Low Brow Encounter at High Brow Miami Resort

On Tuesday, I went to jury duty and sat on a panel about battery and even though I was too much of a smart-ass to get picked as a juror, it got me thinking ...

You see, earlier this month I went to fancy-schmancy Fairmont Resort at Turnberry Isle in Aventura to meet some out-of-town friends for drinks and dinner. Everything was fine -- the property, food and service were top-notch -- just what you'd expect from a world-class resort.

The reason I'm telling you this story is because that night I met a random jackass who threw a cloth napkin at my face.

Yes, you read that right. Jackass balled up a cloth napkin and pelted me close to the temple. It actually hurt my eye. Yes, this happened at the beautiful, elegant dining salon and bar at the Fairmont Resort.

Said jackass was probably in his late forties -- a handsome, well-traveled, well-educated man who owns a resort property somewhere around a famous vineyard region in the state of California. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. It starts with the letter N.

He was at Turnberry for a conference that was held on site earlier that day. A friend of mine who attended the same conference insisted I meet him as he could be a great travel writing connection.

That's all fine and well. After dinner, my friend, the jackass, three of his colleagues and I sat down around a coffee table chit chatting when all of a sudden, out of the blue, jackass, who was sitting across from me, launched the missile.

Folks, I cannot tell you how surreal this was. There was no provocation. In fact, he was mostly engaged in conversation with my friend. Who in their right mind throws a napkin at anyone? Let alone a woman he just met? Who does this? Come on, this aint no honky tonk biker bar where someone might break a bottle of Bud over your head. This was hoity-toity, white-glove service Fairmont Resort!

So here are my theories:

1. He's forty-something going on seven. He threw the napkin because he liked me and that's his way of expressing his feelings, kind of like the boy in 3rd grade who pulled your pigtails when you weren't looking.

2. He's taking flirtation tips from British literature. In Thomas Hardy's novel Jude the Obscure, country bumpkin Arabella throws a pig scrotum at Jude as a sign of her affection.

3. Or au contraire, he threw the napkin because he wasn't sexually attracted to me and therefore felt he could get away with it. A man like that would never dare to offend a woman he wants to take to bed. I don't care if a dude isn't attracted to me, but what's insulting here is that he may have thought he could treat me this way just because he didn't want to screw me.

4. He suffers from a rare form of Tourette's in which soft objects are hurled instead of verbal obscenities.

5. He takes "I'm in Miami, bitch" seriously and thinks that's an excuse to act like a complete asshole.

6. His mother didn't breast feed him so he harbors a deep-rooted misogyny and irrational love of Chardonnay.

7. He's simply a jackass with no manners.

By the way, my first reaction was to say "What the hell?" And after a few minutes of sitting there, completely stunned, I threw a napkin back at him. At least he paid for my drink.

The whole episode was so bizarre; it definitely goes down in my top ten list of "only in Miami" moments.

So if "battery" is non-consensual touch, that which you can't consent to because you don't know it's coming (and man, I really didn't see this coming), do you think I could have taken this guy to court?

The graphic above designed by the inimitable and infinitely talented Nikon Miami. Thanks, Jim!

Planet Manola: Love Lost, Love Gained

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not less frequently.


Dating should be really called carbon dating, because by the time it's over, it's ancient history.

The topic of dating has crept up back into my life again. No, not because I'm dating creeps, but because I've come across some good dating reads!

BUSY DATING

I learned about this brave and sassy chick while attending Blogalicious earlier this month. (Anyone who actively dates is brave in my book.) Busy Dating describes herself as a "thirty something single woman exploring the dating scene with an open mind and a fresh pair of eyes. Learning, laughing and chronicling along the way."

Yes, a girl after my heart! Every woman should read her dating horror stories section Don't Get Punched. Also, follow her twitter. She recently had me cracking up on when she announced that some jackass on an online dating site had asked her if "she could clap her hind parts."

(I'm wondering if he misquoted William Butler Yeats, "soul clap its hands and sing.")

In any case, while she was at the conference, Busy Dating had a far more pleasant and innocent enough encounter in South Beach that led to a phone call on her way back home. Could romance spring up between two out-of-towners on the sidewalk? Stranger things have happened on the island. No, I'm sorry. The strange thing would be romance. The normal thing on a South Beach sidewalk is a walk of shame before the hookers come out for coffee.

Could a South Beach flirtation find fertile ground elsewhere? We shall see ...

THEY ALWAYS LEAVE ... OR COME BACK FOR THE CASH ON THE NIGHTSTAND

My sarcasm does a terrible injustice to Jeremy Glazer, a local writer whose prose I've recently discovered. He had me at the the first few sentences of a story published over at WLRN's blog, Under the Sun. Glazer's beautifully written fictional account of a local man who falls for a transplant explores the bane of every native Miamian's existence: the good ones always seem to be from elsewhere. From They Always Leave:

You want to say you and Tanya broke up because she smoked too much. Or because she was on facebook all night. Or because her apartment was a complete mess. But those are all excuses.

Just like every other relationship you’ve had in Miami, it ended because she moved away.

Glazer's poignant story about love lost begs a question about romance in a city of accidental residents. Yes, alas, the good ones leave, but why do all the damn psychos stay?!?

LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHARLES DEERING

While love may last as long as the life cycle of a fruit fly in South Beach, a different story comes out of Old Cutler.

Last night I took the first Deering Estate ghost tour of the season, during which a staff member shared one of the best South Florida love stories I've ever heard.

You see, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Deering each had their own personal servants. But for some reason, these servants were not allowed to date each other, although they were madly in love. They kept their romance secret for many years until the Mr. and Mrs. passed away. The lovers eventually married -- she at the tender age of 61 on the day of her nuptials.

Oh, can you imagine the kisses they stole behind the Richmond Cottage? The furtive embraces in the dense foliage of the mangrove forest?

Speaking of romance, ghost tours are a great way to explore one of the most hauntingly romantic spots in Miami-Dade -- haunting as in "its beauty will haunt you." If you can't make the night tour, go during the day with a picnic basket for wooing under the royal palms or consider attending one of their moonlight concerts on the gorgeous bayside lawn. More information about it all here: Deering Estate at Cutler.

My story on last year's investigative ghost tour is over at Miami Beach 411.

Broward Woman Goes on Dating Spree

I first heard about Claudia's dating project when an acquaintance told me I should do the same. "Hey, you should do 30 dates in 30 days in Miami," he chatted on Facebook. I replied: "Are you out your mind? That's crazy! What the fuck are you talking about?"

It turns out that 30 Dates in 30 Days is the brainchild of Broward-based Claudia, a Texas via New York transplant who wants to explore the treacherous waters of dating on the eve of her thirtieth birthday. Yeah, you heard it right: the goal is to cram thirty dates into the month of August, starting today, on the 1st. She's not necessarily looking to bang out thirty dates with thirty different men, mind you, but it's still a whopper of a social experiment! Speed dating on steroids. Boot camp with a chance of booty.

I knew I just had to meet the woman behind this project. It's Claudia, a lovely, friendly and easy-going gal I had the pleasure of sharing a couple of pints with in Fort Lauderdale last week. As with so many women I know, her looks and personality beg the universal question: "How can someone so pretty and nice not have a date?"

Claudia's stance on relationships is not that of a desperate, needy chick. Some ladies are serial daters because they're very insecure; heaven forbid they should spend a moment alone. Claudia didn't come across like that. And before you say she's doing this because she's an attention whore, think again! I've even met married women who are the biggest drama queens -- consummate cock blockers with no consideration for us single sisters. Claudia didn't come across like that either. She seemed content, like someone reaching a milestone who probably just wants to push the envelope of fate a little. And I do feel for her: when you're a confident woman with a conscience that extends beyond your vagina, it's even harder to find a good man in South Florida. It's the bimbos who easily score dates and Claudia is no bimbo.

Being a jaded South Floridian, I thought I'd give Claudia twelve tips for dating in the nation's dicktip.

1) One of Claudia's challenges is even scheduling thirty dates. Why not try checking in to Foursquare and seeing who's hanging out at all the bail bond shops on Andrews Avenue?

2) If he says he's taking you to the Everglades on a first date, run. Or bring bottled water, a compass and machete.

3) For extra protection, stop by a botanica in Hialeah for holy water and a Horatio Cane amulet.

4) Don't say you're a transplant; he might be after your kidney.

5) In Florida, an Ed Hardy shirt automatically means douchebag. When in doubt, shake his hand and check for tanning spray residue.

6) Make sure the only white powder on the table is salt.

7) And speaking of white powder, only meet in public places. This does not include the bathroom stalls at Yolo's.

8) South Florida is full of nursing homes, but they're not just for the elderly! Make sure he's not a pansy who needs nursing and frequent manicures.

9) Don't meet up at the same place on Las Olas every day. Cops will start to think you're a hooker.

10) Don't confuse "rum runner" with "drug runner" ... the former is a drink and the latter comes with a speedboat bigger than his house but only slightly smaller than his ego.

11) Broward County Clerk of Courts case search is your best friend! "So you have fifty speeding tickets" makes for a great ice breaker at the dinner table.

12) If he complains about you sharing your dating adventures in the public eye, tell him that "personal branding" is a fetish club in Dania.

Soon enough, Claudia will learn what it means to date South Florida style. It's just like hurricane season: hope for the best, but expect the worse.

Claudia is boldly going where few South Florida women have gone before! It would probably be easier to navigate all 300 miles of Fort Lauderdale's waterways on a paddleboard ... without a paddle. Sex and the Beach admires her courage and chutzpah!

Follow her adventure on See Claudia Date or on Twitter @seeclaudiadate. Sex and the Beach will do a follow up interview after date number thirty.

BREAKING NEWS! Looming Penis Threatening Miami Women!

Sexy Miami bitches beware! Attack of the Big Penis coming soon to a luxury condo near you.

I know this news is so last week, but I how could I resist? I used to write for Miami Living, a luxury style magazine, and I'm so glad that they continue to epitomize all that is classy and sophisticated about the Magic City. Just take a look at the ad (shown above) that they approved for Miami's #1 dating site gold digger meets sugar daddy service Establishedmen.com!

Apparently, the editor-in-chief did not notice the ad before sending the issue to print. There's even some question about whether the editor-in-chief lives in Miami, which is duh! so obvious something is not quite 305 right. What true Miamian would miss this oh-so-subliminal message of two greedy ho-bags about to suck on a looming schlong? Come on!

See Miami Living Magazine? SEE WHAT YOU'VE BEEN MISSING? Obviously you haven't seen peen in a long time!

By the way, I want to know which stupid-ass rich mother fucker is so desperate he's willing to fork out money for a pretty pussy. Because you know, I have plenty of girlfriends who could certainly use "successful and generous benefactors to fulfill their lifestyle needs."

Oh wait, that would never work ... none of my girlfriends would suck cock for a wad of cash.

More at Miami New Times and Huffington Post. For more fabulous cock shadow fun, visit The Cockshadow Blog, "the number one site on the internet for all your cock shadow needs."

Dinner with Eddie

¡Hola! Everybody...
I’ve had an interesting couple of days...

* * *

-=[ Conflict Resolution ]=-

I went out on a dinner date this past Friday with this lovely lady. She doesn’t know it yet, but I have good intentions for her.

::grin::

Anyway, we’re having this dinner by candlelight with one of the most beautiful views of the Brooklyn Bridge as our vista and having a leisurely conversation. I’m making her smile and I’m saying all those witty things -- just having a good time. At some point, she asks me a question about politics and I refuse, saying I didn’t want to bore her with politics or stuff about my work and she says the wrong thing: she tells me that what most attracts me to her is how my mind works.

DANG!

So, I’m there showing off, pontificating on the racist roots of neoconservatism when, seemingly out of nowhere, this fool interjects into our private conversation and then proceeds to threaten me. You all know how much I have being threatened. I’m trying to keep my meticulously cultivated “Latino Cool,” but he’s really starting to piss me off. I ask him nicely to stop or I’ll have to resort to more stringent methods. By now, he’s bedside himself, and attracting the attention of other diners.

So I get up from my chair (he rises also!), walk past him, and go to the manager (who I happen to know). I inform him that an irate diner is threatening me with physical harm and if he doesn’t remove him from the premises, I’ll be forced to call the authorities. The manger visibly freaks, the last thing he wants is a scene, he asks me to identify the culprit, and I lead him to the person. I say in words clear, “If you don’t remove this person from the premises now, I will call the police. This man is threatening me and making a nuisance of himself.”

A couple at the table next to us agrees that the man has been belligerent and disruptive. So the manager asks the man to leave. The man resists, but the manager has called a security guard. He looks at me, calls me a “faggot,” takes his jacket and his date and is escorted away.

Everybody applauds.

I’m 54 years-old with a job I love that pays me well, why would I risk it all because I need to prove my manhood?

::blank stare::

I’m not trying to paint myself as some ultra-tolerant, pacifist, because I am hardly the role model. But violence should be the last resort and even then, violence should come from a place of compassion. A younger “Eddie” may have met his bullying with resistance. Or I would’ve first humiliated him with my wit before eventually escalating the violence...

In my life I have met men serving life sentences who have told me that a split second’s decision cost them 25 years.

Oh yeah! The date you ask? Man was she impressed with how I handled myself! I think she got moist... Kidding!

Love,

Eddie

Slab of Beef

Somewhere in South Miami, a better beach to have sex: no buildings, no hotels, no tourists, no attitude ... just beach.

You can take the girl out of the beach but you can't take the beach out of the girl. Had you been an iguana sunning on the shore, you may have overheard this mobile phone conversation at Matheson Hammock Park.

Manola: OMG, there are two horseshoe crabs mating!
Friend: Really?
Manola: Yeah, it's quite beautiful. Male is latched on to female and the two are gliding gracefully through the water. I can see them underwater because I'm wearing polarized sunglasses.
Friend: What? Your sunglasses are bipolar?
Manola: No, polarized sunglasses. They reduce glare on the water. Great for fishing.
Friend: So those crabs are having sex? Oh, I didn't know crabs had sex. I just thought the male spewed all his sperm in the water. You know, like salmon.
Manola: Gosh, I really don't anything about crab sex. Crabs and sex ... a friend of mine had to wash her sheets once in hot water and lice shampoo ... wait a minute! That may be true of other crabs, but these horseshoe critters like to get down and dirty. This is only one pair here now but I've seen hundreds of them before. Like a horse shoe crab orgy.
Friend: Ew.
Manola: Yeah, not that I've ever been, but I've heard it's just like hanging out a swingers club in Fort Lauderdale. All these people humping with no taste for privacy.
Friend: Well, I thought that crab eggs were fertilized by free-floating sperm.
Manola: Oh God, not the kind that squirms up your leg and makes you freak out about your period being late?
Friend: Yeah.
Me: Free-floating sperm. Gosh, if you're a sperm and don't have a good sense of direction, you're screwed, aren't you?
Friend: Yeah, but just think about it. You're competing with a lot of other dudes who don't give a shit about where they're going.
Manola: You know, come to think of it, don't guys spew all over everything anyway? If he pulls out, it's a sticky mess on your belly.
Friend: Yeah and if you give him a blow job ...
Manola: It's not Cartier.
Friend: Hell no!
Manola: I don't remember what sperm tastes like.
Friend: Do you remember that scene from Sex and the City where Carrie just wants a man to lie on top of her?
Manola: Oh yeah! She goes to San Francisco for a book signing and hopes to high heaven she'll get laid with Big.
Friend: Yeah, I think she says something like "I just want to feel the weight of a man on me."
Manola: Shit, I miss that.
Friend: (Sigh)
Manola: Crap, why can't I just go to Winn-Dixie, buy a Fred Flinstone size T-bone steak and slap it on my body?
Friend: So you want a slab of beef instead of a boyfriend?
Manola: What's the difference? It would just lie on top of me with no regard for my pleasure.
Friend: At least the beef doesn't spew ...
Manola: But the steak is warm ...
Friend: And it doesn't have crabs ...
Manola: Holy shit! This shirtless jogger dude just walked up to the crabs and tried to poke them. Can't the crabs get it on without being hassled?
Friend: Is he a hunk?
Manola: Nah, more like ground chuck.
Friend: Would you do him?
Manola: Probably. Wrapped in bacon with Bearnaise sauce.



tags: sex and the city, beach, miami, dating

Sex and the City of Pleasant Living

As I settle into my new life in South Miami, the city of pleasant living, the possibility of dating again has begun to rear its ugly circumcised head. But what would I know about ugly? I haven't seen a live penis since the pre-construction phase of Stonehenge!

Speaking of the past, that's precisely what I'm determined to no longer do. I've put the past behind me. You see, before I could even contemplate the idea of ever having to gaze at another penis, I needed to develop a healthy relationship with my past.

Uh-huh. These days, I like my past. I came to terms with it. Long estranged now is that ridiculous (yet important) vow of celibacy and my fractured relationship with Mr. Thinks He's Huge.

The past is just like my big fat Cuban ass -- it's there, it supports me, it's my foundation. But I don't have to look at, do I?

I take that back. I wholly embrace the reality of having a big Cuban ass that is never going to go away. I like my ass. And you know what, sometimes I wish I could look at it more often, but I shouldn't. Such narcissistic rear-view mirror indulgence would put a serious strain on my neck!

Anyway, I can however look at the past in ways that will make it easier for me to leave my comfort zone and no, I'm not talking about all the padding on my luxury caboose. I'm talking about taking risks with an even bigger part of me -- my heart.

As I saw Sex and the City this weekend, observing the fabulous four unravel the details of their love lives, I also saw my own life as a movie in the context of the bigger picture. Not just my life, but that of many friends. How many loves lost? How many conquered?

This weekend, the very same Miss Boobette who inspired me to start this blog in 2005 is coming back to Miami for a bachelorette party. She met the man of her dreams, but he lived in LA. Move away, she did. Engaged, they got. Married, they shall be.

Damn it. At the end of the day, it seems like the most permanent memories I have of South Beach are the homeless folks scooping a meal out of a garbage can.

Everyone I cared about in the past who has found love has moved away from South Beach. It's always a leaving South Beach story. And like all good stories, the denouement always comes on the verge of a climax, in many cases with a pre-packaged carton box conclusion: "Ya know, just the other day, as I was crossing the causeway ..."

Perhaps I should tempt fate and change the description of this blog to A Single Woman's Guide to Chronic Loving. So long as I inhale and exhale this miracle of being alive, I can't help but live. And maybe, just maybe ... I can't help but love.

tags: sex and the city, beach, miami, dating