It’d break the Cuban’s heart if she saw The Raleigh tonight.
Bones exposed, a vagabond breeze steals a shortcut through windows left open without glass or pain.
First time down, she showed me Cy Clyde Menswear and told me all about the antics of the Adams. Powered on cordito torque, we passed The Dildo and headed south, toward ceremonial Materva and palomilla relief.
I marveled at the architecture, awestruck and bewildered by the Chrysler curves and chainsaw neon, all that palm tree pomp. Never saw anything like these buildings before. Never knew about chipped-coral coffee counters and sexually structured pastelito señoritas, elegant in uniform starch.
It was all breathtaking. Everything looked like my favorite thing.
Another first day of my young ol’ life.
That particular trip began with recycled Continental miles and a desire to please the higher-ups on the masthead. They say you’re supposed to make a good impression and “there are a million girls who would kill for this job”. You’re supposed to be a “go-getter” and it is often recommended that one should “take the initiative”. I read it somewhere, or seen it on tv.
Upon landing, I made my way down to the baggage claim, then out to the curb, limping with luggage and lighter, unlit Newport dangling from lip. Stepping outside, into my very first “adult Florida”, the heat and humidity struck my face and body with a steamy, cassava sack thwap. It felt like a place I could belong. I knew right away, this place was for me.
The boss picked me up at arrivals in the family car, borrowed from her mom on Palm Isle.
Now that I think about it, this wasn’t the first time I had “skipped the line”. It had already happened before, a couple of times. As a boy, you’re supposed to enjoy it. You’re supposed to never complain if it’s a woman of a certain age or stature.
Next night, I was out front, downstairs, at the door with Gilbert, a real life legend. Back then, like now, I had no idea what I was doing, so I wore the same tie I wore to my Bryant Park Armani interview. I knew some of the ropes, but I was still learning some others. Hardly a better teacher than Gilbert, if only even for a couple of hours, outside, for one night. It had to be way off-season.
Upstairs from the Payless Shoes, the gala was gathering. The whole thing was for a Herrera, so everyone had heard, and was there. Desmond attended, as well as an Estefan or two. Some girls from Hialeah took me home with them that night. I gave the party an Irish Goodbye and disappeared to a make-out car park, just off Lincoln Road. After that, we laughed the whole ride back to theirs, a few exits up the highway. This was well before everybody had a cell phone, so nobody knew what had happened to me until I walk-of-shamed it through the door, next morning. I was staying for free, with a mate, on Meridien.
The very start of “the time of my life”.
Ambition Air flew me down and took me out. I had a little spending money in my pocket from playing records at night, in New York City, for people eating in SoHo. A trip to a party in Miami seemed like a good idea, and maybe it was. Maybe it would be good for my career. I was nineteen and wanted to experience everything I could, without any thought of the potentially lifelong consequences.
Years later, I’d greet Katrina, before New Orleans, even.
She blew through Florida a couple days ‘fore she tore across the Gulf, picking up the steam she needed to lay waste to the levies and the Big Easy.
We came face-to-face when she strode ashore, first touching down on Seminole grounds. Dinner and a show, my seats were front row. I was seated at a desirable, back porch banquette at The Raleigh, nestled with a favorite raven mess. Another Cuban (not that I have a problem or anything). Smoking a menthol and fidgeting with my zippo flint, I stared through the server station bustle, into the darkened ballroom where, some winters, they used to hold a snowbird Beige, You can still hear Donna Summer and Machine if you close your eyes real tight and listen intently.
Skip to 2023, I’m standing there, all confused, staring at a skeletal, derelict Raleigh, quarantined quietly behind workman walls. I had to take pause on the corner and remember a Lady’s handwritten notes, taped to the very same Beige ballroom door. Years after she had left, Larry still lingered out by the Lapidus poolhouse. They told me he was friends with producers and comedians.
Now, I’m scared to have a look out back. That pool (and its discreet row of canvas cabanas) was, at times, my home-instead-of-a-home. Hope they left everything alone.
These days, everything feels unattended.
Everything is inexplicably expensive.
On my most recent visit, it took me a few days, but I figured out a system for eating that wouldn’t cost me too dearly. I felt relief when I finally cracked the code and saw that maybe I’d be able to catch a tiny financial break. One evening, I managed to get dinner for $13.35, which is cheap, I guess, if your town never had dollar slices or Papaya Kings. It came out to about $15, with tip. I could get a couple croquetas, a chicken empanada, and a Sprite or a water. Forget fresh juices. Those alone can go for $15 and up at some spots. The Cuban coffee counters all offer freshly squeezed orange juice, but don’t get me started on orange juice. Orange juice was one of the biggest lies they ever told us, but you’re not ready for my ranting on the politics and science of citrus. I’m not in the mood to talk Vitamin C and fibers.
I can’t believe I’m standing where Liquids used to be.
Each night, I’m out, walking around, thinking about nothing and everything, covering my cameras with my bandana when it rains.
The women I know, further up the beach, are many-threaded toxic sweaters.
I’m staying below 23rd, unless Raul sorts out some SoHo House pizzas for dinner. Maybe I’l feel like hiking up in that direction to take pictures. Maybe I’ll walk up, past the Indian Creek split, up past the Banana Bungalow.
All these years, I keep coming to Collins to fix things, but everything’s broken along this road. More so now, even.
The SLS is a shit-licking sandwich.
The once-magical Delano gate is overgrown with vines and weeds, war torn and battered with time and trash. A crushed Slurpee cup is wind-fisted into the chainlink fence and the bus stop smells of piss.
It’s funny, what stays and what goes away.
The corruption brothers are still handing out sweetheart deals and shady umbrella contracts for beach seating and dayglo construction barriers.
Walking softly on gummies, I keep turning corners, hoping to turn a corner.
The music of Sean Paul is playing absolutely everywhere. Which is right.
Once again, the current year is 2023.
Every place on Collins is selling “street tacos” and I don’t trust a single one of ‘em.
I don’t really know how to describe the restaurants on Ocean Drive, but one thing I can tell you is please don’t go to any of them. Some of them are serving Hunt’s Ketchup, if you catch my drift. That being said, in a weird way, the people sitting in front of TGI Fridays, with margaritas and mozzarella sticks, have the Ocean Drive food situation the most figured out.
There’s men everywhere with jobs, many wearing Bluetooth earpieces.
There’s a new brand of sneakers being worn by the soccer dads and off-duty Ohio cop guys. It’s not Under Armor, it’s way worse.
There’s no way they’re appreciating the Streamline Moderne. Not like me.
There’s no way I should know so much about the real estate history of a modeling agency from the 90’s.
I’m looking up and around and, regardless of the noise, the whole thing is still pretty damn beautiful. Think of the entire story and path, remember what it was and what it tried to be. What it was and what it became. There are so many great seasons of this long-running show. The guy from Diesel Jeans used to own The Pelican. Chris Blackwell used to own The Marlin and The Tides. Autocorrect changes “Marlin” to “napkin”. Bono used to throw parties on the Napkin rooftop during the Winter Music Conference and there were similar extravaganzas on top of the Sony building on Lincoln, which is also now gone.
So much has happened, all way too fast.
It used to mean something to check into one of these masterpieces.
There used to be a twelve-step meeting on the sand, on the beach, just out in front of the Starbucks at the end of Ocean. I used to go with my DJ friend on lazy mornings after spending the night. She put me on to the old Front Porch and I realized they had the best salad dressing I ever had. At some point, Front Porch moved to a new porch and I’m not so sure about the dressing anymore. No way I’m gonna risk dubbing an entire sit-down meal. Not in this economy. Regardless, from what I gather and remember, the dressing is gone now, anyway.
Over on Washington, smoke shop windows seduce passerby with their glorious bong sparkle. Someone is playing 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” loudly. The rest of the music all sounds like that one Cher song.
Do you believe?
I always think to myself that it HAD to have been beef for Five Guys to open up directly across from Cheeseburger, Baby. I also like to tell myself that Cheeseburger, Baby put the Fuddrucker’s on Washington out of business. I enjoy Cheeseburger, Baby, but Fuddrucker’s had melted Velveeta at their “Fixin’s Bar” and for that, I forever fuck with the spirit of their memory. For that, I may “buss two blanks”.
One night, during my most recent visit, I awoke from my disco nap and smoked and wandered for munchies in the rain with my throwaway kicks and my camera. The guy at Sunny’s made me a cold brew and a chocolate banana cake with a chocolate syrup drizzle and whipped cream.
Walking down Lincoln, two aspiring Natashas try to sound important, talking loudly on their phones to nobody. God bless them.
The Van Dyke is gone but I remember how they used to have a magazine shop and breakfast potatoes I liked. Not to mention, some of the only worthwhile Key Lime Pie outside of Joe’s or the Keys. You can barely get Key Lime pie anymore. Wish I could say the same for slapdash “street tacos”.
Part of me sometimes toys with the thought of one day “playing the game”, so, one night during my stay, I put on a button-up and Lyfted it to an upscale, public relations launch at an elegant, eco-chic venue on the mainland. After struggling to find the clandestine entrance, I got in, but I couldn’t get into it. I left and walked a few blocks up, taking pictures of posters for an upcoming Rakim concert, then calling a car back to the beach.
I must have seen at least five Steven Klein’s, God rest his soul. Maybe I should tell people the story of Steven, and his painterly roommate on Saint Mark’s Place, or his nightclub, “Avis”. Or about getting upgraded to a suite at The Sagamore and becoming a hot pink speck in a Massimo Vitali photograph. Maybe I should go pray, over by the statue of Glen O’Brien’s Rolling Stones album cover crotch. The Van Dyke used to be the tallest building in Florida. The things we learn reading the backs of menus.
I’m staying at a place called The Goodtime Hotel.
The Goodtime is a collaborative effort between Pharrell Williams and the guy who owns the (very successful) nightclub, Liv. The design is mildly pleasing upper-mid, but occasionally strays into “doing way too much”. Their designers spun every single micro-trend and aesthetic preference of the last decade into a pink, terrazzo and palm-patterned watermelon jellyroll candy dish daydream. It’s not bad, but it pogos back and forth, across the border of trying too hard. They did get some stuff sufficiently right. Whatever… it’s fine, it’s dumb, and it’s at least pretending to be fun. It’s definitely someone’s masterpiece and I’m happy for them. Most importantly, the price was nice. My room was maybe $120 per night and it suited me just fine. Around sundown, getting off the elevator, on my floor, I am greeted by a statuesque beauty, stationed at a portable ice cream cart. She hands me two scoops of refined vanilla and a spoon.
Later, I’m eating fruit and snacks from CVS on my bed at 4am, trying to remember my HBO password. A green M&M drops into my greying chest hair. I grab for it quickly, before it gets lost.
Still later, caffeinated and stoned, I’m out, taking pictures. On this trip, I fear for my life, about twice a night.
There’s a reality show in town, but that’s a circus I’m not trying to join. The beach is a little unhinged right now. I counted a couple of active, hustling blocks; three card monty and drugs. On one of the Vice City alleys, an imposing and frenzied man with gang-related tattoos too-loudly tells his friend, “I don’t feel comfortable out here, I’m gonna go get my burner.”
I watched him go get his burner.
I don’t think many people are tough guys, but on this trip, I saw a couple real, actual tough guys.
The dudes with the burners somehow got back ahead of me on the sidewalk, taking positions behind a wheelchair ramp handrail. Nearby, a photographer is doing vacation pics, in souvenir frames, for the people leaving the dance clubs. He has a printer with him, right there.
Another Sean Paul song comes on. Then a Rihanna featuring Drake, then another just-Drake.
I’m outside and I’m tortured and troubled and haunted. I never claimed not to be.
That’s me saying that, that’s not a Drake song.
There are some great artists down here, many playing the game and playing it well. I’m too old for some games and too young for others.
I’ve lost track of all the beautiful people and butts.
“Hey lady, your hair, nails, and lashes look amazing and your TikTok’s coming out great, even if you’re holding up all the sidewalk traffic.”
You don’t have to have an opinion on everything, and you don’t have to voice your opinion on everything, and you certainly don’t have to produce motion picture content about it.
It’s totally OK to just sit there and say nothing.
Please keep reminding yourselves, it’s totally okay to just sit there and say nothing.
I keep telling myself, “It’s totally OK to just sit here and say nothing.”
I don’t always practice this, but I’m trying, and I’m preaching to you, nonetheless.
I see people carrying pizzas but there’s no way that this guy knows what he’s doing.
Who are the people eating on Lincoln Road? Who are they and where do they come from? And do they ever come back? It’s crazy when Italian restaurants have “Italian Restaurant” in their restaurant’s name. Some say “Ristorante” on the sign or the podium. I know it’s wrong but I can’t not put the “n” in restaurateur.
Over on Ocean, they’re setting up a stage along the promenade. Vendors are selling arepas and lemonade. A glamorous couple with child do an impressive dance routine on rollerblades to Michael Jackson, but it’s not even a good song. They’re looking for attention and money, same as everybody else in sight.
I’m wondering where they’re putting ‘em up tonight, all these Americans. I wonder if they’re at the Lowe’s, where I ran into David Hasselhoff in the elevator and told the perfect joke. I can’t believe there was a time when Fancy lived a few doors down, at The Georgian.
The women everywhere are beautiful beyond words, eyes and hips too wide to describe the size. I wanna look but I won’t. Nobody needs anything new to worry about. Everything is broken and falling apart and hanging on by a string. Everything’s about to fail the stress test.
From the other direction, a wild, Miami Vice, 80s synthesizer symphony begins. I forget what it was, but think, “Jan Hammer meets Giorgio Moroder”. I find myself inadvertently walking in perfect step to the music. Tony Montana Manero. Italo-disco flow. I was on gummies, so I got scared that maybe I was in a Truman Show. But I eventually just grooved with it, happy to be synchronized with anything.
Loud mouths and fat asses are celebrating life, happy, hanging out of rented leisure vehicles; electric, three-wheeled, topless, and other. You can hear and feel the bass, you can hear and feel the soulsonic force. There’s a reason they call this the Magic City.
On the same road, beach cops are cutting corners on golf carts and ATVs, lookin’ all silly. Their lights are blinking, their sirens loud. They’re trailed, moments later, by a slew of cruisers, all speeding recklessly, headed north, on Washington. Everything gets even louder, like something new musta just happened. I don’t want no bad for nobody. Godspeed to everyone who needs to get away and get safe. Always do what you can to slow down the fuzz.
As I continue my walk south, a man in a slingshot plays Biggie loudly. He proudly proclaims his Brooklyn provenance. Now he’s playing freestyles. Now he’s playing “Dreams”. Now I’m thinking about Dionne Warwick, so I walk on by and stop, up on the next block. I’m posted-up in the shadows with my weed and my drink and my snacks from the corner store.
Further down the street, they’re mopping up fluids from in front of some club. A couple guys in Dickies work hard to carefully scrub up the blood puddles that have collected around the large, golden phoenix statue.
I notice somebody’s car door, wide-open, the insides, ransacked and robbed. I thought about helping them out and closing the door, but I figured that they had already been fully burgled. It goes against my nature to not-help, but then I remembered that absolutely no good deed goes unpunished. I wasn’t about to get my fingerprints re-entered into the database and matrix.
A taxi drives by blasting “Benz Punani”, snapping me out of my sleepwalk. It’s great to hear Kartel’s voice again loudly, at night, when I’m sweaty, in a tank top and shorts and blazed off kush.
Ladies walk by. We’re all window shopping for things we’re not gonna buy.
For some reason, I typed this, into a new note in my drafts: “Sped up Brenda Russell Piano in the Dark”
Sounds pretty nuts.
My houseboat homey with the custom trucks wants to go hunting and fishing in the swamps, in the dark, but I can’t get my shit together. Not with the recent news of my Filipino amigo. Plus, I already got my reptilian fill, walking around, down on Ocean. Thought I saw a Boa by the Breakwater.
They’re playing a geographically appropriate soundtrack to my life, Tanto Tempo and, swear to God, 'We Built This City”, exactly where you’d think you’d hear it, too. Over by Jazid.
More Sean Paul, more 50.
The food at my hotel is so weird.
Strawberry Moon, the main restaurant at The Goodtime, is located on the second floor, in between the pool area and the hotel’s semi-solid stab at a quick serve, coffee counter. The Raleigh’s off-lobby coffee counter will never be beaten, but this was a commendable attempt at offering guests a similar service.
After passing through Strawberry Moon’s warm and photogenic reception, bar, and dining room areas, I was seated outside and greeted by the attentive staff. The restaurant space itself is visually pleasing, lavishly appointed, and energetic. However, I was left underwhelmed and confused by the menu choices. Many of the mains felt incohesive, unrealized, and unfinished. Or maybe it was just “keto”. I couldn’t tell.
On my visit, the menu read like the results of a “group conscious” meeting where there’s too many investor “cooks” in the kitchen. The whole thing felt like a diplomatic and peaceful, if somewhat boring, “conclusion”.
Although some of the dishes seemed incomplete and a tad unimaginative, every single aspect of the individual menu items I sampled, was perfectly executed. Expertly prepared with high-quality ingredients. Also, the service and staff were perfect. 10/10. Not one complaint about the hospitality of the staff. My real gripe, is that the place was a bit of a let-down, plate-wise, while being psychotically expensive. It was like, hurts-you-in-the-groin expensive. End of the day, the free elevator ice cream was the best on-property dining experience. On my last night in residence, after many inquiries, I found out it’s just Haagen Daaz.
It killed me to have spent so much money at Strawberry Moon, but, just off the name alone, and the images it conjured, there was absolutely no way I was gonna leave the comfort of my hotel to eat up the street at a place called “BurBowl”.
I must be getting better at decision making.
Eventually, I floated downstairs and the elevator doors opened to a romantic lobby opera.
An entire Alitalia flight crew filled the registration area, surrounding the ever-composed check-in technicians manning the front desk. The Italians all seemed thrilled to be in South Beach as they received their room keys and wi-fi passwords. I could hear them excitedly planning their one-day stays. I don’t speak much Italian but one of the flight attendants cheerfully shouted “street tacos” in struggle English. Concerned for their happiness, my heart and stomach sank.
“Anything’s better than BurBowl.” I thought to myself.
Outside, the first thing I heard, blaring from a car, parked by the curb, was “Big and Ready” by Heavy D, Super Cat, and Frankie Paul. Grinning, I took a hit from my weed pen and stepped into the night with my cameras.
Up the street, up most of the streets, you can connect with former, freedom fighter uncles who do valet now, maybe at one of the bigger, chain hotels. They may tell you about how the job keeps them tan and fit and that they usually make good tips. They may lower their voice when they tell you how, every once in a while, they get BJs from bachelorette party bridesmaids and groomsmen.
Somehow, I ended up at The Deuce. I walked in and out and don’t really know why. Who knows what I’m looking for. I’m a “when I see it, I’ll know it” kinda guy. I’m still not drinking, but can’t avoid the temptation of neon.
Just outside the beloved dive, I took photographs of some guy in a some cool shirt. We laughed and he smoked. He offered me a cigarette. I told him I quit and, as I’m saying it, I’m reminded of the many times I sat on the Raleigh front porch, on the mint, Frankl rattan, trying so hard to kick habits, like a woman or nicotine.
He told me he’s “been there, brother” and we laughed about how Miami’s certainly the worst place to try and kick anything other than some el fútbol.
He squinted and looked up towards the moon and wiped the sweat off his brow with a leftover Sandwicherie napkin. I’m reminded of how I love the opportunity to drench anything in salad dressing.
The man coughed and said, “All due respect, this city was built on cocaine, sweat, and swampland, not on ‘rock and roll’.”
Of course he’s right.
I threw up my arms and shouted, “Thank you!”
We fist bumped and he walked east, toward the beach.
I headed back in the direction of my hotel.
Two European guys in weird sneakers are saying a long goodbye to each other on the recently-hosed sidewalk. The guy in short shorts shouts one last salutation as his friend departs up the block, “See you across the pond.”
For no reason at all, I think to myself, “Not if I see you first.”
It was time for me to get going.
Back in my room, I packed for my AM flight.
I had to check the app to see if I was flying out of Miami or Fort Lauderdale.
Either one would be fine.