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…
“Gwen, when you don’t remember something it is very strange. It’s the same as if it never happened….” …The Jesus freaks who talked about the end of the world were looking better every day…. …”There’s only one thing we’d like to know. We’re your friends. We’ve been friends for years…
Nightlife, one long forced march, the troops ever conscious of misstepping, a prance into the oblivion of darkness. An obstacle course fraught with tension and peril; to stumble, even momentarily, is to be devoured by the juggernaut of attitude. In any epoch, the in-crowd tends to be unforgiving and pitiless,…
“‘Are you Greg Baker?’ Geez. What the fuck’s wrong with people?” Finally a bit of vinegar outta Frank Falestra, someone got a reaction, as it were. Sorry somebody mistook you for that butthorn at New Times, Ratman, but you should say what I say when someone asks me that: “No…
Summertime in Miami, hot and pitiless as the Gobi Desert, an opportunity to relax, kick back, slowly sink into a terminal slough of despond. The right crowd, even in the beyond-the-pale doldrums, still making news. A rumor about the separation of philanthropists Sanford and Helene Ziff leading to extensive telephone…
Something’s got to give. Marilyn’s last, if she had survived shooting it. I celebrate Norma Jean’s birthday every June 1, usually with a reach for that breach she fell into. So far I’ve survived. I’m glad for moments like June 5 (so I celebrated a few days late, so what)…
I went with venom. Came back with a smile. A rock does that for me. The Game is like rock and roll A you have to know it to love it, you have to love it to know it, you have to live it to be it. I once asked…
A weekend of pop history, the American Booksellers Association convention coming to the wasteland, the forces of literary imperialism conquering the provincial barbarians. Miami, the endlessly entertaining if vaguely embarrassing tropic of pointless pleasure, awash in the relentless march of American lite culture, becoming the epicenter of civilization for a…
A while back I had the pleasure of speaking to several hordes of high school students and teachers who gathered at FIU for a seminar with the unwieldy title of the Dade County Public Schools Student Gender Equity Conference. Leonard Pitts, Jr., and I attempted to explain to these bright…
Memorial Day weekend, a nation mourns its war dead, throws sloppy barbecues, drinks too much beer. Miami, as usual, out of sync with the rest of the nation, bracing for the ultimate dialectic: the literary star power of the American Booksellers Association convention vying with the ugly threat of rioting…
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…
