ex in LA. Someday, I will write a post detailing how truly awful that relationship was, and how it taught me never to date someone just for the sake of having a girlfriend, but suffice to say that year inspired a lot of the attitudes you read about here. Before her, I hated being single. Before her, I thought I could be consistently attracted to a non-White girl. Before her, I still thought dating a stripper might be cool. Anyway, thanks LeeAnne, you have been an indirect negative muse.

Graig: Aside form actually writing about four posts, Graig was the person who first showed me the infamous FSU Cowgirl pictures. In addition to that, he also filled me in on her status as a pseudo-celebrity and sent me the Deadspin links to her various projects. Yes, without Graig, my notoriety as the leading Cowgirl-hater would not exist. That, and my friend Patrick who brought that Maxim on the road trip to Alabama that finally pushed me over the edge with their over-exposure and led to my most-famous piece. A lot of conversations I’ve had with Graig inspired other posts like the one about the actual numbers of White Girls in Miami, White girls always thinking we're hitting on them (that was actually inspired by an incdent where Graig asked a girl at a pizza shop if she was someone he knew, and she gave him a little too much attitude), and whether it’s worse to fuck a fat girl or be seen in public with her. Oh, and his incessant sending of pictures of a girl he slept with on a cruise caused me to post my first ever picture on "Okay, So You Banged a Hot Chick..." (another hypothetical thought up by me and my roommate).

Johnson: He has a few posts named after him, and has inspired pretty much every post about banging fat girls. Because he was doing it long before me. His incessant licking of Jack Bauer’s nut sack was the impetus for my "rant" against all the other Bauer-blowers. I would also be remiss if I did not mention that Johnson was the first to post my Jenn Sterger rant on a UM Football message board, which got the whole ball rolling.

The IJC: His was the first blog I read and he gave me the insight to notice them when they are around. I think I have about four posts about my experiences with Jewish girls, and I owe them all to IJC. Thanks for that and the tour of Murray Hill.

Dream Girl: I went out with a girl a few times in November and December who, for the amount of interactions we had, was the reason behind a good number of posts. Several have been deleted, but the Dog Track Date, the Hating on White Girls and the Sports Knowledge were all written after experiences with her.

I have one friend in particular whose antics have driven me to write The Rules of It's Over, The Letter to the Recently Single Friend, and How to Know When It's Time to Leave. He knows it, so I have no qualms telling him openly. Another friend, in New York, was also implicated in the open letter as well as my Fun With Tourists.

My female friends who talk about sex all the time inspired both my posts about girls being bad in bed back in December and Nice Girls Don't Use Condoms. I have had the condom conversation with the Rommate and Graig many times as well.

My old Boss from California got a dedication, but also inspired “Why are You in My Office” along with, more importantly, my most recent boss.

The Ultra article was something I originally wrote for Heather, which she rejected, and I posted on a slow day.

I wrote the 6 part Sex Guide for my sister, but you all know that. It was a completely wasted effort.

Some of you know you inspired posts, and don’t want to be recognized. Others I have mentioned in the posts themselves as inspirations, and often linked you. So I will leave it at that. Anyone who I forgot, my apologies, let me know if you were overlooked.

Monday, May 15, 2006

An Open Letter To Recently Single Friends

Dear Recently Single Friend;

I am a good friend. I am supportive. I understand that you are a little upset since you and your girlfriend decided to part ways. So I will go out with you, get hammered, take shots saying "Fuck the Bitch," and generally listen to you bemoan the loss of love. And I will do this for as long as it takes to get you over her, provided that period is not longer than two months.

I will allow you one, and I mean ONE, unrequested phone call telling me that you got laid. Because I know you want it to somehow filter back to your ex, and I know you are excited at the prospect of another girl actually wanting your dick. But after that, you are subject to the same rules as every other friend I have i.e. if I want to know if you got laid, I'll ask you. Otherwise, don't fucking mention it. It reeks of lack of class.

But here is what I will not do: I will not follow you around to nine different parties in one night as you talk to every girl in the room collecting phone numbers like they were bottle caps. I will not play wingman every goddam night, even though you know very well I'm willing to go home with her fat friend. Yes, I'll do it, but once in a while I'd like the chance to talk to something decent. I will not devote entire nights out to you finding a piece of ass that you haven't been hitting since 2002. I have a life, too, and a lot of times that life includes getting hammered and not talking to anyone but the dudes I went to the bar with. Which, occasionally, might be you.

Also, please do not make me look like a jackass for bringing you around my female friends. Do not hit on my female friends when they are near-passed-out at a table, and then ask me if they liked you. They don't even fucking remember you. And the ones who do think you're creepy. You ooze desperation and that makes me look bad by association.

And I know the prospect of fucking something that you haven't already fucked 1000 times is titillating, but not every night needs to be devoted to finding ass. Having been single a LOT longer than you, I will tell you that you get laid when you aren't out looking for it. So instead of saying "Well, where are the girls at?" when I ask you where you want to go out, just tell me the place with the $2 drink specials and be happy about it.

If at any time during a given evening you go outside to call/text/meet up with your ex, you are officially sacrificing your ride home. Or any further social contact with me that evening. I am there for moral/drinking support. If I see you on your cell phone repeatedly, I know that's not your Dad calling to talk about the Dolphins game. Get out of my bar and go meet up with her, because I am disgusted with you and would rather drink alone.

Lastly, if you are reading this, and you are a friend of mine, and you broke up with someone recently, know you are one of MANY, and this letter is really a composite of people I've hung out with post-breakup over my lifetime. Is it aimed at you? Yes, insofar as you fit the category of "recently single friend." But just know that this all holds true. So you wanna get together and get shit faced for a good time? Great, I'll bring the beer. But you wanna endlessly chase every girl you see then text your ex at the end of the night? Find another shoulder to cry on, because I'm too busy being single.

White Dade