By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Clevelander Hotel is just a block up from Mango's. There is bound to be something going on here at this notoriously rowdy poolside party that is home to "Splash," a "hot body contest" that with luck will turn into some "skin to win" showdown. There's music here as well, but again, if we wanted music we would be in Nashville. Besides, hearing some cover band crank out top 40 tunes can be mildly depressing, a helluva culmination to what may have once been a promising music career.
But instead of a bar band, there's a DJ spinning the song that won't die, Nelly's "Hot In Herre," then Miami's kiss of death, Will Smith's "Miami." No poolside soiree is complete without a bit of hip-hop camp. So the DJ throws in some "Rapper's Delight" for good measure.
Suddenly in the midst of this barrage the conscious starts to cry out for some 50 Cent after all. No sense in agonizing over Ocean Drive any longer than needed. It is what it is. Leave it to the barfly locals and the tourists. This land is not our land.
So you head out west to Washington Avenue, and its maddening orgy of attitude, as yet another pointless night of fun in South Beach comes to a screeching halt. You pause for a moment in surreal solitude on the corner of Washington and Tenth and absorb your world here in Thunderdome, your lawless surroundings void of morality and meaning. And you love every bit of it.