I Hate Rihanna

She has the perfect pedigree.

Beautiful lithe body, striking features, hailing from the exotic far off land of Barbados, Rihanna symbolizes raw feminine sexual power. Her look is versatile, she is the punk chic, the lady in red, the hipster, the dominatrix, the Las Vegas showgirl: Tina Turner, Grace Jones and Lisa Bonet wrapped in one sexy package.

Her debut album, Music of the Sun, was a mixture of reggae and R&B, and received luke warm reviews. Rolling Stone gave the album 2.5 out of 5 stars, claiming it "lacked replay value." Slant and Entertainment Weekly were even less kind, they considered Rihanna "maudlin and chintzy" - a clone of Beyonce.

Rihanna seemed destined for the trash heap of rejected teen debutante pop stars.

Then before the release of her third album, Good Girl Gone Bad, Rihanna changed her look. She cut her hair short and dyed it black, adopted more provocative outfits, and metamorphosed her image from good girl to sexual predator.

Good Girl Gone Bad was a smash hit. It sold over 2 million copies in the United States, was nominated for a slew of awards, and the AMA awarded Rihanna with best female R&B vocalist of the year.

So what if her voice sounded nasally or suspiciously "not as good" live when she performed at award shows. Who cared if her songs were jacked from other R&B artists, lacked originality, or were little more than turbo charged soul cringing power ballads produced, written and packaged by veteran music producers like Timbaland and Christopher "Tricky" Stewart?

Rihanna was hot. She was the self made success story, a Horatio Alger tale for the new millennium. The poor little immigrant girl who struck gold and made it rich. She even had the faerie tale boyfriend, fellow R&B crooner hottie Chris Brown.

Then it all fell apart. Chris Brown received an alleged "booty" call text. The couple argued, Rihanna grew angry and tried to leave, Chris Brown grabbed her and forced her back into the car. Violence ensued.

Photos of Rihanna's bruised and bloody face were "mysteriously" leaked to TMZ, and Rihanna went from being an R&B star to a household name and the national topic of conversation.

Chris Brown hadn't beaten on a girl, he had beaten on a vibrant sex symbol, an icon of post modern feminine empowerment. The story was inescapable, it played everywhere, even the most clueless and out of touch, those who had never heard of Rihanna and never listened to R&B were subjected to endless stories of Chris Brown's rampage.

Obama's stimulus package, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Recession - momentarily forgotten. Rihanna had become the Reality TV moment, the national dialogue, endless fodder for talk shows and late night comedians, the symbol of domestic abuse.

Predictably, in the wake of the assault Rihanna's sales skyrocketed, while Chris Brown's plummeted. Rihanna was a victim, the heroine, the girl done wrong. That she and her publicists milked her domestic abuse for free publicity - well, that's just business. Any publicity is good publicity, in the age of reality TV notoriety and fame are interchangeable.

There's nothing worse than being anonymous.

Rihanna used all the free press to market her latest album, Rated R. Initially the album sold well, but then its sales dropped off. Industry experts were baffled, Rihanna had received more publicity then any other singer in 2009. Rated R was supposed to put Rihanna over the top, crown her the new queen of R&B. Rated R was supposed to make Rihanna the new Beyonce.

But they forgot what made Rihanna a smash hit wasn't her singing, it was her image. She was supposed to be the nubian goddess, the unobtainable temptress, the sexual dynamo.

No one wants to buy the image of a beaten and broken woman. That's not the Rihanna brand.

A few days ago, new photos emerged of Rihanna nude, photos of Rihanna flashing her "asshole" in the mirror. Rihanna is posing - the photos are provocative, dirty, hot.

But hey, Rihanna knows the score:

Paris Hilton Sex Tape: World Wide Fame

Kim Kardashian Sex Tape: World Wide Fame

Rihanna Flashing Asshole: ( Do the math )

What choice does she have? Her album sales are down, Rated R has sold barely half of Good Girl Gone Bad. She has to remind the world that at 20, she's still sexy, she's still hot. What better way then to grab headlines then flashing your bum?

That's because Rihanna knows there is nothing worse than being anonymous. If album sales are down, you have to do what you have to do...

..... even if that means flashing the world your asshole.

But Rihanna is just a piece of the reality glitz junket, the fast food image vomit tapestry that dominates cultural discourse.

She's verbal junk food, safe. You can't offend anyone talking about Rihanna, provided you agree that she's a victim and Chris Brown is a villain.

It's like talking about balloon boy, or Jersey Shore's Jenni "Jwoww" Farley trash outfits, or the Salahi's crashing white house dinners. You don't have to have an opinion, its already made for you.

Wouldn't you rather see if Jon and Kate Gosselin can save their marriage rather then focus on your own?

So on Friday when someone mentioned Rihanna flashing her asshole, and what a poor abused victim she was, I told them Chris Brown was justified and that she deserved it.

I don't really believe that, I just wanted a reaction.

The teachers got angry, but for the first time all day, we had a discussion. From Rihanna to domestic abuse, from domestic abuse to the "double standard" of men being attacked by their wives and the attacks never reported, Rihanna latest"half-ass" venture was evaluated with a critical eye.

Because I don't really hate Rihanna....

.....it's just that when you flash your asshole at the world, don't get mad at the world for thinking you are an asshole.

Confessions of a Burger Whore

I'm a burger whore.

No matter where the burger is from, how it is cooked, its condiments or lack thereof - there is something special about a pile of beef and cheese dashed with ketchup on a thick bun. From the snooty hotel burger to the cheap and tawdry Big Mac, the burger is all one could ever want in the perfect meal.

If I had to have a last meal, it would be a cheeseburger.

But where is the best burger? The burger that triumphs over all, the burger that simultaneously exists on both this plane and in heaven, the taste of which transports the lucky soul somewhere between here and Nirvana.

I seek this perfect burger. It is a never ending crusade, a personal odyssey, a quest that has seated me through power lunches, seedy diners, pretentious bistros and murky restaurants where white people fear to tread.

One day I will find my Big Foot, unravel the mystery of El Dorado, spot my Loch Ness Monster. One day I will discover the perfect burger.

Until then, the quest continues. What follows are ten of the best burgers you can get in LA. The list is ever changing liquid mercury, for the burger paradigm is forever shifting, ever fluctuating, never to be set in stone.

Until then, here's my list of the current top 10 burgers: (In LA)

#10. In-N-Out

It may have one of the smallest menu's in America, but In-N-Out gets the basics right - cheeseburger, fries, coke and shake. If you're looking to head into artery clogging territory, try the double double animal style with fries and a large shake.

My one complaint - I've never gotten in and out when I've gone to an In-N-Out. Expect a ten to fifteen minute wait.

#9. Bobo's

Another small chain that caters to a primarily Latino population, Bobo's is the proud creator of the bacon ranch double cheeseburger with mayo and avacado on fried sour dough bread. From the moment you bite into it, the burger slips and slides and threatens to fall apart.

It's an awesome burger - but make sure to bring a vial of tums. (health insurance optional)

#8 25 Degrees

Off of Hollywood Boulevard, 25 degrees is a 21st century diner with red salon interior, the burger place trying not to look like a burger place. They make an awesome burger, a mountain of meat on two massive kaiser roll buns. Unfortunately, the bread gets in the way of the burger, or otherwise I'd rank 25 degrees higher. (And no, you can't put it on different bread. 25 Degrees only has the Kaiser roll.)

Great burger, mediocre bread.

#7 The Village Idiot

Just off of Melrose, the Idiot is a Chicago style bar smack in the middle of LA. It has a variety of food, but you can't ever go wrong with the Idiot burger. Get it with blue cheese, get it with bacon, this is the idiot proof burger - you don't like their burger, you just don't like burgers.

Shame on you!

#6 The Burger Bar

Another burger joint just off Melrose, the Burger Bar lives up to its name and delivers a mouth watering culinary delight of beefy perfection. Best of all, go during happy hour and you can get burger, fries and a beer for $10. The burger bar did offer one of the best burgers in LA, but in recent months its slipped from its perch.

# 5 The Bowery (Burger)

The Bowery is off of Sunset about a block and half west of the Arclight theatre. The Bowery makes a simply delicious culinary treat of beef, bacon, pickles with ranch sauce all served on an English muffin. Small and unpretentious, all the food here is great, but for an added treat get the crispy sweet potato fries. Amazing!

#4 Father's Office

Father's Office is the grand daddy of burger joints, word of mouth has proclaimed the FO burger as the best burger in LA. The FO burger is a work of art, a half pound of delectable beef on a crispy baguette bun slathered with garlic sauce, the FO burger sets the gold standard for the LA burger.

But they don't serve ketchup. No ketchup for the fries, no ketchup for the burger. Father's office believes the FO burger doesn't need ketchup.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. FO to you Father's Office! Every great burger has ketchup. This snobby no ketchup no can do attitude prevents them from taking the top spot, no matter how highly they are ranked.

Sorry FO, you are so close, but no ketchup, forget about it.

#3 The Essex House

Another Chicago style bar off Hollywood Blvd near Mann's Chinese theatre, it offers a delicous alternative to the Hamburger Hamlet down the street. Essex House is a gastro pub with an amazing bacon blue cheese burger and delicious garlic fries. For the truly daring, try the onion rings, the best I've found in LA. Succulent, juicy, and perfectly cooked! Best of all: the happy hour prices!

#2 The Umami Burger

Kobe beef served on a buttery bun, the Umami Burger has gone from one to four locations in the course of a year. Umami was at first a bit of disappointment, but after trying the truffle burger glazed in light creamy truffle sauce I've amended my initial response. Umami is a collage of flavors that light up dozens of taste buds all at once. The sweet potato fries even come served with a slight coating of brown sugar!

Savory, mouthwatering, glorious! Go Umami!

Bonus: The coke comes in a glass bottle, imported from Mexico with real sugar.

#1 The Laurel Tavern Burger

Currently the top of the heap, Laurel Tavern was a complete and total surprise. Served in a metal tray, the burger's here are hand crafted pieces of art, done to juicy thick perfection on a crispy bun, the "old school burger" has slices of apples mixed in with the meat for a unique and sensational taste.

Did I mention the mountain of fries cooked in bacon fat or the great beer selection? Burger $8, Fries $3 - the Laurel Tavern is unpretentious and a bargain. I would have placed Laurel Tavern at #2, but they evidently serve burgers with bone marrow.

Anyone that cooks fries in bacon fat and serves burgers with bone marrow ain't messing around.

The burger, a meal unto itself, a culinary masterpiece that has evolved before my very eyes into a delectable meal. I may unconditionally love any burger placed before me, but the burgers on this list love you back.

Desensitization of a Teacher

It all happened on a Wednesday.

"I'm going to shoot you in the head!"

"You didn't mean that."

"Yes I did! I'm going to shoot you!"

Fucking Wednesdays.

My first day teaching was a Wednesday. I was a mid year replacement, taking over for an exhausted vet who was headed for a much needed leave of absence. First day on the job, and a kid threatens to hit me.

I was nearly constipated for a month.

Six years later a kid threatens to shoot me in the head and I'm not even fazed, not even remotely worried. Now I just sneer and fire off a soul searing gaze that would wither a cactus in Death Valley.

The police ask if I want to press charges. The Dean asks if I want to have the girl who threatened me, this mean mouthed little yap dog of a kid, expelled. One snap of my fingers, and I could smear this kids life over the pavement, have her tossed in Juvee, transform her existence into a Pablo Picasso painting.

Nah.

But what I do want is for her to feel fear, overwhelming wrath of God biblical style terror - the kind of dread reserved for people trapped in a cave deep under the earth with only a few hours left of breathable air. I want her so frightened that her heart races if she even thinks about threatening another teacher again.

"I want you to scare her."

The school police nod. "We can do that Mr. Leiken."

"You sure you don't want me to expel her?" the Dean asks. "Say the word, it's done."

I shake my head. This kid was stupid, but did she mean it? Do I have the right to wreck her life over a moment of pure idiocracy? No. "Suspend her for a day. Let her spend the weekend wondering if she's going to be expelled. That should be enough."

That night I make a tactical error and tell my sister what happened. She freaks out. "Brian, could you please leave that school. Please. Just get out of there. It's not worth it."

I try to put it in context, to explain that the threat was the nip of a Chihuahua, a poodle - not the bark of a Rottweiler.

But it doesn't work. This story shocks my sister so bad even I begin to question my judgement. Am I so desensitized that I can't perceive the danger? My father's first night in Vietnam he nearly freaked when he heard an artillery barrage, leaping to the floor like a cat.

None of the other soldiers even moved, all of them fast asleep, mouths open.

Phil has a critique as well. "You should have waited for a few weeks before publishing this blog, it contradicts the story you had in "Blink" about the kids coming to thank you for helping them graduate."

He's right. The stories do contradict each other. The truth is, they both happened in the same day. In the morning two of my former students came to express their gratitude, and that afternoon another threatened to shoot me.

Teaching in the inner city is a roller coaster, a formula one race track with hair raising turns and bursts of raw acceleration.

The only difference is that by now, I can barely feel the shifts. It isn't the ride that's changed, it's my attitude. I don't take the work home with me, and when I have an altercation, it's never personal.

Desensitization. That's the only way you'll make it.

Threat?

If a terrorist was going to threaten to blow himself up, you'd be frightened.

If a sock puppet dressed to look like a terrorist was threatening to blow itself up in a hail of wool and fluff, you'd laugh.

It's all about context. We judge people not only by what they say, but who is saying it. Words taken in by themselves without context can be horrifying. How often have parents uttered, "I'm going to kill my kids!"

This does not literally mean the parent is going to murder their children. "I'm going to kill my kids!" is slang, an expression for "My kids are in deep trouble!" We understand the parent is frustrated and is uttering a colloquialism, an idiom, exaggerated hyperbole.

I'm in biology, sitting on a table as we discuss evolution. It's a hell class, a class where I'm paid to babysit, play nanny as much as teacher. It's a big room, and I sit on a black lab table so the entire class can both see me and so I can keep an eye on them. Some of the kids are having a hard time accepting the idea of evolution when one of them decides to become a punk.

"Mr. Leiken, you are setting a bad example!" a girl cries out. She's a cute little thing with a mean little mouth...if she had a spirit animal it would be the poodle. "You don't allow us to get on the tables, you should stand!"

"My, my," I intone, "feeling feisty today, are we?"

The girl stands up and sits on a table, defiant. I ask her to sit down. After about half a minute I ask her again, this time with a touch of steel. "Get down."

She starts to comply, but not before getting in the last word.

"I'm going to shoot you in the head!"

I blink. I didn't just hear that, did I? "You don't mean that." I state calmly.

"Yes, I do! I'm going to shoot you!"

The class titters. No one takes it seriously. That's understandable. This girl isn't a gang banger, she isn't tough, she doesn't throw down or get in fights. She dresses in pink and spends hours putting on make up, she is a girly girl. A girly girl with a big mouth.

Being threatened by her is like being barked at by a poodle.

Unfortunately, we live in the post-Columbine age, where guns are a serious problem and teachers do end up getting shot. Any threat by a student to shoot someone has to be immediately reported to the police.

Even if the student is more like a sock puppet then an actual terrorist. Once the threat is uttered, it can't be taken back.

"Go to the Dean." I order.

"For what!" she exclaims. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

"You threatened me. Go. Now."

"No! I was just kidding. Can't you take a joke? You are always clowning on us."

The entire class is muttering now. C'mon, mister. Can't you take a joke. She didn't mean it. Everyone can see that. She doesn't deserve to get in trouble for that.

I pull out my cell phone and text the Dean. It's the fastest and most direct way to get a hold of him. The class gasps. You're bluffing, mister. You're just trying to scare her. You wouldn't call the Dean for that!

"I guess we are going to find out." I reply simply.

The Dean arrives and the class grows quiet. He escorts the girl from the room. For a moment it is silent, but after he leaves, there is a brief uproar.

We can't believe you did that mister! Can't you tell she was joking! We thought you were cool, Leiken. What the hell is your problem? We say stuff like that to each other all the time.

The class gang banger shakes his head. He is a lost soul, the kid on parole, one step away from expulsion and two steps away from incarceration. He was a student transferred in the middle of the year from South Gate, an "opportunity transfer".

We give South Gate one of our worst, and they trade us one of theirs. It isn't an opportunity transfer. It's a prisoner exchange.

He is legitimately angry. "You are all just stupid!" he barks. "You can't threaten a teacher! You all want to go to prison?"

The class quiets down. I thank him with a polite nod, which he returns, silent.

I gather my belongings and prepare to head down the office, leaving the class with the general Ed teacher. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go see the school police."

"Why are you leaving, Mister?"

"I need to decide if I want to press charges."

For the first time all day, this nasty rambunctious, ornery class, the class that refuses to shut up, pay attention, or be quiet. For the first time all day....

.....they're silent.

Bee

Phil's making a short film.

The premise is simple: a terrified bee keeper runs wildly through a park while being chased by a man dressed up as a bee.

Phil wants me to play the bee.

Like all performers, I can't pass up the chance to star in a film, even at the cost of looking ridiculous. Phil has also enlisted a group of friends: Rich, Paul, and Ben. Together we are a crew of five. There's no budget, no catering, no script, and only one professional camera - the rest of us have to make do with small handheld phone cameras.

It's called guerrilla film making.

Phil imagines the entire sequence being just over a minute. When I arrive I'm expecting a full on bee ensemble, something a mascot at a game would wear. A full on black and yellow body suit, complete with a fluffy head, antenna and stinger.

Instead Phil hands me a bee outfit meant for a girl. It's a sexy costume, a Halloween costume, complete with a pair of cute little wings, a costume meant for an hour glass figure.

My figure resembles something more like a bell, festively plump with a thick middle that would make any mid-westerner proud. I put on the yellow and black corset top, it barely fits around my waist. Phil hands me a pair of black shorts, then places a pair of antenna on my head.

He declares I'm perfect!

I change back to street clothes and we head outside. Phil wants to film in a small park near his apartment, during the day its full of retired Russians playing cards. On the first take he wants to run through the park in his bee keeper outfit while the rest of us take positions with our hand held phones to get reaction shots.

I edge towards a table, pretending to be interested in the elaborate diagram the Russian men have before them as they play cards . The men finish a hand, showing each other their cards before proceeding to write down a series of cryptic numbers on the diagram. They say little, studying the diagram like soothsayers obsessed with finger bones and chicken gizzards.

Could be a game of cards, could be a formula for Viagra, could be the secrets of the universe.

From behind me Phil shouts, "Bees, bees, bees!"

Phil dashes out from behind a corner in a bee keeper outfit. He runs past me, screaming, waving his arms like he is being stung by hundreds of imaginary insects. He circles the table of Russians, then darts over to a second table, making a full circlet of the park.

I film the men circumspectly. Any second now they will glance upward, startled, stunned by the maniac running past them.

Phil scrambles past us a second time before running behind the building from which he came.

One Russian looks up. He scratches his nose, shrugs, goes back to his cards. One of the Russians gets up, points a finger at Paul and his large camera. "Excuse me!" he shouts. "You have permit to shoot!"

We ignore him. Rich blows him off. "Don't worry, he probably only knows that word from TV."

We shift to a different area of the park and Phil runs around in circles again. This time a few of the Russians look up, a couple point, one laughs, but most stare intently at their cards. They can't be bothered.

Why aren't they reacting? Have their souls been ripped out after living for years under Communism, or is it just that we're in West Hollywood and men running around in bee keepers outfits are nothing worth getting worked up over?

What would impress them? A naked woman? Getting mugged? A bomb?

Phil tells me I'm up. "What's my motivation?" I ask.

"You are a bee."

"What kind of bee?"

"The black and yellow kind. I want you to run around, stop, and dart back and forth like bees do. Stop at a bush or tree and circle it, then run off again."

"Should I flap my arms?"

"No, hold them back behind you."

I give Rich, Ben and Paul time to take positions, and a minute later run out into the park. I flit across the grass, scurrying randomly.

Somewhere a little kid starts crying.

The Russians don't look up. Card games beat a weirdo in a bee outfit anytime.

I run back around the corner, glad I haven't been arrested.

Phil offers to buy us lunch, it's a wrap.

I show the film to my roommate the next day. He says nothing, doesn't laugh, doesn't smile. I ask him what he thinks.

"Never show this to anyone. Ever."

Naturally I ignore him:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sev337wEm34

Blink!

The great moments, the moments that make teaching worthwhile, are not moments of grandeur. The rewards that make the job worthwhile are both subtle and precious, jewels in time that vanish like birds feet in falling snow. The magic in teaching is forever fleeting, brief, a flash of lightning that burns vividly in memory before vanishing into the ether.

Blink, and you'll miss the magic completely. Be inattentive, and the magic burns away before you had a chance to catch it.

But whenever the magic occurs, its always a delightful surprise.

Today the magic strikes in the most unlikely of all places: the counselor's office. I spot a former student, newborn sitting in her lap. For a second, I don't recognize her, her baby surprises me. "Hey, Mr. Leiken," she cries out happily, "I'm getting my diploma!"

If there was ever a student that deserved a diploma, this girl was the model. After school, every day, often until five o'clock, studying for tests, finishing assignments - this girl refused to give up. At times it seemed hopeless, her disabilities hindered her from passing the exit exam, even the most basic assignments were time intensive, labors worthy of Hercules.

Step by step, word by painstaking word, holding her hand through essays and tests, we pushed the student through.

After four long years, she finally completed all of her core class requirements. At graduation she walked with the rest of her class, and was handed a certificate of completion.

But no diploma. That's reserved for those who can pass the exit exam.

But I'm just a stand in. Ms. Garcia deserves the lion's share of the credit. As much as I helped, Sara is the one this kid owes her diploma.

But now the rules have changed. The state is granting students with disabilities an exemption. The exit exam, at least for the time being, is no longer a requirement. The kid is getting her diploma, and I'm the one being thanked.

I feel awkward. I don't really deserve the thanks. Sara is the one that should be here. I give the kid Sara's number. "Call Ms. Garcia." I state firmly. "She needs to know."

"I will Mr. Leiken."

Four grueling treacherous years, four years of negotiating with teachers, rearranging schedules, dozens of meetings, talks with parents, countless hours tutoring - all for a brief moment of thanks.

Ironically, the person who deserves it most isn't even here. I have to accept the gratitude on her behalf.

The moment is over. I almost blinked and missed it.

Later in the day another former student shows up, a hard worker who was also unable to pass the exit exam because of his learning disabilities with math.

"Look, Mr. Leiken," he proclaims, beaming with pride, "I got my diploma."

The class looks at him with something akin to awe. "You see kids, you can do it!" I start clapping and everyone applauds him. He blushes, not sure how to handle the abundance of praise.

Poof! Another brief flash, an instant of joy. It's over.

Some teachers can go years without a moment of magic. They've stopped looking. I've gotten two moments in a single day.

I'll never blink.

New Years

I dislike New Years.

Everyone is supposed to be in a good mood, fake their cheerfulness, and embrace strangers like they were life long friends in a mass delusional shared experience. That you barely know these people, will never see them or meet them again: irrelevant.

The fact that you happen to be in the same geographic location at the same moment in time, midnight on January 1st, obligates everyone to believe they've achieved communal harmony. Reality disappears and suddenly you are in a Budweiser/Miller/Coors Light commercial.

Some alcohol is required to achieve this higher state of transcendence. It should be noted that New Years does not come with a warning label. I say screw the label! If I'm going out, I'm getting blitzed.

This year I had a couple of different options.

1. Join Varga at a hotel downtown for an all you can puke, mass trance rave party packed with a crowd in a drug induced haze.

2. Join Phil for a more low key night at a local karaoke club with Nafeesa, her sister, and her boyfriend, for cheap well drinks in Burbank.

I opted for two. I'm a low key kind of guy.

The karaoke club is the kind of place I like to drink. Dark, with worn tables and cracked seats. There is no cover, and we have a table reserved. There is a book of songs as thick as a telephone directory, and I'm immediately overwhelmed by my musical choices.

LA in general is a terrible place to karaoke, there are far too many professional singers who are trying to sign record deals in this town. If talent goes up to sing, it's like watching a professional on their day off, or the final auditions of American idol. If you have to follow one of them you'll suck twice as bad in comparison.

I settle on a monotone song, a song that doesn't have a lot of pitch or a complex melody, a song where the only necessity is one: you have to be loud.

I sing Metallica's Enter the Sandman.

Fortunately, I've had about enough to drink I'm convinced I can bring the house down.

No one pays attention. My voice isn't strong enough to be heard over the deep thrums of Metallica's base. That and everyone is getting drunk.

Somewhere around the second chorus the audience looks up. I croon into the microphone, finally I'm getting some respect!

Exiiit Light!

Enn-ter Night!

Take myyyy hand!

We're off to never, never land!

Then I notice that Nafeesa is gyrating next to me. I've become Prince, and she's my back up dancer! The audience isn't checking me out, they are checking her out.

When you have a former Miss USA beauty contestant dancing next to you, people wake up.

See the picture above if you don't believe me.

Thanks for the assist Nafeesa.

The next day Varga starts to describe the party downtown. It sounded like a psychedelic mind blowing experience. Did I make the right decision?

That's the problem with New Years, you always feel like you are missing out on something.

But upon reflection, I had a moment where I got to act like a rock star, complete with a hot back up dancer.

New Years was a blast.