I know it's been rehashed, but I had to get my 0.02 in.
Every time that I visit Miami, I swear that it will be the last time. That hasn’t stopped me from making the 4-hour trek there at least once a year. Just this past weekend, it happened again, and I swear to Fidel Castro, it will be the last time. It’s just too much.
The overall atmosphere is entirely too pretentious. I’m more of a dive bar kind of guy than some place that MIGHT let me in if they think I’m attractive enough, and charge me $30 for the privilege of admission.
The prices are outlandish. I get spending $10 for a beer at sporting events and concerts. Well good luck finding any joint on South Beach offering a longneck for $8 or less. If you can throw them back like I can, you will need to take out a loan for your bar tab. Even the essentials such as a standard breakfast at a simple South Beach diner will run you about four times more what it would anywhere else. And if you’re so inclined to order the shrimp omelet with hot sauce, you’re really in trouble. Basura!
All of the servers, bartenders, taxi drivers, etc are constantly out to “get you.” And yes, I am lumping the entire Miami South Beach hospitality industry into one giant, crooked stereotype. You must be sure to triple check every bill you receive because it will have “errors” on it. There will be drinks that you did not order. The advertised special will be conveniently forgotten to be added in. The taxi fare will change on you mid-drive. It’s like the entire city held a town hall meeting in some Art Deco warehouse and declared it policy to rip off every customer that they could. As fun as the beach party scene can be, one can never truly relax, for fear of being taken advantage of. If you want to be served by down-to-earth folks who care about the level of your experience, go to New Orleans.
A small, brave group of SBR members made the trip to the land of Sonny and Crockett, Tony Montana and Dexter. For many of them, it was their first visit. I knew what to expect, but even I was taken back with how little time it took for Miami to greet us with a warm bitchslap that no other city could ever hope to replicate.
Our SBR troupe rolled onto the scene in a rented minivan consisting of posters Amby, Dance Girl, Robyn, Jellobiafra and Matty Rain. The weather was beautiful and the day held promise. We had booked three rooms at The Catalina hotel. It looked amazing online, and all were excited to stay there. Upon our arrival, we were told that two of our rooms were under renovation and that we had been upgraded to a much nicer place 12 blocks away. Why weren’t we called? Whatever. God I hate this town.
I realized that we really didn’t have much of a choice, and asked that all three of our rooms be transferred together. The snarky response from a less than sympathetic desk girl was “no.” As far as she was concerned, that was that. Sorry for your luck.
If Will Smith was standing next to me right then, I would’ve knocked him the hell out. Welcome me to Miami NOW, fool!
After stressing that this had to happen or I was going to snap, they finally switched the third room. We drove to our “upgrade” which happened to be some mildly dumpy hotel-apartments. Whenever there is a hyphen after the word “hotel,” you have just gotten screwed. Oh, and the new dump was called Metropole. A room on gay-friendly South Beach called the Metropole. At least Amby and I were shacking up with women. I won’t judge for whatever transpired behind Jello and Matty’s closed door.
We regrouped and headed over to the main strip. We settled on the first appealing bar that we saw and proceeded to eat and drink away our stressful beginning. The Mojitos and Bay Breezes were flowing, and the mood was alright. Our bartender was named Christian, and if you can’t trust a Christian, who can you trust, right?
Jello asked Christian if Scarface was filmed in this hotel. Probably not a good move. We received our bill (which was overcharged, and didn’t include the advertised specials. Shocker). Even still, it was more than most car payments.
But this was an unofficial SBR party, and we weren’t about to be kept down. We know how to have fun, and boy did we. We met up with the legendary Peter Loshak and Bodog Becky. I can’t tell you much of what happened that night, because I made the boneheaded decision to take on a million liquor drinks. Liquor doesn't go well with my attitude, but yet there I was.
Almost everyone everywhere that we went was more beautiful than us. Except for Loshak, that is. If you’ve never watched a Loshak video before, tune in. The man is beauty personified. All else was a blur. There were fire twirlers, fake moustaches, ambulance visits, garlic salt spillages and a protective stuffed little dog. You know, all of the ingredients to an excellent evening.
The next day our groggy crowd traveled to Dania Jai Alai to get our gamble on. There was a player named Toto who is absolutely, without question, the very worst athlete at any given sport played anywhere in the world in the history of life. He looked a bit like Christian the bartender, and I have a theory that it might’ve been him punishing us for the Scarface question.
Every time that I visit Miami, I swear that it will be the last time. That hasn’t stopped me from making the 4-hour trek there at least once a year. Just this past weekend, it happened again, and I swear to Fidel Castro, it will be the last time. It’s just too much.
The overall atmosphere is entirely too pretentious. I’m more of a dive bar kind of guy than some place that MIGHT let me in if they think I’m attractive enough, and charge me $30 for the privilege of admission.
Do not want
All of the servers, bartenders, taxi drivers, etc are constantly out to “get you.” And yes, I am lumping the entire Miami South Beach hospitality industry into one giant, crooked stereotype. You must be sure to triple check every bill you receive because it will have “errors” on it. There will be drinks that you did not order. The advertised special will be conveniently forgotten to be added in. The taxi fare will change on you mid-drive. It’s like the entire city held a town hall meeting in some Art Deco warehouse and declared it policy to rip off every customer that they could. As fun as the beach party scene can be, one can never truly relax, for fear of being taken advantage of. If you want to be served by down-to-earth folks who care about the level of your experience, go to New Orleans.
A small, brave group of SBR members made the trip to the land of Sonny and Crockett, Tony Montana and Dexter. For many of them, it was their first visit. I knew what to expect, but even I was taken back with how little time it took for Miami to greet us with a warm bitchslap that no other city could ever hope to replicate.
Our SBR troupe rolled onto the scene in a rented minivan consisting of posters Amby, Dance Girl, Robyn, Jellobiafra and Matty Rain. The weather was beautiful and the day held promise. We had booked three rooms at The Catalina hotel. It looked amazing online, and all were excited to stay there. Upon our arrival, we were told that two of our rooms were under renovation and that we had been upgraded to a much nicer place 12 blocks away. Why weren’t we called? Whatever. God I hate this town.
I realized that we really didn’t have much of a choice, and asked that all three of our rooms be transferred together. The snarky response from a less than sympathetic desk girl was “no.” As far as she was concerned, that was that. Sorry for your luck.
If Will Smith was standing next to me right then, I would’ve knocked him the hell out. Welcome me to Miami NOW, fool!
This makes me angry
We regrouped and headed over to the main strip. We settled on the first appealing bar that we saw and proceeded to eat and drink away our stressful beginning. The Mojitos and Bay Breezes were flowing, and the mood was alright. Our bartender was named Christian, and if you can’t trust a Christian, who can you trust, right?
Jello asked Christian if Scarface was filmed in this hotel. Probably not a good move. We received our bill (which was overcharged, and didn’t include the advertised specials. Shocker). Even still, it was more than most car payments.
But this was an unofficial SBR party, and we weren’t about to be kept down. We know how to have fun, and boy did we. We met up with the legendary Peter Loshak and Bodog Becky. I can’t tell you much of what happened that night, because I made the boneheaded decision to take on a million liquor drinks. Liquor doesn't go well with my attitude, but yet there I was.
Almost everyone everywhere that we went was more beautiful than us. Except for Loshak, that is. If you’ve never watched a Loshak video before, tune in. The man is beauty personified. All else was a blur. There were fire twirlers, fake moustaches, ambulance visits, garlic salt spillages and a protective stuffed little dog. You know, all of the ingredients to an excellent evening.
The next day our groggy crowd traveled to Dania Jai Alai to get our gamble on. There was a player named Toto who is absolutely, without question, the very worst athlete at any given sport played anywhere in the world in the history of life. He looked a bit like Christian the bartender, and I have a theory that it might’ve been him punishing us for the Scarface question.
Toto: The breathing doorstop
Saturday night was spent at the Hollywood Hard Rock Casino. More posters had joined us – Rogue Juror - who brought Jungle Man - and McBaseball. It was a party that lasted til almost 6 am. And go figure, a bunch of degenerates from a gambling forum in a casino, and nary any gambling activity. There might be hope yet. I have to say that Miami definitely came through in the end. The faults will always remain, but what a town to throw a party in.
Sunday morning was ugly, but I had the 4-hour trip back home to take care of. I figured that Robyn would probably pass out on me, and needed something to entertain myself. NFL games were minutes away from kicking off and I found the Buccaneers-Dolphins broadcast on the radio. The Fish were favored by low double digits. I saw a big let down in store for Tampa Bay following their first win of the year. I called in some cabbage on the Dolphins, threw the car in cruise control, and headed home.
The good guys were covering the spread by halftime, and I was feeling alright. What a great way this would be to end my trip. Then the second half started, and Buc’s quarterback Josh Freeman started throwing like Dan Marino. Even with an atrocious referee call that benefitted the Dolphins and led to a touchdown, Tampa Bay almost won the game outright, losing by only two. After spending almost every last cent to my name on South Beach drinks, food and crappy hotels, this loss left me completely broke.
Holy boliche, do I hate Miami!
Sunday morning was ugly, but I had the 4-hour trip back home to take care of. I figured that Robyn would probably pass out on me, and needed something to entertain myself. NFL games were minutes away from kicking off and I found the Buccaneers-Dolphins broadcast on the radio. The Fish were favored by low double digits. I saw a big let down in store for Tampa Bay following their first win of the year. I called in some cabbage on the Dolphins, threw the car in cruise control, and headed home.
The good guys were covering the spread by halftime, and I was feeling alright. What a great way this would be to end my trip. Then the second half started, and Buc’s quarterback Josh Freeman started throwing like Dan Marino. Even with an atrocious referee call that benefitted the Dolphins and led to a touchdown, Tampa Bay almost won the game outright, losing by only two. After spending almost every last cent to my name on South Beach drinks, food and crappy hotels, this loss left me completely broke.
Holy boliche, do I hate Miami!
