Swelter

Life brought plenty more rock stars, riches, fame, and sex, but the pivotal moment came with the great jazz trumpeter Miles Davis, who Goldsmith shot at his Malibu home. He was rude, demanding, and had evil eyes -- his twin brother was even worse -- and over the course of six debasing, mind-fucking hours she almost bailed out, having reached her breaking point: "I thought, 'I own four homes and I don't need this shit.'" At the end of her rope, she finally made a risky bad-ass move and told Miles, "Mr. Davis, you can be a real nigger sometimes, can't you?" With that, Davis sent someone to fetch his horn and blew like Gabriel, in a spiritual epiphany that ended a mutual disrespect problem. I told you she was tough.

By midnight Goldsmith, my new hero of ballistic celebrity coverage, had long since left the party, and the human element had become somewhat problematic. The same woman who earlier had danced on-stage with Sister Sledge was now passed out at a table, resting on a precariously propped elbow. An eerie blonde in a tight leopard-print dress slowly trolled through the crowd, almost as if she were walking underwater -- a true cross-dresser, straight out of Halloween and beyond drag. It was something else, that opening, engrossing even when it took on a They Shoot Horses, Don't They? quality -- the last gasp of the marathon dance.

The weekend brought more joy, glad tidings, and free-floating insanity. At Glam Slam, Mayte -- the dancer and singer who found happiness as the protegee of the Artist Formerly Known as Prince -- performing songs from her debut album, Child of the Sun, including a number called "The Most Beautiful Boy in the World." Mayte, who set a go-go-girl standard by swan-diving into the crowd at the Glam Slam opening, flashed an enormous diamond ring at a press conference at the club, coyly hinting at love-slave status with one of the richest boys in the world. In other Washington Avenue club news, the brewpub Del Sol Brewery will shortly be opening in the old Cactus Cantina space, and the dance joint Pure L'Amour (now there's a novel romantic concept for Miami) is set to take root next to Les Bains. Regine, the empress of the Eighties, has been looking for a spot on Miami Beach for a cabaret restaurant. When she again sets up camp in town, it's either the end or the beginning of the fun epoch.

On Saturday night, Yuca's new outpost on Lincoln Road had a dry-run dinner for the media and favored patrons of the Coral Gables mothership establishment, a killing-me-softly meal of epic proportions: pork tenderloin over congri, and duck sausage in a*ejo rum sauce. Nicely done all around, Yuca owner Efrain Veiga bringing in investor Amancio Suarez for the Beach branch, an ambitious 8000-square-foot effort with chef Guillermo Veloso and acres of Byzantine mosaic work. Upstairs there's a vast lounge/performance area. With Albita in the house, the place would make a handy Cuban theme park for tourists staying at the nearby Delano hotel. In between filling out the management-placed notepads on each table with ungrateful critiques, we drifted into a debate over a juicy Delano rumor. Some far-gone NBC newscaster, according to the gay 411, inadvertently broke popper bottles in his white-on-white room during a party and left a trail of blood, lust, and carnage behind. Now there's an image that's too good not to be true, a Christmas story for one and all.

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