A Miami Journal,

A Miami Journal
Yet another installment in Garrett’s pathetically self-indulgent, imaginatively-named travelogues. Much like viewing a bad traffic accident, you may find yourself compelled to read this account of one person’s successful attempts to avoid boredom. This is the story of a late February, 2001 trip to Miami’s fabled South Beach: mecca to hedonists far and wide. I was joined on this trek by my significant other Julianna (JA), and dear old friends and fellow Atlanta residents Tad and Nancy, whom we were to meet upon our arrival at our first hotel…

Got Everything?
Julianna and I woke up late, but thankfully with a time cushion, and zipped through the ground transportation effectively, making our 7:00 am flight in plenty of time. My load seemed lighter than it should have been en route to the sky cap, and I figured out why after we’d boarded the plane: I had left my golf clubs in the trunk. Not only were my clubs vacationing without me in the car, but the bag had my sandals and a couple of other relatively important items inside it as well. Beware the perils of flights before dawn! I was certainly disappointed about a golf-less vacation, but I suppose it left me with more money to party with, so it wasn’t all that bad. The flight to Miami was spectacular, as we were lucky enough to be on the side of the plane that had the coastline view. We got a wonderful vantage point from perhaps 100 miles north of our destination on in. I was amazed at how many residential areas are served by waterways in South Florida---they’re almost like a network of roads. It was a clear day, and I suppose I could never tire of looking down at a coastline from above, as I’ve now been lucky enough to do several times. After we got our bags out of the terminal without a security check, we were treated to a scenic drive past the enormous cruise ships in port and the legendary Orange Bowl. We got our still drowsy asses to Tad and Nancy’s Collins Ave. hotel before ten, which was the upside of an early flight, and took to an average breakfast on the celebrated Ocean Drive right away.

I was uncomfortable in a dark shirt, jeans, and my black clodhoppers for the first portion of the day, until we found ill-fitting fake birks for $10 and a beach towel to replace the items I had packed in my golf bag. I prefer to call it an “idiot tax” on myself, and unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last such levy on this trip! We did a little more shopping for the girls and I began to really enjoy the very fresh surroundings. Art Deco was everywhere and interesting-looking people in attire happily unfamiliar to this Atlantan. We then went back to our fleabag, $150 a night room which our hosts were lucky to procure on short notice in peak season, so I had no complaint. I was glad to have Tad and Nancy on hand when we first saw the room so Julianna couldn’t protest the conditions in her classic Princess and the Pea manner, (everyone has their flaws, and this is one of her few). Anyway, we settled in a bit and then took off for one of the world’s most famous beaches, still with clouds in our heads from the early start to the day.

Nancy sported the first six pack, which we took to the beach and downed in relatively short order, as we had no cooler to allow for more casual drinking. The Mitchell “tour guides” took us to the portion of the beach that was most liberal, (read: most nude), which naturally enough was near the large gay pride flag, pretty much due east of the late Gianni Versace’s mansion. We quickly resumed our roles as tourists parting with cash, as we anted-up $7 each for the padded lounge chairs. (Ed note: there are no bargains in this part of the world). We took to slathering on sunblock and discussing the finer points of my newly discovered glossary of deviant sexual practices, which was good for a lot of laughs with this crowd! I was very impressed with the size of the beach, but less than thrilled about the dearth of topless babes, compared to the beaches in Europe. I can say I did my part, though, as both girls in my party promptly dropped top, which made for still more interesting people-watching as passerby would often pretend not to look. Far too soon Tad and Nancy had to leave to prepare for their night’s black-tie affair with her father, so JA and I were then fending for ourselves in this strange new land.

Pubes Take Flight!

We eventually made it back to the room mid-afternoon to get out of the intense rays, lest we be lobsterized on day one. I was interested in taking a nap. so I pulled back the sheets of our bed, thus revealing a goodly number of pubic hairs, scattered about our allegedly “fresh” sheets. It was all I could do to keep JA from fleeing the scene, but she was soon calm enough for me to track down the maid in charge of our room. Oddly enough, she wasn’t among those on our floor, but a housekeeper a floor below us, but I digress. After it became apparent that “right now” didn’t translate very well to the maid, I literally took things into my own hands. Opening a window above the bathtub, I lowered the offending sheet and shook it, taking advantage of a nice breeze to assist in the flight of the foreign hairs, confusing passerby in the process. Remarkably enough, JA was appeased, and we were on our “newly”-made bed in our birthday suits preparing to “nap.” Needless to say, this was when the maid decided to open the door to assist us. Ironically enough, JA, she of the breasts recently exposed to hundreds on the beach, mind you, was completely embarrassed. Luckily she simmered-down, and we “de-stressed” prior to a much-needed, but too brief nap, which was interrupted by our need for food.

Post-doze priority number one for me was to rectify my newly-developed cheek chafe, which required a waddle to a drug store. Upon entering the shop, I was immediately regretful for making a smart-assed remark to one of the clerks, a guy with about five silver necklaces over his wife-beater undershirt. He had asked the very attractive lady who had entered just before me if she needed assistance and I playfully wondered aloud why I wasn’t afforded the same courtesy. This prompted the store employee to ask me what I needed to find. “Nail glue, (for JA), and vaseline” was my sheepish answer, which of course he then repeated loudly through a chuckle. Certainly comeuppance for my being a wise-guy! JA would later comment that I should’ve gone back a little later in search of Depends and motor oil, just to really fuck with the guy. Anyway, the errand was completed without further embarrassment, and I was soon showering, looking out the bathroom window at the colorful passerby and gaining energy to join the fray. Soon enough, we were dressed in early-evening attire and headed out to join the masses on Ocean Drive.
We both had a mighty hunger going, but unfortunately most places were too crowded for us to be served promptly.

We wandered through the masses of Guidos, Poseurs, and Gangstas along the famed Ocean Drive, passing happy hour crowds with advanced buzzes until we found a table at Tequila Blue, a sidewalk eatery at the base of what appeared to be a top-notch art deco hotel restoration. We still had ten minutes to take advantage of the two-for-one special, and we got our order in under the wire, which would summarize what went right at this stop. It was soon readily apparent why there were tables available a this joint, after getting stale nachos slapped down with spicy guacamole dip, we got our “drinks”, (my margarita mix and JA’s Kool-Aid, posing as adult beverages). Despite our significant hunger, we had the good sense to cut our losses and eschew any entrees---not that we really had a choice, because it’s debatable whether we’d ever have gotten to order anyway, given the inattentiveness of our server. They say that service down here went south about the time they instituted an automatic gratuity a few years back. Now seeing that we were left to our own devices, we decided to abandon our half-drunk children’s drinks, leave some cash and bolt. After somehow being unable to break a ten at the bar or the front desk, I was reduced to leaving three bucks and moving out of there, post-haste. A disaster of an experience, but at least it didn’t run me twenty or something!

We soon waded our way off the beaten path, wholly unimpressed with the famed South Beach as we had seen it. Sure, the architecture was swell, and it was nice getting a change of scenery, but so far it wasn’t the place I’d expected or heard about. I must admit, however, that at this point JA and I had lost our earlier alcohol buzzes and were tired from day’s early start, so I imagine some of our problem was mindset. In any event, on through the young night we walked, now in search of a better meal and perhaps a bar vibe that felt welcoming. We decided to try to lose the big crowds, which in this case meant heading towards Washington Ave., two blocks inland. I remembered seeing a cool-looking pizza joint earlier in the day, and it was now our target.

You Didn’t Need That Eye, Did You?

Before making it off of Ocean, however, we spotted a suave, sunglassed, (in near darkness, I might add), guy dressed in layers of black dining with a similarly-clad, flunky-looking guy. “Man, that dude looks just like Dylan McDermott”, one of us said to agreement. Underwhelmed, we continued our search for chow. We finally came upon a sidewalk slice joint that turned out to be half a block up from our original target, but our hunger stopped us there before I realized it. We scored a little table quaintly positioned a few feet from frequently-passing 60-foot diesel behemoths known as city busses, but, like I said, we were really hungry. Just after we were seated, the table tightly next to us was filled by more of the LOUD type I described from Ocean Drive. We were also treated to one of their LOUD friends on an exhaust-belching motorbike for a while, but at least this gave us a distraction from the Bum that sat at the opposite table just staring. Speaking of bums, I was proud of myself for offering a simple “goodnight” to the one that had an apartment to move into in five days, as opposed to, “you have five seconds to get out of our faces!”. Who says I have no heart?

In any event, this oh-so pleasurable South Beach vibe we were tuned into continued when one of the aforementioned busses came roaring up to the curb, clipping the café umbrella above us in the process. This sent the thing into a falling spin, with one of the tips whipping literally about an inch in front of my eye. No one was hurt, but boy, were we on a roll! If nothing else, the near-disaster opened up a bit of conversation with the table o’ gangtas next to us, and that was cool, because JA and I tend to be a bit snobby until we get started.

Soon thereafter, amidst scantily-clad ladies and still more bums, strolled the now recognized Dylan McDermott, sans shades, doing some window shopping. I watched him for the hell of it, and I was thoroughly amused to see him looking at me really hard until it he was sure I knew it was him, then abruptly resuming his Hollywood cool act. Funny! Either that, or he was simply enamoured with my tie-dyed golf shirt. (Just kidding…see, in the midst of narcissism, I’m being narcissistic…forget it!) I didn’t have the heart to tell him that you pretty much don’t wear black in South Beach, let alone layers of it! Anyway, at least I still had both eyes and our surroundings were somehow more glamorous, so perhaps the night was on the upswing.
Speaking of glamour, from here we moved over a block to Collins Ave., which features numerous high-end retail joints like the Armani Exchange and Jil Sander. We enjoyed the Armani store, thanks to the club-like sound system that was BLARING dance tracks. I sent JA out to act like she was dancing while I bellied-up to the register counter and shouted: “ I’LL HAVE A GIN AND TONIC, AND, (pointing to JA), SHE’LL HAVE A CAPE COD!” It must have been funny, because even a high-end store clerk laughed. We sampled a few more of the stores, more impressed with the interior design than the actual merchandise. (This was a recurring theme throughout the trip: imaginative decorating.)

There was seemingly nothing in this town that didn’t enjoy thoughtful planning to please the discerning eye, and what a pleasing change that is from, say, most of Atlanta. Even a dive bar would have a funky-shaped mirror in the bathroom or something---most refreshing, indeed.) We soon found ourselves sampling cappuccino-like smoothies at a well-placed sidewalk table free of umbrella attacks, and we enjoyed the caffeine rush as well as some role-playing, as I pretended to be picking JA up. We then wandered back along the main strip mistakenly thinking that perhaps the crowd would now be a bit more to our tastes. We spent some time lamenting the fact that Tad and Nancy, our experienced tour guides, weren’t with us to provide guidance and wondering where in the world was actually fun, because this South Beach shit appeared to be way overrated.

After extensive strolling for some action, we decided to occupy a nice table for two at the Fairwind, a hotel restaurant on Collins with a fine view of passerby. About sixteen hours into our day at this point, and in somewhat foul moods, the Rx of huge martinis was just the tonic we needed. Despite the fact that it took us about thirty minutes to get our second round, we left there with smiles on our faces as we made it back to the room to change into our “clubbing” clothes and ingest our goodies. We gulped our wonder pills and then called Tad and Nancy to check their status at their black tie affair. Unfortunately they were running a bit late, so JA and I were left to “blast off,” as it were, on our own. I was fine with this, but it did mean that we would be on different wavelengths for the rest of the evening, but we certainly got over it! JA and I laid around watching SNL during the start of our “elevator ride” before making our way to the our rendezvous point, The Clevelander, where we got alcohol-free beverages and proceeded to dance in the tropical, tourist-y environs. Soon enough our buzz was in full swing, and Tad and Nancy showed up, having not yet reached our “floor”, if you will. JA and I continued to dance until Nance asked if we wanted to go someplace fun. Funny, I could’ve sworn I was having fun as it was, but then again, at this point I could’ve been back at Tequila Blew sipping margarita mix over stale nachos and sworn it was the greatest experience ever, so what did I know?

Four Beers, a bargain at $26

As it turned out, we were now rolling with our much-missed tour guides, and the party was just starting, even though it was about one a.m. We finally made our loving way off the beaten path, hitting Espanola Way, a side street that was home to the kind of bar I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about, The People Lounge. Inside the darkened gigantic living room we easily found couches on which to lounge with drinks. I lasted about two minutes in this pose, as the other room with the dance floor was beckoning and I was in no shape to turn a deaf ear to a chance to shake my rump. I found may way through a pair of cool, (go figure), silk curtains to the other half of the club, which had a nice little dance floor hosting a comfortable number of people. The DJ was spinning really fresh trance and I was totally loving life! Trance is my favorite to dance to because it builds up energy until you think you can’t take it any more and then just cranks in heavy bass beats. There are also trippy, slow, (hence, the “trance”), parts that are ideal for tongue hockey with your adorable significant other, which is also a major bonus. We did it up for a while, but, being old and without additional chems, I had to take a break sooner than I might’ve in the past.

Soon enough, we left this San Francisco-like club behind and took a brief but welcome walk to one of the real playgrounds: Crobar. In a converted old-style theatre known as the Majestic, on Washington Ave. This place was the real deal. Seeing that it was three ayem, we got in for half the twenty-dollar cover, which I instinctively balked about paying. All I can say is, good thing I didn’t go with the cheapskate notion! It mattered little anyway, because Nancy picked up the tab, as was often the case on this extended weekend, god love her. I reciprocated by dropping $26 for four beers, but you only live once, right? Regardless, this place was worth it---definitely the most impressive dance facility I’ve ever seen.

I led JA straight to the middle of the enormous dance floor, which was full but not uncomfortable, and we had our minds steadily blown by a ridiculous assault of sights and sounds. The requisite house dancers were on risers all around and the sound system and lights were state of the art---just plain kick ass! Again we were treated to some kicking trance, only this time while in a club instead of a store, and surrounded by a ton of kids partying harder than us, which was saying something. I enjoyed the hell out of it for a while, but, again, my age and the fact that I’d been up and expending energy for nearly 24 straight hours at this point forced me to the sidelines sooner than normal. Luckily there was a balcony around the massive main floor that was perfect for spectators, and I made my way past the VIP area, which was essentially a club in it’s own right, and found a spot to view the debauchery. Soon thereafter, the club released thousands of glow rings to the tripping masses on the floor, conjuring up images of New Year’s ’99 for Phish in NYC. God Bless America is all I can say!

We hung around a bit longer and rolled out around five, I suppose, heading for the Madonna, a “sleazy”, as Nancy described it, strip club just down the street. By this time JA and I were almost at the end of our proverbial ropes, and my fiscally responsible side once again balked at an exorbitant cover charge, $20, (ten for the ladies). I have a problem with strip clubs in general, because one is essentially being shown a filet mignon dinner after living weeks on bread and water with the small caveat that you can’t eat it! Put a vacuum to your wallet to listen to worn out heavy metal music and get your dick teased. But once again, I digress!
Having happily talked Tad and Nancy out of this financial land mine, I was happy to turn the corner and duck into our favorite South Beach dive bar, Mac Deuce. It was the kind of place that had an aging, breast-enhanced woman doing lurid dances for the doorman while keeping one eye on hot women with their dates, (us). It was more or less the perfect bar, sans a dartboard. At one point , I had Nancy in one ear hotly debating whether the aforementioned woman was indeed of the fairer sex, and a completely partying JA in my other ear, singing every word of “Satisfaction”. Just another episode of a crazy fucking day! We finally decided to call it an evening, sometime after five, and walked back through the comfortable night air back to the hotel.

To cap off this most notable day, I found myself doing something many live their entire lives without doing: inhaling a moth. As I was strolling, said insect managed to fly in my mouth just as I was breathing in and triggered my gag reflex. I staggered along, partly upchucking, trying to clear my pipe as either an aging, tripping hippie, a run-of-the-mill bum, or both passed by. Dude observed my antics and then reassured me with: “I’ve been there, dude, can you spare a cigarette?” Au contraire, mon fraire, I’ll bet you haven’t had the pleasure of inhaling a moth, thank you very much! That was the last of the notable moments of this remarkable day, as we took it back to the room and pretty much collapsed from exhaustion, me after a productive cough of mucus-covered moth wing. Needless, to say the day was quite a full start to our South Beach experience!

Did Somebody Say Drink?

We somehow got this day started around ten, which was somewhat remarkable, but, what the hell, sleep is what death is for, right? We took a little walk in the perfect weather to a quaint French-inspired eatery called the We Never Did Thank You Café. Seriously though, it was imaginatively dubbed The French Café, and came complete with a sleeping rotweiller out front and a real French waitress. Never did get confirmation on the armpit hair, but she clearly was the real thing. Both couples split large omelet orders, sipped coffee, and lightly read periodicals. The hung-over are often disinterested in a whole lot of talking. Luckily the most demanding thing we were to do today entailed carrying a styrofoam cooler to the beach and, after Nancy purchased beer and bloody mary ingredients, we did just that. If I’d had it my way, I would’ve just been hungover and dealt with it but Tad and Nancy forced the alcohol issue, and we were soon on our way to full-tilt partying again, much to my eventual delight.

Once again adorning the beach near the proudly-waving gay pride flag in seven dollar lounge chairs, we fully enjoyed ourselves people-watching. Most notable among our observations was a guy towards the water that had an enormous package. I mean, I noticed it when he was laying on his back, for godssake! I alerted the girls right away and of course Tad wondered aloud why I would catch such a thing in the first place. “How could I not!”, I probably replied. Anyway, this dashingly dark-complected alternate life-styler was sporting the obligatory Speedo ® and (rightly) seemed to be most proud of what God gave him. Now it may just have been me, but I’m not sure he had to do so much standing flexibility work, not to mention the squatting, if he wasn’t trying to impress his sexuality brethren, if you will. I really felt for his fair-skinned companion, not only for his curiously-shaped sunburn pattern, but also because he didn’t exactly “measure up” and he was probably the “catcher”. Speaking of wide receivers, this most liberal of beaches also featured a middle-aged man and his “house boy” frolicking and slathering. Now, go ahead and sue me, but as a heterosexual male, for some reason there’s something really disturbing about an aging gay guy in general, let alone with a kid young enough to be his nephew. I can’t put my finger on the why of it, but the distinguished man getting a rub from his twenty-something houseboy is just not right. All I could think was: “Kid! What the hell are ya doin’? Get ahold of yourself!” Certainly this couldn’t be the type of arrangement God had in mind when he came up with the “Sugar Daddy” concept, could it?

In any event, after seriously “catching one” in the midday sun, the decision was made to take a walk to shoot some pool and, imagine this, DRINK MORE! Our tipsy gang of four found our way back to Mac Deuce, the dive bar from the previous night, for some midday billiards, despite our condition. I was content to drink water, but soon enough we were doing shots, once again courtesy of Nancy. “Oatmeal cookies” followed by “pink ladies,” neither of which improved our shooting acumen, but definitely amped up the party. As one should be in any self-respecting dive bar, we were joined in the space by assorted “characters,” the likes of which you won’t find at say, the local Olive Garden.

Among others amused by our antics was an older woman who was either emerging from, or heading toward “bag lady” status. In addition, we were soon entertainment for a middle-aged, somewhat haggard lesbian pair that took a liking to Julianna and Nancy and made no secret of it. Of course, this prompted our two into playing their “stage” status to the hilt, and god knows what they were up to, as I was more interested in the competition on the green felt. It was, after all, the “rubber match!” I was later informed that JA and Nance’s act soon devolved into simulated lurid acts that neither Tad or I noticed, seeing that our game was down to crunch time. We had our priorities, after all. Suffice it to say that whatever the girls did, the lesbians dug it! Seeing that Tad and I were having coordination problems, we decided to give up on the billiards and take it back to the beach before we had to do another shot or something.

We proceeded to wrap up the day on the sand pretty quickly, but not before getting in a photo op with the horizon in the background. Now it was about time for happy hour, of course, so we gathered up our shit and headed across the street to Le Deaux Fontaine for two for one drinks and shellfish platters. This was a lot of fun, as more photos were taken and we even met some people from Nashville that were kind of fun to talk to as well. Soon we had to pay attention to the clock, as we had reservations at the ultra-hip Tantra at nine and still had to move our luggage north to JA’s corporate-sponsored hotel room, get showers, etc. JA sat up front and jovially chatted up the cabby on our short trip, which was quite entertaining.. Funnier still was the specter of the four of us, dogged-out from the beach and ¾ in-the-bag, rolling up to the Eden Roc Resort and Spa a four-star, luxury beach-front hotel.

From the outhouse to the penthouse, one might say, and by golly, that called for a drink! Julianna kept it together long enough to check in while Tad and Nance procured Bailey’s and coffee at the ridiculously elaborate lobby bar for transport up to the room. We did, after all, need to pep up a little to get ready for our fancy dinner.

Eventually we were all ready to go, actually appearing to be worthy of staying at such posh digs. Julianna rode shotgun once again and repeated the process of getting the driver’s name, which was nice of her. We ended up just south of the Lincoln Road strip to slip into the rarified air of Tantra; a top-shelf, see-and-be-seen dining establishment. Seeing that it was Sunday night, there wasn’t much of a crowd on hand to revel in the hindu-esque atmosphere. This disappointed Tad and Nancy, our tour guides who had raged here two nights earlier next to some guy holding court with models and ordering bottles of champagne priced in four figures. Sedate crowd or not, it certainly didn’t detract from the appearance of the rooms, which were infinitely interesting. Most notable in this interior was the sodded floor, i.e. real grass! There was a decided Indian, (dot, not feathers), theme to the place, with text on the front of the menu attempting to describe the marriage of tantric sensations and food flavor. I couldn’t really comprehend the message because the mere candle for reading light made it too much of a chore to read.
The walls were adorned with sculptures and art to meld with the reddish, very dark lighting. There was also a live DJ spinning new age-ish sounds for a very rare effect.

I must say the overly-cushioned seating and mellow tone of the place certainly didn’t help those of us on the back-end of a raging booze buzz stay peppy. The cuisine was splendid and the service wasn’t bad for SoBe standards, either. JA and I opted to skip the appetizer and share our thirty-two dollar entree in a fresh display of frugality, as things were already financially out of hand, and we weren’t even through day two yet. Unbeknownst to us, Tad and Nancy planned to pick up the tab to return a favor, so our cheapness made us look polite---go figure! I also was glad to learn a lesson: don’t let on that you’re going to get the check until it arrives! Before this bill did so, we enjoyed a tremendous desert and a few hits off the mystical, multi-tentacled exotic tobacco pipe that’s $24 per bowl. Luckily, a guy at the table next to us had ordered the smokables, and the ever-lovable Nancy talked him into sharing with us. The experience was underwhelming, but definitely different and kind of cool.

Julianna and I were intermittently fighting off sleep, so caffeine blasts in the form of espresso were ordered, along with another Bailey’s and coffee for good measure. After all, we needed something to power us to our next stop, Van Dyke’s on Lincoln at Jefferson. At this point in the day, basically only one of us was still partying, the irrepressible Nancy, who as far as I can tell is always in a good mood. As for Tad, he was battling some stomach problems, although he managed to drink at our pace anyway. JA pretty much just wanted to take her blistered feet, (South Beach is very much the urban hike of NYC, by the way), to bed. I was getting energy in waves, but I’d had two straight nights of poor sleep and was missing the next three day’s work, so my wallet was pretty much ready to call it a night, too. I was so tired that I nearly left my digital camera full o’ memories at the restaurant, but fate chased me down in the form of a Tantra employee before I got too far away. Funny how that would turn out to be a bad thing!

Ignoring our bodies pleas, we were “sports” and hit this upstairs jazz bar kind of joint where the small, attentive crowd greeted us with the warmth of Ru Paul at a Bob Jones University picnic. Out of reflex I purchased a round, opting for a gin and tonic to avoid stuffing more beer into my already beleagured stomach. Speaking of that, Tad enjoyed the fruits of spilling his guts at the porcelain god, coming away in a lightened, good mood, which is was nice! Anyway, Nancy got a relatively black eye as tour guide here, as the soft jazz place was not exactly out of the ordinary or stimulating, but I’m sure the place would’ve been fine if we had any energy left. Soon enough we all decided to call it a night and actually left hlaf full to get a cab back to the Eden Roc. I produced my camera for some shots while we waited and then promptly left it in the cab about ten minutes later.

Clearly this tragedy was Julianna’s fault, as she failed to take her customary shotgun seat for this leg of our journey, let alone ask the driver his name. In addition, none of us noticed the name of the cab company in a city where there are around fifty. Net result: a fool and his camera are soon parted; the consequences of mass brain cell extermination/ sleep deprivation! After briefly rousing the hotel security personnel with my plight, we witnessed a distinct deflation in them upon being told it was a lost property case with no sex or violence involved. We then retreated to our room, me feeling even poorer than I had with Tantra’s menu in my hand. Upon the mass collapse onto beds, Nancy insisted on calling through the haystack of a few of the local cab companies and actually seemed to relish the task, proving that she may be utterly incapable of being in a bad mood. I had pretty much written it off to karma coming back to kick my ass a little, but I’m still a little ahead of the game. The phone calls unearthed nothing, but blessed sleep was imminent to end another ridiculously full day, so recovery had begun…

So This Is How The Other Half Lives!

Ah, deluxe accommodations on corporate America’s dime, completely on the up and up…does it get any better than this? Not as far as I could tell on another glorious morning, looking out at the ocean from six floors up. After determining that the nearest breakfast eatery was cabbing distance away, we decided to bite the bullet and hit Harry's, a name that would suggest a greasy spoon joint, but was actually white table-cloth and platinum guest check place. After all, the restaurant was in a space between the enormous, piano-equipped lobby and the expansive area around the ten feet deep, Olympic-size swimming pool, so I guess it couldn’t be cheap. We were soon melting at the taste of basic breakfast items done to near-perfection as Tad and I shoveled in the afternoon’s nourishment via a buffet with a bored omelet chef. This luxury came at a cost of around $75, of which JA was able to “expense” half, god love her. Seeing that this was Tad and Nancy’s departure day, there were some loose ends to tend to, namely, finishing off the vodka and bloody mix and the beer chasers. Soon enough we were back on the beach, (this time on chairs that rented for only six dollars each), throwing back booze.

This portion of the beach wasn’t as nice as SoBe, lacking size and flavor, to be sure, but we somehow fought our way through these shortcomings. Responding to Tad and Nancy’s whines about having to leave, I suggested that, seeing that they are both the bosses where they work, they should be able to finesse staying another day. After all, the room was free! So off they went to shuffle their plans, eventually returning with rum-runners for everyone and the good news that they were staying the extra night. I was happy, but only until I did a quick fast-forward to the day the credit card bill covering this trip arrives and what that’s gonna feel like. Then again, it’s only money, and I always seem to make more anyway! We had tentative plans to go to B.E.D., yet another ultra-hip SoBe eatery at which diners are actually sitting on a bed being the “haves” while compiling a tab that would cause normal people to refinance the house. I must say that I had briefly forgotten the eatery’s provocative name when Nancy said: “Cool, I’m glad we get to go to B.E.D. with ya’ll tonight!”

We soon did the improbable and cut the drinking short, but not before Julianna was making a business call half-in-the-bag as we prepared to leave for the evening! Nancy came up huge once again, like some concierge Tiger Woods, as she found a way to “Barter” her way into an essentially free meal for six at an untested Italian restaurant back down in SoBe among the upscale shops. (Seems that she, as a Honeybaked Hams franchisee, can sell product for “barter points” and in return get all manner of goods and services through a “middle man”, of sorts---quite a perk for the small business owner!) Nance also got in touch with one of her boyfriends from high school, a Hugh Grant look-alike named Terry who turned out to be gay, and he was able to make a dinner date with us on no notice, which was nice. We headed off, camera-less, of course, back down the road to Lincoln, whereupon we took to shopping and Tad and I did our best to not trip on our tongues looking at the fair pedestrians. Tad bought a shirt and Julianna picked up a funky mirror for her new condo before we settled in for some sushi and saeki at a well-placed sidewalk café with, (surprise!), poor service. Nevertheless, our raging hunger was quelled, and we were equipped to walk and explore much more.

Tad nearly left his old shirt and it was inevitable that there was no way that thing would make it back to the hotel this night, it was just a matter of where he would leave it. Anyway, we strolled towards the beach and soon I felt like I was in NYC, what with the narrow spaces selling cheap souvenirs and third-rate electronic stores lit with glaring florescent lighting that played off the storekeeper’s gold chains. Little did I know at the time that we were steps from being a world away from this chintzy bullshit, as we were headed for, believe it or not, cocktails at the legendary Delano hotel, on the beach. Julianna, my interior design girl was certainly on cloud nine when we entered this ultra-deluxe, completely refurbished art deco masterpiece. The walk through the stunning lobby was remarkable, and the space was divided into separate “rooms” by thirty-foot high white silk-like curtains. There was tons of white, (furniture, fabric and artwork,) on dark hardwood throughout, (including the people, I might add), and everything was as perfect as you’d see in a vintage Hollywood production. We then moved past a fine dining patio to the elaborate gardens surrounding the pool that was straight out of an ad for some expensive fragrance. On either side were smartly appointed, overwhelmingly white cabanas that served as guest rooms, complete with flowing curtains of their own.

Eventually we made it through this wonderment to the smart bar area with sand for flooring which was between the pool and the palm-tree lined walkway to a gate labeled simply “sea”. At this point, I almost felt fucking obligated to go ahead and drop $12 per martini for the privilege of taking all of this in! We indeed ordered the only libation appropriate for the occasion, although three of them were bastardized---in the form of vodka as the liquor. But these people deserve pity, not ridicule, for eschewing the joys of cold gin! If I was on a high horse with my drink attitude, I was quickly bucked onto my ass when the waiter emerged to ask if: “there was a problem with the service”. Come to find out that we happened to be kicking it at one of the few places within miles that does not automatically add the gratuity into the check. I guess with the clientele here, 17% is cheating the help more often than not! In retrospect, I suppose I should’ve known that $48 only covered the four adult beverages, not the tip! Send me back to the great unwashed---post haste!

In any event, I savored my time in these swank surroundings, apparently a bit too much, because I ended up picking up the rear in finishing my platinum-priced bone-dry. This was after Nancy, of all people, made a complaint about perhaps starting to hit the booze a bit too early, but she was quickly admonished by Julianna for hypocrisy and pretty much went bottoms up from there. I was less than thrilled about having to pretty much chug my precious liquid, but we did have a rendezvous seven blocks down Collins, so I had no choice. It was only with a promise to myself of one day triumphantly returning to these posh digs as a full success that I was able to leave what were perhaps the most sublime surroundings I’ve ever enjoyed.

Mama Mia, We’re Partying Again!

Not that our next destination, Wish, on the corner of seventh was Howard Johnson, mind you. It was here, in yet another tres chic hotel/restaurant that we met up with Nancy’s friend Terry and his flaming, leather-clad partner Gator, who was most certainly a Village Person simply in the wrong time, what with the mustache and all. JA and I were quite pleased to be able to bum smokes, as we’d run out earlier and I didn’t have a spare fifty at the Delano. Gator thankfully turned out to be a typical alternative-lifestyler, in that he was witty and well-read, and that was nice. Terry was charming, but almost too pretty, a dead-ringer for Hugh Grant, and you’d better believe that bitch had the same hairstyle, too! Anyway, we had a quick cocktail and then headed up a block or so to Paisanos, the Italian place in which Nancy had reserved a six-top. The five others piled into one Gator’s SUV for a little smoke, but I opted out because, oddly enough, weed ruins my appetite. Soon enough we headed into the eatery that occupied some prime retail space and kind of chuckled about worrying about reservations, as it was about eighty percent empty.
The place was the pretty much the only example of poor decorating I saw the whole time I was in Miami. Most notable on the bad scale were the brass chandeliers hanging only a few feet from the black ceiling and the power wires for the lighting were “disguised” by bright aluminum pipe. I just kept telling myself that I’m sure there are probably plenty of decorators that can’t cook, too, and the price will be right in any event.

We were shown to a nice round table, which was cool, and we enjoyed great service, despite the apparent local ordinance banning such a thing. Of course, given tonight’s crowd, all four occupied tables had their own waiter and busboy, but in this town, you take it where you can get it, no matter the reason! The good wine flowed and the entrees were all splendid, but best of all was the company---it was just a good mix and a ton of fun. We got a kick out of a somewhat demonstrative table of ten not far from us, and fully expected the Olive Garden’s ad agency to show up to film a new commercial. They were into the Mob Hits, (an Italian songs CD title from a TV ad), that the lonely guy on the synthesizer was playing. We soon followed suit after the wine kicked in with our own rousing version of “New York, New York”, complete with Nancy and Julianna doing high-leg kicks for good measure. Before I knew it, I had a second variety of red wine to go with my glass of white proving that, despite it being a Monday night, we were definitely still partying!

Not long before we left, a party of eight twentyish girls who piled out of stretch limo were seated, parading to their table sporting the exact same hairstyles and color, (the poodle and dark brown, if you must know.) My first thought was: “wow, they have ‘bridge and tunnel’ people here, just like New York!” Looking back, I’d say it’s pathetic that I must still make fun of people even when I’m having a great time. In any event, our fine occasion finally ran out of time, as Terry had to get up at six the next morning, so we thanked him for rallying on Monday night with no notice in the first place, and were on our way. Luckily Gator was still ready to party, so the four of us piled into his Explorer with Alanis Morrisette in recurrent, belting out: “You Oughta Know”. Why I find what people are listening to interesting I’m not sure, but I digress.

We introduced more THC into the equation and drove a few blocks to Bleu---you guessed it, a primarily blue, interesting little bar with the small dance floor located alongside the bar halfway through the shotgun space, with “living areas” everywhere else. I pulled Julianna out to move it on up because they were playing good music, and the alternative was standing around trying to talk over the sound. After our brief turn “cutting the rug”, Gator explained that this was one of the places the enormous service population in SoBe lets it rip on Monday nights. That sounded fun, but we were simply way too early for that, and quickly running out of energy to boot. I’ll say this, though, if the aforementioned service people party as hard as they work waiting on people, we didn’t miss much!

I tired of dancing soon after Julianna and I were the last two out there, and soon found that all others in our party were ready to call it a night anyway. Gator was nice enough to pile us in again and drive the fifteen or so blocks back to the Eden Roc, where blessed sleep awaited. He was a doll and agreed to swing by with a “number” to make things interesting tomorrow, because it’s always good to get a little psycho-active assistance in a place like this. He seemed like he was really going to do it, and that’s cool of him because he barely even knew me. In any event, we all took to sleep pretty much directly upon our return, me being especially thankful for Nancy keeping the evenings’ price down.

“House Boy” In My Own Right

Morning came earlier for some than others; Julianna had to rise for her corporate responsibilities down in the meeting rooms and the others had to catch their flight back to Atlanta. Soon the room was all mine, so I slept considerably longer. I awoke to a call from Gator’s cell-phone, alerting me of his, and a doobie’s impending arrival up front. Sure enough, it was going to be another good day! I met Terry’s companion on the well-attended, (the driveway staff actually work for their tips!), entryway and we chatted about a future visit to Atlanta by the two of them. Soon enough, I was applying sunblock and boarding a nearly empty city bus, in spite of my run-in with one the other night, for a ride to the South end of the island, specifically South Point Park. Here one can watch the enormous ships navigate the deep-water channel on the SoBe side of the somewhat famous Fisher Island. I began the day’s walking on the fake Birks by pausing to toke-up on a pool pathway of a forty story luxury condo building with a view of Downtown and beautiful aqua water. From there it was a long walk to find one of the few benches in the park, probably because I took the long way by accident---go figure! Sat around and got depressed watching young people jumping off a pier like I once would have, thinking that indeed kicks just keep getting harder to find. It was fun sitting there, though, feeling like I was getting away with something just hanging out. Now fully baked, I made my way to a small store for water and cigarettes and then wandered all over Ocean Drive, people-watching.

Luckily, I didn’t need social skills at the recommended stop of the Wolfsonian, a museum housed in a much-boasted-about historical building. Frankly, I couldn’t see what the fuss was about, because last time I checked, white museum walls were white museum walls! Anyway, one of the floors was a very nice “history of design” exhibit consisting of all manner of antique furniture, various housewares, etc. The alleged evolutionary theme that was present was lost on me, as the presentation of the thing seemed scattershot, but it was certainly worth the five bucks. (Then again, when I first saw Pulp Fiction, I couldn’t figure out how sequence of events was flipped, so I might’ve just been me.)

Not worth a finner was the next floor, which featured a huge collection of writings by a Yugoslav of apparently great worth. Unfortunately, I was in no shape to review printed material in English, let alone Slavic! Something about the short-term memory perhaps. In any event, with cultural matters now behind me, I was off to Lincoln Rd. to people watch and window shop.

I was being anti-social, pretty much talking to no one between bouts of uncontrolled sobbing. I was, after all, killing time sightseeing instead of playing golf, and that’s simply heart-wrenching for me. Dropped by a Burger King, dammit, and had me some easy-to-obtain chow that cost three dollars, which seems to be 10% of what a breakfast costs in this town. Come to think of it, this was the one and only fast food joint I remember seeing the whole time I was here. In fact, one can travel thirty blocks or more without seeing anything but high rise condos and hotels with their own eateries, so the area must be zoned to keep the availability of cheap food to a minimum.

In any event, I strolled about the mall for a bit, but my heart wasn’t in it, so I was soon back on the public transportation, this time the only gringo in a sardine can, for the Northbound bus ride at sometimes dizzying speeds, which was kind of amusing. I exited well before the Eden Roc in order to stroll the seemingly endless boardwalk that runs along this stretch of Miami Beach. To access said walkway, I decided to enter the lobby of a hotel which in fact was some sort of time machine.

I had passed into an oldly-renovated hotel which most definitely offered some sort of AARP discount. I was the only one under seventy in this dimly-decorated lobby of jovial, active seasoned-citizens, (I could’ve sworn I saw a couple of them on TV a few months back complaining about butterfly ballots.) I probably would’ve done well to stop, chat, and possibly gain some wisdom, but again, I was in no mood because weed makes me anti-social. Not only that, but I couldn’t locate the building’s passageway to the boardwalk anyway, so I made a quick exit and traversed some brush to make it there the hard way. Soon, however, I had my fake Birks in hand, walking along the surf like normal people do at the beach. This stretch of development was pretty much charmless. Gigantic, generic, condo and hotel high-rises devoid of any personality. There were lots of old people hanging out, probably wondering what the hell I was doing, and absolutely no “friends of Dorothy”, (gays), to make things interesting, let alone hotties in bikinis. I got bored and took to the walkway to make better time back to the hotel when I completely coincidentally, (I swear), literally crossed paths with the only (very) attractive young lady within miles.

Seeing that it was the third time in ten minutes that we had nearly run into each other, I chatted her up to avoid appearing to be an asshole. I decided to continue small talk by guessing her nationality: “So, are you from Holland?” “No, I’m from Brazil.” At least I was close! Before I could look like more of a moron, we came to her “stop” on the boardwalk, the Best Western. “Have a nice day!” was all I said, going against every instinct I used to have, and continued walking, thinking, man!, I must really be in love with Julianna!

Speaking of my Angel, she had just returned to the room from work when I, her “houseboy”, finished a day of bumming around, making for perfect timing.. We gladly went low-key for the evening, dining on a seaside deck at the hotel’s “Jimmy Johnson’s Three Ring Cafe”, on some top-notch fajitas. In the process, the somewhat paranoid Julianna worried about appearances in front of business associates passing by. Best-case, it appeared that she was abusing the corporate system, (isn’t that called a ‘perk’ anyway?), by keeping a man friend in her room. Worst case, of course, it might’ve looked like she was hooking up. In any event, it was amusing to watch her suddenly cast a gaze at the ocean when certain people approached. Of course I also had to say “oh, my god, look out!” when so much as the Hispanic bus boy walked by, but that’s just me. From there we retired to our room and Scary Movie on the pay-per-view, which started out promisingly, but grew old rather quickly, further jading me towards all things Hollywood. It felt good to simply relax and stop the financial bleeding, I must say---god I must be getting old!

“Putting On” The Ritz(y)

Departure day, and I started it by once again playing the “kept” man and sleeping in while Julianna arose early and loudly readied herself for her corporate day. I slept a couple more hours, then donned a sharp white tee to go with white linen trousers in order to feign affluence at the Bal Harbour Shops, a mall as ritzy as they come in the really high-rent district. I figured if I couldn’t practice self-masochism on the golf course, I might as well peruse high-end merchandise that I absolutely cannot afford. For special irony, I emerged from the great unwashed on public transportation, and nearly got run down by a Bentley in the process. Perhaps the message was: die pretender, die! I had smoked the remainder of what Gator had given me while waiting for the bus, so I was now in a prime frame of mind to appreciate fine craftsmanship in the lap of luxury.

Most notable of my browsings were apparel stores, specifically the Ralph Lauren “Purple Label” section in Neiman Marcus. It was there my eye caught a wonderfully rich-looking yellow raincoat that just felt expensive. It looked remarkable when I tried it on, but I felt bad for having had to drag an innocent bystander, sales associate Rich Rodriguez, (he gave me his card), into my fantasy. I was a bit iffy about the $950 price tag, but it turned out to be a bargain, compared to the other, maritime-ish button-front coats that ran into four figures. Soon enough, Associate Rodriguez briefed me on the significance of the “purple label”, which is the finest the design house has to offer, and is cut from the same fabrics as Prada, Gucci, etc. As proof, I was presented with a nice cotton semi-formal long-sleeve that one might wear under a blazer for lunch at the club. In keeping with the nice, round numbers, (no fooling the loaded!), it was $650. I believe I was muttering something about how, “sure it’s a lot to spend, but you somehow feel better in something like this!” as I was noticing there were absolutely no “sale” tags anywhere. Before much longer, I was stopped wasting this poor guy’s time, accepted his card, and moved on.

The next fun stop was a store called J.W. Cooper, a western-themed place for the cowboy who’s struck a gusher. Front-and-center were display cases, normally full of fine jewelry, featuring all manner of “belt sets”; i.e., buckles, tips, and whatever you call the things that serve as the belt’s overlay loop. All precious metals, sizes, and designs, (or should I say “degrees of gaudiness”) were available, starting at around eighty dollars and running well into four figures. To think that there’s a luxury market for these things never even occurred to me. What’s next, platinum egg timers? Anyway, as you’d expect, there were also top-shelf belts, leather clothing, handmade cowboy boots that were nothing less than works of art, (and priced as such)! Needless to say, I thanked the man for answering questions and moved on empty-handed, heading towards the “food court”, which consisted of a few ritzy patio cafes and a luxury-priced coffee shop. I enjoyed a beverage and a slice of cake, amused at the wintering women passerby and wondered which weighed more, their jewelry or their makeup.

Not long thereafter I tired of not being able to afford anything and crossed the street to Sheraton’s Bal Harbour Resort. This was a plush, somewhat by-the-numbers establishment that had the most elaborate pool I’ve ever seen. Picture a gigantic, tropical putt-putt course with lounge chairs and umbrellas, and you pretty much have the idea. Here I relaxed and read a New York Times instead of attempting to locate a lush, seaside park I’d read about. My contentment to veg was probably due to the fact that my fake-Birk-abused feet were no longer comfortable in the black closed-toe shoes that were pressed into service for the day’s dress-up outing. After my extended lounging period grew old, I called it a day and hopped another bus back to the Eden Roc in order to meet Julianna for our trip to the airport.

The flight back was a letdown compared to our scenic arrival because we were on the wrong, (right) side of the plane, as well as over the wing. I took this as a bit of a slap back into reality, as if I was headed back to real life, which entails sometimes not having a view as fun and interesting as Miami Beach!