Miami

miami

I’m back like a chiropractor.

Yeah, so Miami was a wash. We visited the Bay of Pigs museum, which may get a separate post, and the Rubell Collection, which won’t. The plan was to park our carcasses down on Ocean Ave and marvel at the American Graffiti-by-way-of-Versace parade of human plastic. But we brought with us a record cold, so cold the iguanas were falling from the treetops. That meant all the reptiles stayed indoors. The cafes that weren’t empty were stuffed with Hokies, in town for the FedEx Orange Bowl. These diehards were not about to let some pretty mild tailgating weather get in the way of a good, rowdy Art Deco drunk. The Kansas U. fans either turned in early or partied in a cooler part of town.

We were back at the hotel in time to watch the late night hosts break strike. A penitent Conan sang Radiohead over Rock Band with an English accent not evident in the original (“Your skin makes my croy….”). And so to bed.

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