The Avenue — production of “Rondo” at Mario’s South Beach, a very loose adaptation of Miriam Schapiro’s book, many spirits unraveling, awash in the “melodrama of being,” the solving emptiness that lies beneath everything we do. The evening hours, a world where everything is permitted, but nothing, at the very…
Proto-reality, the high-concept world of television, as alluring, addictive, and curiously entrancing as clubs, the inevitable distancing of the cool medium making the alternating anxiety and boredom of nightlife slightly more palatable, and somehow more real than actually being there. Visions of pitch meetings, lucrative guest appearances on infomercials, starlet…
The lessons they are hard. In the March 10 installment of this alleged column, I claimed there is no God, other, perhaps, than Greg Brown. Yeah, I guess you could say I was fairly fired up for Brown’s skedded visit to Stephen Talkhouse that weekend. It was something to live…
There is a price to be paid for freedom, many ways every day. Like my homey Dog, who is not dark-skinned, although you’d never know it from the way the pigs treated him. At least they didn’t beat him this time. And Lord knows the Dog deserves that and more…
Pain and pleasure, misery and joy, the twin polarities of existence, locked in eternal struggle. Seized by an inexplicable desire for fresh air on a pretty day, hauling the pasty carcass out to a public park in the throes of a Purim-theme kids birthday party, the poisons of the night…
The toll taken, the sensibilities dulled to the point of oblivion, the physical infrastructure nearing collapse. The imminent autopsy no doubt revealing a suicidal insult to the brain, composed of ill-conceived liquor consumption, attitude assaults, and sustained exposure to Why-I’m-so-fabulous monologues and model-type conversations: “No, I’m not going to Europe…
I’m sitting and sipping in an upscale boozery as an olderly couple is walking out. The old man says to his woman, “Do you realize it’s three o’clock already?” Oh, God. Someone please smash me across the face with a tire iron. These people are from someplace I’ve never been…
A weird world, getting weirder by the minute. Donald Trump, thwarted by the reactionary forces of Palm Beach, the town fathers reluctant to have Mar-A-Lago turned into another Trumpland development. The Donald now working on turning the place into a private club, based on the success of his recent girls-girls-girls…
Few nights ago my homes Frankly Frank brought me some crawfish (pronounced crowfish) personally cooked by zydeco king Terrance Simien. The man can cook, literally and figuratively, and more importantly, he helped add extra spice to an important event: Stephen Talkhouse and Camillus House teamed to raise some money to…
Lost weekend, gone completely party crazy, wallowing in flash and gossip. Sliding in gently with a Valentine’s Day/last gasp of the Miami Film Festival cocktail reception at the Marlin hotel. The Scull sisters beyond baroque, with matching hairdos embalmed in beeswax. Publicist Susan Magrino, talking about the American Booksellers Association…
Beyond life, the truth will out. And I think corporate behemoth Warner Bros. showed its true colors by wimping out once the air cleared. Warners sort of stood up for Ice-T when “Cop Killer” was being maligned by people who want to tell you how to live your short and…
Do you believe in magic? Then make the Skels appear. No, you haven’t heard of the Skels, few outside the urban Northeast have, and I’ve been dogging them for years, trying to track down the mysterious Mystery Fez Productions mentioned on the sleeve of their tape Be with That. Had…
Miami in February, an ideal circumstance, the best of all possible worlds. The Tenth Miami Film Festival kicking off with a winter-themed gala, replete with the standard celebrity firepower. Club One opening in the short-lived Ocean Club space on Fifth Street, with fire-eaters, S&M dance routines, and the usual festivites:…
Cactina, Saturday night. Rat Bastard making up wild stories about a childhood spent pursuing Pacifico beer, forcing me to try it, us emptying the place of every last full bottle before Rooster Head even took the stage. Bartender won’t make change for a paying customer, namely my pal Lenny; bro,…
Low life, high life, it’s all pretty much the same thing in the brave new American bordello, this tropic of psychosis. A social career standard set with a bizarre party at Mar-A-Lago, hosted by Donald Trump and Jason Binn of Ocean Drive magazine, the worlds of downtown and uptown colliding…
The social circuit, plowing along heedlessly, the party monster sick, literally and existentially, from a regimen that would kill more sentient beings. A reception at the Doral Hotel for the South Florida International Wine and Food Festival, both ballrooms crammed with our favorite concept: free food and alcohol. Booths from…
A bit of trivia as we relax and reflect. Last week we exulted Professor Griff’s new one, mentioning in particular the lead track “Phuck the Media.” We’ve just obtained an advance demo (although we already had the finished release). On the demo, the song “Phuck the Media” is titled as…
Phuck tha media! I heard dat. You hear it everywhere these days, words of wisdom from the world outside. Ice Cube’s stepping to it, mailing a press release headlined “Fuck Billboard and the Editor; #1 Is the Predator” behind his third LP, the smashit The Predator, which debuted at No…
The pop culture world, completely superficial and curiously irresisitible, a movement rolling over all moral, intellectual, and spirtual concerns. Dangerous, offensive, and debilitating as a drug addiction, but still strangely compelling. Sinatra Bar opening in a frenzy of fashion and celebrity, with an Elite Models party and Donald Trump, former…
The media “stars” are the worst, mostly because I don’t get to be one. My admirable colleague, Todd Anthony, however, gets a song written about him, performed live at Washington Square recently by its authors, Paul Roub and the one-named Zac. “Todd Anthony’s Here Tonight” references a bunch of the…
The shake out, reputations and fortunes rising and falling, clubs opening and closing. Club One in the Miracle Center shutting down and eventually evolving into a department store, with Norman Bedford, who booked in some great acts, looking at a space on South Beach for another Latin-music operation. The Id…
The headless flight toward the New Year, tumbling pell-mell into a world of possibilty, fighting the pull of the mundane. The city popping, clogged with the rich and famous, one big celebrity shooting gallery. New Year’s Eve assuming the competitive dimensions of pret-a-porte week in Paris — designers, celebs, and…
