I love Posterous but now that I got my blog back, I'll be spending more time at Sex and the Beach.  Please stop by there if you are following me here.  Posterous is a great service so I will figure out other ways to use it.  Thanks to all!

Yes, this is a shameless, self-promoting blog post!  I was approached by @juliaroy to make a  video for the Ford Fiesta movement.  I can't think of a better (or nuttier) person than myself to show the world Miami in a Ford Fiesta car.

Shot on a Nokia N95. Special thanks to my friend and filmmaker extraordinaire Rafael Herrera for helping me shoot the video - rafael@brfilms.com.

Dear Readers,

Ok already! I am fucking sick tired of trying to get in touch with Blogger since I did the dorkiest Darwin award thing in my life -- delete my own three-year old blog.  Now, I realize what I did was stupid, but not having a streamlined systems for idiots like myself to undelete those mistakes is even stupider! Holy blessed blog! Even God forgives, right?

Crap! Banks get bailouts and Octomom gets a porn offer?  What? All I want is my blog reset, for pete's sake! That COSTS NOTHING and only brings joy to the world!

So, in the hopes that we can find a cure for so-called unforgivable, irreperable errors, I'm launching a viral campaign.  If the six degrees law really applies, I'm bound to know someone who will give someone who knows someone at Blogger.com a fantastic blow job.

No worries if you don't know how to blow! I, a master, professionally accredited blower, will personally instruct you on the finer points of blowing -- if only you can get my tongue through the keyhole, ok?  I'll even throw in a box of Kleenex!

Will you help me spread the word, my darlings?  Wink, wink? With a cherry on top?

Bring Manola Back! Help FREE SEX AND THE BEACH!

You see, I can't possibly start my new blog, SEX AND WHATEVER, until I have resolved this issue. (A blog with a following that is just waiting to be launched on BLOGGER --  you hear that Google? And I might even throw in some of that Open Social stuff, if it's feasible!)

So readers, please, start kissing somebody's influential ass NOW.  (Lessons in ass kissing not included but can be outsourced.)

I promise to repay all of you with even more of the kind of funny and moving writing I produced as a total labor of love for the last three years.  Plus, this time, I'm going to expand my topics and by expansion, I don't mean penis length enhancers.  But in the meantime, I've gotta take care of my baby.  I'm gonna fight until the tits come home!

Yours truly,

Manola, Dr. Annie Steelclit, Professor Chancleta, Vicequeenmaria

My frustration about having accidentally deleted Sex and the Beach is mounting.  Maybe I need glasses; I thought I was deleting another blog I never created, but one whose name I had reserved on Blogger (several in a series of "Sex and ... ").   Adding to my frustration is the fact that I had gotten lazy and failed to back up some of my writing. 

Things don't really last forever, do they?  I am even beginning to wonder if it ever really was an accident.  After all, I had already made plans to evolve "Sex and the Beach" into  "Sex and Whatever" and leave the past behind. I knew, in my heart, that I did not want to write a single woman's guide to chronic living for the rest of my life because, well, I don't want to grow old and die alone.  It's as if, symbolically, I was deleting an old part of me so a new one could be born.

But the sinking feeling, the feeling of self-doubt for that incredibly stupid click, is probably akin to what an author of yesteryear would've felt after losing a single manuscript.  Imagine Jane Austen "accidentally" tossing Pride and Prejudice into the fireplace, in some irrevocable gesture of creative suicide.

I never hated my blog.  I loved it like some tender bloom that lasted for three years, one that I cultivated with great affection and care.  So I have to ask myself: why did this happen? 

And this leads to myriad other questions.

What if I were no longer around?  Would it mean something for that blog to stay online?  So yes, I know I made you cry, I made you laugh and I made you think, but was anyone really "keeping" the blog?

How forever is forever anyway? When the thing you so painstakingly wrote is not in the form of a book that can be passed down literally, generation to generation?  Like a diary, for example, or handwritten letters.

People don't read blogs like they read books.  They aren't things they keep tucked under their pillows. Blogs aren't oral traditions, either, handed down year after year around the fire.  And they certainly aren't manuscripts that get buried in northern African deserts to be found years later by archeologists.

Is the internet really forever, just because it's digital?  Is there any greater sense of legacy because you publish online and Google can find you?  (And I have no children, so my writing is my only legacy.)

Will some future space archeologist find the "internet" we know today lying just twenty feet above an ancient stone hieroglyph?

This whole experience has really inspired me to question attachment to earthly things and not the kind that may first come to mind -- not cars, not clothes, not food or wine -- but my own creative writing published via blogging format and "things" like social media, Twitter, Facebook, where I'm also very active. How much does all this make up the real me -- the deeper, real me, the self that is close to God, the soul that is forever -- or does much of it just cater to my ego?  

In the bigger picture, can I really truly meditate and just let go of EVERYTHING?

I hope Blogger will restore Sex and the Beach.  (I'm working on it, believe me.) But even if Blogger doesn't, it will have been a great exercise in patience, forgiveness, spiritual detachment from the ego and letting go. 

Actually, it already has been great lesson.

Charo & Carmen Miranda  had a baby!  Nah, just kidding. The whole Christian Bale meltdown is about as dry as an overcooked pork chop at this point, but Professor Chancleta had to ask:  who really owns the F word? (NSFW - listen to at home or with headphones!)

I vote for Tony Montana!

I first penned this prose in my Spain travel notebook circa 2001 and then published it online over at Meridian. I'm including it here as part of a Valentine's Day contest for a Miami-based eco-friendly company, TreesInstead; if you enjoy it, please scroll down past the video for more information on how to vote.  If I win, I plan on donating my gift to charity.

MADRID: CITY OF LOVERS

Dancing  alone.

I remember being at a milonga waiting for someone to ask me to dance the next tango.  Couples swirled about me.  And until I got to dance, I felt the absence of a partner deeply, intensely, no matter how discreetly poised I might sit at the end of my chair, enchanted by the dances unfolding before me.

Traveling alone in Madrid one August, I would see lovers sitting at benches, lovers holding hands, kissing, as if their pleasure was public, a story told only outdoors, as if their pain, arguments, separations, bereavements, were reserved for private occasions, behind closed doors.  They say Paris is the city of lovers … but I’m not convinced.  Paris cannot claim possession of something so universal.

Paris only adopted, but didn’t invent, the tango.

Someone once told me that in Buenos Aires couples always displayed their affection publicly, but not because of some cultural tendency toward exhibitionism.  No.  The explanation is quite simple really.  They don’t have the luxury of privacy.  Young adults live with their parents and aging parents live with their children.

El dia que me quieras … the day that you might love me. That day of possibility was born in Buenos Aires, in the throat of Carlos Gardel, but that day has never come.  It can’t.

You see, tango takes place in this space of waiting, this space of possibility.  Love is no different.  And so is writing.

Writing takes place in the space of loneliness, where I see more keenly, my vision clear, not muddied by passion. I walk, write, eat, drink alone, a witness to life that seems much more real than the blank page. And when you finally ask me to dance, the plenitude of your embrace is blinding.  I forget my words.

These lovers unwittingly tell me their stories.  They are dancers embracing on the theater of the street, repeating that ageless ritual, a tango that takes place in public parks, sidewalks, restaurants, alleys, taxicabs. Lovers strolling, lovers saying goodbye at the train station, coming and going, lovers defying unto death the loneliness of the individual in the big city.

I still dance the tango, it carries me into the night, accidentally, unconsciously, and before I know it, I am shoved by the city’s pulse into the arms of the night, dancing this tango, the dance of drinks, of furtive kisses in a smoke-filled bar, of groping, of syncopated push and pull, of escorted walks to the hotel, of steps resonating in the alley, slowing down around the dark corner, the tango of begging, refusal, the tango of her cruelty and his banality, of his urgency and nothing more, that late-night dance of the American writer and the Spanish man who thinks she’s easy because she’s a tourist.

I think of that painting in the Thyssen B Museum, Hopper’s Hotel Room (1931).  I imagine my body as a hotel room for transient happiness, an impermanent residence for would-be lovers.  But I am so in love, deeply, irrevocably in love with this place, this freedom, this freedom to write, this freedom to dance, so in love with so much more than the image of that woman sitting at the edge of a bed in a hotel room, and for this reason alone, I refuse them.  I refuse them all.

And so I claim that Madrid is a city of lovers.  And that the day for all of us to love has finally arrived.

And I dedicate this tango to all lovers, to all lovers everywhere, to lovers of bodies, souls and cities, lovers of past, present and future, lovers who hold hands and lovers who dance alone.

In honor of Valentine's Day, I'm supporting TreesInstead, a local organization that plants trees for any occasion.  I think it's a great idea; the gift that keeps on giving -- for everyone and the planet.  If you like this prose piece, please vote for it and if I win, I'll make sure one acre of trees get planted in a Florida reforestation project.  I'll also get a $250 Amex Gift Card, which I will donate to Project Child. I intend to follow-up on the tree planting and share that experience with you here.

Voting begins February 1st and continues through the 11th. My registration code is 0009. There will be 3 venues for voting Twitter, Facebook & our Valentines Page; each person can vote once in each venue per day. If you vote on the Valentines Page, you will be asked a question, but I think your vote still counts even if you don't know the answer.

I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day, but why not take a moment to celebrate connection?  We're all so caught up in our daily stress, sometimes these silly holidays do us a favor, especially if we have a love we've been taking for granted.  And just because you aint screwing someone doesn't mean you can't feel the love either.  The immense passion I felt when I was inspired to write this piece was something no man could possibly give me; it was a different kind of love, but no less worthy. TreesInstead wanted a love story -- well, you betcha this is definitely a love story.  Sexual and romantic love is only an expression of something bigger we all need to work on all the time.  One of the big lessons I've learned recently is that there's a fine line between passion and compassion.  To feel the former truly deeply, you must give the latter.   I totally get it when David Deida says you can find God through sex.

And yes, I used to be a tango dancer.

Though it's hardly over, I can't help but share some reviews from this weekend's jaunts in Coral Gables and South Miami ...

Les Halles 

I went there because a friend of mine announced they'd be celebrating their new ownership with a free drinks/horsd'oeuvre party on Friday night.  I went earlier than party time just to get out of the house in the hopes of savoring a nice meal.  I don't think twice about dining out alone as it's one of many great pleasures I have when traveling abroad ... so why not do it in my own backyard?

Well, the place was packed, but I didn't mind sitting at the bar.  Two kind ladies moved one stool over so I could have a seat.  But guess what?  The bartender completely ignored me for 30 minutes.  Not one acknowledgement, look in the eye, point a finger -- nothing, nada, rien de rien.

He eventually gained assistance from a second bartender and had no more than a dozen customers seated to tend to.  To be fair, I'm assuming he was also giving service to the waiters, but still.  I've bartended before.  I've been to clubs with five hundred horny and ornery customers demanding drinks over loud, pumping music where I've gotten faster, friendlier service than this.  In a quieter situation as in this French bistro, it's puzzling at how he completely ignored me as a customer.

After 30 minutes, an elderly French couple sat next to me and then it was all "oo-la-la bisous bisous" (by the way, I speak French) and when the bartender finally took my order, he served the couple and not me, moving on to another order at the other end of the bar.  Now, I don't know about you, but I'm just not the kind of masochistic person who relishes being tortured at the velvet rope, especially if my belly is growling and my throat is parched. And then I thought "What? Do I need a penis next to me to be acknowledged?"

At this point, I simply got up and left. 

Excuse my French, but this was incredibly fucking rude pretentious bullshit.  Had I really been an actual tourist, what kind of impression would I have of Miami at this point? 

Good thing I'm not writing for Conde Nast ...   though I'm sure original founder Anthony Bourdain would appreciate my language, clearly he would not accept this kind of service.

The Bar & Novecento

Fortunately, it's not like that at other places in Coral Gables.  I ended up bumping into former Metroblogger Blaine Zuver and we headed out to The Bar in Coral Gables because Houston's was wall-to-wall crowded. (Why? Do they serve crack there?) At The Bar, we got drinks lickety split within FIVE MINUTES of being at a much more crowded establishment than Les Halles.  Talk about good service.   Nosh followed later at Novecento, which has never disappointed. Their ceviche and empanadas made a nice appetizer-based supper.  If you go, definitely try the empanadas.

Jake's

Last night, I had dinner with a friend at Jake's in South Miami, which sells itself as a "watering hole for grown ups" and it's very true.  The service there is excellent, the atmosphere is pleasant -- not too upscale but decidely elegant.  If you go, ask for Sean -- he's a great bartender.  The food is really fresh and reasonably priced and they offer delicious little tapas during happy hour (like the olives stuffed with chorizo).  Yesterday, my friend and I shared a portobello mushroom appetizer that was to die for.  Afterwards, I followed with a tuna sandwich on very healthy whole grain and nut bread.

Bon appetit, everyone.

This is a re-post from my old blog, which I accidentally deleted.  This story won post of the month at South Florida Daily Blog and is now up for grabs for post of the year.  I do hope blogger will respond to my request to recover the blog!

I come from a family that left their homeland with nothing but the clothes on their backs, so it's interesting that I have little, if any, attachment to personal belongings. I detest clutter, but my mother hoards all her countless knick-knacks with the possessive zealousness of a child. Her life is measured by an inventory of things she owns, whereas my life is measured by an inventory of things I've done.

I sometimes wonder if her sense of loss inspires the compulsion to be a pack rat; I also wonder if my seeming detachment betrays some fear of loss. This much I do know: what I possess should never possess me.

I once promised myself, however, that I'd always keep a treasure chest -- one simple box filled with all the little things that shore up memories.

Recently, after making the decision to free myself of most possessions, I rummaged through the box and came across a stash of notes from high school. I laughed at myself for holding onto such peculiar keepsakes -- the yellowed ruled paper, folded into little squares, carrying words that are now over two decades old, evoking the thoughts and feelings of people who filled my life with joy then, reviving long-gone friendships that left their mark on my heart.

I had to pause and think about high school in the digital age. Do friendships forge differently over text messages? Do students know the mischievous pleasure of writing long letters during boring classes? Do the hands of lovers touch in the hallway as they exchange secret notes?

I picked a random note from the stash. It was from Alexander, a friend with whom I once shared a night of passionate kissing -- a night that took both of us by surprise.

You remember that night, don't you? I know you do, even though you weren't there.

Alexander and I were studying for college placement exams when we realized we already knew everything we needed to know except the one thing we didn't know -- each other.

David Bowie serenaded our tentative bodies. To this day, I cannot help but think of Alexander when I listen to Major Tom. Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do ... specifically, I cannot help but think of Alexander's tongue, his smooth blond hair and long hands. If I close my eyes, I can recall a faint, salty scent and the intangible softness of his love making. But I didn't know he was so gentle then, because I didn't yet know much about men's embraces. This was just the beginning of my life's inventory.

Maria,

It's 12:50 am, post-facto. I've been thinking to myself -- not for long actually, just the ride home. This is the way I see it. At the beginning of the school year, nobody could've predicted this . . . and no one can predict what will happen now. I understand exactly what you mean -- "all or nothing." I think we should wait to see what exactly happens between us -- tonight and this week -- before we make any standing decisions. Could this have been a whim? I don't think so, but it certainly wasn't planned to work this way. If it comes, fine; if it doesn't, that's fine also. I need a friend, let's not ruin a good friendship over passion.

All my love,

Alexander

Alexander and I would never become lovers and while the night passed into memory without any awkwardness, our friendship would dissipate, as so many friendships did, after graduation.

We weren't in love; we were just curious.

I smiled as I read his note, twenty three years and many embraces later. I was impressed by his diction and touched by the delicacy of his feelings. The fact that he took the time to write the note, that he thought of a potential "us" that warranted contemplation, that he handed it to me first thing in the morning at school -- all of these details led me to the conclusion that perhaps we weren't so immature at 18 years of age.

No money can buy this memory, a memory that swells my heart with a life lived well. I'm glad I stashed this old, crumpled piece of paper because over the years, it acquired new meaning and afforded me a glimpse into that hazy realm of the eternal. A life's worth of loves, of writings -- these are the things I'd keep under lock and key, these are the cherished possessions.

Dudes dancing at Mango's.  It's a total flesh fest. (This photo by me.)

Miami Fever and I worked on an assignment together last night for Columbus Magazine, a publication from the Netherlands.  Our goal was to cover Miami nightlife and we focused mainly on South Beach.

I'm not particularly into clubs so it was a wide-eyed experience for me.  The best part was grabbing some pre-clubbing nosh at El Carajo, that tapas joint inside a gas station; however, for some random stranger at Mango's, the best part of his night was anonymously grabbing my ass. I don't know what it is about my ass, but a lot of people seem to want to grab it!

We also stopped at Score, the gay bar (see video below), which was not so gay as you'd think.  I really like that place -- several hetero couples were there (ie, us so called "breeders").  Plus, you always have the option of having a drink outside on Lincoln Road when you want to take a break from the club.  (Also, it was refreshing to know that no one would grab my ass at this bar.  I don't think lesbians are so brazen, are they? I wouldn't know ...)

What was (and always is) truly heartbreaking is the sad faces of the bathroom attendants.  I swear to you, in my years of living here, every single freakin' attendant is from Haiti.  I always ask and the invariable answer is "Haiti." I hate it how some women just breeze in and out of the bathroom and primp in front of the mirror using all the cosmetics and hairspray without bothering to leave a tip.  Please, if you go to pee in a club, please show a little compassion and at least leave a few cents on the plate for these women.

Anyway, what a combo, right?  "Manola" and Miami Fever doing a story on nightlife.  Fever's girlfriend was with us and God bless her -- because she was driving we were able to slip into a venue and come back to the car in a short amount of time. Otherwise, let me tell you, this party business and commuting in South Beach would've been an absolute cluster fuck. If you're going to club-hop be prepared to bring a big bag so you can switch from heels to flip flops and back. Ocean Drive is mad, mad, mad ... and you prefer to walk because it's bumper-to-bumper traffic so the taxi aint gonna get you there any faster.  People are suprised when I call everything south of Dade Boulevard the "madhouse" ... but that's what it is!

More to come on this assignment adventure.  I'm sure Fever took some amazing pix.

View from Manny's restaurant on Biscayne Boulevard at the mouth of the Miami River.  This would've been roughly the same location of Flagler's Royal Palm hotel in 1897. It is amazing that a two thousand-year old archeological site is just across the river bank! 

NEWS FLASH!  Downtown's Miami River walk is really cool!  News to me, even though I've been living here for donkey's ages.

Well, yesterday, I took metrorail from South Miami to Miami Dade Community College's Wolfson Campus to enroll for a Miami History class with Dr. Paul George, history teacher and tour guide/historian for the South Florida Historical Museum.  If you've been following my local writing elsewhere, you know Dr. Paul George from my Miami River article as well as Gus Moore's piece on Stilstville.

Anyway, Dr. George helped me register for the class, which I will be auditing for personal enrichment.  He was very generous with his time to help me register for the course, since I'm not a traditional, degree-seeking student.  He also gave me some copies of articles to read! Call me a geek, but I am so excited about this class, some of which will involve about half a dozen tours -- most of them focused on the eastern part of Miami's historical core.

It's a real steal as an educational experience. My Florida resident tuition was $237 for the entire semester and that includes the tours, which normally run about $30 a pop.  Additional tours are $10, if you're a student registered in his class.  Parking is free downtown if you're a student (must get an ID or show proof of registration).

There is so much to learn about Miami.  Plus, I want some of whatever Dr. George is taking.  Oh wait, it's not a pill and it doesn't come in a bottle -- it's called doing what you love for a living!  His enthusiasm for his work is one of a kind and he generously shares it with everyone.  I can only equate it to the enthusiasm of Gary V, who's mantra is just that: do what you love.

It's rare -- and great -- to come across people like this in life.

In any case, afterwards I walked on my own from Bayside to Met One at the mouth of the river.  It was very pleasant and beautiful, enhanced by the same cool easterly breeze we've had all week on the bay.  I used to hate all the damn condo overdevelopment and while I still have mixed feelings about it, I must say that it's quite energizing to be surrounded by the bay and the tall buildings in the glow of a winter sunset.  You know Miami CSI photoshops its sweeping aerial vistas of downtown, but seriously, when the light is that warm, you don't need to touch up anything!

I really look forward to my Miami "see it like a native" learning process in the coming weeks and sharing it with all of you.

The video below is of the mouth of the river and the boardwalk. It was always a dream of mine to see a great boardwalk here. Do I have to thank the Miami River Commission? I know its part of their vision too.