Friday, December 22, 2006

A Little Friday Anti-Semitism

The Hannukah fairy came last night. A friend of mine came home with gifts for myself and one of his roommates. He got a 6-pack of beer and I got three Cuban cigars. His other roomate, who is Irish-Catholic, felt a bit slighted so he piped up and said "Hey dude, where's my gift?"
"Your gift is eternal salvation. These two are going to Hell, I thought the least I could do was get them some beer and cigars." Line of the week.

And to that greedy bastard who owns Jerry's Famously Overpriced Deli and now owns The Rascal House: Are the $13 burgers just not lining your fucking pockets enough that now you need to tear down Rascal House to build yourself some fucking condos? Yeah, becasue you know what Miami needs less of? Landmark restuarants. And you know what we need more of? Condos. Fucking condos. This is why Miami absolutely disgusts me soemtimes, money and builders seem to overpower the will of the public. See the debate over the Urban Development Boundry if you have any questions about that. Lets just tear down the deco district and build condos while we're at it too. Miami is the only big city in Florida with any character, but disgusting indivduals like this assclown see nothing but money. I hate developers, they have no sense of history or amtosphere. So fuck you Sunny Isles, and fuck you you money-gouging asshole who owns the Rascal House. You help make Miami a shithole.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

I Can See How A Latin Guy Could Get Used to This

The Latins, they treat their women a little differently than you and I. And by “you and I” I mean White people. So if you are not White, let me apologize before you lambaste me in the comments box. My point today is this: While this space is generally devoted to an admittedly biased criticism of Latin culture, today we are going to change it up a bit. I am going to put aside my “raised by a Berkeley Feminist Lawyer Single Mom” sensibilities and explain why I can kind of see where Latin guys are coming from in the way the approach gender roles. Not that I agree, but I can see why they wouldn’t want to change.

I had the pleasure of attending a little Christmas luncheon party at this guy’s apartment across the street form the Orange Bowl. For those not familiar with Miami, this area boasts about 5 English-speaking residents, one of them being yours truly. I arrive at the luncheon and in the living room are about 7 or 8 men, mostly contractors, watching Telemundo and drinking some Heineken. I join them and notice that in the kitchen are four or five women talking in Spanish and preparing some food. So I get up to go and get myself a plate and my friend, who is Dominican, tells me to sit down.

He then yells something in Spanish into the kitchen and out comes a woman with a tamale, rice and beans and some other shit the I couldn’t either pronounce or recognize. We’ll just call it arroz con culo. At any rate, as I take my first bite another man asks me, in Spanish, if I’d like a beer. I accept and he yells something into the kitchen and out comes another woman with a beer. Then more women with food for the other men. We sit, shoot the shit in English and Spanish about a variety of inappropriate topics, and as I finish my plate I get up to get more. Again, I am told to sit down, something is yelled in Spanish into the kitchen, and Voila! White Dade has another full plate of arroz con culo and a fresh fork. You know, in case my first one had fallen on the floor. So I got to sit down, drink several beers, eat three plates of food, and never once had to call “seatbacks.” I am sooo going over to this guy’s house for the Super Bowl.

It must be nice to have servants when you live in an apartment that probably costs less than my monthly bar tab. Not to disparage their living conditions, but most people I know with minimal cash flow generally have to get up and get their own beers, even if they are married. If you’ve been brought up like this in “My Country” and all of a sudden you move to a new country and the women are like “Get up and get your own fucking beer you lazy spic,” I can’t really blame you for being hesitant to assimilate. Is it ultimately more equitable and fair for men to serve themselves? Of course it is. But man, a guy could get used to never having to leave the couch.

I can see why a lot of White Boys I know talk about wanting to find a nice, subservient Latina wife. I don’t know too many white girls who, if I was sitting on the couch and I yelled at her in the kitchen to bring my big, goofy friend a beer, who would just bring it out and maybe a fork in case his had fallen on the floor. A white girl, or even an Americanized Latina, would be like “Fuck you.” Personally, I like a woman who challenges me and I see as an equal. But if you are the type of guy who believes in gender-relations like this (which are a lot more than you think) I can see why a Latin woman would be much more appealing than an American. Even if you’re White.

Of course, there is an inherent downside: If she’s going to act like the docile woman, you have to act like the Macho Man. Paying for everything, acting over-protective and jealous, and never showing any emotion or talking about how you feel. Basically acting like, you know, a man, something at which I am not very good. This is yet another reason I don’t do well with Latin culture, but more and more, I can see why some of them don’t really want to change.

Friday, December 15, 2006

The Politics of Oral

In this, the season of giving and receiving, I thought I might opine for a minute of one of the most important concepts of giving and receiving around: Oral Sex. Unlike Christmas presents, I enjoy giving and receiving equally, and think it is crucial in any relationship. But there are people out there with a hard-and-fast set of rules for oral sex, which I don’t really understand. Again, I think people who are good in bed, or in an elevator, a car, a Greyhound bus or an airplane, don’t really concern themselves with the politics of oral so much as they do with, ooooo feeling good.

There are guys out there who believe that a girl needs to be the first one to go downtown. What an absolute load of hogwash. First of all, I love going down on a girl. I may not be spectacular at it, but I think I am at least serviceable and that is enough to grant me license to perform this act at will. So if I am the first one to put my mouth down there, so be it. As long as the girl is enjoying herself, I’m enjoying myself and we can all be happy. Guys who insist that she go first? Well, that’s just being plain old selfish in the sack. What are you afraid of? That you’ll eat her out and she won’t sleep with you? Guys, let me let you in on a little secret I learned from my years of reading Cosmo: A girl gets hornier when you go down on her. She wants sex MORE and gets much closer to orgasm that if you just stick it in after 5 minutes of foreplay.

Are you afraid of the loss of the power dynamic? Because GIVING oral sex is actually more empowering than receiving it. You have the other person under your control and can please them or pain them at will. It is actually taking charge more than you think, which is why girls who slam you up against the wall and suck your dick are usually the same ones who enjoy smacking you around.

While I am certainly one to enjoy giving oral, it is by no means EVER a one—way street. So much as I enjoy doing it, if the favor is not returned I will stop. Maybe not after the first encounter, but if it happens twice you can forget me ever going down there again until you do it too. That’s just plain-old reciprocation. Similarly, if I am down there and you give me no reaction then I’m really not going to have any incentive to continue. Should either or both of these occur, oral sex will pretty much be out of the repertoire, rendering you bad in bed and me sufficiently bored. But again, this is not so much a power thing but more my not wanting to be the only one doing it.

There are girls out there who like to give and not receive. While some guys may be thinking “Jackpot” I would actually not be comfortable dating (theoretically, anyway) a lady in this category. While it is certainly preferable to an oral-free existence, eventually I want to return the favor, get face to face with it and go to town. I have an oral fixation, what can I say? I chew on straws at restaurants bite my nails, so it only reasons that would extend to the bedroom. But if a girl is going to draw the line at receiving oral sex, chances are anal vibrators and hot wax are not going to be in our future. But that’s just a guess.

Oral sex is crucial in any good sexual relationship. Some people see the giving of oral as a loss of power, but really it is the other way around. You have the power to give pleasure or take it away, to cause pain or stop it, and when you have someone in that state of arousal they will do a lot of things they would not otherwise do. Going down on someone first is not a concession of power, but rather an expression of expanded sexual boundaries. Should the favor not be returned in a timely manner, there is no reason you should continue giving, but most people are open to oral and it should not be a problem. Girls get more excited and closer to orgasm when you go down on them, and I don’t know a guy who doesn’t enjoy a good blow job.

So what’s the problem folks? Where’s the downside? You don’t need to wait for the other person to go there first, just man/woman up and do it. Being good in bed means sometimes going first, and any person, male or female, who is too scared or too proud to do it is probably not all that good anyway. Have a great weekend everyone! Go out and give somebody the best oral they’ve ever had.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

It's Christmas, Don't Buy Me Shit

I am not a big fan of Christmas for a lot of reasons. Many will say its because I’m Jewish, but these people forget that my Dad is actually not and I spend most Christmas’ with him. So there goes that theory. Similarly, Christmas is more about sales and Santa in this country than it is about Christ, so, no, it is not that aspect that bothers me much at all. What I really hate about Christmas is the fucking presents.

Just because it’s December you don’t need to give me anything despite what the good people at Jared might say. On my birthday, yes, you do, but Christmas? Please do me a favor and leave me off your list. I don’t have a computer, so don’t get me an iPod or any computer games. My DVD player doesn’t work, so don’t get me any of those. I don’t do gadgets, I don’t cook anymore, and I only read fiction. Most things I want I buy for myself. So please leave the gifts you give “just for the thought” on the shelf. I’m not giving you any thought, so please don’t give me any. You know what being really thoughtful would be? Not buying me a goddam thing.

See, here’s what happens when you buy me something: Since you decided it was mid-December and that I needed a gift, something I neither wanted nor needed but something you felt compelled by TV ads to get me, I am now required to get something for you. Lest I look like a cheap Jew. So now I have to go out to a crowded store, deal with all the people and their obnoxious little brats looking for presents, and shop for something that I don’t even know you want. Had you not bought me anything, I would not be obligated to do this and could live through December just like any other month. But no, you had to go and fuck that up for me and make me feel bad. Thanks a lot.

My theory on presents is simple: If it isn’t perfect, don’t even bother. For instance, if I knew you were a HUGE Louisville football fan, I would probably get you Orange Bowl tickets. Or if I knew you loved Bob Seger, I might get you his latest CD. But if all I know is that you have a cat and like to drink, well what the fuck am I supposed to do? Get you a bottle of wine? Yeah, that’s fucking original. Why waste the money on something that will receive nothing more than a milk toast response?

Furthermore, most years I am not really in a financial position to be spending $500 or more on gifts for people. So basically, in order for me to get a bunch of shit I don’t want, I have to scrimp on food, alcohol and dietary supplements so I can buy shit for other people. Fuck that. I usually end up getting about the same value of gifts that I end up spending money on, but I really could have used that cash to buy myself things I wanted instead of what other people thought they should give. So if it’s all coming out as a wash anyway, how about I don’t buy you shit, you don’t buy me shit, and we all go home happy and not stressed out.

I haven’t gone “Christmas Shopping” in several years. A couple of years ago I gave my whole family orthopedic pillows. Last year I gave my sister money and she bought everything. This year, I’m not going home for the Holidays which means I don’t have to buy shit. If they want to UPS my presents to my apartment in Little Havana and have the Haitians across the street take it and put in on the next boat to Port-Au-Prince, then that is on them. I didn’t ask you for anything, so don’t give me anything. Let’s make this a holiday we can all enjoy and spend that gift money on someone who will really appreciate it, namely yourself.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Somehow, It Just Wasn't As Sweet

There is a reason I always root for the underdog: Because winning unexpectedly is just that much more glorious. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, redemption is a sweet thing and I'd rather win than lose, but the difference between playing as the favorite and fighting as the underdog are very different things.

And so it was that Balligerent made its return to the fields at Bayfront Park on Saturday, eager to avenge our Rock/Paper/Scissors loss in the championship game of the Summer Season. We came in undefeated, not having lost a game since about Mid-July and not even having tied since the night before our glorious tournament run of two months ago. We had, for all intents and purposes, forgotten what it was like to lose at Kickball. For my part, I had become the quite the prolific kicker, coming from a beleaguered player who our captain hoped would not show up to a dependable slugger who could always drive in whoever was on base. But a funny thing happens when you expect yourself to win.

Our first game went relatively well, as we dispatched a team made up of Coconut Grove bar employees by the score of 11-3. I drove in my customary three runs and aside from an ill-advised run to home plate (I still have yet to ever actually SCORE a run) I played rather well. That was, until game two. Our opponents called themselves Globo Gym (how fucking original) and were made up of a hybrid of top male players who had been in the league since its inception a year and a half ago. Their girls, not so much, and, oh, yeah, my girlfriend happens to be one of them. It didn't help matters that she had slept with about half the guys on the team so in addition to having to play in front of her, I also was constantly getting the "Yeah, I fucked your girlfriend" look from every guy on the field. The field we were playing on was receiving a fierce wind off the bay making long kicks nearly impossible. So it took us 4 innings to score the first run of the game.

With the score 1 to nothing, Globo Gym had runners at the corners with no outs when one of their stronger kickers kicked a line drive right at a girl playing her first ever kickball game. Her eyes got as big as the ball she was trying to catch as she miraculously snagged the line drive for out number one. She alertly threw the ball to our pitcher who saw the runner from third trying to tag and score. Having learned an unfortunate lesson in last year's title game, he threw the ball to the catcher this time who tagged out the runner going home for out number two. In the confusion, a blonde on first decided she would try and go to second but was alertly spotted by our pitcher and pegged out for an inning-ending triple play. I was up in the next inning with runners on first and second with no outs, but just like when I was a kid and my mom came to my games, I couldn't play worth a shit with my girlfriend and the 7 guys she'd fucked before me watching. After a couple of whiffs I had a weak rally-killing popup that failed to produce an insurance run, and Globo Gym tied it in the top of the inning. Fortunately, as the home team, we were up last and scored one (again, thanks to our first-timer) for a dramatic 2-1 win.

We again faced The Yellow Team in the title game, who had brought Burger King hats to put on should their Raggaeton-and-Cameltoe-fueled squad capture the title. It was not to be, however, as even though they took a quick 1-0 lead, it was easily erased in the bottom half of the inning. While I did not play my best game, I did drive in the go-ahead run a few innings later, and the rest of the team tacked on four more. We took a 6-1 lead into the top of the sixth, and while I was glad to see our center fielder catch the final out to our championship season, and even gladder to see the Yellow Team trudging off the field in their paper crowns to a reggaeton beat, it was sort of anti-climactic. Everyone on the team expected to win, we played all day with a chip on our shoulder, and we began to get a little tight when things didn't go well. So, even though we won as expected, it somehow lacked the intensity of the previous tourney.

Perhaps it was because it was colder, or maybe because we only played three games, but after we won our title, there was somehow not as much joy as I had expected. There was no trophy to hoist. There was no hanging around and watching football in the park, and there was no celebratory outing afterwards. Some went home, some went to the Keys, and some may have gone out independently. But that feeling of group accomplishment was somehow lacking as a winning favorite, that "us-against-the-world" attitude lost somewhere between our season-opening tie and our captain's "If you're not coming to win, don't come at all" emails. I came to win, and we did. And it sure beats the fuck out of losing. But somehow, for some reason, it just doesn't seem as sweet when it is totally expected.

Sunday, December 10, 2006

An Evening With Anonymous

It is a rare thing for a blogger to actually get to confront one of his most virulent critics face to face, but this past weekend I had just such an opportunity as Anon1 invited me to his parents' annual Christmas party. For those who don't know, Anon1 came to this blog via my infamous Jenn Sterger post, and as a Florida State alum took exception to my views. He spent the better part of the next 6 months ripping me and my commenters in the comments section until we began exchanging email. And as that happened, we began to get along. And so what was once a threatened beatdown became a friendly meeting a few weeks before Christmas.

Because Anon's parents are rather well-known and important people in Miami, it reasoned that they knew absolutely nothing of their son's online exploits. Which is fine, my mom doesn't read my blog either. So I had to go to this party under the cover of being a friend from Anon's first job at some company I'd never heard of and had no idea what they did. I thought it would make for some good improvisational acting on my part, but really most of that came to an end pretty quick. I walked in and was pointed toward where Anon was standing and went up and said "Hey, how've you been, dude? Long time, huh?" Odd, since we'd never met before but had to act like old friends. I found it even more entertaining when, re-introduced to his dad, the man apologized saying "Yeah, I thought I recognized you but it's been a few years. How have you been doing?" Oh, great Anonymous, Sr. Just great. Not sure how I'm going to explain going from a job in a field I don't even know exists to personal training, but let's worry about that after we have some more Scotch, huh? Awesome.

The party was devoid of anyone under the age of 40 until some guy showed up in a Patriots Jersey and jeans, apparently a week too early for the game. We weren't going to talk to him anyway. Then arrived an extremely attractive girl who I later found out was a hairdresser. The conversation with her went very nicely until the phrase "I have a 14-year-old and a 12-year-old" was uttered. It was at that point Anon decided Gold Rush would be a better option.

Now I hate strip clubs for a variety of reasons, the main one being that I hate strippers. But now I was about to make my second appearance at gold Rush in 2 weeks, although somehow I doubted this one would be quite as much fun. Anon bought us some drinks and immediately went in the back with some black stripper. As he did so, I struck up a conversation with a 20-year-old named "Barbie." I informed Barbie of my past vocation as a manager of a similar establishment, but the conversation soon devolved into tales of my relationship. Barbie offered to fix that problem for $500, which I politely declined. She told me I should just fuck around with other girls but maintain my girlfriend, since she never really considers that cheating anyway. Probably because she has sex with people for money, but that's just a guess. At any rate, it was about this point when anon came storming out of the Champagne room yelling "We're getting the fuck out of HERE!" Apparently the black stripper had tricked him into going back there with a $20 dance and then insisted on another $250 or something for VIP. Imagine that, a stripper trying to swindle you out of money. Fortunately, she got no cash form Anonymous that day, and we adjourned to the Grove.

We met up with a few of my friends, one of whom shared the same first name with Anonymous, and I tried to explain exactly how I knew him. My friend knew, but the girls with him were a little confused as to why anyone would read a stranger's blog. I guess if I'm not your friend on MySpace, I don't deserve the literary attention of a 21-year-old. Oh-freaking-well. At any rate, we concluded the night with yet more drinks (all paid for by Anon1) and went our separate ways. An enjoyable evening was had by all and I must again thank Anonymous for his hospitality and buying me several drinks and inviting me to his parent's party. I'm sure we will hang out again, and I'm sure it may get even nastier next time.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

You Are Not Better than Your Waiter

In my mind, there are two types of people in the world: those who have worked in the service industry, and those who haven’t. By service industry, I mean waiters, bartenders, bussers, barbacks, line cooks, strippers, or anyone else involved in you having a good time when you go out to eat, drink, or have sex with a stranger. Those who have worked “in the biz” know a lot of things that those who haven’t do not. For instance, they know that when you order Grey Goose 9 times out of 10 you’re getting Svedka.

But those of you who went to college on your parent’s dime and then were thrust immediately into the corporate world probably never had to learn the terms “86” or “First Cut.” The word “sidework” does not send you into the corner in the fetal position and you just assume the person giving you your drink/food/lapdance is getting paid well to do it and is there to serve you. But they are people too, folks, and when you’ve worked in “the biz” there are a lot of things you learn that can make the lives of those serving you better. Remember, you are not better than these people, and at nicer places they probably make more money than you and have a lot better time. So here are some things to keep in mind the next time you head out that can improve the quality of your service through your own actions:

  1. Tipping – Not sure if everyone has picked up on this yet, but 15% is now considered a bad tip. I know, when I was a kid mom told me the formula to figuring it out, but now pretty much anything under 20% is considered “cheap.” Call it inflation, or call it the good tippers ruining it for the cheapskates, but whenever you get a meal, look at the total, double it and move the decimal one place to the right. That is an decent tip. Incidentally, should you ever get a discount or anything free, you ALWAYS tip on the original amount, if not more since you got hooked up. And for the love of fucking Christ, open bars do not include gratuity. I was once at Opium and saw a bartender pull back about 5 drinks at an open bar because the guy didn’t throw down any cash, yelling “Gratuity not included!” So don’t think when you go to a club just because it says “open bar” you’re drinking for free. A dollar drink isn’t too much to ask.
  2. Lingering – You ever have one of those nights where you and your I-banker buddies sat outside a bar bullshitting and smoking cigars until well after close? You ever look inside that bar and see the entire staff sitting around with nothing to do? Well, guess what? You and your jackass friends are the reason these people are not currently at home smoking weed. Nobody, and I mean not even managers, like the people who hang out after closing, forcing every employee to stay late so you can smoke your cigar. Finish your shit and go home. Close your check out as soon as possible so your server can get out, and when it’s closing, get up and fucking go. You have a balcony at home, sip your scotch and smoke there. If you choose not to, you must make it worth their time, at least to the tune of $25 an hour.
  3. Fancy Drinks – There was once a time when I would sooner insult a bartender’s mother than ask for a Mojito. They are, without a doubt, the biggest pain in the ass drinks to make and the people who order them are typically girls and/or guys trying to look cool. Neither of which are exactly the bartender’s favorite. But I have come to accept Mojitos and other stupid, floofy drink orders as a fact of life Not everyone can love Hennessey on the Rocks. Should you order something that requires the bartender to do more than pour a liquor and a mixer, the MINIMUM tip is $2 a drink, If not, don’t expect any more Mojitos. At least ones lacking Visine.
  4. Calling Out – Servers and bartenders are busy. Sometimes they just can’t get to you. One thing they do not appreciate is being whistled at or called out to. Perhaps saying “’Excuse Me” or “Sorry, but my friend just needs some more flat water with lemon” is the appropriate way to go. But whistling or snapping fingers is degrading, and saying ‘Hey, can I get another Red Bull and Vodka” to an obviously harried bartender is not getting you jack shit any faster. In fact, if may automatically disqualify you from anything under a 20 minute wait.
  5. The Restaurant isn’t Paying Them – That’s right. Strippers have to pay to work. Servers and bartenders get what’s called “Restaurant Minimum wage” which is usually around $3 an hour. So basically they work off your tips. The harder you make them work, the more money you give them. That $3 an hour doesn’t even cover taxes on tips, and a typical paycheck in “the biz” is for about two and a quarter. So remember that next time you order 8 Mojitos, 9 modifications on your food, send it back three times and then order a table full of Cappuccinos. Your tip needs to be in the 25% range or you are officially an asshole.

I’m sorry if some of you will point to this and say “See, that’s why Miami has such horrible service, bitter angry jerks like this” but every server you’ve ever had thinks the same way. When dealing with servers, your first thought should be about making their job as easy as possible while still getting what you want. Remember, they are people too, and think how you would like to be treated were you in their shoes. Would you want to hang around two hours after closing so some jagoff who tips 15% can smoke his cigar? Somehow I doubt it. If you follow all of these guidelines, I guarantee a funny thing will happen: Magically, your service will get better. And when the service is better, the tips are better and everyone leaves a winner.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Women. Weaken. Blogs.

Larry has lost his edge. He made this announcement a couple of weeks ago, but I have only now gotten around to reading it. And while it was something I had suspected for a long time, this formal proclaimation came as a great saddening to me. There was a time, oh, maybe six months or so ago, where me, Larry and the The IJC were three of the most notorious haters around, spewing virtual vitriol as if it were lava from a Hawaiian volcano. Then something funny happened. Larry, unfortunately, got himself a girlfriend. And now apparently he has given himself a giant sunshine enema and soon this once-bitter, angry New Yorker is going to start doing posts about relationship idiosyncrasies and funny trips to Target. Thanks, but no thanks, Lar. If I wanted that I'd go back and read The Daily Dump.

My point is this: When I first started writing this my boy Cliff told me that it is impossible to maintain a blog and a relationship. And all he had was a fucking LiveJournal. Unfortunately, this seems to be the case. As soon as a good, Angry Young Man blogger finds himself a girl, that nasty edge he had goes down the drain faster than a used condom on a Sunday Night. I guess it reasons, though. All the great writers are either depressed or suicidal when they do their best work, so when something comes along that brightens your outlook on life, your work suffers. How fucking selfish.

But it is not only Larry that seems to have fallen off the map. I remember a guy named Bad at Life who started out a little while ago with so much promise. I felt we had found the next in the line of drunken, philandering bloggers. Then all of a sudden his posts fall off in frequency and his content goes kinda soft and, oh surprise, surprise, next up is the "Sorry I just haven't had time for this and, yes, there is a woman involved," post. These are becoming all too frequent.

Not so sure what the IJC's deal is, although I think he just ran out of material. You can only complain about Jewish girls so much. And so now, of those three hated individuals, who is left? Who is left to still call women out and gripe daily about their antics? Roosh, that's who. But after him? Virgile Kent, that's who. Okay, okay, but after those guys? Well, I guess it's up to me.

But White Dade, you say. I thought you were seeing someone. Well, kids, you vastly underestimate the kind of two-faced scumbag I can truly be. I have found the key to maintaining a successful blog while getting sex (albeit bad sex, but sex nonetheless) every night, and that key is to date someone who gives you material. And not cute, funny "Isn't it funny when your girlfriend talks all cutesy with her cat," material, but real, entertaining blog material. Turn your fights into raging generalizations. Don't let her make you happy, rather take every negative aspect of your relationship and turn it into a wide-encompassing post. I only wish I had this thing when I was still dating strippers.

I guess people who believe in dating people they actually might "love" a may find this rather difficult. But that, dear readers, is why White Dade will never change. Women come and go, but a good blog is hard to find. And I would be disappointing all of you if I ever let my personal relationships alter my content. Oh, and Key #2? Make sure you make it abundantly clear to your girl that looking for/reading/having your friends find your blog is a violation of your trust and on par with looking for your diary in your bedroom. That way I can keep everything the way it is and nobody is ever the wiser.