Earlier this week, I found myself working from the perils of South Beach in Miami, Florida. Woe is Me. “Pish Posh” you might be thinking. However, I will repeat myself yet again and encourage to stop thinking so much. Other than the Bang Bros, South Beach Sucks.
Allow me to introduce you how to not do South Beach. First of all, do not go there on a holiday weekend unless you enjoy riff raff, inconvenience and awkward situations. I found myself checking into my hotel on Columbus Day. Harmful enough of a holiday one would assume…how could celebrating a globe trotting, risk taking explorer, agile enough to find this great land we call America possibly go wrong? I will tell you how. Priceline and their outrageous offers. Priceline makes valued treasures mere current commodities.
Late in the afternoon on Columbus Day I called William Schatner and his friends at the Priceline, and asked for a hotel in downtown Miami..when they offered the Hotel Chelsea in the art deco section of South Beach I quickly grinned a smile, pumped a fist and gave them a proverbial handshake over the phone. South Beach for $60 a Night? Well friends, there is a reason that 1/2 Pound burgers at McDonalds are 4 dollars and why they are $20 at other establishments. No different than the price of lap-dances in Arkansas versus Las Vegas. It boils down to quality.
Upon checking into the Hotel Chelsea, Alfredo…the front desk hispanic gremlin, informed me that starting in 15 minutes they would be offering an open bar happy hour from 7 to 8PM. I literally high fived Alfredo. Not just because I enjoy open bars and inviting dance floors but because I also enjoy a nice plate of fettucine alfredo. I also high five people named gummybear, chicfila, and filet. Common Courtesy.
Well after a fancy shower in my hotel room and a sprucing up of attire, I galavanted down to the hotel bar, which is when the journey hit the skids. In a room of forty people, I was a minority. Being white, successful and dashingly handsome…this was a new feeling. A room of forty people, and I spot one other caucasian, across the bar. Amidst the Murrays Pomade and women wearing bikini tops as shirts, this white man gave me an approving head nod, as if to indicate that we were teammates, committed souls engaged in the same battle, warriors in battle. This would have been all well and fine, however he was wearing a euro bag on his shoulder. Or as we say in America, A man purse. This man was no teammate of mine.
To make matters worse, the once ambient soothing music played during the check in at the hotel had been replaced by what seemed to be the latest Rick Ross mixtape with lyrics as sharp as swords, that left me whispering to myself “you are going to do what to a bitch?” “oh thats vulgar” and “this is an angry man”. While dodging the offensive lyrical content pulsing through my eardrums and rapidly killing braincells, I excused myself out of the way from a woman who was well over 6 feet tall and in a hotel robe and slippers. Let that settle in for a second…A 6 foot tall Amazonian woman, at a hotel bar, in a robe and slippers belonging to the hotel.
Upon dodging Manute Bohls sister, I ran smack into another young lady who asked me to buy her soda water. Turns out “soda water” in South Beach means “lets go back to your room and you can pay me to service you”. Well, I declined. Not because I wasn’t interested but because I have a strict policy against paying for HIV. Upon turning her down she quickly said to me “Fuck you Snowflake”. At that point, I returned to my room, and weeped a quiet song.
Hoping the night was over, I was fortunate enough to have a loud neighbor and thin walls, a recipe for trouble. This woman really, and I mean really, wanted LaQwanda to shut her mouth. Or maybe she said Kuhnada…or maybe it was Canada? Which in that case I can definitely understand. Don’t care for Canucks much.
