I’m not blogging about Miley Cyrus. You see, in a few weeks, something of much greater significance is occurring in the small world of things I actually care about and I have to conserve all of my hysterical energy for it. I hate to sound like a cliché as I write this witty, column-like blog—which is published in a metropolitan city on a weekly basis along with my photograph—but I’m beyond ecstatic about the May release of the Sex and the City movie.   

I wouldn’t say that Carrie Bradshaw is the reason I wanted to become a writer—at least not publicly. Still, the effect that the HBO series has had on me is undeniable, both in my writing style and my wardrobe choices—I wore zebra print pants to the office last week. I should really hate the show for propagating the mythic, glamorous life of a freelance writer—only to have that bubble popped almost as soon as I left my first job interview and my car had been towed—and yet, the love is still there. Even the episodes with character names and plotlines contrived solely to serve the episode’s theme are good. What’s that? That happens every episode? Nevertheless, I still adore it—even if it does make me a living, breathing, writing wannabe. Just call me Sarah Jessica Marcos.   

—Marcos Luevanos 

 

"Just a warning: wear something cute today...we're going to dodgeball tonight."

It's 8:16 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I've woken up to a text concerning my wardrobe.

My best girlfriend's new man is in a Dodegeball4Ever league and on selected Mondays, she takes a seat on the bleachers in a gym that smells like urine and Old Spice as dozens of grown men—and some scattered ladies—assault each other with their balls.

There's something to be said for watching on the sidelines, perched from above, evaluating the evolutionary ruggednesss of a potential mate. And if an un-ironic sweatband and the odor of a musk ox appeal to you, it may be a go.

(Looking for love...and man musk?)

I'm still not sold though. No one looks good under the buzz of 100,000 collective watts of gymnasium lights, and one blow to the side of the face can destroy a man’s mojo in an instant. Summer romances are supposed to play out like black and white snapshots from an Estée Lauder ad: picnics in the tall grass, a lustful glance in a field of heather. New love isn't supposed to smell like socks.

But once the herds of ball lobbers are tired and bruised, a whistle is blown and the league heads over to El Cid, which hosts a post-game special of half-priced sangria to keep things drunk flirty in much lower light. So at 9:04 a.m. I text her back: "Mini dress, leggings and boots. No?" 

With one eyebrow dubiously raised,

Ward