Clubs everywhere, spreading like some kind of satanic slime across the landscape, feeding on mankind’s unholy hunger for drink tickets and fabulousness. Openings, disasters, concepts, and a week that belonged to the new Third Rail Company on Lincoln Road. A couple of one-nighter debuts – Kitty Meow and Jon Jon…
Sex sells but it’s illegal to sell sex. Go figure. Did you see that big blue and red ad in last week’s ish, the one with the blonde humping the Harley? The point is her point was covered with a red “censored” bar, where the nipple would be. New Times,…
The lame parade, out every night with the lost boys, and nothing, nothing ever happens. One long steady stream of “hot-and-willing-to-submit-to-any-sexual-degradation-destiny-deems-necessary” theme parties. Tapped, over, the capacity for simple pleasures leeched right out. And then, a collection of shining moments, and it’s all brand-new again. Blues night at The Whiskey,…
As evidence of that effect, please see a comment in the article where Labbee says, “At least Pardillo’s credibility doesn’t bear the taint of any smutty allegations.” Here the author declares that smutty allegations, even without proof, taint the objects of the allegations. The best way to stop such unfounded…
“There’s a void of knowledge in the system.” Thus spaketh Frank “Rat Bastard” Falestra, rightfully bemoaning the top-secret appearance of My Dad Is Dead at Washington Square last night (the 19th). “This guy’s put out six albums in five years, every one of them has gone Top 20 in the…
LOS ANGELES: OPERATION LOST CAUSE I am writing in regard to Richard Gaines’s story “Awake At Last” (May 6). First it was Nicaragua, next Panama, and then it was Iraq. But this time the invasion was not foreign, it was domestic. That’s right. The U.S. government invaded its own country…
Decadence, debauchery, disgust, the three graces of the nether world. Maybe throw in a little boredom. A man’s got to take hold, straighten up, and fly right, but once again it’s Warsaw at 4:00 a.m. and time for one more nightcap. Somewhere along the line the evening has taken a…
Last week the dailies reported that the stepdaughter of Broward sheriff Nick Navarro committed suicide and left a note alluding to sexual abuse involving Navarro. Her widower, for whom the note was intended, expressed his hope that the matter would not turn into a media circus. I won’t disappoint him…
Gun owners were portrayed as obese white supremacists. I am a physician, a body builder, and an avid shooter who would like never to shoot anyone or anything. My purpose (as is many of my colleagues’) is to be able to defend myself and my family against criminals who have…
The incomparable Tiny Valdez, the hardest-working man in show business, at the organ in The Hamlet bar and all’s well with the world. Tiny, a 300-pound lounge singer and former Gayety Burlesque Theatre go-go dancer, closing out the set with a signature number. “Now I play for jeuw Orgasmo….I hope…
Hialeah. What a place. One minute it’s a big, brawny city in search of respect, the next it’s a juvenile delinquent caught in the act. Second in population, first in corruption. No tolerance for boredom, a gifted talent for entertainment. If it isn’t political intrigue, it’s political farce. As Carl…
Instead of watching the riot-lootin’ be televised, my baby and me plugged in some classic footage of Billie Holiday performing – singing, vocalizing, whatever you want to call it – her revolutionary piano-and-voice protest/masterpiece, “Strange Fruit.” With that song Lady said it all – music can transcend reality, censorship can’t…
Havana, 1964, Fidel Castro flogging the new Cuba at a huge political rally. For no apparent reason, a band starts playing, a conga line snakes through the crowd. And then, it is the crowd, everyone dancing and oblivious to the speech, chanting “Viva la Revolucion!” as a kind of salsa…
MORELLO: THE TRIUMPH OF THE KILL After reading reactions you published regarding the Andrew Morello case (“Letters,” April 22) and listening to talk-radio reaction, I am appalled at the number of people who think it’s quite all right to kill someone for stealing a car (“Justice Undone,” April 15). These…
“We deeply regret having to write this at all, so please forgive the impersonal form.” So begins a fax I requested last week from DB Recs in Atlanta. Sorry, but I feel the same way. Cold, impersonal. Stunned, maybe. And very uncomfortable broaching this in a stupid-ass newspaper column. But…
MORELLO: EXTERMINATE THE HOODS! I read Jim DeFede’s article about the death of Andrew Morello (“Justice Undone,” April 15) and I have one thing to say: Good. Morello was busy committing a crime, and I only regret Laura Russell was unable to kill the other two hoodlums. Unfortunately the parents…
The Strand, Saturday night. Mickey Rourke, the phrase “looking like shit” coming to mind, with Christopher Walken, who’s in town shooting some French Godfather-esque gangster drama. The usual assortment of B-rich Euros, people without jobs, modeling-industry types smoking like Peter Lorre, the tenuous. A group of us sitting around after…
May belongs to the Mavericks. Guitarist David Lee Holt arrives in town May 3 for rehearsals. On May 8 the ‘pokes play what they’re calling a “warm-up” gig at the venue where they were born (if you don’t know, too bad). Then they tape a show for cable TV. May…
A gaggle of fey boys stand behind a backdrop of a tenement window, watching a long-haired muscleman lounging in bed, lost in his own, no-doubt spectacular private parts. Warsaw, and some man/woman/hybrid creation is spinning on a revolving mushroom above the bar, thrusting her hips in the air, hands between…
A PAUSE FOR THE CAUSEWAY In Kirk Semple’s article, “Asphalt Bungle” (April 8), Donald Kipnis is attributed the idea that scaevola bushes should be planted along the causeway’s edge to – among other things – keep out individuals who want to fish. This idea is representative of the segregationist attitude…
I’m going to visit a psychic. See, I don’t believe in anything – nothing – not God, not ESP, not fate or karma or luck. “Coincidence,” to me, is nothing more than a human descriptive for a human conception. There is no reality here. (In the world, I mean. This…
Lydia Lunch and her spoken confrontational words are festering on-stage at Washington Square, and the scene is totally, completely downtown: the regulation black-on-black ensemble, the dangling cigarette, the attitude problem. The crowd, punk types and assorted interesting characters you never see anywhere else, is yelling out something encouraging, along the…
