The headless flight toward the New Year, tumbling pell-mell into a world of possibilty, fighting the pull of the mundane. The city popping, clogged with the rich and famous, one big celebrity shooting gallery. New Year’s Eve assuming the competitive dimensions of pret-a-porte week in Paris — designers, celebs, and…
ZenCon is the name of my new religion. It was inspired by the music of Rooster Head, though not directly. It’s about pain. We don’t sacrifice barnyard animals, or even humans; there is, in fact, no ritualism involved, no gods either. And we never get angry. The secret is, when…
Ah, the psychosis deepens. I swear to three gods I had this dream the other night, more like a vision, a dream so real about a beautiful blond-haired teen-age girl, and I knew that for some reason her parents were worried or upset, and for no reason I felt guilty,…
The party zone between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, another dance to the music of time, more clubs, more thematic one-nighters, more lunges at style and senseless pleasure. Saturday night in Coconut Grove, the young and horny cruising the streets, operating on sheer gonad power. An overinflated shopping mall, weird…
The holiday season, the entire populace reduced to a state of low-grade manic depression, the general mood randomly veering between a positively Russian bleakness and giddy elation. Eating too much, drinking too much, the yearly dance before the apocalypse of New Year’s Eve and the prospect of yet another crummy…
Between Hurricane Andrew and the holidays, it’ll be a miracle if there are survivors. This is what we celebrate on the eve of 1993: skyrocketing numbers of reports about domestic violence (a true holiday tradition), thousands of homeless in South Dade (40 percent — I say 40 percent — of…
BUT WILL THEY GET BIGGER DESKS? New Times is pleased to announce the promotion of three veteran staffers. Former advertising director Greg Stier has been named publisher. Senior account executive Patrick Flood replaces Stier as advertising director. And general sales manager Irene Bustamante assumes the added responsibilities of general manager…
Pandisc prez Bo Crane knows the music biz. Bo knows hit records. And boy does Bo know how to toss a pah-tay. It’s not Bo’s fault, either, that “Swelter” wasn’t around to chronicle these fine adventures, although a crew from Wire brushed in, then ran screaming out the door after…
The party boy, helpless in the face of an ugly addiction, driven by sensation and the gnawing fear of missing the remotest semblance of a social occasion. A week or two of absolute frenzy, setting a personal worst with ten events in one day. Stop him before he kills again…
Ah, the piney smell of Christmas trees, the lights twinkling and decorations shining, the spirit of the holidays glowing everywhere you go. Makes me want to hurt people. Can’t help it, just a feeling. Jack ’em up with a rock sock. Fry days this year, it’ll be a buster from…
Sex, money, drink, and drugs, the heady high-octane mix that fuels the combustion of nightlife. A potent combination not applied, thankfully enough, in equal doses throughout the universe. Sex in short supply during an agitated weekend in London, although alcohol and a somewhat tonier class of society in abundance. An…
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…
