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Fat Cabrera

The Grove

There's nothing worse than being half assed about something. And that, my friends, is the problem that has been plaguing the Grove for as long as I remember. Grove residents want the "outsiders" (people who don't live in the Grove but partake in its greatness) to think that the place is some great bohemian mecca, but things couldn't be further from the truth. A few years back, I was a regular at the Grove, since it was one of the few places in Miami with any decent bars, so I was able to get a good feel for the place. Bottom line: The Grove is a dichotomy.

The Grove wants to have this liberal vibe, but the area is now running rampant with restaurants and businesses that can be found anywhere in Dade County. If you want a drink at that cute college bar, well, you'll need to pay $10 for parking first. It's this whole mish mash of ideas that has made the Grove an absolute joke. It's the American way, I guess, trying to maximize and exploit anyone you can, but damn, I had some good times at the Grove. And it's even sadder to see its residents guard it like some type of pearl that remains undiscovered. The Grove needs to leave its "liberal, bohemian" ways and fully accept the pervailing attitude of most of it's residents: We're better than you.

My Coconut Grove friends, if you truly want to make your little haven great once again, you must accept one undeniable truth: THE GROVE IS JUST ONE MORE LITTLE CRAPPY NEIGHBORHOOD IN DADE COUNTY. Bingo, there it is. Since when are bohemians and artsy folk so uppity anyway? Are you guys reading a lot of Updike over there or something???? In it's current standing, the Grove is no better than Overtown and Liberty City. In it's attempt to be all things, it remains without an identity. So stop being bipolar and embrace who you really are. You guys want tourists and locals to pay up the...

Open up an Outback, open up another chain bar like Coyote Ugly, or how about one of those fancy two floor Burger King's. That way, at the very least, I can eat a Whopper while I marvel at the joke that that The Grove has become.

Boyd and Calle Ocho-Part One

Boyd is my good friend from South Carolina.
Boyd is a hick.
Boyd has blonde hair and blue eyes (this is will be important later).
Boyd came down to Miami on Spring Break and wanted the "Miami Experience."
As you read this, Boyd is currently in the fetal, back in in Carolina, muttering, "No mas, no mas."

So Boyd and I have been friends for a while now. We were roomies back in college and drank our share of cheap beer together. He's your typical white boy, which means he's been wanting to land some Hispanic ass for a while now. As a son of the South, Boyd hasn't encountered many fine latinas, and after years of begging me to invite him to Miami, I finally told him it was cool to crash on my couch. You see, it took years because Boyd goes crazy when he has one too many, groping whatever is around, saying, "Sup mama, you know what a son of the South can do?"

Long story, and not very short: Boyd won out. He arrived at MIA with 2 suitcases. He wore tight jeans and a pink shirt. "Miami style," he told me as I picked up one of his suitcases.

The first few days were the usual, Boyd and me at all the tourist traps. Boyd trying to grind on tourists at all the South Beach clubs. Boyd eating expensive food on Brickell. Boyd buying corny shirts. Boyd buying beautiful women drinks, failing in his attempts to land that elusive Miami tail he's been dreaming about for years. I watched, waiting for the right moment to drop the bomb. Finally, after another night of rejection, I spoke to my friend Boyd.

I said, "Boyd, you want a Miami girl don't you?"

"So much. I just want to touch one. Maybe just her thigh."

"Boyd," I said, "the real Miami girls will all be at one place this weekend."

"What is this great place?" Boyd asked.

"The greatest street in America, Boyd. Calle Oche."

Disclaimer: I hadn't been to Calle Ocho in years, so what happened to Boyd wasn't my fault.

She was definately Cuban, probably a rafter from the late 90s. She had a great body and spoke decent English for a Miamian. And she was smitten by Boyd. She was drinking and blew him a kiss.

"Look," Boyd said. "She digs me."

I looked at the woman and took a breathe. "You don't want that, man. I'll find something for you."

"She's pure Miami," Boyd said.

He was right. She was. This woman was pure Miami, and I had to save my friend.

She blew him another kiss. Boyd started walking.

"Boyd," I yelled. "Boyd. Damn it, Boyd."

It was the worst dancing I had ever seen, but I knew I had lost my friend. The friend, a "thick"girl, was smiling, waiting. I am a good friend, so I dropped my head and walked. I reached her.

"Papi," she said.

"Hello."

She grabbed me and I almost ran off, but Boyd was shaking viciously, trying to keep up with his girl. I kept thinking: This is Boyd from South Carolina. Let him have his fun.

I danced. I moved my face when the girl tried to kiss me. I kept looking at Boyd. Finally, it happened. Boyd let go of the Cuban ass and saved me.

"She wants to go, man. To her place. Hialeah she said. Let's go."

I hadn't been to Hialeah in years either, I avoided it like the plague. "No," I said. "Never."

He said, "I need this."

Then she appeared, drunk as hell, repeating, "Blue eyes. He has blue eyes. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Blue. Blue. Blue."

It was all happening right in front of me: The American boy who had dreamed of making love with a smoking hot latina. And the Cuban girl who dreamed of citizenship. Who was I to stop things from taking their natural course.

"Boyd," I said. "Are you sure?"

"I want to go to this Hialeah."

Cashier

I went to the restaurant twice a week for a couple of years. Same time. Same days. It was one of those simple routines people look forward to. The food was consistently good, but I liked the staff, how they did their job. They seemed to like each other's company, and on more than one occassion, I almost stood up and asked for an application. Clearly, none of them were highly educated (most of them newly arrived in America probably) but that ambition, that child-like hope, was still there. The banter was entertaining and sometimes I'd jump in and toss in a comment of my own. I was in college, suffering from that self imposed isolation that only youth brings. Everything good about Miami was in that small joint. It was a hodge podge of life and whenever the lunchtime crowd rolled in, I wondered if they saw it too. If the knew the old man cleaning the tables was working his first job in America, at age seventy. If one of the cooks had drifted over on a raft. Nope, nobody seemed to care.

The cashier left the biggest impression on me. For those two years I frequented the establishment, she was there every single time. I paid her and she handed me the bottle of water I always drank. She asked about school and I told her I was doing fine. She was probably in her early forties, but there was nothing left there. Always tired, but a smile on her face nonetheless. Eventually, she told me about her kid, that he played baseball, and I even saw a picture. He was small and chubby, clearly not a shortstop. And it was like that for two years, but I always hoped that I would go in one day and she would be gone. I wanted her to step up, even if that meant working in an office. Taking money all day and wearing that lousy uniform wasn't what she was meant for, I thought. She probably told herself it was a temporary thing, something that had to be done while the economy improved.

Long story short, I stopped going around. Going away happened. More schooling. All that stuff that people do. Two year passed.

I strolled in last week, and there she was there. The rest of the old crew was gone, replaced by a similar looking bunch, but there she was, taking money. Smiling. I waited in line, but she waved right away, called me over. I gave the ghetto kid at the counter my order and went up to her. She asked me what had happened, I told her. She was genuinely proud. She seemed happy, okay with her situation in the world. Some people are cashiers, others play for the Yankees. Then she called out and the little fat kid appeared, taller but still heavy. He was about nine or ten.

"This is my old friend," the cashier told him. "He goes to a big school. He's going places."

The kid looked at me as if I was Derek Jeter.

"Shake his hand," she said.

He put out his little hand, and I took, shook it.

It was my cue to give out some sort of wisdom, so I dished out the great cliche. "Do good in school. Work hard."

So it all became clear then, why she couldn't leave that job handling money all day. Her life was about the little man. We see these people all the time, hell you might be one of them. Take the time to look around.

And she gave me the bottled water, too. She's a good cashier.

Cuba

This isn't about politics. This isn't about old men holding on to power like lunatics. This isn't about old white men telling other men how to rule their country. This isn't about any of that shit.

This is about a Cuba, a place I've never been to, but whether I want to admit it or not, it's shaped my life more than anything else. A lot of us have immigrant stories of our own, so I won't bog you down with that, but I feel closer to Cuba than ever before. I owe everything to America, but that Cuban side of me is strong and it's always there. People ask me where I'm from and I say I'm Cuban. Never American, or Cuban American. Just Cuban. And that's how I really feel. I feel more Cuban than anything else.

I feel Cuban because my parents are Cuban. I feel Cuban because my grandfather made a decision and busted his ass to get over here, leaving behind everything. I feel Cuban because I look forward to Noche Buena and the stories from the old guard. I feel Cuban because I respect the audacity of a community of people that still holds on to their roots so dearly.

For the first time in my life, I can really say that I want to visit the island. I want to see where I'm from and meet all those people that are wearing my 2nd hand clothes. I'm tired of trying to figure out who I really am. There's that void there, the feeling that something is missing because your people have been displaced so long. I see the old Cubans, even the Mambisa guys, and that's all they really want. They want that feeling of displacement to disappear. Just for one second, they want to sit on the same plot of grass they sat as kids. And shit, I want to sit there too.

I miss that island I've never been to. I miss those people I've never met. I miss Cuba.

I can't imagine how hard it was for everone that left, and sometimes, I realize how weak I am, how much of a coward. I can't imagine leaving the people I love. I can't imagine leaving home.

More than ever, I want a happy ending for the Cuban people. It's been too long, way too long.

Cuba Libre!

Kimbo Slice

This is a big weekend for Kimbo Slice, the backyard internet brawler turned MMA combatant. I have a soft spot for Kimbo since I saw most of his earliest fights on the internet when he was just a crazy dude with a good right. Now he's a crazy dude with a good right and an opportunity to land some big bucks.

The opportunity begins this Saturday against Tank Abbott. Tank is old and washed up, but he's a big name, the kind of guy you need to beat if you want a chance in this fighting world. A meausring stick, if you will. So forget about Wade this weekend, and yeah, Zach Thomas was a great player and role model, but this weekend is Kimbo's. This is your chance to watch something before it blows up and everyone knows about it. This is your chance to root for a local guy that's climbed the ladder the hard way. No NCAA championships here, or 1st round money, just a big guy paying his bills with his fists. In this day and age of rhetoric and bullshit, it's nice to see a guy who gets in the ring and takes cares of business quickly and efficiently.

So this Saturday on Showtime, sit back and watch this local kid kick some ass. From the streets of Little Haiti and Miami Gardens to Showtime...Good work, man.