By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
The promise of, ugh, glamour in South Beach nearly propelled The Bitch back to the Barcalounger, but she nevertheless headed over to find that the split-level, Art Deco-y Fifth contained some pleasant surprises. For one thing, many people wore what Kelly had requested on the party invitation gowns, suits, and masks. The varied guests seemed to be mostly clothed a startling sartorial development for the Beach. And the hair of Dustin Reffca, the guy with the annoying bandanna-adorned Bride of Frankenstein-meets-Rock-a-Doodle do, was in full antigravitational effect. But Wire columnist and fellow-about-town Thomas Barker cleaned up nicely, even doffing his trademark Kangol cap. Towering artist Anastasia traded her normally taxidermied accessories for a small Chloé bag. "Yes, the stuffed bat purse is at home," she glowered, peering acquisitively down at The Bitch's brown fur.
New York City DJ Frank Delour not a spoiled superstar DJ, just a nimble turntablist who wants people to dance and enjoy the music eschewed the tired oldies mixes for some recorded-in-our-lifetime electronica. The door people, security dudes, and bartenders were all nice smiley, even and the air conditioning and drinks were cold.
Satisfied that Kelly's birthday present would be the success of Fifth, The Bitch headed for the door around 1:00 a.m. On the way out, the drowsy hound encountered her virtual photonegative image, the white-haired, deeply tan, ageless philanthropist Merle Weiss. "What happened to your face?" the incandescently direct socialite asked while simultaneously dazzling a few new and very young male admirers. The Bitch gave Weiss a half-smirk and demurred, "Um, nothing.... I have to go.... Say hello to Gerry for me when you see him."
"I better see him," Weiss called to the retreating dog. "I've been carrying around his birthday present [a mysterious-looking white paper bag] all night."
The popular Grand Theft Auto: Vice City edition is based on Miami, and the videogame's exclusive Starfish Island enclave represents the real Star Island, which is located in the real and virtual worlds just west of Miami Beach off the MacArthur Causeway. Starfish Island's residents live in large waterfront mansions and are protected from troublemakers by machine-gunning private security guards; Star Island's uppercrusters have to make do with a staffed guard shack and a black-and-white striped liftable car bar.
But to call the island a "gated community" implying it is private property is misleading. Though residents do pay for some services, including the mechanism that appears to bar the public and the people who operate it, Star Island's roads are actually as public as those of the rest of Miami Beach.
The Bitch was quick to point this out to the rent-a-cop who hassled her as she was trying to attend this past Wednesday's party at Casa De Paolo for Mega TV's summer season. The eco-conscious dog deplores wasting fuel but nonetheless suggests motorists pass through the enclave whenever possible to demonstrate the island's perfectly legal and public accessibility.
Anyway, the party, though hindered by guardhouse traffic problems, was really good, with buckets of margaritas and bowls full of cool ceviche.
Mega TV part of the Spanish Broadcasting System that operates Miami radio stations El Zol 95.7 FM and Clásica 92.3 FM, among others was launched locally this past March and has slowly been building a following among the desired "urban youth" demographic.
Brothers Eddie and Andy Blázquez, José "Pepe" Olano, J.M. Cabrera, and Elvis Pérez, the stars of El Show Más Estupido de la Televisión, clowned around the villa. Inevitably they ended up fully clothed in the pool.
Anagloria Mora, the flame-haired therapist who will host the forthcoming Mega advice show Love & Sex, looked as if she were well versed in those subjects, wearing an orange halter dress that both plunged and hiked.
Isabel Adjorno, a tall, blond, pneumatic guest from Argentina, shook her head. "These women who become Latin television stars ... I don't know what they spend all their money on. Not personal stylists, that is for sure."
Meanwhile, Pancho Tosta, editor of Conexiones, a fan mag devoted to just such stars, fretted about the heat; not a breeze stirred on the waterfront mansion's courtyard. Makeup was melting and hair drooping.
"My readers don't want to see sweat dripping on the red carpet," Tosta worried.