White, white, blinding light.

Enter the dog days.

From mid July to early November in Miami, the question isn't going to be whether it's going to be balls-stickingly hot, but just how balls-stickingly hot it's going to be - and if there's going to be a breeze. Answers: "Very," and "No."

Because I might as well be a hair-shirt wearing, flagellating member of Opus Dei, I moved to Miami - I'm noticing a pattern in my life - no major decision of mine is made, without totally disregarding certain crucial facts, about why that decision will later make me miserable - highlights include 1) Going to law school; 2) Going to law school in Miami; 3) Remaining in Miami; 4) Becoming a lawyer; and 5) Buying real estate... in Miami.

Re: Miami? I am a schvitzy Jew. For you non-Jews, that means "sweaty."

In high school, when I lived in Maryland, it was tolerable - I got three quarters of the year off from sweating profusely, with the notable exception of the time around Christmas, during trips to the Mall, when for some reason, the Rouse Company insisted on keeping interior temperature a wallpaper-peeling 92 degrees, and I, for some reason, would refuse to take off my multi-layer Columbia jacket...

Going to College in Madison was a breeze, because the average temperature there was 6.

And then, inexplicably, I moved to Miami, where it's not only hot, but hot and humid. For three quarters of the year.

Dun! Dun! DUNNNNNNNNN!

For nearly seven years, I have fought the reality of Miami's summer weather, and for seven years, it's been like trying to drain the ocean with a tablespoon.

I'm making no progress, and getting exhausted.

Today, I had an epiphany. I was walking down Lincoln in one of the few white shirts I own, and it was... tolerable. The white shirt made me think I could be so much happier during the summer if I just adapted. So - I'm done fighting, and I'm done caring that I've sweat through my shirt.

I'm going to stock up on light-colored clothing, and call it a day. I don't wear light colors, because I'm prone to being a messy disaster, and darks hide the crayon stains, the juice-pop stains, the grass stains, the chocolate stains, the chocolate milk stains, and the Cheetos stains. Also, I still have a lot of black clothing from the days when I could afford to be Jappy.

But daytime black and blue and green will have to give way to white... and white... and white. I'll be a tan, bearded, sweaty vision in blinding white (and camouflage shorts) for half the year, because the white will keep me markedly cooler, and the camouflage shorts hide swamp-ass.

I will venture out into the Sahara-like sunshine, and go about my business reflecting the sun's heat, and sweating confidently, instead of whimpering on my sofa in the fetal position, and pining for January. I will conquer summer, and become the Dominating Force that I am during the winter, when I am everywhere, all the time, being fabulous and... drunk.

With the help of my future army of white shirts, pique and linen, poplin and broadcloth, I! WILL! RECLAIM! SEPTEMBER! AS! MY! MONTH! (That's when my birthday is!) I WILL HAVE PICNICS OUTSIDE, AND, DARE I SAY IT, WALK AROUND DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS, INSTEAD OF HIDING IN THE DARK SHADOWS LIKE A PALMETTO BUG!

Six months of greatness is just around the corner. As soon as I break out the plastic and do some shirt-shopping.

Smith & Wollensky - How?

I thought I was going to puke, so I went to bed.

I figured that if I lay down, things would settle, and my gargantuan-yet-incredibly-unsatisfying meal at Smith & Wollensky would stay down.

I was correct. But then I bolted up at 2:30, and it's now 4:15 a.m., and I'm unable to sleep, because I just can't figure out how that restaurant stays open.

I have eaten there three times in the last five years. Not. Once. have I had a steak I've enjoyed.

Seriously.

Never.

Thank goodness I have wonderful groups of friends that always make the experience redeeming in some way - last night, everyone I was with kept me so busy with witty repartee, that I didn't register (at the time) just how godawful the food was.

Maybe I've ordered the wrong steak all three times - tonight I ordered what I thought was a New York Strip. I have no idea what I got, except it was fatty, and gristly, and was rife with confusing bones (including a section of short rib?), burned on the outside, and raw on the inside.

I ate about 20% of a $44.00 steak (which, granted, isn't the MOST money ever... but c'mon) because I was so fed-up with figuring out where the fat was, where the gristle was, where the bones weren't - basically, I had to work wayyyyyy too hard to delve into the thing. And I don't like having to work to eat. It's one of the reasons I don't eat crabs. That's a lie. I don't eat crabs because I think they taste like garbage.

Tonight, I had possibly the worst Bloody Mary of my life - almost undrinkable - which, to add insult to injury, came naked (ha!), with no celery or salty accoutrement - when I requested celery I was told they had no celery, but I could have olives.

Seriously? Smith & Wollensky doesn't carry celery?

How was I going to barf with fullness, you ask? I'm not really sure, actually. The two gin and tonics, and two Bloody Marys didn't help... and I did fill up on bread (the highlight of the meal) and onion rings and mashed potatoes... and creamed spinach... and my friend's Birthday cake...

The setting is ideal. Lovely, even. The setup of the restaurant is a pleasant hodge-podge of rooms and levels... it's comfy - but - how the hell does that place stay in business?

Every time I go there, I leave vowing to never, ever go back, because I feel both robbed and nauseated. The operating cost of such a big place must be enormous... but everyone I've talked to about it says, "Oh, yeah, Smith & Wollensky. I don't go there anymore," and for good reason.

I guess the only way they stay in business is because their Elysian Government Cut bar slings stiff drinks. After two, an unpalateable and unsatisfying ninety dollar meal seems less like a gargantuan waste of money, calories, and time, and more like a terrific idea. Crafty, Smith & Wollensky. But I'm not falling into your trap again.

Drink at Smith & Wollensky... eat a Joe's.

When I have nothing better to worry about, I brood over the demise of the English language.

Once, I dumped a guy because he wrote a card to me that read, "Your an amazing guy."

His misspelled sentiment was a heavily-weighed factor in the breakup. He was also smothering me, which made me sort of hate him, so his "your" was as offensive to me, as if he had taken a crap on my sofa.

I blame e-mail, instant messaging, and texting for the increase in written material, that's written INCORRECTLY.

I'm all for writing in a style that's more casual than, say a Court Decision from 1923 (just TRY to figure one of those out), and there are rules that can be fudged (ending a sentence with a preposition - sometimes it just SOUNDS BETTER to the eye, although usually I'm loathe to do it) and SOMETIMES (in a text) I'll abbreviate "u" for "you."

But there's something I rarely write, unless I'm text messaging someone - because I think it has no place in everyday written correspondence:

LOL.

A quick skim of the Miami Herald comments section on any given article will yield a rich vein of lols, following some vaguely sarcastic and/or idiotic comment that's clearly meant to be funny - and isn't.

And I always wonder, "Really? Is that person really laughing out loud at the badly-spelled idiocy they've just blurted out?"

Heck, the Miami Herald even publishes articles using "LOL:" THE DATING GAME
Khloe Kardashian: Date my sister!

Missed out on making The Bachelor cut? Well, maybe you can date Kourtney Kardashian. Sis Khloe wants to help her make a love connection.

She'll hold a speed dating event at their Miami Beach store at noon Thursday.

'Kourtney hates the `getting to know you' game, as she calls it, so she NEVER dates!'' Khloe wrote on her website Tuesday. ``So I decided that it was my responsibility to help my dear sister find a suitable, and sexy, companion. LOL.''

I feel sort of like crusty old George Will writing about how society is going to hell in a handbasket, because people wear jeans too often these days (guilty!) but the LOL thing really gets my goat.

There's rarely a time when I make a statement and then burst out out into a hearty "HA! HA! HA!" immediately afterward. Maybe if I want to convey mirth in a written statement, and the context calls for it, I'll use a smiley face emoticon. I still think those are perfectly acceptable to show humor or playfulness in written communication.

But LOL has always struck me as brash and obnoxious and the province of ignorant smelly people who "want to go to the concert to," or "would rather die then wear that!" The phrase just makes me uncomfortable - whenever I see it, I imagine someone laughing too hard at a less-than-amusing quip they've just rattled off to a stone-silent room...

I want the LOL to stop.

Que Rico.

I'm going to Maryland tomorrow. (Holler!) But because I'm getting a ton of flack for not writing prodigiously, I offer you this while I'm gone. I get back Tuesday.

I studied abroad in Spain, junior year in college. As I was a dual Journalism/Spanish Major, studying abroad in Spain was sort of for screwing around, but it was also for getting fluent in Spanish. Which I became. And subsequently lost, but that's a different story for another time.

I lived in Sevilla with a dear, sweet woman named Maria Jesus Escobar Gil. And we got along like a house on fire. I adored her, and she adored me. Maria Jesus spent all of her time cleaning, cooking, and washing and ironing (and bleaching...) my clothes. And watching telenovelas. And talking to her bird, "Canario." We weren't much for names, in that house... I was "Chico," or "Herrmee" (usually, Chico, though, because she absolutely couldn't pronounce my name) she was "Senora," the bird was "Canario" (even though I later learned she named it Pavarotti). There was a guy that lived there too named Pepe, but he stayed in his bedroom, and then there was Jesus, Maria Jesus' grandson (of seventeen) who slept over every night in her room, presumably because he didn't trust Pepe. That's what she told me, anyway. Looking at it through the prism of time, the living situation was odd, and it was probably odd at the time as well, but I didn't really pay too much attention to the living arrangement, because I was focusing so hard on merely COMMUNICATING and understanding her thick Andalucian country accent.

Maria Jesus cooked. All the time. The first few days there were some doozies of gross things coming out of the kitchen, but we settled into things that I liked. And it turned out, I liked quite a lot. She made astounding albondigas, and espinacas con garbanzos, and sopa de ajo, and tortilla de papas. I got caldo con fideo and rosquitos every day and she made the most refreshing gazpacho, which we would drink on hot days...the list goes on.

But the dish that she made best was of such startling simplicity, that it sort of boggles the mind.

And here, in her honor, I hope, but possibly to her memory, is her chicken in garlic wine sauce, which I have adapted from her recipe which was made with only one breast:

Ingredients:

1 lb chicken breast, breasts sliced thinly horizontally.

8 large cloves of garlic, coarsely chopped - if using smaller cloves, use more. You want a LOT of garlic.

1/3 cup (slightly more) extra virgin olive oil

1 1/2 cups dry white wine (sauvignon blanc or pinot grigio - NO CHARDONNAY or anything sweet or oaky)

2 or 3 generous pinches of coarse salt.

Spanish Rolls or Cuban Rolls or large sandwich rolls

Directions:

Dump the oil into the bottom of a large skillet, sprinkle the garlic over the oil, and put the chicken breasts over the garlic and oil, in a single layer.

Sprinkle a very generous pinch of salt over the chicken, and set the flame to medium. Heat the pan slowly over medium, until bubbles just start to form around the garlic - you don't want the garlic to burn. Hold the heat at this point for about 30 seconds, taking care not to let the pan start sizzling.

Then, pour in the wine, all at once, and add another pinch of salt.

Raise the heat to high, and bring the pot to a boil. When the chicken is cooked through on one side, flip the chicken, and continue boiling down the pot.

Keep flipping the chicken in the boiling wine, through when the pan starts to sizzle and sing, and the wine has almost completely evaporated. The garlic should be white, and the pan should smell wonderful, and have a thick(er) yellow sauce in it.

Plate the chicken, sprinkling garlic over it, and pour the sauce over it.

Serve and use the rolls to soak up the sauce; if there are leftovers, split the rolls, dip the cut sides in the garlic sauce, and smoosh some garlic onto the bread, and make a sandwich with the chicken. Wrap the sandwich in plastic; the sandwich is best eaten on an afternoon bus ride home from Matalascanas beach.

Aristos

Went to Aristos on 71st Street last night, Miami New Times' 2009 Best Greek Restaurant.

The owner seated us and I picked up sparkly very good vibes from her.

The food was good.

The service (there were like three waiters tending to maybe 12/13 tables...) was abysmal. Maybe it's because we sat outside, but our waiter was entirely too stressed-out and gone entirely too long for entirely too many stretches of time, for absolutely no reason.

But the food was taaaaaaaaasty.

Sorry for the Pause.

Hi, kids.

Sorry for the pause.

I've sort of gone batshit crazy since Memorial Day, so I'm just trying my best to keep it all together over here - the result is, less posting, more laying catatonic in my house trying to make the panic (over nothing) go away.

Posting will resume when morale improves.

Acupuncture ain't workin. And I don't want to go on pills again.

We Want the Flunk.

The 70s seemed like they were a great time. I'm sorry I missed them...completely. In fact, there's only a very small chance I was even CONCEIVED in the 70s - so, yeah, I wasn't around for them. Which is sad. A freewheeling decade of drugs and sex and hotpants and disco sounds okay to me.

So, last night, when Liza dragged asked me if I wanted to go see George Clinton perform at the Florida Room, I was coerced into going readily agreed. Of course, George Clinton is of Parliament and Funkadelic from the 70s.

Here is my review: I saw George Clinton. He looked like a crazy, crackhead, homeless guy, sweating through his t-shirt, emphatically croaking into a microphone, monotonically. And I have never seen so many young, rich white people go positively cuckoo-bananas. I pretended (badly) that I was going apeshit also, but...I just couldn't get into it. He opened with his hit, "We Want the Funk!" and then he segued into "Sh*t! Goddamn! Get off your ass and jam!" and after that, I'm not really sure what he was singing. Or doing. He was a spectacle - from his sad tennis shoes and khakis, all the way up to his bushy, grey beard, and the red weave up-do in his dreadlocks that made him sort of look like a combination of Tina Turner, Bob Marley and Sitting Bull in a headdress. I can also report that if you're within a foot-and-a-half radius of him, he doesn't smell - even though he looks like he should.

It was sort of amazing being in sweating distance of a musical legend - and I did have a good time...but it was surreal. And George Clinton should probably leave his 70s repertoire alone, so that we can all remember what "We Want the Funk" sounded like, as sung from a voice not fried by crack.

Oh, one more nugget: before George started singing, he drew graffiti all over a canvas behind him, and then rubbed mustard on it. After the show Liza wanted the canvas. We asked around, and finally found a guy from the Florida Room who could quote the price - she asked how much the canvas was, and he said, "fifty," at which she and I said "Fifty bucks? Deal!"

And then the guy said, "No, $50,000.00 - the canvas alone costs $50.00," at which point we burst out laughing in the guy's face. Seriously? 50K? We watched it get scrawled on. In 10 minutes. There was mustard on it - a lot of mustard. And we're in the middle of a recession.

Get real.

So, I've seen George Clinton perform, which may or may not be a big deal. And I can say that if he opened his eyes during his performance (I'm not sure he did...) that George Clinton looked squarely at me, and sang to me.

Weekend begun.