Good afternoon readers. Happy Wednesday. I decided to sit down and put down a nice blog post so here we are. The week's going well; in a few hours I have to counsel one of my cadets, which is always fun. More for me to learn as a leader. Oh and by the way my public speaking ability has gone through the roof since I've gotten this flight commander gig. I can whip up a speech on the spot and fucking deliver, like, impromptu. It's great. Anyway, that's not what this blog post is about.
DISCLAIMER: NOTHING WRITTEN IN THIS POST IS TRUE. YUP. MADE IT ALL UP. EVERYTHING YOU ARE READING IS COMPLETELY MADE UP. LITERATURE. FAN FICTION.
I gotta start doing that from now on. My stories (while completely, 100% fabricated) are crazy. What if my blog gets super popular one day and everyone reads stories that probably shouldn't be put on the internet? Exactly... hence the disclaimer. It's all bullshit. I swear.
Anyway sit down, strap in, and shut up because I'm about to take you on a domestic route straight to Miami. Beautiful M-I-to-the-A. SoBe, KMIA. My single favorite location on Earth. Yup, it's gonna be one of those posts.
This story in particular took place during my fourth or fifth trip to Miami, I think, I've honestly lost count. Whichever one is the most recent, the time we went right after field training, that's the trip I'm talking about. Everything went pretty damn well that trip. Getting upgraded to the top floor, corner room, master-suite of our 7th and Ocean hotel; free drinks everywhere we went; and not to mention the dramatic delta of being on South Beach immediately after Field Training.
Now I'm sure you've heard me talk of the club promoters who aren't uncommon in the area. If you're a family, or if you look broke, or if you're just not that cool look looking, you will probably never notice a club promoter regardless of how many times you visit Miami. However, Karen and I must've made the cut because our beach lounging was frequently interrupted by some 30-year-old European wearing Carrera sunglasses.
We never took the promoters up on their offers. Usually we'd find ourselves returning to the hotel with a collection of wristbands inviting us to clubs all over Collins, but by nightfall we'd end up intimidated and just throw them all away. But by like the fourth or fifth time it happened, we decided we might as well go along with it and see what happens.
Enter Alessandro. He slickly cruised up to us on the beach while we were finishing off a few Limearitas. He was wearing the promoter uniform, and spoke the promoter lingo. "Hey you too party right? I'm Alessandro and saw you two just chillin'. You wanna party with Alessandro tonight?" Granted it sounds really weird out of context, and in pretty much ANYWHERE but Miami this would be creepy as hell. But that's how partying gets done on South Beach, it's all part of the game. The only difference was that this time we played back.
So we chatted, found our options (Mansion, Dream, Set, every venue was famous and very exclusive) and started talking pricing. It was ninety bucks, $30 for Karen, and $60 for me and that's when I was like no fucking way. The sticker price included: a limo ride from our hotel, a private pregame party at a 4-star luxury bar, UNLIMITED PREMIUM LIQUOR at said bar, a limo ride from the bar to the club, and wristbands for the VIP line at Mansion. Depending on how much we drank at the open bar, this $90 experience would easily end up costing us well over one or two grand if we hadn't been hunted by the promoter. Mansion is usually at least a $100 to get in, and reservations start at I think like five k min? This was not the kiddie pool.
I exchanged numbers with Alessandro and took his card. I had no clue the social protocol on dealing with your promoter either. It's like it's back to high school ("do I text him now or wait a few hours?") but Karen and I got it all figured out and had our plans for the night set in stone. There was only one problem... We weren't exactly old enough to drink. (Don't forget this whole story is made up. It's all a funny hypothetical situation.)
We had class passes to keep us entertained at the liq stores, restaurants, and smaller joints like Clevelander, but this was Mansion we were venturing towards. This nightclub is mentioned by name in rap songs. There's a top-charting house music song literally named after this place. This type of club simply does not react well with class passes. Regardless, we thought to go ahead and try since they've always worked up to that point.
So 9:00 rolled around, both of us dressed to kill, and as promised we were picked up by Alessandro enroute to the Whitelaw. The $90 was paid, tips given of course, and we spent an hour or two drinking Grey Goose and 1800. Yeah, our bill would've easily been in the hundreds had we not been hooked up by Alessandro.
11:00 then rolled around. A limo comes, we get in, and off we go to Mansion. Now I'm not sure if you've ever rolled into the VIP line of Mansion after just getting out of a limousine, but I would highly recommend it. People from down the block and across the street were looking a little excessively with that classic touristy "I wonder who THAT is" face. We quickly progressed up the line (the regular line, for the peons, extended around the corner) and whipped out our class passes. Go big or go home, right?
The giant, and I mean GIANT, bouncers glanced at them for a split second..."Nope." Well, fuck. They didn't work. I mean they didn't even come close to working. We tried to talk our way in, but that didn't work either. The two bouncers pointed out about seven discrepancies on our beloved American Express cards and guided us away from the door. All that buildup, and we didn't get in. We were three feet from the door! We could practically see Scott Disick inside, drinking to excess and cheating on Kourtney! Despite the disappointment, we accepted defeat, took back our cheat sheets, and walked away. Then we went back to the fucking kiddie pool and enjoyed the rest of our night. And the truth of the matter was we STILL only spent $90 for around a very very expensive night.
But there are two things that really crack me up over this story. First, was the look on everyone's face in the peon line who saw two young people get out of A LIMO, the walk right up to THE VIP LINE of fucking MANSION, and then get rejected and turned away. The confusion amidst all of those tourists watching from across the street was prevalent and priceless.
Second, was the reaction of poor Alessandro. He'd been pulling strings and gracing us with wristbands and limos and free booze. Then, when we finally get to Mansion, we don't get in! I can only imagine, "Wait, they're not 21? What the hell!?" Fortunately however this must have not been the case because 36 hours later I received yet another text from Alessandro, "Hey man anywhere you and your girl trying to party tonight? I can do $20 for her and $40 for you tonight."
Not only did we get offered more wristbands and limos and free booze, he gave us a bigger discount! Didn't SOMEONE tell Alessandro that we aren't 21!? Oh well, I just saved his number for next time.
Anyway, that's the completely made-up story of how Karen and I took a limo to Mansion and didn't get in. I hope you enjoyed it. Well I gotta shower and get ready for this meeting. Until next time...
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