Fun Bobby and the Case of the Loose Tongue

This is a collage from last weekend. My friend Bobby was in town from San Diego and we went on an extensive bar crawl around the city with some of his friends. When my friends met him, they asked me, "Is he in the mob?" They're so observant. It took me three years to figure it out. While he's no longer involved in all that, I think the diamond pinky ring should have been a dead giveaway. The pictures above are from the last place we visited. This blond chick was swinging an imaginary lasso around trying to rally her up some men. She caught two minnow. She had these two frat boy-types begging (literally, begging) her to go home with them. "Come on, you promised." She was your typical, fake lesbian type--a tease that acts sexy but obviously isn't going home with anyone. When will the boys ever learn to steer clear from the fake lesbos? Bobby went in and ruined it for both (again, not that they had a chance anyway). The collage tells the story. My cameo's on the bottom left, although I'm pretty sure this won't make sense unless you know the people. [You can click it to make it larger].

Right now I'm waiting for Dave to take a call for work so we can get out of here. We're at his parents' condo in Florida and I'm too damn sunburned to go to the beach today. We're going to instead go across the street to a hotel lobby where I can write, he can study for his GMAT. I don't know why I always get so sunburned. Even with sunblock. My dermatologist told me that I shouldn't even go into the sun. "You mean, I should wear a lot of sunblock?" "No, just don't go outside."

Speaking of Dave's parents, last night we all went out to dinner. His mom, who isn't one for subtlety, mentioned that she thinks that people should marry within their culture. As in, Dave should marry a Russian. I told her that maybe we could stop by some strip bars and go find one of his classy co-nationalists. That, or a mail order bride? I was pissed. "Dave is American," I said. "They wouldn't have him in Russia." Really though, you can't get any more American than Dave. He came here when he was six. His parents, on the other hand, are Russian to the bone (although I'll never understand why people who want to leave their country so bad end up coming here, reaping the benefits, only to insult all things America). Come on now, though. Dave isn't really going to relate to one of the Cold War sweethearts you're thinking of. He was too busy playing Nintendo in the eighties.

I was/am a bit annoyed by the comment and don't want to be here right now. I mean the lady still asks Dave how "Lana" is. Lana would be a Russian girl he dated in college for a month. Dave asked me what was wrong a few minutes later. "My sangria is way too sweet."

This morning I told him that it would be similar to my parents asking how "Justin" was all the time. "He is such a nice guy." Either that or subtly mentioning that they don't want me to marry a Jew right in front of him. My response though, contrary to Dave's non-response last night, would be that I want to marry a Jew and guess what, my kids will be raised Jewish. That's what I want. And I assume Justin's fine, thank you very much, but I don't talk to him anymore.