Miami Nights Quotes

Grady and Preston were both after the same mark in Paris a few years ago,” Julian said to Zane. “They met during what I hear was a drunken, debauched night of… selling antiques. That’s how I knew Ty had been there. I never saw him.” “Such unnecessary details,” Preston murmured. “Ty, seriously,” Zane grunted. “How is this my fault?” Ty asked in exasperation. “Do you have a history with every guy with a gun in the Northern hemisphere?” “Oh, like you don’t have some winners back there you hope we never run into. Let’s head to Miami and see what comes out of the woodwork.” “Ty.” “I like guys with guns!” “Oh my God,” Julian muttered as he rubbed at his eyes.

If Cuba is Hell, Miami is Purgatory.

There was no Disney World then, just rows of orange trees. Millions of them. Stretching for miles And somewhere near the middle was the Citrus Tower, which the tourists climbed to see even more orange trees. Every month an eighty-year-old couple became lost in the groves, driving up and down identical rows for days until they were spotted by helicopter or another tourist on top of the Citrus Tower. They had lived on nothing but oranges and come out of the trees drilled on vitamin C and checked into the honeymoon suite at the nearest bed-and-breakfast. "The Miami Seaquarium put in a monorail and rockets started going off at Cape Canaveral, making us feel like we were on the frontier of the future. Disney bought up everything north of Lake Okeechobee, preparing to shove the future down our throats sideways. "Things evolved rapidly! Missile silos in Cuba. Bales on the beach. Alligators are almost extinct and then they aren't. Juntas hanging shingles in Boca Raton. Richard Nixon and Bebe Rebozo skinny-dipping off Key Biscayne. We atone for atrocities against the INdians by playing Bingo. Shark fetuses in formaldehyde jars, roadside gecko farms, tourists waddling around waffle houses like flocks of flightless birds. And before we know it, we have The New Florida, underplanned, overbuilt and ripe for a killer hurricane that'll knock that giant geodesic dome at Epcot down the trunpike like a golf ball, a solid one-wood by Buckminster Fuller. "I am the native and this is my home. Faded pastels, and Spanish tiles constantly slipping off roofs, shattering on the sidewalk. Dogs with mange and skateboard punks with mange roaming through yards, knocking over garbage cans. Lunatics wandering the streets at night, talking about spaceships. Bail bondsmen wake me up at three A.M. looking for the last tenant. Next door, a mail-order bride is clubbed by a smelly ma in a mechanic's shirt. Cats violently mate under my windows and rats break-dance in the drop ceiling. And I'm lying in bed with a broken air conditioner, sweating and sipping lemonade through a straw. And I'm thinking, geez, this used to be a great state. "You wanna come to Florida? You get a discount on theme-park tickets and find out you just bough a time share. Or maybe you end up at Cape Canaveral, sitting in a field for a week as a space shuttle launch is canceled six times. And suddenly vacation is over, you have to catch a plane, and you see the shuttle take off on TV at the airport. But you keep coming back, year after year, and one day you find you're eighty years old driving through an orange grove.

The typical Cuban machismo has attained alarming proportions in Miami. I did not want to stay too long in that place, which was like a caricature of Cuba, the worst of Cuba: the eternal gossip, the chicanery, the envy.

In Miami the obsession with making things work and being practical, with making lots of money, sometimes out of the fear of starving, has replaced a sense of life and, above all, of pleasure, adventure, and irreverence.

At the prosecution table, Flagler gave me his Ivy League snicker. If I wanted, I could dangle him out the window by his ankles. But then, I was picking up penalties for late hits while he was singing tenor with the Whiffenpoofs. Okay, so I’m not Yale Law Review, but I’m proud of my diploma. University of Miami. Night division. Top half of the bottom third of my class.

The other interns have left, and your eyes are beginning to spill over. The hell with it, you think. No one’s here. It’s better that you cry before you drive. Miami’s confusing to navigate at night, and they haven’t invented Google Maps yet.

I shut off the alarm on my phone and snuggle into bed, wishing I could shut off my brain as easily as I turned off the alarm. Wouldn’t that be awesome? To be able to slide something on a screen to shut off any thoughts you no longer wish to have. I’d pay good money for that ability right now.

How was she to know that Carmen had stood at the back door that night? That she’d seen her father’s face slowly consumed by licking flames and tiptoed back into the house? In fifteen years, Carmen would board a plane to Miami, and Dolores would never see her again. She would think it was politics that had divided her from her firstborn daughter.

In the old house in Miami, I'd wake with the feeling of a hand on my chest, my eyes open to the murky blue half-light of my bedroom. Everything quiet, though still feeling noise all around me, though my ears, behind my eyes, under my skin. In the cottage, I fall asleep slowly, counting the sounds of the night animals - crickets, frogs, squealing raccoons, a cat in heat somewhere beyond the coco plum trees. But mine is still a loneliness that shakes me from my sleep. I can forget my solitude all day, through my working hours, through errands, the evening housecleaning ritual I've made up for the cottage. Yet night remains a tomb, when I'm most vulnerable, lying down for rest without distraction. Only this body and that darkness, the whispers of the never-ending noche: You belong to no one. No one belongs to you.

How to Come Out as Gay Don’t. Don’t come out unless you want to. Don’t come out for anyone else’s sake. Don’t come out because you think society expects you to. Come out for yourself. Come out to yourself. Shout, sing it. Softly stutter. Correct those who say they knew before you did. That’s not how sexuality works, it’s yours to define. Being effeminate doesn’t make you gay. Being sensitive doesn’t make you gay. Being gay makes you gay. Be a bit gay, be very gay. Be the glitter that shows up in unexpected places. Be Typing . . . on WhatsApp but leave them waiting. Throw a party for yourself but don’t invite anyone else. Invite everyone to your party but show up late or not at all. If you’re unhappy in the closet but afraid of what’s outside, leave the door ajar and call out. If you’re happy in the closet for the time being, play dress-up until you find the right outfit. Don’t worry, it’s okay to say you’re gay and later exchange it for something else that suits you, fits, feels better. Watch movies that make it seem a little less scary: Beautiful Thing, Moonlight. Be southeast London, a daytime dance floor, his head resting on your shoulder. Be South Beach, Miami, night of water and fire, your head resting on his shoulder. Be the fabric of his shirt the muscles in his shoulder, your shoulder. Be the bricks, be the sand. Be the river, be the ocean. Remember your life is not a movie. Accept you will be coming out for your whole life. Accept advice from people and sources you trust. If your mother warns you about STDs within minutes of you coming out, try to understand that she loves you and is afraid. If you come out at fifteen, this is not a badge of honor, it doesn’t matter what age you come out. Be a beautiful thing. Be the moonlight, too. Remember you have the right to be proud. Remember you have the right to be you.

LOVERS ARE LOSERS I saw a late night movie on TV and it felt just like it was about you and me And since it was me and you, it didn't watch it till the end cause I didn't want it to Lovers are losers Losers, lovers are losers I watch the sports then the news, confuse the lingo that they use Cause winning's not why were playing that's the kinda neo-liberal bullshit that they're saying "losers" Lovers are losers Losers, lovers are losers A strike for the right kind of battles if we choose, it'll feel like we win overtime that we lose And I don't know what the care is, we're all fucking losers from Miami to Paris Losers, Lovers are losers Lovers are losers

Sam Moore had scuffled his way into hosting a talent show at a nightclub, the King of Hearts, in his hometown of Miami. Dave Prater was a bread baker. Sam remembers that when Dave signed up for that week’s show, he was wearing his baker’s whites; wherever he walked, he left behind white flour shoe prints. At the auditions, Dave sang a Jackie Wilson song, “Doggin’ Around,” but realized he didn’t know the verses. Sam, whose job depended on selecting acts that would produce a good show, agreed to stay close during the performance and feed him the lines. But that night, Sam’s foot caught the microphone cable, and as the mike began to fall, Dave went down to catch it and Sam went down to catch Dave. Choreographers couldn’t have written it better: They came up together, singing and with the mike in hand. In that little mix-up, an act was born that would last the better part of twenty-two years and would remain forever a part of the public consciousness.

Brian and Avis deliver their stacks and try to refuse dinner, but the waiters bring them glasses of burgundy, porcelain plates with thin, peppery steaks redolent of garlic, scoops of buttery grilled Brussels sprouts, and a salad of beets, walnuts, and Roquefort. They drag a couple of lawn chairs to a quiet spot on the street and they balance the plates on their laps. Some ingredient in the air reminds Avis of the rare delicious trips they used to make to the Keys. Ten years after they'd moved to Miami they'd left Stanley and Felice with family friends and Avis and Brian drove to Key West on a sort of second honeymoon. She remembers how the land dropped back into distance: wetlands, marsh, lazy-legged egrets flapping over the highway, tangled, sulfurous mangroves. And water. Steel-blue plains, celadon translucence. She and Brian had rented a vacation cottage in Old Town, ate small meals of fruit, cheese, olives, and crackers, swam in the warm, folding water. Each day stirring into the next, talking about nothing more complicated than the weather, spotting a shark off the pier, a mysterious constellation lowering in the west. Brian sheltered under a celery-green umbrella while Avis swam: the water formed pearls on the film of her sunscreen. They watched the night's rise, an immense black curtain from the ocean. Up and down the beach they hear the sounds of the outdoor bars, sandy patios switching on, distant strains of laughter, bursts of music. Someone played an instrument- quick runs of notes, arpeggios floating in soft ovals like soap bubbles over the darkening water.

I had to drive through a very poor and largely Hispanic section of Miami to get to the apartment complex where Casey Martin had died. There were a lot of beautiful women on the sidewalks and at the outdoor cafés, a lot of tough guys and a lot of guys who weren’t tough but trying to look like they were. The streets were alive with what criminally passed for music nowadays, and there were smells of cooking in the air that suggested savory tastes. Small, hole-in-the-wall shops marked one end, and some more upscale stores the other. The dividing line between the two was discernible not just by the stores, but the women. The women and even younger girls at the lower income end seemed softer, friendlier, quicker with a genuine smile. The ones walking into the trendy places were just as pretty, more expensively dressed, but more apt to express scorn than produce a spontaneous smile. The upscale women appeared to be from a different planet. For them, everything was sexist, everything a slight. They were eternal victims, even though the entire world was in their favor. The women at the poor end fell in love, watched out for their men, while the more affluent were stand-offish and demanding, making certain any man “lucky” enough to be with them lived in the right zip code, had the right amount of bling to give them, and above all, had been properly neutered. The balls of their boyfriends and husbands — sometimes they had both — were always in their handbag, somewhere between the trendy lip liner and eye shadow. A kiss from one of the poor girls was a sweet gift, filled with passion and tenderness, even if it could only last a night. A kiss from an uptown girl meant you’d checked off all her right boxes, and she needed to fulfill her duty. Girls without money were from Venus, girls with money were from Mars.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and get lost in a sea of blue. A Jersey-accented voice says, “It’s about time, kid,” and Frank Sinatra rattles the ice in his glass of Jack Daniel’s. Looking at the swirling deep-brown liquid, he whispers, “Ain’t it beautiful?” This is my introduction to the Chairman of the Board. We spend the next half hour talking Jersey, Hoboken, swimming in the Hudson River and the Shore. We then sit down for dinner at a table with Robert De Niro, Angie Dickinson and Frank and his wife, Barbara. This is all occurring at the Hollywood “Guinea Party” Patti and I have been invited to, courtesy of Tita Cahn. Patti had met Tita a few weeks previous at the nail parlor. She’s the wife of Sammy Cahn, famous for such songs as “All The Way,” “Teach Me Tonight” and “Only the Lonely.” She called one afternoon and told us she was hosting a private event. She said it would be very quiet and couldn’t tell us who would be there, but assured us we’d be very comfortable. So off into the LA night we went. During the evening, we befriend the Sinatras and are quietly invited into the circle of the last of the old Hollywood stars. Over the next several years we attend a few very private events where Frank and the remaining clan hold forth. The only other musician in the room is often Quincy Jones, and besides Patti and I there is rarely a rocker in sight. The Sinatras are gracious hosts and our acquaintance culminates in our being invited to Frank’s eightieth birthday party dinner. It’s a sedate event at the Sinatras’ Los Angeles home. Sometime after dinner, we find ourselves around the living room piano with Steve and Eydie Gorme and Bob Dylan. Steve is playing the piano and up close he and Eydie can really sing the great standards. Patti has been thoroughly schooled in jazz by Jerry Coker, one of the great jazz educators at the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami. She was there at the same time as Bruce Hornsby, Jaco Pastorius and Pat Metheny, and she learned her stuff. At Frank’s, as the music drifts on, she slips gently in on “My One and Only Love.” Patti is a secret weapon. She can sing torch like a cross between Peggy Lee and Julie London (I’m not kidding). Eydie Gorme hears Patti, stops the music and says, “Frank, come over here. We’ve got a singer!” Frank moves to the piano and I then get to watch my wife beautifully serenade Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan, to be met by a torrent of applause when she’s finished. The next day we play Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration for ABC TV and I get to escort him to the stage along with Tony Bennett. It’s a beautiful evening and a fitting celebration for the greatest pop singer of all time. Two years later Frank passed away and we were generously invited to his funeral. A

the other night, but she'd had one excuse after another to avoid him and had repeatedly hurried him off the phone. Despite that, he had been sure she would keep her appointment tonight so he could see if it was time for her cast to come off. How wrong he had been.

I went to college at Florida State, which is where I got my interior design degree, and after college, I moved down to Miami. We moved back here a few years ago.” “Miami. Is that where you met your

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1948, my uncles offered me a special treat. They visited Mother, while I was in Queens to see visiting friends from Bucharest. Max and Morris thought it would be a good idea for me to visit Bernie and his family in Miami. Morris called me at the Teitelbaums and asked whether I was afraid of flying. Of course, I had never flown - but, of course, I was not afraid. They reserved a ticket for me; I came home in a hurry and by 11 p.m. that night I was on my way to Florida, from Newark. (Kennedy Airport had not been in existence yet). Bernie did not even know about my arrival. It was a glorious morning when I landed. I took a taxi and reached his house around five in the morning. Not wanting to wake them up, I sat in front of the house and watched the lovely, sunny surroundings - palm trees and flowering bushes, a delight to the eye. When somebody stirred inside, I rang the bell.

And the bag was much heavier than I remembered and I was very tired. And cold. I was suddenly feeling very cold. Why was that? It was a warm Miami night, and I didn’t think the air-conditioning could still be working. But a definite chill settled over me, all of me, and some of that bad red-tinged dizziness came back at me. I closed my eyes. It didn’t go away, so I opened my eyes again and looked at the stairway ahead. I could just put the bomb down there. It would probably do the job. And it couldn’t really be as far away as it looked. I could probably get there in just a few more steps.

IT WAS FULL DARK OUT NOW AND THE FIRST RUSH OF THE FREE night air roared into my lungs and out through my veins, calling my name with a thundering whisper of welcome and urging me on into the purring darkness, and we hurried to the car to ride away to happiness. But as we opened the car door and put one foot in, some small acid niggle twitched at our coattails and we paused; something was not right, and the frigid glee of our purpose slid off our back and onto the pavement like old snakeskin. Something was not right. I looked around me in the hot and humid Miami night. The neighborhood was just as it had always been; no sudden threat had sprung from the row of one-story houses with their toy-littered yards. There was nothing moving on our street, no one lurking in the shadows of the hedge, no rogue helicopter swooping down to strafe me—nothing. But still I heard that nagging trill of doubt. I took in a slow lungful of air through my nose. There was nothing to smell beyond the mingled odors of cooking, the tang of distant rainfall, the whiff of rotting vegetation that always lurked in the South Florida night. So what was wrong? What had set the tinny little alarm bells to clattering when I was finally out the door and free? I saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing—but I had learned to trust the pesky whisper of warning, and I stood there unmoving, unbreathing, straining for an answer. And then a low row of dark clouds rumbled open overhead and revealed a small slice of silvery moon—a tiny, inadequate moon, a moon of no consequence at all, and we breathed out all the doubt. Of course—we were used to riding out into the wicked gleam of a full and bloated moon, slicing and slashing to the open-throated sound track of a big round choir in the sky. There was no such beacon overhead tonight, and it didn’t seem right somehow to gallop off into glee without it. But tonight was a special session, an impromptu raid into a mostly moonless evening, and in any case it must be done, would be done—but done as a solo cantata this time, a cascade of single notes without a backup singer. This small and wimpish quarter-moon was far too young to warble, but we could do very well without it, just this once. And

Number one, why were my cousins walking home from school at that time of night? Number two, where the fuck was my aunt and where were the twins?

After my aunt’s boyfriend, Rick had come into my room that night, he did it twice more and he hasn’t been back yet. I don’t know if he felt guilty because the last time I cried so bad or what, but it’s been a little bit over a month, and he hasn’t touched me since.

I hadn’t seen Jah since the night he took me over to his mother’s house, and I had missed him. “What’s

I knew Antonia was lying about that shit she said in regards to him coming in her room. What the fuck would my man possibly want with her skinny ass when I was giving him pussy every night?

What’s crazy to me is that even after the night Antonia left out of here for good, Porsha still came back in my room that night and told me that Antonia was telling the truth. “Rick,

I’m not going to lie, that night when my mom and Shaniqua showed me those bruises and shit on her back, it made me feel like less of a man.

Trust was a big thing for me, and the guys that I hired to work in the shop with me, yeah I trusted them, but I always did the final count myself at the end of the night. My

We stalked carefully through the park in best paramilitary fashion, the lost patrol on its mission into the land of the B movie. To Deborah’s credit, she was very careful. She moved stealthily from one piece of cover to the next, frequently looking right to Chutsky and then left at me. It was getting harder to see her, since the sun had now definitely set, but at least that meant it was harder for them to see us, too—whoever them might turn out to be. We leapfrogged through the first part of the park like this, past the ancient souvenir stand, and then I came up to the first of the rides, an old merry-go-round. It had fallen off its spindle and lay there leaning to one side. It was battered and faded and somebody had chopped the heads off the horses and spray-painted the whole thing in Day-Glo green and orange, and it was one of the saddest things I had ever seen. I circled around it carefully, holding my gun ready, and peering behind everything large enough to hide a cannibal. At the far side of the merry-go-round I looked to my right. In the growing darkness I could barely make out Debs. She had moved up into the shadow of one of the large posts that held up the cable car line that ran from one side of the park to the other. I couldn’t see Chutsky at all; where he should have been there was a row of crumbling playhouses that fringed a go-kart track. I hoped he was there, being watchful and dangerous. If anything did jump out and yell boo at us, I wanted him ready with his assault rifle. But there was no sign of him, and even as I watched, Deborah began to move forward again, deeper into the dark park. A warm, light wind blew over me and I smelled the Miami night: a distant tang of salt on the edge of rotting vegetation and automobile exhaust. But even as I inhaled the familiar smell, I felt the hairs go up on the back of my neck and a soft whisper came up at me from the lowest dungeon of Castle Dexter, and a rustle of leather wings rattled softly on the ramparts. It was a very clear notice that something was not right here and this would be a great time to be somewhere else; I froze there by the headless horses, looking for whatever had set off the Passenger’s alarm. I saw and heard nothing. Deborah had vanished into the darkness and nothing moved anywhere, except a plastic shopping bag blowing by in the gentle wind. My stomach turned over, and for once it was not from hunger. My

But it is a truism of life that no matter how much we are suffering, nobody else cares—generally speaking, nobody even notices. And so even though I was spending all my time waiting for the abrupt end to absolutely everything, life went on around me; and as if to rub my nose in my own misery, life seemed to turn strangely jolly for everybody but me. Everyone else in Miami suddenly and mysteriously filled up with offensive good cheer. Even my brother, Brian, seemed infected by the dreadful light-headed jolliness that plagued the rest of the city. I knew this because when I got home on the third night after reading Shadowblog, Brian’s car was parked in front of the house, and he himself was waiting for me inside, on the couch.

I started my car and put Chase out of my mind as I nosed out into the merry brutality of Friday-night traffic in Miami.

Months back when Rashard had got drunk off his ass and decided to spend the night at my crib, I was the one that told Quanie to go take those pictures

Seeing Sharice earlier today brought back memories of that night and it pretty much scared her. I

I understand you, Marco Antonio Guerra said to him. I mean, if I’m right, I think I understand you. You’re like me and I’m like you. We aren’t happy. The atmosphere around us is stifling. We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is. What’s wrong? We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me. But the fights I get into aren’t just any fights, they’re fucking apocalyptic mayhem. I’m going to tell you a secret. Sometimes I go out at night, to bars you can’t even imagine. And I pretend to be a faggot. But not just any kind of faggot: smooth, stuck-up, sarcastic, a daisy in the filthiest pigsty in Sonora. Of course, I don’t have a gay bone in me, I can swear that on the grave of my dead mother. But I pretend that’s what I am. An arrogant little faggot with money who looks down on everyone. And then the inevitable happens. Two or three vultures ask me to step outside. And then the shit kicking begins. I know it and I don’t care. Sometimes they’re the ones who get the worst of it, especially when I have my gun. Other times it’s me. I don’t give a fuck. I need the fucking release. Sometimes my friends, the few friends I have, guys my age who are lawyers now, tell me I should be careful, I’m a time bomb, I’m a masochist. One of them, someone I was really close to, told me that only somebody like me could get away with what I did because I had my father to bail me out. Pure coincidence, that’s all. I’ve never asked my father for a thing. The truth is, I don’t have friends. I don’t want any. At least, I’d rather not have friends who’re Mexicans. Mexicans are rotten inside, did you know? Every last one of them. No one escapes. From the president of the republic to that clown Subcomandante Marcos. If I were Subcomandante Marcos, you know what I’d do? I’d launch an attack with my whole army on any city in Chiapas, so long as it had a strong military garrison. And there I’d sacrifice my poor Indians. And then I’d probably go live in Miami. What kind of music do you like? asked Amalfitano. Classical music, Professor, Vivaldi, Cimarosa, Bach. And what books do you read? I used to read everything, Professor, I read all the time. Now all I read is poetry. Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game. I don’t know if you follow me, Professor. Only poetry—and let me be clear, only some of it—is good for you, only poetry isn’t shit.

I was safe then. Nothing bad can happen if you don’t put yourself out there. I can hear Abuela reminding me that nothing good can happen, either. Life is a risk, she says. Love is a risk. It’s all a risk, and the people who have the courage to take the leap are the ones who’re most richly rewarded. And devastated when it ends. I can’t ever forget about that.

I went to this grief group for widows after it happened. I was the youngest one there by decades, but those ladies helped me a lot. They taught me that grief is love with nowhere to go. They helped me accept that I’ll never stop loving him. I might love someone else someday, but I’ll always love Tony, too, and it’s okay to let that happen.” “I’m

She’s all about forgiveness, even if we don’t necessarily forget. But it took her a long time to get there after everything happened.

Pvt. David Webster of the 101st spoke directly to it. On February 15, a buddy had died a particularly gruesome death. Webster wrote, “He wasn’t twenty years old. He hadn’t begun to live. Shrieking and moaning, he gave up his life on a stretcher. Back in America the standard of living continued to rise. Back in America the race tracks were booming, the night clubs were making record profits , Miami Beach was so crowded you couldn’t get a room anywhere. Few people seemed to care. Hell, this was a boom, this was prosperity , this was the way to fight a war. We wondered if the people would ever know what it cost the soldiers in terror, bloodshed, and hideous, agonizing deaths to win the war.” 48

I’d booked three nights at a hotel in Miami Beach, Florida. It would be our first vacation ever, and I couldn’t wait. The pictures on the hotel’s website showed couples lazing in hammocks, or sipping cocktails beside the pool. Also? Miami Beach was supposed to be one of the gayest vacation spots in America. And Caleb and I had never seen the ocean yet. There was just so much to look forward to.

Halfway back to the Keys on Seven Mile Bridge, as day lost its eternal struggle against night, someone in Miami called in to the radio station I was listening to, and requested Gloria Estefan’s Si Voy a Perderte. I turned it up and listened to the sad strains of Estefan’s emotional pleading while I drove across the water in darkness. I could almost have sworn under oath that the caller’s voice was that of Anna Marquez…

C.J.’s words sounded again and again in her head. She knew that she had not given her an answer, because Lourdes honestly didn’t have one. It was her embattled conscience that had driven her out of Miami, away from a successful practice, from friends and family, to hide from her sins up here in the mountains, hoping time would ease its suffering. But it simply made the condition worse. Her conscience—was that friend made or born? Or was hers skewed with the help of a mother who’d read from the bible every night before dinner, even when there was no food on the table to eat? Some people supposedly didn’t even have a conscience—failing to develop one by the age of three or four, and were sunk for life. Some had one and ignored it constantly. Others had one, but it didn’t always work right. So what made the conscience, the friend, always right, anyway? Who draws that line, Lourdes?

I love the music most of all—“O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “Silent Night,” “The First Noel,” “Joy to the World,” “O Holy Night” and “Ave Maria.” Tears fill my eyes as my heart overflows with joy and gratitude.

Kept on as head of NBC Entertainment by Fred Silverman’s successor, Grant Tinker, Tartikoff had more than justified Tinker’s faith in him by gradually putting together a string of hits such as Cheers, Hill Street Blues, Night Court, Miami Vice, The A Team, Family Ties, and The Cosby Show, hits that finally took NBC out of third place in the ratings. That most of those shows were of an unusual originality and quality was not an insignificant footnote, for it could be said that by succeeding with them Tartikoff and Tinker contributed more than anyone to a movement in network television away from the crassness of the programs that dominated the medium during the Fred Silverman era.

Whether the individuals are members of the Eisenhower Generation or the Baby Boomers, The Villages produces a culture of individual and collective youthfulness, but one paradoxically without youth. Youthfulness in these terms is not only produced through communal activities but also through the repair, development, and enhancement of the individual body itself. The programming of the strip hospital complex supports what might be termed as 'cyborgian' ambitions of the residents with respect to a broad range of treatments and products, from the biochemical and the biomechanical, to the bio-cosmetic and the psychochemical. Blechman's documentation of the 'Don Juan' of the villages, Mr. Midnight, resonates with this notion of posthuman subjecthood: 'I have to pick up my Viagra,' he says, and soon returns with a brown package. 'It's not that I need it, mind you. It's an enhancement, like whipped cream and nuts on a sundae. If it's a special night, I might take 100 milligrams.' Other 'enhancements' include the over-the-counter canned oxygen product Big Ox Power Oxygen reportedly used by residents to speed hangover recovery. These forms of experimental subjectivity and collectivity produce unforeseen effects: Doctors said sexually transmitted diseases among senior citizens are running rampant at a popular Central Florida retirement community, according to a Local 6 News report. A gynaecologist at The Villages community near Orlando, Fla., said she treats more cases of herpes and the human papilloma virus in the retirement community than she did in the city of Miami. According to the news report, local doctors attributed this predicament to the ready availability of Viagra within the community, a lack of sexual education, and the non-risk of pregnancy within the age group. It will be suggested here, however, that the broader spatiotemporal construction of The Villages, including golf carts and golf cart infrastructure, downtown public settings, and happy hours, further contribute to the social milieu that promotes enhanced intimacy as well as sexual activity.

A few of the people I had known were gone—even in that short time—back to the Midwest or to Times Square, or had been busted, or moved to Coffee Andy’s in Hollywood, or gone to Golden Miami. They had disappeared, one day: One day youre here and thats fine, and the next day your gone and thats fine too, and someone has that very day come in to take your place whatever it might have been.

They taught me that grief is love with nowhere to go.

Funny how life kicks you in the teeth, and you never see it coming.

As long as we have that, we can get through whatever comes our way.” I want so badly to believe that, but life has taught me to be wary of anything that seems too good to be true.

Until Milo was shot, it was the worst thing that’d ever happened to me. Even worse than the breast cancer diagnosis. Unlike my mother and I, she and I were very close. Much more like friends than grandmother and granddaughter. We talked about everything, even things no one talks to their grandmother about. Losing her left a hole inside of me so big that I thought nothing and no one could ever fill it. But then I met Lo and we had our family, and over time, the sadness faded a bit, even if I still miss her every day.” She places her hand on top of mine. “I didn’t lose both my parents at once, but I lost my most important person very suddenly, so I understand a little bit what you went through.

What’s your favorite part of the trip?” “I don’t have one.” “C’mon, there must’ve been something.” “I took a weekend trip to Caño Cristales. I liked seeing the different colors of the river. It was like a liquid rainbow.” Many of the students had spent their time traveling around Colombia on the weekends. No one had a car, but we could hop on a plane for fairly cheap and fly into different areas such as Bogotá, the country’s official capital city, or Cali, the salsa-dancing capital of the world. Amanda had even convinced me to fly with her to the seductive, sizzling city of Cartagena. We climbed the fortified walls that had once protected the city from pirate attacks and watched the sunset. The entire city had a Miami-style skyline and, after the sun went down, infatuation seemed to bloom into fever and take hold of the city. At night we could hear the clink of rum bottles and mojito glasses in cafés on almost every street as moonlight picked out the silhouettes of softly swaying couples. We walked for hours along the coastal city streets. Candle flames beckoned from the dimness of nearby baroque churches.

How is it my fault that he offered to put up that kind of money? None of this is my fault, but I’m the one they’re going to sue if he doesn’t pay up and soon.

Medical professionals are like seagulls when the word gets out that a feast is available

Instead, he only made everything worse than it already was, which is saying something. Things have been rough for the last four years, and now I’m facing financial ruin on top of everything else. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so terrified.

I was a fool, and I know that now, but knowing it doesn’t solve my most pressing issue.

It’s no wonder I’m not sleeping. Or eating. Or functioning. We owe them thirty thousand dollars. I’m the one who signed the contract, so I’m on the hook for the money even though I wasn’t the one

don’t ever sign a contract you’re not personally capable of fulfilling.

Everything is harder when I haven’t slept. I’m like a zombie moving through my day, checking and double-checking everything I do so I won’t make a terrible mistake

I rub my hand over my stomach, which is in a constant state of upset.

She was my step sister, off limits, and untouchable, yet I spent my entire life wanting to touch her. Now that I was, it was like taking a hit of a drug.

Te ves tan bien encima de mí.

Lesson one,” I grabbed her hand and moved it to the counter. “Only the keeper can use his hands.

I groaned and turned over, mad that I couldn’t seem to control thoughts, and fell asleep thinking about how inappropriate I wanted to be with my step brother.

Show her why you’re a pro, and worry about why you care later. Got it?

So what if he could kick around a ball, big deal. I’d seen the same kind of thing at the circus being performed by animals.

She would always be the girl that looked like an angel from heaven, but would send me straight to hell.

I don’t know if I’m upset that you think I asked you on a date, or that you thought I asked you on one, and turned me down.

Who am I to you?” “The same person you’ve always been,” I smiled. “Not my brother.

Catching a TWA flight to Miami was an uncoordinated boy who planned to slip at night into aquariums and open negotiations with the dolphins, who would succeed man. He was kissing his mother passionately goodbye, using his tongue. "I'll write, ma," he kept saying. "Write by WASTE," she said, "remember. The government will open it if you use the other. The dolphins will be mad." "I love you, ma," he said. "Love the dolphins," she advised him. "Write by WASTE.

Carnival Cruise Lines has its own successful way of doing things, which in this case involved creating a musical group called “The Hot Shots!” The word “Fantastic” comes to mind when thinking of this musical group! Each member auditioned separately at the Carnival rehearsal facility in Miami and then rehearsed as a group until they were ready for the big leagues aboard ship. Fortunately for me and my team, which includes Jorge Fernandez, a former guitar player from Cuba and now a top flight structural engineer in the Tampa Bay area, who helps me with much of my technical work; Lucy Shaw, Chief Copy Editor; Ursula Bracker, Proofer, and lucky me Captain Hank Bracker, award winning author (including multiple gold medals), were aboard the Carnival Legend and were privileged to listen to and enjoy, quite by chance, music that covered everything from Classical Rock, to Disco, to Mo Town and the years in between. Talented Judith Mullally, Carnival’s Entertainment Director, was on hand to encourage and partake in the music with her outstanding voice and, not to be left out, were members of the ship’s repertory cast, as well as the ship’s Cruise Director. The popular Red Frog lounge on the Carnival Legend was packed to the point that one of the performances had to be held on the expansive Lido deck. However, for the rest of the nights, the lounge was packed with young and old, singing and dancing to “The Hot Shots!” - a musical group that would totally pack any venue in Florida. Pheona Baranda, from the Philippines, is cute as a button and is the lead female singer, with a pitch-perfect soprano voice. Lucas Pedreira, from Argentina, is the lead male singer and guitar player who displayed endless energy and the ability to keep the audience hopping! Paulo Baranda, Pheona’s younger brother, plays the lead guitar to perfection and behind the scenes is the band’s musical director and of course is also from the Philippines. Ygor, from Israel, is the “on the money” drummer who puts so much into what he is doing, that at one point he hurt his hand, but refused to slow down. Nick is the bass guitar player, from down under New Zealand, and Marina, the piano and keyboard player, hails from the Ukraine. As a disclaimer I admit that I hold shares in Carnival stock but there is nothing in it for me other than the pleasure of listening to this ultra-talented group which cannot and should not be denied. They were and still are the very best! However, I am sorry that just as a “Super Nova” they unfortunately can’t last. Their bright shining light is presently flaring, but this will only be for a fleeting moment and then will permanently go to black next year on January 2, 2020. That’s just the way it is, but my crew and I, as well as the many guests aboard the Carnival Legend, experienced music seldom heard anywhere, any longer…. It was a treat we will remember for years to come and we hope to see them again, as individual musical artists, or as perhaps with a new group sometime in the near future!

A girl could quickly become addicted to a man who makes her feel like she’s the sun that lights up his world.

Enhancing Diabetes Management: The Role of Blood Glucose Monitors from Med Supply US Introduction In the modern landscape of diabetes care, continuous monitoring of blood glucose levels has become an invaluable tool for individuals striving to manage their condition effectively. Among the pioneering names in this field is Med Supply US, a brand that has been making waves in New York, Miami, and Florida by offering state-of-the-art Continuous Glucose Monitoring (CGM) services. Let's delve into how these Blood Glucose Monitors are revolutionizing diabetes management. Continuous Glucose Monitoring: A Game-Changer Gone are the days of frequent finger pricks and sporadic glucose checks. Med Supply US is at the forefront of empowering individuals with diabetes to monitor their blood glucose levels seamlessly and gain insights in real-time. CGMs have ushered in a new era of convenience, accuracy, and comprehensive data analysis, allowing for a more proactive approach to diabetes care. Benefits of CGMs by Med Supply US Med Supply US has carved a niche for itself in the diabetes management landscape, offering a range of benefits that set it apart: Accurate Monitoring: CGMs provide continuous readings throughout the day and night, eliminating the guesswork associated with traditional glucose monitoring methods. This accuracy is pivotal for making informed decisions about diet, medication, and activity levels. Real-time Data: With CGMs, individuals receive real-time data on their glucose levels. This not only keeps them informed but also enables prompt action in response to fluctuations, reducing the risk of extreme highs and lows. Trend Analysis: Med Supply US's CGMs offer comprehensive data analysis, highlighting trends and patterns in glucose levels over time. This aids in identifying factors that impact blood sugar, thus facilitating better management strategies. Alerts and Notifications: CGMs from Med Supply US come equipped with customizable alerts and notifications. This feature helps users stay vigilant about their glucose levels, especially during critical moments.

He holds out his hand to me, and I am at once eighteen and forty-eight, in Havana and in Miami, and we are both where we were that magical night and on the precipice of something new, something I can’t wait to explore.

Austin)

The worst part of realizing your life is a fucking disaster is knowing you have only yourself to blame for the wreckage scattered all around you.

There are some things that can never be fixed, no matter how much we might wish otherwise. Some hurts can never be undone or overcome, no matter what we say or do to make amends. The cuts are too deep ever to heal properly.” This

Giving your heart into someone else’s care isn’t something any of us should do lightly. It’s a big deal to give someone the power to hurt you. I learned that lesson the hard way,

They focus on the trip to Miami ten years ago, and they conveniently forget the abusive words, the neglect, the cruelty, and the gaslighting that happened last night.

The importance of the Hayride wasn’t its pay scale. Most of the performers were paid union scale, $12 a night, which barely covered their gas and food. The value was the exposure. With its potent fifty-thousand-watt station, KWKH’s signal alone provided invaluable reach, but the Hayride show was also carried by some two hundred other stations, from as far west as El Paso, north to St. Louis, east to Jacksonville, and down the coast to Miami. That meant a lot of potential record buyers.

A poster on the wall lists the seven rules of life: Smile, Be Kind, Don’t Give Up, Don’t Compare, Avoid Negativity, Make Peace with Your Past, Take Care of Your Body and Mind.

Maya Angelou: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

She said to celebrate every good day and try not to think too far into the future.

Was it really that fucking great to be gay? Ever since he got too fucked up to drive home and he’d crashed at Day and God’s place after their cookout this summer. Green was in Miami testifying in a Federal case, so he didn’t have his usual designated driver. Shit. He’d heard his lieutenants going at it in the middle of the night. It was so loud and violent, but wildly erotic. He didn’t know if they forgot he was downstairs or if they just didn’t give a fuck. He remembered being hard as goddamn stone lying there, and feeling like a pervert for listening. But since then, he hadn’t been able to get the sounds out of his head. The sounds of furious passion and uninhibited ecstasy. The way God roared his lover’s name when he ca —” “Time

Okay, so I’m not Yale Law Review, but I’m proud of my diploma. University of Miami. Night division. Top half of the bottom third of my class.

On the night of February, 26, 2012, Trayvon Martin was enjoying the fruits of a similar policy. Instead of being back in Miami in a juvenile detention facility, he was wandering through the streets of Sanford, high and angry. On two occasions in the previous few months, school police had detained him for what should have been crimes, once for drugs and another time for possession of stolen female jewelry and a burglary tool. The police fudged his record in both cases to help the department lower arrest statistics for young black men.14 Trayvon’s high school did not even tell his parents the real reason their son had been suspended from school. The parents thought it was everyday mischief, and they left him pretty much to his own devices.

The drugs turned my mama this way, though. Since I was probably four, I’d watched my mother get high right in front of me like it was nothing. I remember one night when I was about six or seven, I came out of my bedroom late at night and went down the hall to the fridge just to get something to drink. Imagine being that young and walking in the kitchen, only to see three grown ass niggas with their dicks out, and my ole girl was giving all of them head. Shit like that just stuck with a nigga. I could give some never-ending stories about what I experienced growing up, but I swear, it wasn’t enough pages that could fit the shit that needed to be said. By the time I was fourteen, I started trapping. I didn’t jump into that shit because I thought it was cool, but shit, a nigga was tired of going to bed starving. By this time, my ole girl was a full-blown crack head. I’m talking about the type of crackhead who would try to sell the carpet off the floors in our apartment just so she could get her next hit.

I know you don’t like when I come back and tell you my sex stories with your brother, but I’m dying to tell you this one,” I told Shaniqua and she quickly turned the radio up full blast. Laughing, I reached over and turned it off. “Chill, it’s not even like that. So, the other night Jah and I were in the kitchen having sex, and I’ll admit, I was a little loud. But damn, it was after midnight, so I just knew that my son would be in his room knocked out. Mannn, I got the surprise of my life when PJ came in that kitchen, looking like he was ready to kill Jah,” I told Shaniqua. She was dying laughing, with tears in her eyes and all.

When we first moved to Miami, I tossed and turned half the night. After about the third night of me waking up bleary-eyed, Mom bought me a hot pink radio and told me to let the music help me fall asleep. After the first night, I was hooked. The radio really gave me peace and settled my worries about being in a new city, having to make new friends.

saw a “blond guy”—as he was so vividly described—if it’s him. But how hard can he be to spot, right? He’s her twin, he’ll look like her. “I can’t wait to go on this vacation! Me, Mom, my aunt, my mall-loving cousins and Miami Beach!” She chattered endlessly, which is why she’s dubbed Chatterbox Lilly. And, as often happens, I phased out. I wish Mom took me on a three week “educational” vacation and kept me out of school! But I barely see my mom. She’s a cultural anthropologist—she travels all the time. So I’m stuck home with Dad, a novelist. He spends all day in his office and gives me the be-home-by-ten-each-night lecture every morning. Speaking of which, I figured I really should go. Her brother’s plane was even later than we were, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I sighed uncomfortably, just as she laughed. “What?” I asked. “You know, I don’t even know what to say to him! We’re not even that close! It’s weird.” “Recap. Why is he moving in with you all of the sudden?” And why was I not informed he exists before he had to? She popped a bubble noisily. “He said he needs a change of scenery! Personally, my idea of change of scenery is someplace where I can’t freeze to death getting from the front door to the car!

In her present mind, the old days glimmered like the sparkle across enchanted seas: weekends in the English countryside; hot, pulsing Miami nights; New York galas. She could not help but indulge the memories. Nothing made her feel more alive than to swindle someone, to persuade them, to manipulate them, to control them.

Sofi’s father. The New York City DILF who had given me at least five orgasms and the wildest night of my life. He was in Miami. And he was my neighbor.

It had been a week since I’d given her the phone, and our nightly routine consisted of me calling her before I hit the streets to trap and before she closed her eyes to go to sleep. Plus, that kiss that she and I shared was magical, man. My dick was in my boxers doing the electric slide. That night, I never wanted to slide inside some pussy as much as I wanted to slide into Ryan’s, but I knew it was too soon to take it there with her.