Time keeps chickens in my head — tick, tick, tick, it’s never enough. Normally when I’m turned on to something cool, I attempt some research, make some calls, whatever, but these days no way. So I feel pretty butthornal after dropping the name Eitzel (what is it, besides the godhead?)…
White Party weekend, the city full of juice and new talent, the post-Woodstock nation making the unholy pilgrimage to Mecca. The weekend similar in concept to other gay festivals, Aspen gay ski week and the like, with Sodom-town adding a little edge to the usual festivities. Sun, decadence, and a…
It’s feel good time. A churning version of “Adam Raised a Cain” and we are reborn to run, our faith restored and renewed, the music moving us the way it’s supposed to. Bruce? Right. (See “On the Beat.”) Soup Town, actually, one night A.B. (After Bruce), quaking Churchill’s Hideaway with…
Maybe it’s a personal thing, all of life lately coming to seem like one big club: long stretches of taedium vitae alternating with moments of opportunity, true glamour, hope, and glimpses of bliss. Status and one’s place in the world, a frighteningly random proposition, rising and falling without purpose. A…
Paragon, an insensible hour of the night, and the women’s bathroom — equipped with Mo’ Money, an enormous black disc jockey — truly hopping. Men, women, and everything else in between, wearing everything from prom dresses to leather, backed up at the vanity mirror, making the usual adjustments to the…
I’ve got more than some and less than plenty, but one thing I have of real value is old friends. Plenty of enemies, too, but I’m not going to waste time and space on them. One old friend is Rich Ulloa, mentioned here because he nailed it when he said,…
Moving up to a vague approximation of the East Side, stoked with food and liquor, wallowing in luxury and getting a sliver of the pie. A witness to social history in the form of Thomas Kramer’s coming-out party, the most opulent local affair since David Paul’s French-chef dinner. Pay retail,…
Hurricanes. Favorite football team. Least favorite weather occurrence. And more. There was that hurricane benefit writing contest thing in New Times, wherein people lucubrated their personal experiences, and $15K went to organizations helping victims of Andrew. Like the rest of the editorial staff here, I helped judge the entries, but…
KIRSTEN TO JOHN: MEET ME ON THE DOCK, BUDDY I wish to thank Kathy Glasgow for writing a very good article about the complicated efforts being expended to ship hurricane tree debris to Haiti (“The Idea and the Bureaucrats,” October 28). Some of the facts and figures given were not…
Halloween weekend, the new neurotic holiday feast, the compulsion to have the best possible time akin to the frenzy surrounding New Year’s Eve. Another year, another ritualized program of anticipation, random moments of half-baked pleasure, and the aftermath of suspecting that other people — worse yet, your friends — are…
One large container frozen lime juice, handful of ice, a slice of lime, and several glugs of vodka. Blend well (making sure lime slice is pulverized) and serve in frosted glass. Or, one 46-oz. can V-8, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, lime juice (fresh only), horseradish — all to taste — and…
It’s a little late now. Out of time, over deadline, which happens when you spend sixteen hours a day on the job, and still have to find time to fill this stupid space. None of this is going my way. And we promised, by God, not to critshit all over…
The Hell phenomenon, another strange story from the naked city. A mysterious German developer, Thomas Kramer, descending on the city out of nowhere and acquiring major-league properties with endless cash: socialite Jan Cowles’s Indian Creek estate, attorney Dan Paul’s Star Island home, acres of lower South Beach for a new…
LONG DISTANCE INFORMATION, GIVE HIM MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE Regarding the story “Memphis Blues Again” by Todd Anthony (October 21), we all thought the article was very fair, with the exception of the cartoon, which only seemed to make more of a joke out of it than it actually was. The attention…
Life is a contest so play it. Or as poet Lionel Goldbart might say, “Integrity is a winning strategy.” Right, right. So it is with pride and pleasure we announce the Official New Times “Program Notes” R.E.M. Photo Contest. We could make this easy, of course, like by asking what…
The regular crowd shuffling in, hawking the dreams of the evening hours: the ultimate conceptual one-nighter, the outfit that will fix your life, the model of the moment. Four One One at the Hotel Harrison on Washington Avenue opening hyperofficially, the usual players working the room with the fervor of…
LOVE, AWARENESS, AND 110 DEAD MACAQUES It’s a shame and so uncaring that anyone would take wild animals out of their natural home for any reason (“Dead on Arrival,” October 14). I think if someone is interested in experimentation or research for the good of mankind, that person should do…
Looking as good as it gets, only slightly shattered. Hair by Joe Mesa, thickened and tortured. Brooks Brothers oxford shirt, wrinkled to perfection. Khaki pants, same dependable clothier, spotted with ink and gin. Puke-stained Cole-Haan loafers, worn without socks. Loaded with pocket change and attitude, ready to take yet another…
The year’s most important rock album has been released. The rectological explication engenders the broadening base of potential matched against the constricting demands of commercial success, and R.E.M. effectively negates that equation evocatively by juggling configurative…whoops, wrong column. Sorry. They didn’t headline their press release “Automatic for the Pundits” for…
DIALOGING WITH DEFEDE After reading your cover story “The Ugly American” (October 7) by Jim DeFede, I, as a Filipino, can only react with disgust, distress, and disappointment. A writer has many tools in his trade, and one of these is the use of dialogue to make his work more…
Out, out, Prince Albert of Monaco. Waiting for Bono. Tim Robbie, die-hard David Byrne fan and party animal extraordinaire. Pat Booth, author and Home Shopping Network star. Chuck D., public enemy and fun guy. Miami calling Mick Jones. Herb Ritts, photo-vibrator to Seventh Avenue. Models migrating back to town, the…
WE DO ALL WE CAN DO TO BRING THE POO TO YOU Todd Anthony’s bold report of dung sniffing as the next psychopharmacological craze (“Cow Pie High,” September 30) is raw, in-your-face journalism at its best. The fearless efforts of field reporter Anthony, photographer Steve Hlavac, and intrepid dungmeister John…
