Miami–Will Smith is 100% Right

Last month was Honolulu, next month is Chicago and New York, and Los Angeles gets my time inbetween. However, this week is Miami. When telling a friend that I was thinking of going to fantasy camp (sports), my friend, stealing a line from Seinfeld said “Eric, your whole life is fantasy camp.”

I have to admit, I do lead a charmed life on some levels. I paid my dues. I was broke 10 years ago. Now I live the high life, and if anyone needs to know what to do to have a great time, and they are young enough to get away with it, follow the advice of that sage Will Smith, and head down to Miami.

It is almost 3am, and this will be my early night of the trip. I need to pace myself. I blogged tonight because the next few nights will be an incoherent blur, without alcohol or drugs (one can be sober and drunk from fun).

“Party in the city where the heat is on, all night on the beach till the break of dawn…welcome to Miami…welcome to Miami.”

Will Smith articulates what I could not. This city is one big orgy of fun. The food. The women. The clubs open till 5am. The women. The beach. 75 degrees at midnight. Oh, yes and the women. Barely dressed, barely legal, and barely coherent…a trifecta of bare perfection.

Look, as exciting as my life is in LA, television is useless, and the news is not worth watching since none of the Fox News women are willing to follow their sisters at Enron or Walmart by posing for Playboy.

(Between Julie Banderas, Rebecca Gomez, Kiran Chetry, Julia Allison, Rachel Marsden, Alison Rosen, Judith Regan, Dagan McDowell, Michelle Malkin, Jonathan Hoenig…Jonathan Hoenig? Just checking to see if you were paying attention)

As for Miami “It’s like a Mardi Gras, everybody party all day, no work, all play, hey.”

Some say a 35 year old man should not be on spring break. If 19 year old girls pretend to be 28, to impress older guys, who am I to lecture them on morality?

Like the Will Smith song, whenever I see a woman here going “Ayy Popppyyy” while holding a can of soda to her neck, I realize that this might be the one city where I do not have to fantasize about that woman dancing on a table at a club. If I wait a few minutes, she will be.

In my real life I am a man who lives a life of substance. I have intelligent conversations about topics that matter. Every once in awhile, I just want to be a guy, which means ogling women who want to ogled. If they choose to wiggle, wriggle, bounce and jiggle, then I choose to ogle. Besides, if they think I am wealthy (no idea where they get that idea), they will want me to ogle them.

Miami is a fantasy. In LA, New York and Chicago, I am a civilized businessman with a purpose. I focus on politics, sports, blah blah blah blah blah. Like I have time to worry about the war on terror when 4 girls at a bar are slapping each others’ hides. Now I know what Lee Greenwood means when he sings “God Bless the USA.”

I am here to party. I owe it to myself. One day I will be married with children. I am a single man in a city that still allows guys to wear pastel colored suits. Miami Vice was canceled on tv, not in real life. No behavior is over the top. Perhaps Howard Stern can do a sequel to his “butt bongo fiesta” video on Collins avenue. A good paddling never hurt anyone (ok it did, but that is besides the point. Mistress Evil is rough).

True, in a week, I will be back at work, and my tattered body will be angry at me for letting me destroy it night after night into the wee hours of the morning. After years of being told by rapper Coolio that “There aint no party like a west coast party cause a west coast party don’t stop,’ I realize this is not true. The action is on the east coast (I hope I do not get shot in an east coast-west coast debate). LA goes to bed too early, New York is too cold most of the year.

Miami is life. Miami is fun. Oh yeah, and the women.

Ok, off to sleep. My goal is to get up by noon, and I will be happy failing in that endeavor. I will be living the “other 9 to 5.”

Pleasure is business, and business is d@mn good. Welcome to Miami.


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