Alcohol is the id's best friend. When the two mix, shame and tact are beaten into submission by our inner animal. During this brief lapse of reason, man's primordial urge to act a fool is realized to the amusement of sober observers, i.e., me, on a recent Friday night at Purdy Lounge (1811 Purdy Ave, Miami Beach; 305-531-4622).
Out front, two Frisbee-eyed dealers flagrantly peddled Ecstasy just yards away from cops. But the fuzz had its attention focused on the doorman, making sure he scanned each ID for underage clubbers. Inside Purdy, the first and larger room throbbed with retro and rock music, while the back room was a small sweatbox steaming up with heavy bass and rap. Maneuvering through the dense crowd proved challenging, especially while dodging boisterous dancers and pool sharks. Despite the wall-to-wall rowdiness, though, the lava lamps, casual dress code, and board games hinted at a chill undercurrent.
As I scribbled away on my notepad in the hip-hop room, a drunk blond girl (DBG) snatched the pen out of my hand and challenged me to a game of tic-tac-toe. Twelve seconds later I won. "Whatever, that's just 'cause I let you have the first move," said DBG, thrusting a finger in my face.
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1811 Purdy Ave, Miami Beach; 305-531-4622
Nearby, Viviana, a Puerto Rican with pride, sported a shirt that read "Who needs big tits?" (front) "When you have an ass like this?" (back). As if she didn't already appear confident enough, Viviana blurted out, "Your arm hairs are poking me," to a girl with stubbly forearms sitting next to her.
In the background, guys didn't dance; they bobbed like buoys. And speaking of bobbing, DBG's ass was literally doing just that a foot away from my face. Instead of staring (even I couldn't help it) as she struggled to keep her skirt over her gyrating and ample booty, my boyfriend leaned over and told me he loves me. It was perhaps the only triumph of reason over impulse the whole evening.