I guess it was while sitting at the lunch counter of "El Rey de las Fritas" in Little Havana that it hit me... this is just another barrio. Walking the blocks north and south of Calle Ocho I wondered how many families had health insurance and how many kids were jammed into each classroom. No wonder the impossibly tanned Republican governor wants that stimulus money. There's talk of building a new ballpark in the area but who's gonna drive down from north Dade and Broward County? Calle Ocho itself was deserted but so is the Ironbound in Newark and most likely Alvarado Street in LA. Where'd everybody go? Home to Fidel?

In South Beach, it seemed every other window had a "for rent" sign. Thankfully, most of the little art deco gems around Flamingo Park had been rehabbed during the boom and the heart of the neighborhood looks in pretty good shape. Collins Ave. is another story with half empty clubs and restaurants fighting over what's left of the monopoly money. The somewhat silly boutique hotels are discounting rooms in desperation: seventy five bucks for a night in hipsterville. A Sobe modeling firm just went belly button up and ticket sales stalled for a prestigious food and wine festival. I caught a flotilla of yachts high tailing it out of town after a dismal boat show that usually attracts buyers and gawkers alike. The huge mega-yachts looked obscene although sail boats are never gauche... we should all learn to sail.

With the beach and the weather, there are worse places to be working poor than North Miami Beach. Studios can still be found for five hundred a month and one's hunger for meat dissipates in the tropical heat. Confrontations abound but Miami isn't mean; witness the gentle chiding a bus driver gave to a Ratso in a wheelchair... "C'mon man, I saw you walking around last week!" Two stops later, a mutton chopped Elvis with perfect shades and paint splattered hands sat down next to me, on his way to a lounge gig I'm sure. My own hotel was over run with French Canadian pensioners who put on slacks and party dresses every night to drink and dance. Laissez le bon temps roulet!

In the gated communities and the high rise towers, however, happy hour is over. Everyone is under water except the smart old timers who never trusted each other. Up in Sunny Isles, development has stopped dead in its tracks and Brighton Beach South is rife with rumors and intrigue. Smack dab in the middle sits Oleta State Park, where Miami goes to mountain bike and kayak and connect with an old Florida that will never die, unlike the geriatric lizards on social security. Watch out for the manatees, they're smarter than they look.

Be forewarned, this is still paradise and not to be fucked with in any sort of reactionary way. After Muriel and the 80's drug wars the crackers left for good, leaving the city to redefine itself both internally and internationally. Like LA, most of the jokes don't really apply if one cares to look hard enough. The local attitude suggests preservation not nostalgia, progress but not exploitation. Miami is a capital of the Americas and we're lucky to have her as an ambassador. I kept thinking of that second Gun Club album and how Jeffrey Lee understood South Florida at least as well as James W. Hall or maybe even Charles Willeford. I kept waiting for him to get on the bus; I would have given him my seat.