It's a goddamn cruise ship. Drive your fucking car.

It's November. It's officially the Season. The Beach is bumpin' with activities, and Clubs I don't go to anymore because I'm off the blow and I hain't got the Benjamins to be droppin' on Red Bull and Grey Goose anymore...

Not to mention the fact that I'm a cranky old man.

But, there's a lot starting to crack. Like tomorrow is ribfest and up-all-night. There are tons of activities now going on and Sunday, on top of Standard Bingo... Well, I forget, but there's something happening on Sunday also. There's a lot going on. I won't do any of it, because I'm a cranky old man curmudgeon but... I have options.

Why, pray tell, are there suddenly so many activities? Because the Tourists are back in town. You think anything's happening in this cesspool when it's only the locals and there aren't out-of-towners to impress? No. Why bother doing anything good for the people who live here? Do it all for the foreigners, and let the locals partake.

It's called the "Season," and we all look forward to the Season with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Anticipation: THE WEATHER IS FANTASTIC! YAY! Ranging from the 50s-to the mid-70s. Sunny, low humidity... Fab. U. Lous. Also, there's SO MUCH TO DO!

Dread: The tourists. Gumming up the works, clogging the clubs and the highways. Breakin' shit.

Ugh. The out-of-towners who have never seen a palm tree in their lives... And you should see 'em gawp at the trees. "OH MY GOD, IT'S LIKE ALL THERE ARE HERE ARE PALM TREES!"

Yes, yes, move along. In Iowa all you have are Oak and Sycamore trees... no one's wandering Kirk Street in Boise blathering about your foliage and stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures.

And on the roads? Don't. Get. Me. Started.

See, living on South Beach, the commute to and from work is probably one of the prettiest commutes in the Country. (For a stretch until you get onto the mainland and then it's on par with Madison, Wisconsin.) I drive almost four miles over a causeway, lined with palm trees and mansions on islands floating in turquoise water on one side, and a port where Carnival, Royal Carribben and Norweigan dock their floating palaces, and a panoramic view of downtown Miami on the other side.

Another way I might take to work is featured on that new Volvo commercial with T.R. Pescod, Ina Garten's super-gay friend who is all up on some bitch and I think there are diamonds involved with the Volvo. Aon't know.

Anyway, the commute is pretty. And when you do it every day, it becomes mundane. Like walking past the Empire State Building or driving past Grauman's Chinese Theater... every day..

Yeah... it's there. Big whoop. MOVE!

Today was the first day I've noticed that out of towners are here. Because the Carnival Valor is in port causing EVERYONE. AROUND. ME. to slow down to 40 miles per hour on the highway to stare at a Cruise ship.

It's a boat, people. You've seen one, you've seen a million. Except for the Freedom of the Seas. I have to say, that's an impressive boat to see. Its... uh... fucking gigantic.

(Oh, and for a super cyberly-awkward experience, go to www.freedomoftheseas.com, skip the intro, and then don't click anything when the awkward cruise lady finishes her speech, and watch her awkwardly smile and wobble, waiting for you to "personalize your cruise.")

I'll finish this post later. But...

Drive your fuckin' cars.