Military Eavesdropping in Miami

For five years I lived in San Diego, California.  San Diego is unique in that the entire area is dotted with military bases. Military life infuses the culture, the way of life, the soul of the city.  Anywhere you live in the city, it is very likely one or more of your neighbors is either active military or some kind of military contractor.  Hence the sensitivity you acquire for the challenges military families face and an appreciation of what they do and the service they offer to the country.

The military presence in Miami is small, with the exception of the Southern Command in Doral, you can sometimes see the soldiers jogging shirtless along 36th street during the lunch hour. Not a bad sight. Of course there's fleet week....but that's more of a Lauderdale thing.  

Anyway, I was having breakfast at La Carreta on 8th street this morning and as I was being seated I saw this extremely attractive young man sitting at the table behind me. He may have been in his mid to late twenties. He was with an older gentleman, father perhaps, and he was talking about is experiences since returning from Afghanistan.  I could only catch bits and pieces of his conversation but he became very emotional about his "homecoming".  The one thing that struck him, were his experiences in college since he returned. He said: "people don't thank me for my service, the first thing they ask me about my experiences in Afghanistan was how many people I killed." His handsome brow wrinkles in frustration. " I mean I can understand a 10 year old asking that kind of question, but adults?" His eyes mist, he excuses himself and goes to the restroom. 

At that point I teared up too. I could see this young man in pain, that he could be my son, or anyone's son. He  volunteered his life, freedom so that we could have ours.  How have we as a society, become so insensitive to the sacrifices that our veterans, which walk among us in our own tropical urban jungle, make for us.  I can't remember feeling such shame for my fellow Americans who have caused this guy so much pain. 

There is an etiquette for asking people about their military service.  It's simple: Thank you, thank you, thank you, for your service. 

Hurray. Gentrification is here. Mid-Century Modern meets the next century.

Well, I guess it was just a matter of time before it got here. Like a warm breeze creeping up from downtown. sweeping away adult bookstores, prostitutes and dive motels, gentrification has finally arrived to the area between 50th to 79th streets on Biscayne Boulevard.  The vanguards of this movement Starbucks, UVA 69 and Starbucks all seem very established now, less hipster, more chic and middle age. 

The coolest part of the living here is the diversity. Haitians, Anglos, Argentinos and Jewish families all seem to dot the area. Brazilians, Europeans and New Yorkers are moving in at a rapid pace. The area is friendly by Miami standards.

I guess the first clue that the neighborhood was changing were the older white people. Not the usual homeless types, but spry ones, taking morning constitutionals and evening strolls to the cafes and restaurants up and down the street. Another sign were the chic young mothers with strollers, not waiting for the bus, but power walking to Baywood, Legion and Morningside Parks.  Then I knew it was just a matter of time. 

Of course with the gentrification there is construction and demolition. Slowly, old structures are coming down. A new bank is planned for 69th street and a new shopping plaza is going up on 62nd. (Rumor has it that Michelle Bernstein and Steven Perricone are opening up a new place there.)  Motels are renting spaces to restaurateurs such as Blue Collar in the Bayside Inn and Red Light in the Motel Bleu. Fancy food and rooms by the hour....an evening of fun.  Of course the gays want a say too, Eros is the new gay bar and so on.   

The usual suspects of gentrification are in play. Gay men who resurrected the neighborhoods of Morningside and Bellemeade from severe urban decay in the mid 80's have long since cashed out of those neighborhoods and have been replaced by very affluent couples who can afford private schools and want a short commute to downtown. In both neighborhoods old Miami mansions are sprouting wings as the wealthy vie for limited waterfront property that is just 10 minutes north of downtown. To accommodate the new bourgeoisie Cushman School has bought up several blocks adjacent to the school on 61st street and closed down the liquor store. 

Still there are some remnants of  the bad old days.  Hookers still ply their trade day and night and the motels still seem to be hotbeds of iniquity, which is usually a plus for any area that claims it's gentrifying. These are always going to be touchstones of what came before.  So when you see same old hookers working the street you remember the "bad old days" hanging out at the liquor store on 61st or picking up a porn at the adult video store that used to be on 71st.  It's good to keep a little of the old grit to remind us that we were once young and carefree. 

Despite all the change, the Mimo district still has quaint tree lined neighborhoods with Spanish and Mediterranean revival homes. Small bodegas still sell cafecitos and lottery tickets. There are still plenty of poor. Just remember if you move into the area, don't complain if a hooker is using your bushes for "business". 

Want A Good Restaurant Review in the NYT? More Wonder Bread Please.

Classy

Full disclosure: I am not a real foodie. Another disclosure: I actually serve a Velveeta dish at least once year.  So granted I'm probably not one to go out there to places like Red Light, Micheal's Genuine and Sra. Martinez and tell you that this is the epicurean ideal. Who am I to challenge what a New Yorker might say about the eating establishments in my home town?http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/north-america/united-states/florida/miami/67063/michaels-genuine-food-drink/restaurant-detail.html

Those who know me well, know my favorite restaurant is Hooters for three reasons: 1. I really love chicken wings, 2. It's actually a true Florida establishment. 3. I'm waiting for the day that nylon shorts over pantyhose come back into style for all.

That being said I'd like to say I've been to the restaurants that were being critiqued in the travel section of the New York Times and I can say with all honesty that the food tasted good. I mean not awesome, but as good as anything you might eat at Shuckers(http://shuckersbarandgrill.com/,) but served by and prepared by people who don't seem "local".

The first restaurant reviewed was Michael's Genuine, now I've been there three times and the clientele is decidedly, to coin an 80's term: "Yuppie".  Yuppie in it's worst forms, lawyerly, pretentious, what have you...obviously people there to be seen. Fine, I'm there too.  So this cute "ginger" girl server comes up to the table: "Hi I'm Sue from Portland, I'm your server." she rattles off the specials and goes into excessive detail about the wholesome ingredients, and the free range chicken, etc. etc.....  Don't you think it's ironic that somebody would care about free range chickens, but not about the fact that their iPhones were made in Chinese sweatshops where people kill themselves?  Truthfully, I the few times I ate there, I was not that impressed....but as a former yuppie myself, should I be?

Red light, food was was not memorable, but the lousy service was. Been there twice, never again. I did like the location on the Little River was cool. Served by Bill from St. Louis. 

Okay what did I think these restaurants had in common?  White people.  Yeah, the front of the house in these restaurants are full of young, attractive white people, who are feeling empowered to talk, and engage.  I mean I love it when a Hooter's girl just plops down in the chair, flirts and takes your order.  But the whole, "Hi I'm Stan, I'm in college and I'll be your server tonight" thing to me, is very Bennigan's circa 1987.  You know "I don't care Stan, because I'm about to drop $100 on this meal, and I'm here to share it with my husband, not with you. Now please bring me something with Velveeta melted on it." Yeah, I find the whole white folks in front, brown ones in the back kind of annoying. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe the pretty blond was an Argentinian or Mexican who had managed to pay for accent reduction classes.  Or the surly blue eyed bartender was lying when he said he was from Hoboken, he could actually be from Holguin.

Yeah, when I eat at the restaurants mentioned in the NYT article, I feel like I'm in New York, or Seattle or Portland or Kansas.  Faux friendly staff with who want to "share".  All that's missing is the right amount of "flair" on suspenders.  I guess that's fine for some folks, but I'll take a surly South Beach model named Jorge as my server any day.

Miami Beach Gay Pride....or Gay Shame?

On this Pride Sunday I am a little bitter this year.  For the last four years I've participated in the Gay Pride Parade on Miami Beach.  I just assumed it was every gay man's fantasy to wave at crowds from an elevated moving platform.  I mean, who doesn't want to be in a parade, and better yet a parade in your honor?  So this year I was shocked and disappointed when the gay organization I am involved with showed absolutely no enthusiasm for this event.  

Granted the organization has changed a bit in the last year, the members are younger, straighter and more "corporate" than in previous years.  Several excuses ranged from "it would affect my job" to "I'm job hunting right now" to just a curious apathy about Gay Pride in general.  I remember once a story about a guy who went to Gay Pride in New York and was watching the parade from the sidewalk. He had been enjoying the parade until a news crew came up to him and asked his opinion about the event. He saw the camera and ran away...for  blocks.  Personally, I don't think that employers really scour social media to look for what people do in their private lives.  Secondly, would any gay man want to work somewhere that did? 

So I keep asking myself the question why are these guys so reticent to get up on float and show their pride. They are leaders in a gay organization. They are openly gay. Is it internalized homophobia or simply that because they've grown up in a more accepting world where gays are more integrated that they don't seem to think they need things like pride parades or organizations that fight for their civil rights. 

So why have a gay pride parade at all?  I'll tell you why. Because we were marginalized to the point of invisibility until 30 years ago. We are not allowed to marry. We are not allowed to take care of our families like heterosexual couples. We are still targeted and investigated by law enforcement in the places we gather. Our standard bearers, like Ellen DeGeneres, are attacked for simply representing a national retail chain. Because talented young men and women are afraid to represent on a float in a parade because of a perceived fear (real or not) that they wont get that next promotion, security clearance or that dream job. Because children are bullied to the point of wanting to kill themselves.

Gay Pride is a poke in the eye of all of those who hate gays. It's a protest that shows all our feathers, craziness and sexual rebellion.  That drag queens, who started that rebellion walk in the daylight and say : I am here, I am real, I am human. Pride says "you may not like me, but I will not be silenced or marginalized again."   So Happy Miami Beach Pride.  I will be marching today. 

"Tio, mira ese carro loco" (Uncle, look at the crazy car)

The first time I took my nephew for a ride in my new car he screamed from his window: "mira ese carro loco" or "look at the crazy car."  He was actually describing the Chevy Impala parked on the side of the old Police Museum building on Biscayne.  I just figured he was talking about all the carro locos that I see whenever I drive around Miami.  

Now I can say without hesitation that Miami has a car culture.  To a large extent you are saying a lot about who you are by what you drive. As we all know, us Miamians are not exactly about "understatement".  As self-centered as we are, we know that opening the door of that late model import says, "ago ergo sum" I drive, therefore I am.  In Miami it's more like: "ago carus pretiosa, ego sum melius quam." Which I believe using internet translations means:" I drive an expensive car therefore I am better than you."

Aside from any car snobbery.....or car affinity that Miamians may have, we still have developed a distinct driving style that tests patience, challenges souls and has an outcome that would be respected by those participating in the hunger games. Local driving is not for the feint of heart. I thought I'd add some simple guidelines for newcomers and new drivers. A Miami driving style, not unlike it's cooking, influenced by a hint Argentinian arrogance, heavy dollops of Cuban can-do and dash of Haitian frustration, pour it over some Anglo repression and you have what I call a wonderful driving South Florida souffle. 

Let me start with turn signals. Don't.  Why would you want anyone to know ahead of time what you plan on doing? Would you tell a thief the combination to your safe?  No. Would you tell someone in poker what's in your hand? So why would you tell another driver that you are about to take away the real estate right in front of them?  Signals are your way of announcing what you are doing, now.  Like when a small kid goes to the bathroom....I'm pooping NOW...in front of you.  The job of the other driver is to react through resignation, rage, slamming on brakes, horn, what have you. Blinkers in Miami are your way of saying "I win!"  Not like in other cities where blinkers say in wimp language "can you please let me in?"  

Licence and registration please.

Speed. To be honest,  I don't know one person who has gotten a speeding ticket on 95 in Miami-Dade, ever.  I've seen some pretty cool car races, spectacular accidents, but never seen a car ever pulled over anywhere on I95. Please speak up if any of you have. So to me it means that it's basically a stretch of highway that has been ceded over to the lawless masses. A stretch of road in poor repair except for the "luxo-lanes" that rich white people use to get from the Broward County Line to Downtown without having to share the lanes with the rest of us folks who may have a residence or business in areas between downtown and the county line. There are four places in Miami-Dade where you will get definitely get speeding tickets: Virginia Gardens....only fools speed on 36th street between 63rd & 67th avenues. Second is the town of Medley(hamlet of) the two police officers are waiting for you just off that bridge that crosses from Okeechobee Blvd. How a trailer park actually became a town is a mystery to me. Bal Harbor: speed or ride a bike on the sidewalk at your own peril. Any school zone in Miami Dade. Yeah the school zones are where the cops get that "speeding quota" that they claim they don't have. Otherwise speed at will.

Most annoying driving thing to me: the abuelita en la Corolla. I am sure the Toyota Corolla is a great car, however every abuelita or Haitian granmè drives one.  The Haitian one will be white. Haitians as a rule only drive white cars or vans, and typically they drive very, very, very, very slow....with their hazard lights on. 

And that brings me to point of hazard lights. They are for hazards, like when you break down in the middle of the street and you're too lazy to wave down someone to push your vehicle three feet so it's out of traffic. You don't need put them on when it rains, you shoulds put your lights on when it rains.  Hazard lights are good when you're pulled over, not for driving on a busy interstate at 15 miles an hour in a torrential summer storm. Hazard lights won't help you when the semi, who is driving sixty, slams into your rear, hazard lights or no. 

So go out there fellow "carros locos". Miami roads are calling. Honk, speed, cut off, curse...because we are free creatures on the roads (except on the 836 in Sweetwater around the first of the month, FHP quota time). Tickets? Who cares, there's the Ticket Clinic!  We are city of refugees....who by nature are people on the move, spirits fleeing tyranny, seeking liberty, drive Miami, drive! Ago Ergo Sum!

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.