By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Trevor Bach
By Kyle Munzenrieder
What with the truly feminine pathology of Hurricane Erin A she might fuck you up, and then again, she might not A the week turned out to be slightly less satisfying than we would have liked, remarkably similar to a nonorgasmic sex thrash with a mean witch you couldn't stand in the first place. In the interests of fleeing a slumbering beast, we immediately ejaculated to the suburban frontier and picked up a few life lessons in exile. There's actually such a thing as too much television, even breathless dispatches from a looming meteorological rebuke. Though curiously oblivious to the fabulous, people are nicer, more earnest, and eerily civil away from the glitzier coastal regions. But in the end, the pleasant just doesn't cut it, and fractious as it may be, there's no place like home. At least something happens once in a while.
And we're nothing, an absolute zero sum equation, if not a service industry for the land of what's happening now. Born anew in the hinterlands, and so it's a return to the paradise of the immediate, South Beach, forever flirting with the monstrous but always interesting in one way or another. Friday night on the town, the nightlife industry transcending the merely speculative, lower Washington Avenue going wall-to-wall clubs. Yves Uzan of Amnesia working on a jazz place next to the Strand, the watering holes Berlin Bar and Boston's Charlie Brown opening in Bash territory, the Ruins and Rebar aswirl in real estate rumors. On Collins Avenue, son of Velvet scheduled for December, some out-of-towner doing an enormous dance place across the street. In the past, visitors bought trinkets as mementos of a great weekend -- now they buy clubs.
Respectable Street full of the standard suspects, lacking the novelty of the club's debut, a private affair that embodied the best and worst variable of this business: You never know what's going to happen until you get there. In mortal dread of the same old district buffoons in full comp fester, we had girded the psyche for yet another opening, and to our great delight stumbled upon a tide pool of unknown creatures slithering around in tribal couture and deeply alternative music. As it turned out, the looks-great-tastes-good extras, way hipper than most local goofballs, hailed from the mother establishment in West Palm Beach. Shame on us regulars, one and all, for our pretensions to the edge.
Back out to the streets, akin to a sort-of-aerated club, surrounded by youth -- we have seen the future, and it is pizza parlors. As ever, remaining a walking, talking metaphor for how not to wind up in middle age, the sidewalks littered with errant buds, ripe for tricks, kicks, and a few laughs. Here, there, and nowhere, marveling at the apparent failure of a local casting call for Lolita, the new Sue Lyon somehow not turning up. Vladimir Nabokov's masterpiece of the heart's topography, pretty well covered by Stanley Kubrick already, destined to be cinematically trashed by Adrian Lyne of Nine 1/2 Weeks fame -- talk about the dumbing down of modern culture. The moneyed haunts in a drool over two notorious developers on the loose -- famed for openly eating steak off some stripper's crotch at a glitter restaurant -- and the juicy prospect of fresh blood, renowned party boy Jack Nicholson doing an upcoming movie in Miami. Throw Roman Polanski into the strange brew, cross Chinatown III with a perky remake of Kids, and the pussy possibilities are endless.
Moving on up to the refuge of Lincoln Road, always adults night out, sanctified ground for lesbians, picturesque lunatics, and the employed. Erinn Cosby, the first sweetheart of nocturnal survival, bouncing around at al Piccolo Cafe, the new Sport Cafe outpost. Old-home week at the Alliance Gallery, all the founding fathers of nightclub society -- Mayra Gonzalez, Fernando Garcia, et al. A turning out for a reception in honor of Damian Rojo's "Kill Them All! and Others" exhibit. Let's do the time warp again, back to the Fire and Ice glory days, our fellow veterans lately prone to regular habits, babies, and staying home. One iconographic figure ruing the passage of time and true fun, and handily summing up the current realities: "The Beach is getting to be a bad Beverly Hillbillies episode, and I'm starting to feel like Jane Hathaway."
Dinner at World Resources, a connoisseur of the eccentric bewildered by the passing urban professionals: "Why would anybody want to know normal people? What would you say to them?" The bounteous pageant of insanity winding down with a quiet night at home, pouring over the National Enquirer, Oprah Winfrey and Don Johnson making the cover. America's newest tabloid couple frolicking on the Riviera together, Winfrey bracing for a clash-of-the-titans struggle with Barbra Streisand over the fallen idol: Get a grip, you superstars -- he's not worthy.
Saturday night, and thank God the phone rings, a clarion call to the mainstream, an invitation to a dinner party on the mainland. From our perspective, nerves jangled by the nasty and stupid, bliss beyond measure. As a soupaon of social spice, one of the more prosperous guests bringing along thematic tone from New York City: wicked long legs, flawless breasts, and dyed platinum hair, leavened with a throaty voice made for honeyed bedroom incantations. Our type all around, a wild thing worthy of worship, and given our dating profile, inevitable self-degradation. Intriguingly enough, she turning out to be a he, one splendid pre-op transsexual secretary, the kind of commanding character who could have stepped out of a Warhol movie.