It's official, Miami sucks. I want to take the next British Airways flight back to Paris (still waiting for my check, BA). Last night, my roommates and I decided to go out clubbing, to experience the Miami Beach nightlife. First we stopped by a house party, but the ride there was unsettling. The neighborhood looked neglected, like homes that once had beauty but were left uncared for over time. The highways alone looked menacing, casting shadows and creating darkened streets everywhere. As we were driving down the street, a group of guys let loose a firecracker that escaped into the street and exploded in front of the car--only a few seconds later we would have surely been caught in the middle of that. Down the block a scuffle broke out between two crackheads--no joke.
We made appearances at the house party, but left shortly after to head over to Miami Beach. The whole scene changed. The streets looked straight out of a movie, and I think that was almost as unsettling as the previous neighborhood--it looked entirely superficial. Famous stores passed us by--Mango, Zara, Roberto Cavalli--and were framed by the ubiquitous palm trees. As we got closer to the party district, the architecture became more pronounced; I didn't know that Miami was known for it's Art Deco, but I gotta say, it's quite interesting. Even the police station looked surreal, in an all white building with large glass (some round) windows and a rotunda--what does a police station need with a rotunda?
We got to the club and were awestruck by the long line forming on either side (one for VIPs, and the other for regular entry). Up and down the street dozens of people in their clubbing finest are pounding the pavement, groups of women all cloned up in the ho-uniform, groups of men all thugged out in the latest Rocawear lines with matching chains (and grills for some). The cars are somewhat impressive as well: escalades and thunderbirds and other gas-guzzlers. The whole environment is already overstimulating, and we've only been there for 20 minutes. My friends and I--four girls and a guy--stand on line, waiting to be let in. Not even a few minutes later, a bouncer comes by, staring hard into the crowd and stops a ways in front of us, and motions to two women. How many of you, he asks them. The girl motions to herself and her girlfriend. The bouncer nods and beckons them to come with him. I stare in disbelief.
Oh no he didn't just pick those two white skinny ass bitches out of the line!
But it happens again. And again. Women before us and after us (directly behind us in fact) get picked off the line. The line seems to move only because of the women who get chosen. Meanwhile the line uncoincidentally seems to contain a large number of women who were blessed with melanin and girth. At one point the bouncer does another sweep, and a girl motions him over. She steps out of the line as she tries to negotiate with the bouncer. He asks, how many? Me and my girl, she says, pointing in the general direction of the crowd. Is your friend bigger than you? he asks with no hesitation.
At this point I'm too disgusted to even see her response. She and her friend are let in.
The guy with us--a Kappa, if that means anything to you--goes to the front of the line to speak on our behalf (and I'm already put out by that fact alone). He comes back and relates to us the conversation he had with the hostess, who asked him if the girls that were with him were hot. He couldn't answer yes or no, with good reason, to reduce some blame--we were a motley crew, with an overweight white girl, me (already feeling fat), my friend (who was the "hottest" looking amongst us), and another roommate who was wearing an earthy linen dress with her locks in a Princess Leah hairstyle. Hell no, were weren't a fine group of women by their standards. So we remained on line some more.
Meanwhile all this time, guys walking down the street are calling out to the women, making passing comments, blatantly undressing them with their eyes. The women, though ignoring the men, are dressed in the way that almost begs this type of attention--backless dresses with no bra (very, very easy for one to simply reach in and cup a breast or two), gold and silver leggings and stripper heels, and one girl had on literally a triangle bikini top and a little short beach skirt.
WAKE UP! WAAAAAAKE UUUUUUUUUUP!
At one point an older homeless woman with a baby carriage waddles by, picking up trash on the street. She sees something interesting next to a car and reaches down to pick it up. Imagine this--a weathered old woman with a baby carriage full of knick knacks and rags, bending down next to a white escalade with 40 inch rims, two thugnificent men sucking their teeth at the women parading in front of them, blind to the old woman behind them.
The part that had me retching and wanting to go home (because I have a bit of a threshold): a white guy passed out at the base of a palm tree, completely out cold. A group of frat-looking white guys, strangers, see this and take this as a photo opportunity. They pose with tongues out and hand gestures for the camera-phone. One guy felt inspired, and straddles the passed-out guy's face with his legs, pretending to crap on him. A bunch of laughter erupts from the guys as well as the by-standers. Some people are shaking their head, but no one moves. I stand there transfixed on the scene, and feel absolutely sick to my stomach...I don't recall the last time I felt so deeply disgusted by humanity at something I witnessed with my own eyes (as opposed to watching a documentary). At that point I had to leave, and we did. A roommate and I stopped to ask the passed out guy, who had come to, if he needed a cab, but he shook his head no, and we kept moving.
We tried to find another, less-exclusive club. We saw some women go into one, and we stopped to ask for admittance. The guy clearly let those women in for free, but closed the barrier and asked us for $20 each. We didn't even bat an eye as we walked away. We eventually found a place that let all women in for free. The bouncers were as nice as they could be, and I felt respected for the first time that night. We get in and head straight for the bar. I ordered a Kamikaze. How much? I shout above the music to the bartender. Twelve each! he responds. I'm dumbstruck. I look at the clear, plastic solo cups--you know the ones, flimsy as hell,--filled with ice and social lubricants, and I regret not asking before I ordered. I take my drink to the dance floor and look around. Of course there are more women than men, but I recognize many of the women from my hour or so on line. Many of the women are the "club rejects"--I include myself--the ones who were too fat or too dark to get into other places. It's a sad, but honest reality. Some of the women were on the line with me and had walked away in frustration. Others I had seen walking up and down the street, all decked out in the ho-uniform but getting no play. Here they came to get their dance on, with very little chance of a guy asking any of them to dance. In fact, the guy that was with me and my group didn't even want to ask any of them to dance.
We left about an hour later, danced out, but honestly I was more tired from the emotional pain I felt than anything physical.
Here I was all excited about Miami, thinking that I would just get "Europe over with" and it turns out that I got it completely wrong.
