A. Hold on, now. Mr. Kirkland recently left to take another job ...

Q. What—gone already? Boy, he really fell head-over-heels in love with Miami, huh?

A. The point is, it's a new day with bold new leadership. The tourism people say we need this tax money to promote South Florida in a competitive national market.

Q. What's the big problem with our image?

A. Oh, the usual. Crime, drugs, poverty, corruption, chronic racial and ethnic tensions. Noth/ng that a catchy new slogan won't obscure.

Q. Other big cities such as New York and Chicago have similar social problems. How do these places attract so many tourists?

A. One word: sophistication. For example, in other major cities, civic leaders rarely have their semiautomatic assault rifles stolen from their bedrooms. Also, they tend not to name public streets after cocaine dealers. In Dade County, such recurring incidents have created an undesirable kind of national publicity.

Q. Say the tax passes. What if they waste the money on some really goofy advertising campaign, like: "Come to Miami! Sun, Surf—and DEA on Every Corner!"

A. Hey, that's not half-bad. Let me get a pencil.

Q. Seriously, how do we know they aren't going to spend the $3.5 million on more fish tanks in Budapest?

A. Don't worry. They'd never take a great idea like that and beat it into the ground.

Q. So, how does this new food tax differ from all the others that were proposed?

A. Apparently somebody's actually read this one.

Q. What businesses will be affected by the tax?

A. The new tax should apply only to hotels and motels, though you can never be sure. Last time we were told that only large restaurants would be affected, when in fact all establishments with liquor licenses would have been taxed.

Q. How did such a monumental fiasco happen?

A. No one seems to know. The Metro commissioners say they were never told precisely what the food tax would do. The lobbyists who were paid big bucks to push for the tax said they were too darn busy to examine it closely. Meanwhile the county attorney swears that he knew what it said all along, but no one ever asked him to explain—

Q. Whoa, back up. Do you mean to say that these geniuses were going to vote on a tax they didn't even understand?

A. That's about the size of it.

Q. So, how do we know they aren't pulling the same stunt again?

A. Hmmmm. That's a good question.

Q.Well?

A. I'm thinking, I'm thinking.

Santeria ritual not quite to tourists' tastes

April 5, 1991

On a recent drug raid in Northwest Dade, police discovered the messy remains of chickens, turtles and a headless goat. "I don't know what all this represents," mused a police spokesman, "but I know it's alarming."

A few days later, at the other end of the county, a policeman heard screams from a suburban house. He rushed inside to find a woman allegedly decapitating a chicken and drinking its blood.

In both cases, the cops had interrupted a Santeria ceremony in which live animals were being sacrificed to appease Afro-Cuban saints. Each saint is said to have its own preferred menu. Yemaya, for instance, favors ducks, turtles and goats. Ogun, a saint of iron, has a thing for red and white roosters. Oshun, the maiden of the river, prefers white hens.

By now, practically everyone in South Florida is aware of Santeria. The occasional dead chicken in a back yard canal scarcely merits a second glance. Not long ago, my son went fishing for peacock bass near the Miami airport. He caught no bass, but reeled in a hefty headless chicken wrapped in men's underwear, which he sportingly released to fight again another day.

For locals, it's nothing new. Visitors are something else. Many have no knowledge of Santeria and are confused and even revulsed by random encounters with gutted livestock. Image-wise, South Florida has enough to worry about without trying to explain the prevalence of animal sacrifices. The most ingenious advertising agency in the world couldn't put a positive spin on decapitated turtles.

Recently one of those true-life TV cop shows assigned a camera crew to ride with a Dade County animal-control officer. Almost immediately the officer came upon a sacrificed goat, whose body segments had been arranged on a railroad crossing, along with some blood and pennies. As the video rolled, the officer calmly explained the meaning of the grisly scene—a Santeria offering to Ogun, of course.

Just one more thing for South Florida tourists to fret about. Martha, call Hertz. See if our collision insurance covers dead goats.

Once I visited a young santera, a practitioner of the rites. She was thoughtful and, by all appearances, sane and normal. When she described the technique by which barnyard animals were sacrificed in her kitchen, she spoke of it as matter-of-factly as if recounting the family recipe for meat loaf.

Unfortunately, what appeals most to Santeria followers—the ability to practice the religion in the privacy of their homes—is what bothers many of their neighbors. The praying and prostrating before statues is no problem. It's the business with animals, which can get sloppy and noisy and (if overpublicized) can play hell with property values. For most of us, the killing of chickens is tolerable as a distant abstraction. When we buy a bucket of Extra Crispy, we really don't mourn the dead fryers who gave their legs, breasts and thighs for our lunch.

On the other hand—call it hypocrisy, call it a cultural gap—most of us aren't too thrilled when one of our kids bursts through the door and says, "Can I spend the night at Billy's? His mom's going to kill a rooster and drink its blood!"

Many of the creatures used in Santeria are eaten, but some are not. The leftovers often turn up in public places. This can be bad for neighborhood relations. What we need down here is a new category of zoning: AS-residential. Animal sacrifices would be permitted there, and no place else. Every home would have its own incinerator.

It would be no comfort to the poor animals, of course. As long as people believe in Santeria, critters will die. For what, I'm not sure.

Years ago, a mad-dog drug killer and fugitive named Miguel Miranda built a Santeria shrine in his back yard in South Miami. There he sacrificed animals, drank their blood and prayed for the gods to protect him from police.

Miguel must've been using defective chickens. The DEA shot him in the head.

Tourists: Be alert for crime Miami-style

August 19, 1991

The Greater Miami Chamber of Commerce needs $40,000 for a project that might save lives: a new brochure that will advise tourists how not to become the victims of crime.

This is a milestone in the annals of South Florida promotion. Finally the chamber is admitting, in writing, that there is a crime problem. It's a small brave step, and let's hope it gets done. Forty grand is peanuts compared to the millions spent to subsidize auto races, tennis tournaments and Super Bowls.

A few weeks ago, Hertz and other rental companies began unbolting the logos from their cars because so many customers had been attacked by smash-and-grab robbers. Tourists, unfortunately, make prime targets.

"Don't leave your common sense at home!" the new brochure tells visitors. Keep your car doors locked and your windows up at all times. Don't pick up hitchhikers. Be careful when using ATM machines. If confronted by an armed robber, don't resist. If a suspicious person approaches you at an intersection, look both ways before running the red light.

It's solid generic advice that applies to traveling in any big American city. Miami, though, is different from other big cities. Before the new pamphlet goes to press, some of the warnings should be modified to fit our unique style of crime.