As the state budget sinks, Florida's indigent mentally ill descend even further.
Artist brings her silicone twin to town for one last romp.
Miami is awash in power beverages. Might as well drink up!
A litigious Pinecrest man sues his ex-honey, and it's not the first time.
Does Hialeah have the fattest school in the nation?
A flight attendant's smackdown with the wife of mega-preacher Joel Osteen inspires a whole new set of commandments.
Today Denver, tomorrow the Twin Cities.
A country musician rescues Waylon Jennings' tour bus from the scrap heap.
The provocateur who brought you "Piss Christ" pinches off a new concept.
"You know, this business makes me upset, because fixing bikes, I see the poverty, man," he says, absently tinkering with the brakes on a rusty BMX. "I see these people from Overtown with these bikes. I can't believe the extent of the poverty. Here, to be a poor person, you need a car, a cellular [phone], all these things. In other countries, if you're poor, you're just poor, that's it."
Ochoa's theory is that cars have isolated Americans from each other, especially in Miami. "Here people drive all the time, and it makes them lonely," he says. "It's like a cloud of loneliness hanging over the city."
In the parking lot behind the Walgreen's at Flager Street and NW 12th Avenue in Little Havana, Pedro Gonzalez stands, his bike beside him, arms elbow-deep in a Dumpster. He turns from his work as if receiving a visitor in his office. "How can I help you?" the tiny, wizened man says pleasantly, his rubber-gloved hands still clutching a reeking bag of garbage.
Next to him is a children's mountain bike, ridiculously small, even for him. From the handlebars hangs a basket as big as his torso, containing maybe 12 aluminum cans. Gonzalez, 79 years old, collects and recycles them to get by. He isn't homeless, but he too has fallen on hard times. His wife recently had a stroke (a "brain stroke," he explains), so he mostly stays home caring for her. The cans don't bring much, but every bit helps: "One and one is two," he points out, waving the can in the air. "And two is more than zero."
He finishes and hops onto the bike to head home. It's a slow ride. Gonzalez weaves wobbly from sidewalk to street — the wrong way — to sidewalk again. When SW First Street ceases to be one-way, putting Gonzalez face-to-face with oncoming traffic, he is unperturbed. At the Flagler Street Bridge, he disdains the narrow sidewalk, approaching the blind point at the crest. "I'm not afraid of anything," he declares, lifting a hand from the grip and pounding it on his small, white-shirted chest. "If I die tomorrow, that's fine. Death will come when it will come."
Just over the top, he stops for a breather, looking unconcernedly for any cars that might be about to hit us. "This is a very good exercise," he says enthusiastically. "A very good thing, the bicycle." Then he bids a polite goodbye, coasts casually across six lanes of traffic, and, foot by foot, disappears.

