Hot Night in the 305

Nearly 21 years ago, my friend Jim and I went to a reggae festival in Miami's Bayfront Park. We still talk about our experience that evening, but the family nature of this blog prevents me from recounting it here. Still, we wanted to reprise the laughs, and when I saw Robert Plant was playing at the Bayfront Amphitheatre, we bought tickets.

We met at my office and walked to Tobacco Road. Immediately the Yiddish accents and adolescent jokes began to flow, along with the 4 vodkas we each had. Jim's a husband, father, and mediator, but shares my sense that we're at least partly still about 15 years old.

We made our way to the People Mover, and got off at Bayfront. The amphitheatre was packed. I asked the young black ticket taker if this was the Flo Rida show. She and Jim both guffawed.

We got yet ANOTHER vodka each, and began to marvel at the array of Boomers walking around. They ranged from our age to about 70, and droopy skin, bald spots, and serious butts and bellies abounded.

We found our seats, and there was a young fellow sitting alone, dressed exactly like I used to dress on LI in the 70s. He wasn't more than 19. Jim and I asked him why he was there. "Today's music sucks, except for Sublime, and their singer's dead! Zeppelin rules, man!" I almost bought him a beer, but then thought better of it.

The show was great. Plant was in fine voice, and sang terrific blues and spirituals, including a great Willie Nelson song, "Satisfied Mind." He also sang about 5 Zep songs. No "Stairway to Heaven," though.

In front of us, a woman our age, who weighed 300 if she weighed a pound, was seductively swiveling her hips. Jim and I, 15 in maturity, nearly peed our pants. Her husband or boyfriend started pasionately kissing her. "Lucky bastard," Jim noted.

The show ended, and D1 texted me that she was at Bongos, at the AAA, celebrating a friend's 22 birthday, and why didn't Jim and I come crash the party. We walked over, and learned that Rianna had just played the AAA. The juxtaposition of the mostly gringo middle agers and the mostly Latina hotties sharing the sidewalk was a sight to behold --a true Miami moment.

Jim and I waited at the velvet rope, tried to walk into Bongos, but the enormous, swarthy bouncer shook his head no, and pointed down. "No shorts allowed," he said in heavily accented English.

Jim and I started pleading in heavy NY accents that we were "big shots and machers" and he ought to let us in, but the fellow just drew up to his full 6 4 or so and we slinked away.

D1 met us by the entrance, and we told her we couldn't come in for a mojito. She asked why. I told her because her Dad and his friend were 2 middle aged, nerdy schlumps not fit for admission into a hot Latin club, is why.

We walked back to my office, laughing the whole way.

I got to sleep around 230 this am, and had to awake at 630 for some family business, so today an EPIC nap awaits me.

I'm in the mood for a melody, I'm in the mood for a melody, I'm in the mood...