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I have a few trips planned for the next six months. One is a trip to Spain in the Fall, which should be awesome. But I’m also totally excited about a week long, bad boy cities trip I have planned with a friend of mine. Destinations: Las Vegas and Miami.
Last Friday in Benicia, I had dinner with my mom, sister and step-dad. I tried sharing some of my rational exuberance.
“In the Fall, I’m going to visit Aunt Stef in Spain, but then, check this out Mom: In the winter I’m going to Las Vegas, and Miami!”
As usual, my mom and sister maintained healthy skepticism.
“Eww, Miami!? Why do you want to go to Miami?”
“I know, Brother. Miami is boring.”
“You should go to… What’s that place called Hannah?… The Keys? You should go to the Keys. Why Miami?”
The number one reason I want to go to Miami is to get a tattoo. When I walk down Miami beach with my shirt off after getting a tattoo I’ll look so sexy, I’ll be checking out my own shadow. Even more than usual, I mean.
But any plan that involves getting a tattoo, being sexy, and checking myself out isn’t exactly easy to share with my mom. Mentally I was getting more and more pumped about the idea, though. The exact tattoo I wanted to get was skull on my chest with a snake running down the side of my shoulder to my triceps. (What tattoo I want to get, and where to put it has changed daily.) But I had to get pumped up enough to tell my mom about the whole thing. So I got out my left triceps and started rubbing that bad boy. With my visual aid in place, I opened my mouth to tell them about my awesome plan.
But my Mom spoke first. “What are you doing with your tricep?!”
“I know, Brother, what the hell?”
“Look at him! He’s showing off his tricep!”
My step-dad as usual, just smiled.
“I know, Brother, and what’s in Miami anyways? Is there anything cool there?”
“Uhh… Well, uh… Miami is, uh…”
The spirit of the moment was ruined. I couldn’t muster the strength to anybody about my tattoo in such a hostile environment. But aside from getting a tattoo, what reason did I have for going at all? I flipped mentally through the list of cool things about Miami, but somehow none of them seemed like appropriate dinner time topics. “Cocaine? Bikinis? Drug lords?…” Which one could I mention over Chinese chicken?
“Uhh… Scarface.”
“What?”
“Uh, Scarface is in Miami.”
“…”
As usual, my sister finally broke the silence.
“Whatever, Brother. I still haven’t seen that movie, can you believe it?”
***
Well, as long as I don’t come home from Miami with a skull tattoo like this guy’s, everything should be ok:
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