10 Things I Hate About Clubbing in Miami

I live in Miami, the dance music capital of the world. I literally live in a tropical paradise where there is a party happening every night of the week. This is America's playground, and it's somehow still classier than Las Vegas. What's there to complain about? Actually… a lot. I love my city, but I've also got some serious grievances to air. Check your shit, beau. These are the ten things I hate about clubbing in Miami.

Tourists might actually be nice, intelligent, introspective people back at college or work or wherever they spawned from, but once they come to Miami, they start sniffing around for coke like they're on the set of Scarface. I want to grab them by their shitty neon tank tops and tell them: stop treating my streets like an ashtray. You're not in "Miami Bitch." You're on South Beach, and as much as I think you're a tool for not knowing the difference between that neighborhood and everywhere else, maybe it's better that you stay over there.

Go to a SoBe megaclub and order a Heineken. Shill out $16 for a 12 oz. bottle. This is tourist pricing, and this shit is insane. No one who lives and works in Miami can afford this decadence. I remember in college when $3 got me a PBR tall boy and a shot of Jameson. I would never trade my adult city lifestyle for that North Florida chum bucket existence, but our dive bars might as well take a page from that playbook. Who are we trying to impress? Oh, and if I am going to give you $11 for a fancy-ass herb-infused cocktail at a place I'd rather never see in daylight, you might as well fill my glass up all the way.

You know that song from The Chainsmokers that everyone universally hates? There is scientific evidence that it was written about our very own club LIV. Alright, LIV is the epitome of self-absorbed buffoonery, but even our cool clubs are overrun with packs of wild turds posing for selfie after selfie. If you have to do it, here are the rules: after your third shot, you call it quits (same rules as baseball). Not in front of the DJ booth. Maybe don't have your flash on. Break any of these, and I'm four, five seconds from punching you in the face, stealing your phone, and selling it in Hialeah.

Yo, it's hard out here. As Rick Ross once said, we're all just "trying to survive on 95." Driving in Miami is the absolute worst. I never consider driving on South Beach, because it's not worth it. That's what Uber is for. Coming downtown? You better pray there isn't a Heat game, or a show at the American Airlines Arena, or anything going on at all. Learn to be aggressive, or sit at that intersection until you whither and die.

Why is it that Miami is home to some of the greatest talent in the world, and yet when we try to throw a simple free party, motherfuckers be missing in action? If you try to do something cool and exciting and experimental, be sure you have a ramp-up plan. If the club owner expects you to find success immediately, it's not going to lat more than two months. Granted, things are getting better all the time, but for now, we are not very good at having each other's backs.

There are a couple weeks in January when it gets damningly frigid—and by frigid, I mean it's 60-something and we are losing our shit. Don't get me wrong, I am super pumped to wear the useless collection of long-sleeve gear I can't stop buying for such an occasion, but dancing with your coat at the club is not sexy. Since clubs here almost never have coat checks, the only alternative is that I leave it on, or flirtatiously beg the bartender to help me stash my shit. I know you got room under that bar, buddy, don't be stingy.

Parking. There just isn't enough. Street parking is the way to go, because only newbs pay $20 to sit in some lot across the street. But that also means that the first half hour of my night is just me driving around in circles mumbling obscenities under my breath, creepily stalking pedestrians. If you're not leaving, have the decency to tell me before I sit there with my blinker on for ten minutes. I'm never driving to the club again.

We get a lot of great acts coming through town, but modestly successful up-and-comers take two or three years of fame-building before they have the cojones to come this far south. Geographically speaking, we are a desolate wasteland. Hit the markets in North and Central Florida on your way down, and it's a sad, quiet eight hours of driving on your journey back to reality. Think you have the cash to fly? Better be sure our fickle crowds will come out and pay that bloated door price. Most of the time, artists are pleasantly surprised to find a dedicated fan base in Miami, but when someone like The xx or James Blake waits three to five years before even saying hello, what's the shocker?

Miami really isn't that big of a city. There's a lot out west, but no one goes there unless they're visiting their parents, or just never moved. When you break into the scene, there's a little rush as you meet the primary players, then it's all over. Oops poops, I met everyone, good thing I kept my vagina to myself or things would be really awkward forever. It is super fun to unravel everyone's incestuous past, though. Seriously, everyone's had sex with each other, it's kind of amazing. Kudos to you for being able to look anyone in the eye.

If you're a smoker, prepare to be amazed. The rest of the country has banned indoor smoking, pero Miami is like "nah, bro." I recently quit cigarettes, which honestly earns me a medal because going out in Miami is like watching Mad Men—bitches be lighting up every five minutes. If you are a smoker, your nose is totally fried, and you no longer realize that you leave the club stanking of cancer's ghost for a week. Every part of your body is enveloped in eau d'ashtray. Shower if you like, but you'll have to wash your hair twice. Even in the clubs that try to be progressive and force you to smoke outside, there is no real policing and the inconsiderate masses will still burn up inside. Ay, sucia, but at least I can smoke my weed.

Kat Bein is still looking for parking in Wynwood on Twitter.

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