Miami Beatdown

Five days in Florida with the cream of the Vegas club scene. What could go wrong? Miami, that’s what.

Martin Stein

I want to slam my fist into his throat. He's wide open, staring at me, expressionless, as if I had suddenly started speaking Uzbek, and I can see how it would go down. The look of shock and pain, his eyes wide open, knees crumpling beneath him. And I'd have my tickets back and be out the door before any of the other black-suited pricks that South Beach specializes in would have a chance to react.


But I'm getting ahead of myself.


Tonight is an Om Records party, on the sixth day of the Winter Music Conference, an eight-day event I've been sent to cover for the Weekly—or as much of it as I can take in while getting four hours of sleep a night. There are multiple events at multiple venues every day and night, both in South Beach's Art Deco district and in the one block of downtown Miami that isn't a crack alley. Vegas' club scene is down in force.


There had been plans for a massive Vegas party, with all the clubs banding together as they did last year, promoting our town as the ultimate destination for the international dance set. A no-brainer to everyone except the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority, which pulled its funding at the last minute. With LVCVA's cash out of the pot, clubs scrambled to find even a Denny's that hadn't been booked as nonrefundable flights and hotel rooms piled up—including the one booked for me and Breynan Hammons, the Weekly's director of nightlife advertising and marketing.


So now I'm in the Mansion nightclub's lobby with Xania Woodman, our nightlife columnist, and her friend, Chef Robert Wilkes, holding tickets for the night for us and a crew from the MGM Grand. Gunnar Hissam, the PR rep from Om, had told me to get here early, so despite Xania's nausea-induced hunger, here we are. The plan: to get our wristbands first, then eat, then come back to catch my latest crush, DJ Colette, as well as the rest of the 20-artist roster.


I give three tickets to the doorman, who silently takes them, looking like he'd rather be getting a lemon-juice high colonic than be one of the public faces for what's supposed to be one of the hottest spots in Florida. The hand holding the tickets swings out, the last of three checkpoints we've had to clear just to get this far. The Mansion's foyer and anteroom are nearly empty.


"Do we get any stamps or wristbands?" I ask.


"No."


"Oh, well, in that case, can I have the tickets back? We need to get some food and then we'll be back."


Silence. His bald head doesn't move an inch. His eyes don't blink. This must be where the Uzbek kicks in, a language in which I must be suddenly fluent.


"Those tickets I just gave you. I'd like them back and we'll come back later."


Silence and stares.


"What is it you don't understand, you f--king moron?! I want the goddamn tickets I just f--king gave you back!"


Silence and stares. His throat looks so appetizing and my fist is balled up. With one hand, Xania grabs my arm and with the other grabs the tickets out of the doorman's outstretched hand.


"I've got 'em, Martin. C'mon, let's go."


I shouldn't be surprised, really. This is the behavior to be expected from everyone in Miami: cabbies, waitresses, bartenders, hostesses, bus drivers, kiosk staffers. Those car-jackings you heard about a few years back? They were just people tired of trying to get a taxi. And when the tourists who had their rental cars snatched were shot, that's the Miami way of saying, "I'm in a terrible rush and I so deeply appreciate you offering me a ride."


In Miami, if they're really thankful, they skip the gunplay and just slit your throat.



• • •


Our home base is the Howard Johnson's on 87th and Collins. Because of some sort of mix-up, this actually puts me and Breynan 70 blocks away from South Beach, location for most of the parties and clubs, rather than the couple of miles the Weekly had expected. This will make each trip to and from South Beach a $20 fare—a serious crimp in my $75 per diem, especially as the cabs only take cash.


But never mind that, damnit. I'm here to cover the Winter Music Conference! This is my first time in Miami, and my first time on the Eastern seaboard in 15 years. The town is crawling with world-famous DJs, club kids and jet-setters. White sand stretches along the coast, the ocean is flat, huge and blue and I see a swear-to-God-honest cigarette boat cutting a wake under a cloudless sky. I have connections for the clubs, that night's World Club Awards and the weekend's Ultra Music Festival. People I know from Ice, Tryst, Body English, Tabu, Studio 54, Light, Jet and Empire Ballroom are here. Hell, I've already run into Empire's Gino LoPinto at the airport, and he and Breynan have nailed down a business deal in the time it takes us to get from Miami International to the hotel.


I've been up since 4 a.m. but there's no time for more than a halfhearted nap—I need to head to the awards, in which Vegas is competing in eight categories: best new club, existing club, lounge, video system, interior design, party, resident DJ and resident VJ, or video-jockey.


I flag down a cab. The awards are at Nocturnal, a three-story downtown club. The cabbie asks where I'm going. I had taken the precaution of printing out my day-to-night-to-day agenda and have it folded in my suit jacket. It lists every event, the start and end times, the lineups and who to contact for each place. I pull it out.


"Nocturnal, 50 Northeast 11th Street, downtown."


"Downtown?"


"Yep, downtown."


"Downtown?"


"Yes, a nightclub called Nocturnal."


"Oh! Space club?"


"No, Nocturnal."


"Space club? You go to Space club?"


Just about every cabbie is from Haiti, which means hardly any of them know the town, they all have as many problems with English as I do with their accents, half are on drugs and none will really listen to you unless you're a member of a death squad. I take a breath. I know from other cities that nightclubs are sometimes clustered in the same general area. I can get out at Space, ask someone where I need to go and jog, since I'm already cutting it close to when DJ Times' Emily Tan told me to be there. "Sure, take me to Space."


We head off, crossing bridges and down dark streets closed to one lane for repairs. We finally hit a block with lights on it, as well as cars and other taxis, and drive right by. I see a sign that might read "Space" as we cruise by.


"Uh, I think that was it back there."


"What, mon?"


"Space. I think it was back there."


"Oh!"


He's quiet as he continues to drive, and I now I know he's buzzed out of his gourd and has no idea what to do at this point.


"I think you need to turn around and go back."


"Oh," is followed by a pause. "Okay."


On all sides are small, torn-up houses, many with boarded-up windows and doors, and cars that look like they've missed a few recall notices. Just ahead of us, the street is blocked by what looks to be 30 teens, and they're not dressed for a Rotary Club meeting. A car ahead of us stops and then slowly eases through. Then the next one. I'm a tourist in a taxi. With a driver who doesn't know the city. And both front windows are down. Christ, why don't I just cram a roll of money in my mouth, and call myself done.


At the last possible second, the driver rolls up the windows.


The crowd parts just enough for us to get through. Faces look through the windows—sullen, hard, bored faces. Then they're behind us, we're circling the neighborhood and I'm getting my name checked off the Nocturnal list and heading upstairs. After much texting, Emily and I meet up. A short, spunky Asian with a shock of blond hair, she introduces me to her husband, and after a bit of confusion over the advertised open bar actually being restricted to 42 Below vodka "single-shot" drinks and beer, we get our cocktails. "Single-shots" be damned; I'm still unnerved and get a martini.


The awards are a casual, fun affair with all the vibe of the final scene of some Frankie and Annette movie, only with way more booze. DJs Skribble (now a resident at Seamless), Scumfrog and D:Fuse (who recently played Empire Ballroom), have turned in their mixers for the microphone and hand out the disco-ball trophies. Xania and Tracy Lee from NapkinNights.com are there, as are Fatemah Emamzadeh and Erin Randell from MGM-Mirage's PR department, Brian Klimanski and Marc Jay from Ice and a host of other Vegas faces.


First up are Brian and Marc, who present the award for best new club to Tao, with the club's Mike Snedegar accepting. Cheers go up, including an especially voracious one from a guy I'd met at the bar while waiting for Emily. I abandon all appearances of journalistic objectivity and join in.


DJ Sandra Collins announces the winner for best VJ is Roonie G from Ra. A short time later, Vegas' own Kristine W takes to the stage and sings a blues number before marathon-performer DJ Boris takes to the stage for the award for best ultralounge. Tabú picks it up for an amazing third year in a row. DJ Frankie and Laine Fust, the nightspot's new general manager, pick it up.


The awards end and the special party bus Ice has got roaming the streets is due to arrive. On my way downstairs, I get another option presented to me. Metro Hyundai calls me to see if everything's okay with my car. I haven't had any problems; this is something they just do. I tell the guy I'm in Miami.


"Miami?! Dude, you've got to check out Club Rubber in South Beach!"


The Ice bus pulls up, wrapped in blue and blondes with an image on the back that reads "The Club: Season 2?"—both a reassurance that the club isn't going anywhere and that there might be a second Spike TV series. Inside, it's wall-to-wall swank. No stripper poles, but only because that would mess up the hardwood floor. High-tops run down the center with holes for the cups that are being rapidly filled from the dry bar up front. Xania and I climb in and we're quickly joined by the Vegas crew, assorted DJs and Venus Williams. Where the hell did she come from?


The bus is packed as we take off. I find myself next to a gorgeous brunette. I introduce myself, and in a charming British accent, she tells me her name is Charissa. There's a pause, and then that's followed by "I'm DJ Rap."


"Nice to meet you," I say.


"You don't know who I am, do you?"


(Now, this part might come off as Charissa being snotty or full of herself, but she isn't. She's grinning as she says this, and there are those dark curls and accent to smooth out any rough edges.)


"Uh, no, I'm sorry."


"I don't believe this! Rolling Stone gives me four and a half stars and you don't know who I am?"


"Uh, well, I live in Vegas." If there was room to squirm, I'd be doing it, but I'm pressed between Charissa and a mass of humanity.


"I've played in Vegas!"


"Uh, well ..." I say. "... Er ..."


"You're like that Almost Famous guy! That's what you're like!"


Now, I want to say: I've been doing this for 20 years, that I've worked a variety of beats and written stories in two countries. I was a produced playwright before I turned 25. I've had script reports generate bidding wars in Hollywood, I've won an award for investigative reporting and was recently named best entertainment writer in Nevada. I don't know who you are, Miss Charissa DJ Rappy? Maybe you should know who I am!


"Er," I say again. Followed by, "Yeah, kinda."


The humidity on the bus hits a critical level, and every inhalation is laced with other people's sweat. Someone says they're about to piss their pants. We're rocking back and forth. We need to get off this thing!


Just when I can't take it anymore, we stop, the doors open and I join the lemming stampede outside. Looking around, Xania and I find ourselves outside of Bed, a club that I remember the buzz about from years back. We eagerly make our way inside and I'm crushed. It's a small, bare concrete room with a line of cabanas down one wall and a bar. Sure, the cabanas are beds, but from where I'm standing, it looks like the sheets need changing. They do, however, make us a pair of perfect martinis.


From there, we wander over to Snatch and arrive just in time to catch up with Brian, who eases our way past the door and to Ice's table. Inside, Snatch is everything Bed wasn't. The exposed brick walls, chandeliers made from antlers, giant etched mirrors and raised platforms with stripper poles let you know this is a rock 'n' roll club, despite a lineup that week which includes Porterhouse, Deep Dish and Nick Warren. Female patrons are shaking their assets on the poles, and one in particular is humping a support post hard enough that she'll be a mother in nine months.


One cocktail later, Breynan finds me, and I follow him upstairs to Suite. If Snatch is for rockers, Suite is Tao on crack. Red curtains, all bottle service and giant busts (the sculptural kind, not the fleshy ones) on the bar and DJ booth. A bottle of champagne is brought to a table with a giant sparkler jammed in its cork. A hot blonde wanders the floor, pouring shots of Grey Goose into waiting mouths. A guy dances around with an empty ice bucket on his head. The bass is so powerful that it's shaking the banquette I'm sitting on top of. I'm told later that all of this madness costs $500 a head, which makes Suite a bargain compared to Space, where I'm told they're charging $5,000 a table, with a 10-bottle minimum, when Deep Dish plays tomorrow.


Later, locals tell me all the clubs jack up their prices during WMC. Makes sense, because when you have the international clubbing community coming to your town, you'd naturally want to screw them.


We decide to go get some breakfast.



• • •


We wind up at Jerry's Famous Deli and get seated at our booth to wait for Brian, Mike and Skribble.


And to wait for the waitress. Or maybe it's the waiter. It's hard to say because the staff refuses to make eye contact with us. I watch one bitchy-looking waitress chew out her customers for taking her picture. In my gut, I know she's ours. More time passes. I ask the hostess who our server is, and she says she'll get right on it, which she doesn't. Then it's Marc's turn to tell a waiter we've been here for 20 minutes and just want a tea and coffee. He says he'll get right on it.


Finally, I get up and cross the floor into the kitchen. I've just found the cups when a kitchen staffer and manager rush over, demanding to know what I'm doing. Surprisingly, we get our tea and coffee rather quickly after that, but it's not until Brian, Mike and Skribble show up that we get attention from our waitress—though I suspect it's because Skribble has grabbed a chair from another table and is partly blocking the aisle. When the food finally arrives, it's a little lower than what you'd get at a greasy spoon about to be closed by the health department. Then I get it; the "IN" must have fallen off the front of the word "FAMOUS" on the sign, crushing the last competent Miami restaurant critic. I'd love to stiff them, but in Miami, a tip of 15 percent is automatically included. Why bother providing good service when the tip's already there? Why bother providing edible food? Why bother, period? The only other places in the world that include tips in the bill are Communist countries and France. If you've ever wondered why North Korea is starving while South Korea is prosperous, rest assured, North Korea has automatic gratuities.


The abuse and insults at clubs and restaurants are a shock if you're from Vegas, where even ticket-takers at Regal Cinemas are cordial. True, when I hit Tabú, Pure or Tao, I get preferential treatment because of my job, but I also generally get good service at PT's. But Miami is the anti-Vegas; given the opportunity to make you feel unwelcome, Biscayne Bay will surpass your expectations.


While we eat, I notice a pair of olive-skinned beauties across the aisle checking Marc out. "Hey Marc, there's a pair of olive-skinned beauties over there checking you out," I say.


He rises from the booth. "Give me your jacket." I do.


Marc strolls over, telling the girls they look cold and offering my jacket to place over their legs. I have to hand it to him, the boy's got game. We finish eating, and I wonder if I'd get arrested if I refuse to pay the automatic tip.


I get back to my room at about 7.



• • •


Sometime around noon, I'm awakened by screaming banshees. Breynan's fast asleep, but the damn banshees won't let up. I blink a few times. I have a slight headache and breakfast is sitting in my chest. The screaming starts to form recognizable sentences.


"What are you going to wear?"


"I don't know. What are you going to wear?"


"I don't know. What are YOU going to wear?"


It's some girls next door, but they might as well be in bed with Breynan. I haul my ass out of bed and into the shower. I need to be down at Bicentennial Park to pick up my press credentials for the Ultra Music Festival. I grab my jacket and fish around for my itinerary. It's gone. My master plan, the schedule for everything, vanished. I think back and realize it had to have fallen out at Jerry's.


Damn. There goes everything. I've got a backup folder but it's all just printouts, and I'm in no shape to organize it all again. I'll just have to go with the flow for the rest of the week, rely on my bad memory, wits and what every club-kid lives by: the flyers that street teams are handing out like porn on the Strip.


When I arrive at the Ultra Music Festival, the park is teeming even at this early hour, with a cacophony pouring out of the 14 tents with a lineup of 201 artists, including Paul Oakenfold, the Killers, D:Fuse, Danny Tenaglia, Carl Cox, Keoki, Misstress Barbara, Donald Glaude, DJ Dan, DJ Icey, Sandra Collins, Rabbit in the Moon and, yes, DJ Rap. It's a huge list, and one that's not given to me at the press sign-in tent. I find a giant map on the side of one tent and try to find the advertised information tent three times. I give up and ask some cops, who have a small version of the giant map and point me to the nonexistent info tent. I stop someone walking by with the small map and ask where they got it. They look at me like I'm from Uzbekistan and say they're handed out at the main entrance. But at the main entrance, the woman doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Maps? Que? Sorry." Then I spy some cardboard boxes in a corner. Looking around to make sure security is nowhere to be seen, I dive in, and sure enough, find the maps.


I wander the grounds, catching Emily Play & Devine, Danny Howells and strains of Eddie Halliwell and D:Fuse before I realize I need to get back to the Surfcomber in South Beach and the MGM-Grand's tent to meet up with Fatemah and DJ Frankie at the M3 party. No worries—I visualize the UMF flyer on my desk in Vegas: two columns of featured artists. I'll come back tomorrow.


Now this is what Miami's supposed to be about, I think, as I hit the Surfcomber's pool area. A big stage is at the far end, facing down the rectangle of sparkling azure dotted with Absolut beachballs. Oiled girls in biknis lounge around, the bar is open and makeup artist Lauren Napier is body-painting Tabú's logo on Stephanie and Studio 54's own Jessica, friends of Laine's flown in for the occasion. DJ P has just started his set, getting the sun-worshippers dancing despite having to work with a bad mixer setup. Hanging out with Fatemah and Erin, I meet up with Frankie, Laine Fust and Candace Carrell, Tabú's old GM. When P finishes his set, he comes down to join us, and after I'm done gushing about Uneasy Listening Vol. One, the album he did with DJ Z-Trip, I suddenly blurt out: "Dude, I want your hat!"


Perched atop P's cranium is a black ball cap with The Warriors logo. He takes a step back; am I some crazed fan about to jump him? "The Warriors! I love that movie! Have you played the video game?" Relief replaces nervousness as he joins me in adoration for The Warriors. He hasn't played the game, but he has, like me, identified some of the Miami buildings depicted in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. That's male bonding in the 21st century, folks.


Just when I think I've finally got a hang of this Winter Music Conference beast and to hell with my itinerary, I get a text from Xania, who's over at the UMF with Tracy. She's asking me if I'm there. I write back that I was earlier but I'll be there tomorrow.


"Tomorrow? UMF one day only. No tomorrow."


My heart rams up my throat, grabs my brain stem and gives my gray matter a good, hard shake before plummeting down to my feet, taking my lungs, stomach and spleen with it. Strangely enough, my breakfast is still sitting on my chest. I think I even hear it snicker.


What follows is a flurry of texting, mostly me asking if she's sure and her asking how stupid am I. How far away was the park again? What was the cab fare? Forty dollars? Sixty? The Killers will be coming up soon, not to mention the other 196 acts I'm not seeing and hearing. I rush out to Collins, which is jammed with traffic. Miami cabbies treat their lights as a form of personal expression so it's necessary to try and wave every single one down. But not one stops, either because they have fares or because the drivers are too stoned or cracked-out to notice me.



• • •


I give up and decide on what I hope will be comforting familiarity at the Catalina Hotel across the street. Redubbed the Vegas Hotel, it's home base for a number of Sin City-related parties, not to mention where many LVers are staying.


I duck my head in and there's a lone DJ playing in the lobby. This can't be right. There's supposed to be a huge lineup. I look around for a sign, but there's nothing in the lobby except flyers confirming this is the place. I've had it. My feet are killing me, I'm missing the UMF and I have no idea how I'm going to make any of this into a comprehensible story that will wrap up an international music conference, a city full of parties and overflowing with obnoxious ass monkeys. How am I going to justify the Weekly sending me across the country for this?


So it's to the Catalina's lobby bar, where I only have to lean across the counter and wave my credit card for 10 minutes to get a martini, and then to the outdoor patio. The first one goes down smooth and I almost forget about the pain in my chest and feet, so I order another. Somewhere between sips four and five, I hear someone walking up the stairs ask how to get to the back. Back? Why didn't anyone mention a back?


With ninja cunning, I follow a couple across the lobby and up some steps covered in dirty red shag, and down a long, narrow hallway with rooms on either side. I nearly follow them into their suite but am turned back when the woman gives me a look normally reserved for John Wayne Gacy Jr. in clown makeup. I circle back. Nothing here but an emergency exit. I push it open and no alarm sounds. I go down a utility stairwell, and there it is: the pool and the Vegas party, as well as a back entrance to the Spy Lounge, where more local DJs will be spinning.


Miami: a closed town where service workers ignore visitors and locals alike, where you'd think a hotel might want to advertise where its swimming pool is—but you'd be dead wrong. I suppose if I'd given the secret handshake to the front desk, they'd have whispered directions.


I've just missed Scotty Boy's set, but the Drummer KC is pounding out the hottest dance beats I've heard in a long while, sending the crowd into a frenzy. By now, evening is setting in, and while Xania and Tracy watch the Killers from the press photo pit, backed by hordes of screaming 12-year-old girls, I'm back to my room somewhere in Georgia to shower, change and head back out.


Back at the Surfcomber, Coldcut is kicking ass. None of the MGM crew is to be found, and some texting lets me know they're going to be awhile. Scotty Boy had recommended a place called Cheeseburger Baby, a hole-in-the-wall lunch counter on Washington. An hour later, my burger was ready, minus the cheese and bacon I had ordered. Unlike every other Miami dining experience so far, the waitress/cashier felt bad I had waited so long and took a $1 off the bill, making it $7 and change. I gave her a $10 and waited some more.


"Everything okay, hon?"


"I gave you a $10."


"Yeah, I know. We're good."


I guess she didn't feel that bad, after all.


Back to the Surfcomber I go, meeting up with Frankie, Candace, Laine, Stephanie, Jessica, Lauren and a bartender named Mike. With Stephanie wearing a bright yellow jersey to try and ward off the cold Florida night and Frankie trying to keep Candace from wandering into traffic, we first make a stop at Gino's, a pizzeria Frankie swears is better than anything back in his hometown of New York. We're also there to wait for Jose and Tracy, who's rushing about South Beach trying to track us down. The bad directions I relay to her from Frankie don't help, and a stream of curses batter my ear. Jessica begs off on the night with a cold, and Lauren walks her back to the hotel. Jose appears, strolling at a trance pace when we need techno.


"Unhook the trailer!" Stephanie yells.


Stephanie, Laine, Mike and I catch a cab for Space and Deep Dish, our fallback being Nocturnal, with Frankie, Jose, Candace and Tracy to follow.


Tracy vanishes into Space but the rest of us are turned back. The club is past capacity and the fire marshal is inside, having closed the club's second floor, and is trying to get people out. No surprise, no one is exiting, and that means no one is entering. Nocturnal, which has no line, also shuts its doors to us. Guys wander the street, handing out bright-orange wristbands that read "Nocturnal Express Admission," which I figure are as effective as the free VIP passes handed out back home. It all means flagging down cabs again and returning to South Beach and hitting up Crobar. Laine and Mark call it quits, and our numbers are falling faster than something with really fast-falling numbers.


Stephanie, Candace and I grab a cab, and as soon as we've pulled a couple blocks away, the driver reveals he's been in Miami long enough to achieve native status.


"South Beach? That's $10 from each of you."


We issue a collective "what the f--k? " This is a ride that costs $19.60, a fact Stephanie tells him twice.


"You see what it's like out there now. Everyone wants to go to South Beach now. Ten dollars from each of you."


"Big deal. There's plenty of other cabs out there, too," I say.


Our driver, Attendieu "Andy" Norcilien, relents, and instead decides to gun it, nearly taking us into the wall of the freeway onramp as he mutters to himself in Hatian patois. Then out of nowhere, he asks what we do for a living.


"I work for a magazine in Vegas."


"Magazine? You like singing cab drivers?"


Before we can stop him, he's jammed the CD he's recorded into the stereo and is singing along to his sole track, "I Love You."


If anyone from the Metro-Dade Passenger Transporation Regulatory Service is reading this, and you feel motivated to do your job, you can contact Andy at 305-308-6011 or 786-487-9273.



• • •


Just as we arrive in South Beach, Emily texts me that she could get us into both Space and Nocturnal. No matter, once Frankie and Jose show up, we flash some press credentials and head in. Carl Cox is on the ones and twos, with the occasional train whistle to shake the crowd up. We get drinks from an attentive bartender (finally!) and make our way upstairs, running into legendary producer, remixer and DJ Chris Cox, and SK8, a dance-music vocalist. We get a bird's-eye view of the booth and are soon rejoined by Laine and Mike, as well as Nicholas Quintanar, Tabú's operations manager. The bouncers are friendly, girls are dancing on bars, bartenders are doing shots with customers and we've got Carl friggin' Cox. We wind up closing down the place and are honestly sad to leave. It's dawn outside and Miami has at last delivered a great club experience.


Four hours after falling into bed at the hotel, I'm up again, on my way to an Om Records listening party for DJ Andy Caldwell and the debut album from Strange Fruit Project at the Savoy. As it turns out, there was no need to rush. Gunnar hands me a cold Presidente and tells me the sound guys got sideswiped on their way over. In the meantime, there's nothing to do but kick back with Caldwell over beers.


With some passes for the Monday night Mansion party, I'm on my way to eat with Breynan at the Shore Club. And it's only 3:30 p.m. Having lunch at the hotel's Ago and sitting a table away from Paris Hilton does nothing whatsoever to improve the Cro-Magnon-level of service. It's a good 20 minutes before anyone comes by to see if we want water, much less food. After that, I'd have better luck getting Paris' bodyguard to refill my coffee than our waiter.


There's not much to do at this point. Everyone—clubbers, DJs, promoters—is beat. Maybe it's the lack of sleep on so many people's parts but a fistfight nearly breaks out by the cabanas with five muscle-bound mooks vs. some guy and his dad.


Meeting up with Jessica, Stephanie, Laine, Frankie and Candace at the Delano, we head over to Sushi Samba where—surprise, surprise—I'll wind up leaving with Jessica, Stephanie and Laine before our food arrives while other later tables are served, in order to get to Mansion before things get too crazy at the door. No matter, we arrive and are told to cough up $20 each to get from the sidewalk to the door. At the door, we're told it's another $120 for cover, all cash, no receipts. Fed up and unfed, we give up and head for the Playwright Irish Pub on the corner, where we're welcomed in, quickly and happily served, and drink and eat to great music. But we still want to hit a club, so we fall back on Crobar.


Things are going great until we get a message from Candace, Frankie and Nicholas to try Mansion again. Things must be slow because now they're only asking for $100 a head. Inside, it's a Vegas homecoming, with Ghostbar's Natalia Badjz, Hard Rock's Jack Lafleur, Tryst's Jesse Waits and Marc partying with their respective staffs. Then it's back onto the Ice bus for a trip to Space.


Clubbing in Miami is like hitting yourself in the head with a variety of hammers. Hmm, that ball-peen hurt like hell; let's try the claw-hook. Oops, that one smarts. How about the rubber mallet. Nope, say, let's see if the ball-peen still hurts.


But now there's nearly 35 of us and we've got an in with the club's management, and maybe it's the Patron being passed around like Evian, but I think we might stand a chance of making it inside.


We pile out and hit a logjam. Jesse needs to collect $100 cash from everyone, but then we're told we'll be in. "We're evolving!" Jack grins, "We're almost up to human from monkey!" The doorman says no one is getting in, despite the $3,500, unless we back up. Jack kicks in another $5,000 cash, and we're still having problems at the cashier.


Somehow, in the confusion, I get a wristband slapped on and I'm shoved through a door into a hall with a couch and a gift store. And there I wait. And wait. When I try to open the door to see what the holdup is, a staffer tells me to get the f--k back. So I wait some more but finally head out to see what's up.


Outside, everyone is in the street. The club wants more money on top of the $8,500 it already had. Curiously, Space's cashiers claim that not a single person's credit card or ATM card will work and only cash would do. (I tried to contact Space later for comment, but both its e-mail and voicemail were full.)


On the cab back to the hotel at 7:30 a.m., I can't help but notice the driver has a copy of Winning in Small Claims Court Made E-Z on the passenger seat.



• • •


It's Monday and I'm up at noon again and off to the Catalina. I feel like a pro, knowing the swimming pool is behind the unmarked emergency exit. But it doesn't help because the area is empty. BoTown promoter Bo Karlen tells me they've been having problems with Miami's law enforcement, which is evidently more concerned with noise levels than graft levels. DJs have been banned from the pool area, the fines are reaching up to $5,000, and the lineup of 18 performers has all been moved into the Spy Lounge. Many of the DJs are so burned out they haven't shown up.


Day turns to night, and on Gunnar's advice, I go with Xania and her friend Robert to Mansion early for Om's party. I've got passes for everyone and I'm looking forward to the chance to play host for a change. And that's when I nearly snap but for Xania grabbing the tickets and my arm.


For dinner, we actually find a place that isn't unhappy to see us, doesn't screw up our order and gets our food to us on time. If it weren't for the automatic gratuity, I'd have been tempted to show my appreciation.


For our final stop of the night, we cab it downtown to a club called the Pawn Shop to catch Danny Tenaglia. We convene in a back room on a comfy couch where the sound is mercifully below shouting level and yet we're still able to clearly hear Tenaglia's set, being spun from inside the cab of an actual semi truck, complete with working air horn that Tenaglia takes every opportunity to gleefully pull.


The club's whole aura reminds me of the underground warehouse raves I used to go to in the '80s. The staff is beyond cool. The clubbers are just folks kicking back and grooving. When one guy loses his cell phone, it's a cause of concern for the dozen strangers near him. If it weren't for my early checkout in a few hours, I could easily stay there until dawn and beyond.


Reluctantly, we all leave, though I somehow find myself outside first and chatting with an EMT pulling security duty while I wait. He asks what I think about Miami, and I can't help but mention the experience at Space from the night before.


"That's completely illegal," he says, in reference to all of the demands for cash and refusals to issue receipts. "We have that problem here a lot. We just shut down a club last month for the same thing."


"Really?" If I had a real semi's air horn in front of me, I'd be showing Tenaglia a thing or two about making noise.


"Yeah. We audit them completely. Compare all of their receipts. We catch 'em. I've got friends in metro and state. I'll make sure they get an investigation going for Space right away."


The fantastic Pawn Shop experience and news of an upcoming audit on Space? I wouldn't have been able to come up with a better postcard for Miami myself. But just in case, I'll be sending an e-mail to the IRS, too.

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