By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Terrence McCoy
By Jeff Weinberger
By Ryan Yousefi
By Chuck Strouse
By Terrence McCoy
By Terrence McCoy
Yet Esquire's Jones describes the reverse situation: "Ricky called up Le Batard, his personal media outlet, to hand over one last scoop in exchange, he says, for a favor: Le Batard would have to wait until Monday to write his story, for two pretty good reasons. First of all, Ricky wanted to call some of his teammates and let them know what was happening and why. Second, Ricky knew he had a tendency to change his mind about things -- maybe he hadn't stripped things down deep enough to find the whole Truth -- and the weekend would give him a window for reflection. Le Batard agreed, Ricky says. But Le Batard wrote a story that appeared on the Internet the next day, and everything blew up."
Jones found the eccentric millionaire athlete staying in a seven-dollar-a-week tent, doing bong hits, cleaning up in poker games, and forming a unified field theory of the universe which his swamp guru Steven dubbed the Corn State. He speculates in the article that had Williams been able to talk things out with his coach and had Le Batard not "jumped the gun," Williams would still be a Dolphin. Of course with Williams, you never know what's going on in that now-dreadlock-free head. He had, after all, failed several drug tests, was facing suspension, and is famous for odd behavior related to his social anxiety disorder.
In an e-mail response to The Bitch, Le Batard allows that Williams did ask him to wait until Monday, but he demurred and his friend understood. "I told him there was no way, as a journalist, I could sit on a story that size after he had already told his coach Friday. He told me to handle it however I saw fit and immediately boarded a plane to Japan. We put the story on the Website Sunday morning."
Danza's Not the Boss of Miami
Earlier this month the marketing geniuses at the Greater Miami Convention & Visitor's Bureau put together a vacation package giveaway, including rooms at the Fontainebleau Hilton Resort, for the studio audience of The Tony Danza Show. Because MIA is a rundown money pit held hostage by American Airlines, the lucky 140 travelers will be flying into Fort Lauderdale on Spirit Airlines, which, like most discount carriers, eschews our expensive flea market of an airport.
None of this disturbs The Bitch so much, however, as the prospect of chance encounters with roaming packs of Tony Danzafans, which would cause fur and dentures to fly. Is the Tony Danza demographic really the target the so-called Capital of the Americas wants to go after? A-O, O-A! Translation: Um, no.
Good Parties Make Good Neighbors
The Bitch just doesn't get the whole condo-opening-party trend, and often huffs that she wouldn't go to one of those events even if there was one across the street, but then there was one across the street, and what could she do but investigate the situation?
The situation, as it was this past Friday night, was basically an enormous circus tent thrown over an open bar and about a ton of somewhat crushed sushi, the telltale sign of the of the sponsorship largesse of Ocean Drive magazine. The location was the site of Onyx 2, a 50-story condo scheduled to be built on the bay at the end of 28th Street.
Dana Murphy, a 28th Street resident and outspoken Onyx 2 opponent, isn't happy about the prospect of living in the shadow of the giant structure or dealing with the inevitable traffic problems it will bring. He was even less happy about the high rollers celebrating on Friday: "It's not enough these guys are out here trashing our street every day, now we have a massive party with commissioners strolling around, everyone parking in my yard and my neighbors' yards, and the bass rattling my windows. The whole neighborhood is pissed off, but I guess the politicians who are supposed to be looking out for me consider that okay as long as somebody's making a lot of money."
Back at the party, Realtors tried to get revelers to buy property, any property. Barry Kraemer of Skyline Properties told The Bitch that while Onyx 2, with prices starting at 400 large, was clearly out of her league, he could get her a studio in Midtown Miami, the condotropolis to be built on a former railyard, for, oh, about half that.
The Bitch laughed, and not just because her personal economic system depends entirely upon the marked-down, day-old croissants at Wild Oats.
"I'd never live there anyway," she told Kraemer. "It's a brownfield! The ground's full of arsenic and lead!"
Kraemer, who boasted he knows Midtown's developers "really well," said the contaminated earth (the builders have cleansed the brownfield enough to bring toxic chemicals in the soil to legal levels) was news to him: "I've never heard about that. I'll look into it."
Tara Reid was on hand to exude a celebrity presence. She was totally nice, posing gamely for scores of photos and chatting cheerfully with The Bitch about the inappropriateness of wearing white shoes after Labor Day.
The real star of the evening, though, was none other than the psychic sergeant, José Rocha of the Miami Police Department. Sergeant Rocha was going about the business of managing the aforementioned traffic jam, pleasantly preventing one martini-toting guest from driving off with drink in hand, and escorting The Bitch across Biscayne Boulevard. Rocha, who is Nicaraguan, says he's always wanted to be a cop, and plans to work his way up through the ranks and -- who knows? -- may become the first Magic City police chief from Central America.