Miami: The last Coca-Cola in the Desert

I learned this wonderful Cuban expression which to me encapsulates the essence of Miamians. The saying in Spanish is: "se cree que es el último  Coca-Cola in el desierto" which directly translated means: "he thinks he is last Coca-Cola in the desert"   Which really means something like "he(or she) thinks he's all that".  I like that saying because to me it says things on so many levels about the conceit that exists in Miami among its residents. 

Anyone in the desert might be happy with the last drop of water.   No, not something as mundane as H2O would do for Miamians, but a sweet, gassy, brown concoction with a famous trademarked label attached.  Not "all that and a bag of chips", no for Miami it's: "all that and a can of Pringles."  What's interesting is we Miamians really think we're all that, a bag of chips, fries with shake and the value meal all rolled into one hot tropical package. Literally, the last Coke in the desert. 

In my daily experience I see the most completely self absorbed populace on the face of the planet.  Cart left in the middle of the aisle at the supermarket while person chats on cell phone: check. Two guys talking to each other from different cars, windows down, on the 95 expressway, driving 35 miles an hour(I guess so they could hear each other); saw it this morning.  Cell phone conversation during mass on Christmas Eve, during the sermon...yeah every year. Cell phone conversations anywhere, anytime, any volume. Lowest rate of volunteerism in the nation...yeah that's us: Miami. 

Miami is the only place where you can sit at a table with ten people and ALL ten are texting or on Facebook  communicating simultaneously to someone else at a table for ten in another restaurant ten blocks away. Clearly whatever you have to say, in situ, is nowhere near as important as the overdone steak at some other restaurant, gossip or dinner invite for tomorrow.  Miami is not the place for fun in the now....it's the place for potential fun that is just one text, ten blocks, fifteen minutes and a velvet rope away.  Miamians are forever chasing that rainbow to the "ultimate" experience. At the end of that texting rainbow the pot of "amazing party" gold is just out of elusive reach.   It's like that movie "Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist", eventually the texts will lead you to an awesome Fluffy Bunny concert. 

I don't know if it's the high rates of attractiveness, scarcity of mirrors (there are not a lot of them) or just that the members of the 1% like to play here, the self absorption is epidemic.  It's a kind of willful ignorance that despite high rates of poverty, illiteracy and corruption that people breezily turn a blind eye to. It's like we're all  Sarah Palin: confident, pretty, looking great in a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti platforms, what the hell else matters when you're wearing great shoes? I mean who couldn't conquer the world if they were wearing a $700 pump? Or live in an incredibly sexy town? So like that last drink in the desert, no not water, but the sweet one in the sexy curvy bottle. Miami: Pensamos que somos la ultima Coca-Cola en el desierto. We just think we are the last Coke in the desert. 

Miami After

Part of the title of this blog is "after 40" and to perhaps illuminate what happens in the life of one man in what we might called the "middle" of his life expectancy.  Granted I'm not shooting for 80, but considering gay middle age just 15 years ago was somewhere in your early 20's; I'm happy to have made it this far.  That being said, it's time  to pause and reflect about life, and sadly, death.

I have been meaning to write about this topic all month and try to write in my usual wry, sassy writing style.  How can you write about something that is as normal as going to bathroom (which is a place I might want to go, while I'm going).  At this stage in my life friends and family are passing and I know that I don't really want to be at the front or back of that parade. Today as my husband left for a funeral I asked "why are you going?"

He replied: "if I don't go to theirs, they won't go to mine." 

I want very much not to be schmaltzy and philosophical about death. It's a fact, we die. Yet our humanity desires immortality. How do I honor my Grandmother who showed strength through laughter and fearlessness. Or the handsome lawyer who was my team-mate who died alone yesterday after I told him he could always call if he needed to talk.  Or the 22 year old boy who swung from a tree in Morningside Park, who I learned this morning had committed suicide when I talked to his mom.

What is my responsibility after they're gone? I think this is point where at my age I look at my own mortality and accept and rejoice that I knew them or of them.  We are very small in the scheme of humanity, time and the universe. Our time here is a very small and very precious gift.  Sad to see such wonderful people go. I hope somehow I can learn from their lives and learn about humility, humor and grace: so I can pass it on through my own life.  Hopefully, those people who pass can live on through each one of us.

So Your Neighbor is a Drug Dealer? That's so Miami.

So your neighbor is a drug dealer? That's so Miami.  I can honestly say that throughout my life in Miami I've always had at least one neighbor that was a drug dealer. Whether I was rooming in a chic Brickell Ave Condo, wealthy gated community bliss in Doral, starter condo in Fountainbleu Park, South Beach or the trendy Miami Mimo district; the one constant was the neighborhood drug dealer.

I can also say with certainty that if you live in Miami it generally means a cocaine dealer. However on South Beach "club drugs" were more popular. Run of the mill pot-dealers are a much rarer breed.  I've heard that having a pot dealer as a neighbor is not cool because of the smell. So I guess pill-peddlers and coke dealers are a bit "classier". However drugs are pervasive in Miami and I guess they are a mixed blessing which I learned a few years ago when I attended meetings of the South Florida Methamphetamine Task force. That's when the presenter stated: 

"Cocaine is so ingrained in Miami culture, that it has served as a prophylaxis against the national meth epidemic in that city." 

Who would've thought? Cocaine saved Miami from meth. Maybe our city's tagline should read: Miami: come for the coke, leave with all your teeth. 

So, getting back to dealing with your neighborhood dealer. How do you know your neighbor is dealing? There are few simple clues.

Firstly, the vast majority of drug dealers are male and under 40.  They tend to live alone or with other males in the house. They are usually very attractive. Think "sexy bad boy" and you've pegged about three quarters of all the drug dealers in Miami-Dade.  Think, if I brought this one home.....damn,  are my parents going to be pissed.  I don't know what it is about about the drug trade, but being hot and buffed is part of the job requirement. Perhaps the drug cartels require head shots and full body stats for all potential candidates. More likely, they spent a lot of time in the prison gym. It's called "jailhouse hot" for a reason. 

                (Real drug dealers: You think they're pretty now, just wait till they get out of jail)

Secondly, they tend to wear a lot of jewelry. Rolex watches, Gucci bracelets, tacky, chunky jewelry. This, to me is the downside of the drug trade, is the tackiness of it all. Expensive cars too, are part of the whole package. I guess you need to be mobile, so pawning that 24 carat "nugget" style ring when you need to post bail can be useful. 

Thirdly, they're almost always renters. Now I know how we condo owners feel about renters, and I believe drug dealers have given renters a bad name.  Why? Because drug dealers don't take care of the property. They roll down the shades, don't mow the grass and have a steady stream of people knocking on their door 24 hours a day.  It makes condo owners cringe, when they learn there is a single male tenant in the building under the age of 40 who drives an Aston Martin when most of us are driving Fords.  Once you see the gold chains and the bulge at the waistband....you know it's too late....it's probably a drug dealer. Under 40, male and a pair of capri pants....gay. (hence better property values.)

Now you may think you can escape this scourge by moving to a gated or "restricted" community. Wrong. Doormen, security guards, security services are easily corrupted and quickly become "lookouts" for the drug dealer. So unless you tip your building or community staff really well (as much as the drug dealer) gated communities are no real solution.

Can you call the police? Yes, but don't expect much help, and you don't want to hurt your property values by having a major (or minor) drug bust nearby. Also, the drug dealer will know it was you who dropped the dime; remember.... he knows where you live. 

What's the best way to deal with them? Be nice. Get to know them. Ask them about their lives. Invite them over. Sit on your lawn and wave to all the "clients" who knock on the door. Stand nearby and say hello to them as they come and go to buy their drugs. Engage them in conversation. Walk your dog in front at 3AM. Always be floating around. Remember Mrs. Kravits? She had Samantha and Darren scared out of their minds that they might discover that there was witchcraft in the neighborhood. I am sure there were no drug dealers in her neighborhood either. Finally, say nicely "I know you have a lot of friends dropping by at all hours, and the neighbors are starting to take notice."  This has worked for me twice....the drug dealer usually stops dealing from the house or moves away....whichever happens, it's a victory. 

Miami Manners - a Primer

In a city as polyglot as Miami sometimes what one group might consider "rude" may be just misinterpretation of another group's social standards. For example in some cultures good service means a "chatty" server that has a lot  of "flair" (minimum: 15 pieces) in another, the waiter efficiently takes an order and delivers food and removes plates in a very unobtrusive way. Yet in others, surly servers toss your plate at you and give you the stink eye and then expect a tip. 

In social settings different cultures have different concepts of "time" and "time" changes if its business or social.  Driving habits vary across cultures as well.  In some places driving is a community activity where everyone efficiently gets to where they want to go, or Miami where even the shortest drive is really a test of intelligence, guile and cojones. 

Since I am a product of two distinct cultures, Anglo and Latino, and have spent many years in Miami I thought I'd give some pointers that may help everyone understand each other.

1. Time. I could go on about time, especially since they changed the clocks this week, but I want everyone to be clear on what we mean by time in Miami.

     a. On-time Anglo: On-time to an Anglo means 5 to 10 minutes early.  There is no difference between "social" time or "business" time.

     b. On-Time Latino: On time for Latinos has many nuances. Latin business time is usually on-time if you arrive within 30 minutes of a scheduled appointment. Latin social time: there is no guarantee that any Latino will stick to any kind of social appointment time, with the possible exception of weddings and baptisms.

So if you're having a dinner party....you say "dinner will be served at 8:30 Anglo time." most Miamians will respect that. However, Argentines will arrive at 8:30 and refuse to eat till 1AM. 

2. Invitations and RSVPs:  Expecting RSVPs for a dinner, event or party in Miami is like trying to catch moths without a flashlight:  You know as soon as you turn on the light they'll come but you never know how many will show.  Thank you cards are not a very Latino custom, but calling the next day to say how you got drunk and laid, or any good gossip acquired at a their party is the best kind of thank you any host would be happy to have.

3. Cheek kissing and lip kissing. In Miami its customary for men and women (and gay men) to kiss each other on the cheek as a greeting or farewell.  Lip kissing to me is creepy, and I usually turn to avoid the lips. This is not considered rude. Brazilians kiss on both cheeks, left to right.   When in doubt, shake hands.  Anglo people prefer a nice firm handshake, brief if possible. Argentinian men kiss everyone, they are not all gay. 

4. Speaking a language that not everyone understands. It's perfectly acceptable in Miami to speak your native tongue. However it is perfectly acceptable for a non-speaker to ask for a translation, and even demand the nuance and context of any obscure Cuban saying. Simply because they're usually pretty funny in English too.

5. It's perfectly fine to speak loud in Miami. Whether on a cell phone, in English, Spanish it's okay, just let it out. Passion is fine, even if it's just asking your husband where the pickles are in Publix.  You are your own world and nothing else matters but you. 

6. Children: children are meant to be seen and heard in Miami. Not unusual to see four-year-olds out partying with their parents at 1AM.  If this bothers you, and it should, there's nothing you can do. 

7. Appearance. In Miami you are expected to look your best at all times. Not thin mind you, just look as if you put some effort into "your look". You must be clean, all over. Cubans are extremely peste-phobic. Do not have peste!!! (peste to Miamians means stink)

8. Feel free to ask anyone about their background, in Miami it's okay to ask someone where they're from. It's not okay to ask them their immigration status, regardless of how wealthy they may seem. 

9. Miamians generally do not have a "resume fetish" like New York, LA or DC.  In social situations most people don't talk about work unless you are close.  Avoid talking about work in general, it's considered a bit rude. 

10. Safe topics: Your favorite Cuban restaurant, trips to Spain, real estate, weather, clubs, reality TV and local festivals. Miami is not really a sports town unless one of the teams is winning....

So there you have it, a few hints to make your life in Miami just a bit simpler. 

At some point I'll do a blog about driving in Miami. 

What Every Young Gay Should Know or Gay Culture Transfer

Usually after swim practice with Miami' s premier swim team(www.nadadores.org), several members go out to lunch or dinner. The other night I was joined by a young man who was 22. Usually dinner after practice is a group thing, but it turned out to be just him and me.  He's very sweet and has just returned home after graduating college.  He smart and ambitious and is proudly on the first few rungs of the corporate ladder for a very large company. He exudes the bravado and naivete of a 22 year old. Fun, smart and cute, he'll make someone very happy one day.

Initially I was feeling a bit uncomfortable dining with someone so young. I was thinking what could I possibly have to say to him. Besides swimming I didn't see much we had in common. Yet I have known him since he joined the team two months ago and he has made a good addition to the team. I don't know why I worried, turns out he just wanted some relationship advice.  Then he asked the question "how have things changed for gays in you lifetime?" Things have changed so much in my short gay lifetime that I didn't even know where to begin. So I had to go back before my time.

7 things about Gay Culture that every young gay man should know:

1. Why Judy Garland is our first "diva":  To start Judy was an amazingly talented individual. Her voice was strong and powerful yet at the same time innocent. She was charming, funny and a good actress. She could dance too. She was also a hot mess. Addictions and men swirled through her life, yet each time she pulled herself back up and went on singing....Judy at Carnegie Hall is one of the great performances of the 20th Century. Most importantly, she was the first superstar to acknowledge her gay fans. Nobody of her stature, except maybe Madonna 20 years after her death even cared about a gay audience.

2. San Francisco:  San Francisco is the original "gay mecca".  In this laid back city of incredible vistas and beautiful Victorian buildings a small working class neighborhood named The Castro transformed itself into the first gay neighborhood. It is important because it was the first place in the world where gays created a safe zone, where they could live as gay men out in the open. This neighborhood elected Harvey Milk, the world's first openly gay elected official. Supervisor Milk was murdered along side Mayor Moscone, his murderer received  just 5 years in prison.

3. Stonewall Riots: Gays fought the police for 3 days in front of the Stonewall Inn in the Village neighborhood of Manhattan. It was an extremely violent event, several police cars were burned and at one point the NYPD was surrounded by angry rioters who ran out of their apartments to participate. Gays were tired of being bullied rounded up and sent to jail just for associating together. The New York Times suppressed the story.

4. Anita Bryant: There must be some irony in the fact that a beauty queen was one of the gay community's first and most destructive enemy.  Her "Children First" campaign but laws on the books that banned gays from adoptions, equal protection under the law and set back work towards equality for 20 years. 

5. AIDS Epidemic: 50,000 gay men died in 60 months before the government decided to do something about the disease.  The gay community was forced to unite and fight this existential threat.  United, the community harnessed tremendous influence in fighting this disease. by 1992 years 500,000 gay men were assumed to have died. Most of the deaths were men between the ages of 25 -38. An entire generation gone.

6. Calvin Klein Underwear: Calvin Klein redefined the self image of American men, and gay men in particular. Prior to the Calvin ads, most guys were just happy to to have a penis. Calvin made American men,  especially gay ones, become extremely self-conscious about our bodies. It was no longer good enough to just have a nice face, but ripped abs and big pecs too.  American men were held up to the same beauty standards as women. 

7. Ellen DeGeneres: Her brave move to come out on television, the subsequent destruction of her career, and her reemergence and success changed the dialogue about being "out" in public.

So there is a lot more of course.....but this primer on pivotal individuals, places, and things is a good place to start.  I invite you all to join and add your suggestions:

Second City Syndrome (some more queer geography too)

Due to work I've been traveling across my fantastic State of Florida.  To quote a Presidential candidate: "I love it here, the trees.....are all the right height...and the lakes, the lakes..."  So I guess you get my point.  But despite all my travels I'm always happy to be back in Miami, but because I realize I carry a "Miaminess" wherever I go.

This month I went from Bushnell (where I took my Obama magnet off the Beemer) to Orlando and most areas on the East and Gulf coasts of Florida.  While I try to be as humble and down to earth as possible, I still get the feeling they're looking at me as some kind of "city slicker".  Perhaps it's my suit and tie or my fancy Cole-Haan Veneto pennys.

I realize now that all these people have what I call "Second City" syndrome. Second City Syndrome is the full knowledge that although your city has all the ingredients that make up a "city" such as population, a performing arts center, professional sports teams, there still is something missing. That maybe a new stadium,  mall or  In my opinion there is just a hint of vitality missing.  There just is that one missing ingredient that turns a city from Kansas City bland to New Orleans wow. 

My first realization that I'm in a second city is when the gay people say things to me like "you're awfully gay, maybe you should live in Los Angeles or New York or Miami". Which says to me that "fabulosity is not welcome here."  The uniform is khakis and a button down collar, maybe a polo. Nikes are fine, but you can leave the John Varvatos Sid Oxfords for your once yearly trip to New York. Make out in the Camryaccord, that is unless you're a lesbian, then use a truck.  Second cities also have very integrated gay and lesbian communities and both groups hang out and do things together, so you don't know if you're in a gay bar or a church social.  I've also noticed that gay communities in second cities tend to be run by lesbians (albeit funded by gay men).   Larger cities tend to have very defined and separate gay and lesbian communities. 

Don't get me wrong, having the nice Florida executive home on the golf course in a development with a name like Willowbrooke is a wonderful, peaceful life but it's just not for me.  I mean getting excited over the menu at Longhorn Steakhouse or Macaroni Grill is typical for a night out in some of these places. Please remember the drink specials end at 8:30 and try to be home by 10PM on a Saturday night. That a weekend getaway to New York, New Orleans or Miami is enough excitement to get you through the next few months.  

I guess my true rant about these places is that I don't fit in. That somehow, outside of a few major cities I cannot relate to a typical middle class American life.  That my experiences in the vast stretches suburbia have been full of a quiet angry ennui. That my soul needs to be fed by strange people from far away lands, and new foods never tried before. That I can't stand the idea of eating in a chain restaurant that isn't a McDonald's. I mean Carraba's, really? That rushing home every evening to catch a glimpse of reality TV somehow softens my own reality. I can't fit in, I can't wear khakis, I can't be khaki.  I feel exotic, I feel colorful, I feel Miamian.

No Facebook, No Biscayne Hooker Report and the other joys of social media

Last night I was hailed by a long time acquaintance at Publix in Miami Shores.  "Hey I want to read your Biscayne Hooker Reports."  Now granted, I never dreamed that an occasional paragraph about the latest fashions and happenings of the "Women of the Night" in my neighborhood would warrant a "shout out" at my local supermarket, but in a sick way I was pleased.  Lately the Hooker Report has gotten me into a bit of a snit with certain church ladies who have "self selected" themselves out of my life. 

I asked if he was on Facebook, he said "no not really". 

My answer to him: "no Facebook, no Hooker Report."

Of course it got me thinking about social media in general, and to those people who "opt out" of the whole phenomenon.  I am an avid user of social media and I understand it's power. However I never expected to called out in my grocery store about "the hookers!" that are on my Facebook page. Nor did I expect to end a personal friendship in the real world, by my activities in my cyber one. Far more often it's the other way around. 

I think about those people who choose to eschew social media because "they're too busy" or "it seems like a waste of time." They may be concerned about their privacy or some other such foolishness.  These are the people that still send jokes or say "hi" via a very clogged email system.  Worse, they might even call me on the phone for a chat.  If you want to chat with me, just send me a message on Facebook, because like my snail mail, I only check my personal email box a few times a week. Better yet, send me a text. As far as privacy is concerned, what's the point. Marketers know where I live, what I make and where I spend my money. If the government is interested in my doings, I doubt seriously I could do anything about it. 

The beauty of social media is that unlike email, snail mail, or phones is that it's a passive medium, just like TV. You can pick and choose what you want to read, respond to or who to communicate with. If you ignore a posting nothing happens, but there is a social risk when you ignore a call, letter, email or text. For the latter you ignore them at your own peril. However, if you want to read about Jenny's dogs, Mike's political rantings, or Kirk's opinions on street walkers it's all there for you to see, or not. It's like those people back in the 90's who proudly proclaimed that they "didn't have a TV" and couldn't laugh at cultural references like "soup nazi" or "we were on a break" are the same people who don't understand the significance of "honey badgers" (my own animal totem) and "shit abuelas say". Yet at the same time spout their "superiority" for not being on social networking sites. How superior can you be, when social networking is the front line of democracy for Arabs, Chinese and women fighting for their rights?

I mean really, what do you do when you're not social networking? Working? Not even the busiest person can fill a 40 hour work week with just work.  Exercising?  No, I believe those people who are not "into" social networking are doing what we all did online before Facebook: watching porn and shopping. 

To ignore this new phase of human interactivity and endeavor you do so at your own peril. There's old 20th century adage: "the end of the world will be televised", but in this century you'll read about on Facebook first.  So if you're missing the Biscayne Hooker report, send me a friend request......or not. 

Strip Club Etiquette for Ladies

My whole life I've been watching characters "decompress" at strip clubs. Whether it was Al Bundy at the "nudie bar" or the guys from office dramas, or even guys on the lam, the strip club was a darkened haven of manliness in a sea of rampant femininity.  Bored, the dancers would writhe on the stage or pole as the men stared blankly and vaguely aroused.  I mean strip clubs tend to be subdued affairs where men chat idly, sip booze, and give sullen whoops as they put cash in the dancers' g-strings.    This had always been my experience in strip clubs whether they were straight or gay. 

This is quite a different experience from the way women behave at events where male strippers perform. There is shrieking, clawing, guffawing and just crazy fun at the sight of a hot man gyrating his pelvis at her. You would think that the girl has never seen a man in the nude before.  I've always been curious at the female tendency to scream when she sees a naked man, is it a biological imperative? I mean is it like a "fight or flight" response? What is it about the male anatomy that makes women squeal followed up by a giggle. I remember this response in middle school when I flashed some girls, it seems after the first squeal, it's imprinted behavior.

So there's a new Club in Miami called Swinging Richards. It is a gay themed strip club that caters to men who like men. Most of the strippers are straight personal trainers from local gyms who are proud of their physiques and their equipment. On any given night there are about 30 guys, on three stages who dance a 10 minute set. If the guy earns $10 bucks in the first 8 minutes he will strip down completely, full monty. If not, he will dance out his set and gracefully exit the stage. 

For the most part the patrons sip their booze and happily tip the dancers. The men who watch chat with each other, discuss politics, home decor, fashion and gossip the way their heterosexual brethren might talk about sports, and sports. Until that is, a woman comes in.

I was sitting there drinking my cosmo, chatting with my friends and this woman walks in the door, runs up to the stage and literally starts screaming. She was a foot away. Two other woman came up next to her squealed and giggled. Really? These were not young women. They were making a scene like this was the second coming or the last penis on earth.  None of the men were squealing, Dennis Rodman was not squealing. Then, after groping the performer, seeing his privates....they walked away giggling, no tip. They basically cock-blocked all of us from tipping the dancer and then the guy was just left there, penis in hand, no money.  It was at that moment I was glad I never dated women.

So ladies, if you go to a gay strip club just remember:

1. It's not Chippendales, go scream with your real girlfriends

2. Guys are there to chill, respect that.

3. Tip your dancer, waiter and bartender, they are not there solely for your pleasure.

4. Gays really don't want you there, no matter how much you think they do.(Even gays like a female free environment once and awhile.)

5. Don't act like middle school girls when you see a bunch of hot men stripping, sit back, relax, enjoy the show....make them work for their tips.    ; )

I love my Tattooed Monkey

So just spent the weekend in San Diego with my son, whom I like to call my Tattooed Monkey.  He's the son who decided forgo college to become a tattoo artist.  I know as parents we often worry or criticize our children's decisions in life and when our son said "I'm going to be a tattoo artist", I have to admit a bit of apprehension. I have to say my apprehension was foolish and I am amazed at how he's successful, confident and taken his talent for art and live the life many of us crave: dedication to artistic endeavor.  Some might not approve of the medium but it's gaining respect and the fact that many tattoo artists are now commercial successes through TV and licensing, you can see how its popularity is increasing. I'm waiting for his work to show up on a pair of shoes, just like Ed Hardy. 

My second favorite thing about hanging out with him, is that unlike fine art, tattoos are everywhere on all kinds of people, and hanging out with him I am with an art critic. We can look at line, color, content and know the difference between a good piece of work and a poor or mediocre one. He can look at crisp lines, colors that bleed and tell me whether it's a "good tat" or a lame one.  I now have a new vocabulary for people besides "hot" or "fat". 

The true icing on the cake is going to his shop.  Last time I was there, there were three newly minted Marines in the lobby. Cute, hair shaved high and tight, and probably used to following orders. So the three of them poured over the many possible "Semper Fi" tattoos trying to decide what to get on their first weekend leave.  I said I was the tattooist's dad, they all said "cool" in unison.  I suggest they take their shirts off so they could decide where to put their "tats".  "Turn around" I suggested, "let me feel your muscles, yeah, I think you should put a tat here on your chest." "How about on your leg?" They didn't hesitate to show me some thigh. Just then my husband came into the shop and suggested that "we've done enough for the troops." Sigh. 

So while I agonize over what my tattoo might look like....a small rose on my ankle.....a dolphin on my hip, maybe....or a full scale "angel wings" on my back. My friends, neighbors and even my brother's retired in-laws are getting inked.  Hmmm what about a rainbow....would that be too gay? In any case, I'll wait for it to be done by my Tattooed Monkey, if he can find time for an Odie on my calf....maybe?

Miami Refugees

There's a pasty young man from Wisconsin who spends all day smoking cigarettes in front of my door. He lives in the unit next door, bunking up with another guy.From the sound of it they are both very hetero. The pasty guy throws his cigarettes into the planter which I clean up.  Three times in the last year there have been eviction notices on his door, but he seems to catch up with the rent. 

A friend of mind has a newly minted law degree. He's brilliant, funny, and outgoing but can't find a job, although he's been looking for over a year. Soon he'll be looking nationally "for anything he can find."

I know a couple who used to live in the 20th floor of a very exclusive building. They now live in close quarters in a nice hotel in Boca where one of them is the manager which is rent free. It's not high-flying but it's stable, which is what is so hard to find here in South Florida.It required them to move almost 50 miles away from their previous life in Miami. One of them commutes to Miami everyday. 

In their eyes I can see that endless optimism that comes from living in America. That somehow a door will open and that they will achieve their dreams of stability, affordable luxuries and of better times ahead. I can also see the quiet desperation of young people who now moving into their late 20s and early 30s who are feeling the oppression of debt, fear of not finding work and living on the edge well past the age that you should be. 

So many of us are digging out of the "great recession" in slow steady increments. I got laid off twice in the course of a few months just three years ago.  I'm seeing signs of improvement near my home. Two construction sites within three blocks of my house, also there are signs of prosperity among many of my friends. In the adjacent wealthy neighborhood of Morningside several very large homes are being turned in mansions with new additions that look to be well over 1000 square feet. "Trickle down" much?

So will these be the end of the "lost years" where our salaries, homes, investments all took a nose dive and we're now beginning to catch up? I hope so. I'm tired of seeing refugees in front of my door. 

Underwater in Miami

So my lovely condo is worth less than $100K.  I have a mortgage that is about $300K. That is my reality today.  Let's not be confused with being underwater and being in foreclosure. Underwater simply means that you owe more on your home than it's worth. Foreclosure means that you're not paying your mortgage and it's being repossessed by the bank. Big difference. However, there is an economic and emotional toll of seeing your most important asset turn into something else. 

Let's think about the concept of "home" for a second. What words come to mind? Security, safety, status, and much more. Now think about the term homeowner. You think prosperity, security, status and so on.  Now imagine if those words meant things like trapped, ambivalence, insecurity, debt, risk. Because for those of us severely underwater that's exactly what it means.

Don't get me wrong. I did not buy more than I can afford. I did not "overextend" to live in some kind of dream penthouse. No I live in a modest two bedroom condo that doesn't quite occupy 1000 square feet. 960 to be exact.  Most of us in our small building of 24 units are underwater. There are doctors, police administrators, designers and other very prosperous middle class people living here.  None of us can move. None of us can sell. The couple (one of which is a physician) with the 5 year old and the newborn cannot move to the suburbs for better schools. Why, because we're underwater.

Underwater means things like, should I plant a garden, buy a new sink, paint a room because it just feels like throwing good money after bad.  Every decision about the house is just a little bit bitter, because in your heart you feel like a fool for making such a bad investment.  Yes, it was a bad investment.....we are on the hook for hundreds of thousands of dollars and no real asset to back it up. Most smart business people would say walk away and take some kind of tax write off because it's such a bad asset. But this is not just any asset, it's the roof over your head and you can't just walk away from your home without ruining your entire financial profile. 

Underwater means that the lovely 2000 square foot, 3 bedroom Spanish Mediterranean Revival two blocks away, which now costs less than what you paid for this condo is forever out of reach, because despite the fact we make a large enough income to cover mortgages on both properties, you cannot get financing because: "you're so underwater on your property, how do we know you're not just going to walk away from it.?" "No, you'll need a 50% down payment on any property you buy in the future". I'm sure it'll be many years before I have enough money to even buy a modest property if I need to come up with 50%.  Seriously, I doubt I ever will want to leverage $200K on a piece of real estate after the experiences in this economy.  

So I'm stuck in a place that I love, there are worse problems.  My prosperity will be reflected in my choice of decor, vehicles, art and savings.  The "dream house" will wait. Underwater means staying put, paying off  something that's essentially worthless. I'm sorry I can't help the housing market as much as I would like to.  

Oh well, I guess I can still make a worthless property pretty. 

Biscayne Boulevard, Facebook, Friends, Prostitutes and Little People

So for the last few years I've been posting something called "Biscayne Hooker Report" on my Facebook page.  They were jokes about the streetwalkers in and around my neighborhood.  I would write posts about what they wore like: "hooker in a jumper", "I'm In Miami Bitch Hoodie".  At least once or twice a month I would describe the latest girls working between 55th street and 79th street.  Granted the posts have been getting fewer and fewer over the last few years as the trade has moved over to NW 2nd Ave.  They were usually descriptions of their outfits but I sometimes would throw in things like "crackie chic" and "gummer girl".  Generally, I would get several LOLs and I figured people could get a taste of the neighborhood I live in. 

So I understand that people use Facebook for a lot of different reasons, such as networking, staying in touch with friends and family, political discourse and entertaining others. I've tried several experiments with Facebook trying to "take it to the next level" or just explore ways to connect with people and tell them that they are important to me, that they have contributed to who I am on some level and figure out ways to honor that.  For example I wrote all 350 friends a Haiku poem(blogpost 12/28/2011).  Because of this, some people warn me: "be careful what you post" and "it will follow you forever."  I find that the "friends" who make these warnings are more than content to read what's on my page, but post very little of themselves on their own. Fine by me. 

Back to the hookers.  So over the years I've considered taking pictures of the hookers in my hood: Long legged Trannie, Hot boy with a silver pail, Badonkadonk, Professional Blond, Girl with pimp who shadows her.  Each time I refrained from photography because of personal safety, proximity and because I thought it would be exploitative.  That is, until I saw her, the small person hooker.  I had two thoughts.....aww poor thing, then it was like, "you go girl." Strutting her sexiness for all to see.  How could I write about a little person hooker and not add a pic? Yes, I knew it was wrong. I knew it was exploitative. Yet, how could I not? The devil made me take that pic and yes, I posted it on this week's Biscayne Hooker Report.  

So you can guess the response...everything from "aw, pobrecita has a club foot" to "you go girl!"  The pic went kind of viral....friends tagging each other on the pic(which would keep it pushing back to the top of my page) 20 then 30 comments, it was a Facebook hit!  Shameful is what it was.  It was base....but hookers are funny.....and let's be honest with ourselves: hooker midgets are even funnier.  

My church lady friend(see blogpost 1/26/11) pointed out what a "cruel insensitive jerk" I was.  I have to agree.  Yet I ask myself, what damage was actually done?   Little miss hooker is out there working 81st in Biscayne right now, like so many other girls. Is the offense because the woman in question is a hooker? Or because we laughed at a little person? What should I do about the hookers? Call the police?(see blogpost; 10/3/2011)  Is it my duty and say, "hey girl sorry you're a hooker, go work on another corner so I don't have to see you." What do I say to her pimp that is ten feet away(and 100 feet away from my front door and new BMW)? No, I use the only defense I have: I laugh and joke about it. I even write about it. I took a picture of it.  It wasn't pretty, but yeah it was funny.....and like many things that make us laugh....it was sad too. 

Thank you New Yorker person, as a Miamian I live for your validation.

They have arrived to their winter nesting grounds: the ubiquitous New York Snowbirds (Egotisicus analholus). Arriving like most migratory and seasonal birds they appear in your garden one day, singing sweet songs, squawking,  and preening. You smile because you know winter has arrived.  Like all winter fowl you're grateful that they've shared their time in your locale, but you really get tired of them crapping on your head after awhile. 

I understand that New York is the center of the galaxy and that everything done outside of there is quaint and provincial. That me, as a mere local Miamian should rejoice that the New Yorker has cast a glance on my poor rugged outpost in the swamp and said: yes I will visit you, but I will make sure you know of my superiority and that I could have just as well have gone to some other city to make them feel inferior. Alas, it's Miami's turn again to be the "in" place to visit this winter.

Every decade or so, New Yorkers "discover" Miami. When I was young there was the South Beach phenomenon, so popular that New Yorkers renamed it "SoBe" because "South Beach" was apparently too hard to pronounce. I've never heard a local call it "SoBe".  Miami was invaded by fashionistas, models, beautiful people all loving the "exotic feel". Any WASP really knows that the term "exotic" is just another way of saying "I'm tired of sleeping around with white people."

So now, thanks to Art Basel there is a new type of New Yorker here: the hipsters and aritst-types and rich people. Instead of staying on the beach, like all good tourists should, they're combing my neighborhood and clogging up the Starbucks. AND they're complaining that there are no coffeehouses other than Starbucks. I hate to be the one to tell them, but we don't need coffeehouses here because it's nice and warm all year long and curling up on a bed-bug infested sofa is very much a New York thing.

So I guess I should be flattered that the denizens #1 rudest city come down to visit the #2nd rudest city and complain.  Yet I find myself annoyed. I was annoyed because I was given a "look" when I complained about the cold. It was 48degrees and the person in question was getting out of a car with Jersey plates, wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I doubt seriously that Snookie or the Situation would be wearing daisy dukes and halter tops in 45 degree weather.....wait....okay...well...somebody with sense would not be wearing such an outfit.

So they're here spending money helping the economy. I begrudgingly say "thanks" as Miamian, but if you New Yorkers don't like it here.....there are plenty of Brazilians tourists who do. 

Haikupalooza Project

Sometimes New Year's resolutions are merely guideposts for what to accomplish in the year to come. Lose weight, be a better person, try not to kill anyone are all typical New Year's Resolutions. For me, these resolutions are kind of amorphous and don't really have any meaning.

This year, on a whim, I decided to write a haiku for each one of my Facebook "friends".  I really didn't think it through, nor did I think it would be that hard. I mean how hard would it be to write a short phrase of 17 syllables for the 365 people I had on my "friends" list. I mean, as someone pointed out, if you can't spare 17 syllables about someone how much of a friend could they really be?

I set up a few rules to make the project more interesting and keep the surprise factor going. First rule of Haiku: you can't ask for it. If anyone asked for Haiku they would be among the last to receive one. The hope was to keep it random and special for me and the person receiving the poem. 

The second rule was to keep it nice. That was my rule and the temptation to use the words bitch, whore, slut and moron was always there.  I admit some of my friends are whores and morons and it would probably be a badge of honor, but Facebook, like your name drawn in wet sidewalk cement, is forever. 

The third rule was, I could change the rules as I saw fit. So by the end of the project I ended up abandoning randomness in favor of alphabetical order. 

So I've written 322 poems for my friends. You might have noticed I started out with 365 friends.

What I learned:

1. Not everyone deserves a haiku.

2. There are people on your Facebook page who you don't like at all, they are are there for "political" reasons. They've been defriended.

3. There acquaintances on your Facebook who you have a lot of respect for and would like to count them as your friends.

4. It's as hard to write Haiku for someone you love as for someone you don't know.

5. You become very picky who you let "friend" you when you are committed to writing a Haiku for everyone. 

6. There are people who don't read your page and don't know why the fuck you sent them a Haiku.

7. There are people who can't say thank you.

8. Writing a haiku to someone you don't like at all is very uncomfortable but I did it anyway. Defriended.

9. Some people lie to get more haiku.

10. How many people actually get their own special unique personal poem? I know 322 people who have.

The best responses seem to have come from people who were having some kind of hard time that I was not aware of. They would say things like:

"you don't know how much I needed to hear that" 

"this came at the most perfect time, how did you know I needed this?"

"you made my day, it was such a hard one"

When I read those responses it reaffirms my belief in faith and destiny.  That somehow fate steps in works through someone to give them 17 little syllables to add a little wind to their sails. It was nice.  I doubt I will do it again.

Happy New year. 

Next year's resolution: lose five pounds. 

Christmas Tree Bitch

Until recently I was a December 23rd person.  Yes, I would actually buy a tree two days before Christmas. Which is strange because I am a "Christmas Person". I do get wrapped up in all the excitement of the holidays, I take out my other decorations, nativity scenes, candles and holiday doodads.  But the tree always seems so final and decadent. I mean even two days before Christmas a nice tree is still not cheap. I mean $50 is still expensive for something that I know I'm going to throw out in three days. The real reason might be that I have a deep seated fear of house fires. So fearful that I sleep in my nice underwear instead of in the nude. My Mother and Grandmother used to scold me: "don't sleep in the nude, there might be a fire....and then what?" It was the "and then what" that I always worried about. The idea that there's six feet of potential kindling in the middle of my living room leaves me uneasy. I want the tree in my home as short a period as possible. 

I still love the process of trimming and decorating and I do enjoy the pine scent wafting through the house. So this year I decided to take the plunge and buy a tree early.  So after a night of celebrating my birthday with too much booze and strippers, hungover, I decided to get a tree.  I realize a hazy state caused by  alcohol poisoning is never a good idea to do anything, but since I have a busy holiday schedule, Sunday seemed like the best time to do it.   I had been to church earlier in the day (I truly believe it's OK to be hungover in church) and I felt a tad bit "Christmassy".  Which when looking back was just the alcohol getting in a last jab.

I pulled up with the hubby in the fancy convertible and sent him home to get the station wagon. Parking was limited because of a large semi with a new shipment of tanenbaums from North Carolina. It was a hot dry day. Bored boys sat around the tent waiting to earn a few extra dollars trimming and bagging trees. A cardboard sign read "please tip the boys."  I put on my "happy mask" as I walked in to pick and purchase a tree.  I picked the tree easily and then she arrived: the Christmas Tree Bitch.

Christmas Tree Bitch was a true blond, of the Eva Braun variety.  She was driving a big black ugly Mercedes Benz that looked suspiciously like a Chrysler "sport wagon". She wore a pair of faded linen shorts that went mid thigh. A hint of spider veins and a small bruise were on her upper thigh. She had on a Rolex. She was tasteful.  Apparently she missed the whole charm school lesson about being "demure". A trail of three blond "tweenagers" followed in lockstep, goosestepping as she walked into the tent. She announced to no one and everyone that she needed three trees because "Carol had three."

Now in my mind, there were two Christmas Tree Bitches; this one and one named "Carol."  The irony of Carol's name was not lost on me.   Officiously the CTB ordered the workers to pull out the best trees for her. She went on and on about Carol's trees.  It was hot, I was hungover and my husband had still not returned with the wagon.  I looked at CTB and I then I truly saw her, she was one of the 1%. I finally had a face for all those nameless job creators out there who are so disconnected from the rest of us that bragging about trees, money, and access seems natural. The idea that the hoi polloi helped them achieve this status might seem ridiculous. 

It was at that point the whole meaning of Christmas and the Occupy Movement all came down on me. This idea that someone could be so disconnected from reality, that when surrounded by poor boys working for tips, transient Christmas tree workers, and other shoppers would act so grand and petty at the same time. I realize that she probably doesn't know what it means to go hungry, to go without and that charity is more than just writing a check, but respecting the struggles of others and feeling just a tad bit guilty about having so much. I realize that I have so much in my life, and that those boys working for some extra cash for Christmas on a very hot December Sunday are the ones that have it hard. 

I wanted to scream "shame on you, don't you know people are suffering in poverty?!" I wish I had.That might have been self-satisfying. But I do drive a BMW convertible. I have a cupboard full of food. I've been broke and grew up wealthy. I might very well be a member of the moneyed elite someday. I know the feeling of satisfaction of being able to provide excess to my children and friends. I even know the short-term satisfaction that snobbery provides.  At the end of the day I realize that through my life I've been those boys working for tips, the men running the tree tent and sometimes even the Christmas Tree Bitch.  

I just hope if I am the Christmas Tree Bitch.....somebody will call me on it.

Happy Holidays.

Queer Geography: from the Closet to the Biscayne Corridor

After a weekend of carousing I think I can say that the Gays have finally moved on, or off the beach that is. With the closing of 321 (which I still called Laundry Bar) it's official, there are more gay hangouts off the beach than on.  The fading 90's idea of Miami Gays as buff South Beach boys clubbing at night and tanning by day has given away to hip professionals driving BMW's to posh strip clubs and driving home to Donna Reed bliss in Miami Shores, Belle Meade and Morningside. 

It shouldn't be a surprise to anyone that almost all of the neighborhoods along the Biscayne corridor from Downtown to Aventura have become areas where the gays are gentrifying, moving up and settling down. Affordable housing, good shopping, easy access to the airport and downtown make North Miami, El Portal and Miami's Mimo district all magnets for those gentrifying gays. As you move north the crowds get decidedly older and wealthier, as you move south they get decidedly younger and prettier. Those very gays who used to sashay down the aisles in daisy dukes at the Publix in South Beach can now be seen with their partners in khakis actually buying produce at the Publix in Miami Shores. 

It used to be that the gay bars would attract gay people to the neighborhood, in Miami the opposite is true. Now that the "gay area" is firmly established, new business are springing up to accommodate them. Moving south to north along Biscayne Blvd. there are several. Starting with Discotekka, which while fun, is decidedly young....caters to the 18 to 23 year old crowd and those who prey on them.  A hop up the street is Creative Male which sells underwear that should only be on guys aged 18 to 23. There's Midtown Mall with of course there is Target('nuff said) and then the design district. You can always substitute the word "Gay" wherever you see the word "design". Driving north there is Details in case you need "pretty things" for your house.At the 55th Street Station: Details, Soyka, Sushi Siam, Idol's Gym and Andiamo Pizza are all gay friendly and welcoming. There is even an unofficial Friday gay happy hour at Soyka's for GWM (guys with money).

Further north there is the ignominious Jamboree bar, a Miami staple for 30 years, if sleaze is your style(or mood) you are welcome here. A few more blocks and you reach Magnum, a very fun piano bar, where professional singers who work the cruise lines put on a great show for old Jewish ladies and middle aged gay men. A few blocks away is Sandals Club for drag shows and lots of guys from Hialeah in gold chains. Something for every taste I guess.

The two new additions are Eros, which is actually a very nice neighborhood bar located just north of Miami's "Mimo District" on 81st and an offshoot of the famed Atlanta strip club: Swinging Richards located across the street from Filene's Basement on 174th.  I went to Swinging Richards and it is unique in two ways: firstly the strippers have been recruited from all the local health clubs so if you ever wanted to see your personal trainer in the "full monty" Swinging Richard's is your place. On a side note: I saw Dennis Rodman there last Saturday giving male strippers dollar bills....whatever.

So there you are folks, whether you want to invest in real-estate, cater to a gay clientele or just be where the hipsters are: Any neighborhood along Miami's beautiful Biscayne Boulevard. 

Movin' On Up in Miami to the Upper East Side(on the other side of the housing bubble)

The '70s show with the theme song Movin' On Up was about a family moving up the social ladder to a "condo in the sky".   Interestingly, the current housing crisis is allowing much of the same thing, except in an opposite way. Not in the way you might think, that the nouveau pauvres are moving into poor areas. Actually it's that condos are so cheap that poorer residents are filling up buildings that were intended for the well-to-do. That is exactly what is happening with my condo.

Don't get me wrong, I am a snob. I have upper-middle class standards and desires. I can be shallow. I live in a property that was intended for people exactly like me....pretentious jerks. Really folks, we can say what we want about race, class, status....but where you live is where the rubber meets the road. Where you live says more about you than the car you drive, the clothes you wear or even the friends you hang out with. Your home is the ultimate expression of "you". 

So is my "ultimate statetment of status" the condo now worth around $80K or the mortgage upwards of $300K?  Worse yet is the sense of despair of my well-to-do neighbors who paid as much or more than we did for our homes. We sit in middle-class horror as the units with single bedrooms fill up with young families with three or more kids. Where do they all sleep?  The parking lot show the clear signs of the have's and have nots as expensive BMWs and Mercedes park next to 15 year old Altimas and tricked out Dodge Challengers. This is not about race either, the yuppies are just as diverse as their poorer neighbors.

But the class divide is interesting. Initially some people move in and don't share the same values of order, respect, quiet, cleanliness as the existing neighbors.  However, making a statement that "this is a classy place, and you are welcome here if you live by our rules" really makes people wake up and try to fit in. I see those families that moved in start to fit in, better cars, clothes and manners. I truly believe this is a silver lining of the housing crisis, you never really can choose your neighbors, no matter how much you try. Our own middle-class entitlement of a nice place to live has become possible to those who are lucky enough to have work and have a dream. I know they don't have as much as I do, but as long as they try to be a good neighbor, you are welcome here. Besides, us snobby jerks can't leave without ruining our credit anyway.

Mr. Rubio, Oh, the Cubanity.

I had a discussion with my husband today after the Marco Rubio "exile" story broke.  Both of us are very aware of Cuban history having several books on the subject, having taken courses on the subject and one of us Cuban. Almost instantly we could recall the important events prior to the Castro takeover of the island. The attack on the Moncada Garrison in '53, Castro's return in Oriente in December of '56 and the several years hiding in the mountains.

The Rubio family left before Castro even returned from exile in Mexico. Now I don't want to get into a discussion about pre-Castro Cuba, or conditions on the island at that time. Needless to say they were poor, and probably similar to conditions throughout Latin America. Conditions that would warrant any young couple to want emigrate to America for a better life, similar to Mexicans and Italians. 

Post-revolutionary Cuba was another matter altogether different. The communist take-over of the island was based on the destruction of society and a conforming to an extreme totalitarian regime that controlled every aspect of life. Forcing children into state-run boarding schools, a complete control all forms of commerce, redistribution of resources and forcing city dwellers into the countryside to cut sugar-cane. Not mention the arrests, imprisonment, and murder of political dissidents.  These people are exiles, because they were forced to leave their country against their will.

I know it may be a small distinction for some people, immigrant, exile but it's not to me.  To claim exile, in the Cuban context is in some degree related to the suffering and degradation inflicted by Fidel Castro. It is a term earned from heartbreak, fear, struggle and loss. It's not the same as someone who is leaving for greener pastures.

I recently spent some time in Cuba traveling the island and meeting my in-laws. Everyday is a struggle for them. To get food, to get medicine, to keep the roof of their home from falling down on their heads. No, I will not blithely accept that Mario Rubio's departure from Cuba and the subsequent desire to return there an "exile." To give the Rubio family exile status is an insult to the thousands who have died trying to escape tyranny.

It's disingenuous at best, lying at its worst.  I'm sorry Mr. Rubio, but you don't deserve the "street cred" of calling yourself an exile.   

Mercy Hospital or Havana General?(or you can call me Papi)

If you really want to get a snapshot of life in pre-revolutionary Cuba, you really need to spend some time at Mercy Hospital.  Situated right on the water, adjacent to shrine of La Virgen de La Caridad del Cobre which is the patron saint of Cuba.  Here you can see all flourish of old Cuba in full display. 

As you walk into the hospital the first thing to hit you is the aroma of "cafecitos" emanating from the La Carreta restaurant  right in the lobby.  No fancy Starbuck's coffe here, you can have a cafecito, colada, cafe con leche, or a cafe Americano (which is regular american coffee).  Already you can smell the lechon which is being prepared for lunch. Garlic, onions, cumin fill the lobby with a distinctly Cuban (or is it Miami?) smell.

The second thing you notice is the sound. Working in healthcare, I have spent time in a few medical institutions.  Usually they are hushed places, like libraries, with hushed voices and the steady beep, beep, beep of the medical devices.  Usually, buttoned down staff walk around officiously, emotionally detached from their charges. They mutter inanities like "good morning Mr. Smith how are you feeling today?"

Not the case at Mercy. To my Anglo eye it seems like there is a lot of flirting going on.  It seems like there is a very fun party around each corner. I hear things like "Mi Cielo, please push eight for me," or "Mi amor, tu estas bella esta manana."  Lot's of chatter amongst the staff.  In one Doctor's office I can hear a young man singing boleros, beautifully. The patients to get into the banter as well. I saw two elderly Cuban gentlemen commenting on a particular nurse's "assets" in Spanish. The nurse instead of being offended, laughed. All around people are sharing coladas poured into thimble sized plastic cups as the day moves forward. 

Like my beloved Miami, Mercy Hospital just seems to have sex laden in the air.  Not like the "I'm bored let's have sex" feeling that goes on at most hospitals. But the" let's do something hot because we're in Miami" feeling you get on South Beach.  Hot pharmaceutical reps troll the halls in search of a doctor, and the unabashed way the men stare at them. The constant "checking out" that goes on among the hospital's denizens, both patients, visitors, and staff alike.  It's really a Miami thing or a Cuban thing or a Latino thng, I'm not sure, but a sudden round of flirting always seems to be just a moment away.   When they drew my blood today the phlebotomist said "Papi, just lay back and I'll do the work." I just love it when someone calls me Papi.

Yes Officer, I Want To Make A Report.

Every day I take a morning walk along Biscayne Boulevard in what is now called Miami's "Upper East Side."  As I go through my morning constitutional I am gladdened by the signs of gentrification that are showing in my area. I am also regretful that the area is steadily approaching the tipping point that will move the area out of the "up and coming" segment into the "quaint and established" designation.  Of course as the down and out move on, a few haven't got the memo that the neighborhood is no longer a "crack friendly" area. 

As a happy resident of Miami, I am fully cognizant that the City of Miami Police goal is less about stopping crime, and more about containing it to a few crime ridden areas.  The police don't understand why someone would ever live in an area previously known for its hookers, crack addicts and homeless people.  To the police, gentrification forces them to do something they're not used to: make a report.  When I first moved into the area there were nightly drug deals on my street. I called the police and made a report. (The white guy in me called the city commissioner too). When my street was being used as a truck depot for semis because we paid for street security, I called the police and made a report.  When the homeless junkie banged on my door at 3AM asking for money, I called and made report. I encouraged all my neighbors to do the same thing.

Each and every time the police dispatcher, patrolman or other officer tried to discourage me from making a report. These were the questions I would get whenever I called the non-emergency police line:

 "Are you sure you want a unit to go there sir?" "What would you like the police to do sir?" at least they said sir. When my husband calls with his Spanish accent, they don't even bother with the "sir" designation. I mean, why do they think I'm calling the police? For my health? No, I'm calling the police because I want these things out of my neighborhood. I don't want to see the filthy crack whore passed out in front of Starbucks. I'm calling because of the passed out Asian (not Haitian, which I repeated, several times, until I gave up and said "Chinese") drunken woman sleeping on the sidewalk, with a pile of beer cans for a pillow. Arrest her for littering!

When three, THREE, hookers were taking shelter from the morning sun under the NET(Neighborhood Enhancement Team) office, I actually went in and complained and they said there was nothing they could do. I mean how ironic is it that prostitutes are turning tricks behind the NET office? The following week I saw  hookers hanging out at the bus stop, I approached two, very overweight police officers gossiping. When I complained they asked:

"Where they walking?"

"Yes." I replied.

"Then there's nothing we can do. As long as they're moving we can't arrest them." and they resumed their gossiping and doughnut eating. 

Really? Really!?! As long as they're moving?  

The last straw came two weeks ago when I was accosted by a drunken drug addict at 9AM in the morning right on Biscayne Blvd.. He  followed me for several blocks threatening to hit me, I walked away and called the police. I called 911. They asked me if I was sure I wanted an officer to come out to make a report. Jesus, I thought, of course I do, did I just call 911 because I need a drama fix? Why not just lie and say, "they're on their way" and never show up? At least I can get the illusion that they're working.

The officer showed 30 minutes later, I told him the story. "Are you sure you want to make a report?" was his reply. "Because there's nothing we can do, he's gone." Duh, I thought.

The police officer gave me this unsolicited advice: "Next time that happens to you, sir, you should hit him first and that will scare the criminals off." 

Yeah, and I'm sure you'd be happy to take that report. 

Everyday is A Gift

My mother called me the other day to ask about my dog.  She has two dogs and is an animal lover. I was worried she may be hoarding animals, but two cats and two dogs do not make up a "hoard". Her question was easy to answer, Scruffy the Poodle is old and I answer anyone who asks: " every day with him is a gift."  You see, he is quite an old poodle. I don't know how old to be exact, but he's been with me for 13 years and he was already an adult when I found him wandering the streets of South Dade.  Scruffy was a feral poodle.

I often tell people that there are packs of feral poodles running behind Bloomingdales at the Falls Shopping Center, taking down unsuspecting South Dade matrons and mauling them. Scruffy the Poodle is not a particularly outstanding poodle. He's basically a piece of white cotton candy with three dots for a face. Two dark eyes and a small black nose that are not particularly expressive. Yet it's that simple lack of expressiveness that makes him see more toy-like and adorable. He has always walked on wobbly, unbending legs which makes him look like he's a wind-up toy. He's small, I never realize how small until I see him with other dogs, because to me he's seems to be the perfect dog for the city. He's not yappy or aggressive and never has been. He has the uncanny ability to dislike the same people I do, especially certain close relatives. (If he growls at you, rest assured I don't like you either.)

Recently the vet suggested "I prepare myself" for "the inevitable".  I've calculated that he has spent about 14,000 hours sitting in my lap or sleeping in my arms. In his lifetime we've easily walked 7,000 miles together and he's been a true friend every step of the way. Now , he's sleeping about 18 hours a day, right at my feet. His little legs twitch as he dreams. 

I recently read a book called "Old Dogs" by  Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson. It was an homage to the dogs that have spent their lives as our faithful companions. It is quite a touching in it's simplicity, describing the animal in it's peak and then how it has earned it's spot on a front porch, lawn or corner of the den.  Soulful eyes and an occasional bark to remind us that, hey! I'm still here, still here for you. From the day I found him to our last day together, Scruffy.....every day is a gift. 

Angry White Man

Despite being born to a Honduran mother in Honduras, and being a proud advocate for Latino culture and equality, there is a granite hard kernel of whiteness in my soul.  It is inextricably linked to my daily functioning, irritating everything like a poppy seed in an old person's dentures. It's a grinding kind of whiteness, the kind that leads to acid-reflux and cardiac arrest. The kind of whiteness that eats your soul and emerges in a blinding rage with the words;"GET OFF MY  LAWN,CAN'T YOU READ THE SIGN!?!"

Now those of you who know me may think I'm kind of a friendly jokester, but deep down there is a rage. A rage fed by my White Anglo Saxon Protestant genes that would put the Tea Party to shame. That small seed of whiteness is constantly chafing against 15 years of living in Latin America and living another 20 in Miami (Latin America by Proxy). Despite my Latino birth and Cuban husband, I cannot suppress it. My husband even says "you're acting like your uptight WASPy stepmother" when I get frustrated by people of Miami who don't seem to understand the basic tenet of white culture: Try not to annoy other people, or people in general. Also known as "not drawing attention to oneself" which is diametrically opposed to my Latino and Gay genes.

It is contradictory to life in Miami. Do not annoy....it seems like such a simple rule. Like the Venezuelan 20 something that parked his SUV in the middle of the lot and blocked everyone in, went into the fast food joint, and refused to speak English. He kept asking for the "pollitos". The cashier kept saying chicken, and the guy refused to budge.

Really? You can't order chicken at a fast food joint? Then get angry at the guy who doesn't speak Spanish? My white rage emerged, and I politely said to another person in line, in English, "that guy should learn English".

Guess what....he said "fuck you".

I smiled with my mouth, not with my eyes. 

Try Not To Annoy Other People, It's really a very simple rule, like the Golden One, but just more important. It is a hard to rule to live by, especially if you're gay and fabulous (which can be annoying in and of itself....even to me).  But it is a good one.  Do you have enough labels? You can rock khaki and a polo shirt without a seven inch logo attached to your chest.

Simple white people rules: smile with your mouth not with your eyes(Forget it Tyra, smizing is gauche).  Everyone should at least try to speak English when in America. Say "please" and "thank you". Pick up your trash, whether it's your kids or that candy bar wrapper, pick it up.   Kids under 11 need to be in bed by 8:30, even on weekends.  Kids should never been seen outside the home, unless they're at a funeral, and then only kids over 13. Know the rules, break them only when they involve white collar crime or when nobody is looking. If your dog craps in somebody's woods and there's nobody to pick it up, the dog didn't really crap did it? Mayonnaise is the mortar that builds the wall of white solidarity.

Finally, fear the wrath of the white guy(before he get's his gun.) He will call the city, he will call the police, he will call the neighborhood association, he will be nice, and direct. He will send a letter to city commission, or might even show up. He will ask for your supervisor. He is the angry white man.....he will get his way. So stay off my lawn kid.