Trying to Party with the Pretentious

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When doing a road trip, is Miami worth it? I won’t lie I wasn’t up for it but since I was pretty much doing whatever I wanted and Robert Parish didn’t really care as long as we went to Miami I figured I probably should. So 16 hours south we drive and when finished 14 hours west to New Orleans we go.



I knew the strains of driving from a few weeks earlier when doing the South Dakota and back trip. I’d have to say this drive did kill our spirits to party hard soon after. At this point we were something like 21 from 24 nights of hard drinking. Two of those off nights we had a couple of beers and thought it’s not worth continuing, nothings on.



From Nashville we legged it to Athens and in my hangover state I typed in the wrong Athens on the GPS. Athens, Georgia was where we needed to go and after almost going to Athens, Alabama we ended up in Athens, Tennessee. A little town in the middle of nowhere.



Eventually we arrived in Athens Georgia to what we hoped would be a great college music experience. The guidebook said it was voted the best college music scene in the states. We get there, its Thursday night and there is nothing on. Students were out but no music.



We saw a bar full of people but dressed up in their Saturday night finest and it turned out to be something like a speed dating evening that just finished. Apart from a brief period on Ios Island Greece. I have not felt my age. I’ve always felt I’ve fitted in. But on this night perhaps because I was sober I felt if I even chatted to one of these girls I’d class myself as a paedophile. Most must have had fake ID’s.



So we left and drove out of town and slept the night away to tackle the road again and head into Florida. It was nearing winter so the whole beach scene was close to non-existent. Still we were passing Daytona so why not detour for 20-30 minutes.



Increasingly the further we drove the more I felt I was in Queensland Australia. The humidity kept a bit of warmth and Daytona Beach looked as if we were on Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast. But no sin done here just a few happy snaps and down to Miami.



I have mixed emotions about coming here. It is photogenic and the drive into Miami Beach is a site. Miami CBD towers the skyline with a bay, which slithers under bridges that direct traffic to all directions. The water is a crystal blue with large cruise ships and yachts dock. The road hits more buildings, which is the hub of the nightlife and beach life of Miami.



On the second day we hit Little Havana, which was my desperate attempt to motivate myself to get through the long drive. The main drag doesn’t have much of a Havana feeling. But there you can get a decent oily Latin dish for cheap, grab a cigar at the cigar shop and watch old Cubans play dominoes.



And that was pretty much my love affair with Miami done. The rest of the time I thought I was hanging around a bunch of pretentious people. It was the most fake tits walking down the street venue I’ve been to. Some of the guys had got some work done on their abs too, surely.



Despite the fake looks some had had a good job done. Well enough to have both of us say a few times. “Tits!” “Nice Tits!” generally a positive word followed by the word “Tits!” Even the manikins got in on the act. I have provided a photo of the biggest boobs on a manikin ever. This should give you an idea on who the shops market.



The beach is a long stretch of white sand that had a bit of gunk spewed up on the shoreline. It wasn’t cold and not warm a bit of both but still nice to get some beach time. We walked along the boardwalk area and on the way there was a bunch of models with fake tan and fake boobs posing for the camera. The cameramen were also of the fake tan fake boob ilk.



As we walked and Robert Parish expressing his weakness for blondes by complimenting a couple of shocking women models. I pointed out that out of the 6 models we saw modelling I would only go for 1. I’m sorry I just don’t like the thought of going to bed with plastic.



The whole point here was to go out at night and hit the clubs. The first night I had a terrible cold that had built up two days earlier from being rained on in Nashville. So $25 to enter the first night not drunk we left it for the following night. Instead heading to a Latin bar that had some good tunes going but it only was happening for a couple of hours. The rest of the joint was shit unless you hit the clubs.



The next day personalities at the hostel was left behind so it was just Parish and I to pre drink to get ourselves in the mood. We were at a bar playing pool and drinking quickly. We walk to the club we wanted to go to and then double guess the direction. We stupidly ask some homeless guy who tells us its like 10 blocks the other way and follow him.



He talks about how he can guess our fathers first name and if he guesses it right we have to buy an origami thing in his hand. He leaves soon after and we walk to that address. ¾ the way there I say, “Wait hang on, why are we following directions of some homeless guy?”



I go around asking people where whatever the club was called I forget now. They inform they don’t know. I asked about 4 people and no one knew where it was. It was winter, there was hardly any clubs open even on a Saturday and this fucked up city didn’t know where the clubs are. I was asking workers in cafes, bars, restaurants - They work there for Christ sake.



So poor Robert Parish had to put up with thedribbleman getting the shits. It was a little bit to do with the incompetency of the people living here. A little to do with the fact that basically 4 days of our road trip was taken up to go to a Miami Club. But the big one was this IS “Miami bitch” and it was giving us nothing. A complete wank of a place. Up there with Dubai for my mind.



We looked at another club but it was full of guys waiting outside. We had passes to this club. We had plans the next day which would in the end make up for the club disappointment and called it a (lame) night. The next day, Sunday we got ourselves pissed again to find no club open. Although I was a little tamer I did continue my bitch. “This is “Miami bitch” who cares if its Sunday and almost winter isn’t this a party city?”



Prior research made us realise that the final race of the NASCAR’s Sprint Series was being held at the Homestead Miami Speedway. Low on my American sports to see list. It was however on the list and there was no way we were going to miss this opportunity.



The racetrack is about an hour south of Miami heading toward Florida Keys. Like with all sports in America there is ample opportunity to get a ticket off a scalper.



About 5 minutes from the car park under a bridge we pull over near a guy who has written “TICKETS NEEDED” in black texture on a ripped piece of a cardboard box. We ask for his cheapest tickets and we get offered the Pit Road Cabana. He says something like $50 each and after some negotiation we get them for $30 each. We have no idea what ticket we got. The guy said you will be near the pits and with the driver’s families.





Parish is only interested in hearing the cars grunt more than anything. I wanted to be close for some good photos so we buy through the ticket booth of the passenger sides window. After my ticket showed a red light when scanned I was allowed through and we go through the tunnel under the racetrack and arrive on the other side looking back at the grandstands and pit crews.



Still no idea if we had a seat at all we go through two more points to eventually realise we don’t have a seat but have access to stand behind the pit crew as they change tires and re fuel. I know many friends who would be salivating at the prospect to be in the position myself and Robert Parish enjoyed.



There was an extra bit of incentive as Australia’s own Marcus Ambrose (finishing off a season where he was the first none American to win a NASCAR race) was racing. Some 267 laps in total and I went back to the 12^th mans comments re: F1 “…these fucking cars have just been going round and round and round its been so fucking boring!” And I couldn’t agree more when on Lap 72 Australia’s own Marcus Ambrose was Goooooooonnnnneeeeee with engine problems. Only a third of the race gone and there is no-one to support. What rubbed salt into the wound was soon after there was a rain delay for 45 minutes and the race stopped.



When the rain stopped we had to wait for the trucks with massive blow dryers to dry the track out. During this delay I thought I could kill some time if I take a slash at the urinal. I un zip and begin the process when a guy dressed in drivers uniform stands next to me to do the same. I peer through the corner of my eye and there I am urinating next to a NASCAR driver mid race!!



As I scrunched up (I was in my boardies and flip-flops with Miami beach sand all up my legs) I studied the sponsors on his yellow drivers suit and found out it was Driver #22 Kurt Bucsh. He didn’t finish too well, finishing 34th. But hey better than Marcus.





I'd say I would have got stage freight if I hadn't had already started when he walked in next to me. After the rain delay it headed towards night so we sat in the stands for about 70 laps. There were two drivers going for the title Tony Stewart and Colin Edwards. But with all the delays the stands were starting to empty out. From the stands you couldn’t see the straight, which was blocked from view buy a concrete slab. Combine that with we didn’t really care who wins we left happy with our experience.



I would like to say that watching the NASCARS inspired me to drive like an idiot on wheels but in truth it was the American drivers on the roads themselves that made me act like I owned the road.



I soon realized that that is the only way to drive this place. Don’t let anyone in, speed at all times when there’s room and even when there’s not. But my favorite American driver move is when a truck cuts you off when they know they cannot go quicker than you up a hill.



My personal favourite is entering onto a highway than having to exit 500 yards later. 4 lanes across sometimes 6 in Miami’s case. It was around here I’d point out that that was a bad piece of driving to Robert Parish by saying, “How about that for some American driving!” This eventually was shortened to “Hello America!”

****ALSO****



Like with most Road Trips there is a song that symbolizes the trip. Parish didn’t have a choice really because there was a song already chosen by yours truly and the obscure choice was embraced by Robert so much so that when we drove along Ocean Drive he was the one who put the CD in and pressed play. This is the famous street that’s shown for Miami Beach it’s where all the people who want to be seen stand around sit at a café, restaurant or bar.



So what song was it?



‘Kupała’ by west Polish band Czeremszyna. In fact the whole album ‘Visegrad Wave’ got a run throughout the trip. Haven’t heard of them before?



I don’t blame you, neither had I until on a train ride from Warsaw to Germany. An overnight ride, by morning I spoke to the people in my sleeper and they were both musicians who play for a folk band. They explained that they are 4km from the Belarus border and have regular festivals with the bordering countries. This CD was the festival their village hosted in 2011. They informed that the Belarus government doesn’t allow their Belarus friends to host and they have not played there.



Left with just the radio to keep us company the CD was the only economic option once the country music and vitriol on the radio was too much.



Here’s your free myspace download

http://www.myspace.com/czeremszyna/music/songs/kupala-4747495

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