No Wonder it's called a Huffy
August 25th, 2008
Remember the plot of Ghostbusters II? Of course you do. There was this hot pink lava goo bubbling under NYC that fed off anger, and the more yelling, the more neck-vein popping, the bigger it got. Eventually, it bubbled into the streets and the Ghostbusters had to come out of retirement to make it go away. This is how I feel about Miami -- at least when I'm in my car. I can feel it -- anger goo is going to flood I95 and cause the traffic jam that ends all traffic jams, and centuries later, an archaeologist will uncover the site of the disaster, where they will find us all Pompeii-style -- immortalized with expressions of rage on our faces and upturned middle fingers.
It's well known Miami is ranked #1 when it comes to bad drivers. And I'm going to assume that by bad drivers, the surveyors also meant angry drivers. No one will argue with me on that one (and if you want to, I'll stalk you on I95, tailgate the for the next 10 miles and lay on the horn the whole time, capiche?). On one commute to work, early into my first real job, I unknowingly cut in front of a motorcyclist a little too closely (at least according to him). He proceeded to drive up to my window, bang on it and scream. I mouthed that I was sorry, but apparently sorry wasn't good enough (I really hope he didn't have a wife or girlfriend), as he followed me almost all the way to work. I was about to call the police when he finally gave up.
Now is the part in the story where I could that now, looking back, I can laugh at the whole thing. But, yeah, not so much. Thinking about it still makes me want to drive my early-90s Mustang into the back of his crotch rocket and watch, with a sinister laugh, as it spins through the air and then bursts into flames, just like in the movies. And visiting other places doesn't help, either. In Vancouver, people actually anticipate you merging into their lane, and in Portland, a crosswalk means go ahead, pedestrian, I'm slowing to a stop so you and your baby can safely cross the street. I think I heard an average of three horn honks a day. And they weren't the obnoxious 5-minute-long "f-you mf-er die" horns. They were more like "um, excuse me, the light has been green for quite awhile, I wouldn't want you to be late for your yoga class" beeps. That is, if they're even in cars, as bike riding is common, and thus safe.
Of course, you're taking your life into your own hands here when you make like Lance Armstrong. Plenty of stories of bikers getting plowed into and yelled at by motorists. But today, my friends, I witnessed my first biker rage incident. I was crossing the street at West Avenue and Lincoln Road and heard yelling to my left. It was so loud, even the crazy hunchback homeless man also crossing the street took interest. A young, bald (by choice) man was on his mountain bike in front of the post office, screaming at the top of his lungs, arms flailing, at a young woman in a silver Rav-4 looking thing. I couldn't decipher what, exactly she did, but whatever it was, she apologized, to which he yelled that sorry wasn't good enough. (Flashbacks!) No idea how long he was yelling, but even road rage goes by a certain etiquette -- you honk, make some sort of "wtf" hand gesture, maybe give 'em a dirty look when you pass later and that's it. Over. But this guy just went on and on. I'm all for biker rights, good for you for saving a few carbon footprints. But dude, that doesn't give you the right to be a complete a-hole.
Strap on your proton pack, Egon. We're ready.
We Want You!
August 4th, 2008
I was going to write this blog on Friday, the first day of Miami Spice Month (really Miami Spice Two Months), to tell all of you to get out there and start stuffing your faces. But I was too busy stuffing my own face. Ok, not really. I actually just grabbed pizza at Spris before heading over to Miami.com's fabo party at Set, a place I normally avoid like the plague (along with any other establishment that opens its doors at my bedtime and makes me bust out my "ho clothes").
At 11 p.m., however, Set is actually quite pleasant (the free drinks probably helped), and my favorite part of the evening was walking outside around midnight and seeing all the eager, hopeful faces lined up behind the velvet rope. Nothing is sadder... and funnier. Like little orphaned children hoping the nice young couple will pick them out of the dirty cheeked bunch, the club folk watched us as we exited, their faces seeming to say, "Is it as wonderful as it is in my dreams? Is Dwyane Wade inside? The bouncer won't give me and my new boobs a second look because I brought five dudes with me -- can you get me in???" So adorable.
But this was so not the point of this blog entry. The point was Miami Spice, and you, my faithful readers, and how you're going to do my job for me. It's pretty simple: you treat yourself to a cheap meal at a fancy restaurant - one that's participating in Miami Spice - and write a review of your experience for Miami.com. Each week (barring you people actually get off your keisters and participate) I'll pick the best review - not necessarily positive, just thorough and interesting - and post it for the world to see. The Miami.com reader world, that is.
Make it entertaining, make us feel like we were there, make us want to skip our "usual" restaurant and try something new for a change. At the very least, make us read past the first paragraph (technology, i.e. the Internet, has depleted our attention spans, remember?). And if you send us pics (of the dinner, not the ones from your trip to Niagra Falls - though I'm sure it was quite nice), even better. No need to make it a novel, and try to refrain from writing things like, "this place sux" and "my steak tasted like butt." You don't work at Hot Topic, okay?
So, start eating, register on Miami.com (if you haven't already) and leave a review here. Email a copy of your review as well to editor@miami.com. Who knows - the Food & Wine mag editor could read it and be so impressed she must call you right away and offer you a job as their senior food writer, and then when you go to restaurants, the staff will look at you in awe, wondering what it's like to be so cool - just like walking out of Set. Oh, what a feeling.
-- miaeditor
West Coast Woo-ha
July 28th, 2008
Miami Ink may have put this city on the tattoo map - seems as though on any given day one can spot as many tourists outside this shop as the mansion formerly known as Versace - but after this weekend, I've realized Miami has nothing on the West Coast. No, not L.A.
Sarasota, fools.
Like I've said a few times in this blog, I don't care for the beach. I feel like that kid in Powder when I step foot on the sand, struck with paralyzing fear that the sun is searing my skin by the second. Sure, you may be thinking to yourself, lordy, that's a little dramatic, but I managed to come back from a weekend in Sarasota with third degree burns. Yes, it's true -- I didn't put sunscreen on right away. And yes, I was at like 1 p.m., when the sun is directly over you, shooting its death rays. But seriously, it must've only been 15 minutes. 30 tops. This is all beside the point, of course.
Point is, I went to the beach. And at the beach, in addition to my sassy burn, I saw America. And I'm not just talking about the American flag flying at the lifeguard stand, or my pasty bretheren taking a dip in the ocean, coozied Miller Lite in hand. I'm talking tattoos. Big, loud, tacky-as-all-get-up tattoos. There was, in addition to the usual tribal stuff, a girl with what appeared to be a shower of Dr. Seuss Sneetch-like stars, all different sizes, cascading down her back, a guy with, among others, a peacefully lounging lion, another girl with some kind of date stamped on her ankle, and her boyfriend (parole officer?) with a ginormous Cleveland Indians mascot -- in full color -- on his beefy white calf.
Now, I love the 'Canes, but the only way I would even consider burning a green and orange ibis into my leg is if Sebastian took a bullet for me. And even then, I'd probably just write something really heartfelt about the experience and express my undying gratitude. Then again, in a way, charring my skin with ultraviolet rays isn't that much different - and, save a few more freckles, I don't even have anything to show for it after a few weeks.
I often think about what I would get if I got a tattoo, and mostly I've just weeded out stuff I definitely wouldn't want: any word or phrase in another language, flower, butterfly, anything wrapped around my ankle, cartoon character, mermaid/fairy, sword, a portrait of anyone.
But in regards to that last one, I'll end this post with a nice book-cover-judging story. I was sitting outside at my neighborhood Thai restaurant with my dog one night, reading my next book club book. My waiter, I forget his name - but let's go with Manny - was very attentive, asking questions about my dog and then about what I was reading. I figured he was just being polite, possibly attempting to flirt, but the more I tried to just stick my nose in my book, the more he went on and on about reading.
This isn't the first time a guy has claimed he "loves to read," throwing out some books obviously on his high school required reading list (Oh, your favorite book is Catcher in the Rye? No kidding.) Then, as if sensing my b.s. meter rising, he pulled up his sleeve. Dude had a tattoo -- and a BIG one -- of William S. Burroughs. Author of Naked Lunch, a book I read three pages of before it felt like steam was going to come out of my ears and my head was going to explode. At this point, I realized I would be the one faking my way through a literary conversation and therefore breathed a sigh of relief when the check came.
I guess the moral of this little ditty is, if you're really passionate about something, you want a way -- be it on film, on paper or on, um, yourself -- to share that passion with everyone, whether it's one of the most provocative authors of our time... or the Cleveland Indians.
-- miaeditor
What Swim Shows?
July 23rd, 2008
Mercedes-Benz Swim show week (actually, only five days) ended on Monday. I didn't go to anything. When I first started in this "news" business -- news is in quotes, because it's not like I hide in bushes and bust dirty commissioners or anything -- I went to all the fabo parties. If an invite showed up in my inbox, I RSVPd. Quickly, though, the free drinks and see-and-be-seen fascination wore off. Thus, when the swim shows rolled around, I let out a big old "eh."
Not that the event isn't a fabulous display of Spandex, because it is, and Miami.com was there to partake in all the fun with our very own booth, complete with videos of the shows streaming, ice coffee, games, cushy sofas and, our biggest hit, a giant fan. However, I still wear the bathing suit I bought at Target like four years ago. I go to the beach maybe once a year, as I don't care for sand and how it sticks to you after swimming in salt water, which leaves my eyes feeling like I poured peroxide in them. I also have the skin tone of an aspirin. So swim fashion isn't really on my radar.
But really, the main reason I had no interest in attending swim week? My delicate, Miami-honed self-esteem. Granted, I've accepted that I'll never have the J Lo booty that roams beaches from Ocean Drive to Sunny Isles, and I like eating too much to sustain on breath mints and cigarettes, but when you live in a city where the average woman's extracurricular activities include gym training with some guy named Xerxes and field trips to the plastic surgeon's office, you can't be all lardy and Midwestern-esque. Bottom line: the last thing I want to do for five days is look at models in bikinis.
So, I went to a place (and wrote about it) where I would be surrounded by doughy white folk without a smidgen of fashion sense. Orlando. Land of bad tattoos, denim shorts and Crocs. Land of giant turkey legs, two-foot-long churros and 40-ounce Mountain Dews. Here, I was Heidi Klum. Okay, maybe not Heidi Klum. But at least that girl from Jumper. Don't get me wrong -- I don't go to O-town to feel pretty, I go because I get to escape the glitz and pretentiousness of Miami. It's good to be amongst regular folk every once in awhile, people who think bottle service is a new Disney program for babies, or the Budweiser cart in front of the Jurassic Park ride. Plus I get to ride roller coasters. That's gotta burn at least 20 calories, right?
-- miaeditor
What's the stupidest thing you did today?
July 17th, 2008
So if you're an avid Miami.com blog reader (and why wouldn't you be?), you know that my car was recently deemed a piece of crap (a title waaay overdue). You would also know that I took it to Gary, the Car Whisperer. But what you didn't know was what happened after that wondrous encounter. I know, I know: you haven't been able to sleep or work, as you've been constantly checking Miami.com for an update on my car's sitch.
Well, Gary's spark plug (and a/c) work was all that and a bag of lugnuts. The tires, however, he informed me, would have to be put on at an official "tire" place. So after coping with my abandonment issues (you mean I have to [gulp] leave and go somewhere else?) and telling Gary about 20 times that I would be back the following week for a balance/alignment -- to which he replied, "well, you don't have to do that right away," (and I felt the knife of rejection go through my heart) - I headed to the cool retro-looking Firestone on Alton Road and 16th Street.
An hour after I dropped my car off, they called me to inform me that, whoops, they don't have the tire I need after all and that they would have to order it. Good news was it would be there in a couple hours, bad news was a quick tire change turned into an all-day event involving begging for rides from various people with functioning tires. Miami.com's trusty calendar editor (and damsel in distress rescuer extraordinaire) dropped me off at the end of the day and I drove home, happy to not have to worry about hydroplaning to my death anymore.
The next morning, I walked out to my car with my partner (now you think I'm a lesbian, don't you?) and he/she excitedly took a look at my new wheels. "This one's old," he/she said, confused. "What?" I asked as I put my face within inches of the tire in question, as if the only evidence of this claim was a microscopic flaw only seen by someone trained in identifying old tires. "They're ALL old," he/she continued, moving around the car. And not just old, they were the SAME mo-fo tires.
Now, I'm an admittedly un-observant person, which is why I'll never be able to write a hilarious memoir about my life. When someone points out that so-and-so was obviously on drugs/a man/a woman/checking out my butt, inevitably my reply is, "What?! No way!" But this not noticing my own old-arse tires was a new, embarrassing low. This shame was mixed, of course, with outrage directed toward the Firestone staff, who were apparently hired through some special needs work program. Was I a victim of a scam? Or just plain old Miami idiocy?
I went with the latter, as I'm also not one of those people who writes the better business bureau or calls the news reporter who goes after the guy doing Botox injections in his Westchester garage, and headed back for Day 2 at Firestone. "How can I help you?" asked Walter (not his real name, but only because I can't remember his real name -- unobservant, remember?). I'm also not the kind of person who, at this moment, would begin a loud, 10-minute rant about the incompetence of Firestone (I save that for my blog), threaten to sue, demand free stuff and turn around and tell everyone else in the place to go somewhere else.
"Um," I stumbled, "I came in for new tires yesterday and, well, they never got changed." Walter looked confused and went out to take a look. He came back shaking his head, "I don't know what happened, let me find out where your tires are." (If I had been aforementioned loud ranter, I would have answered with, "not on my car, that's for sure!") I wish that there was a great "mystery of the missing tires" to finish with here, but Walter and the rest of his coveralled cohorts just played dumb. So I'm just going to fabricate a great Clue-style ending right here, because, well, if you made it this far, you deserve it.
After reviewing the security tapes, it appears that there was a kink in the time space continuum, causing clocks to move backward six hours, causing the mechanics to think they had more time to work on the cars than they did. Ergo, when I picked up my car, it was really only noon, therefore all the mechanics were at lunch and couldn't stop me from driving away with old tires. Time warps - they get you ever time.
-- miaeditor
Miami.com Happy Hour @ SushiSamba
July 14th, 2008
When I go grocery shopping (usually once a week for any combination of cereal, toilet paper and chocolate), I'm not the type to load up on pudding if it's 4 for $5 or whatever. I know people who will purchase said pudding even if they don't usually eat pudding, just because they'll save a buck. This weekend, however, the on-sale gods were smiling down upon me, as I struck savings gold with 2 for $5 Kashi cereal, 99-cent 300-count cotton balls and 2 for $5 blueberries. Mind you, this was more than half of my grocery list. According to my Publix receipt, I save a total of $7.
That's like half a drink at, oh, I don't know, SushiSamba? And, oh, what a coincidence, that's where we're having our next happy hour. Tomorrow night, from 8-9 p.m., you can sip on 2-for-1 Lemon Samurais, then stay afterward for our special $36 prixe fixe menu and antics. Antics, you say? That's right, Tuesday night is SS's Cosplay party, during which partying types dress up like their favorite Japanese anime character. Of course, if all you have is a Batman costume, go ahead and bust it out. After a few drinks, no one will remember why they're there anyway.
Now, I don't like dressing up as my favorite Japanese anime character as much as the next person. But I do like cheap(ish) booze and cheap(ish) food, so I'll be there. With a whole $7.
-- miaeditor
The Car Whisperer
July 10th, 2008
My car is officially a piece of crap. Granted, it's not a Family Truckster, but I've been fixing my '99 Jetta Macguyver style for a while now. Here's what's been duct-taped, super-glued and simply yanked off after being deemed non-essential so far:
Passenger side window
Diagnosis: F-ed up motor thingy that makes it go up and down
Symptoms: Loud, scary noise when anyone attempts to put it down
Solution: Screaming "Ahhh, don't touch the window button!"
Driver's side door handle
Diagnosis: Broken off
Symptoms: Breaking off
Solution: Super glue for aesthetics, pull door closed some other way.
Ceiling fabric
Diagnosis: The ceiling is falling off my car
Symptoms: Oven-like heat melting German glue, causing fabric to fall in my face and expose asbestos-like grossness underneath
Solution: Super glue, creating classy billows of fabric that give my car a certain circus tent jen ou sais quoi.
Alarm
Diagnosis: Electrical system completely shot.
Symptoms: Alarm doesn't disengage when door is unlocked, causing it to go off and cause anxiety/embarrassment/rage.
Solution: To disengage, open then close trunk, run and open driver door, turn on car quickly before alarm engages. Do chicken dance for 30 seconds.
Sunroof (this week's crap out)
Diagnosis: My car thought it would be funny when I go to try to close the sunroof in the pouring rain.
Symptoms: When sunroof is almost completely closed, it shoots back open. (Banging on steering wheel doesn't help.)
Solution: Putting sunroof in moonroof mode, then closing all the way from there. Or just not opening it for the next three months while I live in a kiln.
Needless to say, I spend a lot of time figuring out how to "trick" my car. There's more - broken vanity mirror cover, broken keyless entry, projectile foam coming from the a/c vents - but despite all its faults, I still love it. Which is why I refuse to get a new car (that and the fact that not being able to keep a car past 100,000 miles would bring shame to my family). So, for the fourth (fifth?) consecutive month, I brought my car in for a little TLC. I wanted to try a different mechanic, as the one I had been using, a gruff Russian, treated me and my car with the kindness of, well, a Russian. At first I appreciated his no-nonsense, to-the-point demeanor (Your break pads... no good! You take your car home today!). But eventually I began to miss the car-repair-for-dummies explanations of why I needed to fork over $500.
Then I stumbled upon a recommendation for King Auto (260 NW 28th St; 305-576-1309). It was close to my office, so I decided to give it a whirl. I was pleased to see that their motto was "Miles of Smiles" (and a wooden cutout of a bear advertising breaks), and that they were a 42-year-old, family-run business. I gave Gary my car's list of issues and, instead of handing over the keys and getting the "we'll take a look at it and call you" line, Gary invited us to take a ride. We start rolling, and he starts diagnosing. "Feels like you have an air pocket in your back right tire... and the front right tire... the spark plugs need to be replaced... feel that swaying back and forth?" Um, no. He then proceeded to explain the swaying, but I was so in awe of his car whispering skills (and proclaimed him the Car Whisperer), I wasn't even paying attention anymore.
When we returned, he encouraged us to caress the tires and feel for bumps. Despite feeling like I was giving my car a breast exam, I got all giddy when I did, indeed, feel the bump. He pointed out worn tread like David Caruso uncovering clues (Gary: "What happened to the guy who sold you these tires?" Me: "I don't know, maybe he took off." Gary: "Or maybe... you got taken for a ride" [cue The Who's "We Won't Be Fooled Again"]). I was already looking forward to the next time my car had issues, so I could witness Gary bust out his vehicular sixth sense.
That's right: He sees dead spark plugs.
-- miaeditor
The Closer VIP Screening Contest
July 3rd, 2008
Some people associate summer with vacations, BBQs and car seat-induced sweaty backs. For others, however, summer only means one thing: bad TV. Re-runs, crappy filler reality shows (except My Life on the D-List and Project Runway, of course) and even crappier game shows hosted by resurrected sitcom stars send boob tube junkies everywhere into remote control shock. They simply rock in their favorite recliner, staring at a blank screen and occasionally cursing the writer's strike, waiting for the day when Sayid and Sawyer come back into their lives.
For those of you who have become fans of cop drama The Closer, in which sassy Brenda Leigh Johnson (Kyra Sedgewick) uses her mad crime solving skillz to close cases, you're in luck: the new season starts Monday, July 14. And luckier for you, we're giving away a free passes to a VIP preview screening of the first episode on July 9th, 7 p.m., at Pangea nightclub in the Seminole Hard Rock Casino & Hotel. Here's what you have to do to get them:
Register on Miami.com
Take our official "The Closer" quiz (below)
Send your answers to editor@miami.com
Leave a message on this blog entry asking "Did I get an A?" (which anyone who knows how to do a Google search should get)
That simple, people. Now get back to you couch.
1) What is Brenda's Mom's name?
a) Barbara Jean
b) Billy Ray
c) Willie Ray
d) Brenda Joe
2) How did Brenda's mom find out that Brenda and Fits were living together?
a) She overheard a conversation
b) Gabriel spilled the beans
c) Fritz's Shoes were under the bed
d) There was a baseball pyramid on the table
3) What does Brenda have for a pet
a) Cat
b) Dog
c) Fish
d) Hampster
4) What happened to Brenda's bungalow before she moved in there?
a) It was a daycare center
b) A film was shot there
c) A woman was murdered there
d) It was robbed
5) Which member of the squad has most supported Brenda since she has arrived?
a) Flynn
b) Gabriel
c) Daniels
d) Provenza
6) What is Brenda's biggest handicap as she is getting to her crime scenes?
a) She always stops for breakfast
b) She always gets lost
c) She oversleeps
d) She stops to shop
7) Before Brenda joined the Priority Homicide Division, she was trained by:
a) The CIA
b) A science professor
c) A pastry chef
d) The Navy
8) Typically, where does Brenda hide her junk food stash?
a) Under her desk
b) Behind a plant
c) In her desk drawer
d) Under her bed
9) Which of Brenda's colleagues did she have a past relationship with?
a) Lt. Flynn
b) Commander Taylor
c) Assistant Chief Pope
d) All of the Above
10) What is Brenda's weakness?
a) Rescuing Dogs
b) Shopping for shoes
c) Reading tabloid magazines
d) Junk food
-- miaeditor
4th of July Contest
June 24th, 2008
THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED. CONGRATS TO WINNER MIKEE03!
Wouldn't it be fabulous if your rich friend invited you out on his/her yacht (a small yacht, nothing pretentious) for his/her annual 4th of July fireworks watching party? No sand to wash off when you get home, no driving around trying to find parking in the name of patriotism and hot dogs, no cheesy Americana soundtracks blasting for ambiance (for the love of liberty, no more "Proud to be an American"), no annoying families insisting on shooting off the ghetto explosives they bought at the flea market two feet from your face.
Just champagne, fancy cheese and exotic fruits, beautiful, sophisticated co-yachters and the best fireworks view in town. Of course, I have no rich yacht-owning friends -- I don't think I even know anyone with a canoe - but I'm always in search of a great secret spot where I can take in all the sparkly 4th of July goodness without having to deal with the riffraff.
So in the spirit of a good show, I'm asking you all, our faithful Miami.com readers, to send me your own favorite fireworks-viewing spot. Really, there's no reason to give up your top-secret locale other than glory and fame - oh, and a gift certificate for brunch for two at the Rusty Pelican. Holla! So, first you gotta register on Miami.com, then leave a comment on this blog entry with your fave off-the-beaten-path place to spend the 4th of July. Whoever offers up the best place (hint: it isn't on 8th and Ocean Drive) wins, and if you happen to have a yacht, please include your phone number.
-- miaeditor
- Current 80.6 °F
- It's an indoor fun day
- Head to Bird Bowl
