Looking as good as it gets, only slightly shattered. Hair by Joe Mesa, thickened and tortured. Brooks Brothers oxford shirt, wrinkled to perfection. Khaki pants, same dependable clothier, spotted with ink and gin. Puke-stained Cole-Haan loafers, worn without socks. Loaded with pocket change and attitude, ready to take yet another…
The year’s most important rock album has been released. The rectological explication engenders the broadening base of potential matched against the constricting demands of commercial success, and R.E.M. effectively negates that equation evocatively by juggling configurative…whoops, wrong column. Sorry. They didn’t headline their press release “Automatic for the Pundits” for…
DIALOGING WITH DEFEDE After reading your cover story “The Ugly American” (October 7) by Jim DeFede, I, as a Filipino, can only react with disgust, distress, and disappointment. A writer has many tools in his trade, and one of these is the use of dialogue to make his work more…
Out, out, Prince Albert of Monaco. Waiting for Bono. Tim Robbie, die-hard David Byrne fan and party animal extraordinaire. Pat Booth, author and Home Shopping Network star. Chuck D., public enemy and fun guy. Miami calling Mick Jones. Herb Ritts, photo-vibrator to Seventh Avenue. Models migrating back to town, the…
WE DO ALL WE CAN DO TO BRING THE POO TO YOU Todd Anthony’s bold report of dung sniffing as the next psychopharmacological craze (“Cow Pie High,” September 30) is raw, in-your-face journalism at its best. The fearless efforts of field reporter Anthony, photographer Steve Hlavac, and intrepid dungmeister John…
The hurricane relief social weekend, high-purpose pleasure, parties of the staunchest moral caliber. Saint Gloria orchestrating a massive relief concert at Joe Robbie Stadium, featuring Jimmy Buffett, comedian Paul Rodriguez, Celia Cruz, the Bee Gees, and just about every other known available entertainer. History in the making, but to a…
ROSE GIVES NAVARRO HIS PINK SLIP After reading Rafael Navarro’s latest restaurant review (“8 Million Ways to Fry,” September 23) — or should I say “restaurant demolition”? — I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt of his closeted sexual preference. The venom spewed forth by this gastronomic queen…
Zombie Birdhouse, Three Penny Opera, Mari Serpas and the Instigators. The winning band would get $1000, a cool guitar by a famous-name manufacturer, et cetera, courtesy of the booze company Tanqueray. As one of three extinguished judges, I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’ll tell you that I gave the…
South Beach, and the curfew incident, the ultimate moratorium on pleasure, passes into legend. Suffering from the doubly painful withdrawal of being encouraged to limit phone use and not being able to drink during prime-time hours, one prominent local reportedly breaking down at Paragon: “What do you mean you’re not…
FETISHES ON PARADE And speaking of miserable, self-indulgent cretins, how about those with deeply disturbing fetishes for thesauruses? You know the type: those who feel too threatened to use terms like “narcissistic,” “self-aggrandizing,” or “I could really use a good therapist.” They’re the same ones who also feel threatened by…
Just another funky day, as Greg Brown would sing. Dear diary: 8:30 a.m., car starts, gets me home. 9:00 a.m.: car won’t start. 9:00 to 10:30 a.m.: work on car. 10:30 a.m.: car still won’t start, screw it. Left knee stiff, left ear swollen with infection. Stop by McDonald’s for…
September in Miami, the hot bottom of the earth, and life is like an interminable Port St. Lucie dinner-theater production of No Exit, leavened somewhat by bright moments here and there. “Kaboom” at Warsaw. Club Anarchy in the Grove and Falcon’s Lair on South Beach opening with all due fanfare…
BULLDOZE THE BUREAUCRATS, NOT THE NEIGHBORHOODS Regarding Kirk Semple’s article about “The Shih Dynasty” (September 9): I live in the “forlorn” Miramar neighborhood. Have we learned nothing from the rebirth of South Beach? Renovation is not something that is done with a bulldozer! The city should be sued by the…
So I guess this mean’s WDNA-FM’s now off the air again. Ouch. And you thought it was over. Not yet. The National Association of Chiefs of Police is calling for a boycott of Time Warner’s HBO, requesting “Americans” to cancel the cable station because it has scheduled a series of…
The hunger for a good party, an appetite that unifies all of humanity. A miraculous alchemy, akin to a physics equation, the right mix of energy, sound, and friction. Like love, the best ones catch the unwary by surprise, and suddenly everyone in the room is stronger, better looking, blessedly…
MORGAN: BITCH GODDESS WITH A FINE MIND After reading Roberta Morgan’s hurricane stories — and also being a fan of her theater reviews, I know now that you have a gem, another great South Florida craftsman like Carl Hiaasen, Dave Barry, and in her case, perhaps even Hemingway himself. She’s…
Posthurricane, and everybody trying to figure out the haphazardly enforced curfew situation. As of this past Friday, the Metro-Dade Police Department had dropped the curfew (with the exception of Key Biscayne) for the coastal regions north of SW 104th Street. Up until September 2 — when Miami Beach City Manager…
SKIP, OLD BUDDY OLD PAL, YOU’VE OBVIOUSLY GOT TO GET OUT MORE It was with great interest that I read Steven Almond’s article about defaulted message boards (“I Have Defaulted…and I Can’t Get Up,” August 26). As an artist whose medium often involves such items as road signs, government-ese, and…
Something evil in our midst, as the dance to the music of the apocalypse goes on. Ten days that really shook the world, a hurricane of epic Miami proportions: biggest, flashiest, most sinister. The city returning to its natural state, an overinflated banana republic: martial law, looting, and armed troops…
MIAMI BEACH, 1972: THE EVE OF SELF-DESTRUCTION Regarding Steven Almond’s “Where Were You in ’72?” (August 19): I was at Flamingo Park for the Democratic and Republican conventions in 1972. While true that the death of political idealism was born in Miami Beach that year, it was suicide. Even as…
Sometimes I think the only way out is out. No whining here; think about it: I’ve got a cool job, a beautiful wife, a beautiful house, and I feel sometimes like I’m living in a Talking Heads song. I certainly should be the happiest dog in the pound. And then…
Haiti town, and life is loose and fast. Parties start late, time is a real relative concept, and the social graces are still observed, the soothing introductory endearment “c’est on plaisir” being thrown around a lot. Exile politics and nasty assassinations, the zenglendo, Duvalier-era thugs, stalking the politically incorrect. Some…
