Apologies to the kids for being so scarce lately but bidness called. And when it’s below freezing in Nashville and the expense is authorized for “South Beach”, it’s time to inflate the tires on the double wide and haul my tightly-clenched sphincter down I-95.
To begin, let me say that if you can get passed the omnipresent unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch techno blare that is pumped like white noise through every street light, potted plant, patio umbrella, and cocktail napkin (at every conceivable hour of the day and night) that it’s really not that bad of a place to hang out for a week.
You must make peace with the beat . It was there before you and it will be there after you are gone.
It’s like going to Jamaica and realizing that you hate reggae music after you’ve been off the plane for two hours.
The beat is inescapable. The same one from the Girls Gone Wild videos. Best to make peace with it lest it destroy you and find your battered psyche left curled in the fetal position on a bed in the corner of the Delano hotel’s pool bar and getting charged a $300 bottle service.
Of course, maybe paying $25 for an omelet and $17.50 for an accompanying mimosa isn’t your thing. Maybe a stroll along the beach is more your premium cup of green chai tea latte. You can probably sneak in a nice, half-hour walk down the coast for under a hundred bucks if you play your cards right. Still, you’re never too far away from….
Inevitably, Mrs. McMurphy wanted to go shopping. However, even that was cut short after I barely escaped being sexually assaulted by a Macy’s department store mannequin. I repeat….barely.
I need an adult!
Luckily, a lightning-reflexed floor manager’s gaydar had recently been inspected by the local regulatory agency and was in compliance so he realized that I was not indigenous to the area. He quickly dialed a rape crisis hotline who was able to get me a cab back to the hotel for a brief counseling session and some hot, Ghirardelli cocoa.
By the time Mrs. McMurphy finished stroking my head, wiping my tears of shame away, and polishing off the daquiri – it was time to call in our final former Haitian war criminal / tax driver to risk life and what was left of his limbs to get us back to Miami International. His driving glare was fierce. His yellow cab a bolting steed. His nerves were pure vodka.
Ah….MIA. Where the clocks and departure flight times are solamente there for show. Where the only assurance outside of your flight being delayed is that the refrigeration process may eventually find it’s way throughout the concourses so that you can enjoy your $8 12-oz. warm beer within the insulating cocoon of unch-unch-unch-unch as you eventually learn how to instruct passersby on how to make their way to designated smoking areas in spanish.
Central American Airlines, with help from a strong tailwind, was finally able to pull their loose shit together long enough to bounce the Boeing 737 down the runway and get me back to the home of Jesusland’s publisher.
A final word to the seemingly late 20s gentleman who decided to keep his reading light on so that he could finish reading Harry Potter on the 3am redeye:
There is no excuse for a grown man to be reading books about the quest to obtain the Enchanted Magic Wand. It is offensive. For a week, I walked up and down Lincoln, met more gay people than I ever had in my entire life but nothing…and I mean nothing could hold a Diesel-jeaned, bedheaded, silver ring on your middle finger candle to watching a grown man reading a Harry Potter book in public.
Find a cabana boy to call your own. Start your own boutique or take up antiquing and you still have a shot. But for that most serious of transgressions, you are out of the Man Club ™.