Bad Big Brother

It all started so innocently.

A kids traveling game. The kind you played 20 years ago, when the 2-hour drive to grandma's seemingly took all day. The harmless kind you played with your siblings to pass the time in the backseat, because iPods had yet to be invented or because you were still too young to enjoy a good novel or (most likely) because your parents were too cheap to buy you a Nintendo Gameboy.

Fast Forward to 2006:

Rebekah had spent her Saturday afternoon at NorthPark Mall, getting overcharged for a haircut. She stopped by my apartment afterwards--as is her custom--to have lunch [Figure 1] with her older brother and discuss the latest goings-on in our lives.


Figure 1.

Lunch. "Mmmmmmmm.... Hummus!!"

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After lunch we drove to Kroger, to purchase salad supplies (later that evening, Rebekah was to attend the St. Sophia Greek Orthodox Church Winter Funstival, and had volunteered to make (what else?) a Greek Salad [Figure 2]. We bought the ingredients and sped home.


Figure 2.
Making the Greek Salad

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On the drive home Rebekah chimed in, "Remember the game where you look for out-of-state license plates, and the first person to find one gets to hit the other person according to the last number on the license plate?"

Her question struck me as rather odd, but I nodded my head and said yes, if only because agreeing to play her game might afford me the opportunity to legally beat the crap out of my little sister. On paper, it sounds evil and heartless, but that's just what big brothers do- we kick little sisters' asses.

"OK, let's play!" I said, and immediately I began furiously scanning every car on Mockingbird Lane for foreign plates. Rebekah, though she had (just 10 seconds ago!) brought up this game and explained its rules to me, did not at all seem interested in playing. She just quietly tinkered with her phone, sending a text message or whatever it is that kids do with phones nowadays.

There!!! Pulling out of Mockingbird Station!

"Mississippi," I screamed, "eight!!"

Before Little Sis could so much as flinch, my fists of fury were pounding her thighs, arms, and kidneys.

"Onetwothreefourfivesix," and so on... With each haymaker that connected, I counted: "Sixteen..."

Whack... Crack... Bam... Slap... Pow... etc, etc...

"TwentyfourTwentyfiveTwentysix..."

She was yelling something about stopping at eight, but with all the noise coming from the beating, I could not hear very clearly. [Figure 3.]

I thought she'd meant multiples of eight!


Figure 3
"Fight!"

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She curled up in the fetal position in the passenger seat and started using her arms and hands to block my punches. I figured I'd get in a few more solid blows before calling off the dogs. Just then, I heard a strange and grotesque sound. It was a sound I'd never heard before. It made me queasy. I knew it was not good.

Rebekah fell deathly quiet and gasped.

I was worried for a second, and my mind raced to try to figure out how I had somehow managed to accidentally kill my little sister.

She let out a whimper and started crying. I still did not know what I'd done to injure her so severely, but I already felt pretty bad about it.

She slowly placed her left hand in front of us, focused on her middle finger, and that's when we grasped the full magnitude of what I'd done:

The horrifying sound we heard was one of her beautifully-manicured fingernails breaking under the pressure of my knuckle sandwiches. Now I really felt bad.

It was a freakish-looking injury.

Her fingernail was ripped badly, and it was ripped waaaaay below the skin level, and it was quite painful to even look at. It just dangled there, spilling blood and waiting to be pulled (at the horrible expense of the person from whose hand it is being pulled). Simple clipping of the nail would not be enough to remedy this injury.

Fixing this was going to involve some degree of nail-skin separation. She was in tremendous pain, and the worst was yet to come.

"I'm sorry," I said over and over, and I immediately began offering penances:

"I'll make your Greek Salad for you," I said, as if that would shoo away the pain, "Becky, you know I've got mad skillz in the kitchen!" [Figure 4.]

"Who cares about the damn salad?!" She sobbed. "My finger is dead!!!"

Figure 4.

Mad Skillz in the kitchen

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How could I have done such a horrible thing to my sis? I was racked with guilt. I hated myself. I was the worst big brother ever...

An hour or so had passed and Rebekah was still curled up in a helpless ball and mumbling incoherently. "Are you going to be much longer?" I asked. "Because I've gotta go hang out with a bunch of hot chicks, [Figure 5] and you're kinda holding me back right now."

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Figure 5

Hot Chicks

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"I hate you", she cried. "You don't even have any chicks, you fat loser! You killed my nail! I nearly bled half to death! And all you care about is girls?!!"

She began yelling and speaking in tongues and spitting on me... Something about "curses" and "witches" and a "lifetime of erectile dysfunction." [Figure 6] But I ignored her and soon left to go chase women.

Yeah right, like she knows any real-life witches!

What the heck was she talking about, anyway??

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Figure 6

B F F

When I moved to Dallas almost four years ago, I was alone and despondent. I had no friends.

All of my longtime buddies were 270 miles south, in San Antonio, where I had spent the previous eight years of my life.

I was sad.

But now I have some of the greatest friends ever! Here's just a sampling of who I like to call "My Inner Circle":



This is Bubba H.

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Bubba has three postgraduate degrees, and I consider him to be the smartest, most disciplined man I know. He is the embodiment of a "scholar and gentleman."
Bubba is a Professor of Mexican-American Studies at Brookhaven College. He is a very motivated man--a straight arrow, if you will--and I constantly strive to model my life after his.
Bubba's doctoral thesis was titled, "Booze and Its Effects on Interracial Dating," and he consistently attempts to test his hypotheses (6 nights a week) at various unsavory gathering places in the Addison area. I envy his dedication to his profession. Taking the Golden Rule one step further, Bubba lives by the Silver Bullet Rule: "If she's ugly, drink 18 Coors Lights until she's cute enough to bag..."




This is Abby G.

Abby is an absolute doll. She is the quintessential "modern, successful, confident woman." A woman of her stature is finicky about who she lets near, so I consider myself blessed to be one of her closest chums.
Abby hosts the finest, most exclusive dinner parties East Dallas has ever seen. The guest lists at her soirees read like a 'who's-who' of Texas' most rich and famous, and Abby is always a model of decorum and poise while entertaining.
Her restrained and dignified manner makes her pleasing to keep company with, and I can only wish to someday possess even 1/10th of the class that Abby possesses.

This is Gabriel H.
I admire Gabriel for his tireless devotion, loyalty, compassion, and dedication to his girlfriend. Their relationship is the stuff of dreams (or, of a cheesy Disney movie).
His significant other always comes first, and I respect the manner in which he revolves his life around her every whim. Spend just five minutes in their presence, and you will hear pure, unbridled love coming from his mouth: "Baby, can I eat a bite of real meat tonight, instead of the veggie stuff?" "Baby, is it okay if I sit on the sofa--instead of the floor--tonight?" "Honey, can I have two slices of bread on my sandwich today? I promise I'll workout an extra 10 minutes..." "Sweetie, can I watch SportsCenter while you go to the mall? I promise I'll TiVo Oprah for you..."
Gabriel's a good man, and we should all aspire to be more like him.



This is Michael R.
Michael is studying to be a Catholic deacon, and he lives his life accordingly. Except for the occasional sip of wine at mass, Michael leads a ramrod-straight existence. He sets a high standard for me to follow and, though I rarely measure up, his grace and compassion towards my sordid lifestyle are wonderful to receive.
In between bible studies, Michael mentors a group of underprivileged youngsters, taking them to football games and demonstrating how a real man of God should live his life. He is the perfect role model.

I'm sorry if I left anybody out... But I think it's obvious-- these guys clearly are the cream of the crop.

See you soon, everybody!!

BFF, paul :)

Fun in Fort Worth

Crrrrrrrraaaazy Fort Worth, Texas.

CowTown.

FunkyTown.

Where The West Begins.

Dallas' Unsophisticated Little Brother.


Call it what you may, one thing is for certain: Fort Worth is the greatest city on Earth!

Recently, the Little Sis and I headed 35 miles west on the Airport Freeway and descended upon the Wild West village that is Fort Worth, Texas. A quaint ranching community populated primarily by cowboys and mexicans, Fort Worth has long been sneered at by uppity Dallasites tired of peering down their noses at Houston. But Fort Worth gets a bad rap.

I love the place.

In our excitement, Sis and I even developed a Quiz Game about Fort Worth, to help familiarize you with the city, should you ever be so fortuitous as to visit it. Just pick the correct answer:


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1. This considerate cowboy cheerfully complied with his wife's request to...

A. Sell their beloved mare at the Stock Show
B. Bring her to the city to enjoy a nice, gourmet lunch
C. Relive their youth by strolling hand-in-hand in Sundance Square
D. Ask Sarah Jessica Parker for her autograph

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2. This cute little guy is an ancient Olmec deity who...

A. Is wearing the flayed skin of his wartime rival
B. Wears the skin of a sacrificial victim as a mask
C. Was recently found in a shallow lake in the Yucatan
D. Just saw nude photos of Star Jones on the Internet

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3. This lovely young Greek woman is very excited because...

A. She enjoys oversized Modern Art sculptures
B. She loves visiting the Fort Worth art museums
C. It's a beautiful day for outdoor activities
D. She has finally found a secure hiding place for her huge stash of olives, at the bottom of this abandoned 40-foot well

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4. With her piercing eyes and flowing brown mane, this young girl...

A. Never has to pay for a meal
B. Got into the Kimbell Art Museum for free
C. Spends lots of money on hair-maintenance products
D. Is so hideous that her gaze, when fixed upon this fellow museum patron, turned him into a pillar of salt

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SCORING:

0 - 4 Correct = You have too much time on your hands.

Ray-Ray's Sweet Tooth

New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin wants a chocolate city.


From CNN.com: Mayor Ray Nagin on Monday called for the rebuilding of a "chocolate New Orleans" that maintains the city's black majority, saying, "You can't have New Orleans no other way."


Uhhhhh, what?

You see, I have an extremely potent sweet tooth myself. I've experienced powerful chocolate cravings in the past (the kind when your mouth starts to water and your bones ache for the taste of something--anything!--chocolatey on your tongue). However, this affliction easily passes by taking a trip to the supermarket candy aisle and purchasing a peck of Rolos or Hershey bars or even a 100 Grand.

But this guy wants an entire city made out of chocolate?!? Tap the brakes there, Ray-Ray. You might want to plan this a little bit, before you go around promising your citizens that bottomless cocoa cache.

Nevertheless, Mayor Ray seems quite stubborn about this new vision for his city:


"You can't have New Orleans no other way."


Mayor Ray's embarrassing double-negatives notwithstanding, I'm really worried that he's setting himself up for colossal failure with this proposal. I mean, logistically speaking, just how does he intend to carry out this sugary scheme on such a grand scale??

Perhaps he plans to hire a Voodoo High Priest to cruise the city, casting spells on all he touches (a Cajun King Midas??), turning everything in sight into chocolate...

Maybe Mayor Ray recently saw the remake of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and he, being a huuuuuge Johnny Depp fan, is having delusions of grandeur.


"This city will be chocolate at the end of the day," the mayor said.


Wow. If this undertaking indeed takes place, then lots of work must be done. And quickly!!

- The new New Orleans... count me in!!


Since Mayor Ray has previously--and very publicly--made known his aversion to Mexican workers entering New Orleans to help rebuild, and since most of the "native" population of the city is too lazy to actually work (come on, let's be honest...), maybe the mayor will hire a vast army of Oompa Loompas to ride into town and begin converting the Big Easy into Chocolate City.


- "Reporting for duty, Mr. Mayor!!"



This Chocolate City will be every child's dream! Remember when you were a kid, and all you wanted was just a liiiiiittle more candy, but your tight-fisted mother would never relent... Now some serendipitous little Creole kid will be able to eat his front porch whenever his mom gets stingy with the sweets.

Heck, I'd move there! What a great place to live! Why hadn't anybody thought of this before?? Let's see... replace the old New Orleans (200-year-old decaying buildings, vomit and piss in the streets, horse poop on every corner, governmental corruption on every level) with the new New Orleans (edible infrastructure that may lower your cholesterol). Put my belongings on the first UHaul!

Mayor Ray is a visionary par excellence!!

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Yeah... lemme git a chocolate sundae, wif extra chocolate syrup, wif a side of devil food cake... throw in a brownie, and some Yoohoo, and some---

Alas, some ignorant, busybody reporters have accused Mayor Ray of being a witless racist; of having "other motives" besides wanting to build a new chocolate town. These meddlers demanded that he explain himself:


"How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk, and it becomes a delicious drink. That is the chocolate I am talking about," he said.


Mmm, mmmmmm!! Can I borrow that recipe, Ray-Ray? Lemme see... mix some dark chocolate with some white-- oh the heck with it!! If you say it's delicious then by golly, it's gotta be delicious!

When reporters pressed Mayor Ray for his equally-famous chocolate souffle recipe, he got a little bit sidetracked and went off on a tangent:


"This city will be a majority African-American city. It's the way God wants it to be."


Wait.... what?

What about the souffle? What are you talking about, Mayor Ray?

I'm confused....

Love Conquers All

Neely Clare put the "D" in Dallas Debutante.

She was stylish, beautiful, and envied. If ever a young woman epitomized the spirit, soul, and image of Dallas, Neely was her.

Raised in Lakewood as a child of the ostentatious 1980's Gilded Age of Dallas, Neely led a charmed life:

As was custom for a daughter of one of Dallas' most established old-money families, she was educated at only the finest preparatory academies. She was very active in the Junior League (of course). She made regular appearances in the Society pages of D.Magazine, Park Cities People, and (oddly) Al Dia.

Neely also was very often romantically linked to family members of some of Dallas' most respected billionaire tycoons, including the sons of H. Ross Perot, T. Boone Pickens, and (regrettably, for all involved) Tom Hicks' learning-challenged son, Wilbur.

Dallas' Favorite Little Socialite had it all...

Then she fell in love.

In an instant, one of the city's most desired bachelorettes was off the market; swept off her $900 Jimmy Choos by Michael, a man of few manners and questionable--if any--pedigree.

Michael was not bona fide, his family did not own any oil wells, he had a hairy neck, and--to add insult to shame--he was (gasp!) a Yankee.

"Stay away from that carpetbagging buffoon!" her friends at Stanley Korshak warned her.
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That "carpetbagging buffoon," Michael, boozing it up on one of Neely's father's private jets

But Neely was smitten.

Love was more important to her than money ('and it had better be', some whispered, as it was rumored that a Neanderthal such as Michael probably still operated on the barter system).

Lunches at the Hotel Crescent Court soon turned into daily visits to the 99-Cent Value Menu at Wendy's on Buckner Boulevard. Estrogen-fueled excursions to Highland Park Village morphed into weekly jaunts to the Family Dollar on Ferguson Road.

But Neely's love for Michael had no dollar value, and within weeks the lovebirds were married (in a touching ceremony at Garland City Hall, no less).
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The wedding was a "Who's-not" of Garland mobile-home inhabitants


The newlyweds lived out of Michael's TransAm for a while, but that only intensified their torrid love affair. Some of Neely's snobby ex-friends even secretly wished that they, too, could be so lucky as to experience a love so pure and innocent as Michael and Neely's...

Neely now lives happily-ever-after, and the couple has since upgraded to a quad-plex in Mesquite. She is also the doting owner of a frisky mongrel (ironically, also of questionable pedigree) named Kramer. Kramer is the most adorable $10 mutt you will ever see, as pictured below.

Some people say Neely should have married the dog, but those folks are just bitter and jealous...
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Wouldn't you rather kiss this cutie than kiss Michael? I know I would...

It's All Greek To Me

Faithful readers of this blog may recall my younger sister's AnnTaylor modeling racket.

If you don't remember the details of it, click here.


Sadly, the lovely Rebekah's glamour girl gig has hit a snag. It pains me to report to everyone that her AnnTaylor catalog career has been temporarily derailed.

It's a horrible waste of talent, poise, and beauty. And everybody harbors their own theories as to what happened to her.

The truth is, a member of the paparazzi surreptitiously snapped grainy cellphone photos of Rebekah going all 'Kate Moss' at the olive bar at Central Market, wantonly stuffing her face into every one of the store's 18 olive bins.

(most fashion supermodels are predisposed to snort mass quantities of high-grade Bolivian cocaine; Rebekah evidently is just too Greek for all that jive. Instead, she is strung out on olives- pitted or unpitted, stuffed or hollow, it doesn't matter. She lives for olives).

The tabloids ran with it; no questions asked. And can you really blame them: An almost-famous sweater model is busted with her mouth full of olives and her hands drenched in vinegar... wouldn't you publish those pictures?!

Now, the folks at Ann Taylor have no choice but to begin rolling out the ads for their new store concept: Ann Taylor Crib. Obviously, Rebekah had no place in this new ad campaign; the olive debacle only hastened her departure. Instead, Ann Taylor executives are banking on The Baby Rachel to return them to prominence. Here's her first demo shoot:

While The Baby Rachel has so much upside, one cannot help but think of Rebekah, and what might have been. So talented... so pretty.... so Mediterranean... I just hope she makes her way back to the Big Time. I mean, one minute she's modeling cashmere turtlenecks for Ann Taylor, and the next minute she's working the parrot display at Tiny Paws Pet Store in Corpus Christi, Texas:

Pray for her...

Thank You, God.

USC QB Matt Leinart after the game: "I think we're a better football team, they just made the plays in the end."
Wow.
You're right, Matt. This was a stupid idea. I mean, why even bother to play the game? You guys are better.

Except that you LOST.

Happy New Year

Here are a few highlights (and lowlights) of last Saturday's New Years Eve fiesta:

Me: "So, don't you have to be...uhhhh... black to smoke Swisher Sweets?"
Adam and Kirk: "No."




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1. Where is Adam's left hand? and 2. Does that hand have anything to do with her vexed expression?




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"Hello ladies, my name is Kirk. I'm from Dallas, I enjoy talking on the phone, long walks on the-- huh? my left hand!? bottle? what bottle?!? no!! Uhh, I mean-- what had happened was..."



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Shanan: (mumbling) "I thought you said he would go away if we ignored him."
Abby: "Shhhh! I know. Don't breathe... and don't make eye contact with him!"

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If only I had hair like 'AdRock' Greer,
most of my problems would just disappear...
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Is she
A. a Mavs dancer
B. re-enacting her high school cheerleading glory days
C. showing us the moves that got her into the third round of "Dancing With The Stars"
D. celebrating the fact that Paul just left the party

HAPPY NEW YEAR!