Out where people actually work for a living, the saying goes like this: Let’s done get the job did. Or, past tense: We done got the job did. The rest of us just get lucky sometimes, get by. I’m about ten hours from deadline and I have no idea what…
The late and very great Henry James, in between cranking out epicene masterpieces, prided himself on a rigorous public life, dining out every night with assorted royals, intellectuals, and fellow tortured homosexuals. Bloomsbury was one long feast of high teas, musicales, and petty snits. Marcel Proust sat for eternity in…
Remember that old Silos lyric that went “people will talk about/What’s important to them”? Thanks for all your calls and letters. Don’t stop now. The great Art Grace (Thoroughbred writer, edge-music connoisseur, legend) wrote to recommend Lucy’s Fur Coat, for both the music and the cover photo on Jaundice. “The…
A filthy little business, the pop parade, crawling with fame-fuckers-I-have-known and other permutations of conceptual humanity. But then, somebody has to provide all the unseemly personal services mankind requires, and even in pimping, there are enduring guidelines for professional conduct. A carefully nurtured grudge can be good theater and also…
I’ll take your words even if you won’t tell me your name: “This is a crass and insensitive article I just read in New Times about Kurt Cobain. There’s no place for writing something like that. You don’t like the guy’s music, that’s fine. You’ve got to glorify that a…
At a certain professional level in social reporting, going out is almost beside the point. The world, in all it’s horror and glory, comes pouring in over the phone. An irritating way to spend your time, but unfortunately, the grunts of pop journalism A like their financial betters in the…
I’m pretty sure Kurt Cobain never got to see the Chant live, but Charlie Van Tuggle did. The Chant was my favorite band when they were a South Florida band, when they were a band. This was one of the annual homecoming shows, after the members had moved to Atlanta…
Adult life, pretty much like high school with more money, an absurd popularity contest waged on a lethal playground, charged with disaster and petty triumph. All the really cool kids mobilizing for the International Jeanswear Show kick-off party at the Marlin, the triumvirate of hosts A Island Trading Company, Vibe…
Well, let’s see. We’ve tried massive drug abuse. Profane violence. Riding the bus. Animal photos. Baby photos. Baby animal photos. Tried to start fights with people who couldn’t care less, which is why we tried to start fights with them. I spend hours some people don’t even know exist A…
So I’m on the bus, not the real bus, an independent thing, but like a bus, just me and the driver, near the last stop, which is my stop. He points out how there’s many people walking around downtown Miami. “Uh, it’s a nice day,” I say. He’s some kind…
In theory, the life of a social columnist should be unutterably fabulous, what with all the random celebrity collusions and the great gravy train of the complementary life. Unfortunately, the glorious era of Cholly Knickerbocker working the Stork Club is long gone. Now it’s all short-order stars and unworthy fame…
The pop life, one vast theater of the irate, a glorified children’s playground where the battles for popularity assume loathsome proportions. Adults, lacking the good sense of children, remaining incapable of taking turns and sharing stardom, forever unwilling to graciously accept the stature of anyone for very long. And so…
How beautifully perfectly ironic it is to get your ass kicked by your own damn livelihood. I mean, all day hanging in the ‘hood with the big dogs, all night floundering around South Beach, no problems really, no injuries certainly, finally to the safety of home, where I walk into…
Spalding Gray, the noted monologist, is pacing around a Park Central hotel room at eleven o’clock in the morning, looking thoroughly Protestant and faintly deranged: socks without shoes, dirty khaki pants, a rumpled and deeply stained blue cotton shirt. The room is a pocket-size arena of chaos — the bed…
Up and down, mostly up, as in no sleep, but who needs that anyway? So you get a little dizzy, a few hallucinations and some way strange pains in your ears and the back of your head, and your body feels like it’s filled with live wasps and your eyes…
Allow me to explain. My life sucks. And I couldn’t be more grateful for it. I regret the past and resent the future and find it impossible to live in the present. But I’ve got ears and eyes and arms and legs and I’ve got Heaven, as that butthorn Robyn…
The frenzy of show business, permeating and corrupting ordinary existence like a plague. Every level of society lately — the talented and valid, the common and just plain lame — behaving like imperious movie stars. Modern life nothing but a vast popularity contest, the contenders eventually willing themselves into the…
I gotta get out more. I gotta spend more time in the office. I need little but I want more. Still more rumors swirling around Marilyn Manson. Stop it. Spreading rumors is my job. Some weeks ago we told you that the group’s deal with Nothing/Interscope was not off, that…
September song in the great banquet of life, the roundelay of chance and opportunity narrowing with the passage of time. Some of our older friends, maddeningly enough, remaining steadfast in the game: one wallowing in visions throughout a two-week peyote tour of Mexico; another off to Bosnia; a beloved filmmaker…
Just there, near the end, the fans could tell he was getting restless. Could tell that the expanse of his prose was pushing at the margins of the columns. Shoving, really. So after four years of florid flutterings and sappy syntax, the move on to greener pastures comes as no…
Baker Don’t you know who I am? No, me neither. After paying five bucks to not see Nil Lara live at Stephen Talkhouse (see “Butthorn of the week” below), I was looking for something to do on the streets of South Beach when I bumped into Rene Alvarez of Forget…
Ambition, the secret passion, transmogrifying an overhyped sandbar into a floating crap game played out in the killing grounds. The nightclub variety of overweening hubris running rampant at the opening of Amnesia, the sister club to the Cap D’Agde institution, yet another beachhead of Eurocentric glitz in the war zone…
