MIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!
I think Lil John said it best in whatever song intro it was where he screamed the name of the city that played host to my antics this weekend. Down in the home of Art Deco and Tony Montana for a show that had been scheduled for another place further south, I spent Friday at the Miami Beach Convention Center setting up shop, plus a detour to a freight depot to pick up a load…. Of merchandise for the next few shows. If I had rented any smaller of a vehicle, I would have had to either leave something behind, or tie it on the friggin roof. Chevy Impalas were not made for carrying 360lbs of T-shirts. After setting up for the show my boss comes to me and says the hotel is within walking distance.
“Awesome” I say, thinking we’re just a couple blocks away and I didn’t have to take my car out of its spot at the CC. I had not heard the rest of what he said though, as I realized when we piled into my rental and drove half a mile around Miami Beach to come to a stop at a small, privately operated house that looked like the building Brian DePalma used in Scarface. You remember the scene, the one where Tony goes into the apartment expecting to make a coke sale and instead nearly gets chainsawed… Yeah. That was my hotel. Cleaned up and made to look chic and modern. But it was a block from the beach.
After my shower to clean off my sweat from the day, I throw on some shorts and start to walk to the beach. About halfway from the boardwalk I see some of my crew, so I cross over and say hi. Adam, Callahan, and Sting asked me to join them for drinks, so I said alright, I needed a mojito.
One mojito is never enough. One turns into two easily, but two is more than I really wanted, so I finished with water. By this time I had watched more exotics drive by than I had ever seen in one place before. Ferarris, Lambos, even an Ariel Atom. About the time the check came Sting’s phone starts blowing up. One of the Nopi Chics wanted all of us to come out to some club (I am NOT dressed for it at the time). The rest of the crew goes down to the club, but I go to the Scarface Hotel to change.
All dressed up with someplace to go, I hit the streets. 6 blocks. 6 blocks of everyone that you think you’d run into. There were drunk black guys leaned up against posts outside of an all-night convenience store, Indian kids crowded around a surf shop making jokes in hindi that I couldnt understand. the night brought them all out. In the middle of them was the CityGuy. Breathing in the night air with just a hint of seabreeze. Hot and sweaty, my shirt stuck to my back as i entered the club and suddenly I was in my zone. In the darkness the dancing crowd is a bouncing mass, expanding and contracting to the music like ectoplasm from Ghostbusters. I slid past the VIP bouncer when I found my crew popping a bottle of champagne. I made it to the table just in time to toast to being “In Miami, Bitch!”
So the CityGuy drank and was soon chillin. The night was cut short when someone tried to start a fight with us, so we followed the first commandment of the club and went home. Somewhat alone because the Nopi Chics that had invited us left soon after I arrived.
To a good night, Salud!
McWheels5 