An · Open · Book

Misuzu's voicemail picked up the line. I shivered.

"Try it again!" said Malena on the other line.

Okay, Okay. I called again. Her voicemail picked up.

"Zu, it's Robert," I started. "We have a problem."

"No!" Malena interrupted. "You're doing it all wrong! Robert hang up the phone and call me back."

Click. The wedding drama began.

--

My sister is getting married this weekend. Who cares? Again, my friends have taken over the entire planning for this ceremony with their own drama. Flipping the wedding script all around, they once again provided a story about improvisation, desperation, committment, race, and, of course, Malena's bad leg.

Since senior year, her legs have been giving her trouble. She showed up to Evanston in crutches that year. The pains continued sporadically on and off, until Misuzu and her Christian tribunal used their prophetic gifts to beg God to heal it. As they prayed, Malena said she felt jolts of energy searing through her bones. She was healed in hours, and a week later, she brought down the house while leading the African Dance Ensemble to an pulsating debut performance.

After bragging about what a wonderful dancer Malena was, my sister asked me to ask her if she perform at the reception. I coaxed Malena into bring her Congalese troope and we began to dream big: 50 performers, 10 drummers, a mock spear-fight, some jollof rice and makeshift elephants coming down the aisle. Imagine: Circle of Life.

After I fell into debt (and climbed out, Thank you Jesus!) this year, we realized that I just didn't have the budget to finance all of this. We narrowed it down to just Malena and a drummer, and everyone was psyched. I was psyched. My family was psyched. PETA was psyched. They don't like makeshift elephants.

Today Malena called with terrible news. She had ripped her calf in a freak African dancing accident. This isn't new, in fact it happens every two weeks. But I digress. She told me she wouldn't be able to dance in the wedding.

We started to brainstorm ideas. Surely, what I was paying Malena couldn't buy another African dancer. And we thought of who liked me enough to do something for my family on the fly, two days before the wedding.

And we thought Misuzu. Instead of paying for Malena and drummer, we decided that money should go toward Zu's flight and she should perform instead. We wanted to call and tell her, but Malena thought I was being too straightfoward. According to her, I needed to make it magical, so Zu wanted to perform without feeling obligated.

So I called again.

"Zu, it's Robert," i started.

"And Malena," she said.

Then my phon estarted to ring. Zu was calling us back.

"Hey," I said. "Guess what you're doing Saturday?"

Malena had enough.

"Stop it! Malena said. "Zu, listen to me. I know it's always been our dream to dance together and I would really like to perform with you at the wedding. So I'm giving the money Robert had saved up to pay for your trip."

"Wait," Zu interrupts, laughing. "Am I the replacement? Malena, did you get injured again?"

We all started to crack up. She knew before we even asked.

After I honestly laid down the proposal, Zu asked one question:

"Do I have to bring a costume?"

..

We felt good about this. I called my father to tell him that Malena was injured, so Misuzu would be doing the African Dance instead.

He started laughing.

"What's so funny?" I said.

"You're serious," he said. "Robert, we're going to have a Japanese person African dancing at a black wedding? It just seems...odd....almost like a mistrel show"

"We have a black dancer who is trained in African dance, and she's doing a modern dance because Malena was performing...I don't know"
Now, I'm open minded as the next guy, but my Dad raised an interesting question. Would Zu's brilliant dancing be enough to erase an image that the media would find amusing: An Asian American woman in African garb, jumping and leaping to the sonds of the Motherland.

No, I said. No. Zu's a great dancer and she can do anything. If they are going to laugh, let's kick them out. My dad agreed.


Then Malena called.

"Robert, I think we need to rethink this.." she said.

"Why?"

"Zu...African Dancing...Don't you think"--

Then Zu called.

"Robert! I just bought my ticket! I'm so excited!"

Damnit. A conundrum.

What does one do at a wedding? Does one push the racial envelope? Does one bite their tongue and hope that everything is okay?

And when is it okay for others to perform cultural pieces? Does the phenotype of the person dictate its meaning? And is it progressive or regressive to have people adopt performances that are so closely connected to race?

We've struggled with these questions for years: Barack Obama. Lenny Kravitz. Clarence Thomas. Eminem. And now, Misuzu.

So we did what any good politician would do: Avoid the issue entirely. Zu's best dance isn't African Dance and there was no reason to pigeon hole her into doing it. Malena's performance is now in the wayside, and shouldn't try our hard to recreate it, we should be forward thinking and shift are focus to the dance best for Zu. So she's doing something to Daniel Beddingfield's "The One."

I'm sure it will be beautiful because any dance she's ever done has made my heart stop. And if all goes well, we'll throw in a little Manjani too, just to show all the haters that she could actually do it.

The next time as I've promised is inevitable,
Robert

It's so nice to be alive, for I have met someone who bewitched me.

It happened on a thick Saturday night here. The Wynwood neighborhood was having its GalleryWalk, a monthly event where people in this shallow city pretend to have a deep appreciation for art, don pretty dresses and stare at the artwork while sipping free wine and listening to techno music. This is about the most social night ever in Miami, so I decide to go with some of my friends.

Of them we have Erika, a Columbia grad school grad who enjoys random adventures as much as I do. Then there was her friend Emily and, JD, who was featured in the ever-popular livejournal entry about Candace the Canadian Stripper (see July 10, 2006 entry). JD is doing a one-year residency here, thank goodness, for he has always been a great social crutch.

Anyway, so we're in the gallery and I'm staring at this wonderful piece of pottery walks in a most encanting girl. Her hair was black and long and her face was shaped like a walnut. She wore large red beads around her neck, and a black dress around her body. I tried to glare to check her out, she turned back and smiled. Then, I ran out of the gallery -- as a preventive measure.

For those who haven't called me lately, I've sworn off Miami women. Somehow they have a way of seducing you before stealing your debit card and 80 dollars from your wallet. ANd you wonder how I've been writing.

Still I couldn't get this one girl out of my head. As a street DJ sent techno music through the air, I debated: should I talk to her? Should I go in? I turn toward the gallery. Then I turn back. I'm such a chicken.

By this time, JD and Erika came outside.

"There's this gorgeous girl inside the gallery. I should say soemthing to her," I tell them.

"Do it," they encourage.

"No," I say blushing. "I can't ..I"- and then I spouted off incomprehensive babble. "I don't want to go back inside."

At this point, the woman walks out by herself. She looks at me again, and sits by a tree. Excuse foiled.

"This is the perfect time," Emily says. "Go, go talk to her."

At this point, I just feel so childishly shy. I hide behind a tree and say no.

Erika then scold: "Robert, if you don't do it..>Then i'm going to go up and do it for you!"

"No," I demure. "No, No.." Then I thought--what am I nuts? "Okay, doit."

Reminiscent of eight grade, Erika walks up to the girl. I can't hear exactly what she's saying, but it's something along the lines of, "He's really not shy once you get him talking..Sometimes, he won't stop."

Now, I've never been a fan of slander. So I go up to Erika to correct the record. I coincidentally meet this girl of my dreams. I notice her Singaporean accent as we converse, which I think is the most attractive accent on the planet. I tell her this.

Now, I don't want to jinx this relationship, but I feel comfortbale saying her name is Irene. She lives in Miami and used to live in New York. Her phone number is -- oh, wait, she didn't give it to me.

But she promised she'd call me this week. My heart is awaiting.

January
-- After spending the night randomly in Dulles airport, I arrive at NU just thirty minutes before my first class of Winter Quarter, Economics of Gender. I debut the argyle sweater, which Malena dubbed as my "social costume."
-- Will and I have a huge fight of my use of the term "Arab leech," which he swore was a racial epithet and I swore was an accurate description of the person. Favorite line from the argument: "How could this be a racial slur?! There are NO leeches in the desert!"
-- Everyone in the Loft gets mad at me. I don't know why.
-- Nick comes back to campus! Suddenly I'm a lot happier.
-- People at The Daily stop fighting and I actually start to enjoy the job again.
-- Zu does a solo dance at the MLK Day celebration, which bookeneds four years of memories at the services at Pick-Staiger Hall. Shayla was the first one to perform there.
-- "The Dolphin Show" was actually enjoyable! Nick and I have an impromptu snowball fight afterwards. He wins. He always wins.

February
-- I write a really bad story for Alex Kotlowitz's class and lose the respect of my peers.
-- Arthur Butz ruins my life.
-- Somehow I convince Charles Whitaker and Doug Foster that I'm a nightclub stripper.
-- I stay awake during an entire Asian American Studies session. You have no clue how much of a big deal this is.

March
-- I end the Daily, prompting many to be concerned for my well-being. Malena says, "Robert just doesn't know what to do anymore...He sits in his room all day and listens to Soca Music."
-- I discover that Breanne will graduate valedictorian and tell everyone I know.
-- Get $1,500 in Hearst money!
-- I drop my sister's baby three times. Shh...she still doesn't know.
-- I agree to pose nude, covered only in copies of the Daily Northwestern, for a profile for NUde magazine. My parents tell me, "Robert, this is one of the dumbest things you've ever agreed to do...and you've done some stupid things in your life."
-- Zu is impressed at Steve's giving nature.
-- I watch my first episode of Dave Chapelle!

April
-- I'm no longer editor of the Daily! What do I do?!!!?!?!?
-- I start going to the gym and doing Pilates. Malena is put off my lack of clothing while doing the exercise, prompting her to say, "Robert, doing Pilates naked is not the answer!"
-- My last science distro is laughably easy. I laugh a lot but don't really do the work.
-- Malena's African Dance Ensemble goes brilliant.
-- I decide my life is modeled after a tv show "What About Brian" and go on a continuous stream of confessions.
-- Lindsey's birthday: "Excuse me, did they check your ID?
May
-- I'm getting worried because the national writing competition is coming and I am not prepared.
-- I'm working downtown at the Washington Post! Best assignment, so I'm worried.
-- Alison My Girlfriend and I reunite at 1800 club. Steve, Nathaniel and I have a fun night there.
-- We go to the Apartment for Jessica Keenan's birthday party.

June
--Graduation
-- I have a breakdown after losing the hearst championships.
-- First assignment at the Washington Post lands on the front page.
-- The last Loft party

July
--I start to hate the Post.
-- One of my journalistic heroes falls in love with me.
-- Reunite with Melissa.

I really don't like the perpetual changes they are making to the livejournal site. Anyway to the entry:

I found myself in darkness, tentatively feeling my way down a sliding dirty path in the woods. In front of me was Jared, my first true friend from high school. Behind me was Peter, the man I didn't consider a true friend until I started college. Together, we've borne a fraternity of sorts -- evidenced by Masta P's reference to some movie where heterosexual men rape others in the woods.

But there was no such activity. We found ourselves in this tranquil forest in the Bronx, known in Riverdale as "The Spot." Overlooking the river, we planned our next meeting (in Miami) and the one after that (in some poor village in Vietnam). And then we went to Peter's cat-infested apartment and laughed ridicously hard to Dane Cook.

When I left, I mumbled almost inaudibly to Jared, but really to myself: "Man, I'm really happy you guys are in my life... Lately I've been kinda sad."

....

This is home. I left New York in a counter-cliche. I needed to go to the Midwest to find myself from my provincial life. I was the happiest there. There, I learned to put down my guard and be affectionate. Four years later, the city is crowded with people I love. It's fast-paced an layered, laced with my past disappointments and the hope of my friend's future. It's the only city where I feel constricted to be the person my parents want me to be. And it's the place where I can foster such surreal moments like watching a quiet brook in the forest, or a comedy show with good friends or have an awkward dinner conversation with I-bankers.

When I go home, I usually have a week or so to enjoy it. I move through different settings with different friends. I wonder how it would feel if these different lives started to blend.

I'm greeted with whiplash at the end, followed by a guilt that I didn't do enough, then a loneliness where I wonder if life gets better than this. It has to though, because I could be a stupid "I-banker."

Now we all know I don't like I-bankers. First of all, I get upset because it's not some new multimedia profession. That I stands for "investment", as in investment bankers. Balogne. Do I make my job cooler by calling myself a E-reporter? No--because people would think it would make it sound new-agey, when I just mean enterprise. But I digress.

Anyway, I had no clue these corporate sharks would be awaiting for me to buy out and compartamentalize a typically cordial dinner with Candice and her friends. I was really looking forward to it because I hadn't seen Candice (for new readers, she is the girl I loved in high school who didn't love me back, but somehow we became really good friends on a trip to Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square during senior year in high school) in almost a year. With law school exams on the way, she was a little frazzled and could only do one big excursion with her friends in the city. I'm not sure how Candice approaches these dinners with any confindence. She blends her high school pals with her elementary school and college folks all together, in what I call the C-club.

The C-club usually includes Stephanie, one of her cooler undergrad friends who shares my last name. And Kati, another one of her friends who looks like Brooke Shields. I like them. To add to the mix, I invited Anthony Tao, an NU writer extraordinaire who I always wanted to get to know better. C-club is typically fun but can be a little awkward, so I thought it would be nice to have a person like Anthony if the conversation got too boring.

When I got to the restaurant, Candice tells me that Kati is probably not coming. Stephanie just got a flat tire, so she's going to be late. And the restaurant, a Chinese place on 55th and 5th, is being stingy about having six people eat there. Still, I'm optimistic. It's Candice.

Then comes Elena, an INVESTMENT banker. She claims she's met me before, but she has such a distinct personality that I know it can't be true. I would remember that personality. I'll get to her later. After Elena comes Rebecca, Candice's friend, and James, Rebecca's new man friend. Rebecca had curly black hair in a bun and James had shaggy long hair and outstandingly straight teeth. Anthony comes in a little later, in a sports fleece, rushing from the sports magazine where he works. The matr'e'd (sp?) sees Anthony, who is Chinese, and seats us right away.

When we all order, the waiter quitely writes it down. But he pumped his fist and exclaimed "Yes!" when Anthony asks for lamb with scallions. Then they spoke in Chinese.

"You're the reason we got in this restaurant!" Candice says.

This is when things started getting weird.

Elena the INVESTMENT banker asked me what I was doing with myself. I responded by telling her I was a new repoter for my newspaper, which is when she asked:

"Where is that?"
I thought she was joking. But , no, in fact, she wasn't. I had to tell her that I was working in Miami, FL, not Miami, Ohio. I was pissed for her to even think that I would work in Miami, Ohio. Anthony laughed this off. Candice looked confused.

A few minutes later, she started to pick on me again. And asked: "Does Northwestern even have a journalism program?"

Before I could get a word in, Candice and James jumped. "Yeah, it's like..the best in the nation..."

That shut her up. Anthony looked confused. I laughed it off.

Then things started to get better. Steph let people know that we both had the same last name. Then I went on my usual lecture about how I actually have Jewish ancestry, citing the Portugese and Syrian immigration of Jews in the 1400 and 1500s.

"You're kidding. You can't be serious," Elena said.

I gave her an annoyed look. Educate yourself, people.

"Sorry, I can't tell whether your joking or not," she said.

Candice pacified the situation. "it's because you're a good storyteller." This made me feel better, so we continued.

Then James and I started a decent conversation about whether or not it's a good decision to agree to die young and poetically, instead of choosing the random course life usually takes. This was inspired by "Stranger than Fiction" and a frequent conversation Jen, Lindsey, Nick and I would have dining at Allison. We were getting into a philosophical groove when Alice walked through the door.

Alice went to high school with Candice and me. When we left, she was a little loud and annoying, but well-meaning. Still I thought it would be nice to see her and rekindle old memories. She's working in the city now... as an "I-banker". Grr.

Alice is magnetic. She sat at the head of the table and began talking about whether or not she was going to buy an apartment in the city. Then she started talking about loan consolidation and investment, seeing as the interest rate was so low.

Elena then jumped in. "It was low two years ago," she said. "It's not low now."

The two start fighting about this. I begin to bang my head on the table, complaining to Candice and Anthony about how one side of the table is considerably less shallow than another.

James decides he should chime in, carrying the best comment of the night.

"I have to say, my interest rate is very low right now."

Think about it.

An hour later, we were kicked out of the restaurant. The garbage can literally pushed James and me out. Elena and Alice disappeared. The conversation got better. We talked some about Brooklyn, complaining about gentrification. Then, James realized that he, too, was a gentrifier. I welcome self-realization.

...

I returned home where we put up our holiday tree and dance to 70s reggae hit, "We Wish You an Irie Christmas." How I'm not schizophrenic, I don't know.

The next day I did Christmas shopping with the family. Our tradition is to do shopping at the same time each year, as last minute as possible. This way, we all get the same time for buying gifts and we can have a fun competition when we break them free of their wrapping paper prisons.

But this year, Steve and Zu were in town. I wanted to see them, but my New York schedule is so busy, I decided we should all meet at the mall. Zu was sporting her fabulous new wedding ring and Steve sported Brian, his moptopped, bushy eyebrowed best friend from Bergen.

I've never seen him so happy. He had his best friend, his fiance and his NU buddy all there at the same time, wanting his attention. He got all Jersey in the mall, almost to the point of annoyance. Which is when I told him, "Chill out dude."

Zu and I did most of our shopping together. We made some great purchases, including an Afrocentric vegetarian cookbook for brother Luther and crocs for Larry, my sister's husband. During the trip, Zu asked why we all wait so long to do our shopping.

"Did the wise men have months to bring their gifts to Jesus?" I asked.

"No...." she said.

"That's right. We scramble, just like they did for their frankincense..."

There was an elderly couple in front of us, who decided they would laugh at our conversation. Just like old times. It was Christmas, though, so I decided not to be snide with them.

....

Christmas itself was all about Simone, my sister's kid. I am calling her Simone now because she has developed a personality. She has a great sense of humor and is a little spoiled. My parents are mad because they say I taught her bad habits, like how to spit, make yourself dizzy and play with the light switch. She's at that age when she mimics everything cool people do. So she eyed me figure skating on our kitchen floor (and commentating at the same time).

Now, when I say "triple-lutz," she knows to turn around, stick out her right leg, spin around a couple of times (she doesn't jump) and then stick her arms out as if she's landed. First-rate!

I got her a little lamb stuffed with lavender. She hated it, threw the lamb down as soon as she saw it. So I took it back to Miami with me, and now I sleep with it. Shows her to be ungrateful.

....
My New York retelling ends with an all-too-short encounter with Jordan. He is sporting a new beard, almost giving him a Messianic look. I've always felt connected with him because at NU, he reminded me of my friends from home. But he also had that sensitivity, an analytical self-awareness that I found unique to most of my NU friends (and Jared, too, in all fairness).

So we ate in this pretty decent Korean restaurant on 110th and Broadway. Watching Jordan mature is fascinating. Five minutes in, he asked: "So how are you doing?"

I was startled because he usually goes through everything about his life before we even get to that part. It could take hours and he's an interesting chap, so I don't usually complain. I gave him a garbled answer because I knew my time was short. I really wanted to concentrate on where his life was going.

Then he started to tell me about his New York friends. Every time he sees one of them, one inevitably asks: "So..have any of you been depressed lately?" Someone always says yes. Someone's always hard on drugs, bordering on the need for intervention. And then Jordan said to me:

"You know what, Robert? I'm the happiest of all my friends right now."

Maybe it's the Midwest that does New Yorkers good. I smiled because in Jordan, again, I saw some version of myself.

After about an hour, Jordan met Peter and Jared, who were in Starbucks. We walked Jordan home, in a brisk conversation about "Flavor of Love" and women and Judaism and the Upper West Side. It was glorious to have three of my best friends around me, a moment of spontaneous talk past the bodegas and the law school students and the homeless people who were all pushed out of their homes by gentrifiers like James---

And I thought, wow, maybe this is it...Maybe this is when everything in my life is begining to blend.

The next time is inevitable,

Robert

"Dreamgirls" put me in such a good mood. The night before I was foul. I just spent three days at home in magical New York with moments that were magically unfulfilling, real and surreal. And then I knew I would return to Miami, this flashy city rife with razzle dazzle but low on substance.
Initially the movie made me miss New York. It reminded me of the day Thaparama, Tashalee, Talia and I went to see "Chicago" at the Ziegfield Theater. The audience was so savvy. It applauded when Chita Rivera, the orginal Velma Kelly, gave her two line cameo. They nearly stood up after "Cell Bock Tango." And Talia and I oddly found ourselves doing the choreography to "All That Jazz", along with about 10 other people in the theater. That's a filmgoing experience.
"Dreamgirls" isn't as good as "Chicago." I wondered why no one clapped after "Love You, I Do", a new doo-wop piece sang by Effie White, or Jennifer Hudson. Then, during the theme song, a drag queen stood up and said, "I AM the Dreamgirl!" This made me happy. And then we both applauded by the time "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" came around and I again had faith in mankind, no longer burdened by the happiness in memory.

Despite the hours I spend a day in front of my laptop because I don't believe in television, I am active only on one list serv. When we graduated college, my roommates and a few universal friends decided to start a "Loft Listserv." I am the most frequent contributor, sometimes doubling the nearest poster in a month.

There's been a lot of talk about my livejournal recently. Last week, Malena, who started a preachy, more typical blog at themalenaamusa.blogspot.com, said she strived to be like the New Yorker. She contrasted this with my livejournal. The magazine it brought to her mind: People.

Ouch.

After some negotiation, she agreed if anything, it was most like The New Yorker's Talk of The Town. Her blog was most like Time magazine.

Last night, Malena wanted everyone to know she posted some new entries, about her crying in the bathroom because she was a likely candidate for HIV or something ... and the election. Zu congratulated her on such meaningful entries, I made a snide comment about her site being self-edifying.

Zu felt compelled to post this response:

"and i was thinking while reading malena's blog - wow, this is so unlike Robert's self-centered livejournal - even if she's talking about herself, by the end of her entry her moral or point of her story is for others' benefit, not just her own. "

Malena thanked Zu. Then she wrote:

"I always struggled with my writing. It never seemed to catch up with my verbal skills. but this blog is helping me work through the sloth of cheese and generalities I use to cloak my claims i haven't worked through thoroughly..

it's funny bc the reason i didn't read robert's live journal was because it got too personal about other people's business. like reading a celebrity tabloid. at times so detailed. and so straight-up."

And I figured, boy, this might be the prevailing sentiment about my livejournal. Cell phones, AIM, letters, dead journals-- of which I currently have four-- all aren't good enough. My self-centeredness and love for gossip resulted in my putting potentially dangerous entries for all the Web to see. Not only were such thoughts nonsensical, it angered me.

Then I listed to some Lea Salonga and calmed down. And I thought, Wow, I never actually wrote why I have this thing. So let me tell you:

Changing the world is my career. For some reason, people like to give me access to their lives, I tell their stories and trust people will do the right thing when they read them. Ninety percent of the time that happens. And even at the end of freshman year when I started this thing, I realized that I didn't care about other people's prosletyzing on things like the War in Iraq, affirmative action or legalizing sodomy. What makes one random intelligent person's opinion more valuable than another random intelligent person's opinion boggled me. And I often took the position of the person who was more aligned with my values, meaning they weren't changing anything--just reinforcing my morality. Instead, I cared about the facts and the compelling stories of people whose lives were affected by the issues. I was studying how to do that effectively. I started having some success with those goals on an academic and preprofessional level. I needed no blog to change the world.

Something also happened at the end of freshman year. I got a letter from my friend Conrad, who left New York to join the military. And I got no letters from Jared, Peter, Zaik, Melissa or a bunch of people who I still considered my good friends. I sent one or two letters to Conrad, and I sent no letters to anyone else. It wasn't because we didn't love each other. It was because we were busy living our lives.

Then I begged Jen to give me a password to start a livejournal. I wanted to do what she was doing. That is, I wanted to have a scrappy living memoir that people who knew me could read anytime they wanted. This way they didn't have to find time in their busy schedules to call or write letters. They could check up on me if they knew the web address. And, as utilitarian as it sounds, I could be more efficient if I told personal stories for the blogosphere than if I made 15 phone calls every weekend.

Somehow, it morphed into something else. Secret readers gossiped about it in Fisk hall. A recruiter brought it up during a job interview. A random girl from Kansas said she liked the writing and friended me. When I said I wanted to stop, random Kansan begged for me to continue as a means of saving my life. At one point, Zu said I went too far and demanded a retraction or make it friends only. I could make it friends only, yes. But that defeated the point of giving people who know me a random way to check on me.

The mission is the same today, even if my readership just likes celebrity tabloids. I hope that's not true. At worst, I hope you appreciate a good story. But I hope you read because you know I care about their time enough not to plague you with phone calls. And because you care about me enough to want to know how I'm doing every once in a while.

Does that sound like something my for my own benefit?

The next time is inevitable,

Robert

Hanging out in South Beach is weird. That's because I live here, so it effectively loses that surreal mystique. Strip clubs, oddities and gorgeous people --they're all my neighbors. So I was sufficiently freaked out when Breanne and I were hit on by several people when we went out last night. Hitting on me is fine, but just not in my backyard."

So the night started with Breanne and F. Liz Gibson (ask Tina what the F stands for) searching for something to do. Breanne knew a few places from hanging out with other people and was so-dubbed senior South Beach correspondent. We were walking past a movie theater when a beggar decided to heckle me.

"That man's a gay man and a playboy!" he yelled. "Ladies, stay away! He's a gay man and a playboy!"

This taunt continued until we were half a block away from him. Breanne and Liz Gibson thought it was funny. I was flatted because I thought he said he saw me in Playboy. And, come on, you have to be pretty good looking to be in an adult magazine.


The first place we went to was enthralled in a boxing match. So we kept walking on Alton Road. All of a sudden, I hear two men whispering: "Jason....It's Jason...Look it's Jason.."


I'm getting excited because obviously some big star named Jason is around. Then I get tapped on the shoulder:

"Jason!" one says, getting ready to hug me.

I raise my eyebrow.

"You're not Jason....." he said.

"No. I'm not."

He then whispers to his friends: "It's not Jason..>I don't know who he is.....Not jason."

They kinda reminded me of those Siamese-Twin monsters that used to be on Sesame Street.

Then we finally go into a Karoake bar. These places are just annoying nowadays. Anyway, there are some men dressed in Army fatigue singing Sweet Caroline. This made me proud to be an American.

So we're watching Breanne drink some concotion with Red Bull, when one of the guys, a man with close-cropped blond hair, square-rimmed black glasses and two buck teeth approaches her.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt," he said looking at me.. "But I just wanted to tell you that you (turning to Breanne) have a beautiful nose."

F. Liz and I are trying very hard not to laugh.

"The man continues.

"I mean, it's just such a nice feature..I've been admiring it since you walked in. I'm not trying to pick you up, but man, what a nose...."

Because I had such a great need to make fun of the man we now call G.I. Dilbert, I demanded we leave. We walked down to Washington Ave, where yet another homeless approached me.

"I'm sorry, " I said. "I don't have anything." Breanne and F. Liz keep on walking.

"What are you, some kind of playboy?!" he said. "You're dating two white women at the same time! One isn't enough!"

That was our night.

The next time is inevitable,

Robert