If a band plays in Urban Outfitters but nobody hears, does it make a sound?

October 7th, 2008

What do you do when it's supposed to rain on a Sunday? Go to a movie, of course. What do you do when it's supposed to rain but turns out to actually be sunny but therefore really, unbearably hot? Go to the movies, of course. I'll jump at any chance to treat my albino skin to a dark cave. And be lazy. So, yeah, hooray movie.

So last Sunday my beaux and I decided to pretend we were 16 and go see Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist. Think Go meets High Fidelity. I'm a sucker for teen movies (even more so if they involve teens dancing), as teen movies always portray the kind of teen experience I never had. I was never conflicted between hanging with the "odd" kids who I actually liked and the popular kids who would take me to college parties. I never got into a prestigious performing arts school and pushed the envelope with my street-honed dance skillz. And I never went on all-night escapades that involved going into the "big city," jumping from cool dingy bar to cool dingy bar and ending up in a hip diner at 5 a.m.

That's pretty much the premise of Nick & Nora. The movie does a wonderful job of capturing the essence of both what it feels like to be young and totally devoid of responsibility, and of New York City - the feeling, when the sun is rising, of taking the subway home when the suits are taking it to work; of feeling a late-night camaraderie with the thousands of other people stumbling down the streets at 4 in the morning; of being in a place - usually one with sticky floors and cheap beer -- with people who love music as much as you do. Which leads me to two points.

First, when I tell anyone I'm from Miami, they automatically assume that my high school days (or nights, rather) were spent clubbing on South Beach. I'm pretty sure there was a clique at school that actually did that (and I'm pretty sure they were all in my remedial algebra 2 class), but for the most part, we did what most suburban kids across America did - go over to other kids' houses when their parents were out of town and drink cheap, watered down beer that someone got the homeless guy to buy for us at the gas station. We also went to movies, loitered at the mall and ate chicken fingers at T.G.I. Friday's. I didn't even know how to get to the beach until my junior year, and even then, my mom sat us all down and made sure we knew to not distract the driver. I'm not sure what she was envisioning - us cranking up the Metallica, sticking our heads out the sunroof while we chugged Jim Beam? Not for a day trip, at least.

Second, last night I went to a free (that's right, FREE) Walkmen (that's a band) concert at Urban Outfitters. I had been there a couple weeks prior to buy a pair of $30 flip-flops and noticed the poster in the window. Giddy, I told everyone I knew (and who would care about a Walkmen show) about it and printed out my passes the next day. I cringed when I saw it in our own listings as well as a few other calendar sources, thinking for sure because it had now been advertised that it would be a mob scene. Hipsters all the way from Palm Beach county would be driving down, as how often do good bands perform in Miami, let alone for free? So after work, I do a drive by around 6 (show starts at 8 p.m.) to assess the situation. No line around the block, as I had suspected. No line at all, in fact. At 7, we make our way back. There's a guy giving away free ice cream out of a Yaris (the show's sponsor) and another Yaris with a portable photo booth inside (who knew fuel-efficient Toyotas could be so much fun?), so I enjoy my free creamsicle and then head inside - you know, want to get a good spot close to the front before the mobs showed up. Well, they never did. At first I thought maybe they were on Miami time, assuming the show would go on at least an hour after stated time (it started at 8 p.m. sharp). But no, the venue stayed half empty for the entire show.

Now, I've come to terms with the fact that I'll hardly ever get to see good bands in Miami. But, in my experience, that means that for bands that DO actually come down here, the venue is always packed. Because you never know when the next good show is going to come along. Last night's attendance was simply pathetic. Embarrassing. I'm hoping it was because it wasn't advertised enough, but still, in NYC, people will hear about a show from a bathroom attendant and show up wherever he tells you it is.

Nick and Nora would've totally been there.

Festivus for the Restivus

October 2nd, 2008

Though "the season" is officially here in Miami (determined by a very scientific formula - counting the party invitations in my mailbox), one area of entertainment still (and will probably always) remains more emaciated than Polina on the Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency. (Empty carrot cake box under the bed? I've seen that made-for-tv bulimia movie starring Calista Flockhart - you're not fooling anyone, Polina.) The JDMA, btw, is a great show to watch at the gym. But I digress.

We've got art (Basel), we've got fashion (Funkshion), dance (the MCB) and whatever's on the Arsht sched this season - some classical music, a few operas, a little Broadway, yadda yadda. But when it comes to music - as in bands one stands up in a mid-size concert venue to listen to - Miami is seriously lacking. This isn't a tune (pun not so much intended but maybe a little) I haven't sung before. Over and over and over and over. But it always comes up again when I go out of town to see a band - and to see most of my favorite bands, that's what I have to do - or, in the case of last weekend, more bands in a few days than I get to see all year here.

I traveled to the Music Capital of the World - that would be Austin - for the Austin City Limits music festival. For those who have never been, it's a three-day, all-day music extravaganza with eight stages, really good food (i.e. avocado tacos instead of microwaved pizza) and some of the nicest people I've ever had to spend three days with. Oh, and after it's all over each night, there's even MORE music in the various venues around town. David Byrne, Vampire Weekend, Stars (one of those great Canadian indie rock bands that probably has dinner parties with Arcade Fire), Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes), Jenny Lewis (Rilo Kiley) and Neko Case (another talented Canadian and sometimes member of the New Pornographers). And that's just a drop in the band bucket.

But before I go on and on and on about the music, first let me go off a little on how wonderful the people of Austin are. Everyone there is just so f-ing happy and helpful. Despite the gigantor crowds at the festivals and at the after-shows, there were no drunk, testosterone-fuled fights or yelling. No pushing, no battling for the attention of the bartender. I didn't see one police officer on festival grounds the entire time. From what I saw, there was no need for them. And if there was, they handled it all Disney-style by whisking them to some underground jail before anyone notices and gets their happiness ruined. Even the cab driver, when asked if everyone is always so nice, actually said yes. And a cabbie will always be the first one to tell you whether or not the people in a city are really nice or just hiding their a-holeness behind a nice mask so you'll come back again and spend more money.

The (musical) highlight of the weekend was a going to an ACL taping for their performance series that's aired on PBS. The band we chose was the Swell Season -- the guy and girl from the movie Once (the song in it won an Oscar, and they're just really kickass). So we're just sitting there, enjoying the awesome show, when the lead signer announces he's going to sing a cover of a Daniel Johnston song. A little background: Daniel Johnston is an Austin legend. He's this quirky, manic, musical genius who has formed a cult following, including Kurt Cobain, who wore a t-shirt promoting Johnston's album, Hi How Are You?, during many of his shows. He's such an interesting human being that there was even a documentary made about him - The Devil and Daniel Johnston. It's wonderful, so stop writing that TPS report and Netflix it right now.

So yeah, Swell Season guy says he's going to sing a Daniel Johnston song. And, omg, guess who comes out? Daniel MF Johnston! I know, only a true music nerd would find this remotely exciting. But for the one (two, if you count my mom who will just be excited because I'm excited) person who knows who I'm talking about, it's pretty darn cool. Even cooler was taking the stairs after the show and seeing Johnston smoking a ciggy in the alley. No, I did not get a pic, because I am lame. But who knows, maybe he'll come to Miami one of these days. Bwahahahaha. That's a good one.

-- miaeditor

p.s. I have high hopes for Miami's Langerado Festival, which gets bigger and better every year. It started out at some park in Broward, then moved to somewhere out in the Everglades last year, and this time around it's moving to Bicentennial Park. They've already got the multiple stages thing going, and the good band thing, now all they need is a sweet food court and some after-hours shows. Vagabond, Circa 28, Manuel Artime, that means you.

Scary Contest!

September 24th, 2008

THIS CONTEST IS CLOSED

I've never been a fan of scary things.

The scary movies I'm forced (or tricked) into watching I "watch" with my eyes discreetly cast to the floor. When I sense a something about to jump out, I conveniently notice that my shoe has come untied, or the Icee needs a good stir. I have no desire to feel a dead loved one's "presence" (or any dead person for that matter), mysterious "cold spots" in a room are the cause of badly placed vents and I don't think haunted houses are "fun." It's not so much that seeing a guy with a chainsaw makes me jump. It's the guy with a chainsaw suddenly turning it on behind me. I don't like being startled. I don't jump, scream and then laugh at my silliness. I get anxious and then pissed. I also don't like being touched by strangers (on all levels). I don't like it when the person behind me in the movie line is right on my butt, and so same goes for a zombie. I covet my personal space. Violate it and I get cranky.

That said, I understand that for many people, haunted houses are an enjoyable experience. So for those of you who enjoy a good scare, Miami.com is giving away passes to Nightmare: Ghost Stories, a new haunted house at Wynwood's SoHo Studios. It's an import from NYC, and they're all cutting edge, so it must be pretty good. The first 5 who reply to this blog post with "Scare my pants off, Miami.com!" get 2 VIP passes. The next 10 who do so get regular passes, which just means you don't get to go in the "express line." But really, half the fun is the anticipation.

Or so I've been told.

-- miaeditor

Reunited and it feels so good

September 22nd, 2008

This weekend I went to St. Louis for the wedding of one of my good friends from college. Now, I'm not one for organized reunions. I didn't go to my 10-year high school, nor will I go to my 20 or anything after that. It's not that I was particularly anti-social during that period of my life. It's just that sites like Facebook have made it possible for me to keep in touch with everyone I want to keep in touch with from that time. There is no one that I think, "Hmm, I wonder where so-and-so is these days..." Except maybe this one girl we nicknamed Salad Shooter after an "intimate" experience with some vegetables. But that would just be out of curiosity (Hole cover band? Kindergarten teacher?), not genuine interest in her life. Same with the mysterious cowboy boot-wearing James in my Spanish class who told me to use "Paint It Black" for a retarded English assignment for which we had to analyze a song (which is what happens when your teachers grew up in the '60s).

That said, I was tres excited about this wedding, as it would be a reunion that would produce not only great pictures but great stories - we would simply pick up where we left off in college with the antics that ensued (minus the drunken hook-ups). By the time I had arrived, people had already been nicknamed (mainly "Mustache," who had apparently been whooping it up at the same bar as them the previous night), just as in college the 3 too-tan sorority girls were The Tantastics, a guy on the floor below us who liked to go clubbing was Tight Tee and the 2nd guy who started to not wear shoes to class was Shoeless Guy Imposter (the original was, of course, just Shoeless Guy). Saturday morning, someone had already made sure the sports bar near the hotel was showing the 'Canes game. And when DJ called last song at the reception, it wasn't something slow and romantic like "Unchained Melody," it was Soulja Boy. That's what always got the crowd going at games, after all, and so we enthusiastically threw up our "U"s and the bride did the "Superman" dance. Now that's one for the grandkids.

And as I watched these girls breaking it down to booty song after booty song, I realized that this was why they were my friends. None of them were from Miami, and when I met them at UM, they had already totally embraced the "Miami lifestyle," something I had never done living here my whole life. While I was trying so hard to fight it, they were pulling on their tight black pants and heading to the dance floor. So I embraced it, too (though admittedly in a scaled back version), and fed off their "Midwest Girls Gone Wild: The Miami Edition" attitude. "You know how a lot of people look back at college and say 'I didn't realize how good I had it?,'" my friend Ashley asked me. "Well, I'd say I knew how good I had it when I was having it." And I think that's why I loved being around them so much. They weren't the typical Miami girls who took "going out" way too seriously - so seriously that they spend so much time thinking about seeing and being seen that they forget to have fun (or never plan on it in the first place), which is the whole point of going out. When I was with them, going out wasn't about bottle service or being in Ocean Drive party pictures, it was about having hilarious stories to tell the morning after over bagels at the cafeteria - and at weddings for years to come.

Me So Corny

September 18th, 2008

What happens when you watch bad television? You get bad commercials. I can't remember what show was killing my brain cells when I saw the ad for high fructose corn syrup, but whatever it was, apparently I'm the demographic that's shunning this sweetener and causing all the bigwigs at the hfcs company to freak out. Well, whoever did their market analyses was actually on the ball, as I, after seeing a documentary called King Corn, totally shunned what I now consider the devil's sugar. Apparently a lot of other people made the same decision, forcing hfcs to come up with an actual advertising campaign that paints us non-hfcs-eating folks as complete idiots.

The commercial starts out with a nice, J.Crew-outfitted couple on a picnic blanket. The girl whips out a popsicle from the cooler... which leads me to my first gripe with this storyline. How did she keep a popsicle frozen in a lunchbox-size Igloo? So not realistic. But I'll try to suspend my disbelief and continue. So then, the guy asks something like, "Whoa! I thought you loved me?!" Geez, way to be over-dramatic. This guy is supposed to represent me, the hfcs shunner, but let me tell you, I would never accuse someone of unrequited love if they offered me some Lucky Charms. In fact, I would say, "pass the green clovers, lover."

Okay, moving right along. Guy tells girl hfsc is bad for all sorts of reasons, at which point girl gives him that wide-eyed "Oh really?" look that all girls are so good at, and asks him, "like what?" Of course, he's speechless, because who asks that? I'll tell you - only someone who knows stupid random facts and wants to show them off. That's who. It's like asking someone what's in crystal meth. No one really knows exactly what, but we know it's a bunch of bad stuff we don't want to put in our bodies. All proud of herself that she knows something her bf doesn't (and, I admit, that's a good feeling), she rattles off all the reasons why hfcs aren't bad: that it's made from corn (crappy, refined crap that even gives cows gross diseases), has as many calories as sugar or honey (but is still a freak show chemistry experiment you're putting into your body) and it's fine in moderation (just like drinking - but who can have just ONE green clover?).

With that, guy asks girl if she only brought one popsicle. Ahahaha. Down boy! Moderation, remember??? Seriously, though. This commercial didn't make me want to run to the vending machine and buy a Sunkist. It made me want to send it to this website. It also made me realize how annoying it is when someone asks you a question they know you don't have the answer to. So I'm not going to do that anymore. And it made me realize that the whole situation could have been avoided if she had brought alcohol instead of a popsicle. What are they? 8? Then again, had they been 8, there probably would've been A LOT of hfcs at that picnic, and neither party would have objected to eating it (Mountain Dew and Pop-Tarts? You must like like me!").

And the last thing it made me realize is that hfcs is for lame people. Perhaps if the couple was Seth Rogan and Juno, I'd go on a Wal-Mart feeding frenzy. But alas, all the hfcs folks could get were two of the most boring, generic white people they could find. Excuse me while I go buy a butt-load of agave nectar.

And the Beat Goes On

September 15th, 2008

Miami is a tough, tough town to open a small business. Unless you're either a strip club or cafecito window (what if someone combined the two? Now THAT would be innovation), of course. I've seen a lot of great places opened by some really creative people (A restaurant, Amate tea lounge, any cute boutique on or around Lincoln Road) get stomped quicker than Ohio State playing USC (ooh, burn). I'm not sure why they fail, but if I had to guess, it's because of that classic Miami indifference toward independent businesses. I'm as guilty as anyone for not frequenting these places enough - but it's not because I'd rather go to Starbucks and Target, it's solely because I'm unadventurous and, well, lazy. I think about going to the Upper East Side Garden for one of their fun-sounding events, then I convince myself it would take too much energy to hang with the cool kids, when in reality, the UEG is a really just a cool place to just chill and have a beer.

All that said, one business that has not only managed to survive but grow and just get better and better is Sweat Records. I remember when it was on Second Avenue, near the School Board, and thinking, "This place is so awesome - It'll never make it." And after a hurricane totally wrecked the place, I thought for sure that was the bitter end. Then, months passed and low and behold, Sweat was resurrected! Owner Lolo, who has become quite the media-savvy indie darling of Miami, kept the record store's street cred by opening up in the back of Churchill's Pub. It was a temporary space until she found new digs, and eventually she did - choosing to stay in sketchy Little Haiti. Cool events, a café and, of course, lots of musical goodness made Sweat better than ever. Last weekend, they even held a party to celebrate the new mural painted on the side of the building -- an ode to the artist's and Lolo's favorite musicians.

Last night, Sweat Records was broken into. The vandals not only stole valuables such as the computer, credit card machine, cash drawer, projector and DJ equipment, but they also trashed the place, including a beautiful aquarium. Despite all this, on her blog, Lolo assures everyone that the incident is just "going to make us work harder to make Miami even better and worthy of all the awesome people who live here." And also despite all this, Sweat is moving ahead with a new event on Tuesday -- a comedy showcase called Casa De Ha-Ha. "The thieves left the espresso machine and the microwave," Lolo writes, "so we'll have drinks, popcorn and treats. Starts at 9 p.m.!!" Seriously, if this doesn't inspire you to have faith in humanity (which happens every time I have to drive anywhere in this city), then you are a cold, cold robot.

If you'd like to donate (or if you have a spare projector/aquarium/computer lying around, that would work, too) money to help Sweat get back on their feet, please visit their website.

And even if you don't, the next time you're hungry/thirsty/in the mood to shop, consider stopping by that place you always drive by but never go in because, like most humans, you're averse to change. Do it anyway - not only will the owners be totally psyched that someone new wanted to check out their business that they most likely sunk every penny they had into, but you'll feel totally hip when you tell all your friends you found a cool new place. If you have some of your own favorite hole-in-the-walls, I'd love for you to share. In the meantime, here are a few of mine: Garden of Eatin', Nektar De Stagni (155 NE 38th St., Design District; 305-576-6695) and Karelle Levy's (180 NW 25th St., Wynwood; 305-576-7465) boutiques and Lost & Found Saloon -- and that one's right on the way to Target.

Reading is Fun-damental

September 12th, 2008

So this morning I decided to do a little work from home instead of my normal routine of reading half an article in the New Yorker or some other publication I always intend to read cover to cover and then don't. So in order to get the bare minimum daily dose of news I need to feel good about myself, I turned on CNN. Before they switched to showing footage of waves crashing over a seawall in Galveston (don't worry, you have 18 more hours before Ike actually hits to catch some of it), I caught 2 minutes of an extremely annoying news anchor interviewing Ed Koch. She asked him something about Sarah Palin and how she had banned some books from her local library. After the break, the news anchor came back on with a correction: Palin hadn't banned books, she had merely "asked" about banning them. Phew! She had only "asked" about giving the Constitution a big f-you. No harm in asking, right? Unless, apparently, you're the librarian, and you say "no."

That's as far as this blog is going on the subject of politics. I try to keep it Miami-oriented (at least loosely), and so here goes. I grew up in south Dade in a neighborhood called Whispering Pines. The closest library was South Dade Regional, and this is where I would spend every Saturday morning for much of my elementary school days. My mom and I would take the escalator up to the children's section, where I would scour the shelves for new pleasures: Babar, Harold and the Purple Crayon, Amelia Bedilia, anything bearing the Caldecott or Newbury Award sticker. We'd sit at one of the miniature tables and flip through a few before I chose my allotment of five. This was, by far, the highlight of my week. Books were (and still are) my crack. I learned to read at the age of four, so I would more often than not read my mother to sleep every night. There's no doubt in my mind that it was my mom who taught me to love books. She, too, is a librarian. When angry parents and politicians were fighting to ban "Vamos a Cuba" from school shelves, my mom was very vocal (including a local news interview) about supporting the first amendment, not censorship. Fortunately, unlike the librarian in Alaska, she was never fired for standing up for not only what she believed in but for the Constitution.

September 27 is the beginning of Banned Books Week. Events are scheduled at local libraries as well as at Books and Books. At the store's Coral Gables location, they'll host "Fread 'em" on Oct. 4, during which 10 local authors will read excerpts from their most beloved banned book, followed by a screening of "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest." So whether your favorite book is Fahrenheit 451 or Marley and Me, take in an event at your local bookstore or spend a couple hours in your local library (if you're up for a field trip, head downtown to the Main Library, it's pretty impressive). Instead of spending the afternoon at the mall spending money on crap you don't need and eating Sbarro, take it outside with a beach chair and a good book, and be glad you're not in Galveston.

Or Alaska.

-- miaeditor

Opinionated Much?

September 9th, 2008

Two years ago, I got an email from a friend/ex-coworker about a new website launching in Miami and that they were looking for an editor. The name of the website was DailyCandy, a daily e-mail sent out to subscribers highlighting everything from a new restaurant to a woman who will give you a wax in the shape of your bf's initials. Or something. I had never heard of it before, but when I went online to check out other city editions (NYC, LA, Philly, etc.) and started reading the sassy, witty prose, I knew we would be a perfect fit. The DC ladies thought so too, and so DC Miami was born.

Fast forward to present. In the past few months alone, similar city websites/newsletters have launched, including UrbanDaddy (kind of like a DC for dudes); Thrillist (a more gender neutral DC); and Yelp, a website totally run by its users - leaving reviews of everything from bars to dry cleaners. Oh yes, and Miami.com. Not to sound like a doo-shay, but when anyone asks me who our competition is, I say no one. We're not an email, and we're not totally run by our users. I like to describe us as an online city mag/user review hybrid. The staff AND the patients are running this asylum.

But despite our differences, however slight they might be, the one question I've discussed with the editors of several of the aforementioned sites is: is Miami the kind of city that can sustain all these what's-hot, interactive websites? (Same goes for local blogs, which seem to come and go quickly or boast a readership of four.) Miami, after all, is not New York (where most of these sites started). We're not L.A. or even San Francisco - places where everyone seems to a) find being "on the pulse" important and b) like sharing their opinions. Most people here seem to be oblivious to the fact that these websites even exist. Or maybe they just don't care. Of course, maybe they just haven't been around long enough for anyone to notice yet. After all, Miami is at least a year behind other metropolitan cities when it comes to trends. That's right: we're on the trend short bus.

As for sharing opinions, we're quick to share them when it involves someone else's bad driving. But a bad meal at a restaurant? Not so much. I'm not sure why this is, either. It's not like we're any busier than the average New Yorker. In fact, I usually feel like I'm the only one who actually works in this city. At least when I have lunch on South Beach. (Maybe I should eat in Brickell more often.) Perhaps it's our transient population - that no one stays here long enough to take the time to leave a review of a place. Or maybe it's our lack of "community." Even in NYC, people are very entrenched and enamored with their respective neighborhoods, and thus they feel it's their civic duty or something. Or maybe residents of other cities are more excited about participating in the democratic process.

Of course, our cyber indifference merely reflects our real world indifference. We can't even be bothered with throwing our newspapers in a different receptacle than the trash. Heck, sometimes we can't even throw away our trash (I know, I didn't realize the Earth didn't just absorb my Starbucks cups, either. Crazy!). I have no solution to getting Miamians more involved. Sexier garbage collectors? Free tequila shot for every review you leave on Miami.com? Hey, that's the best idea I've had all day. Seriously, though. Wouldn't you like others to know you found a hair in your food at that hot new steak house? Or on lady's day a certain car wash offers a free wax ? In the shape of your bf's initials, no less.

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