It was nearly twenty years ago, and I was just a snivelly little street punk (okay, okay, so I still am). Because of circumstance, I had an especially close relationship with and reliance on radio. I always had – and did right up to the point when the corporates-computers-consults came…
The posthuman cyborg, comfortably numb for the off-season, beyond feeling and pride. A long revel in the local art form of the disgusting, savoring the various permutations of offensiveness like a true professional, taking a punch-drunk pleasure in an ability to withstand anything. Miami, a cartoon universe, the cast of…
The armies of the night, helpless in the face of the social addiction, doomed to wander forever like vampires, seeking sustenance and sensation. A losing proposition of diminishing returns, the relentless eventually losing all sense of perspective. The sheer process of simply going out, anywhere and everywhere, becoming an unfathomable…
Yo, watch out for flying slogans. Sure, come on over, and bring your bud with you. We’re heading to Al’s Pumphouse, the coolest club in town, located at the north end of Greenville, South Carolina. This place is like Churchill’s but bigger A divided by the bar into a pool-shootin’…
A city festering like a mutant amoeba, imploding and feeding on itself in a frenzy of hype, too fabulous for its own good. The media rooting through the carcass for unsavory morsels, gorging on the second wave of expatriate celebrities fleeing Los Angeles, completely doomed and, worse yet, unfashionable. The…
Miami, a floating surrealistic circus, breaking loose from the constraints of reason and propriety. A satellite republic of weirdness, a banana republic without cash-flow problems, the brave new American city of the future. Terminally democratic, a duty-free zone on the brink of anarchy, embracing a twisted interpretation of the Jeffersonian…
It was Kennedy A and you know I don’t mean John F. A who said it best: some people are powered by greed, some are powered by need. I don’t need much, and I don’t get it, but before I go I would like to thank each and all of…
Tumbling into a different dimension, the party zone, suspended in time and space, a parallel universe of insatiable desires and twisted pleasures. Lawless and unforgiving, the operating policy, oddly enough, succinctly defined by a three-year-old of our acquaintance, absorbed in a fit of psychotic whining: “I need it because I…
Miami, fashionable and fickle, a game of chance and improbability, a whimsical yet deadly postmodern landscape, kind of disgusting but kind of fun, too. You’re up, you’re down, you don’t know where the hell you are. Ocean Drive magazine throwing a party at The Forge with Jacques and Pascal, the…
This is it, folks. I ain’t pretending. Next week’s is definitely the last “Program Notes.” Cleaning out my office, I just came across an old note from band manager Mike Eiseman. “About the new religion based on Rooster Head music,” Eiseman wrote, “I think you need a little vacation, or…
Miami, the town that care remembered, but somehow neglected to worry about, allowing the subjects of Babylon to cavort with the abandonment of wayward Olympians. “Pops in the Park,” the New World Symphony’s gala dinner dance at the Omni Hotel, the upper classes in the throes of decorous merriment. The…
Spring sprung? God, I hope so. My great friend of twenty years, Ben Bank, is in town with his family, and we have plans to watch his alma mater lose the NCAA basketball championship (quick, Chris, call a time-out!) but my car breaks down and this time I can’t rig…
Schizophrenia is a serious illness not to be made fun of, but I can’t think of a better term or a better way of giving in to the impossible (or at least implausible) pushing and pulling of planetary life. Probably most people feel this way. Which means I’m normal. Schizo…
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…
