Beachhattan Lifestyle, Part 1

UNREAL ESTATE

Driving down West Avenue in HoBe, where there are so many fucking high-rise condos, you can barely feel ocean breezes or see blazing-blue Goya skies anymore. You forget that you live on a flat-ass barrier island in the subtropics -- an island that is basically a pit stop for every major hurricane that hits the USA. As an expert on the lack-of-topic, I officially baptize my native homeland "Beachhattan" ...

I cannot help but wonder about these statistics, which are -- DISCLAIMER ... ouch, please Oprah, don't give me a guilt trip and drive me into relapse!!! -- somewhat fabricated, so very embellished and completely innacurate. I mean, if you're going to write a memoir a la James Frey, what's a little cake frosting on the freakin' yarn? Why not bribe the fact-checkers (post previously held by author) ... after all, I'm just counting the stray thick hairs on my bar of soap to give me the TRUTH, OK?

STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY

*
... average number of monotonous, minimalist and ugly buildings designed by a "so" (can you just SEE the gesture?) gay guy and a maniacal, greedy developer in Beachattan that all look the same -- made of poorly-installed but lovely azure-tinted glass, of course -- design-wise being touted as some architectural marvel, although looking like stiff stainless steel penises on viagra shooting up into the sky: 8,000

... average number of quaint, low-rise buildings, well-designed and ecologically-friendly, respectful of the natural landscape and local culture -- stubby, lowly buildings that experience "sun block" in the afternoon from those towering monsters: eh, maybe 10, if we're lucky?

*
... average number of said high-rise buildings that will get the shit blown away from them during a mere Cat 3 hurricane if the eye makes a direct hit because they are made of poorly-installed glass: 8,000

... average number of buildings that will survive a mere Cat 3 hurricane because they were made of concrete in the 1930's: eh, maybe 10, if we're lucky?

COMMUNITY INFRASTRUCTURE

*
... average number of people who heed a hurricane EVAC warning on Miami Beach: 8

... number of people who will fucking DIE if they don't get off the island during a mere Cat 3: 8,000

REPENT ... OR RENT

... average number of cheap-ass units author looked at before moving into actual residence: 20

... average number of units looked at where you'd prefer cockroaches to condoms: 1

(OK, smack in the middle of HoBe ... gay owner showing you the apartment -- which is IMPECCABLY clean and cute -- but he whisked the unwrapped condoms off the newly remodeled granite counter top, and showed me to the bedroom, where there was a what he called an "access" door -- complete with chain-lock, that lead to the "community laundry room," and when I opened it, I found a perfectly respectable gentleman, reading the newspaper in his bath robe, somewhat resembling Anthony Hopkins playing Hannibal -- with his dick hanging out for a good hygenic airing. So, in spite of the cedar closets and parking, I declined the offer.)

PUBIC WORKS

*
... number of over-priced condos being marketed to wealthy Latin-American drug lords and their harems of abused women trapped in bad relationships but who can afford Gucci bags: 8,000

... number of toilet flushes the infrastructure can actually handle: 800

... number of toilet flushes Miami Beach actually has at any given moment, which give "low tide" that bad olfactory reputation: 8,000,000

MIAMI BEACH MUNICIPAL PARKING AND DRUG AUTHORITY

*
... average time it takes to drive two miles from author's home to Hobe if taking most direct route (Alton Road): 20 minutes

... average time it takes a socialite celebrity to park: 20 minutes

(I mean, talk about dumb and dumber! The Lindsey Lohans who keep making parking violation and car accident news -- well, you can't just park your glossy yellow Maserati -- which of course, matches your fake blond hair!!! Oh, let me tell you, it's such a chore. First, you have to manage the hurdle of getting to the thirtieth story of your high-rise stainless steel penis residence and have your packages of decadent-and-totally-unecessary-shopping transported by illegal immigrants, after giving the key to your also illegal immigrant valet, whom you are probably fucking because you hate the sugar daddy drug lord whom you cohabit with because he buys you Gucci bags.)

... average time crook spends breaking into car that has a much coveted parking pass of a Miami Beach local: 20 minutes

... average time it takes a regular Miami Beach local to find a parking space without all this heavy emotional drama: 20 minutes

... average number of parking spaces in Miami Beach: 3

... average number of people seeking a parking space: 3,000

... average number of cheap thrill-seeking teenagers who, coming from the land of the living dead -- suburban mainland Miami -- drive into, make it past the DUI post and park on Miami Beach: 300,000

(Weekends in HoBe: adolescents who want to take EX and screw on the dance floor of an over-priced dance club where you will surely be scrutinized before you even get into the door, I mean JUDGED by the cross-dressing bouncer who announces "vaginas only" and where only Skank Hilton gets in because of her "informal dress," "loose attitude" and "exposed quite frankly and freshly depilated pussy," and, of course, afterwards forking over a good percentage of a trust fund on the cover charge and drinks.)

LOCAL ECONOMY REGRESS REPORT

... average annual salary (net gross) of a local buying condo: $28K

... average monthly mortgage of a local: $28K

(investing in a 700 square foot musty-smelling, art-deco condo with creaking wooden floors, lacking elevator, laundry service or parking but a plethora of loud drug dealers and the unasked for sexual noises of active neighbors heard through the wall)

... average hotel room rental rate (in which you pretend you are NOT on SoBe, 'cause it's so nice, like at The Delano): $28K

... cost of hangover-required orange juice needed at such a presumptious, preposterous place so price-gauged by celebrity status: $28K

When Baristas Talk About Sex at Starbucks

Classic Sex and the Beach. Cartoon by Yours Truly, circa 2007.

"She does everything but vaginal when she has her period," said one Starbucks barista to his coffee colleague.

And so begins my tame evening in Miami Beach this Wednesday night with a creamy decaf to keep me company. After a few years of living on the mainland, I've returned to the scene of the crime. The heart of South Beach is my home for a spell.

I've come to the coffee shop to write and I overhear a conversation about sex during menstruation. So when baristas talk about sex, you have mundane epiphanies.

Ten years ago, I was amused by the fact that hunky Argentinians -- blessed with legs molded by soccer, limbs thicker than a juicy churrasco that would make any girl chimi her churri -- populated SoBe like so many cigarette butts in the sand. They were all named Alejandro. Seriously, all of them. Just ask the U.S. census. A massive cloud of chéromones clung to the atmosphere and blew our miniskirts like a warm, breezy douche spray on our stuffed empanadas.

Sex was in the air. Sex was everywhere. Sex and the Beach was born.

I worshipped at the altar of wanton.

Ten years later, it seems like the blog went from Lolita to Luddite over night. Where did the sex go? Did it really get 86'd at Lost Weekend? Did it end up in the bathroom stall at Club Deuce? Where is my futbol Adonis of yore? Having coffee at Manolo's with his wife and rug rats?

Ouch. Lights on, last call. Walk of shame toward this adulting thing. So very dull.

Maybe the sex got wiped out after a hurricane. Maybe it oozes out with the floodwaters in the storm drains. I told you South Beach was shallow. Literally. A barrier island afloat under the weight of luxury condos, silicon boobs and gold digger's pockets.

Cartoonist Hugh Macleod said it, too.

Ten years later, I write at Starbucks with a warm Americano instead of a sizzling Argentino. I worship at the altar of vagrant buddhas. I attend Town Hall meetings about the homeless and hang out with environmental activists who, like me, are witnesses to a paradise trashed. It's everything but shallow. Damn. People who live like they live here. People who care.

Don't let the hookah bars on Lincoln Road, the fishbowl drinks on Ocean Drive and the used condoms strewn on the beach fool you. Toss that glossy tourism brochure in the recycle bin. This is a real city --gritty and grimy, gaudy and glamorous -- all at once.

But yawn. How unbearably prosaic.

And then tonight, a glimmer of hope. The fucking barista is shouting in Spanish about the sexual proclivities of his girlfriend. A young woman walks in for a latte with boy shorts riding so far up her curvy butt cheeks, I'm reminded of the great South Beach sanitation crisis of 2006.

Thank God you didn't get all Kendall on me, South Beach, you crazy-ass island full of contradictions. Oh Beachhattan, I love you in all your decadent glory. Like me, you tell it like it is. You really do.

Except for one thing.

I lied. I know where the sex went ... I'm just not going to tell you.

Romance Row: My Yacht Experience and Southern Seas

This year in springtime, I enjoyed a two-week writer’s sojourn in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, a quaint, seaside village located on Florida’s southeast coast. The sea shored up her bounty of gifts for me. In turn, I gift you my stories. Visit the story map to navigate this travel memoir.

Monday, April 18, 2016

My Yacht Experience

On the second day of my of journey, I was whisked away from Lauderdale-by-the-Sea to cruise Broward county’s Intracoastal Waterway aboard captain Mark Husk’s yacht Don’t Blink.

We met affable Captain Husk of My Yacht Experience at the dock located behind Bokamper’s on the Intracoastal, about three miles south of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.

We cruised smoothly, feasting our palates on fresh fruit and our eyes on the spectacular luxury waterfront properties that line this body of water in the Venice of the Americas, so named because of the more than 300 miles of canals in the Fort Lauderdale area. I had seen these homes before when taking the water taxi around Fort Lauderdale from the 17th street bridge up the New River, but the Don’t Blink was fully a pleasure cruise. I sat back, enjoyed crisp mimosas served by Captain Husk’s wife and first mate, Nancy, and talked to the Captain about many a thing nautical. The service was impeccable but unobtrusive. They spoiled this jaded Miamian.

Manola Interruptus

Manola's author will be on hiatus due to personal difficulties, but don't worry, she's not hanging it all up just yet. She'll be back soon and better than ever! In the meantime, please enjoy the following classic Manola.

Caveass Emptor: If He Smells, Tastes and Feels Like Shit, Refrain from Relationship

South Beach Imposes Cellulite Fines on Imperfect Tourists and Launches BMI Checkpoints

An Embarrasment of Bitches: Beachhattan Lifestyle Boasts Jerks Who Love Perks

Blow Jobs Rate High on South Florida Prosperity Index

Ocean Drive Magazine Denies Existence of Hairy Vaginas

Food Foe Kate Moss Warms Up to the Plate with Real South Beach Diet


City of Miami Beach To Fund Pubic Hair Removal in Sanitation Policy

Colin Farrell's Penis To Partake in Structural Engineering Study Sponsored by Pfizer

Paleontologists Unearth Rare Carnivorous Raptor Sporting Jurrasic Hair Extensions

Mind-Blowing Beach Sex Saves Miami-Dade County Commissioners Thousands in Civic Expenditures

Jaundiced Tranny Bozo Found Posing for South Beach Escort Ads

South Beach Miniskirt Crisis Boosts Imports of Antibacterial Fabric in Aftermath of Vaginal Excretion Epidemic

South Beach Grouper Gropes Unsuspecting Gays Unleashing Apocalyptic Wrath

tags: sex, miami beach, humor, manola, blog, headlines