Death To Irony

This is an experiment to document this city–Miami–in all the scene’s glory. So let me be your proverbial white rabbit and follow me into the proverbial rabbit’s hole, otherwise known as the scene:

Dated September 26, 2009

It had been a long month or so of perpetuating and continuous drinking when I realized I had forgotten what sobriety felt like. My eardrums were worn out and the constant ringing of a new dying frequency bidding me farewell for the rest of my life provided me ample company the few times I was able to find silence. My feet had formed blisters from all the dancing; my liver ached but my bank account had taken the biggest hit of all. My car had no gas and a flat tire but I still craved the parties. I craved the boys; I craved the music, I craved the boys, I craved the music, I craved the liquor, I craved the cigarettes, and I craved the dancing; oh god the dancing. It was wine, women (at times) and song all night long–Stop: Crank up the volume–you wind up in a new generation; sex, drugs and rock and roll to please the soul. Oh the simulacra of existence; how quaint you are.

I was done, burnt out at eleven-teen years old. But I still craved them. I wouldn’t quite call them healthy habits, but fun comes with its risks. And these were risks I was willing to take.

This city had given me everything from a home, to a life, to a place to fill my time and being.

I lived with the city; I fucked with the scene. And this is where I find myself now, in the scene.

I liked my music as hard and as fast as I was living my life. Drink of choice: Whiskey on the rocks. Brand of smokes: Whatever I could find after the federal cigarette tax skyrocketed their prices–Marlboro Menthol 100s prior to that.

I had frequented every club, every lounge and venue, the ones that mattered anyway. Churchill’s, Sweat, the Vagabond (I/O?), PS14, White Room ‘round the block; Piccadilly (yes) Liv, Black sheep or whatever it is now, Buck15, any Poplife events, any event really; anything that was happening in Miami. I met the scenesters, I became one of them, I am one of them; I live in their world, I live in the scene. I live with Jose El Rey’s eternally masculine and virile mustache, I live with Cuci Amador’s melodic and lulling voice; I live in the scene.

I showed up early to the art galleries for the free wine, I went to parties at rundown warehouses, I watched the sunrise on the beach, I have driven back home just in time to catch the morning commute on the 836.

These are risks I am still willing to take and am not going to shake any time soon.

I have met many a, what I call, hipster, frequenting the Miami nightlife scene – I guess I should define the term, but it’s too complicated to do so right now, so I’ll do it in a later post). Many of them, upon first introduced, ask me to “spot” them 20 dollars for a cab home. I only did this once, and then ran into the person who so hastily needed the money to get home 50 minutes later at another bar across the street. I was later told that this hipster was simply refueling. You see, other than the obligatory and now pastiche PBR and irony, hipsters seem to run on baggies of cocaine; that’s about a gram per outing, at least – more-so when these hipsters congregate together. But this story isn’t about the sad reckless-abandon usage of cocaine in the nightlife scene, I could care less whichever one of these is first to go due to a cerebrovascularly induced seizure (I’ve actually had the pleasure of hearing a person argue that cocaine does less damage than cigarettes).

For as long as the culture has been in existence, young adults, those twenty-somethings to the older early-thirty-somethings, have adopted anti-consumerist, anti-middle-of-the-bell-curve views in their many forced attempts to be different than the greater population, ultimately failing to see the irony – a concept they hold onto so dearly – that they’ve all become the same caricatured kitschy lampoonery. But this post isn’t about that either.

There’s a divide between these zombified drones with egos that are negatively correlated to the size of their penises – I am wrong, not in all cases is that so; even the ones with big penises carry their even larger egos on their backs. The divide is a mutually exclusivity of mutual funds. There are those hipsters that have never held a paying job in their lives – I’m not referring to partying and buying bottles for the bottle whores while doing blow off your table at whatever chic Miami Beach club you are having a party at and going to for the irony of it being everything you don’t stand for. No, not that job. I’m talking about a 40-hour get-off-of-my-ass-in-the-morning-only-to-come-back-home-to-jerk-off-and-go-to-sleep job.

This happens because of one of two things:

1. You are a real idiot and believe you are sticking it to the man by not holding a conventional job.

2. You are a real idiot and believe you are sticking it to the man by not holding a conventional job, but your parents have secured a trust fund for you.

Either way, said person is an idiot.

If you are reading this and you fall into any of the categories formed, you are probably rationalizing by beating the dead artistic entrepreneurial horse: I am an artist; I am an entrepreneur; I am working on my brand (substitute band for brand in some cases or sometimes they claim to be working on both). Of course it’s easy to start a business or a band when your parents are paying the rent (this goes double for those hipsters over 40 – you know who you are).

May god bless the trust fund hipsters for their success in being born into the homes of doctors and lawyers.

The other hipsters that weren’t as lucky to have been born into the homes of previously stated professions and had to settle for blue-collar parents are just as bad. They have no money (meaning they have more of a reason to get a job) and still don’t work.

May god bless them too.

Don’t think, at all, that I am at all saying it is better (or luckier) to come from and have money. I believe there are things that are more important than the green. I am just saying it is easier to waste your time in senseless acts without the impending worry of expenses adding up.

My rant is coming to an end as I am getting hungry. Let me go scan my refrigerator for something non-organic to get this nasty hipster taste out of my mouth.

Comments? Reactions?

Feel free to get pissed; I welcome you with open arms.

1. This is dedicated to all the local artists that have been making music for a total of 3 weeks and already have a manager who won’t ask for anything less than four figures.
2. This is dedicated to all the promoters that leave early so they can skip out on paying their performers after a show doesn’t go according to plan.
3. This is dedicated to those plans.
4. This is dedicated to the Hipsters and their false sense of self-importance.
5. This is dedicated to Miami’s nightlife photographers; yes, all 247 of them.
6. This is dedicated to the bottle whores and the bottle guards.
7. This is dedicated to being in between jobs but still being able to afford the lifestyle.
8. This is dedicated to Anthony Verrilli.
9. This is dedicated to Anthony Verrilli. Yes, a double dedication.
10. This is dedicated to all of the AA, UO and the rest of your faux-vintage apparel.
11. This is dedicated to all of the assholes who only support the music when they can get into the event for free.