Recently, my friend, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, got it into his head that he needed a wife — and needed one right now.

The next thing I knew, he'd made plans to visit his relatives in Juarez, Mexico, as part of a sketchy "arranged marriage" scheme the family had concocted.

Personally, I didn't get it, but then, I'm a white boy, so what the hell do I know? "It must be a cultural thing," I thought, and who am I to question another man's culture.

A few days before he left, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez invited me to tag along at, as it turns out, the urging of his mom.

"Uh-oh," I thought, "I think I'm about the be hoodwinked," figuring they had found a bride for Jake but that she had a sister, and this was some sort of "2-for-1" deal - if one sister got married, the other had to get married too.

I was about to become marital collateral damage.

But I didn't question it - another man's culture and all that - and, anyway, I had been rather uninspired lately, so decided nothing said "inspiration" like going to another country, especially one in which I don't speak the language.

So off we went - The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, his 67-year old mom, and myself. During the seven-hour drive, I asked his mom why she never remarried after her husband had died.

Jake's mom - or, as I call her, The Mom Known As Widow Martinez - replied, "Too many problems with being married."

Insert ironic pause here, as we continued on our way to find her son a wife.

After a long drive, we reached the border and drove into Juarez. It was nighttime, and the first thing we saw roaming the streets was a pack of wild dogs.

The second thing we saw roaming the streets: A pack of wild prostitutes.

After dropping The Mom Known As Widow Martinez off with the relatives, Jake and I got a room at Hotel Manport (which isn't the same place as the similarly named, but much classier, Hotel Villa Manport.)

Sometimes hotels go that extra mile with customer service, offering things like a free continental breakfast. It soon became apparent that this hotel, too, took customer service very seriously, when the desk clerk asked, "Quieres chicas?" Not so much with the food here, but if you're hungry for a little lovin'... yowza! Or, as they say in Mexico, "La Yowza!"

Unlike those breakfasts, the girls were not free. It was $50 a pop for a "massage". The sounded fair to The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, until I patiently explained a few things. See, you can't pull one over on a guy who once had a girlfriend that ran the old "motel massage" con. Yeah, sure, its $50 for the massage, but it'll cost extra if you want any specific part of your body "massaged", if you know what I mean. Then there's the fact, at least with my ex-, that she'd collect the flat rate and any extra money and, then, before getting started, tell the 'mark' she had to go tell her driver how long she'd be. Once she came out to the parking lot that was the point at which we'd drive off. Another job well done. Like who was the poor sap going to file a complaint with? You know, stupidity isn't a crime. Maybe it should be but, thank god, it hasn't been outlawed yet.