By Chuck Strouse
By Scott Fishman
By Terrence McCoy
By Ryan Yousefi
By Ciara LaVelle, Kat Bein, Carolina Del Busto, and Liz Tracy
By Pepe Billete
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Swenson
Preparing for the premiere of the back-yard wrestling/film/photography show, Rojo, a red-faced, goateed pillar of sinew dressed in butcher whites, jumped the intense-scary line as he proclaimed "I know you ... I'm very good with faces," while clasping The Bitch's paw so firmly the bones ground. The Bitch (who had never met Damian) extracted herself for a quick peek around the gallery's entrance to verify the existence of the elusive DJ Needle from Beta Bodega Coalition.
Teenage wrestlers still young enough to be more interested in eyeing the unattended keg of beer than a small pack of freshman girls bounded around energetically as the adult art vanguard searched nervously for places to park their Honda CRVs on the block still mostly controlled by mildly peeved Haitians and wandering, curly-tailed feral dogs.
The three-story White Vinyl building, most recently home to a lot of pigeons, is now the lair of Janis Joplin-quoting artist Skip Van Cel. A kind of H. H. Gigeresque concoction of plugs and wires erupted from the gallery's floor. Those would be electrical plugs, not the type visible on the videotape loop projected overhead, which featured a very, very close look at some male anatomical action, complete with squeal-like-a-pig sound effects. The Bitch couldn't even face the parent types who were drifting over from the wrestling event, so averting her eyes to a sports car bearing the contextually disturbing vanity plate "BMW BEAR" and following the aroma of an adjacent Dumpster containing dozens of decomposing rats, she ducked into the relative safety of the Faktura space.
Faktura is also the title of the exhibit, curated by owner Jacquelyn Jackson Johnston, who says her own work is a response to "the overbearing power of media and mass communication." The gallery contains mostly paintings, but The Bitch was extremely impressed with Johnston's rock and roll entourage, who included a very cool punk-rock mom and dressed all in lime green and black leather.
The name for a collection of ponies is a string or drove, one of a few things The Bitch learned at this past weekend's Miami Beach Polo Cup. The other -- and it's really unbelievable this could happen in South Beach -- is even events ostensibly about and dependent upon animals can easily be adapted to the consumption of large amounts of alcohol and the display of stables of other kinds.
The matches on the sand across from Casa Casuarina were the latest old-money importation device schemed up by Peter Loftin, who owns the former Versace mansion and is determined to burnish its baroqueness into boutique hotel luster. The Bitch is always mistaking Loftin for Virgin Megastore-and-Airlines founder Richard Branson, but Loftin must not mind because he always flashes a cheerful, two-fingered "V" back at her. Ever mindful of The Man, The Bitch was able to avoid aggravating fellow spectator Miami Police Chief John Timoney, no stranger himself to wowing crowds with the force of the horse.