The Sterling Building, and it's the very immediate presence of Debra Winger, narrating From the Diary of Anne Frank at the New World Symphony, accompanied by Michael Tilson Thomas's orchestral composition. Taken aback, and given the noble nature of her Miami mission, choosing to ignore unseemly private questions. But really, what could Timothy Hutton and Nebraska senator Bob Kerrey possibly have in common, and more important, what are they really like? Trolling down the renown scale, Veronica Milchorena, former club bud and video chronicler of the golden days ("I can't believe you're still going out"), marveling at Jimmy Franzo's appearance as a Bad Boys villain -- no doubt, we'll have to witness that lunatic becoming a star in the next millennium. A pair of fave raves -- the Raleigh's Jauretsi and Channel 10's Su Keenan -- departing shortly for jobs in New York, at Paper magazine and Channel 4, respectively: Two less friendly faces, alas, to light up this twisted town. Winding down at the homosexual matrix of Gertrude's, refuge from the parched asphalt, talking of this and that. Several patrons loudly debating Glenn Albin's provocative article in Out magazine, the talk of the town lately, the piece detailing South Beach's denial of the brewing plague that is AIDS. Someone else rhapsodizing about Amnesia's let's-all-get-foamed-and-fucked party, a naked buck apparently taking center stage, mounted by seven different men. A wasted AIDS sufferer laughing about absurdities, the Gay Men's Chorus of New York immortalizing Martina Navratilova with Song of Martina, the continuing David Geffen-Keanu Reeves marriage rumors, heatedly denied in Parade and Time magazines. At the next table, a Canadian tourist missing the point of the perfect couple: "No Canadian man would ever marry an American man."
Outside, the streets a graphic carnival of desire and loathing played out on the hot bottom of the Earth. Pretty boys immersed in their Walkmans, Rollerblades, and pecs, chanting along to the nine inch nail's refrain "I want to fuck you like an animal." The homeless, an inescapable component of rising property values, trudging through errant lesbians: free-to-be-me gals conducting themselves like sailors on leave, making out on the median strips and denouncing the "strollers" who infect the ghetto of fun. Straights, in turn, yelling imprecations against faggots and dykes, the suburbanites looking leery and uncomfortable, like conventioneers on a bus tour of a red light district. An uneasy alliance of Americans, hopelessly divided, at war with themselves and each other, but still, it's a neighborhood of sorts, the last encouraging words of Angels in America coming to mind: "We will be citizens. The time has come. You are fabulous creatures, and I bless you: More life. The great work begins.