Monday, June 3, 2013

Gone Fish'n (. . . Came up Empty)

This past weekend was the annual "Gentlemen's Mets Extravaganza."  This was the tenth straight year we've flown out for a road series and some debauchery.  Of course, the older we get, the more lame the debauchery becomes (this year's debauchery involved a 10:00 pm sushi dinner, a glass of wine, and 9 hours sleep . . . Yes, I hate myself . . .).
I left work Friday evening and caught the 8:45 pm on American Airlines down to Miami Int'l.  I arrived at the Fontainebleau around midnight.  Chris 1 and Chris 2 had arrived hours earlier.  Chris 2 had apparently popped some pain meds and passed out, while Chris 1 sat in the dark attempting to crush the entire mini bar before I got in.  He came close.  I applauded the effort.  
I grabbed a room key from the front desk, and navigated the lobby which resembled a giant club more than a hotel - there must have been at least a thousand people hanging out and partying.  It was a scene.  I found the room.  Chris 1 downed his opened Heineken and we both headed downstairs for some $18 shots of Patron and other assorted drinks.  $180 and two hours later, the lobby bar shut down and we begrudgingly called it a night.
We got back to the room and Chris 2 was still in a muscle-relaxer-induced coma.  Three guys, two beds.  Chris 1 and I grabbed the second bed at 3:00am, making use of the cylindrical pillow pictured below as a divider to negate any potential unwarranted, unintentional, male-on-male contact.
At 7:00 am, with the sun blaring through the open blinds which we were too drunk-and-or-lazy to close the night before, and both the living room TV and the bathroom TV (both of which we were too drunk-and-or-lazy to shut off) still on, I was awake after a restless 4 hours of sleep.  Notwithstanding the protection from accidental contact afforded by the make-shift rape shield pictured above, I still found it hard to sleep well.
After breakfast, it was time to hit the ocean and pool.  The weather was more clouds than sun, but after the first bucket-o-beers poolside, the weather hardly mattered. 
Late afternoon, we set out for Marlins Park. 

Marlins Park (like last week's destination, Chase field) has a retractable roof, which was closed all weekend.  Even though it was indoor, it was still a great venue for baseball.  The stadium is on the small side, holding approximately 36,000.  There were probably 10,000 tops in the stands both Saturday and Sunday, many of whom were Mets fans.   And, after a 4-game sweep of the Evil Empire earlier in the week, Los Mets proceeded to get crushed three straight nights to the local team, which featured no more than 1.5 actual major-league-caliber players.  It was depressing.  Not terribly surprising; but depressing.  Ultimately, I ended up just hanging out on the stadium patio drinking some $9 bud lites and reflecting on how, or why, I ended up a Mets/Jets fan, and counting the Super Bowls/World Series wins racked up by the cross-town rivals: 
                                                       (P3 circa June 1, 2013, Miami, Fl.). 
Sunday morning, I woke up and decided to sweat out the remnants of Saturday's booze with a run through South Beach. 

It was nearly two miles from the Fontainebleau down to the main drag by the Delano -- a  solid 4 mile run to start the day. 
After some more pool time, we went back to the Stadium to watch Mets' ace Matt Harvey get shelled.   Of course . . .  More beer helped dull the pain.  Then it was off to dinner, followed by one more round of adult libations at the lobby bar, before flying back out:

I get to the airport . . . buzzing nice.  Going through security, I take my shoes and belt off.  My shorts are a year or so old.  I've lost 30 pounds since I bought them.  They are at least 3 inches too big (generally held in place in reliance on my belt).  So I go through the x-ray machine with my boarding pass in one hand, and the other hand holding up my shorts.  On the flip side of the machine, security pulls me over for a good old-fashioned "wanding."  I put my hands above my head to oblige, and my shorts hit my ankles.  Naturally.  TSA worker: "SIR, PLEASE PULL YOUR PANTS UP!!!"  Yep . . . that's how I roll . . .    

In the end, no one died.  No one found the back seat of a cop car (which can't be said about all of our trips . . . another story for another time, perhaps . . .).  All-in-all, another successful trip.



  1. Mets/Jets fan! I don't only feel your pain, I live the pain! Our Met's and Jet's must be cursed or something. I enjoyed the other details of your mis-adventure.

  2. TSA worker: "SIR, PLEASE PULL YOUR PANTS UP!!!" - Priceless!

    No pictures to defend the famous American Idol song "Pants on the floor, pants on the floor, you look like a ..."


  3. "But YOU took my belt!!!" ;)

  4. I wanna know what REALLY went on in that bed ... : o P