You have entered the subtropic zone, conveniently located near the moist tip of that suggestive peninsula that protudes from the soft southern underbelly of America. Yeah, you've looked at it. Admit it.
I live in Miami, the American Banana Republic, land of the mojito and the mosquito. Home to insatiably corrupt politicians and mutant cockroaches with the gross payload of a small SUV. Note that these are not mutually exclusive categories.
Everybody here came from somewhere else. Doesn't much matter if it's Havana or Kingston, San Juan or Chicago. Our passports have expired and we can't go back to the fatherland. Exiles in paradise lost.
This is my home.
What was I thinking? I used to live in Illinois. A nice conventional place with familiar vegetables and pronounceable streets. A place where the storms don't have names.
But it ain't all bad. Several very good reasons to live here: Cafe cubano. November, December, January, February and March - although August pretty much cancels them out. But that's why god gave us swimming pools and air-conditioning.
Although I have a left-brain job (programming) I'm mostly a right-brain person (music, writing). My goal is to arrange a large number of words in a pattern that enough people would find interesting enough to spend money for, so that I will never have to look at a computer again. Some people call this writing a novel, others call it futility, I call it an attempt to maintain my sanity and sense of self while living in a culture of (un)reality-based TV, fantasy-based government and oxymoronic abstinence-only sex education. Yessiree folks, it's the great "Culture of Life," a rather narrowly defined culture which only includes people that either (a) haven't been born yet, or (b) people whose brains died years ago. Unless they live in Iraq, then they're fair game.
If you're ever in town, enjoy the mangoes, but beware of storms with names.