Neither is love. If we are what we eat, no wonder so many people are unmarried. I mean, we're all full of artificial ingredients! Laser-etched cheese by artist Emily Brezin.
Oy vay, as if failing investment banks and all kinds of tragic human drama wasn't enough, whaddaya know? The US Census Bureau has kindly brought us National Singles Week, which was ...
... started by the Buckeye Singles Council in Ohio in the 1980s to celebrate single life and recognize singles and their contributions to society. The week is now widely observed during the third full week of September (Sept. 21-27 in 2008) as “Unmarried and Single Americans Week,” an acknowledgment that many unmarried Americans do not identify with the word “single” because they are parents, have partners or are widowed.
I'm impressed that the 80s produced a "Singles Council" in the cornfields because lord only knows we were too busy dodging bullets back then here in Miami. But wait a minute! It seems like the emphasis here is on people who have had previous attachments or have reproduced. Hmpf. You know, many Americans do identify with the word single because they are, er ... ACTUALLY REALLY QUITE SINGLE! We proper singles do not have partners or children, have never been married and do not come wrapped in plastic. I suppose the only thing a "child-free" woman has in common with individually wrapped processed dairy products is the potential for milk from her ta-tas to become the key ingredient in Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, if only PETA had its way!
And speaking of single, our local rag recently put out an article about how a good man is hard to find in Miami, even for gays! One single fella really narrowed it down. He's got his priorities straight:
"And I think teeth are important."
You know, I have to agree. Of all the annoying things a man can not have, teeth is one of them. I also have a particular distaste for men without penises. But teeth, honey ... teeth you just gotta have. Teeth, integrity and a good lay. Must haves.
This article does makes a good point though -- if a pretty, professional woman can't find a man, is there any hope for a poor crack whore? Well, if you were to believe everything that is written about single people in this town, I'd throw my dreams of marital union out the glass balcony!
How do you define single? And most importantly, would you eat ice cream made out of breast milk?
All the news that's fit for bed, served between the sheets. Don't ever say you aren't getting any!
Guys, are you having trouble keeping your woman happy in bed? Maybe it's not you! No, no ... it couldn't possibly be you, darling. Or even her, for that matter. Good grief, don't you have a good, decent co-dependent bone in your body? Blame it all on the damn bed!
You see, my dear, you need The Groove, a $10K bed that will turn even the most timid Tiny Tim into a tremendous Trojan Titan -- all on the flick of a switch.
Pop-styled and built for play, it features a 150-watt sound system with speakers that pulsate to whatever music you're playing, two powerful massage systems (one for you, one for her) with 12 programs and an automatic shut-down feature, and smooth, fast, quiet motors that can custom contour the mattress into a variety of positions. (Getting her into a variety of positions is up to you.)
Baby, we don't want a 150 watt sound system. We want:
... a 150 watt VIBRATOR!!!
... two powerful massages systems: one that keeps us relaxed and you from farting, burping and snoring after sex!
... an automatic asshole shutdown feature!
... a mattress that can contour to a variety of features, including our premenstrual bloating, aka, the proverbial 'fail whale' of the boudoir!
Ok, it does sound exciting, but also so lame, when it comes down to save-me-from-the-Titanic-disaster-brass-tacks. In some ways, it's the equivalent of my-Lambo-equals-my-penis school of sexual technique. The only thing that's missing from this bed is the tires on a Low Rider.
Ladies, here are some red flags before purchasing this product. Is 'hot lover' included, batteries extra? And besides, if you walk into a bachelor pad where this bed is a centerpiece, wouldn't you consider pulling out the anti-other-woman-cootie-spray? Actually it has a rather Kubrikesque Clockwork Orange look that I find mildly disturbing, white pantsuits and black bowler hats not included.
Oh, but I'm not being fair. The products this bed company offers sound really groovy if what you want is a bed where you can relax after a decent romp on the floor. I'm actually liking the other beds they're selling. Guys ... a bed is a sacred thing, but you have to be able to the deed sacredly, even without the geek-friendly gadget bed, k?
Are you fucking kidding me? ORLLY? Apparently the length of my stride, which is somewhere in between a poached escargot and a foot-bound 90 year-old Chinese woman (unless I'm dancing tango, of course), is the marker for my level of sexual satisfaction.
A new study found that trained sexologists could infer a woman's history of vaginal orgasm by observing the way she walks. The study is published in the September 2008 issue of The Journal of Sexual Medicine.
Who knew it could be so simple, people! Don't you just love scientific research? 'Cause you know that old term "spring in your step" meant nothin' until now!
Please do note that the researchers behind this are Scottish and Belgian and that Scotland and Belgium happen to be purveyors of some of the best scotch and best brew the world over. Just sayin' ...
Research has linked vaginal orgasm to better mental health.
OMFG! ORLLY? I am so astonished about this! Who knew? A vaginal orgasm, no less! Freud, are you proud? Let's not talk about that little clitoral orgasm, always annoying and getting in the way! Oh no ...
Actually, these guys do have something of a point. The ancient yogis knew this ... it's called your root chakra. If it aint happenin' down there, it gets all blocked up and fucks up the rest of your physical, mental and spiritual being.
In less esoteric terms, we can look at this phenomenon of the wide woman's gait as the body language of someone who has much confidence, but must it rest on the fact of a vaginal orgasm?
And what if, God forbid, his lovin' made it hard for a woman to walk afterwards? And what's more, every woman, even if she's too sexy strutting her stuff for the catwalk, has the God-given talent to fake it in bed.
And did we really need a scientific study for this? And what if you happen to be a professional lambada dancer? Does loose hips and long stride automatically make you orgasm-prone or something? Or could this be the way that some lascivious honkies perceive some juicy latinas? Maybe White Dade, who has recently come back from the dead, should chime in. [Via Truemors]
A friend of mine, a fellow writer at Miami Beach 411 whom I dearly admire, recently lost a pet rat. Yes, a pet rat who succumbed to an all too common rodent condition involving tumors. The forum thread reminded me of one of the most interesting experiences I ever had on South Beach -- one that didn't involve sex or sand, but something far more important.
One night, I took a yoga class at Synergy on Hispaniola Way. I had parked a few blocks away, just around the corner of Tantra. After class, as I drove past the restaurant, I saw a dark, furry blob on the road but didn't stop. One block later, at Euclid, I turned around. I just knew I couldn't leave it there, whatever it was. It was calling to me, tugging at me. Well, it was a black cat in some kind of diseased stupor -- heart beating and lungs breathing, but body not moving, blue-black fur mottled with crimson blood.
Some of the valet team from Tantra were also investigating. "Was the cat run over by a car?" I asked. No one knew. The men stared kindly, yet clueless, at the dying cat and this frustrated me to no end. What's more, I was blocking the road, hazard lights blinking. I had to make a decision fast. "Bring me an empty box from your storage room," I demanded. "And a pair of gloves from the kitchen."
The valets obliged. With the gloves snugly fitting, I endeavored to turn the animal until it released a shriek that resounded with a familiar kind of primeval, feral intelligence; this unintelligible feline cry struck me to the bone. I knew then it was in pain and on the brink of death. I called a friend of mine who was into cats (because I'm a bird person, after all) in the hope that she might know what I could possibly do or where I could possibly take it. It was about 10 pm on a weekday night in South Beach. Should I even bother? Should I leave the animal to die on the sidewalk or take it to a clinic?
Well, I chose the latter. I put the cat in the box and drove across the 836 expressway to Knowles Animal Clinic in Miami. The veterinarian on the night shift told me the animal was probably dying from an array of conditions, so I replied yes to the option of euthanasia. And just like that -- this animal that was probably a stray cat from South Beach, died soundly while I petted the dirty, matted fur on its head.
I paid $80 just to walk into the door and another $90 for the mercy killing. That's about exactly what I had in my debit account that day. But this wasn't about the money, of course. What spent me was some of the deepest crying I ever experienced -- driving back home towards Miami Beach with downtown shining in the distance -- an empty box and blood-stained gloves in the back seat of the car.
I helped a stray cat into death that night. I was the minister of passing, the dark angel, the merciful hand of transition. I loved this cat unconditionally, even if for a span of a few hours. My heart expanded so during this time that it swelled to unbelievable capacity. And to this, and only this, can I attribute the quantity of tears.
This dying cat gave me a lesson in true compassion. The experience became, for me, a kind of standard by which to uphold all other relationships -- sexual, intimate, familial, friendly, business or otherwise -- and to this day, I always ask myself: "How does this relationship bring out the best in me? How does the relationship arouse my deepest compassion? If the person were dying, would I react differently?"
So I'll always wonder: who was the real angel here? Is the one in need not just as much of an angel as the one offering a helping hand?
The loss of animals touches us because without language, animals still communicate on a level that we are readily eager to dispel in our daily lives -- that unspoken language of the body and the spirit -- those words without words that echo in our hearts.
Neither is love. If we are what we eat, no wonder so many people are unmarried. I mean, we're all full of artificial ingredients! Laser-etched cheese by artist Emily Brezin.
