You sold me out, bro! What the hell? What happened? I'll tell you what happened: I got an e-mail from some dude from the New York Times. He said he was in Miami to cover some sort of terrible crime spree, complete with beheadings. He wanted to write about something fun, so the worldwide press corps pointed him to me, José el Rey.
I was honored to be considered his personal Miami tour guide, and I had an evening of hot night-time fun all lined up for him and his team of foreigners. We were gonna go shopping at a botanica, and if he was up for it we'd get our souls cleansed, my treat! We were gonna eat some pan con bistec and I'd show him how to speak to ladies. Teach him how to use eye contact and smiling. I'd show him dance moves: Roger Rabbit, Kid-N-Play, and the Running Man.
If we had time, we'd run up to my apartment, me and my buddy from New York City. Scoop Malone and Miami's Prince of Kings. It would be like a buddy cop film, complete with high jinks and capers. We'd show up at the club, high-five the dudes, hug the ladies, and maybe spray the bartenders with water. We were in for some high-octane fun.
But, every hour I got a call from him. Apologetic in nature, sad in tone, he wasn't gonna make it to the pre-dinner festivities, but, he was definitely coming to Mary's to grab some coffee with me.
I sat at Mary's, chain-smoking and binge-drinking coladas until he called. He wasn't gonna make it out for snacks, but he'd see me at the club. Falta de respeto!
I'm José el Rey, Mr. Reporter! I could've spent the evening sculpting my hair, ironing my suits, or looking fondly at myself in the mirror. But, as a man born under the rules of manifest destiny, I have a clear understanding of what truly matters. If someone sells me out: ¡pa carajo! I move on, hop in my car, dance, sweat, flirt, smile, and if the situation arises, take my shirt off.
I went out to the club, and Eric, Mr. New York Times, called me. I let him in, gave him some drinks. Gave his crew some drinks. Hell, it's a party, and he started interviewing me while Doormouse was playing "Sally, That Girl." His mind couldn't grasp that Churchill's, the English pub, and Sweat Records in Little Haiti are the places to go see local bands and buy their discs.
He was confused as to why we have Miami Bass and punk rock and a crowd that loves both at the same time eating pan con lechon at the Vagabond. He wanted to know how we do what we do over here in Dade County, and I told him: Miami parties like me -- we party until we can't sweat no more.
At the end of the night he asked where to grab a bite. I said, "Mary Coin." He said "Mari-con?" I said "Mary Coin!" His face soured, he closed his notebook of journalism, and walked away. There's a good chance he thought I was insulting him in Spanish, and I'm pretty sure I accidentally offended him (as I always do). Perhaps that's why he didn't write all about me in the New York Times.