Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Oh, But I Was DRUNK.......

For many, many, many years, guys have been shouldering the blame for regrettable, drunken sex. Like “Ooooh, that guy waited for that girl to get wasted and then took advantage of her.” Now, these girls aren’t necessarily crying “rape” or that it was something they didn’t WANT to do, more that its something they regret and blame on the guy taking advantage of their inebriated state. But it occurred to me the other day: Unless this girl is getting drugged, nobody is forcing the liquor down her throat.

Now, I will admit there are the cases where guys will continue buying a girl drinks or encourage her to imbibe more than she might normally in order to get her a little less inhibited. And these may in fact be situations where the guy would be getting a girl drunk to take advantage of her. And if you aks me, that’s just kinda shady. But put these douchebags aside, and I think in the name of gender equality we need to start holding drunk girls accountable for their actions.

You see I know and you know girls pretty much want sex as much as we do. Janet Jackson let us all know that when she sang “All the girls at the party, look at that body….got a nice package, alright. Guess I’m gonna have to ride it tonight.” But my guess is that after Janet decided to "ride it" she immediately went over to the bar and knocked back a couple shots of 151. The difference between women and men is that the ladies they have to deal with a lot more shit after a random sexual encounter. So a girl may see a guy she likes and want to fuck his brains but doesn’t really want to deal with any of the social ramifications that may come from it. So what is the solution? Start drinking.

Girls sees guy. Girl wants to fuck guy. Girl starts taking shots so she will be more flirtations and, more importantly, be able to blame her actions on the alcohol. The next day when her girlfriends ask her what happened, she will know full well she ended up having crazy sex all night with the guy she wanted to go home with, but she can legitimately answer “I don’t know. I was soooo wasted. I kinda forgot what happened.” Riiiiight. You forgot but for some reason you can’t walk straight and your hair is a ridiculous mess. And there’s the issue of that condom wrapper on your floor.

Furthermore, instead of her looking like a “slut” she can make the guy look like a “slimeball” for “taking advantage of her.” So the social debasement is then switched from the female to the male and all of a sudden she is held harmless. If the guy is sober, he was a sober sexual predator, if he was drunk he was an out’-of-control alcoholic. Either way, it is somehow now our fault that you needed to get plastered to do what you had wanted to do all night long.

In a perfect world, neither side should have to deal with any sort of social ramifications for a drunken hookup. Both sides would wake up, go home, and nurse their respective hangovers. And while on Spring Break this may be the case, in the real world it is never so simple. But lets stop blaming the guys for regrettable intoxicated sex and start recognizing that girls may be getting drunk on purpose as an excuse for their actions. Its not our fault you need to be drunk to justify having sex, ladies. It’s your own. If you want something, go for it,. Most guys will respect you more. Otherwise, don’t come crying to me when you wake up to someone you didn’t want to wake up next to. You brought this upon yourself.

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Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Lawsuits, Softball, and Sexual Harassment from a 9 Year Old

Good afternoon. My name is Matt and I write a little blog called White Dade. Today, well, today is what I’m going to call a little blogging freestyle. Once upon a time, I was a halfway decent freestyle rapper. Anyone who knows me probably finds this vastly hilarious, but it was how I actually got to be friends with most of the black guys I met in the Marines and even earned some of their respect. One guy called me “Skittles” since Eminem was taken. I’m just gonna write what’s on my little brain today with no real continuation or reason.

Someone I wrote about is threatening to sue me now. I suppose I should not have used this person’s real name, picture and web link in a post, but hey, I guess hindsight is 20/20. This person called Miami Beach 411 twice looking for me, like I have some sort of office set up in Gus’ house or something. Seriously, why can’t everyone have the same sense of humor as Jenn Sterger? I think it is all taken care of now as I have taken down the offensive content, but should their attorney decide to pursue action, good luck finding me. The fucking mailman can’t even find my building half the time and I have never received a package I didn’t have to go and pick up at FedEx or UPS. I’ll even give you address if you ask. Good luck. There’s a reason I never get food delivered.

Girls should really never come to my neighborhood. Ever. This is not to say girls shouldn’t come home with me, but once inside they should never leave before the sun comes up. One girl left my apartment after an argument at 3 AM only to return 10 minutes later with a homeless crackhead in tow. It took her calling a male friend with a gun to come and threaten him with it to get him to leave. And after the girl and said gun-wielding friend left, the bum returned. I gave him half a handle of Walgreen’s Charcoal Filtered Vodka and I haven’t seen him since. Another girl once came to pick me up for a date. I wasn’t ready and as she waited outside with her windows down, two kids from next door, aged 7 and 9, approached her car and asked “Hey, wanna suck me dick?” She called and politely informed me she would circle the lock and to call when I was ready.

What kind of parents have boys that age who are that sexually inappropriate with women before age 10? You kids never seen a White Girl before? Seriously, I know you are growing up in Little Havana and all, but that is no reason to sexually harass the women I choose to have over. And if I’m not getting head from this girl, you’re chances aren’t looking too good either. Somehow, I don’t think this shit happens in Pinecrest. I’m guessing I should probably stop watching porn with the windows open in the middle of the day. Maybe they’re getting the wrong message.

The content of this blog has fallen off of late as the majority of my creative energies are being directed at shit I’m actually getting PAID for. I have some good ideas, but no time to write them as my allotted writing time is now on the clock. You can probably figure out where to find it. If you’re curious, send me an email. A lot of other exciting blog-related stuff is going on too, but I am not at liberty to discuss much of it at this point. I have several good post ideas in the works and will be getting to them shortly. Traffic is down. I’m guessing y’all are getting bored.

I got my first piece of hatemail in a while this weekend. I’m guessing it is stemming form the offensive post I mentioned in paragraph two. Either that or there are more people than I thought out there who love Mayo. And remember kids, you can’t spell “Mayo” without “Mao.”

I have abandoned kickball and have moved on to softball. Figured I may as well go out on top. That and my ex plays in that league and I really like to avoid ex’s if at all possible. Of course, as luck would have it, I am now working at the sponsoring bar for the league (shit, I just gave that process server more info than I should have!!) she is in. So, ex-girlfriend, if you are reading this take heed: I gave you the Grove, Little Havana is MINE.

I think its about time to end this little freestyle post. Thanks for listening. I’ll be back atchya tomorrow.

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Friday, February 23, 2007

Mayonnaise: Fueling Stupididty and Communism Since 1756

From time to time I am prone to what one of my friends refers to as a “meltdown.” Some of this has to do with my name, but much more it has to do with my absolute loss of sanity, tact or volume control when in a certain situation. These situations sometimes happen when I am drunk, but more often than not they happen when I am hungry.

When I haven’t eaten for a while, I tend to get a little antsy. And by this I mean I will run over old women and small children if they are taking too long at the crosswalk in front of Subway. I will stand impatiently on line and glare at anyone taking longer than 30 seconds to order as if they had just kicked my mother in the face and was laughing about it. As you can probably figure, I don’t do too well in Miami. So when I’m hungry, and all I want is a chicken sandwich or hamburger or turkey on Rye, and some moron has the unmitigated gall to think I like mayonnaise on it without telling me on the menu first, I absolutely fucking lose it. I mean I will throw a sandwich across the room and yell “What the fuck is this shit?!” Ask my friends, it’s happened. They’ve seen it. As I said, if the menu states mayo is on the sandwich, well then that is my fault for not reading closely enough and I generally mumble something along the lines of “But, seriously, why on Earth do they even think ANYBODY wants to eat this shit?” In that case, though, I have no one to blame but myself.

But God help the sandwich shop who puts mayonnaise on a sandwich and doesn’t tell me. Pity the restaurant that lists a burger as having “Lettuce, Tomato and Onion” and fails to mention the giant glob of white goo on one of the buns. They are in for scene. Seriously, why the fuck does anyone like mayonnaise? It is the single most disgusting condiment I can think of, and yes I have had Vegemite. It’s like someone said “Let me take rancid oil, rotten eggs, beat them together, and put it on bread. YUM!” I have never tasted semen before (except, possibly, from a disgruntled cook who was the recipient of one of my anti-mayo tirades) but I would imagine it tastes something like mayonnaise. Why I don’t ever expect a girl to swallow.

Mayonnaise just tastes like White Trash. After all, those are really the only people who eat it regularly. Well, them and the French. So, when you put mayonnaise on my sandwich, you are basically saying “Hey, you look like you’re wither White Trash or French.” I’m not sure which is a bigger insult, but either way you are basically telling me I am inferior. When you serve me mayonnaise, you are not only lumping me in with a group of people who are too stupid to realize mayonnaise is the most disgusting food not called “tripe,” you are insulting my taste. You are assuming I like to eat crap, and I don’t like people making those assumptions. If you put mayonnaise on my sandwich, you may as well walk out of the kitchen and say “you sir, are a plebe and a commoner and I am going to feed you as such. I have no respect for your intelligence and therefore I am going to serve you the fuel of the uneducated and low-class.” Thanks, asshole. But unlike most obese daytime-TV addicted Americans, I prefer to not ingest stupidity with my Chicken Philly.

Say what you will about Latin culture, at least they hold the fucking mayo. While I have gone on many a tirade in Cuban restaurants, it never has anything to do with the food. Is it that hard to just leave a sandwich plain and let the people who actually want semen spread to ruin their food to request it? Leaving those of us who do not collect welfare checks to eat a sandwich the way God created it to be eaten: Without fucking mayonnaise. Why do people assume anybody wants this shit on their food? This is American, goddam it, where we have the freedom of choice. Why must you force your disgusting condiments on me? Because you, sir, are a communist, that’s why. I bet Fidel likes Mayo. Chairman Mao was a big fan. Stalin got most of his best ideas while chomping on white bread with mayonnaise. You want to be like those guys? Go ahead and have another tablespoon of Miracle Whip.

I’m off to lunch, folks. I worked until 2 last night and didn’t eat dinner and all I had was a bowl of Rice Krispies for breakfast. Think I’ll go order myself a Chicken Philly and see what happens. Keep your eyes on the Local News.

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Thursday, February 22, 2007

No Matter How Good Things Are, I Can Still Find Something to Complain About

I came in today with five different ideas for posts. Five. And when I sat down to write them you know how many of them I felt like I could put up without causing some sort of shitstorm? Zero. None. Zilch. This is why I haven’t had a post since Monday. Makes me wish I kept a LiveJournal where I controlled who came in and out.

When I started this thing 16 long months ago, 8 people knew the URL. 8. So whatever I wrote all I had to do was make sure none of them would be upset and I was in the clear. But then I realized what fun is this when I can’t get a massive audience and all the attention and adoration that an attention whore like me needs. And so the blog took off and the audience grew and now people who didn’t even know I have a blog text message me saying “Hey, are you White Dade?” Awesome. Sort of.

While writing this little daily journal of sorts has done more for me than any single project I have ever undertaken (Marines and College aren’t exactly projects but more extended lifestyle choices) it has also now escaped my control. The wonderful thing about a blog is that nobody is editing you. Nobody is changing your words around or making you cut out sections you like. That is until you are successful with it. Then your content is controlled by the people who read it. I had to delete what was in my opinion the best post I ever wrote last week because of people finding it. Now, well, now there are few if any stories from my life I can tell. Ever.

A long time ago, I decided to start this thing so that I wouldn’t have to keep typing the same stories over and over again to friends across the country. Now, with a daily audience well into the four figures (oooh, impressive, I know) most of my stories cannot be told without somebody getting upset. So I move on to thinly veiled generalizations. But people almost always see through those, and even if they are totally off base most of them are still like “Was that about me?” No, it wasn’t you self-centered moron. It was about a lot of people, but if you see yourself as the brunt of that rant, well, that’s on you buddy. That’s on you.

While I do enjoy the various great things that have happened to me as a result of this blog’s popularity, far too long to list here (and, again, a lot of things I can’t write about) I am sometimes jealous of the people who can just write about their lives without consequence. It is very therapeutic to be able to put what’s on your mind down on paper and after 16 months I no longer have that ability. And the more people I meet, the less I can write. Now I basically find general rants that everyone can relate to (or despise) and leave most of myself out of it.

I suppose everything in life has an upside and a downside. And the limitations I have to put on myself now so as to not piss off or even alienate people is the price I pay for the spoils of success. I do appreciate everybody who reads this and hope everyone continues to. But today, well, today this was the only topic I could think of that wouldn’t result in an irate phone call sometime later.


Monday, February 19, 2007

The Hotter Your Women, the Uglier Your Strippers

For some reason over the past few months I have become a strip club guy again. Perhaps I am far away enough removed from my employment/romantic involvement with the industry, or perhaps I am just looking for something new to do. Who knows. All I do know is I am now the guy who, after about 9 or 10 drinks is like “Dude, you know where we should go? The Strip Club.” And rarely does anyone disagree. I still really don’t spend much and am not a fan of the lapdance, so this is not becoming an expensive habit. Yet.

Having made my triumphant return to adult entertainment establishments, I have come to a very interesting conclusion: Cities with pretty girls have ugly strippers. And vice versa. This was pointed out to me by a young lady at Gold Rush one night, a young lady who was there with my group of friends as a customer and not a “dancer.” Apparently this girl had lived in Atlanta (another city not known for being top-tier in its gorgeous women) for a long time and swore up and down they had the hottest strippers she had ever seen. And as we sat at one of the biggest clubs in Miami, I couldn’t help but notice that the girls there were mediocre at best. Same for the vast majority of the other clubs I’ve been to in Dade, I just don’t remember seeing any strippers that I thought were “hot.” But the regular girls in this city? Well, while I am not their biggest fan, one would be hard pressed to argue they were anything less than top-notch.

LA and Orange County, who for my money have the best looking women in America, also had some of the more average-looking strippers in America. Surprising considering the numbers of aspiring actresses and whatnot, but having spent way more time in LA strip clubs than I ever wanted to, I can safely say the strippers are much hotter in Sacramento. Aka the home of California’s “not ready for prime time players.” Another city with its state’s second-tier girls: Tampa. But you ever been to a strip club in Tampa? Hands down best looking dancers of any city I've been to. Seattle is another city with smoking hot strippers, while the women there are, well, Seattle girls.

One might argue that because these cities have less “hot” women, the strippers look better by comparison. But if you travel, which I do, you do not get used to how women look in a certain town and you can make a pretty fair comparison. And having visited clubs in a lot of cities, I can safely say that Seattle and Sacramento put LA and Miami to shame when it comes to the looks of their strippers. And that's just one example. New York may be the exception, but there are so many people there it just reasons that they could find hot dancers. Perhaps it is because in cities full of hot girls, they pretty ones don’t need to strip. Whereas in Atlanta or Tampa, if you are the hottest girl on the block you are going to make a lot more money taking your clothes off than you would in a city where girls better looking than you are hanging out at the local dive bar.

I am not sure what causes this phenomenon. And I may be wrong. But I have been to a lot of clubs in a lot of cities and this has been my experience. Perhaps should I continue on my recent penchant for exotic dancing I can provide a more in-depth analysis. But for now, well, I may have to venture a couple of counties north to find the strippers who actually make me want to spend money. Because paying $20 for 3 minutes of grinding from a solid 5 is just a waste of money.

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Thursday, February 15, 2007

It's Hard to Be FaKe When You Act Like You Hate Everybody

A lot of people, I'm not exactly sure how they are, but a lot of people have a lot to complain about when it comes to Miami. "Oh, the traffic! Oh, the Spanish! Oh, the humidity! Waaa! My roof still isn't fixed! Waaa! My insurance is too high! Waaa! The Drivers suck." You get it. And while I agree wholeheartedly with most of the complaints I hear about life in Dade County, there is one that I have come to realize is highly misguided: People seem to think that people in Miami are fake.

Let me tell you something, you can say a lot of negative things about the residents of the Magic City. You can say we are stupid, you can say we can't drive, you can say we are rude, inconsiderate, shallow and arrogant. But fake, well, fake is just not one of them. People here basically treat each other like they were their worst enemies. Like nobody here really likes anyone else in the city. But you know what? We're never afraid to say it. We don't play nice to your face then stab you behind your back. We simply walk up and stab you in your face. Because that is the Miami way.

I think because of our weather and beautiful people we often get confused with LA. Now THERE is a city full of fake people. Of course, what do expect in a town whose dominant industry is basically make-believe. Everyone is trying to get something from someone else and so they pretend to be someone they are not in order to get ahead. Reason #894 why LA is the worst place in America to live. But Miami? No one here really gives a fuck what anyone else thinks, because we all think we are better than everybody else. Sound familiar? Yes, New Yorkers, we are a lot like you.

Now, unlike New Yorkers we don't go to your city and tell you why Miami is so much better. Basically because most of us know this town is a shithole wearing a lot of makeup and can't really say much. But we also don't take a lot of shit from anyone, especially New Yorkers. It may be a combination of the large amount of transplants from the northeast, another region known for being bluntly rude. It may also be the teeming Latin Machismo that will never let a man show deference to another man no matter how foolish it may seem. But at the end of the day, people here are anything but fake. If anything, they are a little too real.

Granted, we have our share of douchbags who live at home and drive $40,000 cars. Leased, of course. And I'm sure we are up there with Orange County in leading the nation in Credit Card Millionaires. But I think you get that in any city, and that's not really being "fake" either. What you are saying when you do that is "I value having a nice car over my independence, and I am okay with that." You know who the only fake people are in Miami? The tourists. They are the ones desperately trying to get into high-end clubs by pretending they are more important than they are. They are the ones renting Ferrari's and $4 million condos for the weekend to try and sleep with some South Beach model. The locals? We don't give a shit. Most of us either know someone at the door or go wherever the open bar is. If not, we are content to spend the night at dive bars. Since we don't have to impress anyone.

So say what you will about the good people of Dade County, but one thing we are not is fake. Superficial? Sure. Shallow? Yeah, probably. Rude and inconsiderate? Fucking Goddam Right. But we are upfront and honest about our flaws. And if you are going to be a lousy person, well, at least it is best to let everyone know off the bat.


Wednesday, February 14, 2007

The Worst Thing I Ever Did to Anyone on Valentine's Day

Since a lot of you are new, I am repotsing my Valentines Day post from last year. No, I am not lazy, this just seemd more pertinent than the subject I had in mind. And since roughly 85 people were reading this last year at this time, I figure this is new for most of you. That, and no matter how shitty you may feel about not doing enough for Valentine's Day, at least you weren't as bad as I was in 2000.

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?

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Monday, February 12, 2007

Lesbian - A Band as Enticing As The Real Thing

Miami is not really much of a live music town. I mean, I suppose if you consider men spinning dance music records in tight, hot clubs "live music" then it is. But in the traditional, "Hey, there's this great band playing down at the so-and-so bar" kind of way, Dade County leaves a lot to be desired. Of course, I'm not really a fan of going to hear live bands so this is really more of an observation than a complaint. But Seattle, well, anyone alive between 1993-1998 knows it is unfortunately known for a lot of live music. I say unfortunately because unless your band was named Peal Jam, Soundgarden, Nirvana or Green Day, you contributed to the darkest, saddest period in Rock and Roll history. Some people like to call it "Grunge."

But since I was in what some may consider a "good" live music town this week, I thought I'd try something different and make a trip to the Crocodile Café on Friday night. For those unfamiliar, "The Croc" is sort of Seattle's version of CBGB or The Roxy. Like pretty much every major Seattle band got their start there. You're welcome. A friend of a friend insisted there was an "awesome" metal band playing with that oh-so-hardcore name of "Lesbian." Not "The Lesbians" which would have at least given us the excitement of maybe some girl-on-girl action on stage, but just "Lesbian." Singular. Which offered up about all the enticement of a real-life Seattle lesbian, which is absolutely zero. Apparently this band, which did not include one female, had just been signed to a national contract. What exactly the contract was for was not mentioned to me, but after hearing them I have to guess it is for Office Supply Distribution. Because there is no way in Hell it could have been for music.

I like to think of myself as at least a little open-minded to music not called "Reggaeton" but I was definitely in the majority in my disdain for Lesbian. The room was a crowd of men with more piercings than the women, and women with shorter hair than the men. If you didn't have a tattoo, you weren't allowed in, and everyone just sort of stared at the band as they grinded out chord after chord after chord to a song that, if I had to guess, was called "Airplane Taking Off." There were, however, a few loyal fans in the front who were flexing to the music. I say flexing because what they were doing cannot be described as dancing or head banging or anything that a normal person at a normal rock show would do. It looked almost as if they had had a complete breakdown in their nitric oxide system and lost all ability to relax smooth muscle. I thought about maybe calling an ambulance as this looked exceptionally painful, but then realized that each of these people believed they were deriving some sort of cosmic power from the two chords the lead guitarist continued to repeat, and was summoning it by trying to crush some invisible glass ball in the palm of their hand. Which was apparently very hard to crush.

After about 15 minutes of "Airplane Taking Off," the lead singer stopped screaming and came to the microphone. "This is something new we have called 'War and Poverty Forever!'" And the crowd went nuts. YESSS! War and Poverty! FOREVER!!!! YAAAAYYYYY! While I found it difficult to cheer for eternal strife and misery, again the crowd began to go into their metal-induced seizures. My friends and I gave up on talking and just began texting back and forth with such gems as "God, I hope they do another 20-minute song," and "AAAARRRRRGGGHHHH." (This was the main lyric to "War and Poverty, Forever" which makes me wonder if that was just what War and Poverty sounded like to these guys, or if they just really couldn't justify naming a song "AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH." I could have thought of a better name. Like perhaps "Exasperated Charlie Brown.")

Mercifully, Lesbian did only a three-song set, which lasted roughly 82 minutes. I think I'll stick to my guys spinning records in hot, crowded clubs where there may actually be real-live lesbians. Or at least attention-whores pretending to be lesbians. And while I do like Seattle, every time I come back here I am starting to think maybe Simon Cowell was right: This place really is full of freaks and wierdos.

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Thursday, February 08, 2007

Ballard High School Just Writes the Jokes For Me

So for those who don’t know I’m back in Seattle for a week. I thought about changing the name of the blog to "White King" for the time I’m here, but then realized that name might be just a liiiiitle too suggestive for a site that is already not exactly a bastion of political correctness. At any rate, I went a few nights ago to my old High School’s basketball game against North-End rival Ballard. On the way to the game I learned something very interesting about Ballard High School: Apparently this fall they had to have an assembly to address a very pressing issue that was affecting a large segment of the student body. Smoking? Alocohol? Dare I say drugs? No, no, apparently the good folks over at BHS were concerned because a good number of their students were contracting Chlamydia.

And do you know who these students were? No, no, not the athletes or the druggies or minorities bussed in from what’s left of the bad parts of town. Nor was it any other group you would suspect engaging in lots of chlamydia-creating behaviors. It was, in fact, the entire SOPHOMORE class. That’s right, the sophomores. These kids are getting VD before they are getting their driver’s licenses. That speaks volumes for the effectiveness of the Seattle Public School’s Sex Education program, doesn’t it? And where were all these disease-infested trollops when I was in High School? I couldn’t even get to first base at 15, much less contract a venereal disease. What the Hell happened to these kids? Not only are they having sex at 14 or 15, but they’re having enough sex that there is a Chlamydia outbreak? I mean, you gotta have a lot of people fucking a lot of people for that to happen. At 15. Goddam. I missed out.

But you know what’s even funnier? Guess what the Ballard mascot is? The Beaver. That’s right, the Beavers have chlamydia. Perhaps a mascot change is in order. Dirty Beavers? Burning Beavers? Clear Discharging Beavers? Disease-Infested Beavers? Any way you cut it it’s a hell of a lot scarier that a furry critter who builds dams, that’s for sure. All I know is that my High School mascot, the Roughriders, doesn’t have a problem with STD’s. And we won the game. I was hoping the Seattle Times would run a story on this with a headline that read "Beavers get Chlamydia, Roughriders Stay Protected." But I guess they just aren’t as clever, or as sophomoric, as myself.

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Wednesday, February 07, 2007


So, after a bout a month of actually having the domain name and neglecting it like a baby on the Maury Povich show, today I am officially moving to's right. No more or this "dot blogspot" shit for me. I've been at this a year and half, it's about fucking time I got my own site. My own name.

A very, immense, enormous special thanks to Alex Cabrera for not only getting me the domain name but for setting it up for me and putting the funny picture of the rooster on the header. Alex has also walked me through setting it up as I know more about Angolan politics than I probably do about computers. Unfortunately, I stil couldn't figure out how to import my links or my blogroll (yet) but that will come with time. For now I will be posting concurrently on both sites, but I like this other one a lot better.

For those who do not know what "concurrently" means, it means posts will appear both here and on Once I figure it out, I will have this address redirect you. But for now, if you have me on your blogroll or your bloglines, go ahead and update it to the news site. However, I respect your laziness and will continue on here until the other site is fully funtioneal. But I wanted to get it up and running because I really like it a lot better Later for now.



Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Like Being Back in High School

I hate to do this to you all, but I'm going to go soft on you again today....

Sometimes someone comes into your life at the precise right moment to affect you in very odd ways. Such is the case with Stacey the Budweiser Girl. Stacey checked into the hotel I work at (for those who don't know me I am now bartending instead of personal training. I have found destroying people's lives to be infinitely more fun than improving them) the same night I broke up with my now-ex. One event had absolutely nothing to do with the other, but the timing was impeccable. She came in with the rest of her promotional team, all extremely attractive girls staying at the Hotel for the month before the Super Bowl to promote AB products. And by promote, I mean go out and buy people beer. Rough life, right?

Anyway, I noticed her above any of the other girls in the group. While all attractive, some might even say "hot," she was beautiful. She looked like either Margot or Mariel Hemingway, depending on your generation, with a little bit of Julia Styles mixed in. Tall, blonde, but more importantly than that, she sat at the stool closest to where I was standing and gave me "the look." I cannot describe the look, but about two years ago it is something I started to notice. It is a look in a girl's eyes when she sees you that follows you around the room. It is the look that lets you know she is definitely interested, though she may not even know she is showing it. Guys know exactly what I am talking about. So I talked to her for the better part of an hour that night, more or less ignoring the rest of the group unless they needed something to drink.

And so it was I became single again that night for reasons I will not go into here, and so it was Stacey seemed to be at the bar every time she came into the hotel. She was always the first one down out of the group, and always had the most to say to me. We would talk, then she would have to work. Waitresses at the bar began to tell me they thought she liked me. Guests started to ask if we were dating. I would go to work hoping for the time she'd come downstairs, and if we had a good conversation that night I felt like it was a good work shift. Kind of like that cute girl who sat in front of you in History class. She became the part of work I looked forward to. But for the first couple of weeks we never saw each other outside the confines of the bar. Until one night when she came back alone from handing out free Budweiser's, and walked into the bar just as I was closing down. So I invited her out for a drink and she accepted.

But unlike so many other girls who come in at closing and come out with me after, I had no idea what to do with Stacey. I liked her. Not in a "I want to pound her from behind" sort of way but in a "I'd like to walk on the beach holding your hand" kind of way. And I couldn't make a move. We were finally alone, together, outside the bar and I couldn't even put a hand on her. All the one-night-stands, all the "game," all the strippers, everything I'd learned and red and experienced and written about, it all went out the window. It was like I was back in High School, with no idea how to make a move on a girl who obviously liked me.

I didn't really think about having sex with Stacey. I just wanted to get to first base, to know for sure that she liked me too. We went out subsequent times after work. She got me to go to a Gay bar and to Space after 5AM, both things nobody has been able to get me to do for years. I think I officially decided she was special when one night we went for pizza and she told the girl putting it in the oven "Hey, can I get that out soon so it doesn't get too hot." And here I thought I was the only person who did that. On the way across the street I almost stepped in front of a cab and she grabbed my hand to stop me. Our hands lingered for a minute, but neither one of us made that extreme step to hand-holding. Who the fuck was I? I've met girls and slept with them in under 2 hours before. What the fuck was happening to me? She did it again later, and again I could do nothing. Why was this so different, and why was it so hard? Who the fuck is this talking? It's definitely not me.

I took Stacey to hang out with my friends one night. One sent me a text message begging me to have sex with her because he couldn't. I am sorry I had to disappoint him. You see, much like in High School, this story has an unresolved ending. I saw Stacey on the street the night before the Super Bowl. She was drunk and wanted to know where I was going. I was with three other people, one of whom was on a mission to find Sarah Spain. And I couldn't let him go alone. I lingered there for a minute knowing this would be my last chance to see her, but sadly all I could say was "I'll call you tomorrow and see what you're doing." And so I did, and she was out on the beach with her Budweiser people and it was raining and I was in the Grove and I knew right then it just wasn't meant to be.

I never had a date in High School. Not because I wasn't popular, but because I was absolutely inept with women. Probably comes from being raised by a single mother. Over the years I learned what I could from experience and thought I had it all figured out. Until I met Stacey and suddenly I felt like I was 15 again, lying on the couch with a girl at 2 AM and not knowing what to do. Were there other girls while Stacey was here? Of course, but none of them gave the that feeling that she did. Perhaps it is best nothing happened, as she is now back in North Carolina and I stay behind in South Beach. I have never been a fan of distance, and I get the feeling any girl I can't figure out how to make a move on is somebody I would have a hard time watching leave. But it was good to know that even after everything I've experienced, the bad relationships, the depraved sex, the hardening and the jadedness, I can still feel like a kid with a High School Crush again. Maybe there is a little part of me that is still innocent.


Monday, February 05, 2007

Being a 6 And a Half Does Not rate You Super Bowl Tickets

I hate to hate on my boy here, but this just needs to be said. Sarah Spain: GET OVER YOURSELF! No idea who Sarah Spain is? Good for you, I'm jealous. Maybe she just made a bad impression on me, but let me lay out the facts for you here then you can judge for yourself…….

Miss Spain put an ad on eBay for herself saying that she was looking for a date to the Super bowl since she is a big Chicago Bears fan. Now, I'll accept the big Bears fan part, as I have been not-so-subtlety corrected in assuming other girls who claimed to be big sports fans in fact, were. But my problem lies herein: Sarah did not actually have tickets for the game. Like she put herself up on eBay saying "Hey, if you have tickets to the game you can go with me. Because I'm hot." Basically. Let's flashback to June 2006 for a second here: Remember my boy Graig (if you forgot you can just look at my Avatar) who had an extra ticket to the NBA Finals and took his Ex-girlfriend? Remember the outrage it caused? Now lets take that outrage, and raise it to a power of about nine.

So you have an extra Super Bowl ticket. And you are a Bears fan (not a team with a wishy-washy following like the Seahawks or Jaguars, but die-hard, blue-collar, use-my-welfare-checks-for-season-tickets fans) and your boys and your dad and your brother and your insurance agent are all die-hard fans too. Do you take your best friend who made you best man at his wedding? Or do you take your other friend who hooked you up with front-row seats for that Bon Jovi show a couple years back? Or maybe even your brother, so as not to cause any jealousy among friends. No, no, none of them. I'm going to take a strange girl from LA I've never met who advertised herself on eBay. "Sorry, Dad. I know you taught me how to throw a football and how to be a man and all, but this chick is REALLY hot!" I guarantee your father's next call is to his attorney effectively removing you from his will. Brother, I hope she fucks well.

Did logic just escape Sarah Spain for a minute? Did she really think she was soooo hot that some guy would actually use what is the Holy Grail of sports tickets to take you? Most guys I know would quit their job and push their grandmother out of the way for Super Bowl tickets, and you think someone is just going to hand one to you for being a solid six and a half? Did I mention she was from LA? Shocking, I know.

Well, luckily for Sarah, the good and stupid people at Axe Body Spray got a hold of her little attempt at scoring SB XLI tickets and decided to make her famous. Or, at leat, Internet Famous for about two weeks. They created a contest whereas men could write in and tell her why she should take them as her date to the game. Yes, Axe apparently gave her a couple of their seats to the Super Bowl, no doubt pissing off their sales guy who busted his ass all year with the promise of that as an incentive. Who instead probably got a weekend for two somewhere near Laughlin, Nevada. At any rate, among the finalists for this award was a friend of mine who was down here for the weekend.

And so it was after drinking free and eating Chips Ahoy! for 5 hours at the Penthouse Party, the Level Vodka started talking for my friend and he decided he wanted to go and meet up with Sarah. And where would such a smoking hot internet pseudo-celebrity be on the night before the Super Bowl? Obviously, she was way too cool for (aka "couldn't get into") the Penthouse party, so she must be somewhere else fabulous. Sin? Opium? Mynt? No, no, she was at a place far more exclusive than those. She was at Sandbar in the Grove.

Yes, Sandbar. So we drive, hammered, from the Beach to the Grove and meet her outside Sandbar, complete with entourage of equally think-they're-hotter-than-they-are LA girls and the dude who won the contest. Apparently my boy had lost out to a guy who was much taller, more of a Bears fan and, oh, yeah, more of a Med Student. Did I mention Sarah was from LA? The bar was closing as we waited and two drunk, mediocre girls were leaving and grabbed us saying "Hey, come to Flavour with us." Which of course we did not as my friend was trying to meet this bastion of humility, Sarah Spain. Predictably when she did come outside the Med Student (who insisted he was NOT a child molester) is all hands over this Sarah girl, who, I reiterate, was about a solid 6 and a half.

I immediately decided her and her friends were a colossal waste of my time and began to hurl insults in their direction. I think they were too drunk to notice, but there are few greater things than ripping on a girl who has been getting her ass kissed all night. After about five minutes of her apologizing for "bad timing" Sarah promptly got in her stretch limo with all her suupercool Axe buddies and we were left on a corner in Coconut Grove. "Wanna go find those easy chicks at Flavour?" I asked. It was my turn to drag him somewhere and he grudgingly obliged.

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Friday, February 02, 2007

Is it Money They Want, or Just Proximity?

So this weekend of super-VIP parties, models from every magazine you can name and my newfound social life in South Beach (Grove Probation week 4) has gotten me wondering something: I have been hanging out in what can best be described as “nasty” bars for the better part of my adult life, and as a result the types of girls I go home with are, well, the types of girls who frequent “nasty” bars. That is to say, not the smoking hot models you see going out in South Beach on the Travel Channel. Now, these girls are for the most part attractive, but even the best looking girl at Sandbar or Playwirght isn’t going to be much over an 8 and a half. The truly smoking hot girls are typically going to the more exclusive places. So I am starting to wonder if I had spent all my time in these more “exclusive” clubs, throwing down $14 a drink (or at least $5 per soda to mix with my charcoal-filtered vodka in a flask) if I would be going home with 9’s and 10’s instead of 6’s and 7’s.

There are two schools of thought here: One would say that these girls are so materialistic that your mere proximity to them is irrelevant unless you are throwing cash around like a one-hit-wonder in a rap video. But, hypothetically, if I had enough cash to be going to Prive (pronounced Pree-Vay) and Pearl on a regular basis, their materialism would be irrelevant since I would have the requisite “material” for which they are looking. But it is wholly possible that the men at these places are more in their league and therefore I would find stiffer competition and be wasting my money.

The other school says that, yes, by hanging around in these sorts of spots, eventually one of the hot girls will want to sleep with you. Maybe not night one, or night two or three or four, but eventually. I mean, the first several times I went out to lower-end bars I went home alone more often than not. Now, it seems pretty easy. This school of thought would imply that were I spending my time in locations with hotter girls, that is who I would end up having sex with. If you are a decent looking guy and dress well, you will eventually catch the eye of a girl you would consider “hot.” The problem is how long are you willing to wait and how much money are you willing to spend for that to happen? I am not one to perpetually go out and blow $150 so that once every six months I can go home with a girl most would say I have no business going home with. Not so much the patience, but the cash involved in doing so is what keeps me away.

It is an interesting conundrum I have discussed with many. Since I have not done the club thing regularly for a long time, my skills and confidence are more or less honed to bars. But what if I had spent all that time in clubs? Would my skills and confidence be better applied to the pseudo-models who hang out there? Would I still have massive frustration hanging over my head as I walk down Ocean Drive this week? Would I still feel like I’m missing out? Or would I realize that I had wasted a lot of money and gone a long time without sex when I could have stuck to the bars and done a lot better? Who knows. Perhaps someday I’ll have enough money to try this experiment out. For those of you going to clubs this weekend, let me know how it goes. Ditto for bars. And if any of you lie, I’m gonna be really pissed.

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