Oh God, It's Back

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth. The Miami Heat have taken one of my favorite songs, Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising” and forever defaced it by using it as the music to which they hoist their NBA title banner. For those new to the blog, I hate the Miami Heat with a passion usually reserved for teams owned by George Steinbrenner. It is not so much the Heat that I despise actually, but the hype and constant dick sucking that surrounds them. Shaq is the most dominant player ever. Wade is the best player in the NBA. Blah, blah, blah. Shut the fuck up.

The NBA is a travesty of a sports league. Do you know that until last year’s NBA finals there had been only one championship series since 1991 that did NOT feature a team from New York, LA or Chicago? And that year it was Hakeen vs. Shaq, so nobody was hurting for ratings. Even if Sacramento and Indiana have the two best records in the league, you can pretty much rest assured you will never see them together in the finals. It is the only league where every year the big stars and/or the big markets make the championship showcase. I’m not saying the league is fixed, but I’m also saying it is probably not a complete accident.

What makes the NBA even more unwatchable is the fact that it is the only sport where less than one tenth of one percent of all the minutes played are actually relevant. Allow me to explain: Very few games played in the NBA are more than 7 point games halfway through the fourth quarter. No matter how bad you’re down, everyone makes a run. So, automatically, 82% of the minutes played are meaningless. But the NBA’s utter predictability makes everything up until the second round of playoffs a foregone conclusion before the season even begins.

Back when the first round was 5 games, you had a good number of upsets. The top team only got knocked off twice, but a lot of the mid-seed series ended up with the underdog winning. Now that they’ve increased them to three-week, seven game series so they can make more money? We all pretty much know who’s going to be in round 2 . So skipping ahead to round two, which we all know in the West will feature San Antonio, Dallas, Phoenix and someone else (I’m guessing Lakers), and three teams plus the Heat who will undoubtedly be handed the East By Dick Bevetta and his friends anyway, none of those series matter until game 5 (except for sweeps, which make for even less relevant minutes). Basically, there is nothing to watch until the fifth game of round two. And the last 6 minutes of each game. That’s a total of 12 possible games at 6 minutes a game. 72 minutes.

Same goes for the next round. We can put the Miami Heat in the Eastern Finals (although I’d be surprised if David Stern allows Shaq and D-Wade to be eliminated anytime before the championship round) so we’re talking maybe six games in the conference finals that matter and another three in the NBA finals if every series goes seven. That’s 54 more minutes. So, out of the whole NBA season, there are only a total of 116 minutes that actually mean anything. And that is all I am going to watch. The rest is just an eight-moth prelude.

No other sport has more meaningless time than pro basketball. No other sport has such predicable results and uses such hyperbole for its stars. The league makes me sick and I’m not voluntarily watching a single minute until those last 116. The rest is garbage and not fit for human consumption. So when the Heat are playing whatever over-hyped, star-laden team comes out of the west, you may hear from me again on the topic of NBA basketball. Until then I’m sticking to misogyny and racism. I seem to like those topics much better.

This May Be The Most Disgusting Post I've Ever Done

Another Disclaimer: This post will contain graphic sexual content. And by graphic, I mean not only explicit but also possibly nauseating and disturbing. And if you know me or have met me or even conversed with me via email and do not want to picture me engaging in graphic, disgusting sexual practices, stop reading now. I do not want any of you coming at me and saying “Dude, WD, I sooooo didn’t need to know that.” But if you are a sick, curious fuck, read ahead at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I tend to read women’s magazines from time to time. And by “women’s magazines” I mean Cosmo. Call it research in the battle of the sexes, call it dumb curiosity, or call it an expression of my already overexpressed feminine side, but I find the shit entertaining. One staple of every issue of Cosmo is the mandated “Things Your Guy Wants You to Know About Sex But Is Afraid To Say” section. The title may take different forms, but they are more or less a collection of introspecitve intellecutal quotations like “I really love it when my girlfriend wears sexy underwear and does a little strip tease for me. It’s sooo HOT!” – Brad, 19. Occasionally they can take the form of polls that provide such Earth shattering revelations as “95% of men enjoy watching porn.” But there is one issue that keeps coming up in the pages of this esteemed publication that is doing a great disservice to men worldwide, and that is the subject of playing with the asshole.

Every goddam Cosmo article I read where guys talk about this it’s always Brad, 19, saying “It really freaks me out when a girl puts her finger back there. Please, ladies, never do it.” Or a poll that says “70% of men say you going backdoor makes them uncomfortable.” Ladies, don't listen to these guys. They have no fucking idea what they are talking about. I will tell you right now, Brad and the other 70% of respondents have never, EVER had it done to them by someone who knew what they were doing. Ever seen “Road Trip?” Yeah, it’s like that. We have this little thing called a prostate and if you manipulate it just right you can make us come without even touching the other side.

The first girl I ever got completely naked with (not had sex with, but got completely naked) licked my asshole for a good five minutes before going down on me. So, again, I was spoiled. You fail to realize that in addition to prostate stimulation, there is a very high concentration of nerve endings in that area as well, so a nice ass licking while your cock is being stroked is one of the most pleasurable experiences a guy can have. And don’t get me started on the blowjob with a finger up your ass. You haven’t come until you’ve blown your load in a girl’s mouth while she massages your prostate. I’ve had this pleasure a multitude of times and I can only say that it is as close to meeting Jesus as I will get while stil alive.

Any girl who will lick my ass when she goes down on me can basically get me to do whatever she wants anytime anywhere. That is not only sexually (I am always happy to reciprocate this favor, provided the girl keeps her ass clean) but pretty much in any aspect of life. I had one girl who used to ask if she could do it while I jerked off, and I’m still not sure why I didn’t marry her. For those who think it is “gross” or “nasty” or say “eeew, but SHIT comes out of there!” well, I really have no response for you. It’s kind of the dirtiness and nastiness that makes it so hot. That, and it feels you’re wiping your ass with a satin handkerchief dipped in warm baby oil. I have had many, many, many friends call me weird or a freak, or even gay for liking this, and EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM WHO EVER TRIED IT TOLD ME I WAS 100% RIGHT AND THAT THEY SHOULD HAVE TRIED IT SOONER. And you know who you are.

And for those neophytes who think this is somehow gay: The only way enjoying a little anal play is gay is if you enjoy getting it form a man. Period. Homosexuality, last I checked, is defined as sexual attraction to those of the same gender, not enjoying a finger up your ass while you get your dick sucked. So please save your “White Dade is a homo” bullshit for some time when I start talking about One Tree Hill or Kiehl’s products. As for this subject it is totally irrelevant. So, guys, do yourself a favor, put your insecurities aside and let a girl play with your ass. Unless Father O’Connell got to you as a little boy, you will more than likely find this to be an extremely pleasurable experience. Then you can stop telling Cosmo how much you hate it, and women will start to think it is something we like and aren’t freaked out by, and I can finally start having mind blowing orgasms again. And if you don’t like it, please don’t tell anyone. Because my guess is that you are in the large, large minority.

Makes Me Wanna Holler

The title of this post is taken from a book by Nathan McCall that I had to read my sophomore year in High School. I enjoyed it thoroughly and it was the first time I think I ever got an idea for what it was like to be black in America. That is, until I moved here.

While it would be vastly overstating the situation to compare the experience of a White person in Miami to that of a Black street kid in professional America, it is about as close as any middle-class Caucasian will ever get. You may think this is yet another one of my diatribes about Hispanics in Miami and how much I dislike their culture, which in a sense it is, but this is different. I want to make clear to those of you who are not white Miamians what it is to be one of us. It makes me want to Holler.

These are not my stories, since many will be happy to point out that I do not have a “real” job. But they are the stories of Anglos I know here who are in the corporate world. Stories of supervisors talking to coworkers in Spanish during meetings, giving peers instructions in Spanish and getting mad at Whites for not following them. Never understanding what your coworkers are talking about and feeling left out of the cadre. Being forced to take a 10-week Spanish immersion course to get a finance job in America. Are you getting the point? Me complaining about Hispanics is like them complaining about us in LA. Here, they are the Old Boys Network. We are the ones on the outside forcing a laugh at some Pepito joke we are supposed to find funny. We are the ones desperately trying to fit in so we can climb the corporate ladder. I am not a racist, people, I am a minority who is frustrated by the arrogance of the majority. Not the popular majority, like blacks in Detroit or Mexicans in San Antonio, but the economic and political majority, like Whites in the rest of America.

The point I make over and over and over again about Miami is that it is not simply a city with a predominantly Hispanic population. It is a city run, almost completely, by Hispanics. Want to know why government offices conduct business in a language other than English? One might think that if you could not apply for social services or get a drivers license without knowing the language, it might encourage people to learn. It is because almost all of those gevernemnt agencies are run by Hispanics. Want to know why, if you want to work in almost any type of marketing, advertising, or consumer-related business you are almost always required to be bilingual? One might think that getting a good job should be dependent on speaking the national language. It is because management and those making decisions are Hispanic. People here can run thriving, dominant businesses and never learn a word of English. And no, these businesses do not involve smuggling cocaine.

One thing that I absolutely can’t stand is when I try and explain my frustrations to people from cities like LA or Houston, with large Hispanic populations, and they say, “Yeah, it’s like that here too.” No. It isn’t. Having your food messed up because the guy at Del Taco didn’t speak English is a minor inconvenience, not a major factor in your daily lifestyle. Do you go out for happy hour and have all of your coworkers have their Friday afternoon conversations in Spanish? Do you go to the office Christmas party and not understand a word being said at your table? Are you made to feel like an outsider each and every day at your place of employment because you do not understand the little references everyone is making? If you are a white collar worker in any other city, I’m going to guess the answer is no. While I’m sure some of you would love to not be able to understand the chattering of coworkers, it is still something you take for granted that we do not have. Like idle chit chat with the guy at Starbucks.

Have you ever gone and applied for a job in your city? How many of the people who interviewed you were white? Or at least highly assimilated minorities? I’m going to guess more often than not the majority were. Not the case here. I have never gotten a job here when interviewed by a Hispanic. Ever. Not to say it is impossible, mind you, plenty of whites get good jobs in Miami. But it is harder than it is in other cities. It is harder because people tend to hire people who are like them. This was often the argument for affirmative action (a policy I abhor, but that is another story). I would never blame my not getting a job on my being White, but I also understand that the guy doing the hiring is going to like working with someone who he can make bilingual jokes with better than he is going to enjoy working with me. Living here is as close as a white American will ever get to understanding what it is like to be a minority in America.

If you are Latin and live here and want to call bullshit on me, shut the fuck up right now. You DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT IT IS LIKE becasue you are not White. So do not tell me you went and tried to get a job in Milwaukee and it was hard because you were Latino, but you did anyway because you were determined. Perhaps you did, but don’t try and tell me that the roles aren’t completely reversed here. I have empathy for minorities in other cities now. I also understand that sometimes you just have to accept that you are on the outside looking in and that you must try harder. But it makes it no less maddening. If you are white and you don’t live here, your city is not the same. So do not regale me with some tale of not being able to get the gardener to cut your lawn right or a frustrating experience with your auto mechanic. It’s not the same and you will never understand unless you move to Dade. It’s the first day of fall in South Florida. It’s about 80 degrees and sunny and the humidity is low. But I just wanted to remind you all who might think of moving here that his place is far from paradise.

Hey Shaq, How 'Bout a Rerack?!

From time to time, I like to work out at Shaq’s gym. It is actually not so much a gym belonging to Shaquille O’Neal as it is a franchise of a major national chain that I belonged to in California who, when expanding into South Florida, thought it might increase membership if they had Shaq’s name attached. And his picture on every wall. And his shoes in a display case. And his voice coming over the loudspeaker saying “If you want guns like mine, and a 6-pack like mine, keep pushing it people! Superman wasn’t built in a day.” Highly motivating, I know. I find none of this to be an inducement for me to workout, but the place is open 24 hours and clean and new and rarely crowded. Such was the case Sunday night as I began my warm up with about four other people in the gym. Until I hear someone yell “Hey, Big Man, what’s goin’ on?!”

And there he was, all 12 feet of him, the best player on the Miami Heat. I had seen him in here on a few other occasions as he, like myself, prefers to work out when nobody else is there. I really hate it when people come up to me and ask for a picture while I’m lifting too. But today was special as in addition to his trainer, Shaq had brought along a camera crew from ABC to shoot some special about his workouts. So instead of keeping to himself and going about his business as he usually did when he came to lift, Shaq was instead in character as he went though his routine. Making cute little one liners like “If you aint got guns, you can’t wear a tank top” and flexing in the mirror. Or yelling at his trainer to lift harder as they went back and forth in a high-intensity upper body routine. This all would have been only a minor distraction or, dare I say, even an entertaining novelty if only they had followed some common gym courtesy.

The Big Man and his trainer were doing some shoulder presses with relatively heavy weights. Mind you, a 95 pound dumbbell in the hands of Shaquille O’Neal looks about like one of those ones they have in the aerobics room would in my hand, but no matter. At the end of each set, instead of placing the weights down like a normal person would, Shaq not only slammed them but did so with such force that they bounced up and knocked other weights off the rack. Essentially unracking every dumbbell in the place. Not cool, I thought. So, as I was between sets two benches down, I looked over at Shaq and his trainer like “Are you going to put those back?” My glare was not unnoticed.

Last night, I happened to be wearing a shirt that said “Michigan Track” on it, for reasons I am not going to go into. Shaq noticed this and said “You go to Michigan?” “No,” I responded. “Good,” he replied. “Just checking.” So I went about my workout and again, Shaq does another set and leaves his weights all over the floor, slamming them in a manner I had been admonished for on more than a few occasions. So I look over again, and Shaq, with camera on him says, “What you looking at Michigan? You see something you like over here?” “Nope,” I replied and started my next set without another word. Well, apparently Shaq felt this a good opportunity to critique my form. “Push it, Michigan, c’mon!” he yelled. :”All the way up! Quit messing around, Michigan! You got more than that! All the way up!” You know, Dennis Rodman never did this shit when I saw him at the gym in Newport, what the fuck is Shaq’s deal? I will say though, when you have Shaquille O’Neal telling you to lift harder, it is intense. It’s one thing to hear the cheesy recording over the loudspeaker, but when a 2-time NBA MVP is yelling at you from 10 feet away, you go balls to the wall.

Shaq’s "encouragement" continued for another couple of sets until I decided to go and get some water at which point he shouted “That’s right, Michcigan. Get outta here!” I looked back at him and said “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be back.” Which I was. On my way to the water fountain, a cute Production Assistant asked me to sign an appearance waiver for ABC. This marked the first time in my life that I was asked to sign a waiver DURING a workout, but whatever. Shaq also took the time to listen to the gripings of a disabled woman who is a regular at the gym (at which point he immediately summoned over the manager and told him to order another cable cross so wheelchair lady wouldn’t have to wait) and talked to a little kid who aspired to be a basketball player. And while I am generally a big fan of Shaquille’s, I think he could make a better role model to America’s youth by showing them that is important to be courteous to others. As in RERACKING YOUR FUCKING WIEGHTS.

At any rate, if you happen to be watching NBA basketball this year (which I will not and encourage all of you to do the same) and see a cute feature on Shaq and his personal trainer, look in the background for a tan guy with a Michigan Track muscle shirt on. That would be me. Looking disgruntled and angry as I rearrange every dumbbell in the place.

She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie, She Don't Lie....

Hey White Dade, I wanted to aks you, since blow is basically an upper, how does it exactly make you feel? How is it different from a double espresso (which I'm addicted to), or from E, which I've tried a long time ago? Weed is my favorite, so far.

Okay, first of all if Weed is your favorite I really don’t want to have anything to do with you. I’m not even sure why I’m wasting my time responding to your question. I must be hard up for ideas. Weed is not even a drug, it’s an excuse to do nothing with your life. Say what you will about cokeheads and tweakers, but at least they get shit done. By “shit” I may mean taking apart a radio and putting it back together 14 times, but at least you got off the couch. Have you ever seen a fat cokehead? Okay, yes, but not many. The point is weed is for people who can’t handle real drugs and if you are a fan of it I suggest you stay playing AA ball and let the rest of us enjoy our time in the majors.

Second, please do not ever again refer to ecstasy as “E” in my presence. You say E, I’m thinking you want to know how you’re gonna feel if you take too much alpha tocopherol before you go to Crobar. Or maybe Echinacea. Rolls, beans, X, those are all acceptable. E makes you sound like a High School Girl form Northern California who is weighing the merits of making the trip to Burning Man.

Now to your question: How does cocaine differ from a double espresso? That would be kind of like saying how does fucking Madonna compare with Monday Night Missionary with your steady girlfriend. Yeah, they’re both essenetially the same thing, but one is a nice way to feel good and the other will have you driving to a differnt time zone to get some more. You drink a double espresso, you get a little energized, then maybe you “fender bend” and get a little tired. I use that term because the word “crash” should be reserved for the terrific bloodbath of carnage and red asphalt that is the comedown from cocaine. You put some blow up your nose, and all of a sudden you can pretty much lick any man in the room. And you can fuck any girl in there too. For hours. Or so you think until you actually get the opportunity and your dick is about as hard as it is when you are in a freezing cold swimming pool with your grandma. And she’s naked. You ride along for a while and all of a sudden something happens. Maybe a song changes, maybe the light come on, maybe you remember that you have to be at work in two hours, but all at once that perfect world of confidence and coordination goes out the window and your entire world falls apart.

When you do ecstasy, it is sometimes fun to try and think of something bad. It is pretty much impossible. When I am crashing from cocaine I try the opposite, trying to think of something good, and it is equally as difficult. You are a horrible person and a disappointment to your family for doing this disgusting drug. You are going home alone so obviously you are ugly and unworthy of anyone’s amorous advances. Your friends are all losers and you can’t talk to them. Your car sucks. You are going to get to your job and everyone is going to know you were out doing blow all night. You wish for a simpler time in elementary school back when you really believed you could “Just Say No!” And then you see, out on the horizon, the sun coming up. Wow, you think, what kind of depraved individual stays out this late doing drugs and wasting their life? Now I’m going to sleep all day and have wasted another…oh, what’s that? You’ve got some more? Oh, hook me up, baby! YES! Okay, I’m back! Oh, look at the sunrise, how beautiful. Man, I can’t wait to get to work and knock out all those TPS reports I gotta do. I’m gonna kick some ass. I love my boss, and he’s gonna be so impressed. I am a GOLDEN FUCKING GOD!

See, the inherent problem with coke is that while it makes you confident, excited, optimistic, coordinated and overtly sexual, when it wears off (in about a half an hour) it makes you feel like the biggest loser on the planet. Not like alcohol where you are physically uncomfortable, or ecstasy or acid where you’re just in a haze. You are just tired and depressed and really just want some time to yourself. I stopped doing blow after I was out all night one night and had to fly from Sacramento to Miami the next morning. As soon as the Cabin lights turned off, I crashed. Hard. I considered jumping out of the plane several times and that was when I decided to never touch the shit again. Have I since? Of course, I did date multiple strippers after that. But save for a couple of individual lines, I have left the White Dust From Hell alone for the better part of the last year and a half. The crash is not worth the high, and the only solution is, well, more blow. So when that feeling is gone, and you wanna ride on…..

Leave the bag behind

::Disclaimer::

This is not White Dade. I know the Alf pic might lead you to believe otherwise, but take my word for it; it’s not him. The gentleman we have all grown to love, hate, respect, or question had other, more important things to do (STD screening). So I’m stepping in for today. I probably won’t respond to your comments as WD has been so good to do in the past – mainly because I don’t care what you have to say. Sorry.

::Disclaimer::


When I was given the opportunity to get my thoughts read by hundreds, maybe thousands, I first thought – wow, this is a big deal. What could I possibly have to say that would be of interest to anyone besides a select few who have become my close friends? I’ll tell you this – it might not be as interesting as the play-by-play of a kickball playoff game, but its good advice. So read it, if you don’t understand then grab a dictionary and look up all the big words. (this special direction is for the Anonymous commenter – you know who you are)

My advice is simple. Leave the bag behind; and by “bag” I mean girlfriend, boyfriend, wife or husband. And by behind, I mean at home – not in the car, not on the other side of the bar… I mean at home. I have had too many friends who become joined at the hip the moment they become romantically involved. You call your old bud on the phone and say, “hey want to go grab some lunch?” to which they agree, only to find out that when you get to Arby’s, it’s not you and your friend talking over your delicious 5 for 5. It’s now you, your bud and his new girlfriend Brittany. We became friends because I liked hanging out with you, not because I liked hanging out with you AND the unapologetically annoying girl you brought along. How will well talk about the girls from high school we wanted to have slept with, or how much you drank the other night… it just won’t be the same.

I understand how it is when you first start to see someone. You want to spend time with them, they make you feel good – blah blah blah. That’s all fine and good, but take it from me, when you want to hang out with your friend, you want to do just that. I had girlfriends from 8th grade up until a few years after college for the most part, and this was the best advice my friends gave me during this time.

I had a friend who dated the same girl from high school through a few years after college. I have nothing against this mind you, but long story short – they brake up, and the kid goes Willy-Wanka-nuts. He starts trying to date anyone that smiles in his general direction. Now I’ve known this guy since 4th grade, and I’m thinking, Great! I get my friend back for a little while. Time to hit up a few baseball games, hit the bars… but this was not in the cards. Being that he didn’t know how to be himself by himself he spent most of his time trying to meet girls. - He wasn’t a bad looking guy, and with in 2 months he has another serious girlfriend, and another 6 after that, he’s married to her. I’m not kidding. I have seen him about 4 times since that fateful day.

It’s not because him nor I have been all that particularly busy. But rather because the times that we have hung out, she’s right there. This is only impacted by the fact that I can stand the woman for all of about 8 seconds. I like to think of her as I would of a rodeo. If you can be in the same room with her for longer than 8 seconds, then you should get some sort of prize. For me – the prize has been getting to go home and know that I’m not married to her.

You might be asking, why not just flat out say let’s hang out without her this time. Make it a guys night. Well this might have worked in the days before cell phones. Today however it’s near impossible. I thought I was being extremely cunning one time and invited him to a movie I didn’t think his wife would want to see. The plan worked and we went out to grab a beer before a revival of ‘Cool As Ice.’ And it would have been fine, had she not called every 4 minutes to update him on the most mundane and unin-who-gives-a-crap-teresting bits of information. I’m sitting there drinking my beer and listening him talk to this chick. I kid you not – this is not an embellishment. She called to tell him she no longer liked black lickerish. About 4 minutes later, she called to ask what he had done with the pizza from last night. You get the picture. This went on and on until we made our way to the theater and he turned his phone on vibrate.

As I said at the beginning of this rant, my advice is simple – if you’re seeing someone and your friend asks you to hang out, it’s ok to leave the bag behind. Go out with your bud – you might even remember why you both where friends in the first place.

White Boys are Not Ass Men

Nicole, a blogger more famous than I, did a post recently asking White men to start embracing the ass. Not literally, I suppose, as I think most of us gringos would gladly hug a girl’s ass if she were anything over a 4. No, Nicole was asking us to break out of our molds of loving skinny girls and start appreciating women with large derrieres. Nicole, for those who don't know her, is Black. And I think we all know what body part African-American women are famous for having a lot of. Fellow Roosevelt alum Sir Mix-A-Lot can explain it to you if you are confused.

I think Nicole is missing the point that people are naturally attracted to those who look like they do. So a black man is going to grow up loving the booty. I mean CRAVING the booty to a point where he will find largely overweight women attractive because of their behemoth backsides. So it would reason that a black female would be miffed by men not worshipping her shapely tush. Same goes for Latin guys. White boys? Not so much.

Miami is an ass town, for those who are unfamialiar. Due to our grossly oversized Hispanic population we are also subject to a disproportionate amount of grossly oversized asses. I believe the phenomenon is referred to as “Latin Booty.” As a result, most of the guys here I know are ass men. I have been in clubs with a group of Latin guys and a disgustingly ugly, fat girl will walk by. But instead of the usual chorus of disgusted moans and chants of "Belt!" I get when in a group of Anglos, all I hear from my Hispanic friends is “Whoa, look at that ass, Bro!” As they put their thumb and middle finger together and shake their hand at the ground. And I’ll be goddmaned if they do not all try and go after this largely unattractive but posterioirally blessed female, while a gorgeous, skinny white girl goes unnoticed. I am still convinced this is the ONLY reason I am able to get laid in Miami. There’s just not as much competition for the emaciated gringa set.

As I have mentioned a time or two, I am white, and I like white things. Especially young, skinny, blonde white things. Don’t get me wrong, if a girl has back it’s not a drawback so long as it is not sloppy. But most white guys I know couldn’t care less if a girl has curves or not. We like skinny, and that’s how it’s always going to be. This is why the media portrays beautiful women as rail-thin: It is, for the most part, run by white guys. If all of a sudden Maxim and Playboy and Vogue and every beer commercial on Earth were taken over by Hispanics, I guarantee women all over America would be eating rice and beans and sitting down as much as possible. But things being as they are, thin is in. Sorry.

So women of color with junk in the trunk, do not fret. Remember there are lots of men of color who ignore the skinny white girls you do so love to hate on because of their lack of ass. The unfortunate flip side is there are a lot of white boys out there who will not appreciate something you may consider a valuable asset. Your backside is, at best, irrelevant to most of us gringos. At worst, it is a major drawback. My advice to you is to be proud of what you got, target your most popular demographic, and shake what your mamama gave ya. Because even if you tip in at 2 bills, there are still a lot of Javi’s, Pedro’s and Juan’s who will think you are the hottest thing on Earth. Just not me.

Thoughts on the 305 Throwdown

Yes, I was there. And I wish I could give everyone here a better account than you’ve seen replayed on SportsCenter and/or the Local News 800 times over the past two days. But I can’t. See, by the time the third quarter rolled around, I was a little past drunk. I was to the point that I was falling off the Orange Bowl bleachers and would not sit down for fear of passing out. Because save for that third quarter brawl, the game was pretty much a snoozer.

At the time, it just looked like your typical bench-clearing melee that happens from time to time at sporting events. From the student section, you really couldn’t tell that helmets were flying and people were getting stomped. But, oh, did the crowd go crazy. The most noise I have heard out of the Orange Bowl all year. And what do you expect when you have two teams full of guys from Miami playing football? It’s a cross-town rivalry in a city where it is easier to get into a fight than it is to get a hamburger. Call it Latin Machismo, call it the heat, or call it Miami being a disgusting place, but people here love to throw down. So, really, nobody should be surprised that when you put two football teams on the field from a city where everyone loves to brawl that this would happen. The AD’s really should have had more foresight.

Given the fact that your typical Miamian is usually going around daring someone to question his masculinity, it should also be no surprise that the crowd of over 50,000 (pretty good for UM) was electrified by the on-field madness. But I realized something as I watched the replays of this brawl over 50 times since I left the game: Cane fans are not the only ones who are bloodthirsty. It’s actually pretty much everybody. Commentators (except Lamar Thomas) and students and administrators all love to give lip service to this being a “travesty” and “unacceptable” but in reality, everybody loves watching a good fight.

Think about it: If this were such a disgusting display, would it be replayed more than the highlights from, say, the #2 team in America being beaten? Or a baseball championship series? No, of course not. Networks aren’t stupid. They trot their anchors and pundits out to say how awful the fight is, but they know that showing a guy hitting another in the head with a helmet gets ratings. So for them, it really isn’t that much of a travesty, is it? Similarly, would anyone give a rats ass about UM football this year if it weren’t for that fight? Dare I say this game would have garnered nothing more than a score on the bottom of the screen somewhere between the Bethune Cookman game and the Dartmouth-Colgate result had it not featured a brawl worthy of a tunnel in South Bend. But now, good or bad, UM is back in the national spotlight. And as far as this program is concerned, any publicity is good publicity. That’s the Miami way.

But my point is further than this: While a lot of people will like to put down fights in sports like the Pistons-Pacers brawl a couple of years ago or this one, they are, in fact, good for the games. Why? Because it keeps people watching. It keeps people interested. It keeps people watching highlight shows that they would otherwise turn off. If for no other reason than to watch a man stomp another man on the ground and react with a chorus of “Ooooh, shit! Did you see that?” I really do love how the media and the administration act politically correct in denouncing sports fights. Like it or not, fans love them. They go to a game hoping to see one, and watch endless replays of them on TV afterwards. And then talk about them for days. Hockey takes the right approach so long as no one paralyzed. I suggest the other major sports stop lying to themselves and embrace fighting for what it is: A beneficial sideshow to an otherwise dull game. Here’s looking forward to next year’s 305 throwdown. You bet your ass the Golden Panthers will be out for blood.

What Happened To The Miami Mystery?!

This one is for the locals…..

For many years, going West in Dade County was more or less an all-day experience. You usually packed a lunch, a few gallons of bottled water, a book and maybe some extra work from the office if you wanted to get from I-95 to anywhere else in the city, Which, for the nine of you still reading this who aren’t from Miami, is pretty much where everyone lives. US-1 was an acceptable option if you are the kind of person who enjoys having nails driven into their skulls, and the Airport Expressway was only helpful if you were trying to leave town or get carjacked. And let’s not even talk about the streets. So what was your only remaining option? Good old 836, or as we locals call it, the Dolphin Expressway.

Presumably named because it passes right next to the Orange Bowl (aka where the Dolphins played back when they were actually good), The Dolphin is an East-West toll road that goes from Downtown to the Florida Turnpike, passing by Miami International Airport along the way. The weird thing about 836, though, is that you would be cruising along from downtown on your way to Dolphin Mall or the Palmetto or maybe even Sweetwater if you were lucky, and as soon as you got to MIA traffic came to a dead stop. No matter what time of day or what was going on, between LeJeune Road and 72nd Ave you could pretty much plan on being in your car for a good twenty minutes. And I think that distance is roughly three miles. It made absolutely no sense. At first I thought the delay was caused by merging traffic from The Palmetto Expressway, but it always eased up a good mile before the turnoff. The only explanation was that nobody on that road going West had ever seen an airplane before and therefore had to slow down and stare at the strange flying metal tubes to their right. It was such an odd phenomenon that The New Times dubbed it The Miami Mystery.

Whenever you traveled West, you always had to account for The Mystery. If a drive took twenty minutes at night, it was a guaranteed 40 during the day. So it was with this assumption that I got in my car the other day going to UM from my new home in Little Havana, fully prepared to lay on the horn and curse profusely when I got to MIA. But a funny thing happened on the way to my Road Rage arrest; traffic actually SPED UP. Just a fluke, I figured. Until I did the same drive the next day. And the next. And the next. Still, no traffic. Where’s the mystery? What happened? Are we all used to seeing airplanes now?

I find it impossible to believe that the Miami-Dade Expressway Authority (MDXA – sounds like a club drug, doesn’t it?) actually found a way to lighten traffic on a major thoroughfare. It just isn’t how things work here. But lo and behold unless you are traveling between 3 and 7 in the afternoon, the Dolphin is actually a quick, pleasant way to go West. When did this happen? And more importantly, how did they do it? I see no new lanes. I see no walls blocking people from gawking at Jumbo Jets. Where is my Miami Mystery? Where did it go?

In a way, I kind of miss the Mystery. It used to be a time to catch up with old friends on the cell phone or test out the new brakes on my car. I had even started check email on my phone in traffic, and was eager to utilize my Mystery time to do that when I moved East. Now? Now I get tailgated when my Saturn tops out at 70 in front of the airport. What gives? I’m looking at you, Rick. Alesh. The guy who does Transit Miami. Any of you have any answers for this? The old Miami Mystery has been replaced with a new one: How on Earth did they fix this? And more importantly, why can’t they apply this miraculous solution to the rest of our South Florida roadways? All I have to say is stand by, Palmetto. If it can happen to the Dolphin, it can happen to you.

You Can All Relax, It's Just Cory Lidle

Sometimes, I swear, posts just fall into my lap. Take today for instance, as I’m at the gym and all of a sudden CNN cuts in with “Breaking News!” Apparently someone flew a plane into a building in New York. No further details were given, but that did not stop the people on TV from stopping whatever they were reporting and discussing the possible ramifications of this event. Nor did it stop the crowd now glued to the TV. “I told you something was gonna happen soon!” one person said. “Oh, God, not again,” moaned another. The Nasdaq did an immediate nosedive, people began hoarding supplies and George Bush was mulling over what new country to use this as an excuse to invade. It’s Muslim Terrorists! It’s the North Koreans! It’s Al Qaeda! It’s…..a relief pitcher?

Yes, folks, you can all put your money back in the stock market and come out of your bomb shelters now. Apparently this new apocalyptic event was nothing more than a New York Yankee going home for the off-season who lost control of his plane. I swear to fucking God, has it gotten so bad in this country that every time some poor guy who just got his pilot’s license manages to run himself into a standing structure we all think the world is going to end? See, this is exactly what I’m talking about when I say that we all really overreacted to 9/11. Had we all just gone “Wow, that sucks, what’s on TV tonight?” perhaps it would not cause the stock market to plunge whenever a plane crashes. Usually it’s not terrorists. Usually it’s a guy who doesn’t know how to fly.

But what’s worse than the ridiculous panic and paranoia that so many in this country exhibit about terrorism is the fact that the media gives so much attention to anything having to do with New York. You think if Cory Lidle played for the Astros and flew his plane into some high-rise in Houston it would garner all-night news coverage? Fuck no, it wouldn’t. It would be a story, and certainly a big deal on ESPN and on the local news in Houston. But I doubt CNN would have continuing coverage of the “Disaster in Texas.” I cerainly don't recall that for the Cleveland Indians boating disaster of 1993 which killed not 1 but 2 Major League pitchers. Since it’s New York, the media assumes it is a national story. Here’s a little piece of information those of you who have never lived outside the northeast may not be privy to: The rest of the country does not give a rats ass what’s going on in your city, no matter what Katie Couric says.

It’s snowing in New York? Wow, in other news it’s raining in Seattle. Your Bus Drivers are on strike? And this affects your average San Diegan how exactly? They might fire the manager of your baseball team? Wow, I don’t know if you realized but the team that kicked your ass is still playing and is a hell of a lot more interesting than what George Steinbrenner and Joe Torre talked about on the phone. So stop talking about New York for crying out loud. The rest of us don’t care.

Quick, who is the mayor of Los Angeles? I have no idea either. And it’s the second biggest fucking city in America. How about DC, our nation’s capitol? Or Miami? Exactly. Now who were the last four mayors of New York? Bloomberg, Giuliani Dinkins and Koch. Maybe I’m missing one, but it is a sad, sad fact that I can name them and not the last four mayors of any of the four cities I have lived in over my life. And you know why? Because New York is shoved down my throat at every given opportunity. All of America knew about Rudy cheating on his wife even before he was Mr. 9/11. And the guy is totally irrelevant to the other 95% of the country. I grew up a Seattle Mariners fan and right now I can’t name four guys in their starting lineup. But I can go four deep on the bench if you ask me about the Yankees. The list goes on and on, but like it or not, I know way more about New York than I should about any city in which I have spent a total of MAYBE four weeks in my entire life.

My point today is this: Let’s stop giving so much damn attention to everything that happens in New York, and lets stop freaking out every time we think there is even the slightest hint of a terrorist attack. If it happens, it happens, but the way the terrorists win is when we start acting light a bunch of scared little babies every time something weird goes on. I’m winning the war on terror by not really giving them much attention, and joking about their attempts to rattle this country. That’s how you beat bullies, you know: By ignoring their actions and making them feel like an incompetent joke. I suggest America try the same. You can all guess what T shirt I’ll be wearing tomorrow. If for no other reason than to let everyone know that I really couldn’t give two shits what happens in New York, and that they need to stop letting the terrorists win by taking everything so goddamned seriously.