MOG

A little background information before I get into the meat of the story.....

I work out of Boston, but my territory is in the south, mainly Florida, North Carolina and Louisiana. So, I often have to travel as part of my job. In South Florida we have a new sales executive working for us and he wanted to meet some customers so he could start networking through them for more business. So, me being the rep that handles that territory I flew down there last Wednesday to take some clients out to lunch/dinner and schmooze. That, for me, is awesome because I don't have to do anything other than dress nice and eat expensive food. On top of that, the new sales executive happens to be really into the "scene" in the South Beach area. Meaning, he knows EVERYONE; keep that in mind.

Wednesday was sort of nondescript. I flew in, checked into the hotel, jumped in his car and drove a few miles north to meet a client. After that, went back to the hotel, changed and then headed to the Ritz for dinner with another client (not so nondescript I guess). Ate by the pool with all of the other millionaires and relaxed the night away with some drinks. We stopped by some chic club called "Table 8" and had a few drinks, nothing all that exciting. As the booze kicked in we started feeling really good so we headed to Rok Bar. I am not a huge club person myself, and this place fit me well because it wasn't typical club music. There was a DJ mashing up rock music (Pearl Jam, Rage, Prince, etc.) into dance mixes and it was pretty sick. The bartender, who was probably a stripper in her off days, for some reason took a liking to me (I mean, I am dashingly handsome, but still) and every time I went up for a drink she bought me a shot. Good Lord. By 2am I was twisted and had to leave lest I not wake up the next day. So I went back to my hotel and passed out.

The next day started relatively the same. Woke up at 10:00, wandered around South Beach trying to find coffee for an hour, hung out at the beach (by the way, it was Spring Break.....) and then headed to lunch at Joe's Stone Crab, which if you didn't know, is apparently THE place for "power lunch" in South Beach. I must say, it was amazing. This was at roughly 2:00, and with dinner at 9:00, that gave me 7 hours of nothing but free time. I mean, I could have stayed in the hotel and done some work, but really? I am in South Beach. During Spring Break. Come on now.....

and this is where the "13 Hours" begins...

Greg, the guy I was working with down there, is best friends with the manager of the restaurants and bar at The Shore Club. This place is as swanky as they come. He was able to pull a string (bikini) or two and get me access to the pool and bar, which is usually reserved for VIP and guests. All comped. At 5:30, I threw on some surf shorts and flip flops, sunglasses at the ready, and headed to the pool area to relax.

It was like I stepped into another world. First, no one informed me that it was a "European" style pool. Which means that females do not wear tops. I am almost 30, but I think I reacted to a 10 year old seeing his first Playboy magazine. I found the nearest waitress, turned the charm on and introduced myself, flashed the VIP/comp card, and asked her where the best place to sit was. I was given a bed....yes, a bed... by the pool and quickly found out that I could really get used to this lifestyle. Drink in hand, "beautiful" people all around, I was good to go.

Oh, and who happens to be sitting at the lounge/couch/bed thing next to me, sipping a beer and just chillin'? The King of Crunk. He who has a jewel-studded chalice bearing his name. The one and only Lil' Jon.

Decked out in a an orange sweatsuit, sunglasses on, dread pulled back and talking to the manager......5 feet away. He is nothing like the persona he plays on tv/radio. He still has the deep, gravelly voice, but that dude is intelligent. He was talking business with the manager, not really sure what, but I was amazed. I didn't have the balls to go up to him, so instead I sent text messages to everyone I know telling them that I was sitting next to him.

Fast forward 2 hours and I am back in my hotel room, showered and getting dressed. After spending two hours at the Shore Club pool, a cold shower was necessary but I stuck with the usual warm one. Greg picks me up around 8:30 and we make our way to Prime One Twelve to have dinner with a business partner of hours and a "client" (no client actually came, but in order to write the $500 dinner off, let's pretend they did). The place is packed so we talk to the manager and weasel our way to the top half of the waiting list, then head to the bar for a round of overpriced drinks. Although there was a 2.5 hour wait, we got our table within 20 minutes, which was nice. They sit us down, and sitting directly behind me is one of the greatest college basketball players (and NBA players I might add) to ever live: Mr. Patrick Ewing. Oh, and who is he eating dinner with? Oh yeah, the unofficial mayor of Miami, one of Ewing's basketball rivals and he who contributes lots of money to charity: Alonzo Mourning. Both of these men were HUGE. Absolutely gigantic. Ewing was wearing some raggedy ass shirt and jeans and Mourning was decked out in a money three piece suit, surrounded by their hot wives and one or two hangers-on. But it gets better.

Mourning was one of my heroes growing up, when he played for Georgetown, and still ranks up there in the top 5 players I would never want to battle with under the boards. He just seems like a mean dude on the court. But off the court he was super nice and said hello and chatted with everyone who came up to him. Naturally, I did not because I feel people like him need their privacy, so I just stared at him for a solid 10 minutes and stopped when someone threatened to call the cops on me.

It gets better....

We order some appetizers and wine, just sitting there talking, and there is a slight bustle at the front of the restaurant. Lo and behold, making his way to the table behind me, clad in an oversized yellow Jordan t-shirt, running shorts and sneakers is T.O. Terrell "I like pills" Owens. Personally, I have always loved T.O. While he talks a lot and has his moment of suicidal thoughts, the man is a freak of nature and a superior athlete. It was clear when he walked right past man: homeboy is JACKED. I watched him slowly walk by, steak hanging halfway out of my mouth, for what seemed like an hour. Once again, I couldn't say or do anything, so I just sent text messages to my friends again.

We get out of dinner at around 11:30 or 12, and head back to the Shore Club where a much different scene has unfolded. What was once a pool area crowded with tanned, scantily clad people is now a hopping nightclub. Full of tanned and scantily clad people (aside from yours truly, I have the skin tone of elmer's glue this time of year). We head to the bar and immediately start taking $50 shots of some vodka (for free) which does me well.

We're sitting there, chillin and drinking, people-watching, and from the far side of the club/pool it is getting very loud. Out of nowhere pops a short, hispanic man with about 6 girls trailing behind him, yelling nonsense at the top of his lungs and looks like he is ready to party. Greg says "Uh oh, here comes the lizard". Apparently "the lizard" is well known around the bar as "that guy" who just parties and parties and does nothing but shout and go generally bananas. He reminded me of "Mr. Peepers" from Saturday Night Live, only with a goatee and gold chain necklace. Greg knows him, and we soon find ourselves, along with the flock of females, being dragged to another club down the street called Mynt. This is what you would picture a standard nightclub in South Beach to be. Go go dancers wearing nothing and dancing on platforms, music at deafening levels, champagne flying around, and very expensive drinks. On our walk over, "the lizard" was going nuts and "flirting" with the harem of women he was with. Turns out that these girls are on spring break from the University of Kentucky, have known this guy for almost as long as I have, and they are generally afraid of him. So me being the gentleman, I start throwing major cockblocks at this guy. We are at the bar and I position myself between "the lizard" and the girls, turning my back to him, and slowly try to create some space. I buy a round of drinks for the girls: "the lizard" is not pleased. Granted, he is roughly half my size in height and weight, and a fistfight is the far from worrying me. However, on the walk over, Greg let it slip that this guy also happens to be, allegedly, one of the bigger cocaine dealers in Miami. Which, in turn, means there is a good chance that he could care less if I brought fists to a gun fight. Know what I mean? But at this point, I am pretty sauced and feeling confident, so I let the fear pass. And after a while, "the lizard" is pretty hammered and is starting a fight with some other guy, getting himself kicked out. Crisis averted and I look like the knight in shining armor (as opposed to half the guys in the club, who were the gay guys in the shining shirts).

At this point, I have no idea what time it is, but I don't care. I am dancing my ass off and having a blast. The drinks are flowing and I have no care in the world. Greg left me along the way, so it is me and 6 college girls just partying. Sometimes I wish I were younger, but in this case I didn't care, I just kept going. Finally, the lights come on and I look at my watch: 5:10AM. Sweet Jesus. My flight leaves at 8:00, which means that I have to be at the airport at about 7:00. What to do?

Being the genius that I am , I say "screw it", go to my hotel, check out, grab my bags, and head back to the hotel with these girls. I drop my bags at the valet at their hotel, pay a cab driver to wait for me (which was dumb in retrospect, but he did stay), and headed to the beach with the two bottles of champagne that we somehow stole from the bar. It was there that I sat on the beach, collected sand in my shoes, drank champagne and watched the sun start to rise. It was kind of surreal, but awesome.

At 6:30 I bid goodbye to the lovely women from UK, exchanged email addresses and headed to the cab to go home. Immediately upon entering the cab I passed out and went into a deep, deep 20 minute nap while being serenaded by the cab driver's Brazilian music pumping through the stereo.

By the time I got to the airport I was too tired, too elated and too drunk to care that my flight was canceled and I was bumped to a later one. I got my ticket, went to the terminal, realized I smelled like the inside of the club, changed my shirt and promptly passed out again. I don't remember much after that, other than waking up in Boston, but it was totally worth it.

13 (or so) hours of my life I will never forget. I guess you had to be there for it to have the full effect.