Ice Station Victor
Britney, a lima bean-size hipster with a Jane Fonda mullet, leans on a small serpentine bar and imparts an arctic tale of nastiness. "The coldest thing I ever did was start a rumor in elementary school that a boy I didn't like had sex with his dog," she says. "Then I told everyone that the dog got pregnant and had a litter of half-dog/half-human puppies."
Like dozens of other people at the launch of Hotel Victor's (1144 Ocean Dr., Miami Beach) new weekly bash, Frost Bite Thursdays, Britney can be as cold as a Ben & Jerry's freezer. Sure, it's the sauna-like season when Art Basel's buzz has been swapped for a satanic militia of vampiric mosquitoes, but partiers fill this narrow white hotel lounge adorned with icicle-shaped light fixtures like a full-on snow flurry.
Britney's friend, Kelly, is an ice queen with a Spartan flavor. The 24-year-old blonde wears sandals that look as if they were snatched from Gerard Butler's feet after the filming of 300. She blows away a golden lock that's tickling her freckled, turned-up nose and then offers a real snow cone: "During summers in college, I'd always come back home to Miami and waitress. One day, a line cook ambushed me after work. He had tons of tattoos and would always tame his big, poofy Afro with a rubber band. But he was so persistent that I finally caved and gave him a chance. We really hit it off and ended up dating that entire summer...
"But when my friends met him, they were so disgusted that they actually ostracized me. Upset, I told him that it was time for him to grow up and get more of an adult haircut. He refused, so I dumped him."
That's almost as cold as the molecular mixology martini I'm sipping. When a braless bartender ladles some liquid nitrogen into the booze, it emits steam like a power plant.
Despite the lame theatrics, Leslie, a 30-year-old with an engaging smile, straight brown hair, and a slightly Latinized accent that screams of a suburban South Miami-Dade upbringing, is pretty creative. On Valentine's Day several years ago, she and a BFF were both boyfriendless. So they devised a frosty scheme. "We baked two batches of cookies to hand out to all of our friends," she says as her gregarious smile becomes menacing. "One batch, marked with happy faces made out of frosting, was fine. The other, decorated with flowers, had a secret ingredient that the other batch didn't: laxatives. We handed the happy-face cookies out to all of our friends who were single like us, and gave the flower cookies to all of our friends who were in sickeningly cute and perfect relationships. Halfway through the day, I kept on noticing the couples having to get up randomly in the middle of class and run to the bathroom. We pretty much ruined their Valentine's Day."
But it's not only the females who have an evil streak. Bad boy Alan, a handsome yet rough-looking 38-year-old with a slight barrel chest, recalls his days at a sleep-away summer camp. "There was a counselor there who used to steal money from all of our pockets whenever we went swimming and left our jeans in the locker room," he says, widening his sunken green eyes. "One of my friends caught him doing it red-handed. So one day, me and a bunch of other guys jumped him, beat the crap out of him, took off all his clothes, covered him in jelly, and tied him to a tree in the middle of a forest. We left him there to get eaten up by bugs."
In the words of Mean Girls' Gretchen Wieners: "That is so fetch!"
Equally fetching is Gabrielle, a model type with honey-toned Cleopatra bangs. If the peaks of her ample endowments are any indication, she's feeling quite nippy as she sips an Imperia and soda. It's appropriate. The blizzard blowing from her mouth is as cold as a witch's tit. "I bought a really great eightball one night. It was Colombian and barely cut. One bump and you were grinding your teeth all night long."
Ah, yes, the fabulous life.
"My roommate was home when I got it, so we did a few lines, and then I put it away because I was going to my boyfriend's house for the night and he really doesn't like that kind of stuff. So the next day, a girlfriend came over. We were planning on clubbing, so I told her about this amazing coke I just bought. We cut a line, my friend took one snort, freaked out, and said, 'What are you talking about? This is all baking soda!' I didn't believe her. So I took a little bit and my nose started to bleed. It really burned.
"The only other person who knew where I had hidden it was my roommate, who I figured must've done all of it, then replaced it with the baking soda. I was ready to confront her when my friend came up with a better plan. We decided to invite her into my room for some more coke. Which of course, she accepted. We cut her three gigantic lines of pure baking soda, thinking she wouldn't go for it and would confess to doing the whole bag. But she did! After watching her do two more lines, I couldn't take it anymore and finally confronted her. She fessed up and started to cry."
Can you say ice pick to the back? But at least Gabrielle displayed some kind of emotion. Amy, an attractive, blue-eyed, Dolce & Gabbana-clad 36-year-old, was so stingingly numb she could have made a polar bear shiver. "I had a boyfriend who crashed a stop sign and T-boned some illegal immigrant. The guy, who was injured, begged my boyfriend not to call the cops. But he did anyway, and the man was deported."
Did she break up with him after that?
"No," she says, batting black lashes. "He was a millionaire."
And just like that, somewhere in the Himalayas, the abominable snowman bows down.
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