WMC Miami Week

So here I sit in a beautiful, lizard-friendly cabana, poolside at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Ft. Lauderdale. It's in the low eighties, and we're watching music videos of Elvis' last Vegas performances. These cabanas, I've been told, go for about a buck-fifty for half a day, and are equipped with roving cameras and (our Brazilian waitress told us later) infrared. But we're camped out here for nothin' but our $95 tab for a few saw-off-my-right-leg drinks and the watermelon slices that are juicing their way down my chin at present. Oops, mind the MacBook.

This fortuitous rock star treatment has been complements of some friends I've been staying with in Giana Beach, just north of Hollywood (not L.A.) and west of North Beach (not S.F.):

the exuberant, hype-sparking manager of my fellow restaurantier RossmanZ (aka DJ Throdown) and his lovely multi-lingual girlfriend Mary who has made every morning bearable with her scrambled eggs, biscuits, and coffee. It's been a nutcase journey out here. It was trying, tying up loose ends in my own life and unloading from car to just north of Logan Circle just two days before my 8 am flight out of DC, with a grand total of maybe eight hours of sleep over the course of five days. But a couple hours after landing, I was soaking in some Florida sun and scribbling in a fresh journal I picked up at the airport. Success! One pseudo-diary entry and two false beginnings later, a green Hondo whipped up to the curb, and the whole thing blasted into action.

We got to the Eden Roc hotel ten minutes late for registration--hurry up and wait.

Our crew, headed up by T's manager Dale and threaded in T-shirts advertising his company, CBT VIP (Club Bottles and Tables) were throwing down hard for our boy in his furry Dr. Seuss hat and alien Jackie O shades despite the awkward, fully-lit and fully-sober atmosphere. Not to say there wasn't love, but Miami just couldn't handle the DC heat we speak! (Local love moment, excuse).

John Q even got to thro down onstage in between sets, beat boxing his pretty little heart out, blowing everyone’s mind, and sparing the technicians even more awkwardness as they sorted out the myriad problems they were having with the equipment.

But without a doubt, the most rewarding performance was from a Canadian named DJ Creative. DJ Creative has skills, but you gotta wait for it. Wait for it? Wait...for...it!! And listen up, 'cause he's about to drop some mad shit. And check this sweet turnaround he's gonna do in the middle of his scratch! This man was a fearless warrior of the workings, adept at the apparatus.

The MTV reality crew, who were there to catch the goings-on as seen by Playboy’s 50^th Anniversary Playmate of the Year, Ms. Colleen Shannon, shot Q’s impromptu exhibition with DJ Blondie (points f

or originality). We would get to know these toe-headed specimens rather well over the course of the week.

Our first fluke run-in occurred at the door of Mansion, where theywanted $50 a head for our entry. We all started pulling on our invisible neckties as our ride pulled away. We’d all been saving money for the trip, but…gawd! For a split second, I missed my D.C. existence where a passing acquaintance or affable stranger would pull me into an unforeseeable adventure. Then—BOOM—John Q spotted the camera crews buzzing around a very petite and femininely robust bleach-blonde and jumped on the net

working gravy train. We followed their crew, which consisted of Ms. Work Done, her highly original friend, her Seacrestian tool of a boyfriend (as seen standing behind Rossman in the photo above), and their exquisitely irritating gay producer with the Mexi-hawk, to a bar just a block away called Twist. We followed them up the stairs, the bouncy blondes in their obligatory pink-and-turquoise spandex ensembles, and me in silver leggings and see-thru lace tank.

The cameraman was close behind me as I negotiated the stairs in leggings attached to my four-inch, red “fuck-me”heels. So…assuming their little reality show is indeed aired on MTV this summer, I guess you can say my ass is famous. We all took fruity shots and flipped our hair for the camera, then danced to Lady Gaga as DJ’ed by what looked like Scott Thompson in drag. A worthy use of a random evening, to be sure.