Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Blow Me [updated]

manola sex and the beach coconuts

[12:30 PM]

Ah the life of a single woman on Miami Beach! If there's one thing I can count on, it's some jerk named Ernesto swooping into town today ready to knock the coconuts off my palm tree!

I live on the one block that loses power first and gets it back last. So if you don't hear from me in a few days, it's because I'm busy trying to make an internet router out of coconut shells and twine.

Oh, that reminds me! My flashlights are working just fine, but in the absence of a hurricane boyfriend, I still need some batteries!

[2:15 PM]

While standing in line waiting to purchase some last minute supplies, I was stuck right next to the feminine hygiene products, which led me to the following profound conclusion:

A hurricane is like menstruation. When it comes, it's really annoying. The rest of the time, you go into denial and forget it happens.

get your feet wet

Our friend Rick from Stuck on the Palmetto has purchased a generator so he will be riding out the storm in comfort. Stop by for Ernesto-related news coverage!

Alesh from Critical Miami makes a mean hummus, worth trying under any weather conditions!

Monday, August 28, 2006

Oh! Me So Horny!

Don't Marry a Career Woman Forbes Cartoon Sex and the Beach

Recently, Michael Noer of Forbes Magazine ejaculated an emmision article warning men not to marry career women. The article was retracted, but not completely forgotten, in what could've been a cowering common gesture of editorial interruptus. Wisely, after wiping the sticky jizz of his keyboard with Windex -- really, Windex works wonders! -- the piece was reinserted with a counterpoint from his colleague, Michelle Corcoran.

Manola Blablablanik responds to this intellectual frisson with a tender missive to Michael Noer, not delicately mincing her words as usual, but slicing them thick with a machete and frying them in garlic!

Dear Sir,

Just because you feel intimidated by a woman who has the potential to out do you in everything you held sacred as a testicle-carrying member of the human race, doesn't mean you aren't worthy of love. Yes, love. I'm talking tough love, baby. Let-me-get-all-medieval-on-you love, baby. I mean, just because you barely hung on to your fragile macho identity until the little itsy-bitsy spider that chewed on your ego spit it out into oblivion -- SPLAT! -- let me tell you that another one of your kind, Sir Luther Campbell -- that bastion defender of women's rights -- was being "nice" with ME SO HORNY until you started getting "nasty" with ME SO GINY.

I don't care if you write for Forbes. Know what? Forbes, Shmorbes. MY BIG FAT CUBAN ASS! What did you expect out of life? Weekends a la Eyes Wide Shut? Kids safe at home while you engaged in some secret society ritual, fucking sluts trapped in a mafia prostitute ring? Did you dream about tennis with the neighbors followed by port and cigars with high-falutin' perverts who think all women should be chained down to the sofa provided they serve their pussies and the breakfast oatmeal warm while kissing your proverbial ass with "... oh, me so horny ... oh, oh ... oh so horny ... oh me so horny ... me love you long time ... ?"

To be fair, I know the tables have turned far. Women with balls are only as good as their hearts and if they're not in touch with their hearts they are no better than you, testosterone power-weilding junkie!

I, Manola Blablablanik, oracle of South Beach, know all too well. Some women use their heels simply for walking and some puncture aorta and ventricles for amusement. But not all women are of the latter kind. Some women do have it all -- brain, heart and soul. You sir, clearly haven't met the fair, brainy and well-shod maiden to melt your heart into a sweet puddle of love. So be it and good riddance.

And what of men? Some men poke and prod until there is nothing left on the other side of the bed but a leaking sack of silicon!

So play fair in the game of love-cum-war, oh soldier! Yeah, get off your fucking high priest man pedestal and put your penis where your mouth is, you spineless worm! You millenary misogynist!

Want love? You gotta give it.

I hope you're not looking for tail, because with this deeply humanistic approach you've taken to the topic of coupling, the only tail you're going to chase is your own!


Manola Blablablanik

partner in crime

Tipped by the utterly lovely, keenly observant author of Back in Skinny Jeans. Who else in the world gives a voice to ovaries? Ovaries with balls, even?

at least this asshole tells it like it is

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Breaking Condom News! Oops Pill Available!

Are you screwing around? Afraid of a tragic sperm-spill? Well, I have good news! After three-years of playing russian roulette with the fate of people who have intercourse in this country, the FDA (Fuck a Dick Administration) has finally approved non-prescription sales of Plan B pill!

For those of you who never have to worry about hormones, let's review: Plan B is basically a whopping dose of birth control in two pills taken every 12 hours. In the animal kingdom, this dosage schedule is equivalent to giving a chipmunk the same amount of hormones that would be effective in a full-grown elephant.

When taken within 72 hours of "the accident," Plan B can prevent those little guys from squishing and squirming their way into the egg. How? The egg plays hard to get. She won't come out and play.

This, I believe, is poetic justice, especially if you've just had sex with an asshole whose presence in your life you already regret!

Non-prescription pills should be available to us horny babes by the end of the year; however, it's OTC with a BTC catch. The FDA requires proof of age and a prescription for kids under 18 years of age who are doing the deed.

According to Dick Waad, leader of the Sex is Unnatural, Sex is Bad conservative lobby, this makes sense: "We want to prevent abortions and out of wedlock pregnancies in our youth. By forcing young women under 18 to wait for a doctor to actually call in a prescription, whom she may never call out of fear and shame, we are increasing her chances of pregnancy. We know that even using the letter s, e and x can lead young men and women into riotous, orgiastic states of sexual frenzy, so we have banned these letters from the alphabet indefinitely. Clearly, this will make the pill unnecessary and we see no reason why older, responsible women who practice safe sex should benefit from its availability."

Nonetheless, the current approval represents a good start toward making this pill more widely available to women of all ages who are engaging in intercourse.

What does this new development mean for sexually active women?

Well, if you are sexually active, take a pre-emptive strike. If your crappy condom breaks (you ARE using condoms, right?) go to the pharmacy as soon as this pill is available and keep it with you at all times, BEFORE the accident. Why "morning after" pill? Are you kidding me? How about right after you both look at each other in utter shock and scream OH MY GOD to high heaven? Why wait for the store to open? Why waste precious minutes driving to the store? Why add to your anxiety? As is, until you start bleeding, you're going to be a raging, ticking time bomb!

Monday, August 21, 2006

Pour Me Some Whine

But it's true! Have you ever tried swimming in the North Pacific?

hugh macleod south beach cartoon

shameless plug

The Pinot Grigio is good!

Ass Got Your Thong?

miami south beach thong

"Dear Manola 180,

Am I crazy or do thongs really suck?

Yours truly,

Miss Tomkat Frankencrack"

Dear Miss Tomkat Frankencrack,

No, you are not crazy. As a matter of fact, many women are ashamed to admit that they secretly hate thongs when the entire world seems to think that wearing fabric up your butt crack is comfortable, hygienic and becoming. So I thank you for your candid admission and hope that more women will be as courageous!


We at Manola 180 like to look at all issues from all backsides. First, let's investigate the advantages of wearing thongs, if any.

Unless you are wearing a thong under tight hoochie mama clothes, a thong does have the advantage of preventing the appearance of unsightly panty lines.

In addition, when worn as seductive apparel in the boudoir, a thong may be visually appealing to the eye of the beholder, as the undergarment frames the cheeks and reveals the natural breadth of the buttocks. We at Manola 180 always encourage enjoyment of a healthy sex life and so if you get off on covering your nipples with Home Depot spackle (or whatever) in the privacy of your own boudoir, GO CRAZY!


However, the day to day disadvantages of thongs are many. To begin with, the constant abrasion of fabric against a tight, moist area of the body can produce a mild, itchy rash, which, while benign, is extremely annoying. It's ok for men to fondle their testicles in public while they spit huge gobs of mucous lodged in their tracheas -- nay, it's not only OK, but they can be proud and ejaculate a noisy load in public EW YUCK ... SPLAT! -- and yet, it is most unbecoming for a woman to scratch her ass in public. This is especially true if you are blessed with a fullsome rear and you live in Miami Beach, where the usual weather forecast is SWEATY.

Beware: if any woman from South Beach ever tells you she has never experienced such discomfort after wearing a thong for an extended period of time, you can be sure that she has powdered her ass with cocaine, that her nerve endings are comfortably numb and that she has never left the comfort of her South Beach hotel/condo suite for more than five minutes during the months March-November.


Low riders have also joined thongs in the ranks of fashion crimes against womanity. Now that low riders seem to be a staple fashion item, both the fashion and moral police have had to resign themselves to the public exposure of butt cracks worldwide. Did you know that every .36 seconds, some woman, somewhere around the world, is taking a seat and revealing her ass to complete strangers? The rate of crack exposure is alarming and increasing daily!


So alarming, in fact that -- The Fed, which is usually in the business of determining interest rates -- has recently released a study that shows, in no uncertain terms, how thongs have a detrimental effect on the economy. Do the math: even though women are mooning the world every .36 seconds, women are also spending an estimated additional 10 to 15 minutes picking the right matching thong for all the world to see! (This study does not even consider the amount of time spent running into barren alley ways in South Beach to scratch your ass.)

Cumulatively, this means that women are spending more time getting dressed, which translates into millions of consumer hours lost to dressing instead of shopping, boozing and whoring -- all activities that contribute to a healthy economy -- and which our heads of state and political leaders do all the time, see?


Our field reporter, Christiane Iamsure, recently interviewed Condoleeza Couscous on the subject of thongs in the White House:

Christiane Iamsure: "Condoleeza, you may be part of the current administration and we may not all agree with your political views, but you are one classy, smart-ass and talented lady. Do you wear thongs under your Chanel suit?"

Condoleeza Couscous: "Christiane, what I wear under my Chanel suit is my own business. I may work for Bush, but he knows to stay out of mine."

And that's just it, Miss Tomkat Frankencrack, the whole point of underwear is that it's UNDER your clothes! In days of yore, you could wear whatever the fuck you wanted under your Gloria Vanderbilt jeans! Remember when men and women were less likely to share their privates in public, and we could gauge true intimacy and comfort in a relationship? Remember that archetypal commercial of someone's Stepford mother, who laughed at the skidmarks on her husband's Fruit of the Looms as she did the laundry?

Ah, but in an unfair example of gender discrimination, no one -- absolutely no one -- has ever talked about women and shit. I'm serious. I went to graduate school at the University of Miami and got a Masters of Ass degree, so I know everything, trust me. I researched this topic fervently for my thesis: Why Men in the Middle Ages Thought Women Were Shit and How This Has Affected Us to This Day. I scoured every nook and cranny of literary criticism and discovered nothing but a veritable lacunae of denial!

Do you know why? All those dead white authors wrote about women as the virgin and the whore, but NEVER as the bitch who wore poop-stained thongs. Yeah, women were the cause of death, war, famine, disease, pestilence, moral degeneration and all that nonsense, but women were never equated with shit. They were just treated like that.


As we have seen, historically, no medieval scribe ever cracked up about shit stains on the business end of a thong, which brings us to the yet another disadvantage of wearing thongs: a health crisis!

In a grand stroke of irony, women who wear thongs who are also famous and are constantly resorting to colonics and shit tea and other healthy lifestyle practices to look like a fucking ironboard with attached melons from the groin up, have to time their bowel movements according to their wardrobes.

We may not have passed high school calculus, but do the math: if women are sitting down every .36 seconds, and spending approximately 10-15 minutes deciding on a matching thong, when, exactly, are they taking a dump? Remember! These are women who can multi-snort but not multi-dump!

And once the decision has been made, you will NEVER choose a dump over fashion. NO! Unless you are carrying around a portable hose with the pressure of a fire hydrant to properly wash your ass, you will be walking around with soft, temporary dingleberries, no matter how much toilet paper and baby wipes you use to clean your precious tooshie.

DISCLAIMER: if you are a heterosexual man and completely horrified by the fact that your perfect, idolized masturbatory model might sometimes stink like a sewer rather than the ink from a freshly printed Playboy, read on!


Many women who wear low riders and thongs -- some of whom may also powder their asses with cocaine -- thereby suffer from a condition known as Baby Bump. According to our medical expert, Doctor Suck MyGupta, Baby Bump is not a sign of pregnancy in celebrities with broomstick bodies, but rather the cause of the philosophical dilemma between having a bowel movement and thereby relieving intestinal bloating, but also having to walk around with shit stuck to your butt floss all day long, or -- conversely -- holding on to shit thereby increasing the level of noxious gas inside their bodies, causing a visible ballooning effect under the belly button.

"Manola, this is mainly a psycho-geographical disorder," explains the handsome Indian MD. "You know how the sun is always shining in Malibu? Well. Look closely. When you hear Possom Hilton answer a question about her new CD with some asinine sub-enthusiastic response, it's because she'd really like to fart so hard that she would blow the entire city of Los Angeles to smithereens. Governer Schwarzenegger blames it all on Mexicans and beans, but the truth is he should be more concerned about all these celebrities about to burst like a nuclear blast, rather than fret over immigrants or the San Andreas Fault that runs through California."


So, Miss Tomkat Frankencrack, here is what I suggest, until further notice. Wear cotton bikini briefs in Miami's subtropical climate. But if you insist on wearing thongs, chew on this: if the whole point of underwear is to protect your clothing from your excretions -- let's call an excretion and excretion; it's no longer a case of modesty -- then why bother wearing a thong at all? If you're going to show your ass, do it proudly! Take a shit and still show your ass!

On the other ass, if you suspect that someone is pressuring you into thinking that wearing a thong is a good idea, please contact the Department of Homeland Security. We don't need more explosive liquids onboard national flights!

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Ass Goiter

"Dear Manola 180,

I will be traveling to Miami Beach soon but I heard there is a condition called Ass Goiter going around. What the fuck is it and is it contagious?"

Cheeks McGuire"

Dear Cheeks McGuire,

According to our medical expert Doctor Suck MyGupta, Ass Goiter is the unfortunate condition of being thin yet having a droopy ass. A droopy ass is one that is defined, according to the DSMAD (Diagonistic and Statistical Manual of Ass Disorders) as "having butt cheeks that, when not supported by artificial devices, hang below the fold in between the buttocks and the thighs."

Ass Goiter is easy to detect and does not require a medical specialist to diagnose. Stand in front of a mirror wearing boy shorts and leopard print go-go boots. Lift your arms straight above your head. If you see a mass of flesh protuding significantly below your groin, you have most likely developed the condition. See illustration below.

Paris Hilton Ass Goiter

Ass Goiter is neither contagious nor endemic to subtropical climates. The incidence of cases tends to be higher in blonde celebrities, but evidence of this is only supported by the fact they flash their twats and butt cracks to the camera as often as they do their pearly whites.

While unslightly, Ass Goiter does not produce any symptoms or cause harm to the body. If you suspect you have Ass Goiter and it affects your self-esteem, please contact your local Ass Disorders support group.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Only in Miami: Local Rag Gives Free Boob Job!

BREAKING NEWS! The Miami New Times has just announced a tasteless promotional shtick to give one lucky girl the one must-have Miami accessory: FAKE TITS!

New Times Breast Augmentation Contest

Come, on. You know you want 'em. You know you want to go under the knife for a pair of goop-filled freezer bags! You know that if you only had bigger, rounder, stiffer knockers, you'd be automatically catapulted into the fabulous lifestyle of vapid women!

What are you waiting for? Besides, aren't you sick of using the newspaper to stuff your bra and wipe your ass?

Heart Connection

miami blogger meeting

Yesterday, I was blessed with the opportunity to meet many South Florida bloggers in flesh and blood; I emphasize flesh and blood, because until now, they had been words and images on a two-dimensional screen. The screen isn't just the monitor on my desk, but the blog that expresses a distinct and clear personality.

Such is the power of the medium that an entire universe -- drawn together and circumscribed by the signature of its author -- can come alive for us in the most liberating form of an electronic publishing medium known as a blog.

Like the water coursing under the surface of a tranquil stream, the process of acquaintance has only begun: a blog is only ripples on the surface of the living heart that beats beneath.

Even the most honest of bloggers do hide behind the veil (yours truly) ... but the medium can't possibly capture who we are; it can only reflect that passion that moves our hearts.

But we try. It's the best we can do. Sometimes we don't even understand when our own hearts skip a beat and yet the words flow. Sometimes, the words flow and we hit a wall.

It's the nature of the beast -- the beast we can't live without -- the desire to share who we are. There's a bit of love in that, I assure you. Writing is and always will be an act of love, even if you disguise it with other momentum.

I came to the conclusion that each and everyone of us who met yesterday -- so beautifully genuine and creative -- had one thing in common: passion. A passion for one or many subjects that finds expression online and hopefully in many other aspects of our lives.

You own this passion!

So ... do me a favor: just as the caged bird sings, own this passion and let your heart sing, if only for selfish reasons. I want to read you for days to come.

previously elated

Oh ... the wonder of it all ... not long ago I had dinner with sunshine!

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Got Ennui?

All the partying, drinking, sunbathing, shopping, flirting and countless other gerunds we are too decent to mention here got you down?


miami beach 411 cartoon on sex and the beach

shameless plug

Whether you are a local, visitor or debauch celeb seasonal resident, Miami Beach 411 has all the answers!

... oh, I'm sorry, were you looking for a particularly probing sort of sex toy?

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

An Accidental Foam Party

miami beach foam party

God Mel Gibson Damn It!

Ya know, you're like ready to go to bed on a typical, hum drum (yawn!) school night, tired as shit, just tidying up a bit, wearing your feather boa, a see-through chiffon robe and those cheap Manolo Blahnik imitation Made-In-China plastic shoes you brought at that ho-bag $19.99 store on the corner of Washington Avenue and 16th street.

Yes, business as usual.

Not a gator is stirring but the dildo is warming up nicely bedside in its velvet case, batteries charging and -- SUDDENLY -- your fucking dishwasher decides to have a QUOTE UNQUOTE moment.

Yes, your fucking QUOTE UNQUOTE dishwasher -- for the second time EVER since you've been abusing it on a nearly bi-weekly basis -- decides to spew forth copious weird suds.

What are you trying to tell me, dishwasher? Yes, what is it exactly that you are trying to tell me, dishwasher?

First of all, I have fallen on my ass so many times by now trying to negotiate all this foam that the battle wounds may seriously jeopardize my career as PREMIER CUBAN ASS.

havana ass

Laugh, dishwasher. Yes, laugh. I hear your cynical gaffaw echoing in the distance, like peals of thunder on a Miami summer afternoon. Ha! But I am going to stare you down! Yes, I am going to stare your slippery egg yolk washed meringue self down with Edward James Olmos eyes! Ha! What, you think I'm Possum Hilton, showing off ass goiter? I don't think so. This is one fine undefeatable, indefatigable Cuban ass! Masa limpia y de primera!

But what are you really trying to tell me, dishwasher? Why are you throwing slippery foam at me?

If this moment were a high school Beatles/Pink Floyd/Rocky Horror/Led Zeppelin/Ramones/Sex Pistols (whew, slow down, filly!) moment, would you be the sperm telling me my biological clock is ticking or the hypoallergenic can of spermicide/hairspray telling me I'm too old to have babies but that my hair could use a little spritz?

Alas, I've had enough foam to last me a lifetime. Anyone for a slice of Manola foam cake or -- worst case scenario -- a bit of Havana Ass?

celebrate anything you want

And you better celebrate whatever that is what you want!

Monday, August 07, 2006

Project Bumway

From skid row to fashion show, the road to success is just a stitch away!

project bumway

#1. After many frustrating and unsuccessful attempts to become an "artiste" in various disciplines, pilfer your life away and move to America's favorite homeless destination: South Beach.

#2. Sleep in the alley behind the artist's colony.

#3. Wake up in the middle of the night to a screaming jealous boyfriend who throws his lover's art supplies out the window. Grab supplies and run.

#4. While you beg for charity, spend your spare time doodling garments and spying on publishing mogul who owns local high profile lifestyle/fashion magazine and who can't possibly afford another scandal after one of his night club scene reporters forced Kate Moss to eat an olive.

#5. With meager donations you've amassed, buy disposable camera and take snapshots of publishing mogul fooling around with his gay lover.

#6. Wash up at the public beach shower and get a free makeover at the department store cosmetics counter.

#7. Wait patiently at Starbuck's for publishing mogul come by for his afternoon coffee.

#8. As soon as he appears, discreetly show him photographs and threaten to tell his wife that his pee-pee is roaming about on the other side.

#9. Unless of course, he uses the influence of his wife -- who just happens to be a socialite who invests in the plastic surgery and haute couture industries -- to hook you up with your very own fashion line.

#10. Yes, it's that easy. After only just ten easy steps, move back to New York and go from rags to riches!

project bumway

[originally published before Manola deleted her blog]

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Holy Irish Cheddar! Colin Farrell Grilled Cheese Apparition!

Colin Farrell grilled cheese apparition

Manola News, Miami Beach, August 2, 2006 -- Manola Blablablanik was pressing down a grilled cheese sandwich with a spatula when a clean-shaven Colin Farrell appeared on the bread!

"It was a spiritual experience," declared the popular blogger. "I mean I hadn't even been thinking about his penis for like, the last ten minutes, and then I swear, he spoke to me with those wistful Irish eyes: 'Manola, my flesh is not worthy!'"

Dr. Annie Steelclit, Manola's therapist, agrees that it's time for Manola to move on and reintroduce dick into her life. "She has recovered quite well from Mr. Thinks He's Huge," the doctor affirms. "Her previous Rorschach test results spoke volumes about her denial and fear of real honest to goodness wanker. Every single ink blot had to do with Colin Farrell's penis. But lately, she just says 'ink blot' followed by a yawn."

The eminent psychologist is proud of Manola's progress. "An obsession with Colin Farrell's penis, while initially healthy, has now become as old as the Ten Commandments. Besides, now that Miami Vice has hit the big screen, Mr. Farrell is already so yesterday. Even Manola knows that there's no point to spanking a dead monkey."

In a tear-jerking confession, Manola relinquishes Colin Farrell for good.

But not one to waste a good holy apparition, Manola is auctioning off the grilled cheese sandwich on Ebay! All proceeds will benefit the Manola Blablablanik Center for Recovery from Relationships with Real and Imaginary Pricks. Bid now!

colin farrell grilled cheese apparition auction on ebay

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

The Devil Wears Nada

Ocean Ho Magazine Skid Row Fashion Issue

Dear Manola 180,

I recently moved to South Beach and would like to know where I can file a lawsuit against life. I thought that I would instantly find a sugar daddy and look like a shine-free, hair-free, sweat-free, completely airbrushed model. I thought that I would prance about happily in my Manolo Blahniks, smelling like rose water and refreshed as if it were the first day of spring in Iceland, smiling like I just had a lobotomy in feels like 100 weather on Lincoln Road, carrying copious shopping bags from Bebe filled with ridiculously costly and barely-there outfits, which I purchased using sugar daddy's credit card, of course.

Oh ... I almost forgot to mention. My life would not only be a feel-good montage from a Flimsy Hohan movie, but also accompanied by the latest top ten hip hop hits!

Instead -- I'll be damned! -- I perspire and stink like a fucking fishmonger no sooner do I step out my door! And Manola, not only do I shine from every pore in my body, I contribute to global warming! And those folds of flesh in my voluptuous body get all irritated and itchy, like I caught a case of crabs just from batting my eyelashes at the Starbuck's barista.

Ugh. Let's not even talk about chronic camel toe, known in the medical community as doublebumpitis. I can't help it. No matter what I wear, there it is: my big fat hairy hot itchy twat just announcing its presence to the world every chance it gets, just like Possum Hilton!

But no way in hell I'm going back to the salon to have some strange bushwhacker pour hot wax all over my pussy just so that my big fat twat doesn't look a bushel of pot tossed over some drug dealer's speedboat! Like those gay guys at the beach really care about a bushy mound of venus! Like an errant strand of hair is going to be a pubic menace!

And -- OMG -- you'd think that all this sweating would eliminate my cellulite, but NO! Why can't those folks at Miami Ink open a new shop: MIAMI AIRBRUSH? It would be so great to walk in and get your ass covered by paint, especially right before Backdoor Bamby parties!

Please tell me what I need to do, Manola! Should I apply for unemployment? What with my low success rate at drink pimping at The Delanus Hotel, I'm practically in skid row, having no other recourse but to seduce the 4 AM crowd at Club Douche, which isn't exactly sportsman-like, not to mention unprofitable, ya know?

Oh! Woe is me! And here's the worst of it -- please don't have a heart attack, because I know this is going to shock you: I am so down and out, that I had to buy flip flops at Walgreens!

Manola, if I don't look like one of those models on Ocean Drive Magazine, I will never find a man, his bank account and therefore my human destiny, purpose and fulfillment!

Please help!

Disappointed Debbie

Dear Disappointed Debbie,

Grasshopper, in searching for Ponce de Leon's elusive fountain of youth -- you have been shamefully deceived by fool's gold -- and I must give you a slap on the wrist for naively buying into the bullshit. I would like to remind you that South Beach is a real place where real people live and not the figment of some advertising agency's imagination.

Let me put things into perspective:

When you are a beanstalk with the figure of a broomstick who survives on cocaine, cigarettes and soda water, you don't sweat -- you dehydrate -- which makes you a very good candidate for a coma. Trust me, even VOGUE -- yes, even VOGUE, after hyping the Kate Moss heroine addict look -- has never gone for the coma look and neither should you.

Now, I hope you are sitting down. If not, please sit down and keep the smelling salts within arm's reach. I'm going to give you a difficult, but necessary, reality check.


Will you sell your soul to the devil, just like Dorian Gray? Alas, let me teach you -- a real woman wears herself -- proudly, cheap flip flops and all. The Devil, on the other hand, wears nada.

Now, my dear ... may I suggest you move to Dallas? I hear it's good to girls named Debbie.


photo credit

Photo by Shveckle Havemeyer, street photographer extraordinaire. Date: July 2006. Location: Macy's off Lincoln Road.