By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
The fallout affected Ego's investors and this month's Los Angeles debut.
Bick was matter-of-fact in responding to The Bitch's inquiries: "Different people had different goals and different ideas about how to reach those goals. So they moved on."
"There's not much to tell," said the evasive Harris via phone. "I would rather just let it be something in my background." Harris was also mum on the subject of his new magazine, Six Degrees, which he expects to launch later this fall. Judging by its transplanted editorial staff and creative department, and the fact that it will also be a free monthly minimagazine, The Bitch expects Six Degrees to differ little from the old Ego Miami.
However, The Bitch is looking forward to some therapy and analysis in the new publication. The editor is Jason Jeffers, formerly of Miami's Only Daily and its progeny Street Weekly, and the art director is Rick Delgado. "We're coming up with a new vision for the book," Jeffers says. "Before it was mostly about the photographs. Most people would pick up Ego just to see themselves at parties. I want to be a little more playful with the editorial content.... I also want to skewer celebrity culture a little bit, poke some holes in it."
The Bitch thinks Jeffers might find it a bit lonely in the dog biscuit gallery.
Jeffers says his ideal cover would not feature a lip-glossed sixteen-year-old (and The Bitch wishes to take this opportunity to say please do something about those skanky, scary, nasty American Apparel ads on the back covers) but someone such as Daily Show alum Stephen Colbert, who recently launched his own spinoff, The Colbert Report.
Boo Yah Hoo Ha
The Bitch dislikes loud banging noises unless they are accompanied by music, in which case she evaluates them on a case-by-case basis; thus, the short-haired dog considers the worst privations of Hurricane Wilma to be the cancellation of local performances by her high school boyfriend Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails and by candy-ass mama's boys Death Cab for Cutie. Nonetheless, this past Halloween weekend held much in the way of entertainment.
On the Friday night after Wilma blew through town, even South Beach's Prive sported busted-out windows, and a stifling 8:00 p.m. curfew reigned. Still The Bitch could almost hear the sighs of relief over DJ Irie's beats at Mansion just down the street on Washington Avenue.
Lorna, an "over 21" paralegal, had trucked down from Fort Lauderdale, giving the paw to that city's 11:00 p.m. official bedtime. "When I'm ready to go home, I'll go," she said.
Bryan, a veteran scenester looking for bitches in heat, was unimpressed: "This is the most dead I've ever seen it. Everyone I know is out of town. There are some girls here, but nothing like usual."
One of the weekend's most talked-about parties was modeling agency Irene Marie's Saturday night Halloween soiree at yeasty South Beach nightclub Myntlounge. As The Bitch rolled in slightly before midnight in hopes of capitalizing on an open bar and free sushi she noted (then ignored) Mynt's usual assortment of rich and fashionably boring nightlife elite.
The event was ostensibly a costume party, with an invitation beckoning attendees to "Not Be You" (naively implying that people in South Beach are most of the time themselves).
As The Bitch and the male coyote she had interbred with for the evening (and temporarily deputized to duty as a journalist) sipped free drinks and nibbled icky nori which was free for a reason droves of scantily clad nurses, policewomen, stewardesses, and pistoleras strolled by. Coyote Boy thought this occupationally oriented costume trend deserved further investigation and introduced himself to Liza, Jennifer, and Carol who were dressed up as angels in lacy lingerie and skirts short enough to warrant at least three years in Purgatory.
"What's the inspiration for the costumes?" Coyote Boy asked.
"Sex," Jennifer replied. "Originally we wanted to go in a little more hard-core direction with it, but we decided against it."
"Do you want to see hard-core?" Jennifer asked.
Jennifer hiked up her skirt to expose white thong panties and a careful wax job. Liza asked, "Are you really a reporter, or are you just trying to get our phone numbers?"
Flemming, a 40-year-old ex-model dressed up as a 40-year-old ex-model, stopped stroking his silk neck scarf long enough to tell his story of hurricane woe. "My strawberry Hawaiian papaya tree died," he said, before segueing into a critique of the scene. "I have to say we need more Europeans, Swedish girls, Norwegian girls."