Party Monsters

It's all about the music, drinking, drugging, and spontaneous consumer frenzy

Humberto Guida is missing in action and presumed bedded.

Our "BuzzIn" columnist was last spotted just after midnight outside the V.I.P. area at the Ultra Music Festival, the official opening party for the sixteenth annual Winter Music Conference. Guida's pupils were the size of Frisbees, and he repeatedly brandished a chrome dog tag he claimed would get him into an exclusive afterparty about to begin in a mansion at 1132 N. Venetian Dr.

Twenty-one hours later, Guida filed the following report:

Blow Pops, pop locks, and dreadlocks  at Ultra Music 
Festival
Blow Pops, pop locks, and dreadlocks at Ultra Music Festival
Top to bottom: Bunny reflects upon the universe; 
Ultra's midday crowd  goes off; a VIP honey flashes 
"peace"
Top to bottom: Bunny reflects upon the universe; Ultra's midday crowd goes off; a VIP honey flashes "peace"

"SATURDAY NIGHT/SUNDAY MORNING by Humberto Guida: The Red Bull house party on Venetian Dr. was a sore subject for the little old Jewish man who lived next door. 'What's going on over there?' he asked each person as they entered. 'Get that car off of my grass, I'm going to call the cops.' He was ignored every time, except for one lollipop-sucking girl who tried to convince him to party with her. Inside was a sanctuary from the structured, velvet-roped-off clubs and hotels. It was an opulent get-together of about 100 people that had less to do with showcasing new music and more with flaunting the ingredients of a heavenly bash: naked women in a pool, free alcohol (and Red Bull), and luscious house by dancer-friendly DJs Gaetan and Duncan Ross. Most of the ladies were models hovering around six feet; at least half of the fellas lied about their occupations in hopes of extended conversations with these beauties. In the privacy of this fat crib right on the water, the swaying, smiling guests really let loose, bathrooms were tied up for hours at a time. As for the old man, he never called the cops, but every little while he'd turn on the light in his home and stand at the window with a less-than-impressed expression. Everyone finally went home early. At ten in the morning, that is."

At precisely 5:06 the next morning, in response to repeated voice mail and e-mail messages from his editors concerning his other WMC assignments, 24-year-old Guida sent this, his final dispatch:

"If you want my best shit, give me till tomorrow morning, because I'm using the computer at some 40-year-old woman's house right now and she's making fun of me, calling me computer whiz. I picked her up at a party at the Wave Hotel this afternoon and she's fuuuuuuuuuucked up! I'm about to sink to some low levels dude."

Guida never surfaced, but the rest of our 72-hour party people snapshot their own bacchanals and debacles from the first three days and nights of WMC 2004. Let's get retarded in here.

Grand theft golf cartIt is half past midnight, and a golf cart has just crashed into a palm tree, sending DJ Junior Sanchez and Nayib Estefan flying. Estefan, bleeding profusely from his lip, gets to his feet, spits blood, and then berates the driver, a security guard hired by Ultra. Sanchez also starts going off, and within seconds, six more Ultra guards rush to defend the cart driver from the outraged celebrities. Sanchez is shoved hard. He yells back, "Touch me again motherfucker and I'll sue your ass!" And then, pointing to Gloria and Emilio Estefan's son, "Do you know who this guy is?" The two DJs then pick up their record crates and stalk off. A New Times writer approaches Estefan, offers him a business card, and asks him, "What happened?" Estefan takes the card, wipes his bloody mouth with it, and holds it up, smeared with crimson. "This is what happened," he says.

Come on and ride itOrganized by New York DJ Tommie Sunshine, sponsored by Krispy Kreme, and touted as one of the few "non-electronic" events at WMC, Krispy Karaoke takes place Sunday in the Studio, a tiny bar located in the balmy basement of the Shelborne Hotel on Collins Avenue. At roughly 9:00 p.m., John Selway, a slim man in jeans, a thin blue T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses, tears through a sexified rendition of Ginuwine's classic "Pony," complete with back-up dancers. Then Sunshine, a tall, friendly guy and dead ringer for Jeff Bridges as The Dude in The Big Lebowski, takes over with "Humpty Dance." Sunshine calls several audience members onstage, including Casey Spooner of Fischerspooner and Jake Shearers of the Scissor Sisters, to do an almost tear-jerking rendition of "We Are the World." Then Spooner, dressed in a white suit, tops off the happenings with a totally Krautrock version of George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." Former Motley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee (fresh from his "live" DJ set at Ultra the night before) is rumored to be on tap to rend asunder Olivia Newton-John's "Physical." But Lee never shows, sparing the crowd the possibility of witnessing a portal to hell equaled only perhaps by the thousands of flyers littering South Beach inviting one and all to "Be in Tiesto's next video!"

So stylistic"It all starts with the figure eight," says Max, a sixteen-year-old from Fort Myers, trying to explain his glow stick dancing maneuvers on the grass outside the Sound Stage at Ultra. "Then you spread it out and keep going." Max is performing a one-on-one light show for a friend, moving twin yellow wands in circles around the boy's face, making the cylinders blur and then stop. "I'm trying to make him dizzy," Max admits. But his friend holds on, moving with the big-eyed nods of an acolyte.

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