Jericho Mansion

When Peter Loftin wants to hear a certain dime-slot-eyed soul singer's music at his party, he doesn't have an iTunes-crazed crony burn him a mix CD. Nope, Loftin, who debuted his private Casa Casuarina Club on Ocean Drive this past Saturday, presented the singer herself — barefoot Brit and Gap pitchwoman Joss Stone — to a captive audience in the Casa's courtyard.

And though the significance of Stone's appearance was a bit lost on Miami Beach's electro-or-salsafied inveterate party scenesters, all agreed that 45 minutes of Stone's red-faced bellowing was preferable to even twenty seconds of played-out Daddy Yankee. That's just the kind of party it was: nothing to complain about and much to appreciate.

The nominal occasion for the Casa's "opening" — it has been the site of numerous soirees over the past year — was for Loftin to convince his stratosphere-scraping guests that a $46,000 membership fee would indeed secure not only exclusivity but also opportunities for subtle networking and not-so-subtle debauchery away from prying public eyes, and to do it all in the mansion where designer Gianni Versace was gunned down.

Oilily eschews the fur but loves the wolfies
Jonathan Postal
Oilily eschews the fur but loves the wolfies

"But really, tonight's just about a good time," Loftin told The Bitch, gesturing to the crowd of about 500 with a stogy in one hand and a tumbler of bourbon in the other.

And thanks largely to the efforts of the A-Team of marketing magicians at Zakarin PR (Loftin wisely going with the smallish but effective Coral Gables-based firm), guests — even the notoriously jaded yet party-shy Bitch — did have a good time. Note to event planners for the rest of the season: It's a good thing to have tons of cheese, paella, risotto, and other alcohol-absorbing snacks dispensed freely, and it's a great thing to hand people glasses of champagne and Red Bull the moment they walk in the door.

"What did we do before Red Bull?" mused guest Jim Baxter, editor of Home Miami magazine. The dapper Baxter waxed further nostalgic, recalling the early days of the Versace mansion, when Baxter and his partner Bill Hahne would often wave to the designer as he read Italian magazines at the News Café.

The Bitch was happy to note the presence of a few left-field partiers, including a woman in full "Miss Jones County [Georgia] 1986" regalia and especially Gary Hall, Jr. , winner of ten Olympic medals for swimming.

Graciously accepting a compliment on his hipster-doofus vintage getup (black-and-white houndstooth pants, pink bowling shirt, khaki porkpie), Hall says he trains now in Islamorada and works full-time talking to folks about type 1 diabetes, an affliction he battles.

Rounding out the night with an afterparty at the ever-jumping Buck15, The Bitch was sad to learn that her closest competitor in the jumpily energetic party-mackin' world, Ocean Drive staff writer (and former New Times columnist) Humberto Guida, can no longer be contained by the Magic City: December will see the effervescent nightlife royalty-maker head to the place he belongs, Los Angeles, where he'll keep writing, keep hustling, and, no doubt, soon make the leap to the plasma TV screen nearest you.

Coyote Ugly The Bitch has always been mystified by the presence of Dutch clothier Oilily in the United States. This season, though, the company that caters to infants, children, and their primary-color-loving mums came out with an edgy collection featuring fabrics printed with lovingly detailed images of ... wolves.

Paul Lechlinski, Oilily's director of design, says, "We also have a client who is looking to wear the clothes in a alternative expressive way. The collection has become more sophisticated."

Flipping through a recent J.Crew catalog in search of the normal togs she sometimes deploys to fool the humans, The Bitch was subjected to a lack of sophistication when she noticed a familiar, and familial, looking tail attached to the "Puffer" vest: one belonging to a coyote. Apparently the fashion-backward designers for the Lynchburg, Virginia store have no problem sidestepping the protection laws of this land and importing fur from farms in Asian countries.

The agitated dog then visited the J.Crew store at the Aventura Mall, quickly sniffing out the rabbit fur-lined boots as soon as she entered the store stocked with the ready-for-fall-that-will-never-happen-in-Florida coats, sweaters, and scarves.

The manager, a ringer for Philip Seymour Hoffman named Graham Pelley, wandered over, and The Bitch asked, "Is this real fur?"

"Why, yes!" Pelley squealed. "It's rabbit. Isn't it soft?"

Um, yeah. Ugh!

The Bitch will continue wagging her tail up and down the aisles of her favorite discount store, Target, whose recent Sunday circular proudly displayed its Mossimo jackets on the cover with the tagline "Real Girls Wear Faux."

Blimey, Where's My Tar?

The Bitch overhears a lot of things, including this monologue from a waiflike English gal who has been in the news a lot lately for getting in trouble doing the single thing the pharmaceutically curious hound could ever share with a supermodel. The trouble-addicted beauty is apparently in town on the lowdown for Miami's, uh, fashion week.... With apologies to eurotrash:

"Yeah. So I'm at the Miami Fashion Week kick-off party at Funkshion, on Lincoln Road, in Miami Beach, and I'm feeling totally good because I've done lots of coke and I look cool with my new asymmetrical Stella Tennant hairstyle. So what if I lost all those stupid modeling contracts — my boyfriend's a rock star, so fuck you, you suburban motherfuckers!

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