Empty Nest Eat your Heart Out

Do you remember those old episodes of Golden Girls where they would have an opening scene featuring Blanche, Dorothy, Rose and Sophia, and then some neighbor or acquaintance would come over and then the rest of the episode was inexplicably devoted to this friend? Yeah, I hated those episodes too. I would wait all week for Saturday night and all I get is this lousy cop-out of an episode featuring some extremely unfunny character. So I was left with “Amen” and “227” as my weekend entertainment. Man, am I glad I discovered alcohol.

At any rate, these forgettable episodes were Golden Girls’ attempt at spin-offs, only one of which had any success (moment of silence for Richard Mullligan, please). And while Empty Nest was not quite the pioneering, ahead-of-its time sitcom that Golden Girls was, it still managed to find an appropriate vehicle for the vastly underused talents of David Leisure that did not involve hocking imported cars. So it was not a complete failure. What is my point in recounting this bit of 80’s TV lore? Well, even though my blog is barely a short-lived mid-season replacement at best, I am feeling the need for a spinoff. Why? Because I am in a slump, and every day I feel like writing about it, but I know that topic gets old real fast and I would lose the bulk of my readers if every day I kept rehashing the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in nine and a half weeks. Anybody who reads this blog knows that already, so better to discuss such fun topics as bugs, humidity and traffic on I-95.

So, today I will introduce my spin-off blog titled “Slump Diary .” There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that keeping a journal of this period and obsessing over it daily will only serve to perpetuate the slump and eventually Slump Diary will surpass White Dade in number of posts. It will include the same brand of bitter sarcasm you find here, but will deal with only one issue and will not contain pictures, links or shout-out’s to other bloggers or personal friends of mine. It will not be a collection of bitching about how girls suck and “Why can’t I get laid?” manifestos, but rather stories and reflections on the Murphy’s Law that seems to rule your life during a dry spell. And the posts will usually not be much more than a paragraph. So, yes, now I have time to write two blogs, even though I am supposed to be in my office less. (Thought: Perhaps if I spent less time blogging….NAH, couldn’t be)

I don’t expect most of you to read it. Actually, I kind of hope you don’t. Nor will I reference it again on this blog. But, you know, if you want to check in occasionally feel free. Oh, and once the slump is over the blog will be deleted. So if you try and go there and don’t find it, you can go ahead and give me an imaginary high-five or whathaveyou. Because, as we all know, unless the girl is 2-bills plus, I never kiss and tell. So, today I will put up the first, and last, simultaneous post between the two blogs in a tribute to Dreyfus the Dog.

Day 69
Yes, I do understand the irony of starting a blog that is somewhat about sex on the 69th day of the Great Slump of ’06. But you know what, I thought about doing this whole thing yesterday and decided to start today and thought I should do it by day number. And then I counted the days, and, well, would you look at that, this is day 69. Totally unintentional.

Oddly enough 69 is roughly the number of days in 9 and a half weeks. You think Zalman King didn’t know that? Just like his shout out to Jerry Bruckheimer in that movie that I believe I am the only person on Earth to have caught. Ahhh, Nine and a Half weeks. I think every man on Earth Should aspire to be Mickey Rourke in that movie. And has there ever been a hotter female masturbation scene than Kim Basinger in that film room? No, no there has not.

And just to clarify, while it has been 69 days since my last “encounter,” that was one encounter with an ex girlfriend, which really is just a notch above going pro as far a getting laid goes. Other than that, it’s been since Halloween. Just so we have this all in the proper context. Well, since the White Dade post is already too fucking long, I’m going to save what was going to be today’s topic for tomorrow, namely an analysis of why I think I am in the situation I am in. And I have no one to blame but myself……



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I'm a Trainer, Not a Fucking Plastic Surgeon

Okay, I know you hired me to get you in shape. And I have been making you lunge to Homestead and back and then do enough crunches to make the American Psycho cringe. You have spent entire days of your life on the elliptical and even done some very basic yoga and pilates. And you know what? You gained weight. That’s right. Gained weight. Your body fat is down a whopping 2% (not bad if it’s 13 to 11, but 31 to 29? Not so impressive) even though I told you specifically to alter your diet and not drink at night. And so today came the moment of truth six weeks into your program, and, oh, how disappointing, you are still not an underwear model.

I work with you twice a week. Twice. You think you are going to look like Madonna at the Grammys by sweating for a whopping 120 minutes every 7 days? I have individual workouts longer than that. You know when I told you to eat extremely small dinners and to be in here for at least an hour and a half on the days I’m not working with you? I wasn’t just saying that because I enjoy the sound of my own voice. I mean, I do, but that’s not why I said it. So what are you doing to gain this weight? I’m guessing eating. Or, if not, you were undoubtedly watching endless hours of Olympic coverage, pro basketball or DVR’d reruns of CSI. But I know one thing you were not doing. Exercising. Cuz see, I tought the point of your New Year’s resolution was to exercise more, not to spend two hours a week with me. Though that would be flattering.

So I'm guessing you heard that Madonna and Brittney Spears have hired trainers and then immediately thought you would look like them in six weeks just by plunking down $1300 for a few months? Yes, I can put you through some difficult workouts, and yes I can tell you what you should be eating and yes I can give you workouts to do when I’m not with you. And if you do what I tell you on your own time, you will be pleased with what you get. But I am not a plastic surgeon. Spending time in my company will not magically make your ass six inches smaller and your arms not have recoil when you wave hello. If that were the case, I would get a lot more female attention in bars.

I appreciate how hard you work for the two hours a week we spend together. I enjoy passing you in the halls and you saying “God I can barely walk after last night.” Secretly I pretend you are referring to something else, but I know it’s the 150 step-ups I had you doing. But for the love of God, why is it every time I see you in the break room you are eating a salad saturated with Caesar dressing and some Garlic rolls? Why, even after I harp on you to get your ass in here on the days I’m not working with you, and even go to the trouble of writing down workouts for you, do you instead opt to go home so you are back in time to catch “Lost?” Well, obviously you’re not going to change, so I’m going to have to. If you’d just come in here for an hour and a half three days a week and put in some goddam time on the treadmill, I wouldn’t have to do this. But, unfortunately, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it is going to hurt me.

So, girls, get ready for the pain. You thought the shit I was putting you through the first six weeks was tough? Oh Hell no. That was kids stuff. You don’t like wall-sits? I’m moving all your living room furniture out tonight and you will be forced to watch your precious Sabado Gigante with your back against the wall and your oversized thighs at a 90-degree angle to the floor. You don’t like lunges? From now on, when you are in my gym, you will not be moving anywhere unless there is a 15-pound bar on your back and your knees are touching the ground with every step. Crunches? Oh, I got crunches. I got an ab routine that will have you watching nothing but Chris Tucker movies just so you can avoid the pain of laughing. If I see you eating in the break room I am immediately flipping your table over, buying two Nutra-Grain bars out of the vending machine, and throwing them in your face as I tell you to get the fuck back to work. I hope you enjoyed yourselves ladies. Because I don’t think you’re paying me what you are to enjoy my company. And if you’re going to gaff me off and spend your off time eating French fries and pizza and drinking like a goddam sailor instead of working out, I’m gonna have you burning those calories one way or another. And I only get two hours, so stand the fuck by. Because if you look bad, I look worse. And in this business, looks are everything.

First, Some Thank You's

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, but, you know there were really important things for me to discuss last week like songs I’m listening to and how there are no white girls is Miami. Because I’ve never mentioned that before on my blog. I have been getting a lot of love from various points around the blogosphere lately and I just wanted to formally thank everybody that has been spreading the gospel of White Dade…

First and foremost, I’d like to thank Miss FeistyRed, who got linked by Gawker, a mere week or so after she devoted whole post to our classic Golden Girls conversation. The result: Well, the day after the aforementioned New York blog told the world that she moved to New York for a guy, my traffic went up like 150% for the day. Coincidence? I don’t think that my post on blog addiction was that magnetizing. Anyway, thanks for continually letting the New York elite know that there is something worth reading out of South Florida not called Dave Barry or Carl Hiaasen. And speaking of Dave Barry…

I’d like to thank Larry as well for giving me the This is What We Do Now post of the week award. That’s what I get for saying you’re a jackass? Shit, I’ll do that every week. Thanks for the info on Yankee Stadium too. Although your insulting of Dave Barry still hurts, your award brought a great deal of new readers to Palmetto Bay to put it mildly, and I guess the folks over at Decentcontent were among them. So a big “Thanks you” to them too. Just so you know, I believe you are the first blog of your genre to ever link up to White Dade. And speaking of firsts…

Again a thanks to Tara. Not only for tagging me, but for also taking my suggestion about National Pancake Week and making it your theme for an entire week. Well, that and blogger holidays. Even gave me love in the title of a post. You rock. Speaking of putting my name in the title of a post…

Nicolemart, I wish I had some creative names for the male genitalia, but I just can’t quite stoop to that level yet. But I do appreciate you crediting me in the subtitle of your list of creative nicknames. Anytime I can be associated with penile nicknames, well, that’s just subliminal advertising. And speaking of advertising…..

Holy shit, I have to give a plug to my new second-favorite South Florida blogger, Brewer Patriot. Why? Because he is the only other English-language blogger in Miami, that’s why. At least that I am aware of. And his list of decent bars in Dade is basically a roster of places I go on the weekend. Anybody else who mentions The Tavern in a blog post who’s name is not Matt Johnson is A-OK in my book. BP, if I ever see you at the Tavern, the first pitcher is on me. Check his blog out if you get a chance, a lot of good Miami rants. And, for Spinachdip, no jokes about bugs, humidity or traffic on I-95. And speaking of traffic…

Ali needs some more. I don’t know how much he gets, but it’s still not enough. He hooked me up in his new list of blogs to read, and I am more than happy to return the favor. Anybody who can come up with a line like “I have the body of a weightlifter and the soul of a fat man” really needs a book deal. Or at least a column in a free weekly.

Alright, so I bored you all with my extended Thank You Note. But I just wanted to make sure I showed my appreciation to everybody who has been good to me out in the past few weeks. If anybody hooked me up recently and I didn't see it, let me know and I'll do the same for oyu. Because, unlike the rest of Dade County, White Dade is all about service.

Cheating Isn't Wrong, It's Just a Pain in the Ass

You’re a male, you’re in your twenties, and you are not a eunuch, a homosexual or a Mormon. So, naturally, your entire existence is devoted to sticking your dick in as many women as possible. There’s no problem with that, it is just how guys are at this age. But why, when you are a young, excessively horny guy, would you make such an egregious error as to saddle yourself with a girlfriend? I know there are advantages, like regular sex and the occasional batch of homemade cookies, but if you’re committed to one person, you are really limiting your sexual opportunities. “But White Dade,” you say, “I can just cheat. I mean, you’ve done it, why shouldn’t I?” Why? Because cheating is an unnecessary pain in the ass, that’s why.

Now, I have cheated on girlfriends in the past, I admit it. And I feel no particular remorse for it, since I never actually got caught. What I do regret is dealing with all the relationship bullshit when, deep down, I knew all I wanted to do was get with as many girls as possible. My objection is not to cheating, it is to being in a relationship in the first place.

Here’s the difference: I go out, get wasted and end up waking up next to a girl that could contend for the WWE Tag Team Championship. By herself. I shake my head, take a shower, make up an excuse why she needs to leave, and laugh about it with by friends over some Stroh’s that evening. If I had a girlfriend? I wake up in a panic, rush the fatty out of the house, have an hour long conversation with my girlfriend about why I didn’t return her phone calls/text messages last night and this morning, wash my sheets, take a shower that includes, but is not limited to, full-body exfoliation, triple washing of hair and possibly bleach cleaner, process my bedroom like a Gil Grissom Crime Scene, contact all of my friends to shore up my alibi, and check their blogs to make sure nobody has mentioned it. Not to mention all the conversation editing that has to be done should your boys and your girlfriend happen to cross paths. Why on Earth would you want to create such an unnecessary headache?

So I know the obvious answer here is: “Duh, dude. Regular sex.” Okay, great, you get to have relationship sex three times a week. While that certainly beats jerking it to "Hotel Erotica," I’ll take my astro-glide and soft-core over combing my duvet for blonde hairs any day. Slump and all. Unless your girlfriend doesn’t mind you hooking up with the random bar skank and occasional prostitute, a relationship will only serve to complicate your life. Because it is not only sexual encounters that you have to cover up, but all the other things that your typical 25-year-old male does that girlfriends may not want them doing: Late nights at dance clubs, expensive nights at strip clubs, cruises to Bermuda, things like that.

The only time I will ever be in another relationship is if the girl makes me not want to sleep with anyone else. If she’s exponentially better (looking) than most anyone out there, what is possibly to be gained by cheating in that situation? Padding your stats? A friend of mine told me recently that “The Thrill is in fucking the new girl.” Agreed, 100%. That thrill is extremely hard to replace, so it would take a very special girl to do that. Which is why I stay single.


I think guys feign commitment and then cheat because they fear not getting any more sex from their booty call. Once a girl brings up the “R” word, they have visions of endless dry spells and forgettable nights with forgettable women, so they half-heartedly agree to be “exclusive.” Gents, I am in the middle of slump and as not-fun as it is, all in all life is still pretty damn good. So when you have that “I can’t keep doing this unless I get some kind of commitment,” conversation, save yourself months worth of aggravation and tell her “Sorry, I really just wanna keep fucking around.” Perhaps not in so many words, but you get the idea. And if that means no more sex, well, then she’s the one missing out. Women are like busses; You miss one, another one comes along in five minutes. Or six months. Whatever.

Again, am I ever going to be that guy telling his friend “I don’t know, Dude, you shouldn’t go home with that girl. You have a girlfriend?” Never. I am, however, that guy who will say, “Why are you getting into a relationship? Aren’t we going to Tijuana next month?” I encourage promiscuity, and I discourage relationships. You’re in your twenties, why the fuck not?

Nothing Like the First Time You Get Tagged

I guess being tagged is the blogging equivalent of getting a chian email, so I shouldn't feel too honored. But seeing as how this is the first time anybody has bothered tagging me with one of these informative lists, I guess I'm just a little excited. For those of you who do not risk your career and interpersoal relatinships on the blogosphere, tagging is where a blooger you read calls you out on their blog with this list of shit you're supposed to put on your blog, then you have to tag like 7 or 10 or 158 people or all hell will break loose on your life. So, special thanks to Tara for being the first to ever Tag White Dade. Here's how this one works:

List seven songs you are into right now, no matter what the genre. It does not matter whether they have words, or what decade they're from. The only requirement is that they must be songs you’re really enjoying right now. Post these instructions on your blog along with your seven song choices. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

Here's my list (and I guarantee you go "What the fuck is that" to at least three):
1) "Man In Motion" (John Parr) You may know its non'80's pop-music afficionado name, "St. Elmo's Fire." I really enjoyed this one early Sunday morning.
2) "Baker Street" (Gerry Rafferty) Chorus is just a blaring saxaphone riff. you'd know it if you heard it.
3) "Nessun Dorma" (Three Tenors Version) I dare you not to get chills at the end of this song. I believe Shizuka Arakawa owes part of her gold medal to Puccini. That, and Sasha Cohen's ass.
4) "Crying Out" (Ron Van Gelderen) This would be "Huh?" #1 for most of you.
5) "Since You've Been Gone" (Kelly Clarkson) Shut up.
6) "Moving in Stereo" (The Cars) This used to be the ringtone on my phone for girls I was "dating." Haven't heard it in a while, so whenever it's on the radio I'm sure to turn it up.
7) "Andromeda Heights" (Appollonia) What, you've never heard of "Andromeda Heights?" Okay, you know the book "Andromeda Strain" by Michael Crichton? No relation whatsoever.

I make no apologies for a taste in music that some may describe as "questionable." But taste, as we all know, is subjective.

Unfortunately, I don't think I know 7 bloggers who wouldn't hate me for tagging them, or who haven't gotten this yet since everyone I seem to read reads each other. So, I'll tag some bloggers who I don't like, some who I just want other people to check out, and the only one I've actually met in person...

1. Johnson (Can you just write 49 songs and take care of everyone?)
2. Angelina (Love the new site. Content still infuriates me)
3. Industry Whore (If you haven't quit yet)
4. Ali (becasue I know you have 2 blogs)
5. Pitcrew (Just because you took the time to comment)
6. Colorado Hurricane (Because if being newly unemployed weren't bad enough)
7. Angel (Because you live in West-Freaking-Virginia)

You're all welcome.

Some Depressing Numbers

Despite what Mormon Joe may say, I am not picky. I never bitch about not being able to find a tall, hot blond who is not vapid and hung up on money. I have accepted the fact that women date the richest man they can attract and men date the hottest woman they can afford. This is how it works, like it or not. Do I get frustrated? Of course I do, but it’s the same frustration I have with rush-hour traffic. Yeah, it sucks, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I just proceed to get angrier and angrier until I adjust my life so I don’t have to face it anymore. So I, being the 7-at-best that I am who makes a decent income but nothing impressive, know where my league is. And to this point, I have pretty much dated within it.

Miami is a great place to be young and single. Bars open until all hours, world-class nightlife, beautiful beaches, loose legal regulations (perhaps I should rethink that one) and perfect weather. But to raise a family and/or accept any responsibility? Forget it. The corruption alone is enough to drive you away, not to mention the traffic, the insanity of the people and the lack of any discernable American culture. But, if for some unknown reason I did a little to much X and decided I was in love and wanted to get married in Miami, it would be damn near impossible to find the kind of girl I would be looking for. "Oh, you’re too picky," you say? Okay, let’s say ALL I wanted in a girl was that she was single (meaning not-married because boyfriends are expendable) white non-hispanic, between the ages of 18 and 44, with no kids. And I use that upper age limit because that’s all the census would give me. Here’s what the US Census and the Miami-Dade County Department of Health tells me:

2,253,362 people in Dade county as of 2000 (I know there are probably more now, but let’s just use these numbers for argument’s sake).
52.5% are female
20.7% are White, non-Hispanic
30.1% are between 18-44
47.7% are married
(Please do not argue the validity of these numbers. This statistical interpretation is highly unscientific and is likely off by a few thousand people here and there. But the numbers are probably close enough to prove my point)

Extrapolated, that gives you a whopping 31,487 single white women in Dade County. Now, let’s take it a step further and eliminate single mothers. I have absolutely no idea what that statistic is, but given that 40% of the 40,000 births in Dade each year are to single mothers (most of them are African-American and Hispanic, but still) let’s say it’s 15%. This leaves us with about 25,000 single, childless white women. That is, ready, just over 1% of the population of the county. One person in 100 you meet fits these VERY loose requirements. If I were to cut that age range to 18-24, which is where a lot of the so called “hot” girls reside, that number drops to 10,153, or less than one half of one percent. Notice I did not once mention tall, attractive, large-breasted, skinny, educated, funny, intelligent, ambitious, down-to-earth or any of the other litany of things guys complain about not being able to find in a girl. Just demographically desireable. Pretty depressing if you are White Dade, isn’t it? That is why, should I get to the point that I want to “settle down,” I can pretty safely say it won’t be in Dade County.

I read all these New Yorkers complain about how awful dating is in that city. “Oh, guys are all pretentious, self-important assholes” and “Girls are all bitchy and shallow and only want a guy with money.” Yeah, but at least they exist. If I wanted to start being that picky, there might be 9 girls in the whole county that would fit my criteria. And even then they’d have to like me, which is highly unlikely. So for those of you not residing south of the Broward County Line, be grateful for what you have. And if you are a guy in Miami with a white girlfriend between 18-24, I hate to break it to you, but she’s got you by the balls. Sorry, Mike.

Hello, My Name is White Dade, And I'm A Blog Addict

How do you know when blogging is becoming a sickness? There are all sorts of websites devoted to letting you know when you are addicted to alcohol, or drugs, or even sex (“Sex Addiction.” Yeah, right. It’s called being male), but how do you know when the blogosphere has consumed you to a point that it is hurting you those around you? At what point do you stop controlling the blog and the blog starts controlling you?

It starts out harmlessly enough. “Hey, I’m just gonna jot down some random thoughts and interesting stories that happen to me. I’ll send the web address to a couple of friends so they can read it and maybe I’ll check out a few other blogs, just for fun. On coffee breaks.” And then coffee breaks become lunch hours, and lunch hours become after hours and after hours become working hours and one day you turn around and you have no friends, no job, and haven’t gotten laid since Columbus Day. But, I’ll be goddamned if you didn’t finally get linked by Gawker.

So before you decide to leave your wife and kids and go spend your last days living in Vegas with a street whore and blogging all day, perhaps you should take heed of some signs that your blogging may be getting out of control:

1. Friends stop talking to you because of something you put on your blog. Oh, thought nobody reads it? Thought it was impossible to find? Thought your little online journal was magically invisible to those you didn’t want to see it? Go right on thinking that and see how many friends you have left. Who exactly do you think those 1200 people reading your blog every day are?

2. Everything you do is a blog post. “Hey, I went to Target last night and spent $55 even though my list just said Mouthwash, Lightbulbs, Cereal and Air Freshener. Man, that would make one Hell of a post.” And frighteningly enough, sometimes it does.


3. You get depressed when you get a negative comment, or, worse, no comments at all. People who let those of the opposite sex determine their happiness are sad enough, but once you start letting commenters determine your self-worth, you are in trouble.

4. The highlight of your week is another blogger telling you they like your blog. They’re probably just being polite.

5. You can’t watch an episode of CSI without thinking about The Daily Dump. I used to enjoy that show, I really did. Now, I just wonder what Dan’s take on the same episode was. (I believe the correct term to insert here, and correct me if I am wrong, would be "No Homo" But we don't have that phrase in Miami, so I'm not sure). I don’t really care, but I still wonder.

6. The only emails you read are your comments. Apparently I have a friend in Arizona who emailed me six times last week. I guess he has not yet been informed that I only communicate via blog.

7. The work in your inbox has piled up and you don’t care. Your blog traffic is up, that’s all that matters.

8. You end up staying at the office until 8PM and you haven’t had a thing to do since 4.

9. You start having dreams about bloggers. Last night, I had a dream that I was sitting in the waiting room of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, anticipating the arrival of one Dr. Gil Grissom, with another blogger who I have never communicated with outside of the comments box (and, no, it wasn't Dan, that would actually make a little sense). I woke up vaguely disturbed.

10. Your boss informs you that you are spending too much time in your office. Sometimes I am jealous of all the corporate drone bloggers because they can pass off the time they spend blogging as "work," since they are supposed to be at their desk all day. And while I spend 100% of my online time on the clock, theoretically I am supposed to be out on the gym floor. But when you manage a gym with an average of three peopele in it at a time, that makes that task just a bit on the boring side. "Yep, still two old ladies on the bikes and a fat guy doing crunches. Nobody's had a heart attack. Okay, and 7 hours and 58 minutes to go." Well, apparently some old people felt they weren't getting enough attention and that I always looked "busy" in my office and they were afraid to approach me. I'm a nice guy, very aproachable. I have no idea where they are getting that perception from. At any rate, I have been instructed to not spend 75% of my day in my office and instead give our members more attention. Because I just know everyone loves having some big punk kid correcting their form. And besides, don't they understand I have a blog to write?

So anyway if I’m a little absent for a while, this is why. And if I’m not, well, it probably means it won’t be long until you see me on “Intervention” with my roommate saying, “I just think you should know how your blogging has affected me…’

Have Fun With Those Kids, I'll Be in France

My stance on children is pretty well known to everyone who’s ever had more than a ten minute conversation with me: I think they are a colossal waste of time. If you like kids and want to have them, fine. It’s a free country, and that is your right. But there are a lot of us out there who just flat out don’t ever want children. And I am among them. I have outlined my disdain for the younger class here before, so no need to go into another anti-child tirade, but yesterday Tom Leykis hipped me to a couple of studies that validate my point of view in ways I never could.

The first article, from Web MD, basically states that parents are generally more depressed than people without kids. Hmmmm, think this might have something to do with the childless having more money, more time, more sex and exponentially less stress? Possibly. Think it might be because their lives are still their own? Yeah, there might be a chance. A childless couple who both work can go to Tuscany, Cancun and New York in the same year while those with children must save for years for a week in Orlando. The childless dine out at some of the best restaurants in town, while those with kids scramble to get four happy meals in to the back of the minivan. The childless live in a fabulous condo close to their downtown offices, the people with children must commute an hour each way so they can have a bigger house and their kids can go to better schools. So tell me, where is the advantage?

Oh, the advantage is that you will feel your life is more meaningful and you won’t be lonely when you’re old? Is that your final answer? Okay, then, say hello to a little study from the University of Florida. While it pains me to no end to give credit to anything that comes out of that swamp posing as an accredited university, this study is pure gold. Apparently, now get this, apparently people without kids are no more lonely, miserable or depressed in old age than those with kids. Did you hear that hissing sound? That is the air coming out of the only valid argument for having children. Listen, there it goes……oooh. So your excuse of having a fulfilled life? It just got tossed out the window. Bet you feel like a great big jackass right now, don’t you?

I have a cousin who complains about how tired and stressed out she is having kids all the time. Well, Cos’, there was a simple solution to that. It’s called your husband getting a vasectomy or you using birth control. You two could be visiting me in South Beach twice a year, staying out until 5 and eating at some of the best restaurants in America. Instead, you are perpetually tired and complaining to me. I have no sympathy. You put yourself in this position, and for what? Where is your reward? And don’t say it is in your child’s smiling face, nobody’s buying that bullshit. What’s that? I’m selfish? Au contaire, my dear, you are the selfish one. You are the one putting a drain on the world’s resources and more cars on the road and more people in the streets. And why? So you can have a little something that looks like you? So you can pass on your oh-so-valuable genetics? Who is the selfish one now? I am simply living out my life, not polluting the world with anything that even remotely carries my DNA. And most would agree that this is probably a good thing.

So, again, I raise a glass to never having children. This may cause me to lose a few relationships, and it may immediately disqualify me from candidacy with a lot of women. But you know what, there are ladies out there who don’t want kids and share my view. I’ve met them. When a girl says “I don’t ever want kids” it is a bigger turn on than if she tells me “I like other girls and porn.” But in the end, when my friends are sitting on the Turnpike in their minivans, bitching about wasting their week’s vacation at Disney and only getting sex once a month, I will tell them form a beach in Cannes, lying next to my wife whose body is still more or less in tact, that I feel their pain. And that vasectomy I got at 27 was the best investment I ever made.

WHITE DADE EXCLUSIVE: Anonymous Speaks!

He moves in shadows throughout the blogosphere, tormenting unsuspecting bloggers with his pearls of insight and sarcasm. Educated and ignorant, intelligent and moronic, liberal, conservative, sexist, feminist, racist, apologist, immature, intellectual and all points in between, he manages to convey the full spectrum of human mentality. He, as a matter of fact, may not even be a he, or a she, no one is certain. And even after our meeting, I came away with more questions than answers. (I will use the male pronoun from here on out because I am a sexist pig, and I am lazy, and he/she just doesn’t flow, and using “they” to describe one person is a total cop-out not to mention grammatically incorrect) His name is Anonymous, and if you have a blog, chances are he’s stopped by to give you some hell. Or a compliment, or, more often than not, a little bit of both.

But even a professional blog-tormentor needs a vacation, which led me to my Friday afternoon at The Shore Club. Anonymous is in town for the weekend for a little sunning, a little clubbing, and a lot of criticizing. Even as we sat poolside sipping on mojitos and watching the girls in bikinis walk by (Anonymous informed me, as I pointed them out, that I was shallow and materialistic and a hypocrite, and that I would never find a girl if all I looked for were tall, blonde large breasted women. I should stop complaining and start being realistic, because I’m not that attractive and I should start setting myself more attainable goals or spend the rest of my life miserable and alone), he was busy with his laptop, leaving little piles of virtual excrement in every blog he could possibly find. Anonymous has a work ethic that would make Gil Grissom jealous, and the more I learned about his life, the more I understood why he spends it telling other people why they are wrong. What follows are his reasons, motivaitons and theories behind the thousands of comments he leaves every day.

Why do you spend so much time criticizing other people?
Everybody has inherent holes in their opinions when they express them. I just feel it necessary to point that out. People seem to get so mad at me, and say I am a gutless twit, a jerk, a pussy, etc. I say I have more balls than anyone else out there. I’m the only one who will call people out for the idiots that they are

But sometimes you give compliments to the same people who you call “morons.”
I may love someone’s blog and totally agree with what they are saying, but at the same time I feel it necessary to tell them why their argument is total crap. People who can write cannot always express their opinions.

You duality astounds me. How are you able to hold such differing views?
You miss the point. I don’t necessarily believe what I write in my comments. Rather, I look to point out the flaws in other people’s opinions, both the bloggers and commenters. Are the guys who look for hot, non-superficial women picky and idiots and hypocrites? Absolutely. Are the women who complain about guys expecting sex when they are dancing on top of the bar for attention completely clueless? Of course. There aren’t too many people who fall into both camps, but they are equally moronic. And that includes myself. I often leave comments with gaping holes just to get things going.

You seem to disagree with yourself a lot, and often end up fighting yourself in a comments box. Any reason?
When a post is particularly bad, the only way to save it is by having an entertaining comments section. So this is really me doing the blogger a favor. Unfortunately, a lot of the time the regular commenters are about as interesting as a CSPAN marathon, so I have to just argue with myself. But, you know I shouldn’t be surprised, because boring bloggers usually attract boring commenters. I feel it is my job to spice things up.

Do you take credit for some bloggers’ success?
Are you kidding? There are bloggers out there whose blogs would be absolutely unreadable without me. I’ll tell you, though, if you are depending on me to liven things up, you need to hone your craft a little more.

Your writing styles vary a lot. Why is that?
Sometimes I am not feeling so inspired, you know? Like sometimes I will write three or four paragraphs, then sometimes, I’m just like “You suck” and I really don’t have much else to say.

Where do you find the time to read all these blogs?
How does Santa get presents to every boy and girl in the world in one night? Don’t concern yourself with that. Just be happy when you run down to your little computer in the morning to unwrap your Gmail and the glorious gifts I have left for you. Like Santa, the good ones get great presents, but more often than not I am leaving you a lump of coal.

Why do you sign names to the bottom of some of your comments?
Several reasons. Sometimes I’ll do it to get a blogger to think maybe someone they know is writing it instead of me, and get them hung up on it all day. Maybe even cause some drama in their real lives. Other times I like to give them a false sense of confidence by pretending to be from some city where they don’t know anybody. Like “Wow, someone in Dayton, Ohio is reading my shit.” No they’re not. Get over yourself. This is mostly just me fucking with people. But, like I said, then they keep churning out their garbage and a few posts later I can really come up with a vitriolic masterpiece.

Don’t you have anything better to do?
Of course I do. I am extremely attractive, and get plenty of dates for myself. Maybe if you weren’t so superficial and stupid you would too.

Speaking of people you think are superficial and stupid, what was up with that manifesto on This Is What We Do Now the other day? (skip to about halfway down the comments section if you follow that link)I mean, that post was about how girls look stupid in baseball hats.
I have a very impressive vocabulary, but your typical blog reader, you know, they’re just not going to get what I’m saying most of the time. Every once in a while I just have to let all of my intellectual psychobabble out at once. Unfortunately, I had to pollute Larry’s comments box this time. Maybe next time it’ll be you. But I doubt it. Nobody reads your nonsense, that’s why I let you interview me and not, say, Stephanie Klein.

What do you have against Larry?
I slept with Larry once. He was a total jackass and never called me again and was terrible in bed. I think it is my duty to let the women of New York know he is a gold-chain-and-sevens-wearing piece of shit. I have no idea how he gets laid so much. Did I mention that he was terrible in bed?

How do you know so much personal information about people?
You forget, my entire life is spent on the internet. You can find just about anything about anyone if you want to look hard enough. I go to a lot of blogger parties too. Nobody recognizes me, since nobody knows what I look like and just figures someone else invited me. It’s sort of like “Wedding Crashers” except I never get laid at the end. But this is how I know most of them have a very inflated idea of their physical appearance. Almost as inflated as their opinions of their writing.

Do you ever plan on retiring?
No. My last words will probably be “you are a moron.”

Are you planning to comment on this post?
I’ll have to read it first. Maybe, if you’re lucky.

Why don’t you get a life, Anon?
Do you have any idea how many times I get asked that in a given day? I’m really sick of answering that fucking question. This interview is OVER!

And with that, in a tribute to Jim Everett, he flipped over our poolside table, grabbed his laptop, and stormed out of the Shore Club never to be seen again. Unfortunately, I'm sure we will be hearing from him in no time at all.

Lois is 60!!!!

Even though she doesn't read my blog ('cause if she did I don't think she would have made it this far), some of her friends do (and a big "Thank You" again to the folks at Google) so they should konw that today is my mom's 60th birthday. And if she told you it was her fiftieth, surprise, surprise, she's 60. So she's been lying to you all these years. Yet another fraud exposed here at White Dade. Sorry Mom.

I wish I had one of those inspiring "Single-mother-working-late-nights-at-the-diner" stories to tell about how amazing my mom was to have raised me all by helself while toiling away at awful jobs. What she did manage to do that was amazing was work about 18 hours a week, own a four-bedroom house and a Lexus, and go on about six vacatoins every year. And, no, my Dad's child support check wasn't that big. Say what you will, but the lady can manage her money. Why she couldn't pass that on to me I will never understand. Maybe she was selling drugs or working for the CIA on the side, I don't know, and, honestly, I don't ask.

That is one hell of a role model, though. Have all those things people aspire for, but work about a third as much as everyone else. That is why I have the "Two Jobs with maybe five hours of work a day" lifestyle that I do today. Anyway, Happy Birthday, Mom. Those of you who know her and read the blog, be sure to let her know I put it up. But I will track you down and make you pay if you so much think about sending her the link.

Gold is Better Than Sex

I have had this debate with countless women from time to time and it is a topic of great passion for me: Which Show is Better, Golden Girls or Sex and The City? Most guys I know vote overwhelmingly for Golden Girls, although I think this is more in backlash to the latter program’s overwhelming popularity with women they date rather than an affinity for quippy old women. After all, no girl is going to make you have some sort of complex “relationship” discussion after hearing a story that begins "Back in St. Olaf….” This, along with many other reasons, is why I too am squarely in the Golden Girls camp.

Don’t get me wrong. I like “Sex and the City.” It is smart, subtly funny and certainly much raunchier than any other sitcom I’ve seen. That being said, it would never have existed if it weren’t for the Golden Girls. Most young women I know, at least ones who are too young to know who Brandon Tartakoff is, can’t comprehend how ahead of it’s time the show was, and therefore discount it as antiquated and corny. So being the extremely amateur pop-culture critic that I am, I will take this one step further and break down, category-by-category, why Golden Girls is better. Kind of like before the Super Bowl where they compare each team’s attributes side by side and give one the advantage, but instead of Matt Hasselbeck vs. Ben Roethlisberger, we will be discussing Carrie Bradshaw vs. Dorothy Zbornak.

PROMISCUOUS GIRL – Samantha Jones vs. Blanche Devereaux
Yes, Kim Cattrall is much better looking than Rue McClanahan . But we are not talking about physical appearance here, are we? No, otherwise this would be a stupid discussion. Anybody who wouldn’t prefer the least-attractive “Sex” girl (Miranda) ahead of the hottest Golden Girl (I’m not even touching this one) is probably a sick, sick individual. Or 90. No, we are talking about quality of characters. And as far as that goes, Blanche is a much more accurate depiction of a promiscuous female than Samantha. Blanche’s character is outwardly confident with men, but her underlying insecurities and low-self esteem are displayed on many occasions. Most overly promiscuous women I know have these attributes in spades. Samantha, on the other hand, rarely shows an ounce of motivation for her behavior, and never has to suffer any of the social ramifications of being promiscuous. And while in a perfect world she wouldn’t have to, the sad fact is that women who are notoriously promiscuous are not taken seriously in many real-world professional situations. That is why Samantha is an unrealistic character, while Blanche captures the true essence of what a woman who is in need of constant male attention is like. ADVANTAGE: BLANCHE, GOLDEN GIRLS

NAÏVE GIRL – Charlotte York vs. Rose Nylund
This one is way too easy. Have you ever fallen down laughing at anything Charlotte had to say? Of course not. Can Charlotte tap dance? Does she have an inexplicable competitive steak? Would she steal a teddy bear from a little girl? No. Charlotte tries to come off classy but is really more of a closet harlet. But unlike Samantha, she won't own up to it. She slept with a movie star and has the #2 man count on the show, if you pay attention. You never see Rose hooking up with Bob Hope, do you? And Charlotte is wholly unable to come up with any amusing anecdotes from her childhood on a farm in Minnesota. ADVANTAGE: ROSE, GOLDEN GIRLS

PROTAGONIST – Dorothy Zbornak vs. Carrie Bradshaw
Dorothy is smart, graceful and funny. But she is played by Bea Arthur. Carrie is annoying, does stupid, senseless things and can’t stay away from her ex. Both characters sometimes do things that absolutely make me cringe, but they also hold their shows together. I think Dorothy being smart and finally dumping Stan (and marrying Leslie Neilson – how much did they have to pay him to kiss Bea Arthur on camera?) gets her the nod. ADVANTAGE: DOROTHY, GOLDEN GIRLS

LEFT OVER CHARACTER- Miranda Hobbs vs. Sophia Patrillo
Hmmmmm….Questionably lesbian redhead who’s only comedic scenes came when she was pregnant, or bitingly sarcastic mean old lady who provides half the punchlines to the entire show. This is the easiest one of all. ADVANTAGE: SOPHIA, GOLDEN GIRLS

PERPETUAL EX – Mr. Big vs. Stan Zbornak
Stan is a lying, cheating, balding, desparate middle aged man exhibiting signs of his midlife crisis like they were billboards on the side of the interstate. Mr. Big is rich, arrogant, and, more often than not, just plain pathetic. She doesn’t want you anymore, get the hint, you idiot. Yes, I know they ended up together at the end of the show, but only after he pathetically chased her half way around the world. Stan, on the other hand, drives Dorothy to her wedding on the series finale, gives her his blessing, and rides off into the sunset with his dignity in tact. Admitting defeat like a man, and finally showing some class after seven seasons. And, really, can you argue with the guy who invented the “Zborney?’ ADVANTAGE: STAN, GOLDEN GIRLS

CREATOR: SUSAN HARRIS VS. CANDACE BUSHNELL
Susan Harris was one of the most prolific champions for breast cancer in the 1980’s, raising millions of dollars for research. Candace Bushnell? I think she may have written a book or something after “Sex” became popular. Great contribution to society. ADVANTAGE: SUSAN HARRIS, GOLDEN GIRLS

LOCATION: New York vs. Miami
“Sex” would have you believe New York is the most fabulous place in the world to live. Eh. I felt it was sort of like Jacksonville with taller buildings and no beach. There's nothing particualry awful about New York, but nothing all that impressive either. Miami, on the other hand, is a sunny tropical paradise with world class restaurants, nightlife and beaches. And despite the fact that Golden Girls is set in such a wonderful city, they don’t make a big deal of it save for one memorable song. They left the over-Miamifying to Crockett and Tubbs. ADVANTAGE: MIAMI, GOLDEN GIRLS

Well, looks like that’s a clean sweep for the girls from South Florida, doesn’t it?. Was there ever even a doubt? And they didn’t have to use profanity or nudity to get ratings (because I know a Bea Arthur nude scene would have done wonders during sweeps week). If I’ve offended any of you, I apologize. But you’ll get over it. And if you don’t, WHO CARES! WE’RE GONNA MEET BURT REYNOLDS!!!!!!!

Getting Married at Halftime...It's FANtastic

Some have insinuated that I was lonely and/or depressed on Valentines Day. This could not be further from the truth. I see it as a sort of independence day, where I do stuff that all my friends with girlfriends wish they could be doing instead of having dinner at an overpriced restaurant or shopping for a present they have no idea how to buy. So I went to the Heat-Magic game last night with Graig. The game itself was rather dull, save for a few vintage Shaq-backboard-rattling dunks, but what was worth the price of admission (okay, my tickets were free) was the halftime entertainment.

“The halftime entertainment?” you say. “Are you really THAT enthralled by dogs catching Frisbees and not-quite-ready-for-Cirque-du-Soliel acrobats, White Dade? Because if that’s the case there are cheaper ways to get your kicks than attending NBA Basketball games.” This is definitely not the case, as my usual halftime entertainment consists of a 24-oz. Bud Light and Personal Pan Pizza. But this game, well, this game was an exception.

As halftime began, a red carpet was rolled out onto the court by “Burnie,” the Heat mascot, and a preacher in a very nice suit was introduced to the crowd. He was followed by four men in tuxedos, and then, in the entryway where the aforementioned Frisbee dogs and cut-rate acrobats would be, were women wearing white wedding dresses. “They’re not…” I said to Graig as we gazed on in amazement from the far reaches of the triple-A. “No, they can’t be,” he replied. But sure enough…

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Valentines Day, so we have a very special halftime for you this evening. These four couples are going to proclaim their love for one another and get married right here at center court tonight.” Oh, God. This is going to be good.

“Our first couple is renewing their vows after 8 years of marriage. Rick and Melissa Cortez of Miami Lakes were unable to enjoy their honeymoon the first time around as Rick broke his rib three days before the wedding. He went through with all of the wedding festivities, but was unable to participate in the honeymoon and spent the entire week not eating solid foods and laid up in bed on Vicodin.” Did he just say Vicodin? Yes, yes I believe he did. Apparently the Heat PA announcer is a fan of prescription painkillers (then again, aren’t we all). That marked the first time I have ever heard the word “Vicodin” announced over the PA at an NBA game.

“Our next couple is Mike and Rachel Sanchez of Kendale Lakes. Mike and Rachel met in the fifth grade and were High School Sweethearts. When Rachel moved to Miami at age 16, who should show up two years later but Mike. Against the wishes of their friends, and both their families, they were married. People were taking bets at the wedding as to how long the marriage would last. Well, 12 years later, they are all a bunch of LOSERS!” They're losers? No, sir, the guy who married a girl he met at age 10 and followed her here even though everyone knew he was being an idiot…That guy is the loser.

“Next are Robbie Jackson and Felicia Owens. They made their way here tonight by calling a 1-800 number on 103.5 The Beat. 103.5 The Beat, #1 for Hip-Hop and R&B.” I’m sure as a little girl growing up in Ft. Lauderdale, Felicia dreamed of someday finding the perfect man and having the perfect dress, and then walking down the aisle WITH A RADIO STATION PROMO PLAYING IN THE BACKGORUND. How romantic. I’m sure this is one Johnny and Felicia will be sharing with the grandkids

“Our last couple are Mark Thompson and Lisa Fernandez of Miami. They don’t have enough money for a wedding so we are throwing them one here tonight.” You know, it’s one thing to have a cheap wedding, but quite another to have 13,000 people informed that you are, in fact, marrying a broke-ass-motherfucker. I must say it was nice of Mickey Arison to throw a wedding for the destitute, though. Even nicer to make sure everyone in the crowd knew he was doing it.

I’ve gotta wonder what these ladies’ reactions were when their fiancées said “Hey, babe, how ‘bout we get married at halftime of the Heat-Magic game on Valentine’s Day? Wouldn’t that be romantic?” Probably something along the lines of “Oh, did I forget to tell you? I’m really a man.” These guys’ lack of romanticism aside, I still must thank them for providing me with something vastly more entertaining than NBA basketball. Now what I’d really love to see is the halftime divorce. Although I bet they save those for the playoffs.

The Worst Thing I Ever Did to Anyone on Valentines Day

During my sophomore year of college, I was involved in my first sexual relationship with the girl I have referred to here as Dr. Kinsey. Though unbelievable in bed, this girl was probably about a six-and-a-half in appearance. Because of this, I, being the young, shallow, recent-Miami-arrival that I was, refused to acknowledge her as my girlfriend. Even though we spent every night together having Rockstar Sex, to steal a term, I would instead refer to her as my “Smack Ho,” or “Smack Bitch” or “Fuck Meat,” or something equally as degrading. Because she wasn’t one of those smoking hot girls that made you turn your head, she never got girlfriend status. After all, I could never date a girl that wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. My last girlfriend had been a model, for Christ sakes. Dr. Kinsey gave me whatever sexual favors I wanted whenever I wanted them, and in exchange I gave her no respect and the dregs of my time. This, I believe, is why she fell in love with me and I continued to tell her about all the really hot girls I’d rather be sleeping with. Yes, I was an asshole, but at that age the worse you treat a girl, the more she wants you. Sad, purely unintentional, but true.

So, as great as the sex was, and as much as I loved her and didn’t realize it yet, when Valentines day approached and she asked if we were doing anything special, I kind of snorted and said, “No, why would we? I think I might have Heat tickets, but if I don’t, I’ll call you.” As it turned out I did not have Heat tickets, and told her I would come over after class, around 6. Well, as luck would have it I missed my workout that afternoon because I had decided to have lunch with some buddies. I would not let this dissuade me from my daily trip to Porky's, however, so when I got out of class at 5:50 I called her and informed her that I would be over when I got done, probably around 8.
“Um, okay,” she replied. “I kind of had some stuff planned, but I guess I can put it away and wait till you get back.”
“Good. I may be a little late, depends on whether or not I decide to run.”

So I did my workout and got home a little before 8. As luck would have it, The Sopranos I had missed that Sunday was being rerun at 8. I opted not to shower at that point and instead sat down to catch up on what Tony, Big Pussy and Paulie Walnuts had been up to the previous weekend. About 20 minutes in my phone rang. And any interruption during Sopranos was a death penalty offense to me in those days, so I picked up the receiver screaming “WHAT?!”
“Um,” I heard a little voice on the other end say, “I thought you were coming over at 8. I’ve been waiting for you. I have a surprise.”
“Yeah, look,” I replied, “That Sopranos I missed on Sunday is on, so how ‘bout I come over after?”
“Promise?” she said.
“Yeah. Gotta go. Bye.” And so I finished Sopranos and began to get my shower stuff together and what should come on but the episode of “Oz” that I had also missed that week. Well, I could not be bothered to go over to her dorm room and have sex if it meant missing out on a male prison drama, now could I? So, again, I sat and watched, and again the phone rang at quarter after nine. “Yeah, what?” I answered.
“(sniff) Are you coming over or not? (sniff)?!” she cried into the phone.
“Ah, yeah, look, I just want to watch this one episode of ‘Oz’ and I’ll be right over.”
“Okay, (sniff)” and she hung up. I didn’t much care and re-absorbed myself in my HBO. I took a nice, long shower afterwards and as I drove to the dorms she called my cell phone again crying. “If you’re not here in 15 minutes, don’t even bother.”
“Relax, bro. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Which I was.

When I arrived in her room, I opened the door to find her sitting on her bed, crying, being comforted by her best friend. The room was lined with candles, burned almost all the way down to the bottom. Much like she was. Her bed was made with red satin sheets and she was dressed in nothing but a white men’s dress shirt, which she knew was my favorite turn-on. Her friend gave me a dirty look, asked Dr. Kinsey if she wanted her to stay, which she didn’t, and left. I apologized once, but before I could even get the words out of my mouth she had jumped on me and started kissing me, crying. She lifted up the shirt to show me the creative pubic hair art the she had taken the time to put together for the evening. I muttered a “Thanks,” but I had just come to expect these things of her. She had also made some purchases at the nearby “Love Boutique,’ which I will not get into at this point, but suffice to say once she stopped crying in the beginning, the sex was phenomenal.

Looking back, I can safely say that was one of the worst things I ever did to anybody who loved me. And she must have really loved me to have put up with that shit (actually, not long before, I had drunkenly urinated on her answering machine in the middle of the night, which she didn’t bother telling me about until after she had awoken me the next morning, dressed in sexy lingerie, with some phenomenal hangover sex. But that is another story for another time). For those of you, females I’m sure, who say "I hope you got yours, asshole,” rest assured that I did. She broke up with me twice, the last time being particularly brutal about it, and I think we would both agree that she got the last laugh. But it didn’t even occur to me until years later how much thought and effort and love she had put into that night, and how flippant I had been to gaff her off. Not very nice, was it? Then again, at 20, was I supposed to know any better?

Hey, We're Freezing Too!

Yes, I am well aware that New York is under 14 miles of snow this weekend. Because, as with all things New York, the media believes that the rest of the country gives a shit what is going on there and so what should be another city’s 11:14 back-from-break report was the top story on every cable news channel up to and including CSPAN2. But I feel a little ignored. Because, as we speak, people all over South Florida are cold.

I mean, Christ, it is fifty fucking degrees.

The scene at Coral Reef Elementary School today looked like something out of South Park. Mothers had their children bundled in the North Face down jackets, faces covered by scarves. Because when it gets below 40 in Miami, frostbite is a major concern. People are dressed in knit caps and mittens and overcoats, articles of clothing that usually only see the light of day on the annual visit to the primos in Perth Amboy.

The top story on Channel 10 showed the familiar Lincoln Road digital thermometer in South Beach, with Dwight Lauderdale informing us that, “That’s right, folks, that number is correct. It is 51 degrees in South Beach Right now. It is really freezing out there. Let’s go to our reporter on the scene. Roberta, why on Earth are you outside in this weather?”

“Well, Dwight, trust me I am going inside as soon as I finish this report, as temperatures are expected to get down into, now brace yourself Dwight, down into the MID-TO-UPPER FORITES tonight. Yeah, I know. I’ll be inside. Back to you in the nice, warm studio.”

The fire marshall then came on and instructed me not to leave my gas oven on to warm my house. Apparently this may cause some sort of “poisoning” that is common in cold northern cities like Orlando and Tallahassee. I was also told that leaving my space heater on right behind my poly-rayon bedroom curtains was not a good idea. Then where the Hell am I supposed to hide it? Perhaps in my closet behind my poly-rayon suits.

I walked out to my car this morning to find a strange crystalline substance covering my windshield. I attempted to brush off what I assumed to be excessive dust. But, for some odd reason it would not move. I took a can of Diet Pepsi (the only substance scientifically proven to erode a black box recorder) out of my backseat and poured it on my windshield. The strange stuff on my window is now gone along with my windshield wipers and power steering pump.

I turned my A/C all the way over to “Red” (though not sure this would work, it was the opposite direciton of "blue" which is where I put it when it is hot outside, and common sense told me that this dial may work in much the same way as my bathroom faucet) in the hopes that it would warm my car up, but this did not work. Apparently my car is equipped with this thing called “Heat” but Mario at Saturn of South Dade never bothered showing me how to work it. But I was not worried, since I had brought my cozy Puma jacket along for the ride. It is always enough on those chilly nights when it gets down into the mid-sixties, so it should be enough for my 15-minute drive to work, right? I could barely feel my hands by the time I got to the gym. The thermometer on the building said it was 42 degrees. I think I have hypothermia. This may be my last post.

So, New York, I hope you are enjoying your cozy little snow-in. We will suffer in silence as you get all the hype. But when you do finally dig yourself out of your snow-ridden hell, don’t forget that we here in South Florida have suffered too. But we are resilient people down here, and we will find ways to cope. Personally, I will be easing my pain on 8th street this weekend, right next to the lifeguard stand. as highs will be back into the low 80’s.

Minutea Between Two Slices of Miscellanea

I have never done the “Random Thoughts of the Day” post before, but today there are so many small, minuscule things on my mind, and no one big issue, I feel I should pass it along. I realize this is almost as much of a cop of to a post subject as writing about what someone else wrote about, or letting a commenter take over your blog for a day. So perhaps this is White Dade Copout Week, who knows. I’m busy, leave me alone…

First and foremost, I would like to congratulate Graig, who overcame our mailing of the infamous Christmas Card to the Dean of Admissions at University of Nevada-Reno’s Graduate School for Behavioral Psychology and was accepted for the Fall 2006 semester. We’ll miss your bug-eyed face, Graig, but you are getting the fuck out of Miami, and I know that’s what you’ve always wanted. Best news I’ve gotten all week Except for maybe….

I would also like to congratulate Matt Johnson for FINALLY DTB-ing and, more importantly, being happy about it. I would like to thank all of you (Ali) that took part in the White Dade Campaign to save Matt Johnson as it seems to have worked. I guess he wasn’t one of my friends in an interracial relationship that I would describe as “Happy.” As I told him, you will now learn the true meaning of the phrase “Happy to be single.” He has talked about my rules of breaking up in his blog today. I think you should all give him a visit.

To all of my commenters: Congratulations. You have been deemed some of the nastiest, most insulting commenters on the ‘net by Miss FeistyRed. Like the Raider Fans of the Blogosphere. Keep up the good work. I believe her exact words "Not all comments sections can be as...insulting as White Dade's..." The vitriol has seemed particularly heated the past couple of days, thanks mostly I think to JenJen’s frustration with her workplace and certain “anonymous” commenters really pouring it on thick this week. At any rate, keep it going. A good comments box makes for a good blog.

Call me a big sissy girl if you want, but "One Tree Hill" continues to come up with some of the most mind-numbingly entertaining television around. This year’s 11-cheerleader dogpile catfight was one of the most pornographic things I have ever seen in an 8PM timeslot. Last episode had ditzy cheerleader Bevin teaching black basketball star “Skillz” how to swim. And the race issue was mentioned multiple times. You don’t get that on the OC. Maybe it’s just because the show is based in North Carolina

Speaking of “One Tree Hill,” Danneel Harris’ charceter Rachel has officially replaced Alice from “Closer” as my new fictional character obsession. Tall, athletic, sexy redhead with a little girl voice and an evil streak that would make Dick Cheney jealous. I want to marry that girl.

And also, why is the whole “Bad at swimming” thing the only negative stereotype about African-Americans that it is socially acceptable to joke about publicly? I’m sure a PC show like “One Tree Hill” would not have had a humorous scene involving, say, street crime or incarceration, but swimming is all fine and dandy to laugh at. Not that I was offended, it just seems funny that this is the one area where a lily-white production such as “OTH” can make an ethnic joke and not have Al Sharpton protesting at the WB by the next afternoon. Anyone care to enlighten me?