By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
Ah, the psychosis deepens. I swear to three gods I had this dream the other night, more like a vision, a dream so real about a beautiful blond-haired teen-age girl, and I knew that for some reason her parents were worried or upset, and for no reason I felt guilty, and then a sprinkler, or something, sprayed her until she was sopping, and her green shirt with shined buttons slipped off her shoulders, so I went to find her something to wear. I've always been big on ultra-conscious explorations. When I was a kid, I even went through a phase where I kept a journal of all my dreams. But this one affected me like a chemical, it didn't mean anything, but the next day I felt like a different person, one sans sanity. I suspect the dream may have something to do with the fact I watched a movie earlier that night called Mind, Body & Soul, starring former porn queen Ginger Lynn (adding the surname of Allen to her credit for this R-rated release). The plot concerned a woman who shows her breasts a lot and gets involved with a demonic cult that controls her dream states. (She calls them "visions.") I had the mystery of the thing figured out ten minutes in, but sometimes I realize I don't have anything figured out.
I guess I'm going out on a limbo here, but when a flack with the status of Charlie Cinnamon calls, you get right on it. At least I do, with no smart remarks about any two-headed love childs. Debbie Gibson does womanhood now, and her new album, the fourth in a daisy chain of smash hits, is called Body Mind Soul. The Madonna of the mall set, as you surely know, scored when she was sixteen, signing to Atlantic Records, soon releasing Out of the Blue, which sold millions of copies. The hits kept coming, and now Gibson's stepping to you with a new image, all grown up and ready to do. There's even a song called "Shock Your Mama," of which D.G. is quoted as saying, "Obviously, I'm not going to shock anybody's mama, really. My sexiest is like Madonna's mildest, that's the joke of it." Ha! Deb will be on hand at Stephen Talkhouse Monday to meet and greet the meat. Her mother is her executive producer. And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
Gimme asylum: The ascending Skin Tight, Tampa's Deloris Telescope, well-criticized (ahem) Forget the Name, and the always tasty Plastic Nude Martini fill the bill at Plus 5 this Friday. The Davie headbangers' hall had a special Paradise Alley anniversary/record release party December 21 during which the band's drummer, Louis Diaz, was injured by a "pyro" (stage effect), resulting in the partial amputation of a finger. This Saturday eight bands will perform at McFly's in Pompano as a benefit for Diaz. You can send him a card or donation at 4414 W. Park Rd., Hollywood, FL 33021. And over on the jazz front, the Tony Vino Orchestra plays the Waterways tomorrow (Thursday). Get out.
All this weekend Churchill's Hideaway will be lit up with the recording of a live CD, starring a number of the area's best bands. You're invited. We'll tell you more later.
Butthorn of the week: The Dolphins' Mark Clayton. Get him out.
The media circus: I remember an editor at a daily newspaper I used to work for (I remember the paper, too) whose favorite expression was "I don't understand." (Most of 'em don't, folks.) Well, I don't understand. I'm thumbing the WJR (Washington Journalism Review) (told you I was sick) and what should I see but more insight into the frequency, Kenneth, of network news stud Dan Rather. Here are three comments Rather is quoted as making during election-night coverage: 1) "Look under the hood. That's no fruit loop. Let's get it on." 2) "No way, Jose." 3) "...more exciting than a fire at the circus." I guess everyone else understands. He is on a network, after all.
Pet corner: Every priority can be shifted, justified, so priorities aren't real, not in craziness. How insane is it to find an arctic (arctic) fox stumbling around in South Florida? How perfectly logical is what happens next: Volunteers from Broward's Wildlife Care Center take in one arctic fox found wandering Hollywood, still roped and collared. A second is located in Coral Springs, its tail mangled to the point amputation was required. A red fox purchased at a pet store ("pet store" being as evil a concept imaginable) and a woodchuck were also turned over to the WCC at about the same time. (The arctic foxes, which can't be legally possessed without a special permit, were, of course, not claimed by their sicko "owners.") A place for the four animals was found at a Winchester, Virginia, rehab center, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Fort Lauderdale's Hop-A-Jet company then donated the use of a Learjet to safely fly them up there. Every one counts.