Is it just me, or does the very idea of sitting in 88 degree heat amongst thousands of sweaty tweakers listening to techno-funk records being scratched on two neon turntables make your skin crawl? And as a special added agony bonus, THIS YEAR THERE WERE TWO STRAIGHT WEEKENDS OF IT, SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF DOWNTOWN MIAMI. YAY!
Oh sure, there are the live acts too. Who can forget last year's surprise appearance by "Grandma-donna" onstage, asking if "Molly" was in the house (a slang term for the club-drug Ecstacy). Really, Mo? Are you that desperate to stay current? Why not stick to just grabbing your post-menopausal genitalia onstage and leave drugs out of it, huh? Next thing you know, you'll be wearing a Boy Scout uniform on the Red Carpet somewhere. Teenagers are naturally embarrassed by their parents anyway, so can you imagine what her kids would think if they could see video/pictures of Mommy in action? Perhaps her own stunts are the reason why Madonna has been quoted as saying she doesn't allow her children to watch television or read magazines.
Hey, if Ultra was a boon to our economy, great. If hoteliers say they made some extra ca-ching, marvelous. But can't they move it to some muddy field ala Woodstock, instead of next-door to the multi-million dollar American Airlines Arena, where a gal simply wants to make her way to a Heat game? Could it be held maybe a few more blocks away from the MacArthur Causeway so folks who rely on that route to make it home might avoid bladder-busting gridlock?
There. I solved the whole thing. It's not what, but where. I feel much better. Now, can somebody play some Clapton to erase that booming "unst-unst-unst" out of my aching head?