A Peach is a Peach is a Peach

She sat in a bookstore, surrounded by millions of words that were suffocating her in the coffin of writer-for-hire, someone else’s word monkey. She thought to herself, the true value of writing lies not in words, but in the intention of the writer.

She reminded herself that some people wanted to burn books. She wanted to burn words. She could already see the flames of those words rise to the sky and disappear into the dark ether. She wanted to feel the heat of that cleansing fire and spread the ashes over the cloth of the universe.

 She longed for a world of fewer words, of short alphabets, of languages spoken without sounds, a world of kind glances, lingering caresses and simple joys.

She saw words where words were unnecessary, in gestures, sunrises, musical harmonies, rustling leaves, orgasms, the color blue, the smell of rye bread, the taste of honey and the figures of cave paintings. She saw words in many things and could describe them very well but asked herself why there was ever any obligation.



She could not, however she might try, drink water without a glass. She still had to wield a sword against letters, nouns, adverbs and figures of speech in exchange for paltry paychecks, asking herself again why there was still any obligation.

She knew what many wordmongers did not know, that the word had always been made of flesh and earth, sea and air, blind and silent energy.

She desired only words for the sake of words and nothing more. She read the braille of the heart, where words have no shape, sound or form.

The meaning makers had it all wrong. The meaning makers drowned themselves in this sea of endless words where words lost their meaning. The meaning makers were the true assassins of words. The meaning makers plundered the soul from words, laying to waste the value of words with their intention. The meaning makers sold the earth's bounty with their words and died by killing their own form of sustenance.

She closed her eyes and craved a world without adjectives where her tongue could simply have a secret affair with a peach.

She remembered a broken bank does not mean a broken spirit and with that, she took a bite of a peach.

Local: Some of Them Stay: Interview with Miami Writer Jeremy Glazer

Oops! That aint Miami!

It was a breezy afternoon this past week when I sat down for coffee on Brickell with local writer Jeremy Glazer. Rush hour was upon us and suited executives were buzzing by on the sidewalk. But I was in no hurry; my eyes were rapt on Glazer, whose stories, recently published at WLRN's Under the Sun, prompted me to secure an interview. I just knew I had to meet the man who could write so beautifully about Miami experiences.

Glazer is one of those rare Miami natives who contradict every negative stereotype about Miami. He’s handsome, charming, intelligent, cares for the community and his heart seems to be in a really good place.

Born and raised here, Glazer set off for college in Massachusetts where he studied anthropology, lived for a spell in Guatemala and pursued grad school in Philadelphia where he earned his teaching certification. Had it not been for an unfortunate situation, this prodigal son may have never returned to the magic city. Sadly, Glazer’s father fell ill, forcing him to settle here.

Once back in Miami, Glazer worked as an English teacher in several high schools, including a rough one in Liberty City, but also elite schools in upper-crusty sections of Miami-Dade. He became involved in teaching as a result of his work in community development for Coconut Grove. Social service guided him into the role of a teacher. “I think education is so vital for our society,” he said. “The classroom is an important place to be. I fell in love with it. It’s as close as I’ve ever come to a calling. I’m my best self in the classroom. It's a real contrast to who I usually am.”

But the rigors of teaching also took their toll. “It’s a thankless profession,” he explained. “Teachers were not respected and I wore myself out. I admire anyone who can stay in the classroom.”

And Glazer wasn’t too happy with forced curriculum either. “There was too much test prep. It was all about FCAT.”

So Glazer’s career segued into local politics, where he’s been working as a legislative analyst for commissioner Katy Sorenson. After elections this month, Glazer will follow Sorenson to the University of Miami, where the Institute for Excellence in Public Service will help educate elected officials about the local community.

Well into the hour of our interview, I was eager, of course, to get the dirt on Glazer’s short stories about dating.

Mismatch.com, a tale of online dating gone bad, is based on a true story. Bad, really bad -- as in getting his crotch grabbed at a Design District club by a woman he had only known for a few hours. The experience was a killjoy and spoiled online dating for him. “I only go for online dating about one month a year,” he joked. “It’s like childbirth. You easily forget how painful it is until it happens again.”

And as he’s already tried online dating in 2010, his quota has run out this year, leaving this bachelor to brave the thorny terrain of singledom in Miami without relying on a service.

Glazer has been doing the single thing for a few years now. In another life, he enjoyed a long-term relationship with a woman he met in the northeast. When I teased him about not finding love in Miami, he laughed: “Yes, I had to import that one from New York.”

Another short story, They Always Leave, is fictional but strikes a raw nerve for its realism. In a nutshell: the main character meets an interesting woman on a bus; has a four-month relationship with her; and it ends as she dashes off to to Chicago. There wasn’t enough in Miami to hold her interest here, not even the main character’s heart. The breakup happens on a bus in South Beach:

My boss wants me in Chicago. They’re scaling down in Miami. It’s just not ripe yet. And to be honest, I jumped at the chance. . . . I need to be back in a city with a real Chinatown. A city where the major cultural event of the season is not a dog Halloween parade.

On the subject of fiction versus non-fiction, Glazer noted: “emotional truth is more powerful than fact.” And it’s true – whether or not any of this actually happened to Glazer is irrelevant. I think it’s safe to say that the story resonates on an emotional level with anyone, male or female, who has dated in Miami.

Dating is challenging in any city, but Miami is particularly hard. “There are a lot of different Miamis in Miami,” Glazer observed. “It’s hard to find fellow residents. Gathering places tend to be clubs instead of open, public spaces. But what if that’s not your thing? There’s no Central Park or subway, where you are bound to see hundreds of people each day. Miami is not a participatory city in that sense. It separates people.”

No better proof of this was the condo canyon of Brickell where we were sitting – all buildings with interior lives and no pedestrian friendly plaza in sight.

Drawing from his background, Glazer looks at dating from an anthropological perspective. The process can be educational. “Dating is a window into cities,” he said. “It’s interesting to see how people feel and react.”

His favorite Miami-Dade city is Miami Beach, where he’s been living since 2002. “South Beach feels like a real city,” he explained. “All these different neighborhoods are crunched together. There’s the old Miami there, the tourists, and being able to go to the ocean in the evening helps me wash the day off after work.”

Although Glazer hasn’t had that much luck with love in recent years, he certainly has had a love affair with words. Writing wasn’t always in Glazer’s career, though he did start out young. “When I was a little kid, I liked to write anything creative,” he recalled. “My mom taught me how to type because I had terrible handwriting. My first typed story was about baseball because I was really into that at the time.”

As a teen, Glazer attended Coral Gables High School. Amy Scott, a teacher and mentor, inspired him to write. Though his career path would initially focus on teaching and public service, that inspiration evolved into the writer he is today. Glazer has written a novel called Catching Holden, which follows the lives of a high school student and teacher over a period of a week as each tries to figure out who they are while reading J.D. Salinger’s novel, The Catcher in the Rye. Currently, Glazer has an agent and is looking for a publisher.

“It’s a split narrative,” he explained. “I told myself I would write every day, and this is what came out of it. When writing is going well, it’s magic. Those are the best moments.”

Let’s hope Glazer has more of those moments. Miami deserves a great, fresh voice to document the contradictions of a city that confounds and fascinates people from all over the world. As he puts it in the short story Home: “A Fellini film of a city.”

Here's Glazer reading Mismatch.com at Lip Service at Books and Books:



Note: Coincidentally, Glazer and I went to the same high school, knew the same English teachers and several people in common, but being a few years older, I never crossed paths with him, until now. Oh and Amy Scott was one of my best friends and colleagues in graduate school. Neither Glazer nor I were aware of this when I contacted him. Such a small world Miami is ... really.

Stop Calling Me a Freakin' Blogger

Do you remember my post about being an underpaid blogger, I Don't Give Blowjobs for Free? I'm sure you do, because that post seemed to touch a raw nerve and many of you left comments. Well, it's time to examine the issue once again.

In recent weeks, a certain major big-ass media corporation has been pitching local enthusiasts from a particular field for a "freelance editor" position in a new lifestyle section of its major big-ass media website. I won't mention the name, but suffice it to say that another local blogger, some award-winning dude who likes to take lots of photos, used to work for the same company. Emphasis on used to.

A friend of mine referred to me the position, for which I am grateful. The position seemed ideal regarding the topic I would cover, as I already have my feet quite soaked in the community as well as many connections with businesses and PR firms in that industry. A five-year track record of successful "blogging" for many outlets was a major plus.

The job would've also given me the opportunity to be an editor to other contributors and in short, be in charge of an entire section with a potential readership of hundreds of thousands, if not more. Attending and reporting at events, as well as taking pictures and video, would be required. In order to do the job right, factoring in drive time, I was looking at a minimum of 20 - 30 hours of work per week.

While this would have been a time suck on Sex and the Beach and my other freelance commitments, it sounded like a great opportunity to further my presence as a well-established online Miami "expert," something I've been cultivating for donkey's ages over at fabulous Miami Beach 411. And everybody knows I'm always out and about eating my way through the magic city anyway; if I were any more active, I'd be as awesome as Soul of Miami!

But here's the deal. What a fucking sham. The pay was so piss poor, it was downright insulting, not to mention laughable. And that's when I heard the words "it's really a blogger position," which made me cringe. Ugh.

I thought about it over the weekend and then decided to walk away from the application process, which required that I prove I could put together a blog ... imagine that!

I politely told big-ass major media corporation that I was better off putting great content on my own blog rather than giving it away for peanuts to a big-ass major media corporation. In other words, you can shove that job that comes down to less than a penny a word and less than a burger flipper at McDonald's by the hour. Oh and I forgot to mention: no benefits and no compensation for time off.

So, in short, they really wanted their cake and to eat it too. They wanted the experience, social media influence and depth of professional contacts of a 43 year-old professional writer, but only while paying measly college intern compensation, on which no adult could survive. Worse than that, at 20 posts were week, the position would become a freakin' boiler room word factory, leaving no energy and creative space for all the other writing projects I'd have to take on in order to make ends meet.

Listen, I don't give a shit about the economy or the recession. Big-ass major corporations, I'm not buying it that that's the reason you're willing to treat me like an indentured servant, because I do know that YOU are selling advertising in the millions and that my little handiwork in the feudal garden is going to rake in some big bucks for your deep overlord pocket.

"Bloggers" today are better off doing a side job and putting great content on their own sites until they can muster some quality advertising or some financially beneficial partnership. Again, why give blow jobs for free?

Seriously, people. On my press trip this weekend, a well-meaning but ignorant PR person actually had the nerve to ask me "so, your blog must have some credibility, then?" after I told him that "I wasn't a blogger, but a writer who happens to use the blog platform."

After this, I've decided I'm no longer a blogger, because if I say that, people think I am some floozy piece of shit whose writing experience of over 20 years isn't worth decent compensation. And this isn't just about me; it's about all the OTHER writers out there who could've been sucked into the "glamour" of working for a major media brand.

It's no coincidence that this big-ass major media corporation uses a peacock for its brand. Confucius say: "Walk under bird and bird will poop on you."

From now on it's this: "Hello, nice to meet you. I'm a writer who uses the blog platform, and you?" I know that sounds long-winded, but you bloggers out there, those of you in the same position as I, serious writers who just happen to use this means of broadcasting your words online, we need to educate people on the differences between a fluffy blog about furry kittens and an electronic publication produced by a professional writer.

Go out and educate! And don't whore yourself out, unless Richard Branson is hiring you!

I Don't Give Blow Jobs For Free

Young Girl Writing at Her Desk by Henriette Browne

Yesterday, I spoke to undergrad students at a local college. A wonderfully talented new friend of mine, who works full time in PR and teaches on the side, asked me to stop by her class so students could test pitches on me. I very much enjoyed their fresh enthusiasm -- questions from young adults waiting for careers to bloom. I also loved telling them how I got to this point in my career by way of this blog. But in some ways, I felt like a newbie myself, as I never in a million years dreamed that I would be professing anything again on the subject of writing and communications since I left academia years ago.

Last night's experience has inspired me to sit down and pour my heart out about something that has been bugging me for a long time. It is this: I would like every writer, every communicator who is worth their weight in gold, to boycott their jobs and stop wordsmithing for a day. I am not talking about those writers with full-time paychecks. No. You know who you are. The other writers, the mistresses of the midnight oil. The little girl sitting at the desk looking over her shoulder at an uncaged bird. What would the world be like if sluts like us who are paid to write stopped writing? What does silence sound like?

You see, I am extremely frustrated by the fact that I, as well as many writers like myself, are expected to pen beautiful, well-researched and compelling prose for less than a hooker makes giving blow jobs on Biscayne Boulevard. The gift of gab, the knack of storytelling, the rhetorical turn needed to make people get off their asses and do things -- all this is in fact a talent and a practice, people -- it's a craft that should be upheld and dignified by all.

Has the age of blogging made it harder for experienced storytellers to make a living? Ironically, I think it has. I think that any asshole who can put a noun together with a verb fancies him or herself a Hemingway without any of the brain bleeding it takes for years to write great stuff without even thinking twice about it. Great writing is second nature. Great writing is a flash in the synapse before you even put your grubby fingers on the keyboard. Great writing is something that you breathe, sleep and eat. Great writing is a story you want to tell all the time, because you are the soul making that story come alive. Twenty four seven, three sixty five. You are a writer through and through.

Blogging does not make you a good writer; writing does. I have said this a million times and I will never tire of saying it until my last breath: a blog is simply an empty vessel for content and if you don't put in the time to perfect that craft, you aint a writer.

I have recently resigned from a column that I was writing for a major local newspaper -- not because I hated my beat or had a bad working relationship with my editors -- but because I could simply not justify the amount of time and work involved in producing great content for the meager financial compensation. For months, the newspaper company got great content for next to nothing. Yeah, I know, I accepted it. And yeah the economy is what is, bla bla bla ... but at the end of the day, I have to eat, people. I also have to fall asleep with a little dignity, too.

And it does break my heart, because I really love the publication and respect the people I worked with, but seriously, these days, devoted wordsmiths are probably better off monetizing their own blogs or finding other ways of making a living than depending on the byline of a newspaper.

So what if newspapers are dying? Shit still needs to written, right? Who the fuck is writing it, then? Just because writing is online doesn't make it any less valuable of a commodity!

And I am also sick and tired of nickel-and-dime negotiations with potential writing clients. Go write that fucking copy yourself. I'd rather flip burgers and I'll make more. And you, those other writers who are whoring themselves out for nothing, you make the rest of us look bad because you are giving that blow job practically for free when you know it's worth more than your pimp's fake Rolex.

I'm not sure what the answer is, folks. But I do know this -- it's a good thing I'm no longer a writing instructor -- you know, the teacher who actually teaches students who want to make a living at writing. I'd tell students to go enroll in law school, get an MBA or if they have vaginas, go the way of the MRS degree and push out a couple of puppies if that's what makes your life meaningful. For me, it has been writing and save for my beloved and the family and friends in my life, it's all I got.

And for those would be die-hard students, the ones following in the cavalry, well, welcome to our hell.

Sex and Relationships Revisited

In case you missed my first sex and relationships column in Citylink Magazine last year, I've retyped the printed column below (Citylink doesn't archive its stories online).

Writing under Manola Blablablanik as nom de plume, my stint at Citylink was brief; after only three columns, the publisher reorganized editorial made a dumb-ass decision and the topic of sex fell by the wayside. My editor assured me that I was no less adored -- the decision to toss off the topic of sex had nothing to do with me. You'd think a street-smart local rag that focuses on entertainment and makes revenue from escort ads would want black, white and sex all over! But no ... chalk it up to one of life's great mysteries.

I'm very grateful for the experience, which I thoroughly enjoyed, even though it was challenging to adapt Manola's voice to print. She had to be true to herself while addressing a different audience. This was no ordinary navel-gazing column a la Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City; I had to play journalist -- interviewing, reporting, fact-checking and so on. I also had the pleasure of working with Dan Sweeney, a funny, no-nonsense editor. Being a columnist changed the way I blog and will undoubtedly influence the course of Sex and the Beach in the future. Happily, what dizzying and amazing turns my writing career has taken!

In any case, I've been a bit burnt-out lately. I sent Manola Blablablanik, Dr. Annie Steelclit and Professor Chancleta to an undisclosed luxury health spa in Arizona a couple of weeks ago. I suspect they'll return refreshed and ready for much unabashed mischief in no time. Expect to see more street-smart reporting here in the not so distant future . . .

So in the meantime, enjoy a reprise!


Going at it like the animals
by Manola Blablablanik

A trip to Miami MetroZoo can be a learning experience – and maybe even a turn on.

It’s a cornball scene: The music rises. Man grabs woman and plants a smoldering wet one on her lips. She hesitates, but barely. Apparently furious, she steps back and slaps him. “You’re an animal,” she cries. Another crescendo and boom! The two start humping like monkeys.

For Ron Magill, that scene wouldn’t be just cornball, but the age-old replay of the birds and the bees, or more accurately, the orangutans and the chimpanzees. As a matter of fact, if apes could talk, they’d probably tell us that human sex is a real snoozer. Magill is here to speak for them. “Animals don’t have preconceived notions about sex,” he says. “If it feels right, they do it. They’re pure teachers about sex.”

As goodwill ambassador and communications director for Miami Metrozoo, Magill knows the ins and outs of sexual behavior in animals. He’s a wildlife expert with years of field research under his belt as well as a master at communicating scientific facts to regular folks like you and me. His annual Valentine’s Day Sex and the Animals show, now 18 years running, is part educational talk and part slide-show presentation with a heavy dose of slapstick. “Sex is one of the most beautiful gifts given to human beings, but you have to be responsible about it,” he explains. “Animals have much to teach us about sex.”

Magill says that, back in the day, public lectures at the zoo were a bit humdrum. Sex and the Animals aimed to educate audiences in an entertaining way while fulfilling the zoo’s need for community outreach. “I really wanted to call this Sex and the Animals,” he admits, “even though the zoo needed to maintain a wholesome family image.” He got his way.

We jaded adults think of the zoo as a place to let kids run around for a day, and while we may keep the porn channel blocked at home, we can’t always shield junior’s eyes. At the zoo, everyone’s a voyeur. “Sex takes place spontaneously and unpredictably,” Magill says. “Let’s say one day spot a crowd in front of the zebras. You know people are watching. They feel safe watching animals have sex without being stereotyped.”

After attending Sex and the Animals, I’m game for some beast porn, which will definitely spell return visits to the zoo for me. The seduction was easy: It started with a little wine, a little cheese and a show during which I laughed my ass off. The show starred Magill’s addictive enthusiasm, a bevy of naughty photographs and some larger-than-life props.

I really got in touch with the animal kingdom after the unforgettable experience of stroking a walrus penis bone, which was passed around the audience. The object gives whole new meaning to the word boner and could very well be the inspiration behind many sex toys. Approximately the size of a baseball bat, the walrus penis bone is sleek, sporting a slightly rotund tip.

Why the bone? Sex organs are designed to work quickly and efficiently. “It’s not absolutely clear why, but in some species, the male needs to be immediately ready when the female displays,” Magill explains. “In nature, penis and vagina shapes fit like pieces of a puzzle.” In other words, if you’re an enormous walrus who has to penetrate your zaftig mate, boy, does that bone give you an advantage.

Magill isn’t shy about demonstrating the wonders of animal sexuality himself. He doesn’t just describe tortoise sex; he air-humps an imaginary partner in order to explain the exquisite timing of orgasms. The male tortoise is quite a screamer, and Magill’s imitation would put a histrionic porn star to shame.

Some animals are into the titillation of porn, proving that even cute, furry mammals sometimes need a little help from their friends. In one breeding program, captive male pandas that were standoffish got their freak on after watching other pandas get down on a TV monitor. But most animals are naturally horny and don’t need technology for stimulation. “Sometimes, it’s all about quantity vs. quality,” Magill says. A male rhino will engage in intercourse for an entire hour ejaculating every two to five minutes. On the other hand, the Shaws jird, a type of rodent, will breed every 15 seconds for an hour, earning the record for frequency of sex. Don’t feed the animals Viagra, please. Do give them a tube of K-Y.

All this sex talk got me thinking about the many times I’ve referred to South Beach as a zoo. Now that I’ve received an education, every time I see a woman wearing a microminiskirt, I’ll be thinking about a chimpanzee in estrus, displaying her lovely, swollen come-hither vulva. Lesbians kissing on Lincoln Road? No problem. Female pygmy chimpanzees rub uglies when they say hello, just for pleasure. Some bimbo on the arm of a rich geezer? Well, now, that’s predictable. Those same lady chimps are also gold diggers; they’ll screw dominant males to climb the social ladder or to receive gifts like fruit.

The highlight of the show confirmed something I already knew. Even though men may appear to be the aggressors in hot pursuit of nooky, women rule the roost when it comes to sex. A married man, Magill wasn’t just speaking from his knowledge of scientific data: “Absolutely – 99 percent of the time in all invertebrates, it’s the female that ultimately dictates if, when and how many times.”

The orangutans do have something to teach us. The image of one hunky, hairy ape performing oral sex on his female partner before intercourse will forever remain etched in my mind. That’s not just sex, that’s superior service.

Originally published in print for Citylink Magazine, March 7, 2007

tags: sex animals, citylink, sex relationships, columnist