Just got back from a long walk through the glittering heart of Brickell Avenue, iPod in pocket blasting Tegan and Sarah in my ears. I was sporting my new and already well worn Lebowski shirt, a stark white affair with Goodman in minimalist black on the front, gun held up, eyes squinted in outrage with WORLD OF PAIN printed beneath. A nice lady at the patisserie took my shirt the wrong way. I don’t know how she did – I was ordering a Napolean Mille Fieulle or whatever with a Creme Brulee. Not exactly WORLD OF PAIN material. I mean, can you imagine a WORLD OF PAIN committee sitting down to a session of pain planning over such delicacies? I guess I can. I guess if you’re going to commit yourself to inflicting crude and brutal pain on everybody, John Goodman style, you’d need to balance it somehow.

IRREGARDLESS. There I was, striding along Brickell, looking at each skyscraper and office building as it passed, the luminaries of the Miami business world, towering edifices of glossy brushed steel, broad, Pantheon styled steps, mirrors and glass. Each distinct in construction and shape, but all possessing the same qualities, attributes, almost, that unified them into one seamless whole.

Columns that soared up twenty meters, some fluted, others simple and modern, all made of white stone. Huge, gleaming walls of glass that allows you to stare into the marble lobbies, at the concierges behind their modern metal desks, at the minamalist potted plants and esoteric paintings on the walls. The small plots of insanely manicured flowers, the robust and out of place palm trees that still sport their wooden struts that keep them from toppling over. The million cool ways to light the front entrances, from inserted bands of color to secluded halogen spotlights. Waterfalls, chic and silent, pouring usually down the side of a slanted stone wall, rushing and rippling and absolutely artificial.

These huge masses of black and chrome, rising up floor upon floor into the night sky, so high you have to crane your head back as you walk before them to see the top, experiencing a moment of vertigo as you lose touch with your own feet as your gaze soars up to the realms of eagles. Massive, ponderous despite their beauty, each with its own front porch and lobby.

And Tegan and Sarah have suddenly exploded onto my radar, hip and cool and with strangely catching voices. Sometimes seeming dischordant, contrasting against each other with an almost coy deliberation, and then slipping into perfect harmony as if they were just teasing you, leading you on, purposefully riling you up just so as to get you hooked. Quirky, complex, young and cool, I listened to them the whole way round and am listening to them still.

Anyways. Enough.