We are movin’ on, baby. Decked out in our finest threads. No zoot suits; head wraps and kufis are the now. Cornrows replace pimp hats. Silver and onyx replace Dolemite diamonds and gold. Stones representing cultural heritage dangle on small silver links of ancient tribal significance. Tarheel jerseys and Oxfords…
Beneath the shimmery dresses and couture suits, Miamians are social animals driven into the night by the basic need to connect. No one really likes to be at home on a city weekend, thumbing through old high school pictures. It’s just that lavish fêtes and glamorous grand openings now fulfill…
It’s 4:25 a.m. when the nightlife vampires stir. The time between late night and sunrise is no place for the faint of party. The weak and weary have already retired their dancing shoes. Only the hard-core remain clubbing. The downtown traffic on NE Eleventh Street thickens. Those not willing to…
Most intelligent men have resigned themselves to the reality that they won’t find their next wife in clubland. The probability is slim to none. Going to Spin, Rain, Jump, Skip, Hop or any other monosyllabic nightclub won’t yield anything at the end of the evening except an expensive bar tab…
“This party is bananas,” promises Jesse Swinger of MiamiParties.com. Jesse is serving as Clubbed’s in-ticket for the secret world of wild-side walkers. “You’re with me. I’ll show you around.” It’s a little after midnight, but nothing pokes the eye as out of the ordinary yet. The monthly installment of Michael…
In hetero circles, the mention of a gay South Beach nightclub still conjures images of Robin Williams and Nathan Lane flittering about the Birdcage. Visions of the Village People or even Keanu Reeves (c’mon, lighten up) dance in hetero heads. Aaah, the attitude, the glitter, the duct tape, the RuPaul…
It’s not yet midnight and every local lush and barfly within ten miles of Washington Avenue has made way to the little spot on Española known as Lost Weekend. Women drink free from ten till two, so bar scene-savvy men show up early to offer companionship to the complimentarily inebriated…
A handful of Armani, Guess, and Kenneth Cole shirts wrinkle in the humidity outside an unmarked club on Collins Avenue. There’s no line and hardly a soul on the street, but still a honey named Honey holding a clipboard marked “Guest List” insists the guest list is closed. One of…
There are no dark-haired Europeans or designer Italian suits at Billboardlive tonight. No anorexic, blond model-types. Tonight this smoke-and-mirrored Eurotrash playground has been transformed into a thug heaven — a house party for towners from da city across the causeway in the northwest sections of Miami. Here to celebrate the…
There is a line outside the entrance to Piccadilly Garden on this summer Saturday night at 1:00 a.m., but not for the usual clubland reasons. There is no pretentious doorman. There are no partygoers bluffing about who is on the mythical guest list. Instead Trinidad, the pleasant dreadlocked giant behind…
Gerry Kelly has made a habit of throwing parties for big names inside his nightclub, Level. Tonight the streets outside the adult playground are lined with news trucks. Their long antennas gobble up the evening skyline. Police cars close off side streets and line up along the medians while patrolmen…
Fanning through the clouds of Black and Mild seeded with herb that hover over the entrance to Rain, there’s Maseo, Plug Three of the once and now occasionally popular rap pioneers, De La Soul. Maseo and a posse of hangers-on are near enough to the entrance to be seen by…
