So THIS is What the IJC was Talking About
At first glance, not much was different on the beach at 8th Steeet this weekend. Dark-haired girls in oversize sunglasses and way-too-expensive overclothes laid on the sands of Miami Beach talking on cell phones and gabbing to their friends about how “awesome" or “amazing” their previous night had been. But upon further examination, something was horribly, horribly different. The typical deluge of Miami Spanglish and Reggaeton had been replaced by a new and equally irritating form of communication: The New York Whine. Yes, it seems that the typical winter agenda for Jewish girls from New York now includes a three day New Year’s weekend in South Beach after the customary stop in Boca to visit their near-dead relatives. This meant I could now actually understand the mindless, idiotic conversations taking place. By about 1:00 I was begging to hear some Daddy Yankee.
It started like any other weekend, as Graig and I put our towels down near the lifeguard stand. We got up to get a drink at Wet Willie's and returned to find a group of about 7 girls laying out within about two feet of us, none of whom were particularly attractive. We tried to carry on with our typically inappropriate and vulgar conversation, but this was impossible over the roar that was the group next to us. The first conversation I remember hearing was a 10 minute debate on the number of states in the United States. One girl, the only blonde, insisted it was fifty. Another piped up “Aw you sure? What about Puerto Rico? And DC? Isn’t DC a state?” “Yeah” another chimed in “I’m pretty sure it’s 52.” This discussion raged on for a while. Graig and I looked at each other with disbelief. He just gave me a short grin, shrugged his shoulders, and laid back down on his stomach. 15 more minutes of their mindless banter, much of which I have blocked out of my mind, and I decided I had to find out if my assumptions about these girls were true. Now, I am not one to approach girls on the beach, ever, but this situation just begged for an exception. “You girls from New York?” I asked one of the thick, dark tourists. “Manhattan. Are you? What part?” she responded quickly. “No, no, I’m from here. South of here, actually. What part of Manhattan are you from?” I asked. But I knew the answer before she pursed her lips to make out the M sound. I almost felt like mouthing along when she said “Murray Hill.” I raised my eyebrows, gave her a closed-lip smile, and nodded my head, indicating that I had known answer as soon as she sat down.
They were all perpetually on their cell phones, calling various people to see if they still had “Hook-ups” at various South Beach clubs. Every New Yorker who visits Miami insists that they have Mad, Crazy Hook-Ups at clubs in South Beach, when in fact this probably means they know a guy who used to bartend at Club Deep and can maybe get a free round of well drinks. But girls seem to believe a lot of this crap anyway, and often get burned. One girl named Ali had this particularly entertaining conversation:
“Hello, Mike? Do you know who this is? This is Ali. Can you still get me in to Prive tonight? You don’t remember who I am? You’re like one of five people to see me naked, c’mon, you have to remember! You still don’t know who this is? Don’t you…Okay.” (Long pause as she is put on hold, as she asks her friend sitting next to her “Can you believe he doesn’t remember who I am?” Mike comes back on the phone) “Yeah, hi. I wanna hang out with you….I said I wanna hang out with you. Yeah. Okay, well promise me you’ll let me know if you can get me in tonight? Oh, okay. Well call me later. Promise? Okay.” She turned to her friends, “He says because it's New Year's he probably can’t get us in ‘cuz it’s gonna be busy. Should we try anyway?” Part of me felt bad for Ali, but a larger part said, “If you believed that ridiculous line of bullshit, you deserve whatever you got.”
After having read the the IJC's repeated discussions of the JAP's affinity for Tasti-D-Lite, I couldn’t resist a trip to the location on Lincoln Road to see if this phenomenon carried over to South Florida. Graig, not a reader of the aforementioned Murray Hill Blog, couldn’t quite understand why I wanted to go to an ice cream shop eight blocks out of the way. When I bet Graig a waffle cone that there would be more Jewish girls in line at this ice cream shop than there were at any given synagogue that morning, he laughed. But when we arrived at Tasti-D-Lite and the line was six deep with short, dark, slightly thick girls whining into their cell phones, Graig grudgingly forked over the $6.50 for a choco-vanilla swirl with sprinkles. One girl sitting out front, spoon in one hand and cell phone in the other, declared into her cell phone, “Omigod. Yes, they have one is South Beach! No, it’s not as good as it is in New York, but nothing is. Yeah. Yeah, oh I know. This place is like fucking Mexico or something…..” I looked at Graig and shook my head in sadness. “Hey, Trez, they’re your people,” he told me.
“No, Graig,” I replied, “They may be Jewish, but they are definitely not my people.”
How do you New Yorker's deal with this? This was my first New Year's in Miami since I had started reading about the IJC phenomenon. And let me tell you, one cannot fully grasp the concept until one has experienced it. And I have. I feel for you guys.