What Happens in Miami Never Happened

“My soul is full of longing
for the secret of the sea,
and the heart of the great ocean
sends a thrilling pulse through me.”

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Secret of the Sea,” 1850.

“305 till the death of me
Cremate my body let the ocean have what’s left of me.”

-Pitbull, “International Love,” 2011.

My senior year of college, I met with a literature professor the first week of school to see if I should take his class. For the first couple of minutes, he asked me standard professorial questions, like “Why do you want to take a Caribbean literature class?” and “What did you study your junior year?” The meeting was going great—that is until he asked me where I was from.

“I’m from South Florida,” I told him. The professor immediately leaned back in his chair.

“Oh. I have a boycott against Florida.”

“What do you mean?”

He explained that because jurors found George Zimmerman innocent, he had declared a boycott on everything in Florida until the state reverse stand-your-ground laws. I explained to him that although George Zimmerman and stand-your-ground laws are both despicable, I have nothing to do with them; the professor listed other terrible atrocities that had happened in Florida. Eventually, I thanked him for his time and left.

I wasn’t shocked by this professor’s statements. Forty percent of the time I tell people I’m from Florida, they list terrible people associated with my home state: Casey Anthony, Lebron James, Jeb Bush, Pitbull—the list goes on and on. I never defend these people—Casey, George, and Jeb are terrible people, and I don’t know enough about basketball to give two fucks about the Heat—but I would throw my body into a pit of rabies infected pitbulls to save the life of Pitbull.

Since elementary school, Pitbull has been a part of my life. In the fifth grade, a rich Jewish lawyer’s son brought an early Pitbull album to school, and everyone flipped the fuck out, because at my bourgie South Florida elementary school full of drug dealers’ daughters and drug dealers’ lawyers’ sons, Pitbull was God. At Quinceañeras, we didn’t bump ’n grind till we wet our khaki dress pants with pre-cum to R. Kelly, Mike Jones, or Usher—early Pitbull hits like “Culo” accompanied our first dry-humping experiences.

In 2010 I moved to New York because 18 years of Florida’s endless summer had left me exhausted. Like the professor and everyone else in America, I thought Florida’s tragic events and primary leisure activities, which consisted of drinking and driving and going to strip clubs 365 days per year, were terrible. I said I hated Florida, yet whenever a New Yorker threw a bitch-fit at a party when I put on Pitbull, I found myself enraged. “Florida is incredible!” I would say, but I wasn’t sure why I loved Florida. All I knew was every Pitbull song embodied everything I loved.

A few weeks ago, I was home for Christmas listening to Pitbull as I worked on an articleabout Sydney Leathers for VICE and wondered what I should do for New Year’s Eve, when Spotify recommended I attend Pitbull’s “New Year’sEve II” concertat the American Airlines Arena (best known as the arena where the Heat beats everyone’s asses), and I immediately understood I had to go. Three nights later, I was in a BMW with my childhood best friend Ariel, listening to “Give Me Everything” and speeding down the freeway past burnt out neon lights of strip clubs and outdoor shopping plaza malls.

The arena was in downtown Miami next to an outdoor mall full of fake trees and locals (not tourists) waiting in line for Chili’s and Bubba Gump, and across the street from a neo-baroque building lit in tacky pink lights. (At least, the front facade looked neo-baroque; the back of the building was your standard shitty downtown cement block.) Fat tourists stood in front of the building with maps pointing at the locals wearing white suits and velvet dresses. Ariel and I laughed at them, but then I spotted Ariel’s Cuban butt nearly popping out of her jeans and a cum stain on my shirt from some dude I had blown somewhere across the way, and I realized you can literally never wash the Miami off of you.

As we entered the arena, the usher handed everyone white styrofoam sticks that lit-up and a program printed on expensive paper. On the front cover, it said, “What Happens in Miami Never Happened.” Inside, the program listed Pitbull’s business motto:

I wasn’t sure what this meant, but I was sure it didn’t matter—it told me this wasn’t going to be a tacky pop show like New Yorkers imagine a Pitbull show was, it was going to be a mother fucking production.

After we took our seats, I read through the program as a Goya ad lit up on a tiny screen above the audience. It told us about Pitbull’s fragrance for women and men and listed Pitbull’s records: sold out concerts in the US, Canada, Latin America, Europe, China, and Japan; 1 billion social media impressions and more unique visitors than Pinterest, ESPN, or Pandora per month; 5 million albums and 40 million singles sold worldwide; and number one hit singles in more than 15 countries. Oh yeah, he’s also the “equity partner and brand ambassador” for Voli vodka, Miami Grill, Bud Light, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi (Latin America), Dodge, Fiat & Slam, and Kodak. See, my unenlightened friend, Pitbull isn’t a dumb rapper who raps about funny songs about Kodak disposables, he’s a businessman who gets paid to rap about Kodak cameras.

I understood 2013 was Pitbull’s biggest year yet, and his first show of 2014 was his victory lap. What I didn’t understand was why the how the program’s last page’s message—“Dade County Always 305 All Day”—connected to his business plans or a “‘New’ New Year’s Eve Tradition.’” And the purpose of the show became even more confusing when the pre-show DJ took the stage.

In front of a huge curtain that looked like a giant tangled piece of army uniforms, a DJ spun hit songs from the past four years—the golden age of Pit, if you will. “If you ever been in love in a hopeless place, put your glow-stick up!” the DJ screamed as he put on “We Found Love”—a pretty dickish thing to say to a crowd from a town as well known for its cannibal homeless peopleas it is for its champion basketball team. I wanted to dance, but my years in New York had replaced my inner Miami wild onewith a boring, anxious uptown girl.I turned to Ariel to laugh at anyone who was dancing and saw Ariel losing her shit to the beat, flinging her glow-stick in the air. I looked around, and the hookers on dates with businessmen, the Cuban grandparents, the children at their first concert, the bald men in white suits who looked like Pitbull impersonators—they were all dancing. Nobody in Miami gave a single fuck.

The DJ told us we should party at Hyde, the nightclub inside the arena, after the show, because of course the Heat arena has a nightclub inside it. Several minutes later, gorgeous models descended out of nowhere onto the arena floor like Star Wars strormtroopers. As they walked through the rows handing out yellow towels, the DJ explained that three songs from the concert would be broadcasted live on Dick Clark’s annual New Year’s Eve special. During Pitbull’s first and third song, the DJ asked us to wave our glow-sticks; during the second song, he said to wave our yellow towels to show the world “why Miami is the dopest city.”

“THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO SHOW THE WORLD WHY MIAMI IS THE MOST AMAZING PLACE TO BE!!!” he screamed.

The author in repose

He asked us to practice waving the towels in the air, forgetting that part of the reason Miami is so dope is because nobody takes orders from fucking anybody. So the DJ tried something else: “We’re doing it for our hometown!” he screamed. “For Pitbull!” That worked briefly, but after five rehearsals, nobody cared. We just wanted to see Mr. 305, and we were elated when Ryan Seacrest’s face finally appeared on the screen live from New York. An explosion of background dancers assembled on the stage, and then Pitbull appeared in a black suit that was baggy below his crotch, suggesting that his cock was huge. Pitbull represents Miami. Therefore, Miami’s cock huge.

For his televised set, Pitbull blended three songs together, including his latest hit “Timber.” Nobody in the audience could tell the difference between the songs, so towels, glow-sticks, and cleavage bounced around uncivilly—it was Miami at its finest. At the end of the three-song televised set, the background dancers fled the stage, and Pitbull stood alone, absorbing the glory of what he’d just done. When he returned on stage 15 minutes later in his iconic white suit for the full concert, which would—thank fucking God—include an encore of “Timber,” he told us, “WE JUST MADE HISTORY.” I wasn’t sure what history was just made, but I knew I just saw a bald, middle-aged rapper hump a bunch of background dancers to a song about trees falling down, so it was clear that some sort of history had indeed been made.

Through the next half-an-hour, Pitbull danced around the stage with his strippers to remixes of popular top 40 songs—he humped one stripper so hard, she moved across the stage. He covered songs like “Holiday Inn,” and because most of Pitbull’s songs include guest verses by pop stars like Neyo and Christina Agularia, 50 percent of the vocals on stage came from pop stars on a huge screen. “I want to thank Jennifer Lopez for all the amazing opportunities she’s given me!” he screamed before performing “On the Floor.” During “Back in Time” from the Men in Black 3 soundtrack, Will Smith appeared on the screen.

I didn’t understand the point of all these guest stars until Enrique Iglesias appeared on stage in the flesh for “Rain Over Me” in the now-trademark fedora he wears to cover his LeBron hairline. Enrique bro-fived Pitbull, and I remembered that when they recorded that song—as when Pitbull recorded his songs with JLO, Neyo, and Chris Brown—Enrique was bigger internationally than Pitbull. But now, just as Darth Vader once cut down Obi-Wan Kenobi, Pitbull was the master. Enrique was wearing a fedora because balding showed he was old, a has-been, while onstage with a rapper who has always been bald. Slowly, Pitbull has been making his music—his indisputably mainstream music—sound more like Florida again. The mix of country strings, reggaeton, and Ke$ha on “Timber” reflects Davie, Florida’s status as South Florida’s cowboy-themed suburb filled with country bumpkins, hispanics, and drunk white girls who enjoy glitter, and his latest album, Global Warming: Meltdown, makes prominent use of a sample from “La Macarena.”

Throughout the show, Pitbull took more spoken interludes than Kanye delivered at his Yeezus shows about how he became Mr. Worldwide. Unlike Kanye, however, Pitbull is a pre-planned, pan-angular multimedia entertainment experience. He said he doesn’t sing about the streets anymore, because he started rapping so he could escape the streets. Although he has traveled the world, temporarily leaving Florida, he did it because he loves 305 Dade County more than any other place on earth. At one point he spent at least five minutes naming different cities in South Florida, which is locals name for Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach counties. “Let’s take it to Homestead!” he screamed. “Give me Pem-broke Piiiiiiiiiiiines!” The guy could quit rap and write speeches for Obama if he wanted to.

Occasionally, because hispanics make up 65 percent of Miami Dade County’s citizens, Pitbull gave speeches in Spanish, which Ariel translated for me. “The culture of South Florida is better than other country’s culture,” Pitbull said, citing our music, diversity, and very women who are hotter “than any other women” on the planet. (Pitbull often refers to Florida as a country.)

When it came time to count down to New Year’s, Pitbull may or may not have counted down on time. (Occasionally, he was so passionate it was difficult to understand what he was saying.) But that was OK. “Time doesn’t matter. We’re on Miami time,” he said. He counted down, sang “Give Me Everything,” and then stood in a white spotlight alone, absorbing everything he had accomplished. He reminded us of the “history” we had made, and then went silent before he said, “Dale.”

Repeatedly throughout the evening, Pitbull said, “WE MADE HISTORY,” because he got Dick Clark’s New Year’s Eve Special to broadcast live from Miami. Pitbull said he had a three-year plan, and 2013 was year one—by 2015, New Year’s Eve specials would take place in Miami.

He may very well be right. People can laugh all they want about Florida, but its culture is quickly becoming default for America. As Molly Lambert wrote on Grantland, the EDM festivals taking over the country originated in Miami, the Heat is one of the biggest sports teams in America, and Florida-based films like Spring Breakers and Magic Mike are two of the most talked about movies of the last few years. At the same time, Florida has already begun to deal with global warming and the diversity the rest of the country will face in the next 50 years—by 2050, nearly 30 percent of Americawill be hispanic, and Miami is already slowly going underwater.

Bad things happen in Florida, but those bad things also accompany a place where old people, hookers, hispanics, whites, and children can all dance to a bald Cuban rapper who joysously mixes EDM, reggaeton, and pop—genres the entire country loves considering “Timber” has been number one on the charts for weeks.

But people would rather deny that they’re similar to Florida than admit they’re listening to our music and soon about to face our problems, and Pitbull knows this perfectly well. “They respect Chicago!” he said at one point in the night. “I’m going to make them respect us.”

Follow Mitchell on Twitter: @mitchsunderland