September song, a seasonal dirge for a cruelly unyielding landscape, the brain a vicious jumble of frippery and unsavory associations, one vast over-the-top Hitchcock dream sequence. The internal nightmare curiously more tolerable than reality, lately a battleground straight out of cable television hell, uncannily like a Jane Whitney trash talk…
My parents taught me lots of things, like never lie, cheat, steal, or take advantage of people. The lessons came in handy the other day on the streets of downtown Miami. In fact, they saved me twelve dollars. It went down like this: A black man with a gray beard…
Sometimes I wonder if I could write one of these columns without ever mentioning music. Like my idol, Robert Steinback of the Miami Herald, just ideas, thoughts, mammals replacing insects, insects replacing thoughts back to ideas. Am I starting to read like my other idol, Tom Austin? Big Love takes…
The dog days of the killing season, tempers fraying, minds unraveling, the dark reaches of the collective unconsciousness bubbling up to the surface like an evil cancer, a plague upon the hot bottom of the Earth. Lost and dispirited in the seventh circle of the inferno, the reassuring tug of…
Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving, the fortunate and feckless alike craving something beyond their fair share of the available resource pool. The rich demanding discounts and getting richer, the disenfranchised sliding down the totem pole, the media fighting over scraps like jesters at the king’s court,…
Last week’s issue of New Times was very popular. We got lots of phone calls. Readers picked up papers so quickly that by Thursday most of them were gone. Staffers from all departments reported an extraordinary amount of comment among friends and acquaintances. That issue contained a new column called…
I think, so. So? I won’t bother you with it. This week’s just like one big shout out. I’m running low on energy, passion, and adjectives. Jeff Fritz has left Drive Choir. As you may know, all local bands break up as soon as New Times writes about them. Fritz…
In our continuing efforts to provide readers with stories they’re not likely to find in other local media, we introduce this new feature, devoted exclusively to the affairs of the Miami Herald and its corporate parent, Knight-Ridder, Inc. (KRI). The irony is palpable: The biggest, most influential news organization in…
Hey, yo, can you hear me? Is this thing on? All love. All gone. Did you listen to me and go see Charlie Pickett and 3 (I’ve renamed the band, thank you) at Stephen Talkhouse? Hope you got there early. The night before at Churchill’s Hideaway some great bands recorded…
Step right up and check it out, junk culture a go go, the side show that never ends. Girls in various stages of undress and whoredom, freaks up close and personal, mutant beings/club personalities way past the sloppy trappings of love, demanding only the quick fix of attention. It’s a…
Summer is the lean season. No good shows. Nothing happening. There isn’t one song by a South Florida artist good enough for commercial radio to play. Local music sucks. Meanwhile, back in the real world, it’s the last day of July, the dead-hot center of summer, and Charlie Pickett and…
The glitterati constellation, world without end, a black hole of hype and hustle, chance and destiny, ruled by the quantum theory of fabulousness. Random glitz systems colliding only under the spell of darkness, spontaneously combusting at random moments, eventually imploding with sex, fame, and money. Each infinitesimal molecule ruled by…
Who are you? Are you the buzzed-out little skinhead boy who fell off his chair while cheering on Young Turk at Washington Square in the wee hours, knocking over a table and spilling beer on my leg before hauling ass to what passes for bathrooms at the club? (If so,…
The real life funnies, Miami assuming the dimensions of a comic strip, spiced up and dumbed down for the tropical market. Love & Rockets parodying drag queens and warring promoters, a postabsurdist hypersexual Zippy with Bill Griffith’s intellectual ruminations studiously censored out, the Incredible Hulk as a particularly delectable go-go…
I’m bored. There’s nothing to do. It was sometime in the very early Eighties, I don’t remember exactly and I’m not going to look it up (as if there were some reference where I could). The place was 27 Birds in Coconut Grove. There was this kinda weird lookin’ guy…
The world needs more love, not more gossip columnists. But then, rooting through the detritus of Western culture, all the gratuitous innuendo, celebrity filth, and pop culture newsbites is so much more rewarding. A decidedly ignoble occupation, of course, the practitioners of the trade generally regarded as venom-spewing maggots, prissy…
So whatcha been doin’? Me? I just keep mantra-ing that Neil Young song, the one that goes, “Why do I keep fuckin’ up?” Great old song. Not a bad question, either. It’s an ego thing. So let’s let somebody else get a word in. “I agree with everything you’ve said”…
A return to real life after an all-too-brief vacation, slipping in and out of the immediate, pulled back into the dreamscape of memory. “Big Bad Wolf” at Les Bains, John Hood and Luigi Scorcia working the funk gestalt, the club less arch than usual, newly done up with mirrors and…
Our summer vacation, a busman’s holiday amidst the rich pageant of New York, taken up for the season by Patrick McMullan of Interview, mindful of the great social oracle’s dictum: Remember, it’s not who you are that’s important. It’s who you’re standing next to.” “A week of lurking around and…
Am I joking? Is it “true”? What is this thing called credibility, love? Some local rockers took exception to my claims in a “Music” story last week that Billy Yeager is the only decent musician in South Florida. Others have questioned the factuality of a recent program note involving a…
Parental Advisory: The following column contains ideas, notions, and thoughts that every single person might not agree with. Acts of violence will be visually represented. Read it at your own risk of not remaining exactly the same as you’ve always been. Turn on the teevy. Advertisers my ear. Cut their…
Memento mori, a dance to the music of time, the distinctions between past, present, and future blurring, the curious workings of memory and delusion taking hold. The brain, lately, one big quadruplex theater of postmodern nostalgia, cacophonous Sensurround images and floating scraps of dialogue, the portable movie sliding in and…
