Epilogue
I survived an experience on Monday night that was simply beyond the pale. I was coma-wasted within two hours of my arrival at Miami Beach but, with the help of my brother and others with me that night, I can now recall most details about the events in question. I'm not sure if I want to write about it in its entirety--certainly not right now, maybe in a day or two. We partied to a level of outrageousness beyond the events included in my "Mad Town" and "Tuesday Night's Cubs Game" posts of this past summer. Every single one of you will be offended.
Just to build a little excitement while I decide how or if I should write about Monday night, the following teaser will do for the time being.
On Tuesday afternoon, me, my brother and Mela, all immensely sleep-deprived and roaringly hungover, settled down for a relaxing lunch at Boston's in Delray Beach. Incidentally, Boston's is on Ocean Boulevard-A1A, the same street where, a handful of hours previously and 60 miles to the south, the three of us unleashed shocking furies onto the city of Miami Beach.
After settling in at our table, just a few yards from the tranquility of the beach, our friend began the conversation by remarking, "I spent four awesome days in Naples, hanging out at the beach, playing golf, going to nice restaurants, really winning points with my girlfriend. It was beyond perfect. Then I come to Miami, and you two motherfuckers showed up!"
All three of us couldn't help but crack up lauging.
Once the laughter ceased, my brother inquired, "Were we really that bad?"
"You guys were EMBARASSING!" came the reply.
More laughter. We couldn't help ourselves. Then silence. Then we looked at each other. Then we cracked up again.
I cannot think of one single single thing I did during my 15 hours in Miami that would possibly be described as acceptable behavior. We shocked everyone, including ourselves, and that's saying something, given both the company and the city at hand. In fact, we were so totally misbehaved, our friend fielded a half-hour phone call prior to our going to lunch, which involved his girlfriend literally crying over a number of issues including--but not limited to--how reprehensibly misbehaved his friends were. Let's put it this way: There is no way I can ever speak to our hosts again, let alone call them for a place to crash or hang out the next time I'm down in Miami. Thankfully, my brother came away from his experience at the St. James Hotel with a positive impression and a rate card.
I've got to say, even though I completely understand why I should feel shame, those of you who know me well will be aware of the fact that in a sick, twisted, uniquely Pat way, I am completely proud of myself for living to tell the tale of the South Beach Saurez.
Just to build a little excitement while I decide how or if I should write about Monday night, the following teaser will do for the time being.
On Tuesday afternoon, me, my brother and Mela, all immensely sleep-deprived and roaringly hungover, settled down for a relaxing lunch at Boston's in Delray Beach. Incidentally, Boston's is on Ocean Boulevard-A1A, the same street where, a handful of hours previously and 60 miles to the south, the three of us unleashed shocking furies onto the city of Miami Beach.
After settling in at our table, just a few yards from the tranquility of the beach, our friend began the conversation by remarking, "I spent four awesome days in Naples, hanging out at the beach, playing golf, going to nice restaurants, really winning points with my girlfriend. It was beyond perfect. Then I come to Miami, and you two motherfuckers showed up!"
All three of us couldn't help but crack up lauging.
Once the laughter ceased, my brother inquired, "Were we really that bad?"
"You guys were EMBARASSING!" came the reply.
More laughter. We couldn't help ourselves. Then silence. Then we looked at each other. Then we cracked up again.
I cannot think of one single single thing I did during my 15 hours in Miami that would possibly be described as acceptable behavior. We shocked everyone, including ourselves, and that's saying something, given both the company and the city at hand. In fact, we were so totally misbehaved, our friend fielded a half-hour phone call prior to our going to lunch, which involved his girlfriend literally crying over a number of issues including--but not limited to--how reprehensibly misbehaved his friends were. Let's put it this way: There is no way I can ever speak to our hosts again, let alone call them for a place to crash or hang out the next time I'm down in Miami. Thankfully, my brother came away from his experience at the St. James Hotel with a positive impression and a rate card.
I've got to say, even though I completely understand why I should feel shame, those of you who know me well will be aware of the fact that in a sick, twisted, uniquely Pat way, I am completely proud of myself for living to tell the tale of the South Beach Saurez.
posted by Pat at 3:00 AM
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