The cover story of this week's New Times print edition concerns pickle eating contest. No joke. You read right. We know what you are thinking. It has to be euphemism for oral sex, right? Wrong. Then it must be the slowest news week in the history of Miami. Wrong again. There's plenty of hi-jinx in and around Miami as you'll see in the rest of the issue. So it's not that. You're just going to have to trust writer Michael Mooney, pickle eating, and competitive eating in general is the next big thing. They already held a corned-beef-sandwich-eating contest in March. Still not convinced? Check out a sampling of "The Great Pickle Battle" after the jump.
At its core, this is a simple contest of biologic function.
But the World Pickle Eating Championship -- held this year at the Isle
Casino in Pompano Beach -- is something much more. Taking place beneath a
small white tent on a 90-degree Sunday morning in September, this is a
pageant of the hilarious and the horrific. It's sanctioned by Major
League Eating, competitive eating's governing body, and with $5,000 at
stake, the six-minute, vinegar-soaked battle is part athletic endeavor,
part anachronistic entertainment. And it epitomizes the modern
competitive-eating circuit, nicknamed the "fastest growing sport in
If gluttony isn't your bag, then you'll be mortified to read Michael E. Miller's "Death Cab"
about a rash of taxi robberies and shootings in Liberty City. It used to
be that the worst that could happen to a cabbie was a passenger
ditching without paying his fare. Let's just say those were the salad
days compared to what's going on today.
With unemployment hovering near 13 percent in Miami-Dade
County, authorities say taxi drivers have become both a means of
transportation for bad guys and targets for criminals looking for quick
cash. In the seven weeks following the murder, seven cabbies have been
robbed at gunpoint, almost all in the same neighborhood and possibly by
the same thieves. Some of the attacks could have been prevented by
barriers between the front and back seats, like those required in other
big cities. Better safety practices by cabbies and their companies might
have stopped the others.
Next up is Carlos Suarez De Jesus's "Click, Share, Done"
review of the "International Cell Phone Photo" show at Artspace MAGQ in
Pinecrest. The exhibit is the logical consequence of having a planet
filled with budding photographers with cameras in their pockets.
Submissions came from a half-dozen countries and more than 50
Just about anyone who owns a cell phone is packing a studio
in his or her pocket and can play at being an artist. "It's amazing what
you can do with an iPhone and the apps available to create art on
them," says Mike Arnspiger, a photographer (and curator of the show).
"What's more impressive is that you can create an image and tweak it
with the instrument wherever you are at the moment and send it anywhere
in the world in an instant."
By now you've seen the trailers for Hereafter,
Clint Eastwood's new movies staring Matt Damon. It looks enthralling
enough, but as J. Hoberman's review recounts, you
should never judge a movie by its preview.
As a movie, Hereafter peaks five minutes in, when a frugally
staged tsunami arrives on a bright blue morning to trash some
paradisiacal Pacific island beach. What follows is a lugubrious tale of
wonderment: An attractive French telejournalist (Cécile de France)
parses her near-death experience in Hawaii, while a painfully cute
12-year-old British schoolboy (George McLaren) with a substance-abusing
mum suffers a terrible loss, and a depressed, Dickens-loving psychic
named George (Matt Damon, always game) wrestles with his occult power to
read minds and channel the dead.
And finally, as we are prone to do with this post, we end with a little snippet from Dan Savage and his "Savage Love"
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column. Dan gives some good advice but sometimes he just let's loose on
posers. And he does so quite enjoyably this week on an impostor who
claims to have two sexual female organs and no, we're not talking nipples. Enjoy.
You don't have a single clit, TMF, much less two. You're a
horny boy with a dick, an e-mail account, and an obsession with/terror
of a woman's potential capacity for unlimited sexual pleasure. And I'm
hoping--I'm hoping against hope--that seeing your letter in print isn't
your peak sexual experience. But odds are...