Swelter 39

Other voices, other rooms, the official migratory bird of paradise, Micky Wolfson, re-entering an existence marked by an unfortunate personal circumstance: forced to both winter and summer in the same one-horse tropical burg. The force of Micky making a surprise appearance at one of our South Beach-meets-suburbia parties, raising the tone and rightly observing that the trashed living room had all the "qualities of Dresden." A bit of artistic business at the Belvetro Glass Gallery on Lincoln Road, the Miami Modernism committee -- Max Blumberg, Christopher and Davina Fillichio, Max Griffin -- working the hype machine, the Wolfsonian benefiting from this Friday's preview of the Miami Modernism decorative arts show. Last year, in a fit of hookup insanity, we somehow wound up paving a path of complimentary courtesy for a zillionaire, who, in turn, brought Madonna and company -- something of a mixed blessing all around.

Another party in the galleries at the exquisite Wolfsonian museum complex on Washington Avenue, a beacon of delight amid the nightly swarm of filth and chaos, the legion of local heavy-hitters assembling for a get-acquainted gathering. Suzanne Delehanty, the new director of the Center for the Fine Arts, negotiating local culture: Brian Dursum of the Lowe Art Museum, Dahlia Morgan of the the Art Museum at FIU, Robert and Nancy Frehling, Nedra and Mark Oren, Rose Ellen Greene of the CFA board, the splendiferous Peggy Loar and Cathy Leff. Befitting this season's rage for cross-cultural celebrations, people such as Kenny Scharf -- now working with former Romero Britto associate Greg Calejo -- mingling with the civic set and adding an interesting frisson. One of our socialite friends dragging us into the ladies room -- blissfully drug- and sex-free -- eager to share the splendor of an opulent vanity mirror. Micky saluting the crowd with an optimistic speech about Miami, the city of promise and possibility. Sometimes it's as if he's sucked out all the available good taste and left us all to cavort in barbarism.

Wrapping up the marathon run with an agreeable flourish, the friends-of-Micky -- a free-floating posse of international artists, dancers, noble creatures, and the intelligentsia, people such as writer-activist Andrew Tobias -- assembling at ancestral headquarters on North Bay Road. Max Blumberg taking the gang out for a wonderful dinner party aboard his yacht, Micky pointing out the old Firestone place, various vulgar megahomes, and the former castle of David Paul, going from an all-is-dust monument to a minisubdivision. A flawless evening, save for an absent A-guest from the hunt country of Virginia, set to come along on a postprandial crawl through the Deco district. The icon of trophy wives-with-nine-lives, Pat Kluge -- a belly dancer-nudie magazine model who went on to marry and profitably divorce John Kluge of Metromedia, living in baronial pageantry on a 12,000-acre estate -- remaining behind on Fisher Island with Douglas Wilder, Virginia's first black governor. You go, girl: Politics and fate do indeed make strange bedfellows. The couple retiring early after spending an afternoon in Frog City and other swamp haunts, Micky's rigorous schedule of recommended Everglades landmarks proving to be exhausting. Back at the dock, no one in the party -- despite an awesome propaganda campaign -- signing up for our trademark tour of lowlife for well-born people. Home to bed, momentarily content, taking solace in the honorable social celebrity of Cole Porter: "Just being still might give us a brand new thrill/So why don't we try staying home/Wouldn't that be nice?/We've tried everything else twice.

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