2004-10-22 - 12:13 a.m.
To each city falls it's own quixotic traditions, like the tossing of shoes over a street lamp, or the lounging as far as humanly possible into the street waiting for traffic to pass. (Thank you New York...my impatience so well respected in the big apple has had me honked at and nearly sutured onto the grill of a yellow Humvee.) I cannot stand too surprised to find Miami is not without its own eccentricities.
Growing up, I cannot describe the discomfort brought on by my mothers insistance on hanging by while she searched through the lingere section at Macy's. While certian articles could be considered racy, and envigorating when viewed, such thoughts and images are perverted when one is the company of their procreator. A black lace teddy may look extremely nice, but when one considers Mumsy dearest prancing about in it, you tend to want to stare at your shoes with the kind of intensity that might just bend reality if focused properly.
I viewed maniqens (God I miss spell check.) with the same kind of fear. It started with dipping colars that revealed plastic breast, and continued with department stores oddly insistant on having all their matted models nipping out inches from their chest. I always thought the act of having one's areolas shoved rigid against one's clothing to be considered mainly distasteful by the opposite sex, but apparently the softer side of Sears means the harder side of nerts. (Nerts: n. (Nur-tz) The result of what appears to be a pair of breasts exposed to the artic conditions of Alaska.)
What lead them to plant such provocative material before their customers I shall never know, but this is certainly topped by the well filled male thongs that litter the front windows of surf shops in Miami.
Not only is each speedo well equipped with a bulging phallis but also two swelling testicles that can easily be made out in outline.
Passing by, I could only muster one comment as any thought to my possible bi-sexuality spiraled down the drain.
This was only topped by a live subject presenting the same kind of visage. Red shorty shorts do not belong on a man, no matter what his physique.
However disturbing the attire of the beach trollers might be, this paled by comparison to what I hold to be the greatest conversation piece of Miami. Ignore the ever-shining sun, and the thongs a plenty. Ignore the Art Decco that runs rampant over the boardwalk, as if the style hadn't peaked and plumeted nearly sixty years ago. Ignore, still, the lack of any corner shop bodegas, as if one were to obtain sundries by mere will alone.
What stands strangest in this odd little village by the see, at least to these eyes, is that each and every handicapped bathroom stall is equipted with its own sink.
Please do not misunderstand. Those in wheelchairs may well need, or should at least be graced with their own private vainity, but when one considers a bathroom equipted with a four sink coutner and a dutiful attendant pushing AXE body spray, it seems rather redundant.
I truely enjoyed its presence, as it tendered me the oppertunity to shave off my errant stubble after having been razorless for a week. (Finally found a Schick in a store that sold a wide variety of penis shapped lighters. Wonder why those two items would be sold in the same establishment...Must ponder.) Doing this at the regular sink would have been embarassing, but given my private space I was content to prune away at free will.
I suppose this is a town to primp in. The New York hipster, it's cool to be fugly vibe hasn't reached down here, so the majority of the men are well tanned and decked in either tight fitting near scuba suits, or loose fitting near thong tops, that reveal even more skin than their female counterparts.
Perhaps these men, competing against a well-coifed legion, need the privacy to correct inconsistencies in their gelled spikes, or perhaps add a bit more concealer to that bastard of a pimple.
Washing one's hands in a private stall feels almost decadent over the drunken sports talk running from the urinals. Mid-scrub I consider raising a twenty in the air to see if a Manhattan is plunked into my wee fingers just to keep with the theme.
I try and take all of this with a grain of salt, but expect pictures to be taken should I see a man packed tightly into a spandex bottom stroll over to the stall sink to freshen up.
If I survive the moments following that click, that is another story, for another time.
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