I'M IN MIAMI, BITCH! Part 2: Bodybuilders, Graffiti and Baby Oil Edition

Confused? Me too. It was THAT sort of trip. Luckily, there was plenty of swag to go around.

Dec 6, 2011 at 10:00am | Leave a comment

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Yo! So I am still in Miami for Art Basel, the contemporary art fair that I wrote about here. Review that last link in case you missed it, then come back to me.

Ready? Good.

So I wound up doing ALL of that ecstasy with my friend Same and it was a complete disaster! I am never taking f-ing E EVER again. I don’t know what we were thinking, but after our first night out, Mint and Serf (the graffiti writers/street artists with whom we were staying) went out for their swanky Christie’s brunch on a yacht, we stayed in the loft with their 17-year-old assistant, a graffiti kid named BC who can barely drive, carries a fake passport, and has all the sensibilities of fellow 17-year-old Justin Bieber. Or maybe of young Frankie Jonas. The Bonus Jonas.

We made him watch us take six pills each (just kidding, he's a derel like every other nearly 18-year-old boy from New York City; relax) and listen to us lecture him about the world for seven hours. He learned a lot, he told us later (a little fearfully, but whatever).

If you think we deserved to go to hell for doing all of this ecstasy in front of a high school senior, well, don’t worry, we did. Late that night, when we finally stopped madly hallucinating and started coming down from it, was literally one of the most agonizing physical and mental experiences of my life, and my friend was in worse shape than I was. We almost went to the hospital, we felt so horrible and sick and cracked out. We were practically weeping and the comedown lasted like 10 hours. I can’t even write any more about it. Worst. Drug experience. Ever.

So that was that.

The next day when we felt better, Mint, Same and I visited the Wynwood Walls, this really sick part of the Miami Design District that’s basically block after block of the hottest graffiti and street art. Of course Mint and Same just went at it (pause) and decided to do fillins in broad daylight in front of a bunch of people like the O.G.s (uh huh) that they are:

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Click here to learn more about the wonderful Wynwood Walls! You must visit them if you go to Miami. Way more interesting than, like, a beach.

We also spent lots of time driving around at night (by “we” I meant I sat in the backseat while they took turns driving around and jumping out, and by “at night” I mean at like 6 am after the coke ran out while the men did their graffiti thing and I did my Tweeting in the car thing). Then the next day we’d drive around looking for the damage swag: 

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Luckily, the next night was super-awesome. Mint and Serf were asked to DJ (which is funny, because they are decidedly not DJs) the craziest party ever, at the Shore Club, which is one of the most glamorous and famous clubs in South Beach:

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There are all different places to party there (it’s all part of a big, swanky hotel), but the best part are the two pools, with the beach and the ocean just beyond them, that you get to by winding through these beautiful jungle-y nooks and lush paths with secret hammocks and lounging sofas and even teepees hidden throughout the “enchanted forest” setting until you finally reach the back pool (there are two).

Which is where Mint and Serf (in conjunction with Norwood and the amazing hunk that is Mr. Patrick Duffy, holler) were doing their event. Co-DJing alongside them was, to my delight, one Anothony Haden Guest! Dude is someone I have always been a fan of -- a glamorous New York downtown personality who has been on the scene since the Warhol days, and wrote a book that I own about Manhattan nightclubs throughout the ages called “The Last Party.”

Swag! Lamely, I didn’t introduce myself, but what can you do. I was too busy drinking these amazing cocktails with ground-up cucumbers in them. They kind of reminded me of gazpacho. (UPDATE: They were Kanon Organic Vodka Cucumber Lemonades.) ANYWAY!

The party was definitely weird. I’m not sure who planned it, but basically the concept was graffiti (hence the Mirf) and … bodybuilders. Yes! The people throwing the party hired all of these muscle babes to stand around the pool flexing and showing off. It was sort of amazing. Blackbook described it best; check it. Note the use of the word "swag" in excess.

Funnily enough, the bodybuilders did not bring their own body oil, so the promoter was scrambling around buying it for them. It was good old Johnson's Baby Oil, which I love for making my own muscles gleam, in fact, and especially on my legs:

…even the body builder men smelled like it up close. Which I got a kick out of.

I obviously was all over these bitches for beauty tips, but it was just too awkward. They were up on special podiums; there was loud music cranking and they had no idea who I was; it wasn’t like I had a notebook or a press pass or anything, and I kept hollering, “WHAT SELF-TANNER DO YOU USE?" and then not understanding their answers (body builders sort of talk funny -- they do!)

Finally, "Miss Olympia," pictured above with me, told me that her self-tanner was called -- wait for it -- Pearl Jam. Which excited me very much until I got home and searched for it online. It so doesn’t exist anywhere that I can find it. Was she playing me? I have no idea.

Oh! And the graffiti part of the party was this: Behind the body builders, there were these big scenic photos of nice home interiors (I don’t even know) that my friends were instructed to basically spraypaint to death in their saucy urban way, and so they did:

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It was weird. “Edgy,” but weird. The bodybuilders looked mad confused, which I guess was sexy. I like dumb men (too bad about the gross muscles). And, much more importantly, I love parties.

Anyway, that was a whole lot of information without a whole lot of beauty tips, but I know you guys can handle it. What's the weirdest/best party YOU'VE ever been to?

Follow Cat on Twitter! xoxoxo

P.S. My friend Chris helped me figure out the "Pearl Jam" mystery! It's this stuff:

...which bodybuilders apparently love. Who knew?