They aren’t on MTV yet, at least not that I know of, and maybe they never will be, but the mighty Mavericks played for all America on Friday as guests of the Today show, broadcast from the Rusty Pelican on Key Biscayne. Pretty cool, man, even if it was a…
Fame. Big fame, little fame, it’s all the frenzy of renown. The place where things are hollow but kind of fun, too. Miami as the new Ibiza, a hothouse for international jet set types. It’s Madonna in town – no, really in town this time – shooting her new book…
I also understand Mr. Spector’s anger and his position. The recording industry has done as much evil as good in the last century. They’ve blocked digital audio tape, refused to lower wholesale CD prices as profits grew, screwed artists out of royalties over “giveaways” at record clubs, refused to adopt…
Forget about it, Jake, it’s Toon Town. Nothing makes sense. Hetero citadel goiste, oye-chica-shake-that-bumba-land, venturing into the gay marketplace with a new one-nighter called Le Trick. The classic Village Inn, the place where I first fell in love with my wife, for God’s sake, now the homorama-esque 3131, a pink-accented…
I don’t actually talk to these people, you know, but the buzz back in November was that Bruce Springsteen’s handlers were extremely bemused by that little Parking Free hoax me and Ben Greenman pulled. (In fact, Greenman, allegedly the target of New Jersey hit men, is currently in hiding somewhere…
A CLOWN? NO WAY. THE RINGMASTER! The best thing that clown Mas Canosa and his right-wing Cuban American National Foundation could do is take the circus somewhere else (“A Clown? No Way. A Genius!”, January 29). In his narrow mind, he sees himself as Cuba’s next president, even if it…
Performance art. It’s brilliant, irritating, verging on the psychotic, irony-clogged stuff that neatly dissects the angst of the modern metropolis. Or maybe it’s just television: Short, brutish, nasty, lots of jump cuts, kind of like real life but with better production values. It’s Laurie, it’s Mary, it’s celebrity parties as…
If “credibility” isn’t already a buzz word, you can bet it’s becoming one. Personally, I’ve never had a problem with the big C. So I’ve never really worried about it. Lately my nonchalance has presented a couple of interesting test cases. First there was Greg Brown. I had the audacity…
S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y…night! It’s Saturday night, oh Saturday night…. Great bunch of kids, those Bay City Rollers, but that was Seventies/Eighties fun, as dated as the Beach Boys catching the perfect curl. Now it’s songs for the new recession, the squeeze of the fin de siecle, just not nice at all. Like…
In 1989 we became, and are currently, qualified Responsible Vendors. We’ve had polygraph tests, urine tests, monthly staff meetings, and quarterly meetings conducted by Responsible Vendors, Inc. to update the staff. Mr. Sloate employs security guards to patrol the parking lots. One of the people taken by the Border Patrol…
October, 1987 “The Miami Herald may as well close its doors if it believes it can take advantage of us economically while it belittles our ideals and misrepresents our people and our purposes.” – Cuban American National Foundation, Jorge Mas Canosa, chairman; from a full-page advertisement placed in the Herald…
On the night of March 17, 1990, the previous and only time Esta Hill and her band, Lava Love, played Miami, they destroyed me. Ripped my brain out and shot hoops with it. Hill’s stage frantics make that leaping toad Axl Rose look like a paraplegic. Or, as William Blake…
Sorry, but there is no way four WASPs from Palm Beach County could have recorded Dream Another Dream, nor, for that matter, I Am I. Progressive guitar rock is dead. It died, more or less, when the Replacements went out of fashion several years ago. If progressive rock was still…
We don’t recommend who you should vote for in elections the way other publications do, but vote for Al Goldstein for Broward sheriff. In his famous magazine, Screw, Goldstein recently ran a fake ad picturing Clarabell the Clown with Nick Navarro’s face pasted over. It’s making fun of Navarro’s comment…
It’s glamour, it’s cheap thrills, it’s the sort of new 1992. The society shuffle. The debut of La Cage, art of the drag, part XIV. Semper’s gone underground. Movie stars. Big money. Legends becoming as one, pledging the sacred vows of fabulousness. Slime spewers in natural fabrics, little priss pots…
Granted, at one time they were a legal-eagle dynasty. Now they more resemble “The Family Circus.” Mr. Lowther doesn’t need to make the Rubins’ destruction his mission. They are self-destructing. The Florida Bar really needs to review these clowns and their ethics. As for Siskind, he and the Rubins should…
It makes perfect sense. Out there you are different, the world is different, there’s no deep-sea mystery of throwing bait in water and waiting for the tug. Fly fishing is straight-up honest, in a creek where the fish know you’re there, know you want to hook them. And so you…
Uptown on a budget. The preview party for Art Miami ’92, in a huge new space at the Beach convention center. Atmospheric harpists. The white wine crowd pretending an absorbing interest in the work when conversation wandered. Art people. Dealer Barbara Greene. Sculptor John Henry, in town for NFAA’s “Arts…
WARNING: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME I wish to compliment Jim DeFede’s treatment of the complex litigation in his article “Battle of the Exes” (January 1). One matter I feel compelled to draw to your readers’ attention, is that Mrs. Feinberg’s tape recording, that I recommended, was done legally…
Our continuing coverage of censorship in America recently included the anti-music-video rantings of Sen. Robert Byrdbrain, who says MTV and the others are bad, bad. From Lydia Lunch to Rap’s Most Wanted, I’ve seen a few “controversial” videos in my day (as few as possible, but what the hell). I’ve…
That New Year crush again, one long desperate party leading up to the final soul-crushing moment, and then, nothing, nothing, on the other side. Sex without release. Work without reward. Fun without pleasure. Another year, and still, you’re not glitterati fashion designer Gianni Versace, whooping it up with a clientele…
I was one and a half years old at the time and had developed sufficient motor skills to deal the fatal blow. My parents deny that I was anywhere near Dallas in 1963, but a tattered Eastern Airlines ticket stub says otherwise. I’ve just completed Infanticide for a major publisher…
