You've been missed...

Well, hello! It's been four days since our last post and we couldn't be happier to be back from Miami, sitting pretty and scribbling love letters to you from the warmth of our Brooklyn hideout. But before we dive into the "Art for Life" gala and how Kim Kardashian has transformed her boy-love Reggie Bush from chubby running back to dapper dan, we'd like to address the aggressively disappointing fact that Miami hasn't advanced past 1965 and apparently has no idea the rest of the country is suffering pure economic hell... Well, at least the part of Miami that doesn't look like a Third World Country facing national tragedy...

Perhaps it's the fact that we stayed in Bal Harbour with our dear friend's glamorous mother, who insisted we wear rouge on our cheeks and pheromone perfume on our wrists and behind our (now irritated) earlobes, in order to "attract nice young, eligible men." (note: being the ever daring women we are, we went forth with our scent/rouge makeover and we are sad to report it did nothing for our sexual prowess and we ended up looking much like many of the women we saw who were all apparently born of the same knife... however lovely they all are at heart)

But during the late 1950's Miami made a huge mistake. The modern architectural style known as Mimo was created to lacquer the city with opulence and modern flare (think: Art Deco meets Euro Pizazz). It acted as the calling card of luxury for resort lovers everywhere and was the epitome of post-war, frivolous glamor; being part of the "scene" made people feel like they were somebody (the concept of Miami Vice must have came from somewhere real, no?). The sad thing is that these days, beyond Puff Daddy (who was recently blasted by Ellen Degeneres for opening his lux Miami home to teen idol turned woman-beater, Chris Brown skip to 4:44 to hear his weak defense) and the hoards of other teen-audience sensations, the community consists of white haired men who never seem to remember to button the top five snaps on their dress shirts. Simply put it's slime ball central.

Women still buy in bulk (an act so tacky it speaks louder than the overly-whitened teeth and fancy-car fetish everyone has seemingly adopted) and men still hiss when they see a young woman. What once defined the city as the most coveted place on American soil is now the very reason it should be avoided at all costs. But that's the the thing that bothers us most: why are all the sandy, sunny cities in America so cheap and uninteresting? Why is NYC, the most UN-sunny of them all, the place where so much intellect and ingenious art and design is housed? Why the HELL can't we make a mass movement to the beach and scribble Great American Novels and the like from a (much less costly) wrap around porch overlooking the beach?

Well, much like choosing the prettiest girl on the cheerleading team as your life-partner, keeping up appearances does little to stimulate the mind. The sheer fact that the NYC metro splatters people against each other daily allows for even the most tightly closed mind to witness lifestyles previously unknown, or that which someone would never want to know (see a heroin addict on the 2 train lately?). New York City makes you think without even trying. Miami? Not so much. People actually invest in the reverberation of their own image. The aim is to create homogeneous pocket communities that are simple reflections of themselves, leaving the immigrant community to be squandered away in the forgotten outskirts and rot without care.


Sadly, the most modern thing about Miami is Jo Francis' adolescent lust for teenage breasts (the same obsession that landed him in jail for soliciting underage co-eds with little clue about their own self worth) and the fact that the speed limit has advanced from 40 MPH on Route 95 to 65 MPH.
(note: is it not gleefully obvious that dear Jo Francis' will inevitably end up looking just like the man above right? Payback is utterly delicious)

So the next time you head off to Miami, Sirs we dare you to see through a different lens. Everything that shimmers certainly isn't gold. Now go ride the 2 train to from end to end and have yourself an interesting conversation with the mysterious woman sitting alone reading "Sex and Suits" by Anne Hollander... You'll thank us later, we're certain.


Cheers,
The Swills