Best Of :: People & Places
After serving nearly three decades in federal prison for smuggling pot into Miami, Robert Platshorn would have been forgiven for spending the rest of his free days in quiet solitude. But the 69-year-old former leader of the Black Tuna Gang — which the DEA dubbed his '70s-era stoner collective of pot importers — has instead become one of the nation's most visible proponents of medical marijuana. Perhaps nobody in the world can better rue the irony that marijuana, which has never caused an overdose, is outlawed in most states, while lethal cigarettes and alcohol are freely peddled. Platshorn served more time, doing 29 years of a 64-year sentence, than anybody before or since for a marijuana offense. Since his 2008 release, his life mission has become touting the benefits of medical marijuana — including alleviating pain, quelling nausea, promoting sleep, easing the side effects of chemotherapy, and reducing inflammation — to a surprising but entirely logical demographic: elderly Floridians, whose physical ailments and limited budgets make them ideal joint-puffing self-medicators. Platshorn's "Silver Tour" puts on symposiums for seniors featuring experts and advocates of medical marijuana. Bobby Tuna, as Platshorn is nicknamed, has bought infomercial spots and billboards for the cause. (If you feel like donating to the shoestring campaign, check out his website.) He and others successfully pushed for an upcoming Miami Beach vote to decriminalize pot on the island. It's a shame that Platshorn lost nearly 30 years of his life for selling a natural and harmless plant. But if he succeeds, such an injustice won't happen again.
He had all the attributes of a winning mayoral candidate: handsome, smart, and connected, as the middle brother of a Cuban-American political oligarchy. And as a reformer on the county commission who introduced legislation creating the Miami-Dade Inspector General's Office, Miguel Diaz de la Portilla had the credentials to clean up county hall. But it didn't work out for him — he lost mayoral bids in 2000 and 2004. So he turned to twisting county commissioners' arms on behalf of real estate developers seeking rezoning approvals and companies wanting to do business with Miami-Dade. He's mighty good at it too, as evidenced by the corporate titans on his client roster: development giant Lennar Homes, leading red-light camera provider American Traffic Solutions, and national heavy hitters such as Ryder, TD Bank, and Walmart. His lobbying career was bolstered by his return to politics in 2010, when he was elected to the Florida Senate, taking his termed-out brother Alex's seat. When his clients can't get their way at the county level, they can count on Diaz de la Portilla to use his influence in Tallahassee to fulfill their agendas there. Talk about bang for your buck.
Your abuelita knew about Genesis Rodríguez long before you knew about her. The Miami-born-and-raised daughter of Venezuelan heartthrob singer José Luis "El Puma" Rodríguez, Genesis has enjoyed an acting career that had its, um, genesis in hammy telenovelas. Think shows such as Dame Chocolate, Prisionera, and Doña Bárbara, in which the male characters are all named Fernando and wear eye patches but not shirts. If we were her, we would have complacently collected the six-figure paychecks for the Spanish-language work until inevitably being cast as creaky old Griselda, the evil and possibly psychic great-aunt. Instead, Rodríguez left home for Los Angeles to try to make it as a mainstream American actress. Her perfect segue came in the form of the love interest in Casa de Mi Padre, Will Ferrell's absurdist passion project in which the world's pastiest man plays the lead in a telenovela spoof filmed entirely in Spanish. Since then, the Hollywood roles have been rolling in: including in the Cameron Diaz romantic comedy What to Expect When You're Expecting and the Arnold Schwarzenegger comeback vehicle The Last Stand, and as the costar of Hours, an indie flick set in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Of course, the 24-year-old's quick stardom has nothing to do with her looks. She's absolutely hideous. Google her if you don't believe us.
Like a demonic version of Santa Claus, Warren Sapp tore around offensive tackles to deliver packages of hurt to opposing quarterbacks for 13 seasons in the NFL. But long before he was one of the most feared men in the pros, he was a football phenom from a shack in Plymouth, Florida. As a linebacker for Apopka High School, Sapp set records for sacks, tackles, and — bizarrely — the longest field goal in school history. He joined the Miami Hurricanes in their early-'90s heyday and quickly earned a reputation as one of the nation's best defensive tackles. He was picked 12th in the 1995 NFL draft and signed a $36 million contract with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. But Sapp's stellar career was punctuated by scandal. In 2002, he threw a cheap shot that sent an opposing player to the hospital. The same year, he strangely began skipping around opponents before games. When he was fined $50,000 for it, he called the NFL a "slave system." Yet the self-styled "QB Killa" still went on to win the 2003 Super Bowl. He officially crossed over to the dark side a year later when he joined Al Davis's evil Oakland Raiders. Even Sapp's retirement in 2008 didn't stem the flow of bad news. In 2010, he was arrested in South Beach on domestic violence charges (which were eventually dropped). The Sapp really hit the fan a year later when PNC Bank won a nearly $1 million court decision against the Pro-Bowler for a failed real estate project. This March, Sapp — who made $77 million in the NFL — declared Chapter 7 bankruptcy. Court records revealed he had just $826.04 in his checking account and $339.31 in savings. His debts, meanwhile, totaled $6.7 million, including $75,000 a month to his ex-wife and four other women with whom he's had kids. The motor-mouth Sapp has only made things worse for himself since filing for bankruptcy. He recently fingered fellow footballer Jeremy Shockey as the "snitch" who brought down the New Orleans Saints in a bounty system scandal. Shockey has demanded an apology and a retraction. Sapp, meanwhile, hasn't appeared on the NFL Network since his remarks. It seems that after a career spent crushing quarterbacks, in the end it's Sapp who has been blindsided.
Miami newest major-label rap act, recent Atlantic Records signee Brianna Perry (formerly known as Lil Brianna) made her recorded debut on Trina's "Kandi" a decade ago when she was just 9 years old. Back then, she was a girlie Lil Bow Wow to Trina's Snoop, a precocious kid rhyming bubblegum raps over New Edition's "Candy Girl." Unsurprisingly, for someone who was rolling with the Diamond Princess while in the third grade, today Brianna has a potty mouth and feisty attitude to match that of the 305's best-known female MC. Taking on the nickname YRB, or "Young Rich Bandit," Perry had her breakthrough last year with "Marilyn Monroe," likening herself to the late blond bombshell with the memorable refrain, "Marilyn... Monroe... Arrogant... I know." When XXL magazine neglected to include her in its annual hip-hop "Freshman Class" earlier this year, she responded by burning a copy of the issue in a video for the song "Dear Hip Hop." Flagrantly defiling hip-hop's most influential publication might seem like a big bridge for a freshman to burn, but she's since been praised and spotlighted in no less a prestigious outlet than the New York Times.
As her mother suffered a painful, prolonged death from Alzheimer's, longtime Miami-Dade politician Larcenia Bullard began researching alternative treatments that might help. What she learned would forever change the legacy of a moderate Democrat's whiling away her final term in the state's Republican-dominated Senate. The more Bullard read, the more she became convinced that a simple plant, grown organically and without any complex drug company patents, could offer real relief to her mother. Problem was, that plant was pot, and in Florida at least, the medical marijuana movement has as much momentum as Rick Scott's re-election campaign. (That's zero, folks.) So Bullard, a former school principal, spent her final months in Tally sponsoring a medical marijuana bill, giving the Florida House and Senate matching proposals for the first time in decades. Sure, the bills failed. But seeing someone such as Bullard suddenly become the face of a saner marijuana policy did wonders for the movement's image. If Larcenia can embrace pot legalization, why can't you?