Tale of the rat

This week I'm in Boca. A city certainly God's punishment for gentile males. The native language is northeastern Jewish with a generous amount of whiney inflection. What can the men here see in their counter-species? Granted, plastic surgery owns its roots here, and the amount of silicone per capita does grab ones attention (especially as the long days turn to lonely nights), I couldn't imagine the act. The line in the song "it's just you and your hand tonight" comes generously to mind. 

Conspicuous consumption of the 1980's is alive and well here. It seems that the mode of transportation is a Mercedes driven by a Jamaican female. I even saw a young man with a cast on his leg pushed through the mall by what certainly was the assigned black chauffeur. What did he need at the mall so bad that he had to make an appearance  in person with his entourage? A new pair of Oakleys? 

I'm in class from 8 to 5 every day. I spend as little time as possible in the room. I've turned into one of the bar lizards. A couple of glasses of wine, the newspaper, and I can easily waste 2 hours. Even longer if I can enter a conversation with a fellow loner. The temptation is ever-present, and I know that I'm fair game if my occupation gets out, but I have strict rules, and have not crossed the line yet. 

The weather is damned hot. I ran at 530 this morning, and it was as un-fun a run as I've ever had. The pool is right out my back door, but I can't even get a margarita here. 

Pity me.