Creepy Miami, 2011

When we arrived in Miami, we learned that the Dallas Mavericks were staying at our hotel for the NBA championships against the Miami Heat. We ran into a number of players and employees working for the Mavericks franchise. Low and behold, my girlfriends and I were invited to the over-hyped club Liv, which is located in the infamous Fontainebleau Hotel. Conveniently on Miami Beach, it's often featured on travel shows and hotel guides.

What nobody tells you about Miami (oh and other places as well, for sure), is that there’s some pretty sketchy, crazy looking people there. And I’m not talking about the half-naked drunken folks on the beach. I suppose the more diplomatic way of expressing this sentiment is, “there’s a variety of cultures and influences making their mark on the sunshine city.” However, this is not a diplomatic story running in the New York Times. This is one of the first REAL reviews of the Club Liv and the Fontainebleau Hotel—after hours.

When my girlfriends and I stepped out of the cab, I became frightened by the monsters standing out front and thought, “thank God there are so many exits and revolving doors to make our grand escape.” I couldn’t tell a boy from a girl, a hooker from a cab driver, and without tattoos covering my body or body piercings all over my face, I stuck out like a sore thumb. In fact, here's a picture with my girlfriends while at Liv. They apparently got the slut bitch memo but I was clearly their teacher chaperoning at the party. Oh, but the night gets so much better than that.

We were invited to Liv by an infamous basketball player’s money manager—whatever that means, because the guy slipped Megs a $100 bill for our cab ride back to the hotel, which did not cost $100 (we put it toward our dinner the following night—sucker). When we finally walked into the club, there were definitely an array of other scary creatures inside, but most of them were in our “VIP” area. Newsflash to people who think they’re VIP: if everybody is invited to the VIP area, then it’s really not VIP, regardless of a little stanchion segregating the LARGE VIP area. Soon, we were tipped that LeBron James’s dad was partying with us as well. Thank god one of my girlfriends is a television producer and was able to quickly call bullshit on that one, because I had no idea who any of these “famous” people were. Including the Kim Kardashian look-alike who came complete with her own butt-pads in place of a real butt implant (see picture below). To make this super fun evening even better, the worse house music I’ve ever heard in my life continuously played, and the D.J. quickly switched from song to song like a six-year-old boy with A.D.D. Just when I heard a tune I somewhat adored, the song changed. It was probably for the best as my feet stuck to the unlevel ground every time I tried to dance, because the floor apparently hadn’t been cleaned since Michael Jackson was alive.

After debating, no agreeing, about how much Liv nightclub sucked, we eventually made our way out of the club. But not before walking through the cheesy Fontainebleau Hotel’s high-end lobby area. A large and gaudy chandelier hung from above, as did some cheap—my bad, I meant chic—blue lounge lighting. At first, I thought I was at a Quinceanera, or that someone would jump out from behind one of the couches and try to sell me barbecue plates for $5. My girlfriends however, made me go to the bathroom with them for shelter, which was probably one of the nicer areas in the place. I assume this is because the people at Liv were clearly using the dance floor instead of the commode.

Thankfully, we made it safely back to the hotel, in one piece. I could tell that I wasn’t the only one thinking, “but they always make it look so nice on TV.” We were devastated to learn that Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks, dropped six figures partying at Liv when his team won the championships. But we were really happy to know that at least everybody had a really good time and got to feel real important in his all-inclusive VIP area.