Know What I'm Sayin'?

I love me a good analogy. Good metaphors? Even better. I’m not big on clichés, but I’ll concede when apropos. A seldom occurrence, but it’s been known to happen.

As a writer, I appreciate the harmony created when words are linked in clever ways. It’s sexy word art.

However, I do have my limits. For example, say what you will, but Lil’ Wayne must be stopped.

“I’ll make you weee oooh, weee oooh. Like a cop car.”

Dude, seriously?

Or my personal favorite:

“Don’t you ever leave the side of me, indefinitely, not probably, and honestly I’m down like the economy.” (You have no idea how many little squiggly lines are coming up on Word due to that raping of the English language.)

Yes, I’m quoting the mainstream crap because I don’t have any of his albums.

But, Alex, that’s not fair. Why don’t you give him a try before you fully judge him?

Well, that’s quite simple. Just read the last two lyrics again.

While we’re on the topic…

ATTENTION RAPPERS. When you say you have to get your metaphors tight, you’re really talking about similes – they use “like” or “as” when comparing things. “I’m down like the economy.” That’s a simile. A metaphor is when you compare two nouns without using like or as. “You are a douche.” That’s a metaphor.

(ATTENTION GRAMMAR GEEKS. I know that similes are technically a form of a metaphor, but who cares? Rappers really don’t know the difference anyway. Metaphors vs. Similes. Read about it. It’s black and white. But we can discuss that later.)

Let’s come back to the blog.

Why am I writing about analogies and metaphors? That’s because I love them. In some way, they fuel me. They offer so much light, and most importantly, they offer so much perspective. I love explaining something with a random line because it’s genius. It’s art.

Anecdote: As a young baseball player, I would be at my best when I was upset. Sounds bass ackwards, but what can I tell ya?

As a pitcher, I had to be confident in my abilities and fight the intimidation of the opposing hitter. I wasn’t the most talented on the field; therefore, I had to battle with emotion.

From the stands, my astute mother could sense when my confidence was lacking. She would pick the right opportunity to yell the following line in Spanish for the entire park to hear:

“Alejandro, el hombre cobarde no puede tener mujer bonita por que viene el guapo y se la quita.” (Translated: Alejandro, a cowardly man can’t have a pretty woman because the brave man will take her from him.)

Obviously, it doesn’t carry the power of a cleverly crafted rhyme, but you get the point. The line had nothing to do with pitching. But it had everything to do with what I was trying to accomplish.

The embarrassment alone pissed me off to no end. I took the anger out on the opposing hitter, and ultimately, I reached a moderate level of success.

The right perspective = mission accomplished.

Another classic is from my father. He would throw this one out frequently because it’s perfect in so many ways.

“Alejandro, con paciencia y con saliva, el elefante se hecho a la hormiga.” (Translated: With patience and with saliva, the elephant screwed the ant.)

Again, not nearly as powerful if you don’t speak Spanish, but whose fault is that?

The line is sheer brilliance. And often times, it gave me the proper perspective to reach a given goal.

However you want to say it, we all need perspective in life. Perspective can come in a simple sentence, an analogy, a metaphor or a simile.

We can lack many things. Each and every one of us do. But if we lack perspective, there’s no goal we’ll ever reach. It's the root of what we do with what we have.

Moving forward, whenever perspective is lacking, hopefully mom will be there screaming at us from the stands.

Shhh. Someone's at the door.

(So in my last installment, I talked about spitting in the eye of popular convention and what society and precedent tell us to do.

Of course, this is centered around my age and how I need to comport myself. I’m not referring to crazy things like walking down the street and poking people in the eye with your thumb or asking women if they are pregnant or just really fat. Please, continue to abide by popular convention and what society tells us to do when it comes to those items. You’ll save yourself an ass kicking – and I’m not just talking about the poking people in the eye with your thumb example, either.)

Ok, off we go...

Knock Knock.

(Inquisitive) Who’s There?

(Excited) 32!

(Shock and horror) "Oh, I'm sorry. I can't come to the door right now. I'm afraid that in my weakened condition, I could take a nasty spill down the stairs and subject myself to further school absences. You can reach my parents at their places of business. Thank you for stopping by. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. Have a nice day!"

(Silence)… 1 Mississippi… 2 Mississippi… 3 Mississippi…


Shhh. Can’t make a single noise - I’m hiding. You know, I’m doing that thing we do on Sunday mornings when the Jehovah witnesses come to the door. Some lower the volume on their computers so that the moaning from Youporn won’t give you away; some put their cell phones on silent (or their beepers on vibrate if they live in 1994); or some tell that random cougar they picked up last night to shut the fuck up or you will hurt her in ways found only in the backroom of Satriali’s Pork Store; and we hold our breath.

What? I’m speaking hypothetically here. I’m just sayin’…

OK. I’m looking out the peephole and I see 32 standing there with its bags. Ready to move in on my shit. From what I can tell, here's what I see:

There’s a black president who wants us to paint our roofs white to conserve energy… the Dolphins’ 2nd-round draft pick - a black quarterback, who’s last name is White… I see that the richest country on the planet is broke and so are the people that hold our money… and I see that my mother finally flew on a plane for the first time in well over 30 years and she got the flu (I swear, I’m not making this shit up)…

Let’s see, what else? Oh, there are some things I recognize: Rain on Memorial Day… America blowing it on American Idol… Lost is as confusing as ever… I’m still poor…

Yeah, I’m fucked.

I don’t want 32 anywhere near me. I’m not feelin’ 32. It’s not welcome. In fact, it’s the guest that stays for an entire year. And I was just getting used to 31.

See, 31 isn’t really that bad and it’s so close to 30. And as we all know, 30 is so f-ing cool. It’s like, 30 and 31 are boys. They hang out in bars in the city. They play pick up basketball and hook up with college girls. They can do all the bombs: Jaegger, Saki, Irish Car.

But, 32 – what a square. It’s grey hair scattered about. It’s limping for no apparent reason other than you exist. It’s thinking today’s music is too loud and what people call hip-hop now-a-days needs a new name because it has no flavor and no soul. It’s a far cry from De La Soul, Tribe and the entire Def Jam crew. It’s listening to Delilah and thinking she has all the answers. Damn you, 32. You sound like you suck.

Currently, I am a 31-year-old manboy. It’s great and has an ever better ring to it. It’s quirky and endearing.

But 32-year-old man boy? That sounds like crap. It sounds like a dude that wears those horrible Ed Hardy shirts one size too small when he goes out because he thinks it’s “fitted.” He wears his favorite team’s jersey with HIS last name on the back. He hangs out with guys who call each other variations of the word “Bro,” like “bro-ham” or “bro-hemian” and some other dude that everyone calls T-Bag for that random time he got T-bagged in college after falling asleep on the couch with his mouth open while watching Ally McBeal.

Ugh, 32 sounds horrible. Plus, 32 is when people go around and start lying about their age, isn’t it?

F-it. Maybe 32 will have something else in that bag. Maybe some winning lottery numbers or another Yankees World Series title. Maybe it’s got a new car or some new gardening techniques to fix up the backyard. Maybe it’s got that trip to Europe or a funny season of SNL. You know, it would kick ass if it had a Kanye West album that doesn’t suck or perhaps a little patience.

Come on 32 – I need you to step up big.

365+ Days

Finally, the prodigal blogger has returned. Everyone has been on my case about taking so long to do one of these. Well, my bad. But, the Nino Brown of blogs has returned to give you your fix. (Wow, first paragraph and I’ve already lost people with a random reference.)

So Oye Martinez 365+ days later…

Well, let’s see. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I’m not a legend (except in my own mind). Oh yeah, and I’m kinda broke – thanks Alan Greenspan.

But otherwise, I’m great. I’m two years into my 30s and it’s true what the proverbial “they” say - 30 is the new 20… or in my case, 31 is the new 21.

It’s true because I feel younger than ever. I wouldn’t say I’m immature, although many would argue that point. But I can, with all certainty, say I’m not fully mature yet. And there is a subtle difference.

For example – I lost my father this year. He was a great man, who taught me many things and gave me the world. But with his passing, I officially became the real man in my mother’s life (el hombre de la casa for the Latinos out there).

Not to mention, I have my mortgage, my career and I’m actually worrying about saving for retirement. These are all pretty adult things.

On the other hand, I still giggle when someone says “pro bono.” hehehe

See? That’s the imbalance I’m talking about. So not fully mature yet.

But, despite the lack of full maturity, I am still forced to grow. I am still forced to evolve. The world keeps moving with or without me and it’s really up to me to move with it.

For example - technology. Have any of us really embraced this Blu-ray phenomenon? What about HD? I only have one nice HD TV at home. It’s really coming at us fast, people.

I mean TTYL – LOL – OMG – BRB has replaced 143, 823, 123 and my personal favorites 039-2-09-537 and 58008 (read those upside down).

What happened to our generation, people? God I sound old.

What happened to Yo Joe? Wonder Twins activate? The Truffle Shuffle? I know you are, but what am I? My Buddy and Kid Sister? Balky and Cousin Larry’s Dance of Joy?

They’ve all been replaced by the fucking Hills, My Space and YouTube (or as I like to say, Your Space and MyTube).

I’m sorry if I’m ranting, but do I need to start embracing the change? (Hold all Obama jokes, please.) Do I need to accept that I’m not a kid anymore? If so, that means I need to accept responsibility for things.

I guess we can’t hide behind our age anymore, folks. We really need to be held accountable for what we do/don’t do… what we know/don’t know. I mean, there’s a reason why society expects certain things from us, right? It’s kinda the same way stereotypes exist. Everything came about for a reason.

I’m 31 – so society tells me that I should be married. I should have my 2.3 kids and a dog by now. And perhaps it’s true – for many reasons I should be in said position. Afterall, it’s the status quo that has been taught to us by precedent.

Just like stereotypes have taught us by precedent. For example, all Cubans reek of seaweed and have lungs like the MetLife Blimp. (Another example of change - when the hell did the MetLife blimp muscle the Goodyear Blimp out of major sporting events?)

On the flip side, one might say “fuck you” to stereotypes. Their argument might sound something like: “That’s not true… my Cuban uncle doesn’t even know how to swim!”

Well, just like that person thinks he’s right, I will side with him for the sake of my argument.

I will say “fuck you” to society and to precedent.

I will not be “society’s 31 year-old.” Instead, I will continue to fight. I will continue to write in leet speak. I will play Madden on my one HD TV and I will kiss pretty girls until they think I’m an old creepy dude… or until the right one sweeps me off my feet and tells me she wants to grow old with my pro bono.

Salud.

Venus If You Will…

This blog is dedicated to my buddy Scarp. He’s a first-time dad and a big fan of Oye Martinez. He’s been there for the ups and downs… and God knows, there have been downs. Like the time he and I endured the world’s worst New Year’s Eve party. Or the time I almost got kicked out of a softball league for stopping the game before the first pitch just so I could take a piss in leftfield. The true definition of “when you gotta go, you gotta go.” Here’s to you Scarpy.

Venus, if you will. Please send a little girl for me to thrill. A girl who wants my kisses and my arms... a girl with all the charms of you.

Venus, make her fair. A lovely girl with sunlight in her hair. And take the brightest stars up in the skies… and place them in her eyes for me.

Frankie Avalon had it so right. That song hit the top of the charts in 1959. Here we are, nearly 50 year later, and it still rings true. At the end of the day, no matter what we say (oh, that rhymes), we all want a girl to thrill. A girl that wants us. A girl that’s fair. A girl with sunlight in her hair and pretty eyes.

Of course, she can’t be GoDaddy.com hot because that just brings a boat-load of problems.

Problems like:
-Worrying about guys hitting on her when you go to the bathroom in a nightclub / bar / restaurant / Pep Boys.
-Some fancy doctor guy driving up in his convertible midlife crisis while she’s walking back to her car after buying a cute, yet casual top from Forever 21.
-Some ripped guy, who’s spending extra time in the gym working out his flaptoids - I think those are the muscles right above your penis and under your bellybutton – using simple sentences and mono-syllabic words to try to get her back to his South Beach apartment so he can flex for her while listening to some killer break beats.

I know what you're saying, "Uhhh, dude, you have problems."

Yeah, whateva!

The point is I don’t need to worry about all that shit. I want a girl that I can trust and a girl that’s pretty. Pretty physically, emotionally, spiritually and most of all, mentally.

But here’s the rub.

Many times my friends have said to me, “Martinez, I have a girl for you. She’s funny, outgoing, really cool. You two will get along great.”

Now, I know I’m going to sound like an ass bag, but I’m gonna say it:

The next question, in some manner, is: “Is she pretty?” Or, “Is she hot?”

And it’s a fair question. No judging allowed because it goes through all our minds. Physical appearance is extremely important.

Ladies, I know you wouldn’t make goo-goo eyes with a guy at a club because he looks like he can make good pancakes in the morning… or he knows how to change a tire… or he won’t cheat on you with your best friend and her mom.

Of course not. But the response to my question about her appearance usually goes something like, “Bro, let me tell you, she’s not ugly.”

What the hell is that?!?! What does that mean? “She’s not ugly.”

Does it mean she’s not a midget? Does it mean she doesn’t have two heads? Does it mean she doesn’t have one ear considerably smaller than the other? Does it mean you can safely look at her for an extended period of time before you vomit in your mouth?

What the hell does “not ugly” mean?

Are they trying to tell me that I should settle? Are they subtly saying that I should jump on this one because I can’t do any better and at the end of the day, it’s more important to like a girl that laughs at my jokes than a girl I wanna have sex with in public?

Now, I don’t disagree with that last statement one bit. I love it when girls laugh at my jokes. In fact, I certainly enjoy a good joke - especially after sex. I feel it really hugs the moment, you know? But if a girl doesn’t like my jokes, then all we have is sex and awkward silences. Mmmm, not a fan.

(Note: the joke telling after climax doesn’t include when I masturbate alone in the dark. That would just be weird.)

So, what are they trying to tell me when they say “not ugly?”

Have I reached that point in my life where I can no longer be selective? Are they telling me that a girl that’s fair with sunlight in her hair is a little out of the question at this point?

Should I settle for the vice president of the Spanish Honors society? The girl that got picked up from school by her grandmother, then taken directly to piano class?

I’m not bashing that girl, but chances are, she wasn’t the prettiest girl in school.

Really, though. No matter how cool she is, I still have to be attracted to her.

Besides, isn’t that why we all go to the gym… or, I should say, have a gym membership? To try to look our best physically?

And ladies, don’t you want Prince Charming to ride in on a white horse and whisk you away to the land of happily ever after?

What about that freggin’ McDreamy character?

(Note: it’s funny when no one paid attention to Patrick Dempsey when he was delivering pizzas with extra anchovies. Now he’s a doctor with a 5 o’clock shadow and the women swoon.)

Look, I have no idea what "not ugly" is. I don't know what the hell you people mean by it. But I know it doesn't sound good.

Now Venus. Get off your ass and get to work, damn it.

South of the Highway

(I know everyone. I’m sorry. It’s been 2 weeks since my last blog posting and I’ve received more crap for this than the time I “accidentally” pulled the fire alarm in 7th grade. I swear, I didn’t do either on purpose.)

I wish I were South of the Highway. No, I am not referring to US1, the Turnpike or the Palmetto. I am referring to Route 27, the highway that runs through the Hamptons in Long Island, NY.

Quick lesson: Route 27 is like Flagler for rich people. In Miami, if you say your address is in the southwest, you’re probably safe... probably. If you say you’re in the northwest, you’ll get a dirty look and some kind of reference to being ghetto... or Venezuelan.

Well, the same can be said for Route 27. If you’re “North of the Highway,” you’re freggin’ rich and I hate you. You own a multi-million dollar home in the Hamptons. Your house is sick. Anyone in their right mind would gladly kill their first born child to live in your house that was probably featured in Better Homes and Garden or some kind of chick coffee table magazine. Oh yeah, you own a Porsche or two.

If you’re “South of the Highway,” you’re disgusting. Your house is so big and so expensive that an entire episode of Cribs wouldn’t do it justice. I’m talking helicopters, seemingly endless land with horses running wild and 10-times more toilets than asses in the house. Oh yeah, you own a Porsche or seven.

Why are you telling me this, Alex? Did you just watch “Homes you dream about owning while you sit in traffic listening to some dumbass with a hoochie accent on Power 96 talking about how she’s going to be live from Club Deep and it’s going to be off the chain” on the Travel Channel?

No, but I have seen that episode. In fact, it’s called my life! But thanks for asking.

I say this because I just spent my Labor Day weekend in the Hamptons. My boy Billy G set up a trip that included lots of relaxing, endless laughs and inside jokes, a $200 lunch that featured spaghetti and meatballs from Chef Boyardi, a waiter that tried to seduce us by offering sausage on our pizza, and if that wasn't enough - peanut butter and jelly sandwiches after midnight as a 65-year old man walked around in his boxers and flashed his man boobs.

Oh yeah, most importantly, it provided perspective on no matter how much I work, I will never be South of the Highway.

So why do we, the ditch diggers of the world, do it?

Five times a week “we” get up at 6:30am to sit in traffic and drag our feet to work. (I say “we” because we’re in this fight together. I actually get up at about 8:15am or 8:30am because I live near work. Score!)

Roughly eight hours later, “we” get back in our cars and back in traffic to rush home. Some have to stop and pick up the kids at school, daycare or abuela’s house. Then, go home and cook? Where’s the time to give our significant others a little bit of a “how’s your father?”

You want frills? I got frills for you. For Labor Day, “we – the ditch diggers of the world” head over to Miami Beach (cue the trance music) only to find it completely over crowded with under-aged girls that’ll get you three-to-five if the judge is in a good mood, and guys with spiky hair and fake gold fronts. (Again, I say “we” because we’re in this together. I didn’t go to the beach for Labor Day this year. I went to the Hamptons. Did I mention that?)

So what does it all mean, Alex? Are you complaining? Are you crying? What’s your point?

Damn it. Stop asking me so many questions. The fact of the matter is that I can’t listen to Power 96 ever again. I’m ruined. Do you hear me? Ruined!

As I stepped out of the fairy tale that those fuckers call their life, I realized that there’s only one way I can be South of the Highway. No, it’s not through my writing. Not through my handsome good looks. Not through my crack wit or my boyish charm. (For the record, my mom wrote those characteristics.) It’s by pulling the improbable.

That’s right. I need to find me a sugar momma. Consider this: Alex Martinez is serving notice. If you’re a rich bitch that’s not horrible to look at, doesn’t have a severely saggy vagina, can paint her lips inside the lines, doesn’t have cats, is considered bendy for her age and has a hot granddaughter that wouldn’t judge me for what I’m doing to her grandmother on a bi-weekly basis, then reach out and touch me.

Only problem is that I might have to go South of the Highway on her. Ugh… I guess you take the good with the bad.

Overpriced Spaghetti and Meatballs, here I come!

Dream a Little Dream

There are two types of people in this world… well, there’s actually more than two, but for the purpose of this blog, there are only two types of people in this world – the dreamers and the doers.

There are those who dream about making a difference, making it big, learning to ride a bike or playing a musical instrument.

Then there are those who actually make a difference, make it big and compete in the Tour de France while playing the cello.

I am somewhere in the middle. I can stare out the window and dream a little dream, but very seldom do I, like many uninspired people, actually turn it into reality.

But sometimes dreams are just illusions and should be left as such. When reality sets in, it doesn’t really play out the way you dreamt it.

Take my comedy “career” for example. I always dreamt of jumping on stage and making a crowd laugh. To me, that was the ultimate rush - putting creative thoughts together and making light of an everyday occurrence. So I actually tried it and saw that I was okay at it. But then, an amazing thing happened - the illusion wore off. There was so much crap to deal with behind the scenes that I was instantly turned off. The dream was dead and I was comfortable with that. I scratched the itch and moved on.

Believe me, there is nothing wrong with following your dream - whether it’s comedy, starting your own business or kicking off a music career. If you want do it, who are we to stop you?

However, you need to be realistic. I know a guy who’s been trying to make it as a musician for about 20 years now. All he has to show for it is a couple of CDs he can’t give away and a horribly directed video on YouTube. He’s over 40 and he’s still chasing that dream. But with all the love and respect in the world I say, move the fuck on, dude.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome that he’s chasing his dream and what the hell do I know, maybe he’ll make it. Maybe he’ll be the next Moby (minus the talent). But seriously, after 20 years don’t you think you should see some return on your investment?

I don’t know. Call me old fashioned, but if you’re working on something for that long of time and it doesn’t put out, just walk away. Pfff – just ask my girlfriend from junior year.

Actors. Another great example. How many classes and auditions do most actors go through before they are cast in a major movie? Hundreds, I bet. Years of “scratching by” many times amount to nothing. They just go home with shattered dreams and an infection that can’t be treated with standard over-the-counter ointments.

So with all this in mind, I thought of a way to expedite the fulfillment of three dreams – that of a 20-year old co-ed drop out from Holy Cross, who wants to be the next great actress; that of a poor landscape technician with illegal documents who just wants to get paid so he can raise his nine children; and lastly, mine as a the next great writer.

Ah, America – where anything can happen.

Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing the next masterpiece in the long line of Oye Martinez Productions: The adult feature film “Busted Pipes, the Movie.”

The film focuses on an out-of-work actor who makes ends meet by becoming a handy man. But one day, while doing an “odd” job, he catches the attention of a famous Adult Film Director. The rest, as they say in the business, is in the rear.

I hope you enjoy it.

(The script is a work in progress and I will include new installments in the coming weeks.)

Act 1 - Scene 1
(Doorbell rings)

Lonely Housewife: Who is it?

Han D. Sanchez: Does someone need their pipes cleaned?

Lonely Housewife: (Confused) I don't remember calling for a plumber?

Han D. Sanchez: Oh yeah? Well, is this 6969 Big Wood Lane? Is this the Cootersnatch residence?

Lonely Housewife: (Confused) Why, yes. Yes, it is.

Han. D. Sanchez: Well my log says you're a little backed up. And I need to bust a pipe.

(Cue the music: pow waka chow waka chow waka chow chow. pow waka chow waka chow waka chow chow)

-END SCENE-

Grab Your Partner Dosey-do

A few years ago I gained a new appreciation for “cowboys and cowgirls.”

Look. I’ve lived in Miami my entire life. I’m surrounded by bikinis, banana hammocks during tourist season, SUVs on flat terrain (guilty), short people who speak fast and of course, girls who say bro.

Never had I come across anyone wearing a cowboy hat, shit kickers and a large patriotic belt buckle. In fact, the only time I saw anyone in said garb was when I came across Mexicans walking to and from the job down in Homestead.

Until now…

Picture it, Spring 2003. One Saturday night, my friends and I made plans to party in Downtown Ft. Lauderdale. One of our friends, who lived in Broward, had a roommate who was dating a beer tub girl at some place called the Roundup, a country western bar in Davie. So, we planned to make a cameo appearance at the Roundup – much to my chagrin.

Side note: I had heard of this place and had no plans of ever visiting. So much so, that I wasn’t even dressed properly. I was wearing slacks and a silk shirt. Certainly, this was a far cry from the above mentioned costume (shit kickers, patriotic belt buckle, et al).

Just after midnight we walk up to the door. While waiting in line to get in, there was some banjo crap in the background and some guy on a microphone hootin’ and hollarin’ God know’s what. Instantly blood began coagulating in my eardrum.

So I get to the bouncer to show my ID. He proceeds to point toward the cashier so that I can pay my cover.

“Are you freggin’ kidding me?! I have to pay YOU to have a bad time? This is absurd!”

Of course, I didn’t verbalize any of those thoughts. The bouncer was easily 6’6 and coming in at a measly 300lbs. So I reluctantly handed them my money as I bit through my bottom lip.

Just as the tear was done subsiding down my right cheek like the Indian on the side of the highway, the skies opened up. I saw the crowd. The music was drowned out by the sight of tight jeans, cowgirls and beer tub girls who had their tig ole’ bitties on display for the world to see, admire and adore.

The room began to spin. All the women had teeth. No one was carrying a baby. No sign of Britney holding a can of Coors Light. This is surreal. Can it be? It’s like the girls of Petticoat Junction were in town for one night and one night only!

I turn to my left and there’s the dance floor. There’s easily 100 people dancing in unison to some song I’ve never heard of. I couldn’t believe the choreography. It’s like In Living Color the redneck edition.

Just as the song died down, a black cowboy grabs the mic and gets on the bar... I’ll write that part again… a black cowboy grabs the mic and gets on the bar. Honestly, I don’t know what to think at this point. Tight jeans, bitties, incredible choreography. It couldn’t get any better. Then, it did…

“For this song and this song only, we’ll call it $2 shots of Jose Cuervo.”

What did the black cowboy just say? Did he actually say $2 shots of Cuervo?

Bang! Some country song about Jose Cuervo comes on. The crowd goes bonkers.

“Yeeehaw!” “Wooo hooo!” I said as I ran to the bar and told the bartender, “Gimme 10! I want 10 shots of Cuervo! Line ‘em up!”

Fast forward to 4am. I’m now on the dance floor doing the 2-step with Colleen from Delray. By this time, I’m hammered beyond any recognition. I’ve learned how to Cotton Eye Joe. I’ve line danced to Missy Elliot and the 2-Live Crew (yes, they have line dances for those songs, as well). And what was a once-promising evening in Downtown Ft. Lauderdale has turned into the cultural awakening of my life. Who knew?!

So after that long background story - which I hope was as entertaining for you to read as it was for me to put into coherent thought - I'll tell you about last Saturday night.

Martinez returns to the Roundup.

The occasion: Our boy Dave is moving to North Carolina.
The culprits: Dave Dietz and Joey Wilson’s band of merry alcoholics (guilty).
The transportation: A Hummer Limo stocked with Jack, Kettle, Jello Shots, Buttery Nipple Shots, Beer and a busted A/C.
The mission: FUBAR. Regardless of what it takes.

To protect the innocent, we won’t discuss the limo ride to the Roundup because it was littered with drinking, under appreciation for country music and a pit stop a Burger King where everyone stuffed their faces with burgers and fries.

However, the arrival at the Roundup was something from another dimension.

Imagine, if you will, arriving at a Country Western Bar with seven drunk gringos, seven even more drunk and loud latinos and a black dude who has no regard for public decency (as exhibited by random mooning, sitting on someone’s car hood bare-assed and screaming like Michael Jackson when any song comes on). Needless to say, the valet guys were laughing their asses off.

Yup, this night has all the makings, folks.

Let’s just start with $15 all you can drink. That’s the toll, people. You pay $15, you drink all you want. Note for the people at roundup: this was the wrong group to tell that to.

Watching 14 drunk fools trying to country line dance is like having a front-row seat to roadside sobriety tests. People stepping left when they should’ve stepped right. One person’s doseying… the other one’s do-ing. They were all over the place. And it was beautiful.

The bad news was that there was no Colleen and no $2 shots of Jose Cuervo.

I’m telling you, the sight of one of our fallen drunk comrades hanging out the Hummer Limo’s window on the ride home because he was about to puke made it all worth while.

Ah, the Roundup. You have so much in store for me every time I come ‘round. With your beer tub girls and your black cowboy. The cultural stimulation you offer is amazing. The choreography you promote is legendary.

Who knows? Maybe after a few lessons, some black guy will write a blog about the Roundup having some Latino Cowboy with a mic that jumps on the bar and sells $2 shots of Cuervo. Of course, he’ll probably think I’m one of those Mexicans from Homestead.

Grab your partner dosey-do….