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Mr. Wrong

I’m in Miami Bitch

Gentle reader of the “Mr. Wrong” column, I am about to do something never before done in the entire 15-year history of columning the “Mr. Wrong” column, and that is to apologize to you, the Gentle Reader of the Mr. Wrong column, and no, not for the column itself, for that I don’t apologize. However:

I apologize.

I know you don’t ask for much, Gentle Reader, but the one thing I am supposed to do as the columnist of the “Mr. Wrong” column is to Always Be Columning, whenever and wherever I have the space to column, and last week, in my weekly space on the pages and pixels of City Paper, Baltimore’s Weekly Alternative Weekly, I failed.

I failed to column!

Of course, Haters of the “Mr. Wrong” column may be all like “Oh, wha? I didn’t notice,” or deeper still, “Ohh, that’s why I enjoyed the paper so much more last week! I didn’t have to burn the calories required to slide my eyes away from that ‘Mr. Wrong’ column, and lift the page in order to turn it and remove it from my sight, yay!” Whatever, haters, I will file an extra column this week and put it on the Internet just to even up the psychic energy of the lack of column for you to hate, but meanwhile, Enjoyers of the “Mr. Wrong” column, please accept my abject apologies for failing to column.

While I do not have an excuse, I have a reason, and it is a classic and unoriginal reason (just like the “Mr. Wrong” column, I know, I know), in the manner of the famous former comedian Steve Martin, in his joke a long time ago about why he did not file the Income Tax, he said, “I forgot.” Only he said it in his funny Steve Martin the Comedian (a long time ago) way, and Steve Martin the comedian has been on my mind a lot because I just read his book entitled Born Standing Up: A Comic’s Life, which I had the time to read, along with almost a whole another entire book (about Professional Wrestling), because I was, for almost a full week, poolside in Miami Beach, Florida, America, which I recommend for visiting and touristing and most specifically Honeymooning in, which is why I forgot to write my column, which I had fully intended to write! But I forgot! Because I was on my Honeymoon! Which is to say I just got married, right before that!

Man, this has been the most festive and selfish week of my life, seriously, I did nothing but eat, drink, and be married here in Baltimore, U.S.A., and then my Bride and I flew on an AirTran to sunny Miami Beach for an all-expenses-paid (by us) Honeymoon at the glamorous and gigantic Fontainebleau hotel, which is classy the way a Cadillac car used to be classy, in terms of impressing the Middle-Class American, and it worked, man, I am very Middle-Class—I don’t apologize—and it was very impressive, they had pictures of famous people who slept at the Fontainebleau, such as Frank Sinatra and James Bond, and they had a bunch of expensive restaurants to eat in and spend way too much money, but you don’t care because you are on your Honeymoon, and then you drink a bunch a fancy cocktails and look at the Atlantic Ocean and then everything makes sense, and you go and do Married stuff, and then the next day you hit the beach, or better yet, the swimming pool (it’s closer to the bar) and lounge on the lounge chairs and read books and sit in the hot tub and look at all the other guests of the hotel and try and figure out the Foreign or European ones, which you generally can do pretty easily, based on the amount of bathing suit they are wearing. Generally, less bathing suit = more Foreign.

There were also, poolside, a lotta fake boobs—along with real ones like me, I know, I know—but I couldn’t figure out if sporting fake boobs increased the chances of the owner being Foreign or Domestic, even when there was almost nothing covering ’em, in terms of a bathing suit. Miami Beach, in general, seems to wear less clothing per capita than pretty much everywhere I’ve ever been except Nudist places, and it’s only weird for a little while, and then you get used to seeing people wearing almost no clothes to places where the average American would at least put on a fucking shirt, you know? I didn’t see a lot of those no shirt no shoes no service signs either.

For a travel tip, we didn’t fly to Miami Beach, we flew to Fort Lauderdale, because it was way cheaper, and then we took the bus, which, trust me, don’t take the Google instructions, because that fucking Google put us on three buses with two transfers, but a native Floridian tipped us off we only needed to transfer once, so I would personally like to thank the People of Florida, who get a bad rap on the Internet, but I’m not kidding, everybody in Florida from the airport to the hotel and all the places we went in between were very nice, except the one guy at the desk at the Fontainebleau who didn’t want to take my room key-card when we checked out, saying something like, “Oh, you might want to keep that, it has your name on it,” but I got the feeling he just didn’t want to throw it away for me. I’m not putting that on TripAdvisor dot com or anything, just saying I kinda got a negative vibe off him, but that mighta been because I kept asking him if I got that $50 credit at the bar that was supposed to be part of the room package, so I may have been a wee bit annoying with my vodka-breath checkout questions.

I decided to blend in to Miami Beach, clothing-wise, by wearing a white linen suit, until people started yelling “Hey, Miami Vice Sonny!” or “Hey, Michael Bolton!” or finally, “Hey, you need to clean that suit!” So then I wore my Adidas track suit and a Baltimore Orioles bucket hat everywhere and got a lot of Senior Citizen discounts. Here’s another travel tip: the number one indicator you are a tourist (other than you are riding on a double-decker tourist bus taking pictures of the Art Deco buildings) is that you are wearing a floppy bucket hat, so if you want to blend in and you wanna wear a hat, make it one of those hip straw ones like you can get at Target. Do not wear one of those “Captain” boat hats, and to get into the shirt area for a moment, do not wear one of those i’m in miami bitch T-shirts that are for sale at the kabillion beach shops in Miami.

OK, one more time, Gentle Reader, I would like to Sincerely Apologize for forgetting to file last week’s “Mr. Wrong” column, and again, there was no excuse, but I think the reason was pretty solid, and I would like to thank the People of Florida, and lastly, I would like to thank my Bride for making this all possible.

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