Benny Hana

Every year when I was young and my birthday would roll around I would ask my mother to take me to Benihana’s Japanese Restaurant.  I friggin loved that place.  I loved every single course it offered, the soup that looks like dishwater, the salad with the ginger dressing and the main meal -even the vegetables! I loved that there was entertainment while I waited for my dinner, that I could get a Shirley Temple with an umbrella in it, and my favorite thing was when they sang “Happy Birthday” to me in their native tongue.  The whole thing was awesome. Even as I am older, every year as my birthday rolls around, I think fondly of my younger years that I spent celebrating my birthday with knives whipping around my head and a whole bunch of strangers sitting at my table and inevitably, my thoughts go to a chef that I picked up at the restaurant in my later years.  As I do not recall him name, I will call him “Benny”.

I was around 20 or 21 years old and I came home from south Florida for a visit.  It must have been around my birthday- or perhaps it wasn’t- but in any event; my mother wanted to take me out to dinner and as I could never afford such a meal living on my own, I chose Benihana.

As the chef walked to the table, I was curious.  He wasn’t one of the old men that barely spoke a lick of English that typically cooked my meal. He was young! And cute! He seemed rather tall (or maybe it was the chef’s hat) and understood me when I spoke (bonus!) and I will admit that if I need to flirt with the Hibachi Chef in order to get an extra shrimp or two, that’s what I’m gonna do. So by the end of the night, as I finished my extra food, we exchanged phone numbers and made a date.

I don’t recall a whole lot after that, whether we hung out a couple of times or not (it couldn’t have been an awful lot as I was on a timeframe, having to get back to Florida and all that), but I do remember the end result.  We ended up in the sack.

It was literally the ONLY time that I had no idea where we were at in the process.  Was it in? Was it out? Was he done yet? No fucking clue. Literally. That poor guy was hung like a mouse.  Here I was all proud of myself for my first “United Colors of Benetton” experience and lo and behold it was completely anti-climactic. Poor Benny; he had no idea whatsoever that he hadn't rocked my world that there was no way in hell that I was going to waste my time with *that* again. He called and called my mother’s house trying to get another date with me prior to my leaving but I was really very busy visiting with my friends and family...or filing my nails...or watching paint dry....you get the idea.  

At the time, I was young and still pretty naive when it came to men and I thought maybe it was a nationality thing.  I kept thinking to myself that Japanese women are pretty tiny so maybe they are getting more out of it than I did. I mean, clearly it must work for them as there didn't seem to be a reproduction issues in Japan- it's not like they were on the endangered animal list. 

That being said, while it was not my last Benetton experience, I was never presented with the opportunity to bed another Japanese man; which still left me quite curious.  So of course, I Googled it. 

And this is what I found:

Click on the link:  Fascinating!!

Any thoughts?

Cowboys and Indians

Have you ever felt that the universe is trying to send you a message?

Lately it seems that the universe is trying to tell me to date a cowboy. Cowboys are now trendy.  You now hear country music on pop stations, flannel is apparently the new black, and worst of all; last week, my favorite dance club went county. While I am not averse to dating a cowboy; it is a rather new concept for me.  Furthermore, I don’t eat dead mammals; that seems like it could be an issue.

Looking back at the westerns that I have watched over the years (admittedly, not many), whether the antagonist or the protagonist when it came to the stereotypical “cowboys vs. Indians” storyline, I would typically root for the Native American.  Even when the depiction of the Indians was of cruel savages I assumed they had good reason to be - having gotten the wrong end of the shaft- I overlooked their savagery and rooted for the cowboy’s demise (mostly because the Indians were half naked, hairless and hot, but I digress). Granted, I am a big “rooter for the underdog”.  I mean how fair is it that a cowboy simply sauntered into Oleson’s Mercantile (Little House in the Prairie throwback! Holla!), purchased his premanufactured gun and bullets and was hereby armed?  How lazy!  On the other hand, the Native American spent hours making their weapons (while shirtless, bronzed, and glistening in the sun) from the unused part of the animal they killed for food! I LOVE a man that recycles.  Furthermore, cowboys always looked filthy.  They were dirty and dusty, bearded from their long days in the woods or on the trail or wherever, and they needed a bath.  Native Americans looked quite clean with their hairless faces and chests and their shiny long black hair, freshly bathed from the local river… (Excuse me for a second, will you?).

Lately, however, due to the lack of Native American’s in Pennsylvania, I have been forced to see cowboys in somewhat of a new light.  As it is now “in” to be country, (and I am nothing if not trendy) is it as if the universe is cramming cowboys down my throat (heh, heh, heh).

It all started when my daughter turned country.  One day it was Lil Wayne and black eyeliner and shortly thereafter it was camouflage and Miranda Lambert.  My next stop in “countryville” was the University of Oklahoma.  Oklahoma seems to have an abundance of cowboys and while I looked high and low I did not see an Indian in the bunch (at least none that was readily apparent in fringed leather pants, hair feathers, and little else).  On a side note, although it has always been one of my fantasies, I have never had the opportunity to bed a Native American.  I imagine, in my mind, that it will be fucking phenomenal in a very organic kind of way with waterfalls, waving fields of grain and rhythmic guttural chants.  That being said and with my “it’s never too late attitude”, it is on my bucket list (or in this case: my Fuck-It list). 

Back to the cowboys:  If I am going to date one he can’t be a pseudo-cowboy (I draw the line at posers).  He needs to be a full-blow honkytonk, bareback ridin’ (uh huh) cowboy with a ranch, in full cowboy garb (minus the dirt, thank you very much).

As you all know by now, this important decision requires a pros and cons list:

Pros:

1.       Fresh eggs for breakfast.  
2.     I get to pet the pretty horsies (and if I grow a pair, I may even ride one).
3.     I get to see if it’s true that a cowboy only takes his hat off for sex.
4.     The thought of “wranglin” with a cowboy peaks my curiosity.
5.      I can yell “Ride ‘em, Cowboy!” and it actually means something.
6.      If he is a rich cowboy I can quit my job and twirl in fields of poppies (see blog dated January 2, 2012).

 Cons:

1.     Not only do I NOT eat dead mammals, I would probably befriend the animals on the farm and give them names only to find out that he has cut their throats and is eating them for dinner.
2.      Cowboys are renowned for being dirty and I don’t like dirty men (unless it’s minded).
3.       I need to be able to understand them and if they are too twang-y that might be an issue.
4.       I am not sure I can endure the hard-core country music songs that will make me want to shoot myself in the head with a 12 gauge (shut up, I’m sure I could figure it out).
5.       If I have to attend a rodeo with him I will probably feel sorry for the animals that are being treated cruelly and try to set them free. He might frown upon such action.
6.       I am guessing most cowboys do not allow the woman to wear the pants/chaps in the relationship. That might be a major issue.

Well, it seems to be even.  I guess if a hot cowboy came knocking on my door, I might try him on for size.  In the meantime, if any of you run into Tonto, have him call me.