Let me ask you something...
Just because Dana Martucci tries to friend me on Facebook, does that mean I owe her some kind of response? I don't want to erase or ignore the request, because I don't really do that, especially not to people I do know. That said, I really don't want this girl, whose profile picture is a question mark, in with my group of people.
It's kind of exactly how I felt about Dana Martucci when I was in grade school. Younger sister of a best friend who ultimately became known as the "guy who shit himself" and I was good enough to lend my sweatpants.
We remained somewhat in contact until I reached a high school age where I became vicious, and tough to be around. Well, at least to Neil. But his little sister? I mean Jesus, I barely knew her then. I really have no interest in catching up.
I'm really not sure I'd accept a friend request from Neil. I don't really look people up on there that often, to be honest. I'm more reactive. What's the feature, friend finder? Whatever the hell that feature is called in there. Not that I even have his e-mail address.
I'll save my further Facebook rants for a later post. Till then, Dana will be waitlisted on Facebook. The Jonathan Club, it ain't easy getting in.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Upsets
Isn't it funny, as we head deeply into this second week of Olympic fever, the impact of an upset can be so parochial as to not even be recognizable from country to country. Can you imagine what things must be like in Greece and Spain, countries where they upset the best in the world at their own game.
We have certainly romanticized the power of the 1980 Men's Hockey team to the point where it is no longer possible to simply reflect on that team without referencing the symbolic overthrow of the Soviet Union.
Do you think the average Russian today remembers that moment? Is it possible that just as the majority of our own countrymen couldn't tell you who beat the latest Dream Team, and why that might be important historically. They just know we lost and its time to take back what's ours. Pretty much like how Russia did with hockey, even once their country shrunk in size more than 50%.
Maybe to the Soviets, losing that hockey game was simply that. Not a powerful shot across the bow at at Communism, but just a game. Other things happen, basketball dynasties fall, but pretty much the world stays the same.
If only I could get one of those Georgian guys, thinks the Russian swim coach, our olympic prospects become that much stronger. And you see, that's just it. We focus on accumulation, not just historic upsets. As Team USA dances to the medal round you can be sure that the world's biggest audience ever will be on hand.
At least that's what NBC tells me.
Only time will tell, but for now I think people are a bit nuts.
We have certainly romanticized the power of the 1980 Men's Hockey team to the point where it is no longer possible to simply reflect on that team without referencing the symbolic overthrow of the Soviet Union.
Do you think the average Russian today remembers that moment? Is it possible that just as the majority of our own countrymen couldn't tell you who beat the latest Dream Team, and why that might be important historically. They just know we lost and its time to take back what's ours. Pretty much like how Russia did with hockey, even once their country shrunk in size more than 50%.
Maybe to the Soviets, losing that hockey game was simply that. Not a powerful shot across the bow at at Communism, but just a game. Other things happen, basketball dynasties fall, but pretty much the world stays the same.
If only I could get one of those Georgian guys, thinks the Russian swim coach, our olympic prospects become that much stronger. And you see, that's just it. We focus on accumulation, not just historic upsets. As Team USA dances to the medal round you can be sure that the world's biggest audience ever will be on hand.
At least that's what NBC tells me.
Only time will tell, but for now I think people are a bit nuts.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
End of an Era
I learned recently that one of my favorite places closed. To us, it was a beautiful gift. To others, a horror show.
We all knew it would never last but enjoyed it while we could. I mean, who could have doubted the challenges keeping a place called Premium Events under wraps. From the first time we heard of it, we knew with each private lap dance on the beds others only whispered of dreamed that it could never last.
Before Hot Lap Dance Clup, was revealed to us, it was impossible to imagine a world without beefy headed bouncers banging on the door of the tiny booth you and a stripper huddled away in for 3 or 4 songs. Totalling in the hundreds of dollars. Madness.
Here, at the loft (as we grew to call it). there was none of this nonsense. Yes, you paid a hefty fee at the front door. $50 dollars for members, $60 at the door your first time or any time you forgot your card thereafter. Luckily, the guy had a pretty good memory and given we were there quite often, and always with a party of six or more, we got treated as a bachelor party and never had to pay full price.
But lord we always would have. It was if magic when you walked in, carrying your own alcohol. Beautiful girls careening all over the place, but never any pressure. I nearly got hand release from a six foot brunette publisher. She had a pretty high-powered job and was truly interested in my writing. I actually ended up spending about $80 just to get her off.
That's right. Eighty dollars. For an unlimited (practically) time frame. Nobody checking in, no inhibitions. But-- A BROTHEL??? Why I would never use such harsh terms. It's not quite as black and white as that, and I don't appreciate the implications.
You didn't walk into the loft and meet up with crusty old Darlene, answering the door through a glass cage and taking $300 on the way in. The lining up the bunny's, disgusting and foreign, in hopes that a man or two will sign on for an extra long "party."
No, these girls were just beautiful strippers, and as my friend Ryan liked to attest -- American. There is something different about not having a Russian, Serb or Pacific Islander approach you. As if you are somehow part of an international stripper cartel, bringing poverty to the nation-state left behind.
When the girl went to Spence, you don't have any of that guilt. Some of these girls were porn stars, others were just smoking hot, and treated you with respect, despite the fact that it was undeniable that you were a lowlife.
Italian buffet, crazy amount of couches both in the private area and outside. No poles like you're used to. This place, as I noted, was different, special. Symbian shows and lesbian shows were done about two or three times each night, but the focus was always on camraderie, a little baited time alone before heading back for what must be the greatest private room experience I've ever had, and likely among the best availabe, if not in the entire United States, surely the East Coast and at least New York.
It will be missed, no matter what the cops say
We all knew it would never last but enjoyed it while we could. I mean, who could have doubted the challenges keeping a place called Premium Events under wraps. From the first time we heard of it, we knew with each private lap dance on the beds others only whispered of dreamed that it could never last.
Before Hot Lap Dance Clup, was revealed to us, it was impossible to imagine a world without beefy headed bouncers banging on the door of the tiny booth you and a stripper huddled away in for 3 or 4 songs. Totalling in the hundreds of dollars. Madness.
Here, at the loft (as we grew to call it). there was none of this nonsense. Yes, you paid a hefty fee at the front door. $50 dollars for members, $60 at the door your first time or any time you forgot your card thereafter. Luckily, the guy had a pretty good memory and given we were there quite often, and always with a party of six or more, we got treated as a bachelor party and never had to pay full price.
But lord we always would have. It was if magic when you walked in, carrying your own alcohol. Beautiful girls careening all over the place, but never any pressure. I nearly got hand release from a six foot brunette publisher. She had a pretty high-powered job and was truly interested in my writing. I actually ended up spending about $80 just to get her off.
That's right. Eighty dollars. For an unlimited (practically) time frame. Nobody checking in, no inhibitions. But-- A BROTHEL??? Why I would never use such harsh terms. It's not quite as black and white as that, and I don't appreciate the implications.
You didn't walk into the loft and meet up with crusty old Darlene, answering the door through a glass cage and taking $300 on the way in. The lining up the bunny's, disgusting and foreign, in hopes that a man or two will sign on for an extra long "party."
No, these girls were just beautiful strippers, and as my friend Ryan liked to attest -- American. There is something different about not having a Russian, Serb or Pacific Islander approach you. As if you are somehow part of an international stripper cartel, bringing poverty to the nation-state left behind.
When the girl went to Spence, you don't have any of that guilt. Some of these girls were porn stars, others were just smoking hot, and treated you with respect, despite the fact that it was undeniable that you were a lowlife.
It will be missed, no matter what the cops say
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