Superbee's Philosophy

Foxhole

2012-01-22T01:48:00.001-08:00

FoxHole
If you're one of us "bright young things," (and if you're one of the "I make +100K plus per year" set), then I highly recommend you check out "Foxhole" which is behind Barton G where the old "Loading Zone" used to be.

Yes, you, too, can party where once LeatherBears came on the floor.

I'm not kidding.

The atmosphere has changed (not that I ever went to the Loading Zone, regrettably), and the crowd is one I literally haven't seen since we used to flood "The Angelic Brewing Company" in Madison, WI, when we all had a set of freshly minted fake IDs from South Dakota (that ID was never, but NEVER confiscated). But I don't say that in a derogatory manner - stepping into Foxhole is like stepping into a slightly-better Purdy Lounge / whatever that club used to be that was on 36th street, 7 years ago (SoHo Lounge!). It's awesome.

Their drinks are strong, their music is late 80s, and their crowd is needy Jewesses, regretting stupid, bitchy decisions into their manicured nails.

It's a fun time. You'll run into people you know there...and even if you don't, you'll meet people you don't give three shits about there, where you'll all knock a couple back and then end up at... the Deuce. And then La Sandwicherie.

Bottom line? The people drinking are pretty and affluent. The bar staff is attentive enough to justify the auto-gratuity. The space is huge, and the music is what they play at Sports Club LA, during a dance-lab session. If you go there four consecutive weekends, you're almost certain to know everyone hovering at the bar...so it's only natural that you'd thereafter move to the upper decks. (There's an upper deck.)

South Beach, we've found ourselves a higher-class Purdy -- you can now bankrupt yourself and ruin your liver -- but it'll be slightly more conspicuous and slightly more embarrassing when it happens -- but you'll be able to "black-shirt" yourself into the JAPpiest den of drunken debauchery since the Astor went out of style.

Woody Allen and his Dixieland Jazz Band.

2011-12-20T20:06:00.000-08:00

Tonight, for Chanukkah, Gael and I saw Woody Allen play with his Dixieland Jazz Band at the Fillmore on the Beach.

Even though we were the youngest in the crowd by about 50 years, it was an awesome show. But then again, I love both Woody Allen and Dixieland jazz.

So...

If you don't like one or the other, you should probably skip it. But if you do like both, you should go because it was awesome (even though Woody seemed a bit off his clarinet game tonight on some of his solos...) and the music is toe-tapping, and you're IN THE SAME ROOM AS WOODY ALLEN!!!

Hooray for Lincoln Road.

2011-10-31T20:46:00.000-07:00

Never in ten years of living here, have I gotten such responses to a Halloween costume.

I put on a bunny mask with my friends Gael and Ashley. A bunny mask, a green plaid shirt, and some jeans. The mask, combined with slow, deliberate movements, and staring down people garnered us countless photos. I have never been photographed so many times on Halloween... I think because we were pretty effing creepy.

Maybe you saw us...

Vizcaya this year was a load of crap.

2011-10-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

If you didn't spend $160.00 on a ticket to Vizcaya's annual Halloween Party, pat yourself on the back. If you did, and you're reading this, you probably don't have a hangover. And let's vow never to go back -- and to demand a refund.

The party this year was an EPIC failure. EPIC. Like... indescribably bad.

So it rained. No big deal. They can't control the weather, and they had...two... tents erected. Two puddly, steamy tents.

So, they didn't have a DJ, but a live band. A DJ is better for that sort of thing, but whatever.

What I, and everyone else are LIVID about, was the booze. And the ticket prices. And the fact that they jacked the ticket prices up forty bucks AND slashed 1) the quality of booze; 2) the availability of the booze; and 3) the number of bars.

There were two full-liquor bars (in years past there were... upwards of seven?) and those bars were out of Vodka by 10 p.m. It was impossible to get a drink at those bars, because they were MOBBED. There were two bars serving Stella that would intermittently run out of beer (and the cunty [and I don't use that word lightly] bartenders would bald-facedly lie and say "That's it. No more beer tonight."), and then there were bars serving Patron tequila (barf) and rum and cranberry juice (barf.)

Getting drinks was impossible. I was so wet and miserable and sober, I seriously considered venting my rage by setting fire to the Mansion itself.

This was the worst Halloween I think I have ever had. And that's including the first time I went to Vizcaya in 2004, broke my nose, lost my phone and my friends, and wandered from Vizcaya to Merrick Park before throwing myself on a taxi and demanding it take me home.

Epic failure, Vizcaya. You screwed the pooch AND jumped the shark...

Barceloneta?

2011-10-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

Me and a group of kids tried to go to Barceloneta last night. That's the new PubBelly venture on 20th Street on the Beach...

I mean, we went... and we had eleventeen white sangrias at the bar (which were delicious!) and which were served by friendly, speedy bar-staff... but we never got to the food.

Why, you ask?

Because, despite arriving at the restaurant when it was EMPTY except for the outdoor portion, at about 8:30 p.m., the Hostess couldn't figure out how to seat a part of four.

Literally.

We were the first name on the list and asked to be sat outside, and an hour and ten minutes later, as the restaurant went from empty to full, and as we watched tables outside turn over, we were STILL at the bar... waiting for our table.

"You should have made a reservation!" you crow. We tried. They don't take 'em -- it's "first come, first served," but that's with a caveat - it's "first come, first served" if your party happens to be a party of three. We were a party of four. Every outdoor table appears to be a "three-top" which is a pretty weird size for a table. (They're actually two-tops, with an extra chair dragged over.)

The hostess, even knew our party's name by the end of the evening, and at one point (shortly before we gave up), while I was standing near her station (away from the bar), ratcheting my jaw off the floor, after watching her seat two three-tops that had come AN HOUR AFTER WE HAD PUT OUR NAME IN, she came up to me, asked me if I was with the "___" party, and on my confirmation that yes, I was, and assured me that tables were leaving and we would be the next table sat.

Ordinarily, this would have been reassuring, except that we had heard this same spiel several times -- notably when we got to the restaurant. An hour before. When it was empty. So, it was bullshit.

Fifteen minutes after that happened, we threw in the towel and went to PubBelly. Which is delicious, but I later realized was owned by the same guy as Barceloneta, so it's not like my business went "elsewhere," I just went to a different restaurant of his. That annoyed me. But I love Pubbelly.

Here's my take on Barceloneta - maybe I'll try again. But I'm not sure, actually. It almost felt like we were being profiled, which was the reason we weren't sat -- since we weren't cougary Latins with obscenely-plumped lips and dry, overprocessed blonde hair, and since I wasn't wearing boot-cut jeans with sparkly rhinestones on the pockets and pointy douchebag shoes. (People fitting that description were sat.)

I know they were open for like two days before we got there. But seating people is like...the easiest part of a meal. And the fact that they were so cavalier about that -- because if we didn't eat at Barceloneta, we would have likely overflowed to another one of the restaurants owned by the same group (which is exactly what happened) left me with a delicious taste in my mouth (Pubbelly) but with heartburn.

Yardbird!

2011-10-04T21:27:00.000-07:00

I have this uncanny knack for going to any restaurant on its second day of being open. I always. do. that.

Tonight, I went to Yardbird Southern Table and Bar at Lincoln and Lenox. First - the name - the name is obnoxious. It's five-words-long, and, frankly, sort of douchey. Actually, the more I think of the name, the more annoyed I get so I'm going to move on, because by and large, it was a really positive experience.

I like the way they decorated the place - I remember the space when it was a gross, roach-infested bodega, with its original frosted glass windows (they should have kept some of the original windows, actually). It's decorated with sort of an Edwardian-Industrial-Meets-Plantation-House vibe, which totally works.

And the food is totally decent, although I can't see myself eating some of those dishes more than two or three times... Stuff was pretty tasty like the Chicken Biscuits and the macaroni and cheese. There were some things that were clearly ganked from Gigi's menu, like the pickled cauliflower and bread-and-butter pickles and the short-rib meatloaf (which were both delicious, but had both made an appearance at Gigi's.) The obsession with bacon, however, is sort of getting tiresome. The fried green tomato sandwiches with bacon were...okay, but the bacon ice cream with sweet potato beignets in crushed blueberry sauce... that bacon ice cream was a bit much - sort of like the one time I had truffle ice cream at the Setai. (Full Disclosure: I may not be a "savory ice cream" person...)

Service was friendly, and they've got a TON of staff - I think there were like two or three managers on the floor directing the staff, which were really hustlin'.

I drank most of their specialty cocktail menu, and the smoked pear was my favorite (it's the drink with the rim of crushed smoked almonds...) and the drinks are good.

In all, it's a solid place. I'll be back.

Pie is amazing and what's the deal with Scarpetta?

2011-09-14T20:36:00.001-07:00

Hi.

A couple of thoughts:

1) My birthday is tomorrow. Well, in 23 minutes. It still feels wrong to be sober watching your birthday tick over from 11:59 to Midnight. I wonder if that's unique to having gone to college at Madison, WI, or if everyone feels that way... or if I just need to admit that I have a problem. (I don't have a problem. There are just some events you should be drunk for: Your birthday, the 4th of July, Halloween, the day before Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, St. Pat's, and...I think that's it. Veteran's day? No... Memorial Day...? Nnnooo.oooooo. [Maybe.]) The fact that I'm not drunk as I turn another year old just shows me what a difference there is between like 25 and now. I'm a COMPLETELY different person. I miss 25-year old me. And his waistline. Which brings me to my next thought:

2) OH. MY. GOD. PIE!!! ??? !!! ??? !!! BOURBON PECAN??!?!!? I KNOW, RIGHT?!

Why did no one tell me about this before?! HUH?! It's salty and sweet and chewy and creamy and crispy, and bitter and sweet and salty and crunchy and viscous, and rich, and thin... It's like an effing SYMPHONY in your MOUTH!

I made a pie last night that was like the Second Coming of Christ. WHO. KNEW?! It's so good, it makes me want to punch a wall, which is the complete opposite reaction that I should be having from the waves of ecstasy shooting into my soul through my... ... ingestion of a baked good.

3) Tried to go to Scarpetta tonight because I hear their Spice Menu is a religious experience (like the pie I made. Did I mention I made a phenomenal pie that is like an exploding firework that is full of RAINBOWS AND TAP-DANCING CARTOON FROGS IN TOPHATS AND TAILS?!). That didn't work. Scarpetta suuuuuuure is annoying with reservations and only having a table for an hour and a half after you want to go to the restaurant. Both calling in (where they tell you they gladly accept walk-ins).... and walking in (where they send you to Gotham Steak instead). We went to Gotham Steak which was an enjoyable experience... but I really wanted that polenta, SCARPETTA.

Next week. Hopefully.

HOLY CRAP it's been a long time!

2011-09-13T19:38:00.000-07:00

Yipes! I almost forgot I had this! (No I didn't.)

But I've been busy with a small case that's TAKING OVER MY LIFE.

No biggs. At least it's interesting.

I was just updating this to let anyone that still reads this that THURSDAY, the 15th is my BIRRRRRTHDAYYYYYYYYY.

So.

Send money.

Terrifying.

2011-07-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

Hey.

Have you noticed that this year is "Roachier" than normal? Yeah. Me too. Where ever I go, I see roaches. They're in my swimming pool. They're in my lobby. They're running down the sidewalk. They're in the garage at Midtown.

Big. Awful. Roaches.

Roaches on Washington Ave.

Roaches at 9th and Meridian.

Roaches with wings and icky legs. Brown nuts zig-zagging around.

Terrible. Horrible. Freeze-with-terror. Roaches.

All of South Florida should be tented. Right now. Kill the fuckers. Kill 'em dead. But not with the bottom of your shoe. The crunch + roach goo on your shoes = vomit-inducing. Chemicals. That's the way to go.

Re: Casey Anthony.

2011-07-05T15:38:00.001-07:00

Thoughts: Shocking verdict. Unexpected verdict.

But good for the Jury, which is supposed to be an impartial trier of fact and keep in mind that a Defendant is innocent until proven guilty by the State "beyond a reasonable doubt."

My reaction was "GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY!" and if I was a juror, I don't know that I would have been able to acquit her, and I would probably have fought for a conviction even though there wasn't enough evidence.

But I would have been wrong.

Those jurors had a really hard task, and they did what they were supposed to do - because our system is based on the principle that it's better to let a guilty person go free, than to incarcerate an innocent person.

Good job, Jury.

Wherein I decide I have Lyme Disease.

2011-06-27T16:02:00.001-07:00

This weekend, I went to Tampa, up and back Friday to Sunday.

Yesterday, I felt like crap towards the end of the drive home. I landed at around 4, and was achy and my skin hurt, and I couldn't thermo-regulate. Today, I feel even worse. I woke up last night in a cold sweat that was so profuse, I actually sweat my shape onto my fitted sheet. That's right. Arms n' legs. And I basically had to wring out my pillows.

So that was pretty awesome.

Today I'm disoriented and my head aches, and my neck hurts, and my back hurts and my skin hurts, and the backs of my knees are sweating, and I'm pretty sure I have swollen glands.

Not to be content with having a simple cold or flu (I got VACCINATED for that this year...) I've decided I have Lyme Disease.

I mean, it makes perfect sense. My father is one of the world's foremost experts on the disease, and when I was in Maryland two weeks ago, I (stupidly) went hiking in Patapsco Valley State Park without wearing tick repellent and wearing flip-flops. And shorts. Maryland is like the Lyme Disease Capital of the World. But Lyme, CT can keep the name. "Maryland Disease" just sounds stupid.

I never noticed a deer tick bite, but I'm pretty hairy, so I could have mistaken it for a freckle, and if I had the bulls-eye rash, it could have gotten missed among all the fur...

So, that's where we are. If I'm not better in a couple of days, I'm going to go to the Doctor and announce that I have Lyme Disease and demand a course of strong antibiotics so I don't get joint damage, heart damage, or brain damage.

Until then, I left work early today because I felt so godawful. Meh.

Summer is now my least favorite season.

2011-06-13T17:45:00.001-07:00

Sunday felt like the first day of real summer.

Until then it'd been hot, but not ungodly humid, and the nights were cool.

No longer.

Sunday brought sun and heat in the morning, rain in the afternoon, and sweltering humidity.

Today was worse.

I hate this weather. Summer used to be my favorite season, because it meant no school, and catching lightning bugs, and eating Snowballs in an alley in Baltimore, or overlooking rolling hills of farmland at the Snowball Stand in Woodstock (Sky blue or egg custard, either with lots of marshmallow fluff).

We have none of those things in Miami. Therefore, summer is the worst.

And I'm always exhausted.

And I can't work or think. My billing has fallen through the floor and I have no desire to do ANYTHING at work. That's a bad thing.

I'm listless and lazy and content to stare off into space...

It's like come May this year, my brain totally shut off.

It's gonna be a looooong, loooooong time until December.

Move, B*tch, Get out 'da way.

2011-05-31T19:14:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have those days where it feels like every one else on the road is driving particularly badly? I know, I know, "We live in South Florida, that's every day," heh-heh-heh. (Groan).

But I've lived here long enough to be just as bad a driver as everyone else, so I'm now used to a certain consistent level of bad driving. Still, every now and then I have a day when people are particularly terrible.

Tonight was one of those nights. More than one person was driving on full-out the WRONG side of the road. Some idiot waited almost honkingly-long to accelerate at the corner of 17th and Alton, and then pulled into the far left lane, only to decide once she got on Alton north, she needed to be in the far right lane. I didn't let her in, obvs., because I was pissed at her for waiting long enough to go on green, that someone in oncoming traffic was able to pull a right on red. (For some reason that incenses me.)

As I was coming over the Tuttle, about to hit the mainland, an Explorer who had been fishing, I guess... or was a sexual predator, pulled from a dead stop on the shoulder into the right lane, in front of me... That was pretty awesome.

This same Moran then made a right turn from the left lane at Biscayne. On red. Cutting across three lanes of traffic.

It was like that the entire way from my place to Midtown (where I changed my mind about Sakaya, after having a pretty decent meal there) and from Midtown to back.

What causes this? One bad driver - whatever. But I encountered SIX people who did bad-driving things on the way to Midtown alone -- to say nothing of the drive back, like the schmuck that pulled an illegal U-turn in front of me while I was oncoming...

I don't think it's a full moon.

Maybe everyone's just still hungover from Memorial Day. But the fact that I was some sort of bad-driver magnet today was exacerbated by the fact that I realized that I didn't have my license in my wallet as I began my treacherous journey home.

I made it intact.

And I found my license.

I survived.

2011-05-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

I survived another Memorial Day Hip Hop weekend.

Barely.

Note to Self: Going to Wet Willie's or Fat Tuesday is ALWAYS a bad idea. Not because of the patrons, but because it will assuredly result in the next day being spent in bed.

Rest in Peace, Sweet Prince...

2011-05-03T17:04:00.001-07:00

You probably know by now that Joe Allen on Miami Beach has closed.

I am devastated.

Before Burger n' Beer Joint opened, Joe Allen held the title for best burger in Miami; it slipped in this regard, but if I went for any meal besides brunch, their burger was still the only thing I ordered. Once when I went, Bobby Flay was eating it...

Their bread n' butter was phenomenal.

Their iced tea was wonderful.

Their French toast was the best I've ever had. And their bacon was PERFECT.

Their service was solidly good.

And I always knew someone eating there. Joe Allen's closure is a crying shame.

I lost one of the restaurants in my repertoire of places to recommend to out-of-towners, and somewhere to meet friends for an after-work dinner.

Joe Allen will be sorely missed by many -- including myself.

Yay! BOOO!

2011-04-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

Who got a new condenser installed today?!

THIS GUY!

Whose condenser installer company promptly ruined the coil in the condenser, rendering it useless?!

THIS GUY!

Who's going on a week without air conditioning?

THIS GUY!

Who is almost relieved to have to work all weekend to avoid being in his hot, stuffy house?

THIS GUY!

Who can't wait to put March and April behind him?

THIS GUY!!

Seriously.

This effing SUCKS.

Cool it.

2011-04-27T18:25:00.001-07:00

So remember a while back how I wrote about being a pioneer because my electricity got cut off because at the time I was too poor to pay my bill, and how I had to suffer through a night of sweaty sleeplessness? And remember how that was only temporary and I could see the light at the end of my sweaty tunnel, knowing that my power would only be off for 24 hours?

Remember that?

This morning, I awoke feeling... sticky.

And it wasn't just because I knew they were replacing my beloved opaque front door with a stupid windowed door (after I just shelled out $3K for blackout shades for my entire apartment) and would be coming home to a house covered in plaster and cement dust...

The thermometer read 78, and my a/c was blowing tepid air. Which is not a good sign as the weather truly heats up. I know there are some people in Florida who love the heat and the humidity, but I am, unfortunately, not one of them. I sweat. A lot. Even when it's cold.

So, I bucked up, took a cold shower, and went to work, soliciting a/c contractors. One agreed to come out to my place at 4:30 today, and pronounced my compressor shot.

Fuck.

My options:

$900.00 for a new compressor.

$1,300.00 for a new evaporator.

$2,300.00 for a whole new system.

Granted, my a/c unit is probably older than me, and it's probably full of delicious black mold, but, by and large, with one exception, it has been my constant friend lo these past four years, even though in the last two years it's taken to freezing over ~~often~~ periodically.

But the important thing is that my a/c unit WORKED. Until it didn't. And now I am MISERABLE. And sweaty.

And have a quote for $2,500.00 to install it "with permits" (I have a nasty neighbor in the building who would totally call the City on my ass if I installed the a/c unit "Miami-Style").

But suspicions were raised as to my choice of contractor from another one of my neighbors, and instead of signing on the dotted line today for a new a/c unit hopefully by Monday, I am now seeing another contractor tomorrow, who, hopefully, will give me a part and bless my a/c unit as good as new. Or who will impress me by rolling out a "Trane" or a "Carrier" unit instead of a "ComfortStar" and will charge me the low, low price of under $2,500.00 to get the thing installed by Saturday. Because I'm pretty sure that's how long I'll last without hurling myself off my balcony to sweaty suicide in the stinking canal below my apartment.

So, your pity and your prayers are appreciated and solicited. I will be tossing and turning on top of gritty (cement dust covered) blankets, and again cursing the Gods that told me that Home Ownership is the American Dream.

My ass.

I guess the moral of the story is, "Kids, never buy anything. If you don't own anything, there's nothing to break and have to replace -- and get the hell out of South Florida if you can't take the Climate."

(Exit Date estimated in 2013).

The word of the SuperBee.

Jordan Marsh Blueberry Muffins

2011-04-24T19:50:00.001-07:00

I went home to Baltimore/DC this weekend. It was glorious, as it always is. I have no idea why I left there to live in Miami. In a year and a half, my goal is to live there again.

Anyway, my request for this morning was that my Mum make me Jordan Marsh blueberry muffins - my grandmother somehow obtained the recipe in 1979, before it became common knowledge.

So, these muffins are a part of my food history, just like my soup and my meatballs - If I can figure out my grandmother's ruglach recipe, I'll post it. But I have to make it first to see which recipe was hers. However, the following recipe was transcribed by my mom this morning from the stained index card she's used for the past 32 years. She's starting to e-archive her recipes. These muffins are the best blueberry muffins you will ever taste. NO. JOKE.

Jordan Marsh Blueberry Muffins

375 for 30 Minutes
1979 from Bella

Cream:

6 TBSP butter or margarine
1 ¼ c granulated sugar

Add:
2 eggs slightly beaten

Sift and Combine in a separate bowl:

2 C all purpose flour
2 TSP baking powder
¼ TSP salt

Add the dry ingredients that were sifted and combined in the bowl above alternately with

½ C milk

to the creamed butter and sugar

When combined, add
2 ¾ Cup fresh blueberries, or 2 and ½ frozen blue berries (thawed and well drained)

General Instructions:
Cream butter sugar and eggs, and mix well. Sift all dry ingredients and add alternately with milk. Fold in berries quickly, berries must be well drained or texture of muffins will be too moist.

Prepare muffin tins by greasing cups and top of tin well. Preheat oven to 375, spoon batter into tins, filling to the top.

Sprinkle with topping made of 3 tsp granulates sugar and ½ tsp nutmeg. Bake 30 min or until browned. Cover with a clean towel 10 minutes. Cool. Run sharp knife under each muffin and lift.

You will be inclined to inhale all twelve muffins. I highly recommend you do so. In my opinion, they're much better totally cooled than even warm.

THIS IS MY 1,225TH POST!

2011-04-13T19:29:00.001-07:00

*** WELCOME ***

WELCOME TO MY 1,225TH POST!!!11!

That number just seems sort of impressive. I never thought I'd ever have 1,225 things to say.

That's a total lie. I never shut up.

A year ago...

2011-04-12T18:45:00.001-07:00

I just realized it's been a little over a year since I last saw my Aunt - I saw her April 11, 2010; she died of pancreatic cancer on April 16, 2010. Seeing her for the last time, and saying my goodbyes sort of soured me on the whole "goodbye" thing. Between seeing Marjorie in her last days, and seeing my grandmother (cancer's a bitch) I don't know that I'm necessarily one for "in person" goodbyes.

The dying don't look or sound like the people they were... and even though the memories of them in their last days are snippets of a couple hours, they supersede an entire lifetime of knowing the people as healthy, vibrant, funny people. If I knew then what I know now, I'm not sure I would have seen my grandmother or my Aunt - now my memories of them are tainted with the rattling, dozing creatures they became in their last days, incapable of constructing a sentence, incapable of moving. It's an odd feeling - seeing the dried out husk of someone you love, and wishing that death would just COME already to spare them the agony of living.

When people I love leave me voicemails, I save at least one. My grandmother died before I had a cell phone (imagine that!) so I don't have any recordings of her voice -- I think there are a couple of VHS tapes from 1987 that have her in the background...

My aunt left me a couple of voicemails in 2009 that I had saved -- not for any real reason -- it's just that I didn't get around to deleting them -- until I found out shortly thereafter that she had pancreatic cancer and was absolutely going to die. Soon. At which point the messages became sacrosanct.

And I figured they would just stay in my inbox until... I died.

Then, the other day, AT&T, in their abundant benevolence, informed me that it would be deleting all of my voicemails that were over 30 days old, and that if I wanted to save 'em, I'd have to upgrade to the latest operating system. Which I did. To no avail, because I couldn't send or otherwise save the voicemails. After a couple useless calls to AT&T, and a hectic weekend, I was grateful to see that the messages were still on my phone this evening.

So, I turned to a friend, who loaned me her iPhone for 2 minutes so I could play the voicemails to her recorder, save the two messages and send them to myself as text messages.

I now have a Mashup of Auntie Marjorie singing me happy birthday from 2009, my 29th birthday. It's funny - seeing my dying aunt in April, 2010 feels like yesterday, but I can barely remember the day she called me and sang to me.

I texted my cousin earlier this evening that if she or her brother ever wanted the Mashup, it was theirs for the taking. There was radio silence for a while, and, "Oh please send them thank you very much." So I texted her the file, - which she can share with her brother, if he wants. Now everybody can have a staticky cell-phone recording of my year-dead aunt, singing me "Happy Birthday."

"Thank you so much" was my cousin's response. I told my cousin to tell my aunt I miss her if she visited her on the 16th (I didn't stay in Boston for the funeral - I was actually up for another cousin's wedding the last time I saw my Aunt, and just assumed she'd be buried somewhere on Baker Street in West Roxbury). The response I got was that she would -- as my Aunt is still in the living room.

On the mantle.

Always one to buck tradition, and question authority (in this case, Halacha [Jewish law], of course she is.

The Heights - Skip It.

2011-04-03T19:56:00.001-07:00

An Open Letter To the Actors in the Heights:

If you're one of the Actors in "The Heights," and you happened to notice that four people vacated the center box on the first level in the Ziff Opera House after intermission this afternoon, we're sorry. But we just. couldn't. sit. through. the. second. half. of. the. show. Even in what was, according to the usher the "best seat in the house." Your show was like "Rent" (which I didn't like) meets "West Side Story" which... was fine. In 1962.

The show was written to be understood entirely by a very limited audience - namely - people from Latino countries who live in and around New York City. I got the Latino cultural jokes - I didn't get the New York jokes. My friends probably got the New York jokes having lived in/around there, and the cultural jokes just whooshed over their heads.

The people with whom I went also don't understand Spanish, so half the show was lost on them. The balance of instrumental v. vocal wasn't done right, and the singing was so fast, I couldn't hear/understand half of the English that was sung (thank God for the ADA-required closed captioning); the first song didn't grab me, and frankly, I didn't care about the story at all.

But you all had a lot of energy. So, good for you. And it's not your fault. You didn't write the songs, you didn't write the script, and you didn't condense the set into the Ziff's tiny proscenium. (Seriously - that's a pretty narrow stage...for the size of the House.) And your dancing was... energetic. Even though the ensemble seemed pretty small.

But on the flip side, I've never walked out of a movie and I've never walked out of a show. Until today. When the four of us unanimously decided that there was no need for us to waste the remainder of our precious Sunday trying to get into a show we were all wishing was over within the first five minutes of its starting...

So, buck up. You all did the best you could, with what was written for you. Sorry the story was boring and the songs weren't catchy (I can't remember a single one...). I'm sorry I spent most of the show wishing you were singing "Skid Row" from "Little Shop of Horrors" over, and over, and over again.

But I'm not sorry I walked out. I ended up going over to a high school friend's house (she moved here) and having a blast. So on the balance, re-establishing a connection with someone I hadn't seen in 13 years won out. Sorry.

But best of luck to you all. And again. Great energy.

I'm probably dying.

2011-04-03T08:01:00.000-07:00

It may be the hangover that's still kicking around from Friday night, but I'm pretty sure I'm dying.

Instead of blaming the hangover, the pan con lechon I ate last night and the McDonald's I just consumed to make myself feel better, I'll just content myself that I probably have some fatal disease, and am not long for this world.

I wish I liked yoga and eating raw vegetables. I'd probably feel like a million bucks all the time. Instead, I like liquor and McDonald's, resulting in my constantly feeling like I probably would if I lived in London in 1660 - gouty, lethargic and melancholy.

Maybe after this weekend, April will become "a vegetarian, liquor free" month... Maybe.

Bugging out.

2011-03-27T18:02:00.001-07:00

My father is an entomologist. He's also a virologist. He studied bugs' roles in transmitting infectious diseases. Lyme disease, mostly.

So, of course, I'm bug-phobic. I dislike bugs. Tropical bugs, especially. And I am positively, breathlessly terrified of roaches.

The other day, I noticed a solitary beetle crawling on my computer screen, but didn't give it much thought. He was a little guy, and I figured he'd probably die in a corner of my apartment somewhere, to be vacuumed into oblivion later.

Last Sunday, as I left work, I picked up Monica, who noticed that the interior of my car was swarming with... beetles. Dozens of the same tiny beetle that had crawled across my computer screen...

I had a mini-freak out, but pulled it together, and the beetle infestation of '11 ended quickly, or so I thought, after a couple days of driving around with my windows open and parking my car in direct sunlight to bake the little motherfuckers. I thought the problem was solved.

Until tonight.

When I went to sprinkle PAPRIKA of all things, on my dinner. The paprika had clumped (or so I thought) and after banging the container on the counter, I sprinkled it all over my dinner. Although, it wasn't just paprika I was sprinkling.

IT WAS PAPRIKA AND BEETLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Both dinner and the paprika were promptly discarded, and I checked nearby spices for evidence of contamination (none found).

My first thought was that I need to get the fuck out of South Florida - I'm tired of storing every foodstuff in my kitchen in Ziploc bags, and freezing bags of flour for a couple days after purchase, to kill any creepy-crawlies that may lurk within.

It really didn't help that I saw a two-inch long roach in my trash room as I was tossing my beetle-covered dinner.

I'm at a loss here. The paprika container was sealed shut. I bag EVERYTHING, and keep my spices closed tightly against humidity. And it's not like hot Hungarian paprika is a welcoming environment for bugs... sprinkling it on my food makes me sneeze...

Aside from not keeping food at home anymore (already, when things are open, if they're not already in a gasket-sealed container or in a Ziploc bag, they get stored in the fridge...) and aside from bombing my place (I don't want to throw away my hundreds of dollars of spices...) WHAT THE HELL CAN I DO TO STOP THESE OCCASIONAL UNPLEASANT SURPRISES?!

Tips? Suggestions? I'm all ears. Because I already go through tortuous routines to avoid scenarios like the one I encountered tonight, and if these bugs are tough enough to live in hot pepper... it's just another reason to want to move back up North, where the bugs are less hardy, and where I'm certain that I'm not going to shake some paprika and have stinkbugs tumbling out...

Wow.

2011-03-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

I'm in some knock-down, drag-out, rip-out-that-weave litigation right now that's spiraling to new and unseen (by me) levels of "holy crap"-ness.

Shit's gotten ug-ly and it's gonna get worse.

I've never been involved in cases that make the papers before. Until now.

Hoo-boy.

As my boss said, "At the end of the day, there's gonna be blood on the floor." Hopefully not ours.

South Beach Wine and Food Festival Redux

2011-03-10T20:14:00.000-08:00

Remember that time I was freaking out because I was so excited about the South Beach Wine and Food Festival?

Yeah, well, I don't.

Because I gave myself a concussion that night. And I haven't been the same since.

Note to everyone - when you go, have an awesome time, but do not sample EVERY WINE and liquor in the place, and then sit on one of those new DecoBike Bike Sharing rails.

Because you will fall backwards. Onto cement. And you will crack a rib in your back. And you will give yourself a concussion, as your head splats against the pavement at Fifth and Ocean. And you will not go to the doctor. And you will still have symptoms of the concussion two weeks later. Like vertigo. And being unable to remember your secretary's name.

So, you know... be careful. The lesson I learned is: I'm just always going to wear a helmet. Always. In Court? Helmet. Swimming? Helmet. The one-time-a-year I go to synagogue? Helmet. Sleeping? Helmet.

2011-03-04T20:21:00.000-08:00

11:14 p.m. separates the Men from the Boys; it's the time of night on a Friday night when you either decide to initiate a "plans-shift" or you figure, "I'll go to bed. Not have a hangover tomorrow. That's a good idea. I have coupons I want to use at Costco. Oh! And a two-for-one Burrito at Chipole, which is across the street from Costco. I should go to Chipotle first, in case I get frozen items at Costco!" When you think the second thing, you are a man. An old, old man. My hip hurts.

OMG!! SBF&WF!!!

2011-02-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

In less than 12 hours, I will be lining up for my glass and my bag and my everything to get into the Grand Tasting Tent at the South Beach Food and Wine Festival.

This is my favorite thing to happen every year in Miami Beach!!! (Along with Art Basel.)

I'll be wearing an eatin' shirt, camo-shorts, and will have a beard. I will also be belligerently drunk, with a wineglass strapped to my neck. If you see me, tap me on the shoulder (step back so I don't hit you) and say, "hi!"

But don't lick my face. That's happened before at this Fest, and I don't respond kindly to it...

YAY, TEAM!

LET'Z GET KRUNK'D!

On, Wisconsin!

2011-02-23T19:05:00.000-08:00

We had protests. We had sit-ins at Bascom Hall. We had Jesse Jackson speak to us on Library Mall before the Bush v. Gore election debacle. But when I went to UW-Madison, the stories we heard about the Vietnam Protests and the bombing of Sterling Hall were the stuff of myth and legend - things that happened thirty years before, and were whitewashed over with thirty-years worth of cheap apartment paint.

I am so. jealous. of the kids living in Mad-Town right now. Well, I'm jealous of them always, but especially right now.

What happens on the Capitol, happens in the University. And vice-versa. For anyone un-acquainted with the layout of the City (everyone), it's an isthmus - a land-bridge between two large lakes - Monona, and Mendota. On that isthmus is the Capital, on Capital Square, which is connected to campus via State Street, a sloping mile-long bus-and-cop only street lined with bars, restaurants, art and clothing stores, and headshops. Like Lincoln Road used to be, before it sold out. I understand State Street is also selling out, which is a shame. I was there when the first Starbucks opened on State. There were protests. As usual.

State Street slopes down from Capitol square, to Library Mall, where there's a quarter-mile of flat terrain, before it dead-ends into Bascom Hill, the hill on which the University was first built. Climbing Bascom Hill sucked. But undergrads don't need to do that anymore, because the bus pass issued by the University gets you up the hill for free. It used to cost .50. And was worth every penny.

The capitol, the University and the student body are beautifully inextricably intertwined. It's like a mini-D.C. Madison is a pulsating, utopian, surprisingly cosmopolitan, gorgeous little town.

But it's a little town that crackles with energy, both good and bad. George Bush was "elected" while I was there, and shortly thereafter I was there when September 11 happened. We bombed Kosovo while I was there, and Columbine happened my Freshman year. There were always protests and people chaining themselves to things, or wearing sandwich boards, or trying to get us to sign petitions for... whatever. It was annoying, but it was awesome.

In Madison, everything felt like it mattered.

Which is why I'm so jealous of everyone there right now. This is another chapter being written in the City's history. I lived four blocks away from the square where people are camped out. (In an AWESOME 1911 apartment with wood floors, original molding, and a huge red-brick fireplace that was lit in September and didn't go out until Thanksgiving, when I went home...)

People are passionate about...stuff. As students, we just took it for granted that we lived in the legislative center of the State - it was just another one of the million things that made Madison AWESOME (like Dotty's Dumpling Dowry, or the State Bar & Grill, or the Plaza, or Nick's Restaurant, or The Pub, or , but that faded into the background. Like how the first bite of a Coldstone Birthday Cake Ice Cream is an explosion of different amazing tastes, but by the end, you're like "Yeah, it's a delicious combination. Can I taste any one terrific thing right now? No."

That's sort of how Madison is.

And for the first time since I've left, it's in the National spotlight. And I wish I was there taking part in a lil' bit o' history.

I need to go home.

2011-02-22T19:01:00.000-08:00

This autumn, I was in Maryland a good deal - once for Labor Day, once in October, and for Thanksgiving. That was an unprecedented amount of "going home." Not that I minded it at all.

But it's now been two-and-a-half-months since I've been there, and, although that's an eye-blink of time, considering there have been spates where it's been more than 9 months since I've seen the 'rents, I must have grown accustomed to it.

I want to go home.

I want to make awkward conversation with my parents about buying window blinds and how I need to put more money into my 401K. I want that hug I get from my mom when she meets me at the Baggage Check, or as I throw my crap in her trunk in the "Arrivals" lane.

I want to see my little brother, and talk about farts, and think about how much I dislike his girlfriend (WHO CONVINCED HIM TO MOVE IN WITH HER), as she wrinkles up her nose at our "toot-talk."

I want my cat, Plato (the little fucker) to bite another hole through my hand. Then I want to hold Liger (the other, better cat) in front of Plato to make Plato jealous.

I want to drive on roads that curve. I want to eat one Berger's cookie. And then I want to eat a bag of Otterbein's chocolate chip cookies.

I want to wander around Baltimore at night thinking about what a lame city it is, and that everything closes too early. I want to see crackhouses that are three-stories tall.

I want to ride the Metro into D.C. and feel old at a bar in Adams Morgan. I'd like to see a freight train. And the Baltimore smokestack. I miss Rodger's Forge. And Columbia.

I haven't been home to see an azalea or a daffodil (or a crocus) bloom since Bill Clinton was president. I haven't been to Sherwood Gardens since Reagan was president... but I can still smell the tulips - and feel their softness on my soft five-year-old nose.

We have a Bartlett pear tree in our front yard that's now taller than the house, that bursts into a cone of white flowers, whose petals flutter off like snowflakes in April...

I miss the accent. I miss the space. I miss the quiet. I miss I-95 lined with trees.

Right now is the most miserable time of year to go (February sucks up there), and I have trial in June, so going home in early May is probably not going to happen but...

I want to go home. Not for ever (yet) but for a bit.

I miss home.

Re: Chris Lee:

2011-02-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

Um...

I'm gonna say it - it's a damn shame that such an attractive shirtless man had to resign from Congress just because he sent a shirtless pictures of himself to some chick from Craigslist. Boringest. Non-Sex. Scandal. Ever.

Even if he IS a Republican...he's the dreamy type.

So... Chris Lee... sorry about that whole resignation thing... but if you want to send more shirtless pictures... call me!

If you drive for a living, why are you the WORST DRIVERS EVER?!

2011-02-08T19:10:00.000-08:00

Can someone please explain to me why the taxi drivers on Miami Beach are the WORST DRIVERS ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH!?

Not to be racist but... (cue racism!)

But is it racism if you just don't like people from one nameless country whence most of our cab drivers came? The ones that speak no English, the ones that drive six miles per hour, and the ones that will take you from Lincoln and Alton to Collins and 18th by way of 41st Street, and the ones that NEVER. HAVE. CHANGE. TO. BREAK. A. TWENTY? The ones who are content to sit in traffic on Washington, and the ones who sigh and moan when they're requested to forfeit their .35 per idle 45 seconds and take Drexel or Pennsylvania to go North or South without sitting in gridlock.

The ones whose air conditioning is never on (and is like a breath of warm air when they do finally roll up the windows and crank it up to "low," after much beseeching and kvetching and sweating), the ones who fart in the cab while driving, the ones who subject everyone to Christian talk radio?

WHY?!?!??!?!?

Isn't a cab driver's goal to get you from point A to point B as quickly as possible; to rack up as many fares as possible in an hour because more fares mean more tips? To be on the GO, GO, GO, to get FARES! FARES! FARES! to make MONEY? MONEY? MONEY?

Or am I missing something?

Like did I miss the part of Driver's Ed wherein it's okay, when the rest of the Cabstand is full, just to park in the south-bound lane of a two-lane road waiting for one of the cabs up front to roll out, bringing some ecstasy-addled tramp home from her fling at the Flamingo? Or wherein it's okay to come to a rolling stop at a stop sign and ease out in front of me, while I'm rocketing at a neck-breaking 35 miles per hour down Alton Road (can't go faster - pot holes...), to leiiiiiiiisurelllllyyyyy go 21 miles an hour?

And how is it a good idea to stand in the MIDDLE of the street, yelling over to other cabbies? Can't you yell from INSIDE YOUR CAB, THAT'S ALREADY PARKED IN THE MIDDLE OF A BUSY ROAD?!

One of these days, I'm going to be convicted of vehicular ~~manslaughter~~ murder when I just mow some maroon down on Bay Road in the morning when I'm tryin'a get to work and everyone else is just enjoyin' some 8:45 a.m. relaxation time on the trunk of their cab. Which is parked in the MIDDLE OF BAY ROAD.

I'm sure it's a relatively crappy job sometimes, but everyone's job is crappy sometimes. What I don't understand is the complete disregard for everyone else, and the sense that getting from point A to point B has no urgency. MAKE THAT GREEN LIGHT! TURN RIGHT ON RED! GO! GO! GO!

And either go at least the Speed Limit, or GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

Am I the only one who dreads any interaction with cabbies? I don't like being in their warm, slow, springy-suspensioned, sulphurous cabs. And I don't like having to play chicken with an oncoming garbage truck because a cab is fully just double-parked in the middle of the street... with no intention of moving so traffic can clear...

And when did I turn 60?

Thanks for S-ing the F-U. Also, Posters.

2011-01-30T16:48:00.000-08:00

I expected to be jolted from an Ambien-induced slumber this morning around 6:40 by the sound of cowbells and cheering and clapping, for the runners of the ING Miami Marathon.

I was not.

I attribute this to one of two things: 1) my WhiteNoise app for my iPhone that I dutifully plug into my computer speakers every night, to muffle the sound of traffic, bums, and the bus that stops at a station directly in front of my bedroom slider... or 2) the fact that people weren't TOTAL JERKS this morning, and didn't stand on the corner of Purdy and 17th cheering and clapping for the Marathoners, while banging on pots with ladles. In the past, people have thought this apropos at 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday. I have always begged to differ.

It's probably No. 1. But whatever it is, I was grateful. Oh, sure, I woke up once or twice to see a thin stream of Marathoners running by my place, but I was in such a drug-induced fog it was like "Oh. They're running. And I don't hear clapping, yelling, and cowbells. And I can go back to sleep. Score."

And so by the time I dragged my sorry arse out of bed at 10:40, there was no evidence 21,000 people had run past my bedroom over the previous four hours; nary a traffic cone to be seen!

Wonderful!

So, to the people in my neighborhood, I say "Thank you. Thank you for either shutting up, or thank you for not managing to overpower a fan and a white noise machine."

To celebrate not having been woken up at an ungodly hour, I spent $1,800 on Art Deco Posters at the Antiques Fair at the Doubletree Convention Center by the Airport.

Whoops.

Here are my latest favorite mistakes... all from the 1920s and 1930s... Framingham's gonna be a bitch. (HA! Nonsensical Boston pun!) No, seriously. I'm mired in Buyer's Remorse. But they were posters I had wanted to buy a couple years ago, and were still in my Dealer's stock so... here goes:

Boom, Boom, Pow!

2011-01-16T14:52:00.000-08:00

Today, three J.A.P.S. loaded into my Mercedes to go to Doral to shoot Berettas. Uzis were expensive to rent ($70) and would have flown through ammunition.

We went to Ace's Indoor Shooting Range & Pro Gun Shop 2105 NW 102nd Place
Doral, FL 33172-2519, which, I have to say, was an absolutely great experience.

The staff are young and friendly, and jokey and they basically have any gun you could possibly want to rent there. They give you (we probably bought?) eye and ear protection, and you buy your bullets and your targets (they had zombies!) and we spent an afternoon shooting things. Which. Was. AWESOME.

I was going to write more in this post - something about the amount of trust you put in other people when you go to a gun range, not to go berzerk and shoot other people, and the amount of trust you have to have in yourself not to accidentally shoot your face off, or hurl the gun away from you, when a Beretta shell goes flying from the gun into your face... but as this diet is leaving me shaky, and unable to form coherent sentences, I leave it at that.

Ace's Indoor Shooting Range - two thumbs up!

Next weekend, maybe I'll bring the gays...

Dear Art Deco Festival:

2011-01-15T14:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Art Deco Festival:

While I applaud your range of street-meat (all of which made me nauseous to smell, because in this phase of the South Beach Diet, basically EVERYTHING makes me nauseous) and the unimaginable amount of tasteless crap being hawked on Ocean Drive, and while I applaud your mission to raise awareness of the Art Deco treasures that line Ocean Drive, and the area adjoining the same, I (unsurprisingly) have a complaint.

The ONE VENDOR I wanted to see was not there; I walked up and down Ocean hunting for it, for naught. I believe it is called Vintage Poster Art.

See, Art Deco Festival, I collect vintage posters. Not the "faux vintage" posters you were hawking at your table - I collect real, actual posters that were in existence before I was born.

I am willing to spend hundreds and hundreds of dollars on said posters, and then hundreds and hundreds of dollars to custom frame said posters.

And I need some for my Office. I wish I had more wallspace at home... but I don't.

Three years ago, I spent a grand on posters (and about a grand-and-a-half) to frame those posters. I'm ready to buy some more.

You had an abundance of ticky-tacky crap for sale, but only two kiosks that sold anything that was identifiable as an "antique" and those antiques were pages from old magazines. Snooore.

So, Art Deco Festival, we have some beef (on a stick.) I even dragged some out-of-town friends there, so I could have some second opinions about the expensive posters in which I was about to invest. About four stores in, they got bored and left, so I had to navigate the throngs of stiltwalkers and people dressed in Edwardian garb on my own, in search of my postertent...

WHICH WAS NOT THERE.

Art Deco Festival - how about we celebrate things "Art Deco," huh? I realize that you're not responsible for the content of the kiosks... but... this year was kind of a bummer.

Disapoinedly yours,

'Bee.

Shortest, most disgusting Restaurant Review Ever.

2011-01-14T19:47:00.001-08:00

I spent $32.00 today for a diet Coke and a wilted salad with steak on it at Morton's on Brickell. I've been pissing said salad of my rear for the last four hours. I should have known that a restaurant that smelled like sewer gas walking in, was destined to give me sewer gas on the way out.

Chokkamook.

2011-01-10T18:26:00.000-08:00

Between whenever my mom went off maternity leave and when I turned three or four, I had a nanny named "Mom-Mom." Her name was really Francis Schaeffer, but I didn't know that she or her husband, Jim had any other names than "Mom-Mom" and "Pop-Pop." Even after I went to nursery school when I turned three, I spent a lot of time at Mom-Mom's house. I don't really know why. Maybe my nursery school had summer vacation?

Mom-Mom was a first-generation Baltimorean - her parents (Grandma Sobis and Pop-Pop Charlie) had immigrated from Poland. They had a plaster Virgin Mary in their front yard, which was covered in those little stick-feet that ivy leave when they're peeled off of something. I got my first bee sting (on the back of my knee) on their front stoop. Grandma Sobis was the first dead body I ever saw. They lived a couple of blocks away from Mom-Mom. Grandma Sobis had diabetes, and sometimes went into sugar shock and needed orange juice. Or an am'blance. On one of our walks to Grandma Sobis' house when I was probably four, Mom-Mom and I had a discussion about how the word "shit" was a bad word. Mom-Mom had a thick Baltimore accent, but I can't recall the sound of her voice - I can vaguely hear her calling me "Sweetlump" and singing "Sugar, you're my sugar..." to me. Mom-Mom is probably also the reason I have a weird accent - the first time I asked my parents for a glass of "wutter" they flipped about the prospect of having a child speaking Baltimorese, and corrected my pronunciation whenever I ventured close to picking up the accent.

When I think back on my early childhood, I think I have more memories of being at Mom-Mom's house that I have with my parents - which makes sense. It was the early 1980s, and My mom was workin' her way up the Governmental Corporate Ladder, wearing kilts and blouses with gigantic bows on the neck, and my father was a Ph.D. student at Johns Hopkins, who looked like Jesus and wore leather sandals, and happened to be the Mascot for the Baltimore Colts. (No lie.) I don't think I saw them very much. They would scoop me up from Mom-Mom's, feed me dinner, bathe me and put me to bed. Lather, rinse repeat.

I can remember the interior of Mom-Mom's house as well as or better than I can remember the inside of the house I was raised in. I remember her dog, Popeil, who likely gave me my lasting dislike of dogs, about as well as I remember our vicious, bitey Siamese cat named Pumpkin.

Mom-Mom had a puzzle of a cheeseburger tacked to the wood-paneled wall of her basement. Mom-Mom used to feed me Ramen Cup-O-Noodles (or Lipton Cup-O-Soup!) and we would watch the Price is Right on her big, wooden TV. Mom-Mom had a set of WorldBook Encyclopedias from the early 1970s with those transparencies showing the systems of the human body. I ripped a transparency, accidentally.

I can pull up eleventy thousand snippets of growing up with Mom-Mom, but I can't summon nearly as many memories, or the underlying details of our little row-house in Rodger's Forge.

I just went to make chocolate milk, and BOOM! A memory leapt out from the back-reaches of my mind - Mom-Mom used to make chocolate milk in a cocktail shaker!

I saw her in front of her avocado-green refrigerator, shaking me a batch, to drink out of an orange Tupperware sippy cup.

So I had to make my chokkamook that way. I forgot the bubbles... and how good it is cold...freezing... shaken over ice!

It tasted almost as good as reconstituted Lipton Chicken Noodle Soup, eaten out of a mug, on a placemat, while lying on brown shag carpeting, and watching a brown-haired Bob Barker speak into a long thin microphone with a cord...

Holding my PubBelly...

2010-12-29T19:39:00.000-08:00

I really don't want to be blogging right now.

I really don't.

I've just finished two full dinners. And I'm drunk.

But that's because the first dinner left me... wanting.

To quote Monica, "We put the "full" in awful. 2 dinners for the price of...2. Dangit." ~ Stolen from Facebook.

So...oooo...oooo...

PubBelly.

I was supposed to go there with Colin from Eat It, Miami, but we're going to go bowling tomorrow at Lucky Strike, and he is quick to wear on my nerves (KIDDING! I could hang out with him FOREVER! [Call me!]) and so I didn't want to ruin tomorrow...

So Monica and I went to PubBelly tonight.

Woof.

I...

I want to like the restaurant... but the truth is... I'll probably never go back. Maybe the space is cursed. Shiso, which used to be there... I never tried their food. But I did drink many of their sake drinks, which were always underwhelming... but which would probably leave me less hungover than the delicious sparkling rose we enjoyed tonight at Pubbelly.

I should love PubBelly, as it seems to revolve, primarily, around pork belly, which, when done right, is the most magical ingredient, EVER. Because it's fatty and salty and smoky and rich and unctuous, and wonderful.

We had the McBelly (porkbelly), which tastes exactly like a dish at Sakaya and the pork buns at Gigi's, in an unfortunate way. I'm tired of pork belly in five-spice powder with a cucumber kimchi pickle, and... barbecue sauce? Whatever that flavor-combination is - I'm over it. That was the second thing we had after an order of Brussels sprouts carbonara, that came with a sous vide duck egg.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm not a huge fan of uncooked eggs. They skeeve me out, but if it's just a quail egg, I can deal. A duck egg, however, which seems to be about as large, if not slightly smaller than a chicken egg? is a different story. I do NOT want to crack one of those into my food and stir. It is not exactly what I want to mix, gently poached, into Brussels sprouts and bacon. I had two bites, before pronouncing that dish inedible.

We also got the pan con tomate, which was bread rubbed with tomato. This was the highlight of the meal (toast + tomato), and our waiter managed to upsell us, making a $2 dish into a $12 dish. Good for him. (We added Serrano ham. Mmmm. Except, it came with black bean... mustard? That was a fail.)

We figured we should fail big or go home on our last course, so we got some...yaki udon noodles that... were mushroomy... and covered in corn fungus... we were warned by the waiter that the dish was "earthy," ... and we didn't listen.

They. were. awful. Like worms in dirt. Monica didn't even put a chopstick-full into her mouth before spitting them back on the plate (they were removed by our loquacious waiter and canceled from the bill).

It grieves me to say that I won't be going back to this place; it was pretty expensive for food that... missed the mark.

There are a lot of pan-whatever restaurants opening these days, and either I don't have the palate for it, or they're a bad idea. I like to think that generally, as I go to a restaurant and get drunk before eating, I should love EVERYTHING I eat, so when I don't, it's a mark that the place isn't that wonderful.

I love the concept of PubBelly. I love that it's a local restaurant. What I don't love is that everything comes off... overwrought. As Monica said, there was "too much going on." She noted that Sugarcane does that Pubbelly is trying to do, and does it well, but that PubBelly... lacked.

I agree with her.

I'm sorry, Colin. I'm not going back with you. Tell me how you liked it. Hopefully they'll change the menu... and... yeah. Maybe when they change the menu, I'll try it again. After we sent back the dirt-worm noodles, we scoured the menu to try to find something else to eat and we couldn't justify ordering anything else.

So we paid the bill, tipped our waiter well (he talked too much, but was a sweet guy) and... went to Burger and Beer Joint... to finish dinner -- two beers, fried pickles, sliders, and a fried Twinkie.

Go ahead and judge... but I knows what I likes. And I likes B&BJ.

Hooray for Handel

2010-12-18T19:22:00.000-08:00

Tonight Danya and I saw Handel's Messiah at the Arsht Center. As I love Handel (and Christmas!) it was good times, even though I was massively hungover today from last night's office Christmas party - so hungover even a burger from Le Tub this afternoon couldn't set me right... Getting old is terrible. It's like the more I cut back my drinking, the less it takes for me to be hungover. Pretty soon I'm going to be one of "those" people -- you know. The one's who don't drink... and consequently aren't fun.

But back to the Messiah -

It was a good show; brisk, but well done. Seraphic Fire performed the vocals with... another...group of musicians...who played the instruments. I left my program in the car...

This is the first Seraphic Fire concert I went to - I enjoyed. I'll go to more of their stuff - Miami could use more groups like them, and I'm really happy that they're getting national recognition.

Going to the concert was sort of odd, though, as I once went on a date with...someone closely associated with the group. It was a terrible, terrible date, and it was completely my fault that it was so awful. My two-and-a-half year relationship had ended like two months before the date, and looking back I was in no shape to be dating ANYONE. We went to Monty's in the Grove on a Sunday afternoon, and I proceeded to drink two pitchers of beer (by myself), while he politely had...a glass. I probably talked about my ex, too, which is always a great thing to do on a date. Moreover, I hadn't yet been a lawyer for a year, but I was so drunk (heh, pun) on myself for my "accomplishment" that I was probably a total shit. In fact, all of the dates I went on in the summer of 2006 were just... just terrible. But this one still sticks out in my mind as particularly bad - I think because during the date I realized I lost control of it after the first pitcher of beer, but by then there was nothing to do but just... let it ride, and watch the slow-motion trainwreck happen.

Needless to say, there wasn't another, which was unfortunate because he was cute... but I wasn't about to call him and be like, "Hey! Want to go on another date where you can watch me wallow in abject misery, while getting drunk and sweating outside?" only to hear "Click. Bapbap-bapbap-bapbap-bapbap..." on the other end of the line.

I'm so awesome. My Christmas wish this year would be to erase that date both from his memory and from mine...

But back to the subject at hand - if you missed the Messiah, you should go next year. It's quick - about and hour and forty five minutes, and it's in English, and it's zippy, and it's familiar.

Happy Christmastides.

MUNNIES!!!

2010-12-16T17:27:00.001-08:00

Dear New Law Firm:

Today was a good day. Not only am I researching an issue that should be really boring, but is fascinating (diversity jurisdiction under 28 USC 133...2? and the addition of "window dressing" plaintiffs to avoid the "aliens on both sides of the v. destroy diversity jurisdiction") with a partner I really like, on a case that is making (and very soon will once again make) international headlines...

BUT YOU ALSO GAVE ME A HEFTY BONUS, AND I'VE ONLY BEEN THERE THREE MONTHS!

AND YOU ALSO TOLD ME "YOU'RE DOING A REALLY GOOD JOB, KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!"

Needless to say, I basically plotzed.

THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

YAYYYYY!

Love,

Me.

Bitchin'.

2010-12-15T19:51:00.000-08:00

I was out with Colin from Eat it, Miami tonight (we were friends before we started blogging) and we got to discussing blogging about food places, and how long it takes to write a post...I think we agreed it takes about an hour, give or take.

I don't know what his percentage is, but I don't think I write about seventy percent of the places I go. If nothing memorable happens, I'm less inclined to write about it. If the place is AWESOME, I may be inclined to write about it, and if it's ghastly terrible... I'm pretty much assured to write about it. I'm much better at complaining than praising.

Weirdly, last weekend I was introduced by someone in the fancy-pants advertising/fashion industry to a gaggle of other fancy-pants types, as a "Food blogger," and that sort of gave me pause.

I always thought I was just sort of bitching about stuff. And especially given my recent dearth of postings (I'm just soooooooooooo tiiiiiiiiired after my days at work since I started the new job) I think I hardly qualify as even a blogger anymore... but that's something I'm going to try to change.

If I'm ever able to dig myself out from under this immense pile of work I always have to do...

I really don't think I have a point to this post. Mostly that Colin and I agree that if a place just falls under completely average in every way, it's unlikely I'm willing to put finger to key to expound on it, positive or no...

/end Basel.

2010-12-05T14:36:00.001-08:00

My thoughts on Basel (Basel encompassing all of the satellite fairs and ancillary things to do...) as a whole this year?

It jumped the Shark, as everything does once the mouth-breathing hoardes from Kendall discover it (See, ArtWalk).

The art was fine. But there were only a few things that had me standing in front of them, wishing I had tens of thousands of dollars of disposable income.

Aqua, which was one of my favorite art fairs last year, was TERRIBLE this year - it was held in the Aqua Hotel, which was a godawful venue for the display galleries; to be fair, I was pretty burned out by the time I saw it, but I didn't really like the setup and I didn't really like the art.

On the whole, the best large exhibit I saw (besides Basel) was Pulse. But even Pulse didn't have much that made me quiver with art-envy.

Also, this year, everyone I talked to was sort of on the same wavelength - Basel lacked the electricity of years past. Thursday night was the one night that really crackled with that "Baseltime!" feeling. I went to Party on the Plaza, Rocket Projects, tried to go to Rainbow City, but the line was too long and we had to go to Wynwood Kitchen Bar and Grill at Wynwood Walls for dinner... Otherwise, the consensus between lots of my friends is that we were all going through the motions this year, without much enthusiasm. I think that's because some big mainstays (at least for me...) disappeared this year - Max Fish from last year was a great time, and the Gen Art Vanguard Party was always sort of a nice anchor. As Gen Art is defunct, and Max Fish wasn't installed this year... there wasn't as much focus for me.

Also, we're getting older, and I can't do Basel like I could five years ago (the difference between 25 and 30 is sort of amazing.) I'm tired. And the hangovers are worse and last longer.

Also, there wasn't as much free booze, and the lines for it were long.

But I really think what it is for people my age, is that we're so desperate to absorb every last drop of culture we can during the five-day Art-Orgy, that the binge stops being enjoyable around Thursday -- and there are three more days to go after that.

So, in sum, I saw a lot, I did an adequate amount (less than last year) and I had a decent time. I'm glad I got out, and I daresay this was the week when the most attractive people descended upon Miami. But then again, I like guys with beards and glasses. So, the nerdy eye-candy was out in full force. But... eh. I think Basel reached its Zenith in '07, '08 and '09. And although more and more stuff is popping up, while in years past it was possible to do a lot of Basel, now it's simply hopeless to even get to most of it...

Basel - I'm glad it's over for another year.

Three Fairs You Can Skip!

2010-11-30T19:55:00.001-08:00

I should have gone with my gut and gone to the VIP opening of Pulse tonight; but I didn't.

Instead Liza and I hit Art Miami, Scope and Art Asia.

I spent most of my time wandering around Art Miami pointing out things that were there last year, and bemoaning things that weren't there this year. (Like the deer with fire coming out of its side - where was that? Or the Steve Buscemi video loop with him standing in front of a blue curtain next to a side of beef, with upbeat whistly music playing - where was that?)

There were some hot musclebears (woof.) in Scope, and there was a weird knitted exhibit, with a guy wearing a knitted suit, head to foot. He ironed... using an iron...covered in knitting. Also, I saw EAT from The Heat Lightning; I always like seeing Liz at Basel events, but whenever I'm at them, I'm totally distracted and... awkward.

And Art Asia... I don't appreciate Asian art. There. I said it.

Liza and I spent much of our time booking through exhibits, kissing cheeks, and remembering Basels past "Remember when we got Havaianas flip flops from that "The Station" exhibit where Sugarcane is now?" "Remember when Art Miami had that weird VIP area in the center that was two-stories, and was all swaying and rickety?" "Remember how you told my dad that a piece of art he was looking at in Red Dot (SKIP THAT FAIR, ALWAYS) was crap?"

And then we went home.

Tomorrow: Vernissage Art Basel.

What impressed me tonight? The people watching. It ranks up there with Basel 2004.

Whoo.

Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!

2010-11-21T18:59:00.000-08:00

I'm off to wonderful Maryland on Tuesday for Thanksgiving! FLL to BWI, and then down the BW Parkway to 100 to 29 to 175 to two more streets and then to home!

As it's dubious that I'll be posting in the interim, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Quotable:

2010-11-15T20:06:00.000-08:00

I just posted this on the FB, in response to my friend (a single gal!) griping about life, and how she could use a little help.

This is basically where I'm at:

"'Independent' anything is crap. Being an adult blows, and is frustrating, and hard, and neverending. I want to move home with my parents, and have my socks washed and my meals cooked, and spend my days laying on my belly on a rug, propped on my elbows, dipping Chips Ahoy into milk and watching reruns of Mr. Belvedere at 4:30 in the afternoon."

That is seriously exactly what I want to do with my life right now.

Today. Was. Terrible.

2010-11-08T17:40:00.000-08:00

I hate daylight savings time.

HATE.

HATE HATE HATE. Hate it in the Fall, hate it in the Spring (but less-so.)

And I was still hungover from Saturday night.

But mostly? I hate that it's always dark now.

Hate.

Why can't kids wait for the bus in the dark? Nothing bad happens in the morning, anyway.

Huh?

Hate.

World Resources Cafe...

2010-11-07T14:47:00.000-08:00

I had lunch today at World Resources Cafe today - I met up with my friends Kat, Reed, Annhy and her adorababy, and despite my best attempts to be incognito as I was (and am) suffering from a terrible hangover as a result of one of the weekly weddings I attend, I pretty much saw everyone I knew on Lincoln.

World Resources is sort of wasted on me - I don't eat fish, so... I go there about once every two years until I forget why I don't typically go there - because their menu is 80% fish.

However, there is a new reason I may never go there again (until I forget today's trauma) - I was already in a pretty delicate state when we went to the restaurant - Kat, Reed and I popped into Finnegan's before we got to the restaurant, and I made them sit outside because the smell of chlorine in Finnegan's was... unsettling to me.

The ensuing meal at World Resources was completely inoffensive... until the end.

Some table near us ordered what must have been their "Dead Fishtank Special," because a ceaseless wave of the fishiest, wettest, rankest smell enveloped us. The smell made me retch. Literally. I ran from the table, but the smell was so strong, it was even smellable inside the art gallery that opened up in the old Sak's.

In the end, I threw down my credit card, told my friends to sign for me, and ran to the Pink Palm to await retrieval.

Hours later, and I can still smell it.

I have no idea who could eat such pungent and awful-smelling food... but... World Resources - you should probably check that Swordfish x 1,000,000,000 meal - it drives away customers.

The better you are... the more work you get.

2010-10-25T19:27:00.001-07:00

[Insert rich white-kid whine about working a lot and not posting here.]

/end.

Dee See.

2010-10-10T19:21:00.001-07:00

This autumn, I will have gone home once in September, once in October, and once in November.

And all it does is reinforce my desire to get the hell out of Florida.

Washington D.C. is a lovely, wonderful city.

Baltimore satisfies my desire for urban decay. And I picked up a Hugo Boss suit in Towson for a song. (Thanks, Mom!)

The leaves are only starting to turn red, and the weather was AMAZING. I went to a wedding at the French Embassy, which was lovely, and then my little brother took me to a party at 12th and V Streets...

Next big event that happens to me, I'm taking as my "sign from God" that I need to do what I want to do, and move home.

/end.

High tide? Whaaa?

2010-10-06T19:27:00.001-07:00

Having driven through eight inches of seawater on my way to and from work for the past two days, I'm glad to hear that Belle Island Blog is posting "high tide warnings" from the City of Miami Beach telling us that high tide will cause flooding around 10:00 a.m. tomorrow.

O RLY!?

Thanks, City of Miami Beach Department of Already-Known-Information.

Ugh. We all know. We know it's going to be floody and crappy for the next two days. We've already figured it out, because we have to drive through it, and then get our cars washed at least once a day.

Boo-urns. Didn't we just get high, high tides in June?

For all the people who don't believe in Global Warming and rising sea levels... um... move to Miami Beach.

It didn't used to flood like this, this extensively, this often.

And to the City of Miami Beach - WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING, ISN'T WORKING. FIX THIS.

To all the Carwash Owners of Miami and Miami Beach - enjoy your bonanza days.

And to the Moon: Screw you.

Why do I bother?

2010-10-02T13:17:00.000-07:00

I went to the Dragon Boat Race today.

Like the Redbull Flugtag, it's something I've always meant to go to and never had.

And like the Redbull Flugtag, it's something I never need to do again.

I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that almost anything that takes place in South Florida is done half-assed and is going to be a waste of time. I've tried to give this place the benefit of the doubt, but 9 times out of 10, the stuff I go to is fatally flawed.

I'm not exactly sure whether the dragon boats were some sort of race... if they were... it's basically watching Asian people race canoes with dragons on the prow. ::snore:: Horseracing is...minimally exciting. Canoe racing? Not. at. all.

I've never seen more Asians in Miami in one place. I estimate there may have been 400 people there. 200 of them Asian. Where I'm from, we have a substantial Asian population - Koreans, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Indians, Pakistanis... and so seeing Asian people wouldn't be noteworthy. But in Miami? It stuck out - because... because we have a comparatively (at least from everywhere else I've ever lived) tiny Asian population. So, I guess that was a plus. Or a neutral? Am I still talking?

The Food trucks that were there were fine - I honestly don't remember what was there besides Sakaya... I can see the trucks, but don't remember their names.

The truck that sold tacos was good.

The truck that sold "chippies," was... not good. "Chippies" are allegedly a cross between a chip and a french fry, but it's actually just a code word for limp, soggy homefries.

I also got the worst lo mein I've ever eaten in my life. Four hours later, I continue to burp it.

There was an assortment of tables with people selling...crap. In the neighborhood of crapvendors, it smelled like the Opa Locka Flea Market and/or Mumbai.

And lastly, while Gael and I were eating our terrible lo mein at a restaurant tent that had, for reasons unknown to us at the time been abandoned, my poor flip-flop clad feet were attacked by fire ants.

So we retreated to the Aventura Border's Going Out Of Business Sale.

E-panish.

2010-09-24T18:57:00.000-07:00

At this new place that I work they found out I speak Spanish: the Office Support people, the ~~typing pool~~ word processing unit... the lady who makes the coffee (I think we have a person solely devoted to doing that...), my secretary... the weird thing is... they all insist on speaking to me in Spanish, and want me to speak back. There's no "of course you speak Spanish. Everyone in the world does."

It's really weird. They treat me like I'm some sort of novelty. Like I'm a unicorn, and everyone wants to touch my horn. (That's what she said.) Or like I'm in some club - it's like when I was in summer camp, and we'd speak in "Gibberish," which, to this day remains one of the most satisfyingly difficult "kid languages" to speak -- I really don't see any reason to converse with my secretary in Spanish (she has a Jewish last name...) but they're all super impressed with my skillz, so... I guess I humor them. To a point. Then I give up because it's hard and I'm in the middle of something else that's mentally taxing, and, "yes, the bullfights in Sevilla were magical. Can you make me a copy now?"

Maybe it's because very few of the other attorneys speak Spanish so it's a common-thread that they share with me. That's cool, I guess. But the awe that people have at the fact that I can spit out a sentence in Spanish is unnerving. If I lived in Montana, it would be one thing, but this is Miami. Everyone speaks Spanish here - you have to. At my old firm, it was a requirement that I spoke Spanish. That was... hard. Making the law understandable is difficult enough in English... let alone Spanish. Eventually I got into a rhythm where my clients would speak to me in Spanish, and I would answer them (slowly) in English.

At the end of the day, it's flattering. You should have seen the Office Supplies guy's face light up when I asked him where the "boligrafos" were. I guess it's probably like Christmas when one of the future "Old White Guys" walks in and doesn't behave like an "Old White Guy." But I'm NOT an Old White Guy. I'm a young(ish) Jewy Homo, who happens to be in an Old White Guy line of work.

And even in Baltimore or D.C. I would understand the awe that these lovely people demonstrate when I tell them that yes, I was a double Spanish and Journalism major in College and yes, I lived in Spain, and thank you for the compliment on my ability to speak Spanish. But we live in Miami. This is a city where it's just assumed you speak, understand and read Spanish, and if you don't... move somewhere else.

The best was when I was doing a research project for a partner about something involving Panama, and I needed to read the underlying documents, and asked for them. He was explaining them to be and then said, "Wait, you speak Spanish, right?" "Yup." "Here ya go." That was pretty awesome. Only one of the other associates speaks Spanish, and I don't know whether he can read it so... one point for the 'Bee.

I'm not complaining. I like it. I like that I'm making my "ins" with the people who can push the right buttons for me, and get me what I need. It's just strange that going from a place that was like working in Havana, I'm now working in a place that's like...Raleigh.

Gigi's.

2010-09-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I suckered my friend Danya into going to Gigi's with me.

I was STARVING after a looooong day of lawyering and needed some noodles. I actually need some noodles tonight as well, so it remains to be seen whether I'll call and order from Kim's on Alton and Lincoln. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's deliciously terrible Chinese food.

But Gigi's.

I will be back.

If for no other reason, than to sit at the bar and get tanked on $2.00 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. If I wanted to upgrade to a 10 oz glass of Stella, it would be a paltry dollar more.

I really like this place. Like a lot.

The food solid - not orgasmically good, but it was decent.

But the place has excellent energy, and a bright, smiley, and friendly waitstaff.

And apparently, the guy behind the restaurant, who I gather was on Top Chef, was cooking that night, so he was rattling around the kitchen.

The inside gives me a "Fratelli Lyon" vibe - open, industrial, and bright - but this place has an open kitchen, and it's sort of mesmerizing to watch the fire come off the cooktop as things are stir fried.

I got (besides two $2.00 beers) the steamed pork buns (tasty, but everything these days has five-spice powder in it, and I'm not a gigantic fan - nevertheless, they're better than Sakaya's....) roasted corn with tofu schmear (this was the "eh-iest" dish we ordered) and pork ramen.

Danya shared the pork buns and the corn with me (and incidentally took me out for my 30th. Thanks, D!) She got curried duck leg with coconut risotto. Hers was tasty as well, but I couldn't imagine eating a whole plateful of it.

My ramen needed... salt. But there's soy sauce, Siracha, and some sort of oil in front of every two place settings, so in the end I was able to season the generous bowl of noodles, braised pork and snap-peas to my liking.

I think the best part about the restaurant is the service - we had a team of about three girls helping us, who had gigantic smiles plastered on their faces.

For dessert we had their non-dairy soft serve -- last night's flavors were coconut and chocolate fudge. The coconut soft serve was really good.

Gigi's is cheap. Crazy cheap. And the food is pretty and feels wholesome when you eat it. And the waitstaff is friendly and chipper. And the place has good energy, and an upbeat vibe. And the kitchen (which is open for everyone's inspection) is clean.

You should go to Gigi's. But you should sit at a table. So I can sit at the bar.

O. M. G.

2010-09-20T19:19:00.000-07:00

Hi.

What have I gotten myself into?

I like this new place; I like the work. I like the people. I do NOT like feeling like I did when I was a summer associate at Shutts & Bowen...where everything took FOREVER to research, and I had no clue what I was doing. I'm not good when I'm not on top of my game.

I'm a 5th year lawyer. I know how to do stuff. Except, apparently, answer the questions that are asked of me. Daubert whom? Repatriation order what?

Oh, you need me to read and understand 1,000 pages by tomorrow? And then to prepare two alternate sets of responses to discovery? No problem.

::stifled sob::

I'm gonna do this. I'm billing more hours than I thought possible. The days fly by. (I just finished my sixth.)

I'm cheerfully doing the work assigned to me, with just a tiny amount of visible panic.

But... how am I going to keep up this pace?

Oh. My. God.

Back to work.

Dirty.

2010-09-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

Thirty.

In thirty six minutes, I will be 30.

I haven't given this much thought. I haven't done ~~much~~ any planning. I got a new job, went home (to Maryland), quit an old one, started at the new one, and have billed almost 16 hours in my first two days at work. Which is what I should be billing. And what it was IMPOSSIBLE for me to bill at the old place. And which is amazing considering it takes around 10-12 hours to bill 8, and... there were forms to fill out on the first day, and a rushed training by a guy who couldn't be bothered to teach me the computer systems.

I guess the moral of the story is that I'm busy. But I forgot what it's like to work in a big place. And be new at it. I feel like I'm walking in on the middle of all these complicated conversations, and I have no idea what's going on. And everyone else knows each other.

I know my friend...and no one else. And when that happens, I get awkward and shy.

I'm trying desperately to get up to speed. But then every day at 5 a paralegal comes in and drops off another 500 pages of reading; or I get an email folder unlocked to me, containing 600 emails, all with 100s of pages of attachments.

As long as I can stay afloat = job security. Although what I'm billing right now should probably all be written off. ::sigh::

I just sort of wanted to ease in. And god-forbid this is me easing.

Anyway. I'm not miserable. Just stunned and adjusting.

And in another 30 minutes, I will turn 30.

And in all, I've done the big things I wanted to accomplish by 30. I've traveled (less so now than before); I've had a six-figure job. I've bought real estate and a fancy German car. I own mid-century antiques. I haven't lost much of my hair...

In my pictures, I appear to be having an amazing time... oh, and I got more photogenic.

I have friends who love me and whom I love, and I have a family who cares about me and loves me too.

I'm sort of glad I don't have the physical or emotional energy to get worked up about being 30.

20 seems so long ago. I don't even remember what I did on my 20th birthday -- probably went to...The Angelic.

::sigh::

Tomorrow I'll work. And work. And eat rice for dinner because I planned squat.

And that'll be fine. September is a notoriously bad month for my birthday here - it's really hot and I'm really busy.

So... I'm postponing this crisis. Until October. : )

But happy birthday to me. In 27 minutes.

Blog-About-Tapas-Y-Tintos-That-I-Will-Flesh-Out-Later.

2010-08-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

Tapas y Tintos on Espanola Way on Miami Beach used to be one of my favorite restaurants.

Until I brought my little brother and his girlfriend there on Saturday night.

It was. AWFUL.

Awful to the point that I probably won't be going back.

Their standouts were mediocre-to-bad (the pork loin was burnt and chewy, the patatas bravas were unceremoniously dumped on a plate, with a ramekin of thin hotsauce; previously they were mounded in an earthenware dish and dolloped with...thicker hot sauce, and even the queso de cabra al horno, goat cheese baked in tomato sauce was... lacking) their sangria comes in tiny pitchers, and is watered down...

And the busboys hover over you like flies, stealing half-eaten dishes and removing in-use plates.

I asked the waitress what the hell happened to the chef, but she told me he's the same...

Something's off there. I'll go back when they fix it.

Which is a damn shame. Because that used to be one of my standout restaurant recommendations on South Beach.

Pity.

New Beginnings.

2010-08-25T19:02:00.000-07:00

Bit o' news.

After five years at my firm, I have landed a new job.

A fancy new job, at a well-respected law firm. A law firm that has Barcelona chairs and orchids in the lobby.

Now I will be able to say the Firm's name when people ask me where I work and people will say, "Ohhhhh nice!" instead of "Where's that?"

I'll be doing some really interesting work, with some really, really great lawyers.

I'm excited, but surprised at how sad I'll be to leave the place I am now. Not sad enough to say no to this opportunity - because I'd be an IDIOT to pass up this fantastic opportunity that landed in my lap, care of a friend, but this really feels like breaking up with someone.

It's torn me apart for the last few days while I made the decision, accepted, and told my boss. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept, and I've been on the verge of tears while at work. Except, I think that's over now, and I think I'm moving towards joy at the possibilities this brings.

I can't explain why I was so miserable at the job, because I certainly liked the people I work with -- I'm so sad that I won't be seeing them every day, anymore. But I'm excited to go to a fresh place, with new people, and have my abilities wow people again, instead of it just being taken for granted that I'm going to perform a miracle.

What a great 30th birthday present. I start two days before. :)

Hi.

2010-08-22T17:59:00.000-07:00

Hi.

Sorry I've been slack on the posting.

I'm drowning in work and when I'm not working, I'm drowning in social events. Not that I'm complaining. I just wanted you to know why I'm not bangin' em out every night.

:)

Macaluso's.

2010-07-23T20:18:00.000-07:00

I'm about to say something blasphemous.

Macaluso's food was too salty.

My fingers are blown up like sausages right now. And I can hear my heartbeat.

I have been to Macaluso's twice in total, counting tonight. I don't really know why it's never been on my restaurant radar - oh, wait. Yes, I do - it's effing EXPENSIVE.

I took my friend to Macaluso's tonight, after I suggested it as an alternative to Joe Allen.

A side note: I have only, but ONLY positive things to say about Joe Allen. They used to have the best burger in Miami. Their waiters have been there FOREVER, and they're GREAT. Their food is always solidly good. And it can be the middle of the night or noon, and it always sort of looks the same inside (a little bluer during the day.) And the two things I usually drink there (iced tea, or a quartino (or two) of Sauvignon Blanc), come in their own little pitchers! If someone asks for a recommendation for South Beach, I always suggest Joe Allen, with the caveat that although it's sort of out of the way for the average tourist, it's a real. solid. locals institution. Once I saw Bobby Flay eating there (He was eating what I get! The Hamburger! [or Brioche French toast, with the best. bacon. ever.]) the day that I came down with the worst cold ever and my throat closed, and I had to go to the doctor and get on steroids.

But I'm way off topic.

Macaluso's.

I had a glass of their house Pinot Noir. It was good. It was $16.00/glass. My friend abstained - as this was an unusual move on her part (quite, QUITE unexpected, actually), I naturally asked her, "What are you? Pregnant?" the answer to which was, "Yes. It's a super, super secret, so don't tell anyone."

So it was going to be an evening of surprises. Surprises that their cannoli was like eating my childhood - it tastes exactly like the cannoli from Vaccaro's in Baltimore (nom!)

Surprises like that I saw Lesley Abravanel dining there this evening (although I see her everywhere - like at Amy's Overtown Project thingy last weekend) and am now reporting on seeing the Celebrity Gossip Columnist at a restaurant (which seems ironic)

Surprises like their $26.00 Spaghetti and Meatballs with Ricotta, was incredibly, finger-puffingly salty. And the spaghetti (or linguine) was al-dente to the point of nearly crunchy.

Like that their ricotta cheesecake is completely unnecessary after a plate of salt, with spaghetti, sauce and meatballs to accompany the salt, but was completely delicious.

And like our waitress had such a thick Queens Guido accent, that I was a little afraid she'd try to punch me in the jaw.

All in all the meal was fine. The service was fine. The desserts were divine. But I feel like I just ate a bucket of Lo Mein, and my fingers are all... puffy.

It reaffirmed why I don't go there. It's fine. But if they're known for their meatball... and their meatball is twenty six dollars for... a meatball...

Eh. For that kind of money at Joe Allen, I can get a hamburger AND a glass of wine.

Bar Time!

2010-07-20T18:24:00.000-07:00

One of my friends from high school is getting ready to take the bar, and she's understandably nervous.

I was nervous as well - if you look back in my blog archives from July, 2005, I'm basically a wreck. (I also noticed that my writing style has changed; for the better, I would hope.)

Anyhoo - in the event that anyone is about to take the Bar, here are my sage words of advice to my friend; I think they bear repeating, because in hindsight, the experience, while awful, was really valuable.

You know what the worst is? After you've taken it, and passed, and practiced, you start thinking, "Geez... if it weren't so goddamn expensive, and if I didn't have to take the MBE again, and could just take the State portion, I'd totally take more bars." The MBE is the worst. The state portion is a breeze. Especially if you're typing your essays. And I took one of the harder bars.)

I actually miss studying for the bar. I miss where you are right now. Enjoy it. It's sort of an oddly special time in your life, when you get to be dirty, and cranky and subsist on granola bars and frantic calls to your mother. And smoke, and whine and remember what the Rule in Shelley's Case is, and try to figure out metes and bounds questions, and whether something is inadmissible hearsay or not.

Everyone who's been there knows where you are right now. : ) And someday you'll be one of us, looking back, and realizing that the decision to take (and pass) the bar was the worst decision you ever made, and has ruined your life. ; )

And also, N@@@@@@@ - whatever happens, you. are. not. going. to. lose. your. job. : )

You're going to walk in there, knowing that you've done everything you could have done to prepare (and I know you have, even if you're thinking "Ugh! But I went out to eat that one time, and I could have been doing questions!" [No, you couldn't. You needed to go out to eat.]) and you're going to take the bar. The mind-fuck that's the period leading up to it is the worst. But you're about to enter the phase where you're so burnt out you really don't care anymore and you want to get it overwith.

The evening before - the DAY before, don't study. Get settled into whereever you're staying to take it (I had to drive to Tampa, from Miami) and just... relax... to the extent you can.

Then, the morning of, wake up, have your coffee and something proteiney to eat, bring your bag of pencils and put some Hershey's Kisses in the bag, and tell them you're diabetic if they give you a hard time. Have earplugs. You're going to see the huge room it's in, have a mini-freakout, and then realize that these are all other people who have dyslexia and who haven't studied, because they have day jobs, or partied too much, etc. There may be a huge clock above you, counting down, it's your friend, not your enemy. It's telling you how much time you still have, not the time that's gone by. Breathe, and focus on the test. Eliminate the "always" and "never" answers, and when you're between the last two or three... go with your gut, and don't change your answers after you decide on one.

Make sure you're bubbling in the MBE numbers that correspond to the question. ; )

Don't talk to other people during lunch about the test; it'll freak you out. Avoid those people from law school who stress you out. Embrace those in whom you find solace and comfort. You'll see lots of familiar faces - associate with the good ones, and wish the bad ones good luck, to align your Karma. Make sure you poop before you leave in the morning. Bring a sweater, just in case.

Be nice to yourself, and don't let everyone else's anxiety pull you into the collective panic. That's their problem, don't feed into it. Give lots of hugs, and ask for them if you need them.

People from your past are pulling for you; and if that gawky little Freshman that was me can pull it out, that unflappable girl in the overalls can, too.

When it's done, get drunk.

You're ready.

Flugtag is German for "Sweaty Fail."

2010-07-10T13:07:00.000-07:00

This post may be a little disjointed. I may be suffering from heatstroke after going to Redbull's Miami Flugtag.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of Flugtag... Redbull (the best thing to mix with Vodka and chug when you're out and having a terrible time...) sponsors an event in multiple U.S. cities, wherein jackasses construct papier mache objects, get inside them (or on top of them) and then push them off a raised ramp, into a body of water, in front of tens of thousands of spectators, who presumably should be cheering, but...as it turns out, can't see what's happening. So, there's not much cheering.

It's kind of the stupidest thing ever, and therefore, I figured it'd be a rollicking good time. In all years past, I haven't managed to make it there, because I've been too hungover from the night before.

Not this year, I wasn't! Not even after a deafening dinner at Opa! (Note to Opa: Turn down the GODDAMN music - your food is delicious, but it's not so great that I'm willing to sacrifice my hearing for it) and some time at the Florida Room, to where we retired after manwhores (the first ones I've ever seen!) tried to entice some of the fine Greek ladies with whom I was hanging last night into their beds for a mere $150.00 per night.

But I'm way off topic. Flugtag.

I suckered Liza into coming to Flugtag with me, expecting there would be...some sort of organization to the madness going on at Bayfront Park. There was none. There was no raked seating, there wasn't much shade, there wasn't much of anything except SUN and HEAT and SWEAT-STAINED PEOPLE.

Everyone was miserable. There was no free Redbull. There was no free water. We stood on a bench by the center fountain (best seats in the house, I'd wager) and watched a couple rafts take the plunge, each time exclaiming, "OhhhhhhHHHHHHHH...awwww."

I saw something I'd never seen before - the moment when beads of sweat erupted on my knees and my ankles, and then rolled down my legs. I've felt it plenty; before today, I'd just never seen it. My friend Ashley met up with us at around the time Liza announced she was going to faint, and scrambled off to sit down in one of the two patches of steamy shade.

I watched another raft go before throwing in the towel and giving up. I found Liza, and we got a restorative margarita at the Intercontinental, where I was relieved to see that I actually completely sweat through two shirts. Sweat win!

The feedback I got from other friends who were there (into whom I did not run, because I couldn't see for the sweat dripping into my eyes) was that everyone thought it was a dangerously hot shitshow, and why isn't it held in like...April, when the weather's nice? Everyone noted the dearth of water, and my friend Ashley raised an interesting point - we did not see one. single. person. in a crowd of 80,000, drinking a Redbull.

Curious, no?

OMFG, IDGAF.

2010-07-08T18:39:00.001-07:00

I don't know who LeBron James is. I don't care who he is. Heat Games = downtown traffic, and my friends not being available for dinner. I'm looking at you, Liza.

So, not giving a "toss" about who this guy is, here is a collection of my friends' Facebook Status Updates from the last fifteen minutes, when, apparently, the most earth-shaking news came down from on High at ESPN about some... basketball player. I'm only including the James references, and have left them exactly as written (except for one last-name redaction) but here goes:

1) Pat Riley is the KING of Miami. This is just amazing.

2) Who is this Myron Janes everyone keeps talking about? (That was me.)

3) not really a bball fan but Holy Cow the Heat are going to be good.

4) how many times do you think we will go to miami for heat games?

5) Cleveland, you already got Betty White this year. Don't be greedy.

6) lebron james is goin to MIAMI and brian ****** is goin to MIAMI!

7) MIAMI HEAT DYNASTY BEGINS!!!!

8) LBJ in the MIA. The only person who can stop the championships from coming in is David Stern.

9) Fun time to live in Miami.

10) Thank you so much carnival cruise line owner and I bow down to you Pat Riley!!!!

11) the trifecta is complete....

12) Really loves basketball, and always has

13) The heat is on!

14) The things I like about basketball are the touchdowns... And the occasional homerun.

15) WOW!!! Welcome LeBron...

16) Bienvenido a Miami Sr James!!

17) our economy's based on lebron james....

18) :: for some reason my heart just broke. LBJ why not jusy be loyal and stay in Cleveland?

19) Lebron! You can hear it for new york but Miami is where the heat is at!!! Welcome king James

20) YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

21) can hear the screams and horns honking outside. We got Lebron bitches!!!! I can't believe it! Go Heat!!!

22) LeBron to Miami. Was that worth an hour long special?

23) Go Miami! But winning & turning your back on those who have always supported you isn't a very good message for all those little boys & girls.

24) LeBron to Miami!!!!

25) Love me some lebron

26) Ugh

27) Thank you LeBron!!!

28) And Lebron picks Miami!!!

29) WOHOOOOOOOOOOOO-DREAM TEAM IN MIAMI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have also de-friended every one of these people.

Soooo... Yay basketball? There's some guy who's gonna play here? I guess it's real exciting?

Bully!

Epic!

2010-07-07T19:35:00.001-07:00

Here are three crappy iPhone pictures of Norwegian Cruise Line's Epic on its Maiden Night here in Miami, allllll lit up like a...~~Christmas Tree~~ cruise ship. Mostly. It doesn't look like many people are on it, as the cabins were mostly dark.

It's a big ship. A big, boxy ship. An odd shape, really; probably makes it unsinkable or something. I hear the hull is riveted together and has watertight compartments that use electric power to close -- from the BRIDGE! (Titanic jokes!)

I think my friend Kevin is in a show on the Ship - he made the Atlantic crossing on it. He had terrible seasickness. I recommended that he shut himself in the shower. I hear that's the best cure for seasickness - enclosed spaces.

I think I'll probably warm to the Ship's design (although I'm not going to warm to NCL's painting leis and flowers on the bows of its ships...ever.) and someday soon, while the ship's still new, and not awful, I'd like to take a spin on it. Go to the Churrascaria. Hang out in the absurdly-huge-looking gym. Go to its ice bar. Ride on its waterslide...

Eat buffet with chunky people from St. Paul and Tulsa...

You get the idea.

Anyway - onto the Big Boat - NCL's largest, and the 5th largest afloat. (Rhymes!)

(If you click on the pics, they enlarge. Heh.)

Also, as a side note, Rick from SFDB, apparently caught me in mid-post while this was a "Work in Progress" with sloppy ginormous pictures flabbing all over the place, hence his WTF? comment (I'm hoping, anyway). Inadvertently, I guess he stumbled upon how I write - get something up. Look at it. Tweak it. Look at it again. Tweak it some more... Realize what time it is. Say, "Eh. That'll do," and haul off to bed...

Anyway - champagne dreams, caviar wishes, and all that.

Tacotento? No estuve.

2010-07-02T19:50:00.001-07:00

Tonight, my friend Ashley and I dined at the newly opened Tacotento, on Lincoln Lane, on the Beach. You know, across the street from Buck15, and next to Bar 721, formerly Laundry Bar...and in the space that was formerly a gym? That place.

I already had some history with this place, having gone there on two rumors that it had opened, only to find out those rumors were...wrong. The last time, Daily Candy did it to me... jerks... and when we stopped by the restaurant, there was still paper on the windows.

So, given that history, I was sort of saving this review for the Heat Lightning (EAT asked me to contribute, and I wanted to have something good n' juicy for her) but... our experience there was so outright bad, I don't even want to spend the effort being wry and jerky about it, nor making this my debut piece on that blog.

Next time, EAT.

Anyway, on to the review: They were packed. Which is good.

Their staff doesn't speak English terribly fluently; some neither speak English nor Spanish fluently. It's loud.

And everything that could go wrong, did.

But I want them to survive, so here's my review...go once the restaurant finds its groove... give it three weeks.

Maybe I'll go back then... and have more to say, besides do not get the Pa'lambre. It tastes like it looks. Which is not a good thing. And skip their gluey pink rice, and pasty beans.

I mean, even though, "if you can't say something nice, then come sit next to me," is pretty much my motto, I at least like to give a restaurant props in its while ragging on the bad parts of the experience.

I guess I'll just say in this case, that they were apologetic... but not enough to comp anything on the bill. And it's wise of them to build in their 15% gratuity.

Let's Play Pioneers!

2010-06-29T17:25:00.000-07:00

24 hours ago, I embarked on an adventure. It was a quasi-voluntary adventure... as my action (or willful inaction, based on a mistaken belief that FPL always calls you before they cut off your power) lead to me going on the adventure. I lived through a night that was kind of like being back in 1882. Kind of.

Here's the adventure: I got home last night (with bags full of vegetables from Publix to be refrigerated and frozen!) to find that my power had been cut off.

Tee-hee.

It's not that I didn't have the money to pay my electric bill; I did. It's just that as a Member of Generation-Y (maybe I'm a Millennial?) I feel that certain things should be extended to me, free of charge, just for existing - electricity, for example.

And so I hold off as long as possible to pay the non-credit-reported bills, because in my heart of hearts, I can't believe that BellSouth or Atlantic Broadband or FPL, for serious, expect me to pay for my God-given rights to Internet, Cable, or Power. And every month, I expect to get a letter in the mail saying, "Remember how you're supposed to pay bills for this? Never mind! Enjoy it, free of charge, forever!"

Also, I'm a moron. Or I'm irresponsible. Whatever.

So I had an outstanding bill for $150.00? And so I received the Notice that was all, "FINAL NOTICE BEFORE POWER IS CUT OFF," which, in the past, hasn't been - the final notice, that is. FPL always calls. Sometimes more than once. And they're like "Heyyyy! Pay your bill, 'kay? Or we gonna cut off your power, 'kay? Ohhh noooo!" (FPL sounds like Bruce on Family Guy.)

And as soon as I get that call, I mosey over to the closest computer (or my phone), log in, and pay the bill. "Oooookayyyyyy. Fiiiiine." Voila. Crisis averted. I just like to get a little extra bang for my electricity-buck, and the extra mail and phone calls make me feel like FPL cares about me and wants to reach out to me.

I also like to keep my money for as long as possible, in the case of an emergency - like if my power were to be cut off, say.

So.

Picture it: 8:20 p.m., I unload twelve bags of refrigerated and frozen food into my place, not bothering to turn on the lights, because... I'm a bat?

Once the bags are loaded, I go to the bathroom for a whizz, and notice that the light doesn't turn on. My first thought is that somehow, I have blown out this wall again (as I did once before) and, "Oh, crap, now I'll have to hire an electrician."

It's only when I went to the kitchen and hit that light, and nothing happened that it slowly dawned on me what might have happened... a realization which grew stronger as I looked at the dark display on my stove.

"Crap! Noooooo... they always, always, ALWAYS call first..."

My place was a steamy 83 degrees (I turn up the A/C when I'm away for the day) and I had no power.

Blindly, I began shoveling groceries into the fridge and into the freezer, and then I whipped out my phone, which I was chagrined to see was running low on power, logged into my FPL account, and paid. Easy as that.

Know what I expected?

That the lights would just *POOF!* pop back on.

They didn't.

I scrolled around on my phone for a number to call. And realized that FPL's customer service line closes at 8. It was now 8:30.

Sweat began pouring down my face. Because it was hot. And because I'd been lugging groceries. And also, I sweat when I'm nervous.

I began tearing off my work clothes, and realized I needed to haul ass back to Publix for some ice for the fridge and dry ice for the freezer, to ensure that I didn't just toss $100.00 worth of groceries to their warm, withering doom, so, into cooler clothes I popped, and got my supplies.

Along the way I called FPL - I wanted them to TELL ME that they were closed. I get very indignant when I'm completely in the wrong. Somehow I got a person... I hinted around, and then asked him directly, whether he could hit the button on his computer that turned my power back on.

Apparently, that's not the way it works.

Apparently, they actually send someone to your electric meter, and throw a switch, and clip a wire, and... whatever else they do when they want to send a message, and cut off your power. And apparently, re-connecting was a bit more than a mouse-click away.

I was told that my power would be, "restored within 24 hours of payment - which was received at 8:26 p.m." I asked the guy what the chances were that my power would be back on that night - he skirted the question, until I was like, "is it like there's a slight chance? Or no chance at all?"

"More like no chance at all."

Crap.

SOOOOO... I bought 20 bucks worth of ice and dry ice, and lapped up the a/c in my car, cuz I sure weren't gettin' any when I got back home...

I loaded the dry ice into the freezer...which was still frozen...thank God... and parceled the ice into bowls and Zip-loc bags for the fridge, working to open the fridge and freezer as little as possible.

I conducted this frantic parceling and finger-burning (freezing?), by the light of two measly flashlights, and a candle...which I carefully lit and set down on the counter... right next to a pile of paper. (I learned many lessons about living without power, and keeping food frozen and cold from Hurricane Wilma. Thank you, Wilma. I also learned many lessons about what happens in your fridge, when the bags of ice aren't water-tight. Thank you, Wilma.)

Once the food situation was stabilized, I worked on rounding up the rest of my flashlights, and re-batterying the dead ones. I have many flashlights.

I made myself a light (ha! get it?) romantic little dinner of a bag of lettuce parsimoniously procured from the penultimate time I allowed myself to open the refrigerator, and 1/4 of a loaf of French bread, which I washed down with Gatorade, iced down by the glass-full of ice I allowed myself from my ice purchases. I enjoyed my dinner by flashlight, as I filled my bathtub with cold water.

By the time I finished eating and filling the tub, it was almost 10:00... so... I took a cooling dip in the tub, which felt great when I got in... but water doesn't really dry off and/or cool your body when your place is running at 85% humidity, and 83 degrees... so after my little bath, I just felt... sweaty.

I spread some cushions on the floor (my floors are marble tile) and rested my belly, my legs, and my forearms on the cooling floor, to read a little Sedaris, to wile away the hour (and a half) before I could justifiably try to get to bed. I looked like a dog. Or a squashed bug. But the floor was cool, and lovely.

I have to say, the worst part of the experience is that I sleep with lots of white noise, and... there was none. So, buses and scooters woke me through the night. After drugging myself I did drift off into a warm, fitful night's rest... waking up only 20 minutes before the L.L. Bean travel alarm I managed to dig up from 1997 went off...

Before leaving for work this morning, after my cold shower, I turned down my A/C so that when the power did kick on again it could start the de-humidification process well before I got home.

I tried to turn off anything else that I could imagine would be damaged by the inevitable power surge, when electricity was restored, and left, praying for my perishables.

And tonight, I sit in my luxuriously appointed apartment, with cold air blasting from the vents...

In complete darkness, save for the glow of my computer.

I have to say, other than the lack of white noise, the paranoia about my frozen foods, and the inevitable disappointment that would unfurl whenever I'd hit a light switch, only to remember what my idiocy had lead to...

It really wasn't all that bad. At least for one tolerable night.

And that, my friends, is the story of how I, a delicate, delicate flower (I just really need a/c) made it through the night that FPL finally gave me my what-for.

Reflections on eight years ago.

2010-06-23T18:36:00.000-07:00

I feel like we don't get those sticky, gray, late-June days anymore. When the sky is a milky sheet of rolling shades of colorlessness, and there's no wind, and as soon as you walk outside, you pant, and the sweat beads on your back, and trickles down your spine, and 'tween your cheeks.

Stifling. And gray. And still.

But I guess we still got those gray hot days in 2002, when I made my first post-dead-grandmother trip down to Florida to look at the University of Miami.

I applied to UM Law as a safety school, with no intention of going there. It was like Hofstra - it was a school of last resort.

My LSAT score meant that my Harvard and my Yale Law applications were rolled up and put to use starting the fireplace of the 1913 apartment I was in, in Madison, but I was fairly certain I'd end up at Fordham, or St. John's or at least the University of Maryland (heyyy, in-state tuition!) I mean, I graduated college with a 3.7 for God's sake... I wasn't going to end up at some school for morons.

But the tech-bubble burst of 2001, and ensuing mini-recession, meant that everyone was going to law school in 2002. And schools that were once "sure things" were no longer. And the wait-list letters came rolling in.

Maryland - Waitlisted. Fordham - Waitlisted. William & Mary - Rejected (surprise, surprise...) Hofstra - Accepted, with Scholarship! (Not gonna happen). Queen's College - Accepted, with Scholarship! And multiple telephone calls! (Not gonna happen). UW-Madison - Waitlisted. Rutgers Camden - Waitlisted. St. John's - Waitlisted. Miami - Accepted.

I think there were others, but I don't remember them. Oh, yeah, Chicago Kent at the Illinois Institute of Technology - accepted to the Night program. (WTF?)

It was grudgingly - scowlingly, exceedingly grudgingly that I came down to Miami to look at the school. I fully expected to get into one of my wait-listed schools, but needed to check out this school which was marginally better than my other two choices. It was just in case. But anyway, it was in the wrong. geographic. area.

I hate heat. And I love taking trains. And walking fast. And crowded urban streets.

And I thought Miami was a cultural wasteland full of stupid people, illegal immigrants, drug wars, and the elderly. Even the bumpin' gay scene wasn't even on my radar. Miami was Parrot Jungle, Vizcaya, and being fifteen, awkwardly eating tacos on Ocean Drive with my parents next-door to Mango's.

So intense was my contempt for Miami that I booked myself down on a Southwest flight, that left at 7:30 a.m. from BWI - FLL, and booked myself a return ticket around 7:30 p.m. from FLL to BWI, getting in around 9:30... So that would leave me about four or five hours to see the campus before heading back to the airport.

I had no intention of staying in Miami for longer than necessary.

I certainly wasn't going to SLEEP there.

I remember getting off the plane, renting a white Ford Escort, and driving from FLL to UM. I remember the gray. I remember the heat. I remember thinking that the stretch of 95 between Hollywood to US-1 was possibly one of the ugliest stretches of road in the history of mankind.

Abruptly, I found myself an an alien landscape, where I-95 ended (a concept that was unimaginable to me before that day in June, 2002) and dumped into US-1. And where I was sitting in an inexplicable traffic jam at 11:30 a.m. underneath...what are those? Elevated train tracks? Who has an elevated train anymore?

I got lost on the way to school, because no one bothers to tell anyone from up North that Ponce de Leon makes a perpendicular curve and heads into the heart of the Gables - and that taking the first turn on Ponce is wrong... or if you do take the first turn onto it, to head southwest and not North? West? What direction is that? To this day, I have no idea. I think it's North.

It was at the Hotel Saint Michel (or whatever it was called) that I realized I was no longer in the possible vicinity of the University, that I was lost, and asked for help. I was instructed to turn around, and when I got back to the EL tracks (that's what I called them, anyway...) and to take Ponce south, as it paralleled US-1.

I was already off to a promising start.

Eventually I found the school, and turned down a winding, green, unremarkable street, into a wide expanse of asphalt (the Law School parking lot). I parked my unremarkable rental car, and walked into an unremarkable square building with a huge quad in the middle of it, where, remarkably, the classrooms appeared to open...into the outside?

What the hell?

There were mosquitoes, and an unremarkable tour. There was a fountain, and being uncomfortably compelled to ask unremarkable questions of the lady giving me and another kid (who didn't end up going there) a look around the School. There's not much to the law school. We saw the Library, scuffed and with buzzing lights. A couple doors opened for us, into unremarkable classrooms with stadium seating, letting out merciful gusts of cold, dry air...

I remember windows sweating on the outside.

And me sweating. Into my clothes.

After being thoroughly underwhelmed by the tour, I strolled around campus a little bit. My image of a proper campus (like UW-Madison's) was stately brick, and yellow limestone buildings, covered with and ivy, and flowers planted in the shape of a "W" or of Bucky Badger. Of clock towers, and Brutalist architecture, coexisting beside Mediterranean-Gothic Revival structures. Of quads, and fountains, and paths, and Neoclassical architecture. And there should be a lake on which to sail. And possibly a gigantic red brick armory/gymnasium from 1895.

Miami just had rolling fields of grass that I knew you couldn't walk on (fire ants!) and no flowers. Big elephant ear plants, and boring palm trees, and strange 50s architecture.

And mosquitoes. And I had swamp-ass.

I was only too happy to get back in my Escort and putt-putt back up to FLL, and only to happy to drag my damp and stinking carcass onto the plane home.

I came, I saw, I could stand it if I had to go there, but hopefully, that was the worst case scenario.

Flash forward 8 years.

How the hell am I still here?

In early job interviews, people would ask how I ended up in Miami, and I would lie and say that I wanted to use my Spanish, and I loved the family I had down here, and wanted to see them in their twilight years... and I wanted to escape the cold of Wisconsin!

It was all bull. I came here, because it was the best I could do at the time.

I settled.

In both senses of the word.

An Open Letter to my Car:

2010-06-22T17:41:00.000-07:00

Dear 2004 Mercedes C230 Kompressor Sedan:

Go fuck yourself. From a couple months after I brought you home, you have always had something wrong with you. Fuel pump issues, door handles breaking off, tires exploding on the freeway, calipers rusting shut, brakes disappearing, and your latest stunt, with the alternator failing this morning, and me enjoying a functional meltdown on 836 on the way into work... that was awesome. As was the $1,000.00 I spent on buying you a new alternator and a new battery today. I hope you enjoyed your oil change, bitch.

I pour money into you. Money for premium gas. Money for the tires you eat. Money for this, money for that. Coils, and sparkplugs, and insurance and on, and on, and on.

And I'll say this: before the oxygen sensors in the engine went bad (oxygen sensors I was GETTING READY TO REPLACE, TO THE TUNE OF $600.00) you were a zippy, car. Now you're like driving a Honda. Only I can take turns a little faster.

I pay you off in December, and so help me... you better check it with the expensive repairs. You've got less than 75K miles on you, and I feel like we're approaching some sort of disastrous climax. It'll be interesting to see how that climax plays out, because as a result of today's repairs, the SRS light came on, which goddamn well better not mean I have to replace your airbags, because if I do... well, let's just say you might "go off a bridge" and end up "in Biscayne Bay," and be a "total loss."

Check yourself, car. Or I'm gonna trade you in for a Honda Insight faster than you can say "Kompressor."

2010-06-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

When I was little, my parents would ship me off to Boston for a week during the summer to stay with my grandmother. The collage of those weeks in my mind, are some of the happiest moments of an otherwise very happy childhood.

One of my grandmother's favorite memories is as follows:

I would have been about four or five years old. A yearly tradition was to go into Boston one morning to ride the Swan Boats on the Common, and feed the birds. She would pop a big bag of popcorn (this is 1984 or 85 so...so we're talking about loose kernels here...) and she and I would ride the T into the City and get off at Boston Commons. After the boat ride, out of her purse, which had a near endless supply of Nips Candies, sour balls, aspirin, schmutz-removers (Kleenex and spit) and everything else imaginable, would come the bag of popcorn. We'd go by the water's edge and feed the birds the popcorn. (We didn't know it was bad for them back then.)

Pigeons, geese, sparrows and swans would flock to us. In one hand I held the bag of popcorn. With the other hand I would distribute the popcorn to my eager avian friends, who would devour it with gusto.

At one point, I guess a handful didn't make it onto the ground fast enough, and a Canadian Goose nipped a kernel out of my hand. It didn't bite me per se, but it nipped, and it scared the crap out of me.

My grandmother loved to tell the story of how I let out a shriek, and threw the bag of popcorn up in the air.

We can all figure out what happened thereafter.

I was a tiny five-year-old in my little overalls and tiny Pumas, covered in popcorn and birds, screaming with fear. I escaped completely unscathed, but I think we went to Cabot's Ice Cream afterward to calm my frazzled little nerves.

I can still her her hooting with laughter as she recounted the story.

Bei mir, bistu shein, Bella.

Three of my Grandmother's Doubtlessly Terrible Recipes:

2010-06-09T20:27:00.000-07:00

"Po Nichbar Bella Bat Yitzchak, niftarah 8 Sivan 5760. Tehi nishmato tzeruah b'tzurur ha-chayim. Here lies Bella, daughter of Isaac, who died on June 11, 2000. May her Soul be bound up in eternal life."

Friday, the 11th, is my Grandmother's yahrtzeit. Bella Simons Cohen graced the Earth with her presence between January 18, 1920 - June 11, 2000. Although it's been ten years, I still miss her terribly, and trips to Massachusetts are an exercise in tongue-biting memory suppression. And I rarely go to Ft. Lauderdale for the same reason: Lauderdale by the Sea, and Hawaiian Gardens on Oakland Park Boulevard are basically self-imposedly verboten for me.

Still, she comes to me in my dreams sometimes, which is nice; I wish she'd come more often, because as it is, when she comes, I can't even get any words out to her, for hugging her so hard. It's amazing how little emotional healing can take place in 10 years time.

My friend Meredith is to be married on the 11th. And we'll probably be under sail on the wedding cruse at 4:30 p.m., which is when Babe faded to black. I'll think of my grandmother in the morning; say Kaddish before I leave the house. At 4:30, she wouldn't want me to think of her; she'd want me to focus on the here and now, and the celebration of my friend's marriage. She wouldn't want me to remember her too much on Friday, but I know I will. Cancer is a bitch.

She was a godawful cook, but a pretty accomplished baker. Her ruglach were known in my family. She also made these paprika-matzah meal potatoes that were out of this world. I have to get that recipe from my aunt. I can make her Sweet and Sour meatballs - I think I've published the recipe here once or twice. And to this day, if I eat a roast chicken, I only like it if it's been dried to dust.

We always said that the epitaph on her tombstone should be "Shit! Shit! Shit!" which is what she used to exclaim when she was pissed...or couldn't find her cah-kees. I guess the epitaph "Beloved wife and mother" works, but she left behind five grandchildren and a great granddaughter that still miss her hugs, and her laugh, and her drawer full of Snickers bars and the trace smell of Shower to Shower... and the sound of her flip-flopping around her house in her Dr. Scholls slippers, and the morning clinking of her spoon against the side of the glass, mixing her Metamucil.

So that the memory of my Grandmother lives on, I give you the first four of some of her recipes, exactly as written. It's funny - the recipes aren't terribly complicated, but seem to leave out certain steps or assume you know how to do certain parts of the recipes. I'd have no problem following most them... but I wonder if others would.

1) Bea's Brownies (Possibly my grandmother's recipe, because she went by Beatrice, Bea, Babe... or Bella.)

1/4 lb butter
1 1/2 cup sugar
3 eggs
3 sqs. melted bake choc
1/2 cup milk
1 1/3 cups flour
1 teas salt
1 teas vanilla
3/4 cup nuts or more

Cream butter with sugar. Add eggs. Add melted choc. then alternate milk with flour and salt. Add vanilla. Add nuts - bake - bake in flat pan 1/2 hr - 350 degrees. Test with tooth pick.

Let me know how they turn out... They don't sound terribly chocolaty.

2) Cinnamon Apple Coffee Cake

1 3/4 cup cake flour
1 1/2 tsp b. powder
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp soda
1/2 cup shortening
3/4 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 cup sour cream
1 tsp vanilla
cinnamon sugar
1/4 cup chopped nuts
3 lge apples sliced thin.

Sift flour with b. powder, soda + salt. Cream shortening with sugar. Add eggs + beat until light & fluffy. Add flr. alternately with cream. Add vanilla. Pour 1/2 batter in greased pan (9x9x2). In sm bowl combine 1/2 cup sugar + 2 tsp cinnamon. Sprinkle this + nuts over batter in pan. Top with apples. Add remaining batter and spread evenly. Sprinkle top with remaining cinnamon sugar. Bake at 370 degrees 40-45 minutes.

3) Noodle Kugle (Carolyn Selby)

1/2 # Fine Noodle (cook + drain) (This probably means 1/2 pound egg noodles)
Add 1/2 # cottage cheese
1/2 pt sour cream
1/4 # melted margerine
6 eggs
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup raisins
1 tsp vanilla
2 cups milk.

3 qt buttered baking dish. Sprinkle cinnamon sugar. Bake one hour at 325 degree oven.

4) Strudle. (My great-grandmother, my grandmother's mother, emigrated to the United States in 1904, from Russia, but there were distinctly German traits about her, according to my mother. One of which was that she made strudel. This may be her recipe, which would go back 100 years or more. I don't know that I'd be able to pull this one off...

4 cup flour scant
1 tsp b. powder
1/2 tsp of salt
1/2 cup oil
2 tbsp sugar
2 eggs (well beaten)
lemon juice (little)
1/2 cup hot water

Roll out very thin. Brush with oil. Make compote of jam marmalade + whatever + spread all over rolled out sheet. Sprinkle with cinnamon + sugar + nuts. Roll (or Pull) out in long thin strudeler type + put in pan (cookie sheet). Cut in angle but not threw. Again cinnamon + sugar top + bake at 350.

I can honestly say I'd give up 10 years of my life to be eight years old again, staying with her for a week in the summer. Of all the grandchildren, I was the favorite; and ten years later, I'm the one that still hasn't fully processed that she's gone, like, for good.

What the Eff, Posture?!

2010-06-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

Wugh. That's what I have to say about the state of my posture. "Wugh." (Pronounced "wuuuuuuuah").

I'm so slouchy it's ridiculous. When I sit down, I basically curl over into a "C..." well, more like an "f" and it's been something I've been mindful of for YEARS, and can't figure out how to change!

By the time I'm an old man, I'm going to be facing my knees, if I keep going at this rate.

Whenever I feel myself slouching, I sit up straight, which I manage to do for a while, until I stop paying attention, and then it's like "woossssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhh" (that was the sound of air slowly going out of a balloon) and I'm back to having godawful posture again.

Just thought I'd share.

I have terrible posture.

I'm aware. Now you know.

When you're stressed: Medicate!

2010-05-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing much lately because I've been on the brink of a suicidal nervous breakdown.

Well, not suicidal. Sort of.

But I'm definitely in the throes of a quarter (third?) life crisis, having realized that I became an adult too fast (taking into consideration that coming from a comfortable family, I probably had the option to live abroad and teach English, or join the Peace Corps. or be a "DFH" for a while and hike the Appalachian Trail (even though at the relevant time I was in the throes of Jappiness)).

For the last year I have been paralyzed with regret that I raced through college, law school, and then into the purchase of real estate and automobiles, and chose a profession that basically locks you into a state, unless you want to spend another three months studying for a two-day test, to permit you to practice your soul-sucking occupation in a different state. It's also a profession where when you graduate, you've already racked up so much debt that when all is said and done, you may as well just go out and buy all the trappings of success, because you figure "Well, what the fuck, right? I'm going to be paying this off forever, so I may as well have nice things..."

Woah. That was a lot of blathering right there.

Well, the point is last Sunday, I went to a shrink for the first time. Because I have been a truly miserable and horrible person for the last... year.

He has me on this weird combination of natural supplements (fish oil - Blarrrrgghf! SAM-e, some odd prescription B-Vitamin called Deplin) and he also gave me a Xanax prescription and a Klonopin prescription. Xanax for general anxiety, Klonopin for sleep.

I have been dutifully taking my vitamins and supplements (especially the Klonopin!) and as a result you know what I've been doing, finally?

SLEEPING!

It's AMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZING! Sleeping through the night is like the greatest gift ever. I don't care whether it's a drug-induced sleep or not, it's God-sent.

I bounced into the office on Monday with a smile on my face and a spring in my step... probably because I still had residual Klonopin in my system...

And since sleeping last Sunday night, I've been happy as a clam. Maybe it's a placebo effect, maybe it's sleep, maybe all these gross pills I'm taking are beginning to work, but I'm not having random anxiety attacks while making popcorn, or debating driving my (almost-paid-for) car into a jersey wall.

I'm doing my work, and doing it with minimal whimpering.

I'm also leaving the office promptly at 7:00, because my shrink asked how much I was making, I told him, and he asked me, "So, you leave at 5:00 p.m., every night, right?"

Big ups to my Chasid Psychiatrist. I'd like to get some Valium out of him, because Valium + Mimosa + Brunch = heaven, but for now, I'll just take this newfound quasi-drugged happy haze in which I exist...

Laaaaaaaa.

I even won in Court the other day. Not that that's unusual; I usually win, but I didn't get "anxiety leg-worms" before I went in, and I slept the night before. Hell, I basically didn't prepare at all, went in there, and knocked one out of the park.

So.

I guess my point is this: When you're unhappy, you can try exercise, and you can go to acupuncture, and you can tell yourself that your problems are the problems of the first world, and you should be thrilled that you don't live in a tent in Haiti...

Or you can cave and go to the shrink, and walk out with a fistfull of prescriptions, and a new day on the horizon.

Having seen the light, I choose the latter. All for a $45.00 copay.

Two Open Letters:

2010-05-25T20:18:00.001-07:00

Dear Men of Miami:

We may go on dates, and then I might make out with you, if you're passably un-queeny, and I'm not thoroughly creeped out by you.

Congrats.

When I'm into it, I'm an excellent makeout (don't ask Monica about this) You will note that pre-(and during) the makeout I am pretty much constantly chewing gum. Please be advised that before a date, I have also brushed my teeth and flossed. I do this, because I do not want to be a disgusting human being (read: probably normal) with stinky spit. Do you know WHY spit stinks? BACTERIA! ARRRRRRRGHHH!

Your failure to brush your teeth, floss, kill anything living in your mouth, and chomp on gum, destines any potential make-out session to under a minute and a half long, until I'm like "Ughhhhhhh. Gross. I can't do this anymore! I can smell your spit on my neck, and you taste bad," and then I pull away and make up some lame excuse about having to go to Court early in the morning, and gosh it's been swell, and yeah, I'll call you.

But we both know I'll never call you back. Which is a shame. For both of us, really, because you had a nice build, but, eeeeeew...a bad first-makeout is basically unsalvageable for me. So... Sorry. Bad sex? That can improve. But people can't become more compatible kissers.

I will own up to being an over-thinking, over scentsitive (HA! Pun!) person when I'm sober, requiring everything to be showered, deodorized, and squeaky clean; below my generally rumpled and furry beplaided exterior lies a deodorized, powdered, minted, good-tasting interior. (Awkward.)

Oh, you can be hairy (in fact, I prefer it), but just don't stink like old mouth.
But, like, really? You want to make out with me on a first date, and there's no hint o' mint? What have you been doing, besides worrying constantly (like I have been doing...) that you might taste bad? Well, whatever you were doing, sorry, my friend, it was all for naught.

So, Men of Miami, unless you have naturally constantly awesome breath, because you eat a diet of nothing but parsley and flowers, brush your teeth, and chew some effing gum before you (or I) move in for the kill. And if I'm struggling to suck my tongue back out of your mouth... let me. I think it's just common courtesy. Sort of like brushing your teeth before a date.

Awkwardly,

Me.

An Open Letter to my Friends:

Monica - sorry I bailed on the Ballet thing, and no, I'm not giving you details. Everyone else - don't ask, I'm not going to talk about it, you get no details either. I love you, but you're not an exception, either. : ) Yes, you.

Just be happy I'm trying to date people again. But fuck. This horse is a difficult one to jump on. Especially when it tastes like stinky spit.

Change is bad. Especially at Publix.

2010-05-03T18:49:00.000-07:00

I don't know what shlemiel was put in charge of redoing the produce section at Publix, but that person should be canned. And their work should be undone.

Picture it.

Jetson's Publix.

8:00 p.m.

(Sorry, an aside - does Sophia Petrillo's "Picture it..." ever get old? No. No it does not.)

A tired SuperBee drags himself through the grocery store, post-work (which entailed a grueling 8-hour deposition of a lady who, bless her heart, was an excellent deponent, but was a tad dim) in search of something healthy to eat, as all he has eaten all day is three donuts and half an avocado. He schlumps his way through the store, towards the Technicolor pot-of-gold at the end of the supermarket rainbow, only to slam the brakes on... what... what's HAPPENED?!

They have re-done the produce section! And... made it worse!?

The displays are lower, and more open; there's more space, but there's less variety. And of what remains, there's not a lot of stock. And what stock there is, isn't radiating a vitamin-rich healthy glow... it looks tired. And bruised. And it looks like it has a lot of room to stretch out in, and take a nap.

Call me crazy (I won't argue!), but I liked the display before. I liked that I got annoyed that the aisles were too small, and that people's carts would block the way. I liked that I couldn't afford to circumnavigate the produce section without breaking the bank. It meant there was variety! And maximum space usage! And with everything all crammed together, it hid even the yellowest lime, or the eye-iest potato in a visual symphony of vegetable-and-fruity overabundance.

This time was the first time I had to stand in the section and think, "You should buy vegetables." Maybe it's the newnewss that affected me. Or maybe it was that there's like an entire aisle devoted just to oranges (in a bad way, though, not in a Whole Foods "Blood Oranges, Sour Oranges, Navel Oranges, Valencia Oranges..." kind of way) and that California strawberries were on sale, 2/$5.00 (don't we grow strawberries 40 miles south of here?) Or maybe it was that there were approximately 30 bruised Roma tomatoes...

Whatever it was, I couldn't wait to get out of the shit-show that's the produce section at the Jetson's Publix.

I'm not sayin' I won't be back... I will. But I won't be happy about it.

You hear me, Publix? I won't be happy about it!

Be it known:

2010-05-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

I took some online whatchamacallit on my insurance company's "Mental Health" page, and apparently I suffer from "Severe Anxiety."

Now I'm even more anxious.

Then I tried to call the insurance's company's number to get approved to go see a shrink and get me on some crazypills, and I was informed that they're closed, even though they boast everywhere about 24/7 service.

My arse.

That was like a totally counterproductive experience. I always thought my anxiety was just "slightly above average," but I guess slightly-above-average anxious people aren't basically vibrating all the time. And they probably sleep more than 5 hours a night.

At least some nights.

I know my anxiety is entirely related to my job. So, in the meantime, I'm just gonna do the best I can, and keep repeating the mantra, "I'm not gonna get fired. I'm not gonna get fired."

I mean, after all, at the end of the day, I'm just trying to fix other people's problems. Not my problems. So how come their problems have become MY problems?

::sigh::

I'm not going to get fired. I can do this. I'm not going to get fired. I can do this.

And you know what?

Being fired would be the best thing that could happen to me.

So maybe that's the source of my anxiety -- that I don't see that happening.

At least if I got fired, I'd have some time to go find a job that wasn't sucking the life out of me. I'd collect unemployment, try to keep my credit cards paid, and probably pack my shit up and U-Haul it back to Maryland - if nothing else for some "regroup" time.

So, I guess the lesson here is if you think you're suffering from moderate anxiety, you're a full-blown basketcase. And if you're a full-blown basketcase, you can only find a shrink to go to between 8-5 Monday - Friday.

Here is a List of Things I Hate:

2010-04-21T18:14:00.000-07:00

I guess I'm in a "depressed" stage of my undiagnosed mild Manic-Depressive disorder, meaning I'm exhausted, have no concentration, and have nothing nice to say about anything; on the plus side, two weeks ago, I felt great. But these last two weeks, I've been in a downward spiral. So, although I've tried to be cheery, I don't think that's in the cards for this...three week spate.

So, here's a list of things I hate:

~ Roaches.
~ Andie McDowell.
~ People who tell me to cheer up.
~ Berets.
~ Fish and Seafood. (Although I like them when they're alive!)
~ Currently: Miami.
~ People who clap when a plane lands.
~ Taking depositions.
~ How getting your luggage at MIA invariably takes at least an hour.
~ Speakerphone.
~ Flat caps - especially on women.
~ Skittles.
~ Waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to get back to sleep.
~ My neighbor, Nelson.
~ Dog poop.
~ People who cut across lanes of traffic to get in the left lane, only to cruise at the speed limit or below.
~ When all you want is a bowl of cereal, but the milk has juuuust gone bad.
~ Jagermeister.
~ Cancer.
~ People who don't pop gum before they make out with you.
~ Being itchy.
~ Being sweaty.
~ Being sweaty in Miami, because it never dries.
~ Inexplicable traffic jams.
~ Burning myself.
~ The people who fish on the canal outside my building, and yell all the time.
~ Folding laundry.
~ Biting on something hard in a hamburger.
~ People who don't silence their phones during movies.
~ People who talk during movies. And people who text.
~ Demolition of old buildings.
~ The smell of low tide.
~ Jellyfish stings.
~ Hangovers.
~ People who flake out on plans.
~ People in cars who don't give you when you're riding your bike.
~ Those little white bumps you get on your tongue when you eat too much citrus.
~ Humidity.
~ The lack of blackout shades in my apartment.
~ The fact that I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a year.
~ The bus. Specifically, the ones that pass my place.
~ Those counting-down street signs. "WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. WAIT TO CROSS ALTON ROAD. TWENTY-FOUR, TWENTY-THREE, TWENTY-TWO..."
~ Plant fungus.
~ That baby giggle ringtone.
~ Squash.
~ The taxis that double-park on Bay Road in the mornings in front of the Flamingo.
~ Being behind taxis in general.
~ Having part of the heel of my shoe fall off today, right before Court.
~ Broken glass.
~ Unnecessary honking.
~ Applebee's.
~ Listening to John McCain and/or George W. Bush speak.
~ Sleeping through a hotel's free Continental breakfast.
~ Opposing counsel.
~ Saying the word "food."
~ People who use the back of my seat on a plane, to help themselves stand up.
~ Hot Chip's New Album.
~ Friend attrition.
~ Harvey Wallbangers.
~ Horses.
~ Long John Silver's.
~ .........................................................

That's it for today. I'll come up with some more things I hate for tomorrow.

Meh.

2010-04-20T12:08:00.000-07:00

You may be wondering why I haven't posted. Or maybe not. Who knows.

I've been traveling these last two weekends, and during the week I've been uber busy. Also, I'm trying to lose my tummy so I haven't been eating out... so...

Recently, I've had nothing to say. I'm planning on changing that soon...

Dear Gino's Pizza & Brew

2010-04-07T18:58:00.001-07:00

Dear Gino's Pizza & Brew at Alton and Lincoln:

It's taken me a really long time to get to be able to say this to you, what with our rocky past relationship, but, um, I love you.

I love you a lot. Besides McDonald's, you might be my favorite restaurant.

I love you enough to proclaim that you are the best pizza on the Beach, if not in Miami. That's how much I love you.

(If I'm being REALLY honest, I sort of have to qualify this proclamation, because Cozzoli's, Riviera, Andiamo, and that shady pizza place just north of Washington and Lincoln are also in the running, but I haven't had them in years...and I only eat your pizza, Gino's, so...for now, you're it.)

I love you so much, I have entirely disavowed all other local pizza; oh, it's not to say that my eye (and my mouth) doesn't occasionally wander, but even if I do go to Steve's Pizza, and even when I do get some fancy pie at Sosta, while I'm eating those, I'm thinking of your heavenly New York style slices.

While we're being honest and sharing, sometimes you have some gnarly flavor combinations that, between you and me - are awful, even when wasted (like that alfredo pizza I drunkenly slopped all over myself...and my kitchen a couple weeks back) but your cheese pizza and your pizza bianca are just...they're just tops.

I don't know how you do what you do with the crust (I think it's the hand tossing!) and no one nails that cheeseless baked-sauce border right before the crust quite like you do.

A hot slice of cheese, shaken with extra oregano, hot pepper and parmesan... and garlic knot... drunk, sober, or hungover - breakfast, lunch or dinner - it's... I just... it...

Sorry. I needed a moment. I got a little verklempt.

And on that vein, I want to apologize for my past behavior. I'm sorry for all those times back in the mid 2000s, when I would stumble in, wasted, or all hepped up on somethingorother, and pick fights with your employees. Granted, they were all on drugs that were incompatible with the ones that were likely racing through my system at the time, but there was no reason for me to get all surly when there were no garlic knots or when your employees took too long to come out of their pot-haze to realize they had a customer who was about seventeen seconds from passing out in a heap on those creepy "Follow Me To The ATM" footprints that have since worn off your floor.

Apologies are cathartic, huh? I feel better.

Anyway, I needed to let you know how I feel about you, and to let you know that I'm sorry that at one time, I was a sloppy, unpleasant regular. I like to think that generally I hold it together better when I spent time at your fine establishment, and I've had a drink or twelve... and I hope you'll forgive last August's post Mad-Men Party when Gael and I sat in one of your booths - dressed like soused ghosts of 1962 yelling "WE TRIME TRAVELED! WE'RE TRIME TRAVELERS!" and shoveling delicious pizza into our boozy maws.

But I think for the most part, we've both changed for the better. You've gotten rid of the stock of employees that were ghastly, and by and large, everyone who works at your fine pizza restaurant is pleasant, helpful and attentive. And I'm no longer an angry, impatient drunk. Usually.

Thank you, Gino's Pizza & Brew. I need to end this post, because I'm getting distracted by the noisy Bum-Party taking place by the at the Bus Stop, by the trash can on the other side of the canal from my open windows but I'd like to close out with some lyrics from Chicago, because I think they express how I feel:

"And I know (And I know)
Yes I know that it's plain to see;
So in live when we're together -
Now I know (Now I know)
That I need you here with me -
From tonight until the end of time.
You should know
Everywhere I go -
You're always on my mind
In my heart, in my soul.

I love you, Gino's.

H'Easter.

2010-04-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

I went to Michy's for brunch today. As usual, Ms. Bernstein and I had a moment, as she was putting out the chocolate-toffe matzah. Every time I'm here, we somehow manage to lock eyes and exchange a "Hello, how are you?"

I'm ~~usually~~ always too star-struck to say anything else to her, and today was no exception, so instead of thanking her for opening on Easter (even though she's a Jew, and for us all Easter means is PASTEL BRUNCH!), or making some sort of witty charcuterie joke, I lowered my eyes and went back to scooping sopresatta and marcona almonds onto my plate, and shuffled back to my table.

God. I'm awkward sometimes. Usually always.

After Danya and I finished our Bellinis and chocolate orange french toast with artisanal sausage (the sausage was...blah; gimmie Denny's/IHOP gross sausage any day!) and the rest of the delicious Michy's brunch spread (a really good deal at $48.00) I went to the Beach.

I recommend you skip the beach for the next couple of weeks it's Man o' War season. The waterline was a patchwork of little blue, sting-y bubbles.

Then I went to Liza's pool, which was lovely. Then I strolled Lincoln with my friend Rob and his baby. We went into the Britto "Gallery" because the baby was overheating, and it was air conditioned.

Romero was in the back. I saw him. While throwing up a little bit in my mouth, I restrained myself from tackling his frizzy orange head to the ground and pummeling him, while screaming, "THIS IS FOR WHAT YOU'RE DOING TO ART!"

Then I made Chinese food. And now I'm writing a blog.

All in all, I got in a full weekend today, which is good, because I spent yesterday in bed after a particularly aggressive night at the Abbey. Note to self: Do not spend more than two hours at the Abbey. And do not go there after sucking down two martinis at the Raleigh. You know better, self. You know better.

/end Weekend.

Mercadito - Spanish for "You Have To Get Four of the Same Taco."

2010-04-01T19:16:00.000-07:00

"Someday, you'll be able to take all your food reviews, and compile a book, called 'This is Why You're Closed.'" ~ Gael L.

Mercadito opened in MidTown. If you need the address it's this: Midtown, South of NW 36th Street by about two or three blocks, and a block East of Five Guys and Lime. But more South.

Right next to Sugarcane.

I haven't done a review of Sugarcane, because, aside from the waiter not saying "thank you" and "good night," I had nothing to complain about, and really? Writing positive reviews won't get me in the running next year for one of the Three Funniest Blogs according to Rick at South Florida Daily Blog.

Sugarcane has an attractively done interior, a great indoor/outdoor space, smiley and attentive bartenders, delicious beer cocktails, and tasty, tasty food. And it's not outrageously expensive - I daresay it's reasonable. And tasty!

See how boring?

Compare:

Mercadito opened in the space next to Sugarcane.

Their interior designer is to be commended. The restaurant is done in this hybrid mid-Century-Palm-Springs-meets-Mexican style, with a slatted, angular wooden ceiling, white-painted brickwork, and snakeskin booths. The murals on the wall are tacky. There are well-placed jungle-y plants, with great lighting - the interior of the restaurant really did it for me. Seriously.

I'll make a really nice restaurant for someone else to take over when Mercadito closes.

Maybe it won't close. Maybe they'll just fire our waiter, and boom! Problem solved. Everyone else working at the restaurant seemed like less of a cockface. Well, not really. The hostesses were rawther pinched. And the one who seated us was wearing a Tahari suit, that looked... totally out of place.

Which brings me to the object of my scorn:

What is it with all these asshats waiting tables these days? Is there some new requirement that waiters today have to treat you like you're a moron, or violate your personal space bubble, or breathe on you, or GRAB THINGS OUT OF YOUR HANDS?! Seriously -- WHEN is it okay to do that?! EVER?! If you're not five years old?! And even then, you get a lecture from Miss Bev, about how it's David's turn to play with that, and you had your turn.

Our waiter today bugged me from the get go. He started losing points, when he bent down over me and started yapping. He had terrible breath, and the demeanor of a Port Authority bus ticket salesman.

Once he had asked us the patronizing question, "Have you ever dined with us before?" ::eyeroll:: and I took the bait and said "No," he launched into his tapas pitch, and snatchy-grabbily flipped my menu over in my hands...to show me where things were on the Menu. Because I was looking at drinks. And that's not what he was talking about, at that moment. So he needed to grab the menu out of my hands and point me in the right direction. Because, I'm apparently incapable of retaining information like where "guacamole" is on the menu, on my own.

From now on, when a waiter asks me if I've been there before, I'm going to say "yes," even if it's the restaurant's first day open. If not, I have to suffer through a stupid spiel about the restaurant's "concept."

I always thought a restaurant's "concept" should be "food," but I guess that's why I'm a lawyer, and don't own a restaurant.

Mercadito's concept is Mexican Tapas. Mind-blowing.

Here's where he totally lost me: he told us that there were eleven taco choices, and if you ordered an order of four tacos (the only way to order tacos) (for $15.00) they'd all have to be the same kind of taco. Even though all the tacos were the same price.

After this, he flipped the menu (in my hands...AGAIN) to show us the drink and beer and wine menu. All this time, he's leaning over be, breathing on me, and I'm all like "Woah, back off, Andre the Bad-Breathed Giant."

After one more menu-flip he showed us the guacamole choices. "The food comes out whenever it's done in the kitchen, so we have no control over it and there's really no order to how things come out. So, you want some guacamole?"

After his off-putting intro, I was so annoyed by him, his yanky, mothering, smothering demeanor, and the restaurant's same-taco policy, I sort of wanted to get the hell out of there.

So I told him to piss off while we decided on Guacamole. So he did. For 15 seconds, only to reappear to fill my water while I was asking Gael whether we should just cut and run, because I smelled a doomed meal. He awkwardly filled my water, while I awkwardly stopped mid-sentence, only to finish after he had loped off to one of his other unfortunate tables.

In the end, we stayed.

I got some drink that was allegedly made of beer, tequila, spices and pineapple juice. When the drink finally effing came, 3/4ths of the way through the meal, it had fragments of wood floating in it and was so tall, the straw nearly poked my eye out.

Oh, and it tasted like cinnamon pineapple juice with tequila.

Suck on that for a moment. I did.

We ordered an order of normal guacamole (Gael: "We're NOT getting one of those fruit guacamoles he was talking about. If he suggested it, we're not ordering it.") and we both got orders of chicken flautas, and I got an order of elote.

From being seated, to signing the check, the meal took 25 minutes. Again. See, El Scorpion's review.

Within two minutes: BOOM! Guacamole. It was fine. The chips were delightfully crispy.

4 minutes later: BANG! Elote comes out. Two baby-fist size hunks of corn, covered with spicy cheesiness. The spiciness got a little...overwhelming towards the end of the meal.

3 minutes later: POW! Flautas. Four appetizer-eggroll-sized flautas, mashed onto spicy black beans, topped with queso fresco and lettuce, with crema drizzle. Served... wait for it... in a big ole' glass bowl.

Because... nothing says fried finger food! like a glass bowl with a ginormous rim.

Also, who tops finger foods with a heap of lettuce?

Whatevs.

Since we consciously decided to eschew the "tapas! sharing! goodtimes! I'll eat your food!" concept of the restaurant we really confused the runner who was like, "Uh... you BOTH got Flautas?" "Yeah, asshole, set 'em down." (I didn't really say that.)

They were fine.

Another three minutes and I was looking around, thinking "Where the hell is my drink?" It came right before a joke about how things would come out when they were good and ready.

Midway through our speed-meal, I stopped chewing and realized there were no discernable flavors to anything.

The entire meal was akin to being at a party, where all of your friends are yelling at the same time - everything tasted like a cacaphonous mess, even though the individual components were really quite good. It was like, "SALTYFRIEDSPICYBEANSCHICKENCREAMRAAALALALALALALALLAAMMMMAAAALALALA" That's how I would describe the food.

Around the time I realized that the food was like a Frat Party in my mouth waterpeople lined up behind me, just waiting for me to take a sip, to refill my glass. They must have hired too many people, or something... there were people milling about, EVERYWHERE, pouring water.

When we let it be known we wouldn't be having dessert, the table was cleared in 12 seconds, and we had the check and were out the door three minutes later.

It's late, I gotta go to bed, so no snappy flourish to the end of this, but if a restaurant's saving grace is its interior design, that's not great.

But the place was packed!

So, maybe what the fuck do I know, right? I mean the place was tasty, if you're into noisy Mexican food -- hell, I probably would have been into it, if I didn't hate the guy serving it to me.

Post Abbey, Pre-work.

2010-03-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

::sigh::

Can tomorrow please be Saturday (and by Saturday, I mean the Saturday on which I'm not working, as I plan on working on Saturday, until relieved by my boss...)?

I behaved myself at the Abbey... but that means only four pints of IPA, and about 10 cigarettes...

Ughhhhhhhhhhh. Ironing. Brushing teeth. Drinking water. Gearing up to write things and fight with people on a Friday...

But on the plus side, I see Chelsea Handler tomorrow, and that bitch be hi-larious, so it's not all bad...

But still. I'd rather still be at the Abbey. Sucking down beer. Being an adult = less fun than being 19. Just sayin'.

Milkshake Fail

2010-03-18T17:10:00.000-07:00

As much as I gripe about how the Beach has turned too plastic and homogenized, plastic homogenization isn't all bad.

Take, for example, McDonald's. My mom and I were talking the other day, and I inadvertently admitted that McDonald's might be my favorite restaurant. It was one of those blurted out confessions that's only caught after it's said. It felt dirty to say, and it's filthy to write. And I'd never number it in a list of my favorite restaurants in a conversation with someone who wasn't genetically obligated to love me, but McDonald's may be my fave.

There. I've admitted it. It's as much of a relief as when I told my parents I was gay and they were like, "Yeah. We know. Let's have brunch."

I demarcate my year by certain McDonald's traditions. Christmas is the Eggnog Shake. February and March is the Shamrock Shake. April brings Monopoly. The long n' lazy summer months are a bit of a McDonald's desert. And then November brings the McRib.

When I lived in Madison, I was in HEAVEN, because it was a test market for new products, and in the autumn, there would be Johnsonville Brats sold at McDonald's and late January was McChicken Parmesan Sandwich season. (BLISS!)

I even kind of mark periods in history based on what I was eating back then. There were the early nugget days until '86 when I found a bone in my Chicken McNuggets; then there was the McDLT, which was, in my opinion, a fantastic representation of the excesses of the '80s. The early '90s were the McLean Deluxe days (made with seaweed!) and the late '90s were the Arch Deluxe years. I remember when my grandmother was dying in 2000, all she would eat were Chicken Fajitas from McDonald's... Now I'm a Big n' Tasty or Quarterpounder guy...

But the point is, McDonald's is part of the fabric of my LIFE. And the nice thing about that part of the fabric is that, reliably, anywhere in the the good old U.S.A., I will reliably be able to get certain things at McDonald's. Like a Big Mac. Or Coke Products. Or a green, mint flavored, terrible milkshake in the St. Patrick's season.

Which brings us to St. Patty's day.

On March 16, 2010, I nonchalantly cruised up to my local McDonald's at 16th and Alton, and ordered a medium Shamrock Shake.

"We don't carry the Shamrock Shake, sir," was their response.

"Uh... what," was my dumbfounded response, "Okay, do you know of any other McDonald's that DO carry the Shamrock Shake?"

"No."

"Oh."

And with that, for the first time ever, I backed out of a McDonald's drive-thru without buying anything. Although my world had been shaken, I would recover. That McDonald's at Alton and 16th sucks anyway. It must be run by Nazis or something. No matter, one of my other nearby McDonald's would carry it, no doubt.

I drove over the Tuttle to the McDonald's at 35th and Biscayne, and ordered a Shamrock Shake. "We only have chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry," was the response. Again, I asked if that guy knew where I could get a Shamrock Shake. "No."

Who drinks fucking vanilla milkshakes? That's what I want to know.

With a mounting sense of panic, I drove up Biscayne, over the 79th Street causeway, and went to the McDonald's in Mid-Beach. They would have to have a Shamrock Shake. I parked my car, and ran in, fiercely determined. It was now almost 11:00 p.m., and I wasn't going to continue this quest forever, but the Milkshake HAD to be nearby.

"Do you have the Shamrock Shake," I asked the pockmarked troll behind the counter.

"Chammraw Chay?"

"Yes. The green milkshake? For St. Patrick's Day?" (Stella Comedy Quote: "JELLY REMOVER?! FOR PHOTO ALBUMS?! SPEAK-A-DA-ENGLISH!?!)

"Ehhhh. I theen we get dat for Semana Santa."

"No. It's sold for St. Patrick's day."

"When dat?"

"It's tomorrow."

"Ohhhh. No. We no hab it."

"Fine," I spat, as I stormed out of the McDonald's, defeated.

On St. Pat's, I called all of the local McDonald's around where I work. There are a mind-blowing number of McDonald's in Doral. Alas and alack, not a one had Shamrock Shakes. (Office eyebrows were raised at my fervor and intensity at finding this milkshake, but it was the one vestige of my white childhood that I was determined to find and claim in Miami-Dade, and I would DO IT, GODDAMN IT.)

The website www.shamrockshake.com delivered the potentially bad news that they were NOWHERE to be found in Miami-Dade. Which couldn't be possible. Because a Shamrock Shake is a MCDONALD'S PRODUCT, and they're supposed to be THE SAME. EVERYWHERE.

Right?

It's not like I was after an effing McLobster McRoll outside of McMaine - I just wanted a green, mint-flavored Milkshake to satisfy my yearly need for one. The Irish are all over America, McDonald's is a restaurant with a Scotch/Irish NAME, for crying out loud, how was it possible that in a county with over a MILLION people, there weren't enough Irishmen to warrant one restaurant carrying the shake? I would eventually learn, as St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland, so too, apparently were the Irish driven out of Miami-Dade.

My friend Carrie mentioned that she had once gotten one at a McDonald's on LeJeune below the Airport. So I found it and called it. And after having called 10 McDonald's and visited three, in response to my question, "Do you carry the Shamrock Shake?" I got this response, "Yes."

"THE GREEN ST. PATRICK'S DAY MILKSHAKE!? YOU HAVE IT?!"

"Yes."

"AWESOME! YOU MADE MY DAY!"

I slammed down the phone, giddy.

My boss buzzed me laughing, "Oye, chico, estas loco por ese Milkshake!" "Yeah, but I FOUND it," I exclaimed!

I made a plan to detour far out of my way home that night, to get my mythical milkshake. On the way home, I stopped by another McDonald's to see if I could cut the trip, but they didn't have it, but that was okay, because I had found the One. McDonald's. In Miami. That had it!

I pulled in to the McDonald's just south of Calle 8 on LeJeune and walked up and ordered a Medium Shamrock Shake, please.

"We only have Chocolate, Vanilla and Strawberry."

"What? But I called! A lady said you had them! The green shakes! For St. Patrick's day!"

"No. Sorry."

Other patrons continued ingesting their sesame-bun encased despair. I wore mine on my face, as I slumped out the door.

Crushed, I drove to the McDonald's on US 1 by UM. That McDonald's HAD to have it, right? I mean, it's a college campus!

No shake.

My last attempt would be the McDonald's at Coconut Grove. I walked in, head down, defeated, and asked, "Do you carry the Shamrock Shake?"

"You know, you're like the 5th person today that's asked for that! No, we don't."

After some playful dissapointed banter, I bought a McDouble, and left.

I wish I could end this post with some modicum of success, but I can't. I went shakeless this year. McDonald's corporate was less than conciliatory or helpful when I called today, raving about the absence of this food product in all of Miami-Dade County.

And I'm sad. Because not only will I have to drive to Boca Raton if I want to get this item (I'm not that crazed) but it's shaken my faith in an unshakable institution (PUN!).

And also, I failed. But what hurts even more than the failure? Is that some crazy bitch at a McDonald's (the one at LeJeune and 8th) LIED to me about a milkshake!

I mean... what the fuck, right?!

Relativity

2010-03-13T00:13:00.000-08:00

I was originally going to start this post about my experience at the Ivy, which opened up at what was formerly Christabelle's Quarter in Coconut Grove.

I went there for dinner tonight with Meredith and her fiancee.

But I'm not going to expound on that experience, because it's not worth expounding on (and I know I ended a sentence in a preposition - live with it) It was probably the single-worst meal I've had in Miami, and I eat a lot.

From service to food, it was...ghastly. The straw that pushed this restaurant to the top of my "WORST" list, was when the runner brought me a fillet mignon, and I told him I ordered a New York Strip, only to be told by both the runner, AND the waiter that I most certainly had not.

I'm sorry...but... I wouldn't send meat back, unless it was meat I didn't EFFING order. I'm not retarded, and I don't play games at restaurants -- because I'm usually HUNGRY, and willing to let a lot slide.

In other reviews, even when I'm less-than-complimentary, I always leave the door open to returning.

That said, I will NEVER RETURN TO THE IVY AGAIN. I don't give a good God's fart about the interior, which was, apparently, purchased and shipped to Miami, from old-tyme N'Awlins residences. Pretty decor does not excuse dinner-theater quality food, and below-Denny's-quality service.

After the Ivy, I beamed over to Sugarcane in Midtown for some chick's birthday, where I didn't stay long, but I had a phenomenal drink - a beer spritzer, made with crushed kumquats, Captain Morgan's rum, and Blue Moon. It was delish.

Go eat at Sugarcane. I didn't eat the food, because I filled up on french fries at the Ivy (the ONLY good thing there), but if you're in the market for late tween-aged poon, Sugarcane looks like the place to go trolling. The bar was pulsing with 19-year olds, loudly avowing their affinity for Friday-night firkin'. Probably hetero. Booo-ringggg.

Lastly, I aimed the booze-mobile (my car) to Bardot, after arriving home to the Beach, and pinging back to the Mainland for a post-home invitation.

May I say I love this place, Bardot? Because I do.

If I'm not at Vagabond on Friday nights, I'll be at Bardot. It feels the way the Delano used to feel eight years ago - a pretty, hip crowd, bobbing heads to MGMT, Hot Chip, Cut Copy and Animotion. You know - it feels... what's the word I'm looking for? Oh, yes. Awesome.

While I was there, I ran into an acquaintance of mine - who used to be heavy into the South Beach scene. While discussing the finer points of life, I mentioned to him that I missed the old beach, back when his club, Rumi was in business, and life was different... that everything had changed... for the worse.

He said something interesting, which I'm still digesting -- he said, "Nothing's changed. You're just a different person now, than you were then."

And I aged fifteen years on the spot.

Because he's dead on. While I may pine for Snatch and Suite and the old Mokai (of four years ago) and the old Delano and The State and Jade and Blue, and Opium, while the beach may have changed marginally, the real reason I'm not having as much fun anymore, is that I'm a different person. I'm not buying arm-fulls of champagne at the Rose Bar and skuttling off to the bathroom to bribe the attendant to give me a stall with a fiver...

My crew has shrunk due to Miami's inevitable brain-attrition, and those that stay are a part of a diaspora... mobilizing a crew for a crazy night out is a logistical nightmare, when your crew stretches from South Miami to Aventura.

I guess all that's ever been is still here. If I was six-years-younger, I could rally a crew fifteen-deep to stand in line, pockets full of blow and twenties, for a crazy night out...

But we don't want to feel like shit for three days afterward and be $300.00 poorer for the privilege...

And we don't all live Gables-to-Brickell, get-you-on-the-cab-ride.

And we've got to finish that brief on Saturday, and prep for Monday's deposition on Sunday...

I'm not going to deviate from my previous statements that this City has changed. Because I think it has. It's gone from a mom-n'-pop awesomeness, to Crocs-mediocrity. Independent-to-corporate.

But I guess I have to face the fact that 29-year-old me, is a far different person than 24-year-old me; that in the five years I've been a lawyer (God help me) I've aged exponentially, despite my best efforts to stay a virile young buck with a liver-of steel.

And that relativity stings worse than an 18-vodka-soda-hangover, because, as Benjamin Franklin once said, "Many people die at twenty five and aren't buried until they are seventy five."

Q American Barbecue

2010-03-09T17:55:00.001-08:00

So, in reading the Evening Sift at South Florida Daily Blog, I remembered I hadn't written my scathing review of Q American Barbecue, which opened at 4029 N Miami Ave., Miami, FL 33137; although, I doubt you'll need the address until they iron out their kinks. It's gonna be a while.

**FLASHBACK**

Friday Night, March 5, 2010. I'm bored and hungry, having just finished acupuncture. I call Gaël who had just eaten a veggie-burger, but gaëmly (ha!) agrees to come with me to Q.

Q is where Sheba, the Ethiopian restaurant, used to be, just north of the Design District's main drag. They have $3.00 valet. I didn't use it, because the meters across the street were free, and unlike other people, I actually hope my Mercedes will be stolen - then I can get that ill-advised Jeep Wrangler I've been pining for... but that's a different post for a different day.

We enter the restaurant, which seems to have been nicely re-done. I couldn't really tell because it was packed. No joke. Completely full. And the best part? ALL JEWS! I guarantee on the face of the Earth, there never were, nor will there ever be more Jews in a room eating pork on Shabbos, than there were at Q last Friday. Baruch atah to that!

As we sat down, the hungry Jews next to us were having an exasperated exchange with the waiter (who I would come to find was an idiot) regarding the long-overdue-and-still-pending arrival of their cornbread. "They're mean," I thought on hearing the exchange - I changed that opinion in the ensuing hour. They weren't mean. They were HUNGRY. And FRUSTRATED...(After seeing what others thought of Q, I think the hungry Jews might have been fellow Blogger Frodnesor and his family (See, the March 6 entry under the Link).

I ran into my friend Liza and her family, together with another family of Miami Beachians and went over to say, "Hi!" and get the scoop on the food.

Such a burst of negativity, I heard! The table sprang to life with eleven mouths eager to voice their opinions, most of them uncomplimentary: "They're out of every beer!" "The chicken was terrible!" "Run!" "Brisket is awful!" "Get out while you can!" "The sauce gave me bursitis!" "Never coming here again!"

22 eyes gleamed bright with the delight that floods into eyes, while recounting just how unpalatable a meal was.

My friend Mike offered the following, "You have to get the Baby Back ribs." Liza's attempt to spin the positive was, "The French Fries taste like McDonald's!" Good ole' Liza!

After proclaiming that I had to make my own mistakes (a meal should never start with that proclamation) I took my leave and sat down.

I was the only person ordering, as Gaël had already eaten. But she relented and ate a glass of wine.

The menu is barbecue.

So, they have barbecue things. If I were ever to go back, I would try the Sliders, because they have a sampler that looks pretty tasty.

I got a Kentucky Lemonade (bourbon and Lemonade). Their cocktail selection seems based on a three-bourbon blend. Everything is made with a mix of three bourbons and...something else, such as: Lemonade for the Kentucky Lemonade, Vermouth and a Cherry for the Qhattan, etc.

I also got a pulled pork on Texas Toast, that came with cornbread, coleslaw, pickles and beans. I also got an order of deviled eggs for us to snack on.

The waiter writes nothing down.

::ominous music::

We asked him for some cornbread, and for the sauces that were on every other table, except ours.

The waiter told us the computers were down and the kitchen was backed up, so to please be patient. Okay. No biggie. I've worked in restaurants before, so I know how it goes.

The waiter disappears.

...

Time drags.

Frodnesor and his family get plate after plate of mouth-watering-looking food. I wonder aloud what would happen if I just reached over and ganked a fistful of their food... I look at Gaël, who has turned into a dancing, smiling, steaming drumstick.

The waiter reappears, bringing Gaël her wine, and me a tallllll glass of... Lemonade. I take a sip, and flag him back down.

"Uh, I ordered the Kentucky Lemonade, and there's no booze in this."

With a face like I just asked a question in Farsi, the waiter takes back my lemonade and disappears.

More minutes drag by.

The waiter reappears and asks me whether I want a side of beans or some coleslaw to go with my order. (At this point, I decide I'm gonna take this in alllll stride, because I see where the night's going.) I tell him it came with all of the above. He disagrees. I ask him to see a menu, and also where the hell my effing booze is.

Behind me, a band starts to set up on a stage... in a restaurant. At 9:30 at night.

The waiter comes back, contrite, that yes, my meal comes with all of the above, and that he's sorry, but that the bar is out of boozy lemonade, and would I like a glass of Lemonade?

I tell the waiter that I just returned a lemonade to him, and ask him what other cocktails he has. He doesn't know. (The restaurant has FOUR cocktails. I can tell you what they are right now: Mint Julep, ~~Kentucky Lemonade~~, QHattan and a New-Fashioned.)

He disappears.

He reappears with... a Kentucky Lemonade! "Weren't they just out of that," Gaël muses.

Still no cornbread or sauces.

It's been 35 minutes since we sat down.

I take matters into my own hands and steal sauces off a neighboring table, convinced we've made a terrible mistake.

Deviled eggs appear. We ask the Waiter for silverware. He brings one set. We ask him for another set.

Eventually cornbread appears. It's cold. No butter. But we have sauces! So I eat my cornbread with molassesey sauce.

The deviled eggs were... tasty.

My dinner comes. It's... small. Not the bountiful plate-exceeding, gut-bustin' goodness that one finds at Shorty's... Everything - the three pickle slices, the mini-ramekin of beans, the scoop of coleslaw, and the slice of bread with pulled pork on it... fits in a medium-sized au-gratin dish.

::sigh::

And the band begins to play.

Gaël and I give up talking to each other over the band, and instead have a conversation with text messages and Emojis. I really like the smiling pile of poop, and the fart Emoji. Because I'm 12. Checks start flying as people scramble to finish their meals, AS FAST AS THEY CAN. The band was good... but better suited for for Tobacco road than... um... DINNER.

I wolf down the rest of my meal, which isn't terribly difficult given its size, and get the check. The food was decent. But you can't really screw up a pulled pork sandwich and beans.

I think I spent like $42.00 on two drinks some eggs and a pulled pork plate. Not terrible... I tipped 20% because I felt bad. I was sure the waiter's average tip that night night must have hovered around an insulting 11%...

Will I go back? I'm gonna let them iron out some kinks, and then re-visit. There are a lot of new barbecue places I have to try, and I've got to get to Smoket before I subject myself to the maddening experience that was Q.

I have a feeling the next time I go on a Friday night, the crowd will be a lot more Gentile... just because us Jews love complaining about a bad meal, doesn't mean we want a repeat performance... There are so many other restaurants to try... and complain about.

I think maybe I need to start going to places when they're not so brand-spankin' new. But I'm always just so excited!

I'm Remembering

2010-03-07T19:50:00.000-08:00

My friend from College, and fellow Marylander, Hillary, has put together a pretty kick-ass blog called "I'm Remembering."

Here's the link, you should click on it, because, it gives me approximately seven "MemoryGasms" every day.

Um... Pudding Rollups? YES. Oatmeal with gross fruit swirl? Uh-HUH!

If you were born around 1980, give or take, this site will have you going "OMFG" repeatedly.

Also, you should read her tags, because they're pretty effing hilarious.

And now... back to the Oscars... and remembering Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer Pies...

Coastie!

2010-03-01T20:02:00.000-08:00

I've had this song in my head all day:

Oh, UW-Madison. I miss you. And I miss being, and hanging out with JAPs...

Despite the controversy that blew up after the Journal-Sentinel's articleabout Coasties, I was never particularly offended at being called a "Coastie," which term was pretty unisex when I went to school... and it was just the counter-part to being a "Sconnie..." I honestly took it as a compliment at the time...

2010-02-23T18:17:00.000-08:00

I was 23 years old in the summer of 2004, and between May - August, I made $34,000.00.

And I didn't work all of May, and I didn't work all of August.

Flashback - the summer between 1L and 2L year, I learned that I had "walked on" to Law Review. There were several at my school, but if you said you "walked on," it pretty much meant that you had "walked on" to the most exclusive one (all things being relative, I suppose). This meant that after everyone's grades were tallied out of my class, I was in the top 7%. Jigga-who? Me?

Yup.

This also meant that I was almost certainly guaranteed a Summer Associate job with a big firm, which would pay me a gazillion dollars to work for them one summer, and then pay me a gazillion dollars to work there after I was through law school. And lo and behold, I got a Big Firm Job. Suffice it to say, I didn't end up working for the Big Firm after law school, but I think that's okay. I hear the Big Firm is in trouble, and almost everyone else I know has left the Big Firm. And I didn't have the right personality to be there. And it was one of the most budget Big Firms in Miami, despite having a kick-ass lobby. The one other Summer Associate and I had to share an office. What's THAT about?!

On the plus side, I had a fancy-sounding job, at a fancy-sounding firm, and I ate some very fancy lunches with some very boring old people. Towards the end of that summer, I actually remember whining, "Ugh. If I have to eat at the Capital Grille again, I'm going to die." And eating at the Capital Grille meant Appetizer, Entree and Dessert...

Oh, sweet idiocy of youth.

I wish I could go back to 23-year-old me and smack him, and tell him, "Live it up, jerkface. It ain't never gonna be like this again."

After all - it was 2004, and the Boom was just picking up steam. I remember watching the demolition of the Dupont Plaza Hotel from my cushy office, to make way for whatever went up in that strip on the Miami River...

Miami was crackling with energy, and the place was starting to hum. Downtown was still an essentially unlivable hellhole, but the Design District offered sweaty gallery walks fueled by bad red wine (and still-good cocaine), at Rocket Projects, and the other tiny, defunct galleries surrounding the Florida East Coast Railway Yards (that would subsequently become the Shops at Midtown Miami), and down South Miami Avenue towards Wynwood. The Beach was still cool and pretty gay, and not completely, unabashedly cheesy, and we hadn't had any hurricanes in a long time!

Everyone and their mother hadn't moved to Brickell, because most of residential Brickell was under construction (or unbuilt) and the whole city felt like September, 1929.

(Cue: black and white footage of a row of champagne corks popping one-by-one, fast-cutting to a row of scantily clad girls in silver-lame and finger-waves doing the Charleston in double-time).

There were rooftop parties on buildings about to be imploded to make way for the Museum Tower... and I feel like I survived on pass Veuve-Clicquot and hors d'oeuvres. Even at the time, I could see that the City was a speeding train, ignoring the "BRIDGE OUT" warnings, but whatevs. I wasn't going to stick around for the crash! I was 23 and RICH!

And I had an alcoholic boyfriend with other self-destructive tendencies that was in Public Relations and got us invited to parties. He had fancy friends with boats, and "party favors" in their bathrooms and penchants for long, boozy Sundays, and I had a ton of equally alcoholic law school friends who stayed in town for the summer.

I spent money like water... and even though I was letting money pour out of my hands, I wasn't spending it as fast as I was making it. I had no car payment, no rent payment (thanks, Mom n' Dad!) no insurance payment, no credit card debt...

In retrospect, I did put a good chunk towards my last year of tuition at law school, but I also got scholarships, so it wasn't a crushing amount. But much of the rest of it was spent... intangibly. Every penny that I didn't sip over ice, devour, or inhale, I'm driving, because I think the last of the money from those crazy boom-days ended up in a Mercedes that I bought in 2005 (which I will own outright in December...2010).

The summer is a blur of humidity and thunderstorms and creme brulee and water-view lunches at Smith & Wollensky (ew.) and Hey-Ya blaring from club-to-club as the Vodka Redbulls stacked up and the tip of my housekey turned green. The drugs were good, and the booze was expensive but worth it. It was the summer of hot-pink nightclub canister lighting and the solidification of the Stripper Pole as a bar fixture. We were all so young and good looking, and energetic, and fun, and there was so much money to be made, and spent, everywhere. I never wanted it to end - it wasn't Miami in the 70s... it was BETTER. And I knew it was ephemeral, but it never felt like it was going to end... so it just... wasn't.

Eventually the party slowed... and then stopped - that said, I don't know when the party really began - I have no idea which of the memories that all blend together date from 2002 or after... But at the end of the day, things changed, and I don't remember when roving groups of us stopped queuing up at velvet ropes (sometimes cutting the line depending on who we were with)... and I don't remember when, exactly, clubs became too loud for me, and not worth the hangover the next day. I don't remember the last time I left Club Space wearing sunglasses on a Sunday morning at 9 a.m., in a taxi destined for home from a night out, as other people left for Church.

It feels like a long time ago. It wasn't all that long ago... but a lot has changed since 2004...

I may have been tardy to the party... not having lived here in the late '90s, but I'm glad I didn't miss it altogether. Because money, combined with good friends, a dysfunctional-but-loving relationship, and a city that loves to drink... can buy happiness; I know -- I bought it.

2010-02-16T19:18:00.000-08:00

I miss Real Life Basic. I miss Cafeteria. I miss the Pink Palm when it was in its bigger space. I miss Mosley's Linens, and the shady Health Store next to Zeke's. I'm going to miss the New World Symphony at the Lincoln Theater. I miss the Rayco Store on Biscayne Boulevard. I never shopped at any of those places (that's a lie - I miss you, Real. Life. Basic. and Cafeteria!) but I still miss them.

I miss when Miami Beach wasn't a gigantic outdoor mall.

::sigh::

I have to get the hell out of this place soon. This city went from being edgy and awesome and fun, when I first moved here, to being an across-the-board overpriced Tourist Trap, with only little pockets like Joe Allen and The Abbey and La Sanwicherie reminding me of the awesome little independent places that once dotted the beach. They didn't even have to be charming - remember The Chambers? That place was a hellhole.

Ugh. I'm over this city. Anyone wanna buy my place? I'll sell it to you for what I bought it for - 290K. It was a steal then, it's a steal now.

And anyone have any recommendations for anywhere that's like Miami Beach was in the late 90s? Cool, weird, affordable and gritty?

Seriously. I'm having a major "hate-on-Miami" month. Maybe I'll snap out of it. But I have started to do my D.C. Bar application. I need some sort of escape plan.

El Scorpion

2010-02-12T20:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Jeffrey Chodorow:

Hi. Long-time eater, first-time writer to you, here.

So, listen - your Tuscan Steak replacement, El Scorpion? You've got some kinks to work out ASAP, or this place is gonna tank.

I'm going to give you the Stewie Griffin "compliment sandwich," so we can discuss my dining experience.

You're in a prime location!

You've got to do something about the noise level. The acoustics are AWFUL, and your diners can't hear each other, let alone the servers. Maybe it's the liberal use of chalkboard-paint? Gotta be fixed.

The Guacamole was pretty awesome!

It came after our entrees (which came out about 5 minutes after ordering them).

My bacon taco was great!

My tacos came out a minute after my drink did, and, as I said, before the Guacamole; the other tacos were lackluster.

The complimentary chips and salsa were pretty tasty, and the chips were warm and fresh-fried!

The server pointed out that they were complimentary. Um... duh. You GET free chips n' salsa at Mexican restaurants. Also, he "zeroed out" the chips on the check. Don't effing do that... You're not comping me chips, so don't pretend like you are.

My margarita was pretty tasty!

Except I paid 12 bucks for about an ounce of liquid, which was thinly coating my cupful of ice.

And let's talk about the Service, shall we?

Our waiter was enthusiastic to the point of annoying and/or insulting. Also, he was an idiot. He asked if we would like him to make some recommendations. Gael said "no" while I said "yes." I won. The waiter's recommendation? "Many people like to order Guacamole and margaritas before their entree."

No. Fucking. Shit. Really?

It was like he was talking to people who don't eat in restaurants far more than they should. When Gael ordered a Corona, he actually asked her, "You're not having a Margarita?" "No, I'm having a Corona," was her reply.

The exchanges with the waiter actually became comical at one point - my friend Ashley happened to be seated one table away from ours, and watching her facial expressions during an exchange with the waiter actually caused me to... wait for it... point and laugh. That's right, Mr. Chodorow, I pointed and laughed. Loudly.

Less funny was the waiter's Beetlejuice-like way of popping up between us, from behind and barking questions at us. I almost jumped out of my skin. Thrice.

And when he came to put the check down, he pushed my hand out of the way with the billfold - of course, attacking from behind, which was really... weird.

We left him 18%. I never leave 18%. I was a server in years gone by. For awful service, I still leave 20%. Not tonight, though. That guy... that guy was a maroon.

And expennnnnnnnnnnnnsive?! Two drinks, two taco plates, and a guacamole? $73.00.

Jeffrey - no one's gonna play pool in the back room you've installed. Because no one's gonna hang around. Because we were seated at 8:15, and paid the check by 9:00. For serious. If a seventy-three dollar check for two, doesn't buy you an hour at a table in a Houston's-level restaurant... who's gonna want to hang around to drink ten-dollar beers and shoot pool in the belly of a noveau-Mexican restaurant?

Oh, and also two last nitpicky items - the Chairs? (replicas of those at Rosa Mexicana - the kind made out of woven seatbelt material) They're definitely not three weeks old. Either that, or there was a massive food-fight at El Scorpion within the first three weeks of its opening, causing them to look prematurely... stained.

Might want to do something about that. I noticed.

And your Hostess? Might want to hire someone who speaks clearly. Your current hostess... does not.

Will I go back, Jeffrey? Yes. The good things were good enough to bring me back to eat them again. And I'm a sucker for hot chips n' made-to-order Guacamole.

But next time, Jeffrey - if my entree comes before my appetizer, I'm sending the entree back, and I'm going to want a new one when it comes back out again... 20 minutes after I've had my appetizer.

El Scorpion - it sure ain't no Blue Door, China Grill or Asia de Cuba...

An Open Letter to Myself

2010-02-06T15:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Self:

Getting housed at Vagabond last night was a bad idea, as you have basically been immobile all day long, and want to kill yourself. Way to go, jerk.

Love,

Me.

Sopa de Ajo and Tortilla

2010-01-27T18:07:00.000-08:00

In 2001, I studied abroad in Sevilla. I lived with una anciana (an old lady) named Maria Jesus Escobar Gil. This will probably be the only entry about her on the internet, so I'm going to make it a good one.

Maria Jesus, or Senora as I called her, and I formed a really close relationship that semester. I really need to write to her, but on the off chance she's not alive anymore, it would break my heart, so I haven't. But her birthday is coming up, so I really should send a card, just in case.

Anyhoo -- while I was there, I was fascinated watching her make comida Andaluz - stuff you think of when you think of Spain. I wrote some recipes down while watching her make them... in that way, even if she's not around anymore, her recipes will be... here are two, which I'm going to give you as written (which is basically as she went along cooking) recipes are as written, with recent commentary in bold:

1) Sopa de Ajo (Garlic Soup) (This looks like it's a recipe for 1-2 servings)

Heat 1/3 cup olive oil in a wok, and add 5 cloves diced garlic into the oil to fry for 15 seconds. Add 1 large hard roll (1-2 days old) (in Spain, we would get large...hard rolls about the size of two of my fists together) in slices and fry until the garlic is brown. Add (2C is crossed out and it looks like I added 1 L....unintellgible) agua) 1L of water and 2 chicken bullion cubes. Add sprig of mint. Boil. Don't stir a lot. (I remember the bread soaks up the bullion water and gets soggy and unappealing looking...) Add whole egg, boil, voila!

Unfortunately, the recipes as I took them down require knowledge of what things should look like... so... try by all means, and realize that no Spanish cooking is particularly pretty, at any time during the process. Including plating...

2) Tortilla Espanola

Peel 1 lb of potatoes, cut into strings. 1 med-lg onion, 1 cup 3/4 de oil. This means put 1 and 3/4 cups olive oil in a wok, and I guess, heat it. Salt potatoes fry potatoes till soft, not brown, add diced onion, fry. Then, after 5 mins, lower flame to low over fuego lento, y dejala hasta que esta tierna. When todo esta tierna, quite del aciete, y drain. After 5 minutes, lower flame to low, over a slow fire, and leave the potatoes and onions until they're soft. When everything is soft, take them out of the oil, and drain them. Crack and beat 2 eggs, cover 6" pan with oil and heat till just smoking. Add hot potatoes to eggs (not all) and smoosh around. Dump into pan and even out. Raise flame to medium-high. Move tortilla, always moving, edges will set. Turn down flame. Also smoosh edge down wil should bubble at sides. When slightly set, use pan lid, flip tortilla, and slide back into pan. Top must not have sides. I have no idea what (not all) means in the directions - maybe you don't add all the potatoes and onions to the eggs, just most of it? The pan should have a thick layer of oil in it, and after the egg and potato mixture is in and spread, shake the pan constantly for the first couple minutes so the tortilla doesn't stick. She would also keep tucking the edges down, into the hot oil, as they would tend to creep up. With respect to flipping she would use a spatula to ease the tortilla, set side down, out of the pan, and onto a flat pan-lid. I think you could use a plate, put another plate on top of it, flip the tortilla, and put the unset side down into the oil to finish off.

God... you know what I miss?

2010-01-26T20:18:00.000-08:00

You know what terrible radio station I miss?

Party 93.1.

They had like three songs that they played, but I always liked the songs, because I discovered the station right around the time I started dating Stephen... and I was in a blissful haze of retardedness at that time, having fallen freshly in love... and music seemed to mean more, because every song was about ME.

And then the station went away.

And eventually, Steve had to get out of Miami, or he would turn, like Lot's wife, into a pillar of ~~cocaine~~ salt.

And now, when I think of 2L year in law school when we started dating, I think of driving around in that little black Golf (awwww)...hearing the dance remix of Daniel Bedingfield's "If You're Not the One"...as I sped off to the Beach to misbehave with the older, richer gays... in boot-cut jeans and diagonally-stripey shirts (ugh.)

Every now and then that song will pop into my head (it's there right now) evoking waves of melancholy for the life I had in 2003 that I so took for granted... hundreds of friends living in this city... money that appeared out of nowhere to be spent on any self-destructive whim, one-day hangovers...boats, VIP admissions... caring about stuff, even though it was typically whether we'd make it to Rumi early enough to get past the door without a 1/2 hour wait...

I miss 2003. And I miss the me that could hang back then... I miss how exciting everything seemed. I miss bottle service, and clinking keys and little yellow beans, and sunrise on a Sunday morning at Space. I want to turn back the clock to certain eras in my life (that I knew were fantastic when I was living them...) and tell myself - enjoy this. Soak up every moment. Because eventually this chapter will be over... and the chapters get progressively less fun as time goes on.

I never knew Miami in the late 90s... but I knew it in the early 2000s... and it was a pretty fun party even then. Maybe it still is... I don't know. I look like I'm having a blast in all the pictures I'm in these days... and I probably am. But back then, I had the time of my life.

Coming up tomorrow: Why the Summer of 2004 kicked ass, because I made 30K, and blew it on liquor, drugs, and tuition!

Moderation.

2010-01-26T11:41:00.000-08:00

As I am being spammed by Chinese Comments, commenting is hereafter moderated. I'll approve (almost) everything. Unless it's in Chinese. Then, you're SOL. Because your comment means nothing to me. Because I can't understand it. Speek-a-da-English here. I don't go onto Chinese Blogs and leave unintelligible comments in English.

I'd also probably recommend that no one click on the Chinese comments. They're probably a virus or something.

You've been warned.

Good job, losers.

2010-01-19T19:39:00.000-08:00

I'm livid... and have taken to hiding the Facebook Status Updates of those who are cheering what happened among the Massholes. (I'm allowed to call them that, being one generation removed from almost calling soda "tonic," and because, even being a generation removed, I put my clothes in a "draw.")

But it's not them I'm mad at. I'm mad at my dishwater-faced, saggy-assed Party, who can't capture the fucking flag, and run the motherfucker back home.

SERIOUSLY?!

You people (the Federal legislative branch) are just the worst, and I blame each and every one of you for losing the forest for the trees, and along the way, your SUPERMAJORITY. Sure, I guess you did some good things this year... but for right now I can't remember a single thing you've done this year that's memorable... which is sort of... um... AMAZING, considering you've had a year to just STEAMROLL some shit through.

Now anyone that blames the Dems for the economy is a retard, because just like you can't walk into a Fraternity House at 11:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and throw a State Dinner there at 8 p.m., you've got to make do with what you inherit... and all we could do was hold stuff together until the economic scabs formed and started to heal...

But everything else... puh-leeze.

It also doesn't help that we ran a baggy-eyed chick with a sad Twiggy shag, whose name is almost MARTHA MOXLEY (and really, thinking about her is just depressing), against a silver fox who I'd bang like a screen-door in a hurricane in a hot minute.

I don't blame the Dems for losing this election - I mean... did you SEE the Republican candidate? Is it hot in here?

I blame the Dems for wasting a year. They had the opportunity to focus, funnel, and strike, and they didn't.

And they're really starting to piss me off with their dithering. It's like... grow some effing balls, for Chrissake. But now I suppose it's too late for that. So, here's an idea, Jerk-os, survive the inevitable fillibuster. Set a new record. BUT GET. STUFF. DONE. In the year you have left. DO IT.

/end Rant.

Ugh. I'm back.

2010-01-06T16:32:00.000-08:00

Hi.

I'm back from my islandy vacation. I think I'd probably be bored to tears if I moved there, but I could also totally see myself living on St. John or St. Thomas, captaining boatloads of fat, red, snorkeling tourists.

I'd be poor.

But happy.

Unlike now where I have "money" (it's all spent before it comes into my hot little hand) and am miiiiiiserable. That was going to be my 2010 resolution - not to be miserable - but why pretend I'm going to be able to do something I'm simply not going to be able to do?

But being back here just... brings it out in me. How the hell can I get out of this place? I wanna go home to my parents. And then I want to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

This post sucks. I'm being a whiny brat... but when my responsibility was to save the vacation after things fell apart (Parents' and Bro's flight got canceled mid-air, due to Monserrat's collapse and ensuing ash-cloud, then re-scheduled, then couldn't land on the next day due to heavy winds... they got to our vacation 2 days late) that was responsibility I could handle: Figure out the taxi and ferry system, get the car, drive on the wrong side of the road, get the groceries, open up the house, kill he bugs... that was fine.

But the prospect of talking to other lawyers tomorrow...? Which one would think would be easier...

Is filling me with unspeakable dread.

Hasta luego!

2009-12-29T05:51:00.000-08:00

Given the prolificity of my posts lately, you'll all probably really miss me for the next week...

I'm off to St. John in the Virgin Islands to snorkel and kayak and sun with the fam.

Later!

Good. Christmas is here. Now we can get on with our lives.

2009-12-24T19:55:00.000-08:00

Yay. Christmas.

I think I liked Christmas a lot better growing up, when the malls were festooned with fir and holly, and gold and cranberry-colored ribbons. When they still had the trees outside the Columbia Mall covered with thousands of white lights, when there was a three-story tree made out of Pointsettias, and when at school, we would squeeze into our velvet and damask Elizabethan clothing and sing Madrigals at the Governor's mansion in Annapolis, and then drink hot cider.

Oh, sure, we always spent Christmas day in Florida, but I felt like I had worked up to Christmas, and the day itself wasn't as magically cocoa-y as it should have been (typically spent on the Beach at Commercial Boulevard with my dearly departed grandmother) but the lead-up to it was, so I had had my Christmas fill.

Then I moved to Florida, where attempts at Christmas magic just... fail. The climate doesn't lend itself to corduroy blazers and hot buttered rum in a Queen Anne Victorian house, festooned with red and green, with everyone gathered over hot-pepper jelly smothered appetizers in the kitchen, and 'round a roaring fire in the parlor. There are only three kinds of eggnog for sale here - Publix, MacArthur, and Farm Stores.

And here, Christmas just seems... half-assed in this history-free land. There aren't as many organ recitals. There aren't hand-bell concerts. We don't have any grand cathedrals, echoy stone awash in poinsettias, and I'm thousands of miles from Winterthur or Evergreen House. When's the last time you saw a model railroad around these parts?

So, as Publix puts on their commercials with golden turkeys and anthropomorphic salt shakers, I'm like "eh."

I love Christmas. I just don't love Christmas down here. There's never the chance of a white Christmas. Ever. And no one knows who Burl Ives is...

I'm glad after tomorrow, it's over for another year.

Who knows? Maybe next year I'll be spending Christmas in D.C. or Chicago...and the streets will smell like roast chestnuts and pine - but I'm lazy... and stuck with this effing overmortgaged place... so maybe the year after that.

Although I went to a lovely open house this evening, where there was whiskey and peppermint bark... Christmas never feels like Christmas down here. It feels like its less-awesome impostor twin-brother... X-mas.

I miss Christmas in a place where it's cold, there are brass bands on the street, playing "We Three Kings" and going to the Beach on Christmas is not an option.

Thank goodness after tomorrow, Christmas won't be an issue for another 364 years.

Fox's Sherron...Out?

2009-12-21T17:44:00.000-08:00

I really hope my friend Amanda is a vicious, heartless pathological liar.

It would be against her character, but stranger things have happened and maybe when she told me that Fox's Sherron Inn has been sold and may be slated for a million-dollar renovation, I'm hoping that it's some delusion brought on by a curable, and temporary palsy.

I don't want to believe her. And you probably don't want to believe her.

No one wants to believe her, because in my time in Miami, pushing eight years now, I have never met a person who doesn't hold Fox's in the highest regard - in this City, that's kind of amazing.

And so, for the moment, I'll suspend my belief, and chalk Amanda's news up to the ramblings of a woman who's suffering from some temporary dementia.

Fox's is in my top 5 places in Miami. It's a dark, wood-paneled, red-lit timewarp back to 1946 -- it's even got a walk-up package liquor window in the back, which I imagine is a holdover from Miami's Jim Crow days. Before smoking was outlawed in restaurants in Miami, a dense haze of cigarette smoke undulated over the Geriatric Old-Miamians (Read: Southerners) as they drank their "Seven-and-Sevens" and ate their clam sandwiches, ensconced in circular red booths of cracking vinyl, bouncing on springs that had long-since gone bad. I mean what I'm about to say in the nicest possible way, but if you can imagine what a restaurant would have looked like "on the other side" in Beetlejuice, that's pretty much what Fox's used to look like - Ghouls breathing smoke and eating what very well could be their last meal.

Although the haze is gone, the ceiling has been stained a deep chocolate brown from fifty-six years of constant exposure to plumes of Chesterfield smoke, and everything has a slightly-sticky-nicotiney film on it. Which is one of the factors contributing to Fox's overall awesomeness.

I'm sure even in the middle of the day, the interior of Fox's is as dark as it is at 2:30 in the morning, when you really should go home, but one last Manhattan is calling your name.

There's really... just so much to love about the place. I have a lot of different groups of friends, but the one universal commonality between all of them besides having excellent taste in friends (me) is that I could suggest going to Fox's for dinner and a couple drinks, and everyone would think that was a capital idea.

The food is about as classic American as you can get. And it's plentiful and it's GOOD. I always get the open faced turkey sandwich, which comes with a side salad with the best garlic dressing ever. And I put that motherfucker down, because it's so tasty, I can't help but eat 3,000 calories in one sitting. And who cares if the Waiter looks like the Peter Lorre based villain in Mighty-Mouse, the guy, as creepy as he is, is a damn good waiter, who's been at the place forever, and used to know what my order would be, when I lived just up the street, and was a regular.

Their drinks are stiff, well-made and phenomenal. And their happy hour always seemed to be whenever I was there.

I'm not doing the bar justice, because I can't put into words the depth of my love for that shopworn old dame, past her prime, but perfectly aged nonetheless - basically, Fox's is Rue McClanahan, if she was a bar. I think that's probably one of the biggest compliments I could pay.

And so, if you've never been there -- GO. Go tomorrow, before it's too late. If you have been there, go again. We all know this City is pretty atrocious at preserving its nearest and dearest institutions, and now I have something else to worry about -- that the Fox's I have known, and grown to live, will soon be just another memory.

Hopefully whoever bought Fox's will realize that there's no need to touch a silver hair on her head; that the formula has worked for 63 years, and there's absolutely no need to alter it now...

Or maybe Amanda's just a big lying jerk. I hope it's the latter.

Query:

2009-12-08T20:22:00.000-08:00

I'm devouring another Ken Burns documentary (I watch an unhealthy amount of them) this one on Lewis and Clark. I sort of don't care about them, but I enjoy the facts I pick up watching these documentaries that play the same effing songs over and over and over again ('Tis the Gift To Be Simple; Shenandoah, The Battle Hymn of the Republic...). They're unbelievably addicting.

Anyway.

So this documentary said something like "In 1801 the United States ended at the Mississippi river," and it got me to thinking: the next big addition in America was in 1803 with the Louisiana Purchase. Florida was bought in 1819... states were being added into the mid 20th Century...

But I've always taken it for granted that there always have been, and always WILL BE 50 States (from Thir-teen Original Co-lo-nies!). It's sort of like taking it for granted that the Sun will rise tomorrow. Because 1) If the Sun didn't rise tomorrow... well, neither would we, and 2) if we add more than 50 States, the song, "Fif-ty Nif-ty U-Ni-Ted States" wouldn't work anymore...

I don't know... it's like... what was it like for people when Alaska was added as a State. Or Hawaii... like... adding a STATE!? It's just sort of an unfathomable concept to me now.

Just sayin'.

Phew!

2009-12-06T18:28:00.000-08:00

Well, that's done for another year. Thank goodness... I couldn't have survived another night.

Highlights:

1) Max Fish. Oh Wow Gallery installed a pop-up version of the famed Lower East Side bar where PS 14 used to be. It was a good time. No, it was a GREAT time.

I spent a couple (late) hours there on Thursday (which I REEEEALLLLY regretted on Friday...) ran into Miami Bro., and had to go back to redeem myself on Friday in more appropriate clothing (skinny jeans, a plaid shirt, and a ridiculous pair of old-man glasses) than the suit I wore there on Thursday night (I came straight from work!) On Friday, there was a guy there in Khaki Pants and a Banana Republic Shirt. I have never seen someone look so out of place. Bless his heart, he had no idea what he was getting into. Max Fish was a shitshow in the best sense of the word. Gang-Gang-Dance and Telepathe played, and I proceeded to sweat through numerous layers of clothing, and eat cigarettes.

I'm sorry it's closed. I almost wish they'd install a camera outside to photograph everyone who's going to try to go there next week, only to find an empty bar space...

2) Aqua. I'm divided about what I think had the best art - Aqua or Pulse. I may give the prize to Pulse, but Aqua had some great stuff. Also, it was the most manageably-scaled of the art fairs (I get bored quickly and need to see that I'm approaching the finish line, or I get daunted...) and I genuinely enjoyed the art.

3) Pulse. Pulse had fantastic art. I'm not going to try to describe it to you, because it's stupid when people are like, "Oh, and it was this blah, blah" and you have no idea what they're talking about, but... uh... I guess the moral of the story is, I think I liked Pulse the best.

4) Scope. Scope wins the prize for having the creepiest art. One was a selection of fingerpaintings made with a corpse's hand, dragged through paint and over paper. There was a video of it. It was fucking disgusting and almost made me barf in Scope. Also, scope had one of the two pieces that were shown (and somehow I saw BOTH of them...) that was made with human cremains, pressed into the cement from which the art was made. Ewwwwww.

Lowlights:

1) Nada. Nada was eh. With the exception of my friend, David Castillo's gallery, I wasn't taken with Nada. I spent more time marveling at how dusty and crumbling the Deauville hotel is. It was also the end of the day, and I was hungover... so that may have had something to do with it.

2) PhotoMiami. What the hell is up, PhotoMiami?! Last year, it was one of my favorites. This year, it was tiny, fitting in a defunct Circuit City in Midtown, and there was nothing, but NOTHING that I would have bought if I had money. Disappointing.

3) Art Asia. Art Asia had a couple things I really enjoyed - the Hangy-Ball exhibition (I have no idea what it was actually called) and the "electric facer-izer" where you put your face in this box, and it recognized your features, and drew a cartoony-image of your face out of like... gears. If you opened your mouth it made fun noises that sounded like when Mike TeeVee gets sent over the airwaves in Willy Wonka. Otherwise Art Asia was mercifully small.

Overall, this year felt a lot more sedate than years past. I think last year was the pinnacle of Art Basel madness with free-flowing booze and revelry. This year, there wasn't as much booze (there was still a lot, though) and there was a different feeling that I can't really put my finger on.

That said, I'm glad it came. And I'm glad it went.

Until next year...

Basel - Vernissage

2009-12-03T05:43:00.000-08:00

Me and a privileged 1,000,000 other people, went to Basel's Vernissage last night, before it officially opens to the public today.

I didn't get to see much, because I kept running into people I knew, but I want to go back. If I can scrounge up some more free passes, I will. Bottom line: Me likey. I always like Basel... there are always, ALWAYS interesting things to see there. I guess, because it's like a world-class Art Fair or something...

Oh, Basel!

Tonight = Party on the Plaza... Satellite Art Fair to see my friend Reed's show, and then off to Max Fish.

Basel - First Impressions

2009-12-01T19:27:00.000-08:00

Something's off about Basel for me this year.

It's five things, I think: 1) It's soooo close after Thanksgiving, I feel like I just got back from vacation and have to hit the ground running; 2) No where cool is having a night opening party (i.e. Scope, Pulse, Nada); 3) It feels less free-wheeling and boozy than in past years; 4) It's still effing hot outside; and 5) I'm sick.

Tonight, we hit up Design Miami, Art Miami, and some exhibition whose name I don't remember and the only redeeming feature thereof was the fact that some of the art was made with the cremains of gang members. (Eeeeeew! Cool.)

Design Miami: Last year, when I had to pay, I thought it was a rip-off, and it sucked. It's tiny. This year, when I didn't have to pay, and there was free Veuve Clicquot, I thought it was better.

I love design, and they had... plenty of it. Lots of the display featured themes of time. There were these twirling umbrella-y things.. they were pretty cool. I'm doing a terrible job of describing Design Miami, but that's probably because it was packed, and hard to see much. Did I mention there was free Veuve Clicquot? Oh, I did? Um... there was a very handsome crowd, heavy on the beards, dark jeans, and square glasses. (Note to self: To Basel's Opening Tomorrow, Wear Your Square Glasses.) So, basically what I'm saying is: I focused more on the eye candy (Grrr!) than on the art pieces. But there was some cool stuff. However, if you have to pay, and there's going to be an uglier crowd (which there will be), I'd skip Design Miami. Still, it's nice to know that everyone else in the world is currently sporting a beard, and hockey hair. I'm in with the trendz, yo.

Art Miami: Impressions: Smaller this year. Still has the same awesome elevated VIP section that makes you feel like it's going to collapse on the people below. And also, they repeated art - there was a ton of stuff I recognized from the year before. Their pass-food spanikopitas were disgusting, it was impossible to get a beer, and there was free cotton candy.

They did not have the decency to repeat the one piece I really loved last year - a life-sized video display of Steve Buscemi wearing a bloody butcher's apron and holding a butcher's knife, swaying slightly, in front of a green background, to snappy whistley music. Maybe next year.

I didn't have much to say about Art Miami. The crowd was older... and uglier. Still, check it out... but it's probably like half the size it was last year, which is disappointing.

And then, last, and definitely least, was the no-name Gallery I went to... where the art didn't... uh... touch me, but at least I could look at some creepy human remains in a piece of art. Grody.

Tomorrow: Art Basel! And maybe Vagabond to wait until the wee hours when LadyTron goes on, but probably not.