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.

10 Things I learned this summer. "A small square of capitalist heaven"

I dropped my neighbor's kid off at school today. So I guess that means it's time for a summer wrap-up. My summer was overstimulating. So here is what I've learned since June.

1. Socialism sucks. Yeah, from the weird Chinese/Cuban/NPR/Cable access programming on Cuban TV,  the ten phone calls it takes to find a decent meal in Havana, to the constant "I'm sorry we have to meet in a more discreet place because I don't want to have to explain why I'm talking to Americans." excuses. Don't even get me started about the red-tape.

2. I thought it was a "good" break-up, wrong.  Found out that an ex that I thought was a friend, was spreading a rumor that I had "ballooned" up to 350lbs. Several people in the Safety  Harbor area were surprised at my "miraculous weight loss."  Asshole. 

3. Cheap peelers work best. Yes, when peeling mangoes, cheaper is better. I peeled over 150 mangoes for the handing of over of the secret family mango chutney recipe. "You want chutney? Start peeling".

4. High School reunions are best when you maintain a constant, blood alcohol level of 0.06–0.09.

5. Your in-laws won't notice you if you have their grandson with you.  With kids around, you become about as interesting as a spinster aunt at the family reunion.

6. People think you're an asshole if you show up in a red BMW convertible. I just have to learn to accept that. To quote my brother: "you're the only beemer owner I know who's not an asshole."

7. Take toilet paper on any visit to Cuba. It's like a little piece of America wiping away the contraband meat of communism. I took a big bag of baby-wipes....sigh, a little square of capitalist heaven.

8. Cuban airplanes have escape ropes. (WTF?)

9. Don't trust airlines that only take cash and have no tail markings.

10. America is pretty great place and I have new respect for "invisible hand" of capitalism.

Oh the Cubanity!!!!(Part 7) Havana Heartbreak

When you look at a map of the Americas, right smack in the middle are two large bodies of water, the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea. In the middle of those are Cuba.  Havana is as close to the center of the Americas as you can get.  When I saw Havana for the first time, I understood its significance.  500 hundred years as the center of the giant Spanish Empire in the Americas. The imposing structures, fortresses, government buildings dot the city. Havana is not just some third world capital, it's one of the great capital cities of the world. The heartbreak is that 500 years of architecture from Colonial, Victorian, Art Moderne, Art Deco and Mid-Century Modern is all slowly crumbling to ruin. 

History stops in Havana in 1959.  From that point on technology, architecture, and culture froze.  Tens of thousands of U.S. made vehicles from 1945 to 1959 dot the highways, its a time warp. The government acts like the 1959 revolution was last Thursday. You can see that after'59 Havana as a  center of trade, culture and influence loses relevance behind the Soviet Iron Curtain.  Coincidentally, a sleepy southern resort city a few hundred miles away begins it's ascent as a major shipping, banking and center of confluence for the Americas. Fidel Castro can take a lot of credit for making Miami a global powerhouse.

I'm sure each new generation of Cubans read the tea-leaves or "caracoles" and see the hope of a brighter, freer, more prosperous tomorrow.....in Miami.  People grasp at the smallest signs that things on the island will get better on a large scale. Small things like cell phones, a Democratic administration in the U.S., less travel restrictions all add to the hope that somehow the government will open up and give Cubans the dignity and freedom they crave.

There were several instances where family members couldn't meet us at their homes because they were afraid of "being seen with Americans."  When my spouse's brother found out he had to take us to the "American" terminal he had to find a car that did not have "ministry" plates on them for fear of being reported to his superiors. There is a special terminal for flights to the U.S. The shock registered on his face when he saw that there were over 20 flights a day to Miami and New York. More flights than arrive at the domestic or international terminals combined. 

Ahh, but the beauty of Havana. The restored areas are precious. Beautiful architecture from so many eras, elegant mansions, town houses, palaces are everywhere. The Malecon and the Prado are long pedestrian walkways that are the lifeblood of the city. The nearby beaches with powdery sand and crystal clear water. Cubans are the same as in Miami, loud and boisterous and the city is alive with loud music, shouted voices and the desire by all Cubans to win the conversation.  Shy people don't have a chance in Cuba. Are they friendly? Not particularly, but either are Miamians or New Yorkers. City life is hard work, no more so than in Havana with it's shortages, red tape, lines and crowds. 

So I guess am glad I went. I accomplished what I set out to do. I met my in-laws (a non-event, because I took the grandson to them they didn't even notice me.) and it went well. I saw Cuba and got a better understanding of it as a place, which helped me to better understand my many Cuban friends, colleagues, and family.  I am reassured that my distaste for Fidel Castro and communism is not just because my government told me its bad, but because it is truly a stupid exercise in suppressing human endeavor and spirit. Finally it made me truly appreciate what we have here in America, a land without fear, which allows us to be all and anything we want to be.  

Oh the Cubanity!!! Part 6. Just a travelogue.

I guess I should tell you a bit more about my trip and some of the "highlights" once I arrived. I'll do it in chronological order so you can skip over the boring parts.

Day One: There was the whole nightmare scenario of dealing with Sky King Airlines, the four hours it to took them to check us in, weigh our bags, steal our cash (it's a cash only airline, no credit cards.) Hand out fake vouchers to top restaurants in Havana and Santiago. (Nobody in Cuba recognized the vouchers)  Maylady(pronounced my-LAD-ee) did take care of a lot, after forking out additional cash.   It was basically a training ground for dealings in Cuba.

There were several very fabulous male flight attendants who were quite shaken by the turbulent crossing. I was thinking I would die in an unmarked watery grave in an unmarked white 737. Yes, Sky King Airlines is just a white plane, no markings. It was probably bought on 36th street at one of the used car lots where "everyone drives out with a vehicle."

We arrive in Cuba only to be detained by immigration. As the only two passengers traveling on U.S. passports we were questioned why we (My son and I)were traveling on U.S. passports and not on our "real" nationalities. I was born in Central America, he in Russia. They tried to separate us, but I refused to leave him. We sat for about 45 minutes being interrogated by a very cute Cuban guy....it was the only thing that made our delay bearable.  The whole time I was thinking: this is my vacation?

We arrive at last.We were "released" to the family.  Hugs, kisses and sighs of relief that we were not sent back on the Sky King plane which had still not left for its return flight. Joy and songs and dancing that we had arrived. 

Day two: Sightseeing in Santiago. Santiago is a small Spanish colonial city on the Eastern side of Cuba. The weather is HOT. The men are HOTTER.  I would suggest to any woman who wants a man to go there. It seems there is a surplus of men, of all races (yes there is such a thing as Cuban-Chinese) who are buff, shirtless and eager to help tourists for a few CUCs (CUCs are Cuban Hard Pesos, because Soft Pesos don't get you anywhere). Lots of people dancing in the parks playing live Cuban music. Just about everywhere we went there was singing and dancing....because that's just what socialists do. 

Day three: Socialist Wedding. We went to a socialist wedding wearing our newly purchased Paul Smith shirts, not Guayaberas (See previous posts).  I liked the ceremony, it lasted all of five minutes, just a signature in a book and exchange of rings. Everyone was a cousin. Then rum, dancing, more dancing, more dancing. More rum, beer, dancing. Bad food.

Day four: Sightseeing in the Countryside. Lovely, green, green, mountains, shirtless men working in the fields being tilled with donkeys. This is the triumph of socialism?  Went to a Catholic Shrine, saw a little doll that supposedly washed up after a storm as spoke to three boys. The doll was like Barbie fabulous. It was a bit of a stretch for me. We ate at a restaurant on a lookout about 5,000 feet above a prison. You could hear the congas emanating from the prison.  

Day five: Cubana de Aviacion to Havana.  I have to mention the Cubana flight, It was a Soviet Tupolev 334. The weird thing about this flight was the fog. Apparently this model is famous in Cuba for producing fog....from the moment you board, there is a thick fog being pumped out of the air vents. At first it's just around your feet. As we headed along the taxiway the fog was at my waist. In mid flight the fog was at my neck. It was like a weird movie where all you could see were the disembodied heads of the passengers. The plane had an escape rope. (WTF?)

Tomorrow: Havana and the last installment of the Oh the Cubanity. 

Oh the Cubanity !!!!(Part 5) Meat as Crime.

I've always suspected Cubans were always easily distracted. Anything turn the heads away from the task at hand, a phone call, a smell, or more commonly another Cuban yelling at them. Which of course is quite common because Cubans only travel in groups basically yelling at each other, quite passionately.  Your true power is your ability to modulate a certain tone that will draw attention to oneself. Loudness is helpful, but easy to tune out, there has to be a forceful assertiveness needed to get your way, accented by hand gestures, standing on ones toes and when all else fails a hug, handshake or kiss.  The point is to get noticed, hence get your message across and then ultimately get your way through force of will. Clearly this force of will has filled both houses of Congress with Cuban-Americans and undoubtedly the White House someday as well.

Force of will is required for survival in the island. Those who choose to remain in Cuba spend the greater part of each day trying to get simple things done: fix a tire, get gas, get basic food.  Life is a constant struggle of searching and red tape. Cubans rely on  huge networks of friends and acquaintances to make life bearable in the island. With few consumer goods, television, computers or diversions to hold an individual's attention all that's left is yelling at each other.  Which is funny because Cubans still prefer to yell into a house or building than just texting "hey I'm outside".  Cell phones are ubiquitous like everywhere else, but the preferred method of communication is still a raised voice.  You could put Cuba on the list of "loud countries" like Italy and the Middle East. 

An uncle of my spouse said "Cuba is best country in the world, if you're rich."  Actually, anyplace is better if you're rich. My mom's wealthy husband promised her a Blackglama mink coat if she moved to Logan, Utah. All that money didn't make Logan any warmer or greener in the winter.  Money can't buy you happiness in Cuba, nor can it buy you orange juice, fresh milk, fast internet connections, onions, and countless other staples that are not in short supply, they are in no supply. It is illegal to have beef. Meat as crime? I'd like to see the Cuba CSI investigate why cows in Cuba have so many "accidents".

There are countless stories of deprivation in Cuba. The giant ruin that has become of Havana. The weird propaganda, Fidel's face on every wall, billboard, book, pamphlet, flag, window. The chronic mismanagement of everything. Why should having beef be criminal? There is small hope in the changes that Raul Castro is proposing, however, Cuba has such a long road to take  to get to the 21st century.....because it hasn't even made it through the 1960's yet. 

Oh the Cubanity !!!!(Part 4) Talk to Maylady

Any trip to Cuba by a Miamian is filled with anxiety and ambivalence. No other people have endured the amount of whacked out cold war propaganda that people of this city have. Only here does calling someone a Communist get a bigger rise than insulting someone's mother.  But I believe as a fourth generation Miamian, that you can't really know Miami, unless you go to Cuba.  You can't really understand the "lost dream" of the Cuban exile until you go there yourself.  How can I, as an Anglo, possibly understand the heartbreak,  Tia Nona's packed suitcases(for 25 years until her death), the dysthymia that affects the exile community unless I go there myself. Anyone who has spent any time here hears the stories of loss, the courage of escape and endless hope of someday returning to reclaim what might be one's birthright.  I'm going to meet my Cuban family, the one I married into, and by extension much of the pain and heartbreak that affects the exiles that live in my beloved Miami. 

But first, I need to get out of Miami.  I am traveling on Sky King Airways, which I remember as a child was some guy who flew around in a twin-engine Cessna herding cattle with Penny and Clipper. Yeah, he herded cattle in a plane, a very small one. I'm regretting remembering that show, and hoping I'm not the "cattle" that's going to be herded.  Prior to last Thursday, I had no idea that "Sky King" had grown into an international airline with daily flights herding cattle from Miami to Havana. When I get to the airport, I need to go to find Maylady, which I had to have the name repeated and spelled out several times to me. The Spanish pronunciation for Maylady is Mee-LAD-ee, which of course is obvious to anyone who speaks Cuban but not me. Maylady is a third cousin and will be handling everything. Everyone keeps saying "No preocupe Maylady cuidará de todo." So I won't worry because Maylady will take care of everything. 

There are very strict guidelines. The night before its recommended I take a Xanax "to take the edge off".  I  must show up to the airport at least four hours before the flight. I must weigh-in myself and my bags.  I must not exceed 60 pounds in weight. Last minute requests are still coming in: Baby bottles, a guitar stand, Yankees Caps and Rum. Rum? My husband has asked for an air conditioner too if possible....he hasn't felt any since last week. Friends recommend I take toilet paper and wet wipes, I asked why, "trust us" is the reply. Besides how much can toilet paper possible weigh? I am indulging a friend's recommendation to go to the "botanica" on 17th and do the following: "Ok...so Chango loves rum, Obatala prefers white doves and Ochun will accept honey and borachitos. get thee to the Botanica and pay homage. 17 ave and 17 street has a great one...this consultation is free. "

Ok, so this local boy, is going there to pay homage to Chango, Obatala Ochun, and other deities, not for my fascination with Cuba, but for my love of Miami.  Wish me luck. 

Oh the Cubanity!!! (Part 3 - Understated Sheets and Colgate)

Supposedly I am going to a "worker's paradise" a land free of commercialism, annoying ads and ubiquitous "Enjoy Coca-Cola" signs.  A pre-capitalist haven where "each gives according to his ability and receives according to his needs."  A true nanny-state which coddles the worker.  An Obamacare fantasy as imagined by Michael Moore. A place where the intrusive messages of commerce haven't created desires for styles and brands where we all know GENERIC is just as good. 

So, then why is my Cuba shopping list so brand specific?   I was told to buy no less 300 thread count sheets with an "understated design" because that's what they like in Cuba.  Don't get me started on thread count...because as a good capitalist I shoot for 600.  However what is an "understated design" and what do Cubans know about it? I mean really, what's more understated than a white sheet? Perhaps overstated means red hammer and sickles with a Che logo?  They can't buy them there so they should be happy if I give them a very nice Smurf pattern that I saw marked down at Target. Understated....really!?!

The second item on my list was Colgate toothpaste "because they don't have any toothpaste."  You know my Grandpappy brushed with baking soda during the depression and died with all his teeth.  I am not a brand loyalist when it comes to toothpaste, whatever is on sale is fine with me. I do like the smooth texture of Crest and Aqua-Fresh has a perky aftertaste.  I find the bouquet Arm & Hammer baking soda nice, but it has a granular quality.  Premium brands are nice, but a two-buck chuck is fine. The worst of course is airline toothpaste or Chinese toothpaste. So why Colgate?  I am not a fan of Colgate. Perhaps it's the red box, strong aroma or the bitter flavor....kinda like communism, so there is some logic there. 

What killed me is that they suggested I could find all these items at Valsan or Marshall's (capitalist much?). Never heard of Valsan? Well Valsan is a special wearhouse store for people going to Cuba (7 Miami locations to serve you). Stocked with all the items most in demand by those on the island.  Surveyed by the 250,000 Cuban exiles that travel to Cuba every year, Valsan stocks special suitcases, vacuum bags (for the pillows I'm taking), Colgate, brand name shoes, jewelry and every necessity for those on the island. A one stop shopping paradise for those who claim to be for the Cuban Embargo. 

The reason for this trip is for a Traditional Cuban Wedding. What do I usually wear to a Traditional Cuban wedding? A Guayabera shirt.  I was just informed that I could not wear a Guayabera to the wedding because I would be confused with a Communist Party Official.  Now my Grandfather used to shoot Communists in the banana fields of Honduras.....all he wore were Guayaberas. I was told to leave my Guayabera at home, which was purchased at La Casa De Las Guayaberas and is probably one of the most expensive shirts I own. I was also informed that Cubans don't wear shorts....fuck it...I'm not adhering to a dress code from a bunch of communists who tell me to shop at Marshall's....I'm sorry but I need to go to Nordstrom's for shopping therapy. 

Oh The Cubanity!!!!! Part 2

Well the plans for my trip to Cuba are set. Or are they? What I am learning that this is a huge scam, run in a very suspicious way.  First, it's an all cash business. The Cuban visa, the airline tickets, the processing fees are done with a wink-wink.  Any misunderstandings are not the fault of the travel agency. Since the official announcement of this trip the plans have shifted like the sandbar on Haulover Beach.  My trip started out as a ten day excursion of the island from Havana to Santiago, to five days in Santiago, to seven days with a side trip to Havana, to a five day trip with a 12 hour all night bus trip from Havana to Santiago. I think that is the first rule about trips to Cuba....all plans are subject to change. Funny, this even before we've left the U.S.

What I am learning about my trip is that there is a confluence of factors at play. First between my Husband and his brother, second between my brother-in-law and his mother-in-law and finally between the mother-in-law and a particular "viajes a Cuba" travel agency.  Apparently several conflicts have broken out between various branches of the family that "are taking care of this for us" so we could arrive in Cuba to relax, meet the family and see the sights. The woman at the travel agency told my very exasperated husband: "after this you will learn to have patience with your people again."

Word is that the family is preparing for our arrival in Santiago. The Spanish Colonial house in downtown Satiago is being fixed up, yet there are still several rooms without a roof. I am anxiously waiting for my shopping list which should weigh not one ounce over sixty pounds. I have been asked to take pillows, and I'm desperately hoping I don't have to take sixty pounds of them. Countless times I've seen the desperation at the Publix scale.  Nervous exiles with endless packed and repacked luggage get on and off the scale. Weighing their luggage, scowling that they have exceeded the limit, removing some basic item: rice cooker, heart medicine, tennis shoes, powdered milk.  One of their family will have to go without some basic necessity until the next exile goes back to the island.  I'm sure Santa goes through this every year....I mean there is only so much that goes in that sleigh or in the belly of Boeing 767. This time it will be me with sixty pounds of cotton pillows. 

Weren't You That Guy in High School? No. I wasn't....I was the gay one.

So Friday I partake in that long American tradition of going to a High School Reunion. I really don't know why I've decided to go. I mean I went to a very large high school with a graduating class of over 600 students. I wasn't much of a standout. Due to the large anonymity of the school, teachers refused to call me by my middle name, which is the name I've always gone by, "Kirk". Instead they would only go by the name on the attendance sheet, Daniel, Danny, Dan, Danny Boy, which was not a name I particularly liked. So there was pretty much an identity crisis from the start.

As a student I was not particularly distinguished either. I wasn't popular, or athletic. I didn't achieve any of the benchmarks expected of a high school student. I was a solid "C" student, which meant I could achieve passing grades with minimal effort.  I was not athletic. I was pudgy, 36 inch waist at 15, devastating. Not particularly handsome, but not too pimply.  I was called "weird" but not "gay".  I had an anonymous style, shying away from brand names (very big in the 80's) but jeans, boat shoes and pullovers were standard. So all in all I just did my best to blend in and survive. 

I didn't really accomplish much socially either. I had some close friends, quite a few crushes, but we weren't particularly popular, but we were close.  I graduated virginal in a heterosexual sense, but I had one or two opportunities....ewwww.  I graduated semi-semi virginal in a homosexual sense, but that's a tale for another day. I mean we're all semi-semi virginal in some sense aren't we? 

I went to my 10th high school reunion and I was the only gay, out of several hundred people who actually went. Why? I mean I became aware of enough of them after high school, but not one came back. Just me.  Nobody cared and one of the guys on the baseball team invited me back to his room.....with his wife...for some "fun".  Still trying to maintain my heterosexual virginity, I politely declined....but I can't say I wasn't tempted. So I guess there was one gay and a bisexual, kinky swinger guy. 

So why do we go back? Why this nostalgia? It's not cheap either.  What unresolved issues can be solved in a high school reunion?  Will it be like Peggy Sue Got Married? I mean I never married the prom king, in fact I don't even remember his name. There was no girlfriend or boyfriend to speak of. I don't have any really great memories to relive, nor have I kept up with many people from that era of my life.  With a few exceptions, would I know them if I ran into them on the street? 

In any case, I like group activities (within limits, see paragraph 4), in a beachfront hotel.  It should be interesting, I mean that pudgy, pimply, indistinguishable boy has been gone for a long time. My life has taken many interesting twists and turns and I'll be there to represent for all of the gays who were too chicken to show up. 

Next week: Oh the Cubanity!!(part 2)

Yes, I talk to the TV? Doesn't Everybody?

The other day my husband came home and asked "who's there with you, I heard voices."  

"Nobody," I replied.

"Yes, but I heard you talking to someone, who is he?" (Cuban much?)

 "In my head maybe, but I wasn't talking to someone." and there lies the problem.  I don't really "talk" in my head, I talk out loud, out loud.  Yes, I scream at the television because I know they can hear me.  I can see Chris Mathews, flinch, look at me and give me the "settle down" look. I can see Rachael Maddow roll her eyes in a "there he goes again" look.  I can see Joe Scarborough give me that, "you kooky liberals" grin when I go off on a diatribe about Republican partisanship.

You should see the arguments I have with  President Obama.  I haven't stooped to calling him names yet, but I know he's always equivocating, hemming, hawing because he can't get a word in edgewise because I'm yelling at him to make a stand, shut up and stop talking.  I know he's thinking: "I can't get in a clear thought, because Kirk is yelling at his TV again."  President Bush would just get words wrong because I was calling him names, nasty ones, and I know they hurt. I can't even watch Fox, because I doubt they could broadcast from me actually hitting them in the face with whatever I have in my hand....which is a crime and I don't want to get arrested for physical attacks through my television.

I come from a long line of men who talk to the television.   My Grandfather would actually have conniptions watching Jimmy Carter.  His face would turn red, tears would come to his eyes and then he'd wish for Richard Nixon.  He would boast that when was in Honduras, they would take reporters out to the banana fields and "shoot them."  He felt that similar policies would help America too. You could imagine his dismay when he found out that his daughter was raising liberals.

I've learned that my brother also has some long running arguments with various TV artists. Living in an all-female household, I understand he's had some run-ins with the likes of Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber and the entire E! news team.  He's also had some disagreements with some of the girls on Sixteen and Pregnant, which is a sure way he can tell his daughters about the dangers of boys.....but more importantly about the dangers of showing up that way in his home.

So to put my hubby's worries at rest, I'd just like to state that I'm not having a deep emotional conversation with a lover, I'm telling off Dr. House, because I think he's an ass.  As far as the American political establishement and the harpies we call pundits, you'd better listen to what I have to say.....because you'd rather have me ranting at the Television, than silent rage at the ballot box.

Oh the Cubanity!!! (Part 1)

Ah Miami, hot tropical city of Salsa, Santeria and all things Cuban. A city of Latino passion, exotic beauty and rabid anti-communism.  What was Miami before the Cubans?  A Cuban might ask: "what was the world before the Cubans?"  The Cuban would answer that question: "a very boring place."  As my great-grandfather was a Miamian, I may or may not disagree, however there is no denying that this town that I love so much would be quite a different place without "El sabor Cubano"(Cuban flavor).  So to better understand this city I adore so much I've agreed to go to the island of Cuba. I am also going to meet my in-laws who I've never met, despite being with my Cuban husband for the last 15 years.

I would like to say that this decision was not an easy one for many reasons.  The first time I mentioned visiting the island was about 20 years ago.  My Cuban friends simply said: "I will no longer be your friend if you go to Cuba because you will be supporting a murderous regime that took everything my family had and threatened to kill us."  It was very hard to argue with that logic. I also wanted to keep my friends. Another reason was that several stupid laws made traveling to Cuba difficult and in the Bush era legally risky, unless you were Cuban-American.  Why Cuban Americans get to go to Cuba and other Americans can't is strange to me, but some Americans get more rights than others and few in Miami seem to see any hypocrisy.  A Cuban would say: "If I go to Cuba I'm helping out my family by giving them dollars, but if you go to Cuba you're directly helping out a murderous regime that took everything from my family had  and threatened to kill us".  So I can see the distinction, however fine. I am allowed to visit China, Vietnam and Myannmar in case I really want to see "communism" close up, but not Cuba.  However, the new rules set-up by President Obama allows anyone "residing with a Cuban" to visit the island, so now I'm going with my husband, directly from Miami. 

I can't say that I'm exactly thrilled about the prospect.  Firstly, it's an expensive vacation for us because my husband is a naturalized U.S. citizen. However, the Cuban government doesn't recognize his citizenship and demands he return with a Cuban passport that costs $650. (Money that all Cubans who left after 1973 HAVE to pay to a murderous regime that took everything from their family and tried to kill them.)  It's basically a Fuck You Tax from Castro for leaving and trying to come back. Which we have paid. $650 would have bought a round trip ticket to New York and left me some cash for theater tickets or a pair of Bruno Magli slip on mocs. 

Also, it's the whole "meet the parents" scenario.  Yes, I'm finally going to meet my in-laws. I mean, I figured I dodged that bullet for a decade and a half.  In all honesty, I've never met the parents of any of my boyfriends, ever.(I'm just beginning to wonder, why? Was something wrong with me?)  I'm not even sure what the protocol might be.  Is it like "Hi Papi, nice to meet you!" or like  Hey, dude, it's cool, I've slept with your son and raised your grandson for the last 16 years."  OR do I pretend I don't speak a lick of Spanish an keep asking "donde esta la casa de Maria" and ask for chimichangas?  Not to mention my hubby hasn't had "the talk" with his parents about the whole, "I live with a guy" thing.   So can anyone say "awkward" in Spanish?  

State of the Art......or getting it in the Arsht.

The phone rings and this bubbly person starts talking. She had a nice voice, and was all excited for me because I went and saw the musical "Hair" last month.  "And since you saw Hair you must really be excited to see upcoming Broadway performances of Shrek, The Lion King and the Addams Family!" Excited, really? Shrek, The Lion King?  "I'm sure you'll want to buy season passes in the Arsht for just $168!" 

You know as a gay man, I should feel a moral obligation to go to the "theater".  I am fully aware that Julie Taymor's adaptation of the Disney musical is "art". But really, really, are we all 9 years old here?  That this  is the state of the $400 million dollar performing arts center?  Family friendly fare?  Come on, I loved Shrek....on cable, but do I want to pay $50 to go see it again on stage?  No, I'm a 43 year old gay man, I want to see beauty, originality, sexiness and something that may or may not address some of the relevance that is happening here in Miami, or America....not in the the land of Far Far Away. 

On a larger note, can't we as Americans, who perfected musical theater, do better than recycling animated movies?  Come on, now as automation slowly replaces people shouldn't we investing more in the arts and creating "content"?  Should I save my pennies see Shrek movies, see Shrek the play and go green again and see Shrek on Ice?  Thank you Disney, how many "platforms" does one franchise have? So lame. 

Miami is not a theater capital.....it is tenuously a cultural one.  Yet it does have a healthy population of novela actors, writers, musicians, show biz types. Maybe they'd like to work in theater?  Yet our performing arts center(and those across America) bases its entire multi-million dollar season on rehashed "Broadway Across America" pablum.  Maybe if they took a few pennies from that budget to support something homegrown it might make theater that is relevant to a gay 43 year old man who might want to see something that isn't intended for nine-year-olds. 

On a side note: There is a new gay-stripper bar just one block away.  The Arsht or arses?  Truthfully for $50 I get a lot more value at the stripper bar.

10 Pieces of Advice to Gay Dads

Happy Father's Day!

Ah, the joys of the newborn children and the craziness of inexperienced parents.  Alas the "gayby boom" is in full swing.  Gone are the days of the rare gay dad and undercover lesbian moms.  This Father's Day has caused me to reflect on my experience as a Gay Dad. After a 45 minute conversation with my son, I realize that all-in-all the last of my worries are through.  He will not starve. He will someday be upper-middle class or higher. He will someday, hopefully in the distant future, make me a grandpa.

That being said I wanted to share some knowledge based on the experience of being a full-time, out of the closet, gay dad. I wanted to share what I've learned. I made a list, because people seem to like my "lists".

1. People do not want to see your baby at an adult cocktail party or event. Especially other parents. There is an "adult sphere" and a "children sphere". There is a baby human sphere, and and human sphere and they shouldn't mix.  Your baby is not an accessory for others to admire. It's creepy, and I think it's disrespectful to the parents who just spent $50 - $100 so they could have a night away from kids. 

2. Create your support network. This includes family, friends, neighbors who can all take care of your child when you want to go to some "adult" event. (Did I mention that I don't want to see your kid?)

3. Keep a strict, no exception rule about bedtime. For us it was 8PM. It never deviated till he was 21.  Knowing that he was safely tucked away allowed us to relax, enjoy our evenings and even go to cocktail parties, sans child.

4. Get involved in all aspects of your kid's life. Baseball, PTA, extracurricular activities are all ways to help broaden your child's life and your own.

5. Don't EVER share any personal aspect of your life with a. another parent, b. teacher, c. coach within a 300 mile radius of your home.  You may casually mention something about your plantar warts to an acquaintance at the little league, next thing you know you're sitting alone at the PTA dinner.  The child rearing network is designed for child rearing. In such it is a major alert system for any perceived illness, weakness, or deviation from the norm.  Confess to a fellow parent that your husband is having affair....before you know it you're the object of pity at the baseball diamond, PTA meetings and Sunday school. Just keep your personal life separate from your child rearing life.

6. Other parents are NOT your friends. They are your rivals who are fighting to win the limited resources of time, energy and capital expended on children. Resources like teaching time, coaching time, field trips, awards....they want this for their kids....not for yours. Think of them more as coworkers who are fighting for that big promotion. Raising kids is not a zero sum game, there are winners and losers. 

7. Your kid does not stand out because you are gay. YOU DO!  In fact, you will be known as the "the gay dads".  Your kids' teachers may know who you are, Gay Dad, but may have no idea who your kid is. 

8. NEVER, never, never explain your relationship  to a school secretary, teacher, nurse, doctor. If they ask you who you are, you are the child's parent, end of story.  If you say something lame like "I'm Dad #2" or "the stepdad" or "I'm not the biological parent" you've just given away your power. The second you hesitate about your role in your child's life you've diminished yourself in the eyes of your child, your partner and society. If anybody asks you who you are, say confidently "I am his/her father." (in a don't fuck with me tone of voice).

9.Find the "Power Mom". This is the woman who has inherited the traits needed to herd all the other moms into action. You must appease her at all costs.  Unless you want the role of  "power mom" you will use all your gay powers of flattery, good taste, bawdy humor, cutting remarks and back stabbing to get in her favor.  She is the one who will be the one who protects your child when you are not there. She is the one who will keep the other parents from making comments. You goal is make her see your child as one of her own. Once that's accomplished, it's smooth sailing. Power moms are also known as "mother hens, lions protecting their cubs, she wolves".

10. Your kid doesn't care that you're gay. Just don't be too "gay" at sports events.

Next year.....how to convince yourself not to kill your teenager.

What Happend Miami, You Used to be So Seedy. (A trip down memory lane)

A recent Sunday drive from Coral Gables to NE 63rd street really got me thinking.....wow, this place is kinda classy.  Starting out in Coral Gables we decided to take the scenic route from the Coral Gables Congregational Church to our home. We put the roof down on the convertible and we went down Bird Rd. through the Grove to S. Miami Avenue, Brickell Ave then up Biscayne Blvd. 

Let's just jump to the Coconut Grove side of Bird Road.  I remember the first time I drove through the grove with a boyfriend he pointed out to a big live oak near a park he had sex in.  I thought "wow!" this guy had sex in a tree. He was quite proud of his accomplishment, it made being part of the mile high club seem blah by comparison.  Yet whenever I'm in the Grove I think of that and how it's gone from funky little cabins tucked away in the middle of jungle-like hammocks to mini-mansions hidden among the foliage.  I remember the the Tigertail Lounge and the theater that played Rocky Horror Show till '83. As we made our way towards S. Miami Ave I glanced up to see if there were still any hot Cuban men fornicating in the branches.

South Miami Avenue in the Grove is to me the truest part of old Miami. Lush tree-lined streets, Stately Old Spanish and Art Deco Mansions line the street. When the poincianas bloom the red blossoms make the street look like its aflame. I lived on this street for a few years. Many of my neighbors were diplomats and cocaine dealers. On the corner of 15th and South Miami Ave a South American diplomat was shot in broad daylight. It was the 80's.  Good times.

Brickell Ave, the heart of the financial district, here is where we really begin to see the new, 21st century Miami emerging.  I remember it being just a collection of banks in a row. One block away in what is now known as "Mary Brickell Village" there was a chicken farm and an old plant nursery. Old tenements filled with the poorest of the poor hung clothes out the windows.  Even in the smartest sidewalk cafe, a feral chicken could be likely to steal your food or eyeball you into intimidation. Today the tenements are gone, fancy high rise condos intertwine with spectacular office towers like the Espiritu Santo bank building.(I used to tell people that it was the bank of the Vatican).  What was once a ghost town on the weekends was bustling with walkers, runners, bikers on an early Sunday Morning. No chickens were to be seen.

Finally, Biscayne Blvd. No street has changed as much as this one.  Running through the heart of downtown to destinations north, this was once the seediest, most dangerous, outrageous street in the city. Lined with bars and adult bookstores for about five miles the street had a terrible reputation. As kid I used to play a game called "punch buggy" each time you saw a VW bug I'd punch my brother. As a teen we played "punch slutty" each time we saw a hooker....well, let's just say we were very bruised up. Today, it's on it's way to it's initial glory as Miami's "front door".  A basketball arena, Opera House, Performing Arts Center, Museum Park, new foliage and tree plantings.  Hookers still roam the Boulevard, but they are few and far between, a game of "punch slutty" would be quite boring.

Been There Done That, But I Was Prettier.

Recently I was my favorite trendy Mexican/Venezuelan (Mexizuelan?) restaurant with my hubby ordering dinner. It was funny because I was completing his sentences....as we seem to be doing more and more after 15 years together.  I said out loud to the obviously gay waiter, "see this is what happens when you spend so much time together, you complete each others' sentences."

The smart ass waiter replied, "I hope I die before I'm 40, if I don't I've got a gun and I'll kill myself."  Which was an amazingly odd comment coming from a. the help and b. somebody who seemingly could only improve with age.  Needless to say I was shocked and offended.  Firstly, because you just don't say shit like that to customers who are, obviously over 40 and secondly, in a position to leave a good tip. 

Of course this got me thinking about age, youth, masculinity and power.  I thought to myself, as I am sure many of us have, would we go back? Would we go back to who we were at 20? Even if we could retain our current knowledge, would we want to be that age again?  Would I want to go through college again, start a career, start a family.....retrain a husband? Granted some of these things were wonderful when I did them, but would I do them again?

It also got me thinking about all the gay men who never made it to 40, in this 30th anniversary of the first AIDS case.  500,000 gay men died in the 80's and 90's all of them would have gladly told that little boy that life only gets better and that its a privilege and a joy to reach this age.  There were very few men my age in my 20's just like there are very few gay men in their 50's and 60's today.  I never believed I'd live to 40, let alone be spinning around in a new BMW convertible.  

Most importantly would I trade all the accrued power of money, good credit, and experience for the power of youth and beauty?  In the worlds of gay men and  straight women, beauty is a very valuable currency. Would I trade his life for mine? (but he was skinny and pimply so maybe just a younger version of myself.)  Would I kill myself at 40?

Of course the purpose of this blog is to really to say that there is life after 40, after kids, after wrinkles and grey hair. The power of maturity surprises and shocks me .  That life gets better and richer as you know yourself.  If I see that boy again, I would say: "I've been your age, (but I was much prettier) and it sucked."

Does it hurt to smile or did I sleep with you last night?

Once I worked in an office where if I didn't say "Good Morning" when I walked in, the sassy Cuban secretary would scold me by saying in Spanish: "I didn't sleep with you last night, so say good morning."

One of the great mysteries about living in this absolutely stunning city is the indifference that people have for each other.  I want to go as far as saying "unfriendly" but I find in general if I ask for help, directions, or consideration I usually get the assistance I need.....in Spanish.  Which is fine with me, but I would imagine a non-Spanish speaker might find it demoralizing. This morning I walked through Peacock Park and greeted 5 people, not one said good morning in return. Only one half smiled and even acknowledged they had been spoken to.

So why is it so hard for Miamians to crack a smile and say good morning to a stranger?  What is it in our local character that when a smiling, happy, morning person like myself makes people want to turn away?  Is it an excessive case of "stranger danger" permeating the metropolis? Could Miamians be so self-obsessed that anyone requires a "proper introduction" before deigning acknowledgement? Or are we just a bunch of assholes? I asked several Miami "experts" about the I Can't Smile Or Say Good Morning phenomenon.

Expert #1. Jon A., Born in Miami in 1936. Resident off and on for 75 years. My Dad. Fidel Castro Theory

My Dad's theory is that because  Fidel is still alive hundreds of thousands of Miamians cannot fully reconcile themselves to living here.  Many believed and raised their children to believe that someday they would return to a paradise idealized in memory and song.  A paradise long since lost.  From his perch in Cuba, he taunts Miamians with alternating threats of Armageddon and inundation with another Mariel. The unresolved status of "exile" or "immigrant" makes people depressed and generally pissy. (similar to the Hugo Chavez syndrome in Venezuelans)

Expert #2. Alfredo . Miami resident for 15years.  I Can't Speak English Theory. My Spouse.

Alfredo's theory is based on the idea that people arrive here not being able to speak English, therefore there is a bit of shame when approached by someone who apparently does.  This embarrassment goes away, but the avoidance becomes habit forming for the rest of their lives, they're conditioned to avoid "good morning" type of people.

Expert #3. Me. Third Generation Miami  Native. Miamians Are Extremely Self-Absorbed Theory.

I feel that the people of Miami are extremely attractive and suffer from the delusion that everybody wants to sleep with them.  I feel that years of social conditioning and competition requires each person to occupy a vast amount of personal space.  People should only enter that space after extended eye contact from ten feet away. Eye contact requires a stare, a glare and a complete scan of that person's outfit, labels and all status symbols.  If, by chance, that person is worthy of acknowledgement a brief smile and a painfully mumbled "good morning" can be extracted.   Should that "good morning" be returned, you are obligated to have sex with that person. Then you never have to say Good Morning to them again.

10 Pieces of Advice to a Young Gay Man

As I venture deeper into my 40's, surprisingly I'm finding myself befriending people of all ages, both young and old. Yet in my soul there are things that I want to say to my friends who are under 29 who are really just starting out on life's wonderful journey.  I find that at this point of life they ask me for sage advice, but more often than not I am just willing to blurt it out.  Whether it's fashion tips, life lessons or just  a quick reality check I want to impart some of the things that have helped me along the way. 

1. The best piece of advice my Mother ever gave me:  buy (and pay a little extra) for classic looks.   Penny loafers, khakis, white dress shirts, a blue blazer, and a pair of Levis will go a lot farther, and get you into more interesting places than any of the latest fashions.  Remember to wear undershirts too!

2. Stop dating the person who you want to be.  If all of your boyfriends are of a similar "type", ask yourself why.  Is it because you find those qualities attractive, or because you find them lacking in yourself? 

3. Create your "real" family. Whether it's your parents, siblings, or friends(old or new) now is the time to redefine those relationships as an adult. These are the people who you will probably be sharing the rest of your life with. Tell them how you feel and set the rules on how you want to be treated. 

4. Don't forget the you're only young once, remind yourself that you will never be handsomer, healthier and more carefree than you are right now.

5. Sleep around, have fun and practice safe sex.

6. Remember there are no "official" rules for gay relationships....yet.  Feel free to test the boundaries of your relationships with love and lot's of communication.  Two men together doesn't have to look the same as a man and a woman together. 

7. As a gay man all options are open to you now, you can be a father, a stay at home parent, a CEO of a Fortune 500 company or all three.  There's no need to feel limited anymore, you can have it all......but probably not all at the same time.

8. Learn about the gay struggle.  Learn that we were once prosecuted, imprisoned, hospitalized, murdered, blackmailed, and marginalized for who we are. In many places we still are. 

9. Live in a gay ghetto for at least six months or your life, it can be very affirming, then not so much. 

10. Try to nurture friendships with non-gay people. It can be hard. When gay people meet each other, there's so much that just doesn't need to be explained, an instant comfort.  It's not always the same with people unlike ourselves, give them a chance, they will surprise you. 

Oh yeah, to the young man who asked for advice that got me thinking about all of this: relax and use a lot of lube.

Judgement Day 2011: Jesus Will See You Now.

Ok, so supposedly tomorrow the chosen will ascend into heaven and the rest of us will be left behind with the scraps that the pious ones have left behind.  Since, counter to popular opinion, Church goers tend to be wealthier, better educated and better situated than their non-church going brethren, I am sure there will nice swag left behind.   Jesus will come to each one of them at 6:00PM local time, tap them on the shoulder and say: "it's time to go to a better place."  He might even offer a cup of Kool-Aid to hurry along the process.  I mean you probably don't want to get Raptured on an empty stomach.

I've talked to my Atheist friends and they've agreed to take care of the dog should I be chosen for Rapture.  She'll have the key to the place, I've asked her to just leave everything unlocked, the bank can repossess the car and the house.  Sorry folks, the place is underwater and the new BMW convertible is a lease. (see previous blog) I just had the Saab waxed...it's paid for. 

So I'm ready for the Rapture now.  Today I had my teeth cleaned....(clean mouth, clean soul) and I cut my hair yesterday....shorter is more aerodynamic for flying.  I was told I would have to leave all my "baggage" behind, not sure if that was metaphorical or not, but a carry-on roller bag would be nice.

Last Day Plans:  going to swim, Costco(cooking for last supper) and a party.  Come on Rapture!

Nice Things

"Why can't I ever have anything nice!?!" was my Mother's favorite rant.  Either we had broken something she had or we(I) had gone through her make-up.  Whatever we had done you could feel her sense of frustration in trying to maintain a sense of self, style and status.  Invariably whatever was broken was something of personal value. 

Recently I purchased an expensive car, not my first mind you but I think the it's the first thing in my life that I bought that although I could afford it, it is completely impractical and a luxury in every sense of the word. It's a small German, red convertible.  Since I work at home it is rarely driven except for short runs to the public pool and on balmy weekend afternoons. It's the first thing I've ever bought that generates pride, shame, guilt, pleasure and panic all at the same time. 

Don't get me wrong, I love this "thing".  As an American man, it represents decades of longing and working for a vehicle that shows off years of work and education.  As a Miamian I have entered the large shallow pool of status symbols where brand names soothe the city's large population of exiles and refugees of past deprivations and indignities. As a man of a "certain age" it makes me feel virile. As a gay man it just screams "fabulous".

However, there is a downside. Unlike other vehicles I've recently owned (a string of luxury station wagons), this one seems so much more precious. Mostly because it was purchased for ego and not utility. It is like that pair of Prada loafers that you won't wear because they're "too nice."  When I see the homeless guy at the red light asking for money, I feel nothing but shame. (As a good liberal elite should) When I'm told that the brand is nothing but a status symbol, all I can think of is "yes, but the red leather interior is not available in Korean". Even worse is the disdain I feel for all the jerks who drive the same brand I do. 

I can't relax when I drive it. I clench my teeth and grip the wheel and pray I make it home without a scratch or dent.  I never worried about these things when I was loading up my European wagons full of teenagers and animals. It's like those little china tea cups my mother had locked in the china cabinet. I'm sure she shuddered at the thought of anyone actually drinking out of them.  So as I drive my topless "mid life crisis around I am worried.  Then last night the car alarm went off and all I could think was  "why can't I ever have anything nice.? Sigh.

Who Are the Iranians and What Do They Want With Me?

OK, according to my blog stats there were 13 Iranians, 64 Russians and 1 Tanzanian reading my blog.  There were 12 Chinese as well as 15 Japanese.  I just want to say to all of you: don't be shy.  I know that the life of a middle aged kook living in a glamorous city such as Miami must be fascinating.  Reading this you can learn about feral chickens, aging, taxation, and assorted ruminations by a man who spent the better part of his 30's on anti-depressants.  I am glad I can give you a small insight into why Poodles are dogs for real men and proper etiquette in dealing with middle aged gays. 

However, is it really fair that I don't know anything about you?  I've always found it weird, whether here or on Facebook that there are people who read pages and postings and never comment or leave any trace that they are interested in you at all.  Then one day you run into them at a party, airport, restraining order hearing, and they know all about your postings, the picture of you passed out on the back of a parade float and anything else you put up online.  Come on Mr. Tanzania, or the 24 Dutch people (soccer team perhaps?) tell me a little about yourselves!

Alfredo, my husband, says you are all hackers. Really?  In my heart I am hoping that there is a small group of gay middle-aged Russians, working out issues in the cold heart of Siberia, reading my blog with laughter and hope that they too will join a gay swim team someday.  I am hoping that Mr. Tanzania might have a dead cousin who needs me to put $52 million dollars in my bank account for safekeeping while the legalities are sorted out.  I'm wondering if there's a Gay-Straight alliance in Hokkaido, Japan reading my blog and belly laughing and bowing at my jokes in the way only the Japanese can do. 

I'm thinking there might be 13 Persian drag queens hiding behind hijabs thinking: "wow, I thought the chickens in Tehran were loud, I'm sure glad I don't live in West Dade."  Who are these mysterious strangers, trolling the massive internet and reading my blog?

Even if you are hackers, Chinese government bureaucrats, Iranian Jihadists, closeted gay Russians, feel free to leave a comment, a hello.  I'm here for you.....really.

Yeah, I'm from Miami, what about it?

You know I can't stand it when people knock my hometown.  I know it's not perfect, but it's perfect for me and the 2.5 million people who live here.  I recently went to a neighboring city and got a grimace from someone when I mentioned I was from Miami.  I know what he was thinking: "ewww Miami", like it was "ewww lima beans".  

Miami is beautiful and sexy.  It's one of the world's great cities, ranked 33rd in global cities according to Foreign Policy Magazine. They place us comfortably between Geneva and Bangkok. It's influence far outweighs its relative size, with just 2.5 million residents in Miami-Dade County. São Paulo, by comparison has 18 million residents and ranks 38th in global influence according to that survey.

What those numbers really tell us is what anyone who has ever slept with a Cuban in Miami already knows: that it's not all "hablando mierda" some things just have to be experienced to be understood. Miami's influence radiates far and wide in terms of culture, business and politics. I mean have you ever met anyone who has not heard of Miami?

I think of all the great cities that I've been to, New York, London, Paris, Hong Kong, San Francisco and Mexico City, they all have one thing in common: they have a sense of place.  Each exudes a confidence of identity. Paris might be the beautiful aloof girl, New York the rich, smart girl and San Francisco the quirky hippie girl wearing a sundress with no underwear, but Miami is the beautiful Latina who won't speak to you until you're formally introduced by her hot Cuban brother.  When she let's you in, Miami becomes whirlwind of salsa, Latin cuisine, Spanglish and cafecitos at 3AM. 

No, it's not the friendliest place in the world.  That doesn't stop 9.5 million people visiting every year. I'm convinced  that people who come here want to be treated bruskly by the hot 20 something hostess/model . They come to Miami to explore their masochistic fantasies and don't realize that all the "safe words" are in Spanish. So the abuse get's piled on, they go back to Kansas and tell their friends how bad the service was, and sure enough, those friends show up for the same treatment.  

You know I could go on about all the beauty here, the beaches, architecture, everglades. I could tell you that the people from each ethnic group contributes something unique to the city's makeup.  I could say that the fact that everyone does business in English but feel emotions in Spanish is what adds to it's unique character. Of course it's this and so many other things that make it so interesting, crazy, fun and exciting. 

Miami is a place where people have made something out of nothing. There was nothing here when my Great Grandfather arrived here from Alabama. Cubans arrived with little more than the few possessions they could carry in their bags, Haitians even less. Like magic, Miamians have created global success out of a swamp, a beach and an airport. It's the magic city.

It's the End of the World

Tsunamis, riots, Obamacare, earthquakes, government shut-downs, Beck leaving Fox, all indicate one thing: it's the end of the World. Which is someways is anxiety inducing and in others a relief.  Several times in the last few months I have been confronted by individuals who see all this as a sign of the "end times."   For some it's a libertarian/Christian/Gun-toting utopia for others it's a total apocalypse that extinguishes all life.  

The "survivalist, NRA, Christian" types are very pleased with the idea of anarchy and chaos...because they will have guns and food hoarded so they will be able to do "God's Will" at the point of a gun. They will live high on the hog in their bunkers full of Velveeta, beef jerky and Twinkies and those of us who haven't seen the light and accepted JC as our personal savior will whither and starve. The world of medicare, interstate commerce, and NPR will devolve and whither. Only the righteous will survive in small pockets worshiping god and guns.  Sadly for these folks, their vision of apocalypse is a slow boring one, with progressive degradation over let's say 3 to 5 years. These are people who think Rome collapsed in 20 to 30 minutes and forget that Byzantium lasted for another 1000 years after the collapse of Rome. Who's to say, Mexico or Canada may last at least a few more decades after the "end of American Civilizaiton".  The "sack of Washington" may very well be done by angry Mexicans.  

The second group of "apocolyptians" are the cosmic types. The world will end in a puff of smoke sometime before Christmas and it'll be quick and painless.  I find this vision is a great one, because nothing can or needs to be done.  Basically you can just lay back, smoke pot, not pay your bills and nothing you do will matter. I mean if there's no future, why not post a sex video of yourself on the internet, it's not like you'll live long enough to regret it.  The two twenty-somethings who believe and told me this theory smoke a lot of pot and live at home and don't work.   Apocalyptic visions justifying upper-middle class ennui, that's rich. 

What's funny is both groups think I'm silly.  Living my little life, trying to make people laugh, earning my little paychecks. I mean why would I do matter? It's all going to end anyway.  I was asked: "what happens if the world ends the day after you send in your mortgage payment?" (That's funny coming from a stoner in his parent's basement). Another asked me: "if I had made good with Jesus and was I prepared for the end days?" Which was ironic because this was a client starting a new business. In the back of my head I could hear Cristy Lane singing One Day At A Time over the buzzing.

Does it really matter if the world is going to end?  I mean if you want to withdraw and live in a cave in the Idaho woods or in a man cave in the parents garage you're really saying you don't like the idea of the world at all.  Honestly I don't care. You can't change the world by waiting for it to end or hoping that it does, or worse, trying to speed up its demise.  Besides the world ends for all of us at some point doesn't it? Change the world by living in it, and be the best you know how to be......One Day at a Time....lalalala

I am a Man

Yes, I will beat my chest and jump up and down. I will revel in my manliness, I will scratch my privates and fart in public and not apologize for it. I will grab my remote control and not let go unless death or cable interruptions force me to put it down. I race cars at the stop light and revel in my ability to pick up something heavy.

Yes I am a man, not a boy, not a girl. I am a man and I enjoy manly things like meat, pizza and sex. I like to burp. I like to look at a beautiful body. I am a man. I am 43: I am a GROWN man. I don't aspire to be 20 or 32 or 38. I don't want to be pretty, or young. I don't regret my youth nor do I pine for it. I stay in shape because it's good for me, not because I'm competing with, or for, a 20 something. I enjoy being a man. I love my penis.

I have worked for continually for 25 years, I have earned a degree. I have raised a son. I have loved. I have been married. I have watched friends die. I have fought for my right to exist as a whole person. I am a man. I have been a coward. I have been scared. I have laid down and prayed for death. I have been amazed at my own survival. I have been surprised by my ability to thrive despite all the odds.

I am a gay man. I am not less or more than any of my brothers. I may like "womanly" things but I've paid a price for that, and come out happier because of it. We are not "boys". We are not pets. We are not part of a "collection". You might think it's cute or shallow that we take care of ourselves, worship beautiful things like art and fashion. We're still men. We still scratch our balls.

Our relationships don't always look the same as straight men, but that doesn't mean they're not as deep or as loving or as serious. They work for us because we're men. They may not last as long, because we're men. It doesn't mean that gay relationships are any less serious, or intense as straight ones.

So don't call us boys, girlie-men, or add diminutives to our names. It's not cute, it's patronizing. I've earned my manhood, just like any other 40 year old male. We Gays are men, just like your father, brothers and sons. You might not like it, but respect it. I am a man plain and simple.

While the Cat's Away

My hubby has a new job the requires him to travel about six days a week. So I've begun to notice subtle changes in my behavior. I'm seeing new and old habits slowly emerge as I spend more and more time by myself without the companionship of my husband of 15 years.

Before I get into these disturbing changes I would like to point out that for the last few years we've both worked at home. So throughout the day him and my dog have been my constant companions. It's worked out very well for us. Although I picked him for his intellect and sweet demeanor, I think one of the reasons I stay with him because he's the least annoying person on the planet. He's quiet, hardworking and respectful, doesn't waste words and generally respects personal space and has good manners. He only farts in private. I think the last time I heard him break wind was 10 years ago. How could you not love a man like that?

At first when his travel began, I tried to pretend he was around, and kept up the habits I normally do as a couple. I do my morning walks, pick up after myself, make a fancy lunch and dinner and watch the programs the we would watch together on TV. Generally just thinking that although he's in Montevideo or Moscow, in my heart he's in the next room doing whatever he does for his Russian software company that sends him around the world.

Little by little that pretense has gone by the wayside. More and more I find myself doing things that I did before I was married. I've begun to eat over sink again. I know that sounds strange, but why take out a plate that has to be washed? A sandwich tastes just as good eaten over the sink. No dishes or napkins needed and I can wash my hands all at once. No muss on fuss.

I've also noticed my sleep patterns have changed. No more in bed at 11 to get up at 7. Now I find myself in bed at 1AM up at 8 and a nap after work before dinner. Could this be my true sleep pattern? Or do I really like watching infomertials, then reading a good book till my eyes close.

I'm finding I like to clean the house at 11PM, I guess in case I "die before I wake." I don't want anyone to see that the peanut butter is on the counter and that there are dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. I've also found that ants come out at night. (Which I had forgotten since somebody else normally cleans the kitchen.)

I think the most disturbing is my radical change in music. Lately I've gravitated back to classic rock instead the usual disco/pop/80's music I've spent the last 15 years listening to. Led Zeppelin, Rush, Blue Oyster Cult, Rolling Stones.....why did I let you guys go? Lady Gaga what was I thinking? I was listening to the Stones' "Devil" thinking damn, this is some good shit. Which is what used say after inhaling....a habit I haven't returned to, but if I did, who would be around to care?

This extensive traveling is hard on a relationship. For me, who's at home the question is: how do I move forward? Do I just put my life on hold until the hubby comes home? Do I go out and do things with friends but feel guilty for not being able to share that part of my life with him because he's gone. Do I hold off on important decisions till Friday night? Should I start eating off plates again?

So many questions.....