Now, after four years of working and partying together, Stevens and Ophir are embarking on a new frontier of nightlife entertainment with a national tour of eight cities across America with their flagship seven-year-old music/drag extravaganza which holds the undisputed title as Miami Beach’s longest-running nightclub event.

Philadelphia rock-n-roll scenester Mykel Stevens didn’t put a lot of thought into his decision to move to South Beach. After coming here on vacation in 1995 he asked himself the simple, yet life-altering question “Why would I live in Philly when I can live in a place like South Beach?”

Carmel Ophir came to Miami from New York to attend Florida International University and along the way, he too discovered the still nascent neighborhood of South Beach, which was just starting to attract famous photographers, supermodels and a hip, artsy international crowd. While working his way through school as a waiter at the Waldorf Towers Hotel on Ocean Drive, Ophir once made a room-service delivery to room 201 of the hotel. On the receiving-end of the delivery was supermodel Claudia Schiffer, who was in town to shoot her ground-breaking GUESS? ad campaign. Ophir knew at that moment South Beach was the place to be.

Stevens and Ophir entered the South Beach nightlife arena along different paths, yet both quickly mastered the delicate art of attracting the hip crowd to first-class events. Ophir also worked as a barback at the beloved underground club Sempers, underneath the Waldorf Towers Hotel with South Beach living-legend Louis Canales—the genius behind in the infamous Avenue A parties. In the early 90s, Ophir landed a job at Greg and Nicole Bilu-Brier’s Groove Jet, working in marketing and DJ-ing, where he stayed until February 2000.

Meanwhile, Stevens began hosting parties with a friend from Philly named Nicholas Pioli, who had previously moved to Miami. Mioli had been a promoter in Philly, throwing a traveling weekly party called “Vagabond.” “I brought all my friends to these parties,” Stevens says. “They were very artsy, mixed, underground parties. When I got here I looked around and saw that on the Beach, at the time, good nightlife was lacking, so, I decided to put something together.” While putting his concept together, Mykel worked as a pool bartender at the newly-opened Delano Hotel Rose Bar.

Soon, Ophir and Stevens, as fledgling promoters and South Beach party fixtures, would cross paths—from the long-running “The Church” party at Groove Jet, co-created by Ophir, with Stevens working the door, to “Propaganda” at Prince’s Glam Slam. And all the while, Stevens was perfecting his concept for a party designed to bring out the coolest, hippest, most creative and self-expressive locals, week in and week out. The party’s name? “Back Door Bamby.”

With their local phenomenon going national with an eight-city tour sponsored by Heineken and MAXIM Magazine, we recently spoke to Mykel Stevens and Carmel Ophir at Crobar nightclub in South Beach.

The Tour

So now you’re taking Bamby—the “Bitch,” as you like to call her—on the road, for an eight-city national tour sponsored by Heineken and MAXIM Magazine. How did that happen?
Carmel: A friend of mine who used to work for Little Louie Vega brokers deals designed to bring different corporate brands together where there is a mutually benefiting result. He matches up companies with ideas based on similar interests. He’s very friendly with the Publisher of MAXIM. They were negotiating an advertising deal with Heineken, which is outside their normal advertising parameters. So, MAXIM approached us as a value-added promotional idea for Heineken, and asked us if we’d be interested in doing a national tour, eight major cities.

When was that?
Carmel: The second half of last year. I went to NY and sat in a conference room with reps from Heineken and Maxim and we put the basic concept together. Then we started on the real work, the details.

What was the concept that sold them?
Carmel: Great DJs, great party, great venues. Bamby, the naughtiest girl in Miami, is taking her dysfunctional family on the road. Be a part of it. The DJs are Little Louie Vega, Josh Wink, Erick Morillo, Dave Morales. Heineken picked the cities, for branding in key markets.

What are the eight cities?
Carmel: Miami, New York, Chicago, Boston, Washington, DC, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Detroit. We’ve already done Miami and New York. Next, in July, are San Francisco and Los Angeles. Then in the fall, we do the remaining cities.

What other cities were considered?
Carmel: I was pushing for Las Vegas, Philadelphia and Cleveland. Texas, too. But they had only budgeted for eight cities and they wanted their most important markets.

What is the basic idea of the tour?
Carmel: We decided to take Bamby on the “Adventure to Stardom Tour” —on behalf of Heineken. Green bottle, red star…she’s going to be a star! There’s white in the label, so we use a lot of the color elements in the décor and installation process…White fabric treatments and balloons, huge red Stars, etc.. We also had our artist Attila draw a Bamby Girl, dressed as a Dutch Heineken Girl. It becomes a branding exercise for Heineken in the venues.

From the first meeting in New York until you put on the event, how much time passed?
Mykel: Five months.

What took so long?
Carmel: We wanted to wait and launch it at Winter Music Conference, which wasn’t until this March ? which was also our seventh anniversary. So, it was a great catapult for the tour. Then, we did the New York event, May 15, at a club called Discotheque. It was a fantastic night ? South Beach does the Big Apple.

How many people?
Mykel: Well it’s a small venue. We did about 900 for the night in a room that averages 400 to 500 a week. People were in and out, all night.

What dates are next?
Carmel: In July, we’re doing San Francisco, on July 11 at Ruby Sky. Then, on July 24, we’re doing L.A.. at I-Bar. In San Francisco, the DJ is Josh Wink. In L.A., the DJ is David Morales.

Give us a rundown of a typical night?
Mykel: It’s a standard show, but we try to localize it to each city and each venue. Like, in L.A. we’re doing the whole red carpet, movie star thing. But the core of the night is good rockin’ house music. Then we have these “interruptuses.” One is a tribute to 30s-40s-swing…the Lindy… that whole thing. One is a tribute to the drag/androgyny scene back to David Bowie, and the third is a tribute to provocative—really provocative—fetish.

Who are the stars of the show?
Mykel: From Miami, the drag artist and opera singer Adora. From New York, the drag legend, former South Beach pioneer, Kitty Meow. We have other performers and dancers, too.

How big is your staff and crew?
Mykel: About eighteen people… dancers, performance artists, production people, the visual arts crew, the DJs, myself and Carmel, and a manager…in a real suit, no less.

Let’s talk about the early days—how did you guys first meet?
Carmel: Crossing Lincoln Road. I admired his (Mykel’s) fashion style. Somehow, some way, we just connected and starting vibing on each other.

Did you know who he was?
Carmel: No, I didn’t, I just dug his style, man…(laughing)…he was wearing polyester pants and this slick Mod jacket and Jamiroqui hat, big sunglasses. I was doing my 70s thing—bellbottoms, suede jacket, scarf. So, we took notice of each other, then later, another South Beach pioneer, Gilbert Stafford, gave us our official introduction.

What was your first impression of Mykel when you saw him?
Carmel: …(laughing)…Cool motherfucker—thank God we have something like this walking around.

Mykel what was your first impression of Carmel?
Mykel: Same thing, we just locked-in right away.
Carmel: I think also what was happening around that 95-96 era was that you had the transition going into Liquid, which was the mega-club, superstar-celebrity driven, VIP everything. That was a major step at that time. What also started happening was the polarization of the crowds—hip-hop party, straight party, VIP party, gay party—there wasn’t anything criss-crossing any more. So, Mykel had a vision and a desire to develop this small, intimate party that just ended up being fuckin’ cool.

How much time passed between meeting and getting together as partners?
Mykel: About a year after I started it [Back Door Bamby] at Lua, over on Espanola Way.

Carmel: I was getting ready to leave my gig at Groove Jet. We were kind of just hanging out, and I guess boredom just took over the conversation…

Mykel: …so we went for a beer at Blue and…

Carmel: …then we thought, “yeah this would be a really cool place to do Bamby,” …back to basics…on a Monday… cool friends… not driven by money, just get the locals out. So, in 1999, we moved the party to Blue. Then, in January 2000, we moved to Crobar.

What was it that made you want to have a partner, Carmel, rather than doing your own thing solo?
Carmel: At the time, I was still doing The Church, which was, on its own, a long-running thematic night that had its own niche crowd. So, with Mykel, I shared the notion of doing something long-term and right—so, we got together. A good reason to have a partner is that when you do a project solo, it gets difficult and overbearing, because let’s say you get sick one day or have to go out of town unexpectedly—nobody’s there to help you.

Mykel, what about Carmel most appealed to you?
Mykel: He’s very creative, very professional, and he knows how to have a good time.

That’s a pretty unusual combination on the South Beach party scene, isn’t it?
Mykel: Yeah, definitely.

Carmel: There’s also too many of what I call ?hit and runs,? people doing something for the sake of doing it and, boom, they’re out. People who are fly-by-night, if you will. Our intention was to do something long-term—we had no idea it would go as far as it’s gone.

Where did the name “Back Door Bamby” come from?
Mykel: My friend Nicholas Pioli, the person I came to visit after he moved down here.

In a sentence, what was the original idea for Bamby?
Mykel: Creating something that was fun. For me personally, going out was lacking on the Beach. What I wanted to do was bring all kinds of people together, at the same party.

With all the models and the hip scene that was already here by 1996, what made you think the Beach needed a more over the top party?
Mykel: It was just about bringing different kinds of people together. I’d go to different events, like a night at Groove Jet or a gay party, and each one would have a different vibe. So, I wanted to do something that was industry-oriented and brought together all those different kinds of vibes.

Carmel: An important factor also, on a personal level for me, is that back then, the events, the parties, everything there was to do socially, was driven on a nightly level. It was one event a night that the community really went to, together. It didn’t really matter what your affiliation was, or what you liked. Having grown up in New York and being reared on the birth of house music… and witnessing the end of the “Studio 54 era”, when the hype went underground and was driven by the music and the gay scene…but you always had the hip street crowd and the place where girls could go and feel safe…and the mix of people drove that energy. Theatrics were a big part of it, too.

In terms of the climate you came into on South Beach and the opportunity you saw, what was your first impression when you got here?
Carmel: Freedom… total freedom

From what?
Carmel: From the expectations of what you are supposed to be doing at a certain age. After you go to college, you go into corporate America. You climb the ladder. What I found here in South Beach was the ability to do that, but on your own terms. There was a freedom here in the late ’80s, early ’90s, that you can either invent yourself…or… re-invent yourself…

Mykel: …or destroy yourself…(laughing)

Carmel: …yeah, or expose yourself…without any of the nonsense you have to put up with in New York or other big cities. This was the diamond in the rough. You wrote your own rules, you set your own trends. And if you brought the element of cool, people respected and followed that. There was a lot more appreciation of the arts, and being an individual, in those days.

The stuff that’s prevalent today is “clonitis.” Where the black sheep used to be the most accepted, as something different, now it’s not accepted at all. That’s bad for a creative, hip scene. It’s a shame.

Mykel: An alternative scene is important in anything—alternative lifestyle, music, arts—whatever it might be.

Mykel, what was your first impression of South Beach when you got here?
Mykel: Oh, my God—I was coming from Philly, so I was taken by the beauty of the beach and the outdoors, the Ocean. I grew up an hour from the Jersey shore, so that’s what made me want to make South Beach my home.

What have been the major influences on your creative sense of clubbing?
Carmel: Rudolph Piper, who now owns Nerve here on the Beach, had a place in New York called Danceteria. I went there when I was 16 years old. That was the first club I snuck into. In retrospect, I can say that club was the foundation for what I’m doing today in terms of the feeling—rockers, models, rastas, heroin chic’ers, Goths, drags, suits… all together. There was an element of theatre when you walked in, and that’s something we hold near and dear now—what happens when the lights go down and it’s showtime.

What have been your other influences in that sense?
Carmel: My brother Doron and I had an event called Groove Girl Thursdays at Groove Jet, in which we created a character called Gigi—and we developed a story line around her. At about the same time, separately, Mykel was developing the concept for Back Door Bamby, which was also based on a character. Then, two years later, we ended up merging into a single party that became this whole big thing.

How long was the party at Blue?
Mykel: About eight months.

How many people were at your very first Bamby party opening night in the spring of 1996?
Mykel: Small but super-cool… about a hundred.

That’s an excellent crowd for Lua. So you were a success from the first night?
Mykel: Yes. It built from there, week in, week out, until we got to the point where we’d get several hundred people and have to turn some away at the door because of the fire code capacity.

What caused you to move it to Crobar?
Carmel: Believe it or not, I was a bit skeptical about moving it, because we were so driven by the thought, ‘man, this is it, it’s intimate, it’s cool.?

Mykel: But I was of the opinion that a moment of growth was needed to really make it worth the while for the time and energy we had to put into it every week. The other big reason was so we could have a larger space to work with, that would allow more production.

What kinds of moments have made Back Door Bamby special over the last several years?
Carmel: Superstar DJ’s like Sasha or Dave Ralph, who will just pop in, unannounced, and do a set. Then they just hang out. The most satisfying thing, really, is to see some other club owners and promoters feel the pinch from such an incredibly small place as Blue driving so much energy and passion. They couldn’t figure out why they couldn’t do it in their places.

How did you cut the deal with Crobar? Did you approach them or did they approach you?
Carmel: Crobar is very, very politically correct, you might say. So, they didn’t blatantly ask. They were the new kids on the block, literally, and they would never have done that. But the owners and managing partner were all three hanging out with us every Monday night. It was their little escape, because they loved the party. So, it was only a matter of time until something happened.

So you moved to Crobar on Monday, January 31, 2000?

Mykel: Yeah.

And how did it go?
Mykel: Remember, we host the party in the upstairs room at Crobar… We were packed. We did about nine hundred people.

Three times the maximum capacity of Blue?
Carmel: More than three times, yes.

And that translates to dollars in your pockets?
Mykel: Yeah, pretty much—but we do have much higher costs, especially production.

Carmel:  It also translates to the word and the chatter on the street.

How did you grow the concept when you moved to Crobar and what were the first things you did to increase the production values?
Carmel: Prior to Blue, when the party was at Lua, then Groove Jet, KGB and Liquid, it had its foundation and flexibility built in. We just adapted to a bigger space.

Mykel: We started using more nationally known DJs and performers. The first was Joey Arias and Sherry Vine, from New York.

Carmel: Then, very quickly, March 2000 came along and it was our fourth anniversary and we had to fill the whole club, which is huge. It was the first time we did the main room. So, we brought in Little Louie Vega, who is also a friend and who had done the two-year anniversary in 1998 at Groove Jet. It was a phenomenal night. That was the real marriage to Crobar, I’d say. That’s when the relationship came to be with Kenney and Cal, the owners of Crobar, and us. A shared vision.

If you have the vision, what kind of obstacles do you have to get over to increase the size of the venue and the increased costs of doing the party?
Carmel: Legitimizing the way the business is operated, from top to bottom ? staffing, payroll, taxes, you name it. Make it a real business. The Bamby party is just the umbrella of a properly-run, legitimate business that is very solid and very well run. Everything is accounted for, down to the penny. Quite frankly, who else does that stuff?

Mykel: And quite frankly, it’s the stuff we hate the most.

Carmel: But you have to be good at that part of it, too—or you won’t be around to demonstrate your creativity. Efficiency is every bit as important, and it’s the efficiency that is what really pays off.

In terms of your long-running success, what is the most important lesson that you’ve learned?
Carmel: We sort of go against the grain of the business, which says make money, pay yourself first, then worry about everything else. That’s not what we do. We put production and the party first…blow them away…make sure the people have a great time…blow their minds. Think Kiss at Madison Square Garden, but in a tiny little room. The people know that no matter what, they’re getting something for their money. At the end of the day, it’s not about the guy on the guest list or the VIPs who want to be treated like gold. It’s about the person who actually pays the ten or twenty dollars to get in and then pays for his drinks. That’s the guy who should be respected the most. That pays the club, the rent, the DJs, the staff—everything. In general, though, that doesn’t get taken into account ? at all. So, we always go the extra step, for the paying customer who just wants to have a good time and get true entertainment value for his money. So, our biggest obstacle is how to avoid being second-rate at anything we do, but also maximizing the financial return from what we do.

What’s the biggest crowd you’ve had so far?
Mykel: Close to two thousand people.

What really catapulted you to large-scale events and big crowds like that?
Carmel: In July of 2000, we did a big fashion event with designer Patricia Field for the launch of her magazine. We produced the entire event, for Patricia’s partner, Mary Crispin. She’s Israeli and I am, too. We created the whole party together in 24 hours.

What was the other most important factor in your success?
Carmel: Major DJs like Little Louie Vega, Danny Tenaglia, Erik Morillo and the whole Subliminal camp, Dmitri from D-Lite. DJs from Paris. Now we have a sound that is affiliated with Bamby. It’s house music with a rock and roll attitude. The flow of the music over the course of the night is very important, and we mix in some rock and roll and other stuff with the comedy and the drag shows. We even go disco and play hair bands. Now, a lot of clubs are doing it.

How do the DJs feel about Bamby?
Mykel: They love it, because it’s all about the music. Sasha told us it reminds him of his early days at the Hacienda in Manchester, England because Bamby is all about the music and a great theatrical production.

What are some other neat things you’ve done lately?
Carmel: We brought in a comedian from Philadelphia to work what we call one of the “Interruptuses,” when the music goes down and there’s entertainment. The drag show is one Interruptus. There are three Interruptuses a night where the lights go down, and it’s ?Ladies and gentlemen, direct from Philadelphia—Rocco!? He did stand-up comedy for three minutes. He was hilarious. He killed ’em. Nobody would expect that at Crobar—or anywhere else on South Beach these days.

Mykel: (laughing)…Good stuff.

Let’s talk about Bamby, the character. Who is she?
Carmel: She’s our alter ego.

Some people seem to think the name Back Door Bamby is a veiled reference to anal sex, is it?
Carmel: Man, it’s anything your imagination allows it be…(laughing)…And, there’s also a back-door entrance to the party, but that’s just a coincidence… (laughing)…… It’s like the old blues song, “Back Door Man”, A story of a man who has an affair with a married woman, so when the husband came home, he’d sneak out the back door… At least that’s one way to look at it….(laughing)…

So, what you’re actually saying is that Bamby, your alter ego, is a transvestite.
Mykel: Exactly. …(laughing)…

How did transvestitism become all the rage for the middle-class?
Carmel: We did a wedding for Bamby. It was huge, fantastic. The bride was in drag. It was like a game show. It turned out the groom was in drag, too? it was a woman…her tits falling out. Perrier Jouet executives were there. They sponsored part of the event. Afterward they said, “you guys have to come to Paris.” …(laughing)…

Mykel: It’s been a matter of people seeking us out instead of us seeking them out because Bamby is so unique. Movie studios call us to do movie release parties, and artists, celebrities and media people call us up because friends told them we’re the cool party in Miami when you’re in town.

What’s next for Bamby?
Carmel: We have plans to do more events, more nights. We want to have a presence in New York and L.A. We’ll also be bringing her to New York once a week, every Monday night, just like in Miami, when Crobar opens in New York this fall. We’re also going to get into merchandising—T-shirts, other fashion things, other types of products. All cool stuff. But our ultimate goal is an animated TV series, like Beavis & Butthead or South Park—provocative stuff. We have the new character that could become a pop culture icon. We have 20 episodes already written. We want to become an entertainment-media company. We’re also planning a major comedy event, beginning here in Miami.

Let’s talk about that. People who think about becoming a promoter on SB think it’s easy and that you make a lot of money and get laid a lot. What are the nuts and bolts that made you successful?
Mykel: Having drive…that’s the bottom line.

It’s that simple?
Carmel: Sustained drive. It’s that simple. And there’s another factor—people who don’t take the business of fun seriously end up just going toward the fun and fading very, very quickly. Getting caught up in free liquor and all the other perks and goodies that come with it—if you’re driven by that, it’s a formula for disaster.

But, if you’re driven by, which we are, the creative outlet, the luxury, the privilege and the opportunity of having fun in this entertainment genre—the money and all the perks, the girls, the limelight, the interviews, the photo sessions, the TV—that comes second. It’s still important, but that can’t be your motivation.

Of all the people you’ve seen come here and try to become promoters, what percentage would you say failed because they fell into the group set for disaster?
Carmel: Most… I really couldn’t assign a percentage, but the kinds of people who’ve been here for as long as we have and do it as well as we do, you can count on one hand.

From whom did you learn the ropes for success?
Carmel: The early guys, the true pioneers—Gary James, Michael Capponi, Tara Solomon, who wrote the ?Queen of the Night? nightlife column in the Miami Herald during the glory years of South Beach. They were all brilliant at what they did.

But it’s never easy, correct?
Mykel: I’d love to say it’s always been a bowl of cherries, but that’s not the case. It’s hard work.

That explains your popularity among the drag set. That brings us to polarization on the Beach and how the scene has changed?
Carmel: In that sense, Bamby is a tribute to the old beach, in the sense that all crowds, all types, all affiliations, are welcome…that’s what makes the party the party.

But no one group can claim ownership. Isn’t that also important?
Mykel: Absolutely. That’s the whole idea. Even the celebrities who come in here realize it’s different and they can cut loose and act normal. Carmen Electra and Christina Aguilera have been up right there, dancing their asses off. (…points to the upper-deck VIP area of Crobar…)

What do mean by polarization of the scene and what do you mean by it?
Mykel: It started happening in the mid-90s, with the whole celebrity-VIP-guest thing. The VIP cliché was unfortunately misunderstood. The guy who drives up in a very hot car, with a hot girl on his side—he’s got money. But there’s no reason he should be whisked in and treated specially, except you know that he’s going to spend money. But the guy who’s walking in with a woman in a boa, a fierce outfit, fashionistas who spent a lot of time getting ready to go out and be cool—whisk them in. They’re the ones who deserve the special attention. They’re the ones who make the party happen.

Was that a mistake South Beach made or is it inevitable anywhere?
Mykel: It’s inevitable—it happens everywhere.

Carmel: The other aspect of polarization is that you used to have a scene, a community of people. Now you have hip-hop night at Crobar, VIP at Opium, and a gay party over there. You’re not going to a party any more, you’re stepping into a genre event. It’s even worse than that. If you want to get into Mynt or The Shore Club, you have to dress a certain way. If you walk into Bamby, you can be in jeans…a cut-off T-shirt…in full rubber…in drag… you can be whatever you want to be and it’s totally cool. Even if you’re an out-of-town doctor in an Izod shirt.

What’s happening with the scene now? What do you predict for this coming season?
Mykel: I think it’s going to become more of a hip-hop scene.

Do you agree, Carmel?
Carmel: In the big venues, yes. And I think to the city as a whole, it’s financially beneficial.

What else do you think will happen?
Carmel: I believe that in greater Miami, as a whole, people will seek alternative areas to explore and entertain themselves. I think there’s a major stagnation in club culture, now.

Here, or everywhere?
Carmel: In the United States.

What has been the price of polarization on South Beach?
Carmel: South Beach is not getting the hip New Yorkers any more. We’re not getting the artists or the fashionistas, especially after the demise of the local modeling scene. We lost the bohemian factor and the international fashion crowd. Then celebrities replaced that, but now they’re gone, too. It’s always changing. That’s okay. What I don’t like, though, is that you can’t be yourself and be mischievous and rambunctious like you used to. Quite frankly, that’s why I think the downtown Miami Design District scene is gaining such popularity. It’s more laid back.

Do you think it’s a threat to the Beach?
Mykel: I don’t think it’s so much of a threat as a change. I mean you don’t see the cool, hip, creative locals hanging out on the Beach any more. They’re downtown, at places like SoHo Lounge. Now, on the Beach, you’re seeing Middle America.

What are your favorite places downtown?
Carmel: I don’t really have a favorite place, but my favorite party is called Revolver. It’s at SoHo Lounge. There’s also a cute little place called IO… avant garde parties…not so polished a scene…more of a pioneering spirit.

Any other parties in the works?
Carmel: Yes, we’re working on a new one called Cherry Bomb. We don’t officially have a venue yet, but we’re working on it. It will be at a major club.

What’s the concept?
Carmel: Dice, cherries, flames—a whole rockabilly kind of vibe. Very sexy. Rock-n-roll, danceable, 1980s, Sunset Strip, Los Angeles, sleaze, leopard skin. A relative spin-off of Bamby, still that core vibe.

After all of this success, what would you say has been your secret?
Carmel: We’re like a family. All of the people who work for us—we all stay together in the same hotel. There’s no hierarchy or ?A? list. We do it together. And Mykel and I, as the owners of the property are no better and no more important than they are. We’re like a family…we put this show on together.

For more information, visit:
www.backdoorbamby.com
www.maximonline.com
www.heineken.com

The building housing Warsaw was erected in 1939 as Hoffman’s Cafeteria by Henry Hohauser, one of South Beach’s most talented and prolific architects.

Passing through various iterations including Club Ovo, China Club and the Rhythm Club, all of which had the same basic business plan of music+alcohol+sex=money, Warsaw finally transformed itself, with the help of George and Leo Nunez, into the center of the buff-boy universe in 1989.

The interior was twice re-designed by the brilliant and much-loved designer George Tamsitt—originally in 1986 for Club Ovo, and again in 1991 for Warsaw’s second anniversary.

The list of legendary South Beach nightclub personalities associated with this location reads like a rap-sheet of nightlife superstars; Gary James, Michael Capponi, Suzanne Bartsch, Louis Canales—at one point, even Gianni Versace hosted parties at Warsaw, albeit for fun, not profit.

The Warsaw’s theatrical legacy includes a somewhat, less-than-stellar list of decadence that will go unmatched for many years to come—everything from live, artistic pseudo-S&M performances that degenerated into the real thing being performed on-stage, requiring the owners to kill the lights and separate the performers, to strippers whose act consisted primarily of allowing patrons to extricate 30 foot ribbons from various orifices—all generating an unending list of warnings, citations and fines from the city. As George Tamsitt once put it, a floorshow of “fat ladies, midgets, and pigs.”

Nightlife stars in attendance for Warsaw’s swan song included, Bolero’s Lily Zanardi, the Albion’s Jennifer Rubell, theatrical maven Maxwell Blandford, Elaine Lancaster (who got her start at Warsaw), Tony Miros, the two most photographed men in South Beach, Gerry Kelly and Ernesto Arambatzis, and the man who was here when it all began, Louis Canales.

Highlights of the night included a series of leather-clad, male go-go dancers, one of which didn’t want to be photographed, but who would have been an excellent choice for the starring roll in a homoerotic horror film titled “The Package from the Black Lagoon,” and another gorgeous blonde female patron dancing up on the narrow stage along with the go-go boys, who, after making a misstep, did a half-gainer off the stage, crashing onto a table full of champagne surrounded by other patrons. In true South Beach style the patrons helped the girl up after, of course, attending to the champagne.

The Warsaw will soon be transformed into a European-style deli as South Beach continues its march back-to-the-future of its glamorous post-war heyday as a tropical vacation paradise. But for those who can recall the days when South Beach was a bohemian village on the cutting edge of style—sexual and otherwise—the Warsaw Ballroom will forever define the bounds of a decadent night on the town.

Residencies:
Nocturnal.

Number of years spinning:
Twenty (ouch).

How did you get started spinning?
I started off as a classical pianist, but after moving to the States, through my cousin in New York and two of my Uncles here in South Florida, I discovered DJing. I loved the idea of mixing two different songs together.

Who are your musical influences?
Beethoven, Chopin, Depeche Mode, Bruce Lee, Paulo Coelho. The last two aren’t musicians, but they influence me musically, nonetheless.

Describe your current sound.
I’m a House and Techno guy. But don’t let those two genres fool you, that encompasses a lot of different things.

What equipment do you use?
I use Final Scratch 2 on an Alienware Area-51 Notebook. Also, several different f/x units and samplers.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
I’ve never really had a bad job. However, if I had to pick one, it would be trying to hold a residency in Miami. I’m forever dealing with the politics of this industry here at home. It’s quite depressing and heartbreaking, dealing with so much ethical and moral corruption. People forget the music and the fun of it, and everyone becomes a backstabber and money grabber. Granted, I know that it’s an industry and revenue needs to be generated, however people lose site of the goal quite often. But, I still have faith and hope. This is Miami…this is my home.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club?
Actually, some of my favorite Miami club nights involve me watching my friends play. Guys like Oscar G at Space or Ralph Falcon at Crobar. Even some of the newer guys like Michael Louis. I enjoy watching them work a crowd.

What would be the theme song to your life?
Right now, I’d have to say my song “Espero” from my Shadows of Blue EP on Guidance from a few years back.

What makes your DJ style unique?
I think my way of using f/x and sampling… I try to stay very active while playing… I basically remix live.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I try to treat others the way I would like to be treated. And I do a bit too much “turning the other cheek,” but I think it’s something we need to do more of. Oh, and I recycle.

Describe who you are in three words.
Purpose-driven soul.

Where can we learn more about you?
At my web site, stryke.net.

« Return

Residencies:
Lucky Strike and The Clevelander.

Number of years spinning:
Ten years.

How did you get started spinning?
I was a bar back at a club called Club Boca sometime from ’94 to ’96, and there was a killer party on Sunday nights called “Purgatory.” It was the best place to be in West Palm Beach on Sundays for music and DJ lineups. One of the bars was next to the DJ booth, and I always worked that bar. I would watch them all throw down for hours, and I thought to myself, “I can do that.” Sometime after working there, I went out to Mars [Music], applied for a credit card and got $1,500—just enough for a set of tables and a mixer, and, man, I was stoked.

Who are your musical influences?
There are so many to name, but first to mind is definitely Run-D.M.C. and Jam Master Jay, alongside the Beastie Boys. That was the first concert I ever went to. Next would be Bob Marley ? any Reggae at all influences me. I was born on Jamaican Independence Day and really feel that there is a connection made to the world around you on the day of your birth. Saving the best for last, bringing it all back to Dance music (House, Electronica, whatever it’s called these days), it’s why I started DJing in the first place. [Then there’s] Sasha and John Digweed triple-CD album called Renaissance, the mix collection (the first one), holy shit! I can still listen to all three CDs today, and it still goes off. I listened to those CDs religiously, took them for long walks and romantic dinners. I couldn’t get enough. If you listen to the way the CD was programmed and mixed, its just as it should be. It takes you on a journey, and that’s how I learned to mix.

Describe your current sound.
My current sound is eclectic and is based on wherever I’m at. I really am a House DJ, but all of my residencies right now I’m playing a mix of everything: Rock, Hip-hop, Latin, ’80s, ’90’s, House and whatever else you can think of.

What equipment do you use?
Turntables always. Technics, Pioneer CD, anything over the years has always preformed well, and Mackie for sound. I have used and abused my equipment over the years. It’s been rained on, sun-baked, stored, dropped and fumbled around and still works like new. I stand by them 200 percent.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
Never had one.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not working)?
Most memorable night? Hmm, for some reason, I can’t remember.

What would be the theme song to your life?
“Perfect Motion” by Sunscreem.

What makes your DJ style unique?
When we’re talking about House music, if you listen to me mix, you will hear that Renaissance influence I was talking about. Growing up as house bedroom DJ, I thought that DJing was all about how good your mixes were from track to track. I did nothing but work on mixing different ways, so I really feel, along with my programming, my mixing is what sets me out of the box. When we are talking about mixing everything else, Rock, Hip-hop, ’80s, I pay attention to the environment around me and make adjustments musically to make the night as fun as possible for everyone.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
Since I moved to the Beach, I have been in a constant state of creating, and when you are in a constant state of creating, that helps the world out in more ways than people really understand.

Describe yourself in three words.
Infinite source energy.

Where can we learn more about you?
At forthepeople.cc, as well as Lucky Strike on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday nights and the Clevelander on the weekends, as well as the many exclusive yacht and mansion parties around South Beach.

« Return

Residencies:
Currently Nocturnal’s “Local Celebrity” Friday after hours on the Terrace. Previously, Club Space for five years.

Number of years spinning:
Twenty years.

How did you get started spinning?
I’ve always been passionate about music. As a kid, I used to enjoy listening to old Disco and ’80s mixes on the radio. My interest grew and I started to do that on my own. To this day, I still feel the same way about music and spinning in general.

Who are your musical influences?
I would say the ’80s played a big part in my musical taste. I remember growing up listening to Depeche Mode, Kraftwerk and The Cure, just to name a few.

Describe your current sound.
House.

What equipment do you use?
The club’s equipment.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
Licking envelopes for eight hours a day at a bank when I was 16 years old ? seriously.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not working)?
When I got my first gig at a club back in 1994. The house DJ got sick and had to leave, so I got my records from my car and played the rest of the night—without headphones. I was so eager to play, I didn’t mention to the club owner I’d forgotten my headphones. When the night ended, I told him…and the rest was history.

What makes your DJ style unique?
I think what makes me different from other DJs is that I have total freedom to play what I enjoy playing. The crowd recognizes when you play from the heart, and they realize that what they hear is something special they can’t get anywhere else. It took me a long time to be able to say that, but I think that is the reason I enjoy playing now more than ever.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I really enjoy helping others no matter what the situation is. You have to leave your mark in this world, and that is the best way I know how.

Describe who you are in three words.
Never look back.

Where can we learn more about you?
At my web site, djrolandmiami.com – the site will have a complete new look very soon.

« Return

Residencies:
Nocturnal.

Number of years spinning:
Twelve years.

How did you get started spinning?
I started spinning with my brother doing block parties.

Who are your musical influences?
… too many to name, but anybody who takes music to another level inspires me.

Describe your current sound.
My sound is whatever I’m into at the moment. Right now it’s all about ’80s, Funk, Miami Bass and scratching.

What equipment do you use?
I use a Pioneer 909 Mixer, two Technics 1200 turntables and Final Scratch 2.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
Working at an acrylic factory with my dad. It made me appreciate and respect him more than ever.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not
working)?
The first DJ battle I entered in at a club called The Zoo in Coconut Grove. I was 15 years old and it was one of the first times I’d ever been in a club. I fell in love with the rush I got from being on stage and having people going crazy just because I was scratching.

What would be the theme song to your life?
“My Way.”

What makes your DJ style unique?
I’m not your average DJ. I try to incorporate my skills into my mixing. I let my fingers do the talking.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I think every time I spin and make the people smile I make the world a better place. The world is so fucked up right now, anytime I can get people’s minds off their problems, I’ve done my job.

Describe who you are in three words.
Bad-ass-motherfucker.

« Return

Residencies:
B.E.D., Privé and Mansion.

Number of years spinning:
Too many!

How did you get started spinning?
I was a kid, and I loved to see people dancing.

Who are your musical influences?
Rock and New Wave music.

Describe your current sound.
Every type of House music, excluding the cheesy stuff.

What equipment do you use?
The equipment provided by the clubs that hire me.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
As a DJ, I don’t remember any, but when I was a kid, around 15 or 16 years old, to pay my tuition, I used to go door to door trying to sell education books. I guess people don’t like being forced to buy something in that way. In fact, it was a disaster.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not working)?
I have so many good memories, but for sure Michael Capponi’s parties at Amnesia. They were unreal; best people and celebrities ever. Also, because I had just arrived from Italy and for me to see people like Madonna or Sylvester Stallone dance was unreal. There is also Mynt. Thanks to Nicola Siervo, I had so many good nights. But I think the best parties today are at Mansion. I’ve never seen such energy before in a club here in Miami Beach. It’s totally different from any other place I ever worked at; tasteful, magic, unbelievable.

What would be the theme song to your life?
U2’s ?I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.?

What makes your DJ style unique?
Well …

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I believe I try every day to give good and warm feelings to people through my sound. Maybe when they leave the party they will feel more relaxed and peaceful.

Describe who you are in three words.
A giving person.

Where can we learn more about you?
You can go to the clubs where I work, and I really hope that you enjoy my sound.

« Return

Residencies:
During the summer months I keep it light by doing Wednesday nights at Felt, a really nice pool hall and lounge. For the last two years I’ve done the VIP room at Crobar on Fridays. Saturdays I do the main room at Amika, which is out of hand. Sunday during the day there has been talk of the Raleigh pool, and Sunday night I do Inferno Sundays at Crobar.

Number of years spinning:
I’ve been DJing since 1978, you do the math. [27 years].

How did you get started spinning?
I’ve had a love of music since I was a baby. I believe you do what you are, not you are what you do, and this is what I am.

Who are your musical influences?
Musically I listen to everything from Miles Davis to rare grooves, Classic Rock, Funk, Soul and Hip-hop.

Describe your current sound.
Right now I am playing Hip-hop and Rock with Disco and ’80s mixed in.

What equipment do you use?
I have switched over to a laptop using a program call Scratch Live by Rane. It uses a record to control the music on the laptop, so you scratch and mix using the record.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
Oh, there have been so many of them…

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not
working)?
How do I answer that? DJing for three Prince shows. DJing for the Lenny Kravitz concert. Every night at Fat Black Pussycat. DJing Madonna’s house for New Year’s. Sylvester Stallone’s house for Christmas dinner…

What would be the theme song to your life?
“Go, Speed Racer, Go.”

What makes your DJ style unique?
I tend not to be afraid.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I have three beautiful kids.

Describe who you are in three words.
Dad, workaholic, nice guy. Was that four words?

Where can we learn more about you?
My web site, djmarkleventhal.com

« Return

Residencies:
Club Space.

Number of years spinning:
I start it spinning when I was 12, and I’m 26 now…14 years.

How did you get started spinning?
My cousins were in the rave business, and I was mixing in my house every day, practicing. One day they gave me a shot to play in front of 3,000 people at one of their raves.

Who are your musical influences?
Rock: Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Eric Clapton, Pink Floyd, to name just a few.

Describe your current sound.
The sound that I’m into right now is Electro-House.

What equipment do you use?
I use Pioneer CDJ-1000 with a Rane Mixer on a Dynacor system.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
No job, that ‘s the worst job you can have.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not working)?
The release party for my first record, “Burning,” at Crobar Miami.

What would be the theme song to your life?
“Let Love Rule” by Lenny Kravitz.

What makes your DJ style unique?
I guess what makes it unique is my music selection, and that I add some of my original production in the mix.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I played at Space one night and donated my salary to Jerry’s Kids.

Describe who you are in three words.
Impatient, spoiled and picky ? in other words, a pain in the ass.

Where can we learn more about you?
You can go on my web site, cedricgervais.com, to check out my dates, videos, charts, forums etc?

« Return

Residencies:
Saturdays at Mansion and Sundays at Amika.

Number of years spinning:
Twenty-six years.

How did you get started spinning?
Watching my father DJ in the ’70s.

Who are your musical influences?
Late ’70s Disco, early ?80s English New Wave, Reggae Dub, Classic Rock and Brazilian Rhythms.

Describe your current sound.
House music with plenty of attitude.

What equipment do you use?
Apple PowerBook G4, Oxygen8 Midi Controller, Traktor DJ Software and three Pioneer CDJ-1000.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
Every job has its share of positive learning, no matter what it was.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not working)?
At Amika for my Sunday event, “Sundance.”

What would be the theme song to your life?
Songs in the Key of Life.

What makes your DJ style unique?
My sensitivity, my musical education and my deep respect for my audience.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
My place in the grand scheme of things is to provide people a soundtrack to their lives, to help them forget their problems or simply make them travel through the power of music. Some people use words to change lives, I use music.

Describe who you are in three words.
Logical, artistic and sensitive.

Where can we learn more about you?
At my web site, stephanluke.com.

« Return

Residencies:
Monday: Back Door Bamby at Crobar. Tuesday: Wasabi at Sushi Samba. Friday: Amika Loft. Saturday: Crobar’s Main Room.

Number of years spinning:
Twenty-plus years.

How did you get started spinning?
I followed the footsteps of my older brother who was a popular DJ in New Jersey during the ’80s and ’90’s. But for as long as I can remember, I was always drawn to all genres of music and was an avid collector of music.

Who are your musical influences?
Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones and The Doors. Nothing compares to the music made during the Classic Rock era. I also like U2, The Police and Depeche Mode from the Punk era—I was a punk rocker growing up. Then there’s Disco: Giorgio Moroder, Patrick Crowley and Bobby Orlando defined my musical tastes during my late teens. Finally, having been around during the genesis of Hip-hop and House music, Run-D.M.C. and Todd Terry.

Describe your current sound.
My current sound is very eclectic. I may be doing an Urban set at Amika, a House music set at Crobar or a Rock ?n’ Roll set at Wasabi, but the underlying factor in all my appearances is the energy level that I maintain throughout the course of the evening. The listener takes a musical journey that has an intriguing start point, an exhilarating middle and a sexy ending.

What equipment do you use?
I use two to three Pioneer CDJ-1000s, Rane Mixer and EQ expander and two Technics 1200s every now and then just to show my love and support for vinyl.

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had (as a DJ or otherwise)?
As long as you’re making an honest living, there is no such thing as “bad” or “worst” job in my opinion. Sure, I’ve had jobs that I didn’t enjoy, but to put them down and mention it would be offending other people that currently hold those positions.

What’s your most memorable night in a Miami club (working or not working)?
March 24, 2003; I was spinning at Back Door Bamby at Crobar and after the night had ended, I, along with a few others—stayed at the club until about 8 a.m. We were feeling so “nice,” if you know what I mean (wink-wink). I was playing the coolest Zeppelin and Classic Rock tunes. We were simply chillin, no worries in the world, nothing but love and great music in the air. Those three hours after the club closed were so pure, it will forever be crystallized in my consciousness.

What would be the theme song to your life?
“I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” by U2.

What makes your DJ style unique?
The energy and hotness that my sets and performances exude. Along with the unique way in which I program my music, that ultimately makes the club-goer’s evening complete.

What have you done recently to make the world a better place?
I do little things here and there which I don’t like to brag about. I’m not looking for or don’t need anybody patting me on the head for the good that I’ve done. That day will come when I stand in judgment, in front of my maker.

Describe who you are in three words.
Yo Soy Malo.

Where can we learn more about you?
For more information on me or my record label, Phearce Musica, you can go to phearcemusica.com, where you’ll find pics, bios, live DJ mixes and more.

« Return

Luke		Gervais		Phearce

Leventhal		Craze		Stryke

Secci		Ryan		Roland

The transformation begins at midnight, that mystical hour when Miami’s soul erupts in a sensual rhythm and its heart begins to beat with a singular pulse across a hundred different clubs.

In an instant, the people become aware of the music that engulfs their soul and lifts them up into a dimension far removed from their physical lives. Then, for a fleeting moment within the glittering lights and darkened fury, the world fades away and nothing matters but the music.

At the epicenter of this collective consciousness stands a select group of artists who have risen to reign supreme as the Masters of Midnight. They are Miami’s Top DJs …

The esoteric lure of South Beach nightlife. Sensually inviting, conceptually intriguing. A thin veil of merriment that drapes across the landscape masking a torrential maelstrom of cheap hustles and lustful desires of the flesh churning just below the surface. Erotically-gifted participants living out vivid fantasies at the expense of reality, walking that fine line between dreams and nightmares in their eternal quest for trash and glamour. The violent mood-swings of a collective conscience caught somewhere between a city of chic and a playhouse of fools. The Agony and the Xctacy—this little shooting-gallery of fun called South Beach.

Having previously avowed to never again submit ourselves to the ritual humiliation of South Beach nightlife, we find that for some utterly hellish reason we actually miss all the mephistophelean drama one experiences in the sexually charged atmosphere of South Beach clubland. You see, here in South Beach there’s really no good-vs-evil metric that’s monitored. There’s only fun-vs-boring. And boredom breeding whoredom as it will, once again we swallow our pride, along with a few other items, and return full-swing to life among the glitter-hungry masses in the incestuous little fame academy that is South Beach nightlife. Yea, tho I walk among the truly hideous…

Our first foray back into clubland is immediately rewarded with a classic psycho-sexual moment as we approach a huge crowd of people waiting to get passed the velvet ropes at Michael Capponi’s Wednesday night party at BED. In a scene that rivals Moses parting the Red Sea, one of the most gorgeous girls we’ve ever seen walks briskly toward the entrance of BED, her large, natural breasts bouncing around madly underneath her blouse like two psychotic squirrels fighting over the last acorn in America. In an ecumenical display of homage to her supreme sexuality, the mass of mostly male humanity opens up a clear pathway for her to breeze right into the club. And after exchanging triple cheek-kisses with Fabrizio the doorman she disappears into the pleasure dome of BED, leaving the boys on the street wet with desire and ready to submit to any amount of further degradation to attain the forbidden fruit inside. Clubs are built on the grand illusion that people on the inside are having far more fun than people on the outside—which is basically true. And it is this very illusion that has elevated sexual submission to a most cherished local art-form.

Next stop, the Delano hotel for a party marking both the unveiling of the hotel’s sexy new pool-side cabanas, and Beefeater’s new WET Vodka—we found both items to be of the highest quality, by the way. A great crowd encompassing top tier members of the South Beach glam militia sprinkled with a touch of Hollywood in the form of Nathan Lane of “The Birdcage” fame; SNL’s Molly Shannon; Elizabeth Berkley of “Showgirls” with artist Greg Lauren. Also actress Kathleen Robertson down from her home in Canada for the event. And of course, lots of gorgeous models scattered about, all basting in their own natural juices. Music was fashioned by DJ Snezana who arrived dressed in the tightest and skimpiest pair of short-shorts we’ve ever seen on a human, looking more like they were air-brushed on.

Twenty-four hours later, we opt for a more relaxing scene with a stop into the Shore Club’s Nobu Lounge. Walking past the pool area, we spend a few moments watching New York photographer Roxanne Lowit hard at work with a group of eight models shooting for some new ad campaign soon to be launched.

Once inside Nobu we order a round of Beluga caviar only to be confronted moments later by a very apologetic waiter bearing the bad news that there was absolutely no Beluga in our immediate future as they had just run out. We proceed with the task of soothing our epicurean sorrows in a Hokusetsu Sake martini, when the waiter soon returns to inform us that our beloved Beluga was being fetched from the Delano hotel’s Blue Sea Sushi bar two blocks away, and would arrive momentarily. You gotta love that Schrager guy.

On to the Bass Museum’s re-opening, the museum celebrating the completion of a major facility expansion. Lot’s of visual entertainment for a gathering of the museum’s financial supporters provided courtesy of Level Nightclub and Pamela Canellas’ Hot Jam Dancers. The production done-up on a make-shift stage erected outside on the museum’s front lawn. Kabuki dancers, oriental drummers, the whole show rolling along underneath the stars. The grand finale coming with all the museum’s guests and supporters dancing wildly in front of the stage. Drag star Elaine Lancaster and nightlife impresario Gerry Kelly, whose Level nightclub is a supporter of the museum, both staring blank-faced in muted horror at the spectacle of middle-aged white guys in tuxes dancing the shing-a-ling with their voluptuous-beyond-reason dates. Elaine, unable to stand it any longer, finally jumps in and fires-up the crowd with her six-foot six, missing-link-of-love persona.

Cabaret night at Bolero, Lily Zanardi’s sexy Cuban restaurant on lower Washington Avenue—sort of a pre-war-Berlin with a Latin flair thing going on in the dimly lit room. The late-night crowd huddled closely together in small groups, their faces illuminated only by the red glow of their cigarettes. The one-spotlight-one-performer show kicking off with drag star Sexcilia doing, of all things, Sharon Stone’s police interrogation scene from the movie Basic Instinct—the whole scene, crotch-shot and all, with the crowd gasping at the sight of Sexcilia’s anatomical incorrectness as her legs spread open wide. Moments later Sexcilia launches into another routine, something having to do with a mock-cocaine attack as she feverishly grabs white powder out of a baggy and pats it all over her face. We can’t quite remember how this routine ended, having been shocked beyond redemption at the previous package sighting.

Lately, there seems to be an inordinate number of people who want to use us as some sort of emotional handi-wipe, baring their soul’s inner-most secrets to us for no apparent reason. Like, for example at Massimo Rizzo’s La Dolce Vita party at Luna, another great gathering of people turning out to be true to its theme. Late in the evening a female acquaintance of ours pulls us aside and makes the rather large mistake of assuming we were too drunk to remember the story she proceeded to tell us about having a sexual encounter with a certain pair of local Latin heart-throbs. We have absolutely no idea if her tale was true or not, but her vivid account of the brief interlude certainly gave the boys high marks for both endurance and originality.

John Buchanan coming up with the best line of the night. Stopping mid-sentence, lapsing into a far-off stare and saying “I think I peaked back in ’99.”

Friday night and it’s life among the jet-set at Privé, the private room affair high atop Opium Garden’s Collins Avenue complex, where Ingrid Casares, Michael Capponi, and Eric Milon have apparently tapped into some sort of irresistible tribal vibe that beckons the fab crowd every time the doors open. The place completely packed with the crowd all moving in unison to the music. In the center of one mass of people a guy pounds away on a conga drum, doing a modified Desi Arnaz thing. Passing 4am libidinous exuberance flowing through the entire club.

5:50am and still with no compelling reason to call it a night, we wind-up two blocks south of Opium Garden at the southern tip of the island, sitting underneath the stars on a park bench, completely tapped-out, waiting for sunrise and mentally re-hashing the past week’s exercise in frivolity—a seven day blur of great music and strange accents. A nightlife marathon worthy of Homer’s Odyssey.

Chuckling to ourselves as bits of previously overheard conversation come sifting back through the brain. One phrase in particular overheard at 3am on Washington Avenue, “at this point, it’s all about the pussy” pretty much summing-up the entire point of the whole exercise.

In the final analysis, nightlife is nothing more than an endless morality play staged nightly for the gripless masses. A play whose elusive third and final act never fully arrives, leaving in its place an unrelenting glorification of the superficial. A glittering universe of chance and random attitude, not for the faint of heart.

The first glow of sunrise starts to break out to the east over the ocean as Royal Caribbean’s Navigator of the Seas begins its turn into Government Cut, heading for the Port of Miami and home. Time for us to do the same.

Miami Beach…what a town.

On the barren plains of modern nightlife, where the relentless pursuit of sex and small-change notoriety is elevated to an exalted and perfectly hideous art-form, the nightlife voyeur is presented with a dazzling array of opportunities to revel in the offensive. The psychotropic effect of watching other people self-destruct in a mad scramble up fame’s nasty little food chain, combined with the general fits of low-level lunacy occurring on the non-deodorized flip-side of glamour often approaches vomitoriously enchanting levels.

But for the true student of sleaze enlightened to the knowledge that all good disgusting fun requires the presence of certain core ingredients—sex, violence, etc—there is one venue that rises head and shoulders above all others as the ultimate seduction of rational behavior in the western world—South Beach on a Saturday night.

And so it goes…another weekend, another long forced march into filth and degradation culminating in some gay bar at the ungodly hour of 4:00am, where the newsboy sits flanked by his two new bestest-buddies-in-the-whole-wide-world. There’s the young female sales executive from Delray Beach with the raven hair and the outlandish tits who is out tonight for a walk on the wild side, and there’s her gay male side-kick who has apparently been on the wild side for quite some time. Not only is the side-kick a dead ringer for Yanni—shoulder-length black hair, perfect million-dollar smile and all—but for some incomprehensible reason he feels compelled to tell us the most explicit details of his twelve most recent sexual conquests, which apparently only covers the last week or so.

It’s a curious thing about South Beach, you meet the most fascinating people in gay bars. At any rate, the female sales exec has just finished showing us her new tattoo which runs from her beautifully exposed mid-rift all the way down to her no doubt glorious nether region—a region the newsboy will soon mount an all-out expedition to explore—and as the side-kick drones on about faded love, lost eroticism and close encounters of the public toilet kind, the female then brings up the subject of muscular masculine legs and her fetishistic appreciation thereof. Four o’clock in the morning being what it is, we state in a thoughtful, esoteric tone, “I believe it was Friedrich Nietzsche who said, ‘Legs be the pathway to the genitals,'” which gives her a moment of pause as a mischievous smile slowly engulfs her face.

Of course Nietzsche never said such a silly thing, and if he did we wouldn’t know about it anyway since we’ve never taken the time to read anything more uplifting than short, stupid things like this silly-ass column. But then, the uplifting never quite seems to find a home in the nightlife arena, does it.

As the eroto-maniacal festivities continue amid the meaningless conversations and the side-kick’s tales of anal vengeance, we momentarily reflect on how we came to rest in such a hellish setting as this.

What exactly was it that compelled our presence in the dark-side’s house of horrors on this particular night? Was it what Verlaine described as the “angelic excitation to be found in filth,” or was it just our general bite-my-ass attitude toward life that precipitated this latest rapturous wallow in repellency.

The seeds of this particular descent into the void were planted on Memorial Day with South Beach in a state of siege; the whole town a dreary obscenity; an irritant to the senses heralding the beginning of the summer season, hot beyond reason and possessing all the ambiance of your average flophouse.

But feeling the ever-present need to feed the fun-fix we forged ahead armed only with a camera and the monumental stupidity of optimism, searching for that one moment of supreme glamour to make it all worth-while.

Our pleadings to the glam-gods were answered one Tuesday night with a very cool party called “The Loft @ Rumi” put on by owner Alan Roth and savage boy-toy, Ernesto “the fabulous” Arambatzis.

Entrance to the club was through the back alley off Washington Avenue, up the stairs lined with graffiti-covered walls to the second floor loft/bar area and a gathering of South Beach’s hippest crowd.

Various luminaries scattered about; Janet Jackson, finishing up a midnight dinner with a small group of friends and a large group of bodyguards. Miami Mayor Alex Penelas en entourage also taking the cure. Former model and current owner of the way-cool Jazid, Michelle McKinnon, dressed in skin-tight black leather and stiletto heals sipping cocktails in the back room with a gorgeous blonde model named Molly, the room illuminated only by candle-light. Michael Capponi, never one to miss a cool scene, showing up around 1am and entering the fray. Also, several female model agency people shepherding a group of new and very young Eastern Bloc models introducing them to the world of South Beach hedonism.

The boys from Level nightclub, Maxwell Blandford, Jorge Tellez, and Jared Stringer—coming off of one of the coolest productions yet to hit South Beach, a birthday blowout for Level owner Gerry Kelly that included 150 or so dancers and a stage number where flashy gender illusionist Elaine Lancaster descended from the ceiling to the stage perched in a swing, singing “Cabaret.”

Then it was on to the happy humping ground of Opium Garden and the soft opening of another very chi-chi affair called “Privé” South Beach’s first ever private room. Nightlife stars Ingrid Casares, Michael Capponi and the Milon brothers introducing the former hip-hop room high atop Opium Garden, done over in a chic white motif with mirrored walls and eclectic seating zigzagged throughout the space. The velvet ropes tightly controlled by Hugo of Club 320 fame allowing only the muy-fab to enter. It’s about time they found a way to keep trash like us out.

Monday night and it’s Crobar’s Back Door Bamby—one big padded cell of fun—rolling along with uptown drag divas Joey Arias and Sherry Vine doing the entertaining. Sherry, the blonde bombshell, at one point leaning over at the edge of the stage and sweetly asking a stud-boy in the crowd, “Can you smell me?”

But, throughout the past month’s blur of various fun/not fun moments a cloud of doubt hung over the fame militia like a pall. The words of South Beach pioneer Louis Canales ringing throughout every publication in town, heralding the death of fun—and worse yet, hipness—in South Beach. Various people around town characterizing Louis’ quotes in the Wall Street Journal as being everything from biased babble to Nazi propaganda. Ocean Drive even trotted out an impressive list of all the celebs and famous people living in Miami. Our name, of course, not quite making the cut—probably a typo.

At the heart of the controversy is a clash of cultures—the differing visions of what South Beach should be. Many of the original pioneers envisioned South Beach as an artistic, bohemian village seasoned with a shot of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita—an über-hip playground for the world’s avant garde. A playground that didn’t include the encroachment of commercialism; hoards tourists clamoring after c-scale celebrities; or the presence of certain people who are famous for nothing other than being famous. And most of all—horror of horrors—no people dressed in primary colors. Exempting black, of course.

Other, more commercial-minded individuals envision some sort of second-string celebrity petting zoo—sort of the Sears-Roebuck of glamour—that would allow them to extract maximum cash value from the clue-less masses with bus-tours passed Madonna’s former home, midget tossing contests hosted by Howard Stern, and all the usual proletariat sludge that infects other destinations.

Thankfully, though, no single group’s vision can be imposed on South Beach for long. Many have tried, but sooner or later America’s wayward child revolts and goes its own way. And that’s exactly what will happen this time.

Canales had been sounding the same alarm for several years now, it’s just that nobody paid any attention until his words were printed in the Wall Street Journal. And even though the who’s-right-who’s-wrong battle still rages, the cold, hard fact of the fashionable world is that, whenever the word “trendy” starts being used to describe an area, the truly hip head for the airport, leaving the un-cool to drown in the populist residue that remains. Alas, poor South Beach—where the swank and anonymous mingle with the down-right cheesy—where does your future lie?

Our immediate future, however, lies in trying to make it home tonight without puking. Out into the neon jungle of Washington Avenue walking home past waves of small-time hoods and nightclub carnival barkers luring the masses into even more dissipation. Capping off another grand mid-summer night’s wet dream, determined to be back in our coffin before sunrise, the offensiveness quotient still climbing steadily as we make our way through the sleaze.

Passing a trio of working girls, we see one obviously way under-age teen who looked more like a junior-varsity cheerleader than just another street whore. Yet, there she was in her pink wig and hoochie-clothes, street-walking between passion and poetry. The persistent little urchin followed us for nearly half a block offering to be our dirty-girl, spouting out all the usual whore-drivel—”it’s really tight” being the most endearing of her thematic repertoire.

But, having some semblance of a conscience still remaining intact, and being vaguely familiar with the Mann Act of 1910, we declined her offer with a succinct “beat it, kid!” and kept on walking. Score one for high moral values and a strenuous daily regiment of self-gratification.

Standing on the corner waiting for a cab we watched as she was soon corralled by a couple of young gangster-boys that whisked her off for a quick pop. Thinking to ourselves, what a shame it is that this beautiful young girl finds herself in such a terrible situation, we offer up a silent prayer along the lines of, “May this poor lost soul find her way through life okay.”

Hopefully, someone’s saying the same prayer for us…

You never really thought of yourself as an addict, but one day you come to realize that’s exactly what you are—just another clubland junkie hooked on the sleazy, dime-store thrills of nightlife. An utterly offensive, corpse-like creature, jaded beyond all earthly dimension, given to slumber and vacuity, possessing neither soul nor conscience, and not much in the way of manners, either. You’ve crystallized into a fabulous disaster speed-balling your way through the South Beach pantheon of prurient pleasures, hopelessly hooked on the opiate of foolish fun and free drinks-til-11. And yet, for some deranged reason, kicking the habit isn’t a critical issue.

So night after night onward you march, the Vasco de Gama of sleaze, somewhere out there on the esoteric fringe of reality, dragging your sorry ass from club to club up and down these trashy streets of South Beach, wading through a mountain of vomit, club flyers and Euro-glamour hype. Driven compulsively onward through the moral vacuum by some primal reflex action that’s apparently triggered by alcohol. Waking up at noon the next day, spent, depleted, stinking of death and Margaritas, feeling like something out of Little Richard’s laundry hamper—the simple act of looking in the mirror becoming an ordeal of metaphysical disgust—and all the while formulating plans for your next assault on the hell-high-school of South Beach clubland. We have met the horror that dwells within.

Throughout the past year we’ve made some pretty serious attempts at self-rehab—like actually staying out of the clubs for two nights during the same week, or having a quiet dinner at home with the one remaining non-psychotic friend we have left—but nothing works. Over and over, oh, how we’ve tried to turn away from this…..this Medusa of pointless merriment…..this nocturnal glee-club-of-the-damned.

Yet every night around midnight it happens—the trashman cometh—the clarion call-to-arms in the nightworld’s moronic theater of pain. Like clockwork, the Mt. Etna of bad taste spews forth its foul song of fun luring us back into the darkness with promises of comped cocktails and half-dressed harlots with breasts of fury. Try as we might, we simply can’t resist the salacious lure of a soiled existence among the faintly fabulous…the vaguely en vogue… the moochers, models and butch queens…and all the nonsensical, self-indulgent bullshit that actually passes for existential truth in the grotesque midnight-to-5am world. Overwhelmed by the dark-side’s glittering temptations, over and over we succumb to the forces of evil and hail a cab back into the abyss, sacrificing what’s left of our self-respect for the greater glory of all that fabulousity yearning to be witnessed.

But enough about us, let’s talk about something even more depressing—like Washington Avenue last night at 11pm…

…South-bound on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, in desperate need of a trash-fix, the tone of the evening is set right off the bat by some psycho-mutant wino at 16th and Washington. Standing there in the middle of the road with his pants down around his ankles, his right arm and his main-unit both thrust upward in full salute mode, greeting passing cars like some sort of psychotic-Chamber-of-Commerce-committee-of-one…or two, depending on your point of view.

Walking away shaking our head, momentarily considering pulling up stakes and moving to Canada, then soon realizing that you just can’t get entertainment like this anywhere but South Beach.

On to hopefully less psychotic pleasures at Tantra where just inside, a pair of gorgeous go-go girls dance high above the crowd, hunching their way to better health, adorned with LIMON body-paint. Over in the restaurant section, the Dukes of Crobar, Mykel Stevens and Carmel Ophir with David Bick all dining in state with platter-boy-supreme, John Digweed, warming up for another blowout night.

Scattered around the club at various tables, heavily-hootered, high-dollar babes, having discovered the secret to lifetime employment in South Beach—a thousand dollar boob-job and a ring in your thing—being amenably groped by their playboy sugar daddies. You can’t buy happiness, but there’s some great deals in the rental department. With waitresses frantically serving-up bottles of champagne at $500 a pop, Tantra is not a place for the faint of heart, nor the light of cash. The tiny club way beyond the limits of endurance, too loud to talk, too packed to move.

And then it’s on to Gerry Kelly’s Level 54 where the fun militia is out in full force and gone completely 1970s retro—almost makes us sorry we tossed our disco collection.

At regular intervals throughout the night, the curtain at Level Nightclub’s center-stage goes up and a Maxwell Blandford production kicks off. Elaine Lancaster doing a bouncy little number with a crew of shirtless stud-boys gravelling at her feet. JoJo Infinity—a dead-ringer for dearly departed Divine—blasting through a series of numbers, culminating in a blatantly visual rendition of Divine’s “I’m So Beautiful.”

At one point between shows, Mr. Nightlife, Tony Miros and The Scenestress, Janet Jorgulesco mount the stage and dance a mad disco-hustle all alone, oblivious to the crowd before them. The two hipsters twirling endlessly, lost in the intoxicating scene and driving disco music, Janet’s golden hair flowing in the breeze as she spins to the Village People’s “In the Navy.”

Below them a wild dance floor scene with plenty of visuals. Two guys wearing only raincoats, g-strings and sunglasses, holding lit sparklers in both hands—some sort of political statement, I guess. A topless girl moving slowly through the crowd, aimlessly shuffles to her own rhythm, inspired by the music.

A conversation with Level’s Gerry Kelly, The King of South Beach Nightlife, gives us a crash course on the financial end of the great South Beach fun machine, as our eyes glaze over when the numbers go way into the millions. The conversation proves emphatically that the production end of dishonorable conduct is far more lucrative than writing about it.

Also a brief discussion with Gerry about some of the local nightlife stars deciding not to attend the release party of Michelle McPhee’s new book “Mob Over Miami, The Story of Chris Paciello in Miami.” Michael Capponi, not attending because he was misquoted…Gerry Kelly not attending because “he tried to have me killed, that’s why.” A valid enough reason for sending your regrets.

The next morning—2pm, really—we decide to take a stroll down Lincoln Road, curious to see if anything even remotely interesting happens outside of clubs. Comedian Chris Rock at the Lincoln Road Cafe woofing down a tasty Cuban dish, is soon approached by a pair of young, and no doubt just as tasty Cuban girls, laughing and giggling, giving him the how-’bout-an-autograph routine. After a few moments of laughs and come-hither looks, Rock pays the tab and off they all go, arm-in-arm into the great beyond.  Fame apparently able to make-up for all manner of short-comings—even anorexia and bad hair-cuts.

On to our annual visit to Ocean Drive—we check in once a year to see if they’ve started selling stuffed alligators to tourists, yet—noticing that a relatively new place called Studio is closed for remodeling. Originally conceived as an artist’s hangout, Studio is the place where we once viewed an interesting exhibition in the form of artist Kate Flachs’ avant-garde “Ginny Prints,” a series of vagina imprints of various local girls. Even some the waitresses at Studio had taken-up the challenge and engaged the canvas with their most prized possession.

Interesting news coming in from a young waitress-friend of ours giving us the low-down on Ocean Drive’s blossoming tourist sex trade. She reports that certain high profile watering holes are hotbeds for the flat-backing-for-dollars game. The ultimate triumph of capitalism lives on in South Beach.

Back at home by 7:00pm, proud of our little foray into the non-disgusting world outside of clubs and all the wholesome things we experienced—like sunshine, vomit-less streets and no endless am-I-fab conversations. Feeling healthy, refreshed, rejuvenated, absolutely bored to tears and counting the minutes until the clubs re-open. Well, at least we tried…

On the off-hand chance that we had unknowingly developed a taste for Barbara Streisand, French Provincial furniture and sodomy—it never hurts to check—we make a quick Sunday night stop into Michael Tronn’s Anthem at Crobar, the velvet ropes being worked by six foot glamazon drag queen, Asia, vaguely reminiscent of Yvonne de Carlo—s character in —Criss Cross.”

Inside the club, DJ Victor Calderone blazing away on the turn-tables, looking out over a sea of shirtless bodies, the dance floor one big festering mound of flesh with laser lights zapping away in the canyon-like room. Momentarily fabbing it up with a group of post-Warholians down from NY, our traveling horror show rapidly begins to pick-up steam with the newsboy a mere one drink away from achieving total buffoon-ness.

Upstairs along the dimly-lit railing watching the festivities down below on the dance floor, beside us a couple of youngish geechy-boys lip-lock in a passionate embrace. One lad soon slides his hand down the front of the other’s pants and frantically gropes around as if he’d lost his car keys, as the pair slowly dissolves back into the shadows for a quick rub-up. Kind of a tender moment, really. The whole club one big disgusting mess—as a matter of principle we only stayed four hours.

Going for a last-call drink at some no-name/no-fame joint down on lower Washington, a cozy little snake-pit littered with a prime selection of gang-bangers, street hustlers and various other nightworld vermin—the whole scene standing as a monument to mankind’s inherent rottenness. Toward the back a middle-aged perv angles with a hooker for a pre-sunrise punch in the bloomers. Other non-relevant populi scattered about, the well of human despair never seems to run dry in South Beach.

Then, oddly enough, it’s a club-operator acquaintance of ours and his side-kick materializing out of nowhere, drinks in hand, reciting the familiar death-of-fun-in-South-Beach refrain, “Where we fucked up was when our security people started confiscating people’s drugs and then re-selling them.”  Says the side-kick, “Plus, when that guy at [club] started handing out business cards that read ‘[name], Ecstasy Dealer,’ I knew we were all going to take a beating from the City.”

The most immediate beating being taken by yours truly thanks to the pounding music and general stench of the joint approaching unbearable levels, a sure signal that it’s time to call it a night—the bartender flashing the lights is another signal.

Facing the final moments of the evening, the omega-point where fun makes it’s natural progression to folly, disgust, and ultimately, total revulsion, walking in the general direction of home, resolving to find the red “You are Here–>” arrow of our life first thing in the morning. Temporarily free from the war-zone of clubland, sailing away beyond the apocalypse as another blood-on-the-highway night in South Beach careens into oblivion.

All in all, a particularly shallow, superficial and meaningless existence.

God help us, but we do love it so …

South Beach, as always, remains at the forefront the new American religion—the replacement of society’s true and meaningful values with a twisted form of tabloid celebrity worship. The Grande Dame of Deco never seems to miss an opportunity to drop to her knees and toot on the skin-flute of the rich and famous. The latest dose of eat-my-glamour frippery comes in the form of Julia Roberts’ attempt to sneak into town unannounced with her new boyfriend, leaving the pop-culture press all jumping through their own rectums to scrounge-up details of the brief interlude. Photographers and journalists frantically calling around, questions flying back and forth—where did they stay, was it the Delano—(it wasn’t)—was it the Cardozo—(it was), the whole town looking like the Kremlin preparing to nuke Bulgaria.

In the midst of all the glamour-driven fury, the only question our cheesy little publication could offer up was, who cares—since we assign about as much importance to Julia Robert’s sex life as we do her political views. Enough with the celeb stuff, already! We should learn to channel our creative energies into something really shallow and pointless—like nightclubs, for instance.

And in that regard, rest assured that the South Beach fun platoon forges dead ahead at warp speed, impervious to rebuke, undeterred by proletariat matters of war, famine, pestilence—balking only at that tacky cover-charge thing. The air full of hair spray, press releases and some nasty, yet quite riveting rumors on a subject taboo for even this low-class column. And through it all, South Beach’s strict no-conscience policy remains in full force.

The newsboy, of course, running right along with the herd, comforted by the knowledge that his impending fall from grace won’t be from any great moral height. Operating in a kind of detached, over-it-all mode. Even sex, only interesting when it involves an uneven number of participants—the number “1” coming up way too often, lately.

That sex thing, however, receiving top billing at Michael Capponi’s Wednesday night party at BED. Guardian of the glamour pit, Sergio all decked out in his signature 8-inch wide tie standing booty-duty at the front gates, allowing only the best of the breed to enter. A constant stream of voluptuous beauties entering the pleasure-dome and leaving all hope behind. Just inside, fun-director Capponi accompanied by his beautiful fiance, Aimee greeting a constant stream guests, the scene momentarily looking like the receiving line at Buckingham Palace—Capponi definitely having the Duke of Windsor beat in the main squeeze department.

Off to one secluded side of the room sexy social columnist Suzy Buckley lounging with her date. Miss Buckley, all blonde hair and gorgeous legs, wrapped up in a black and gold lame package, having just recently completed filming with a media group from Amsterdam doing a travel show on South Beach kiss-kiss hedonism.

Pushing our way to the bar and a brief conversation with three staggeringly sexy girls down from New York for a week-long romp in Fun City, deliciously decked out in their behold-our-heavenly-hooters evening dresses. Their classic beauty immediately filling the newsboy’s head with all the familiar visions of an incorrigible French Romantic…violins…flowers…handcuffs… One of the lasses apparently having gone somewhat overboard with her latest lip collagen injection, looking like she’d had a vagina stapled to her face. Nice girls though, in a deep West Chelsea sort of way.

Writer John Buchanan working on a major article for a national magazine titled “New York on $25,000 a Day,” actually faced with having to spend the whole chunk of money in a single 24 hour period. Johnny-boy agonizing over how to split-up the cash between private dinner parties with 5-star chefs and a live chamber-music quartet for entertainment; Central Park penthouses with helicopter transportation to and from private yacht cruises around Manhattan; private boxes at Broadway shows for twenty of his closest friends, all the usual stuff. Our guess is he’ll spend $59.95 at the Days Inn and blow the rest on hookers.

A quick stop into Rain Nightclub and Louis Canales’s Gossip party. Tara Solomon, Leslie Abravenal, and paparazzo Manny Hernandez—the man who once flung himself onto the hood of Madonna’s limo to get the shot—all socializing together and swapping items. Then, the big gun, Page Six’s Richard Johnson enters with Jason Binn shortly thereafter. Binn in the process of firing-up “LA Confidential,” a new tell-all glossy out in Fantasyland.

Adhering to our latest dictum of no more than six cocktails per night, we soon decide to expend our remaining allotment at the center of the South Beach gay universe—Twist on Washington Avenue—where the golden boys of the buff brigade are still whippin-it-hard at 3:00am.

The place coming up dark with deep film noir-style shadows, we wouldn’t have been surprised to see Robert Mitchum’s “Out of the Past” character emerge from behind the curtain any moment, albeit in skin-tight jeans and a fresh-waxed chest.

Pausing for a moment to watch the artsy videos playing above the bar—gay nude wrestling, our favorite subject. Muscular, golden-tanned gladiators straining cheek to cheek, locked in mortal combat. Lots of flexing muscle, flailing genitalia, hair pulling and screaming—not unlike the newsboy’s last sexual encounter, really. The videos very tastefully done though, especially the sphincter close-ups.

Up the stairs and into a conversation with Eric the bartender in the back room—a conversation that is briefly interrupted when a loud and plaintive wail emerges from within the nearby restroom, “Oh God, I’m starting to look just like my mother.”

Eric, though, appearing truly amazed at our ability to remember photographing him at one of last year’s Back Door Bamby parties at Crobar. When asked how we were able to recall him after all this time, we tactfully explained that the vision of a man wearing matching zebra-skin leotards, bra and cowboy hat tends to linger in the mind. His reply, “Honey, you should have seen me dressed-up this year in D.C.—a photographer from the Washington Post said I looked like Tipper Gore in a trash-bag.”

4:00am and the world begins to feel like a ride on the Scrambler as the Cuervo Gold hammers away—Tequila being a product whose future most certainly lies in the field of human genocide.

Chuckling to ourselves as we mentally revisit various absurd revelations of the week. Especially to one about the sexy nightclub dancer that isn’t such a struggling ingénue after all, but rather, a mid-Beach rich-bitch with a penchant for the wild side of life—a situation that might make daddy’s future in the spotlight somewhat complicated.

A brief melancholy moment recalling the demolition of the old Embers/Club Nu building up on 22nd Street last week, one of the original outposts of South Beach hipness.

Then the newsboy’s moment of solitude is soon interrupted by some pale and gaunt agent provocateur who looked like he’d savored one too many reckless nights at the YMCA, rambling on about the latest gay sexual fade of “tea-bagging,” where one gets repeatedly smacked in the face with his partner’s testicles—his vivid description of the act immediately reminding us of the 1955 movie, “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.”

And then it’s a mass migration of the crowd into the next room where Adora’s DragBoy Show is just firing up. Adora working the crowd like an old-time, borscht-belt comedian: “Is it really your birthday, darling— Oh, come dear, don’t be shy…” A mass of people lining the tiny stage, sitting on the floor; on tables, a standing-room-only crowd.

Looking around the room at the jubilant faces intently watching the show, Twist at 4:30 am is a virtual Noah’s Ark of human sexuality—muscle-boys in skin-tight t-shirts, North Beach lesbians, goofy German tourists in white socks and sandals, teenage geechy-boys, the butt-plugs and ball-gags brigade down from Lauderdale, and, of course, one sociological misfit with a camera stupefied by the whole mess.

Back out into the badlands of Washington Avenue at 5:00am just in time to witness a group of ninja riders roaring by laughing and screaming, each rider with a bikini-clad girl on the back clinging tightly to their waist—all except the last lone rider who is wearing a t-shirt reading, “The Bitch Fell Off.” The perfect curtain-call for yet another night in life’s eternal game of trivial pursuit.

Walking home just before sun-up, ruefully contemplating the wages of sin, the cosmology of fun, and the inevitable corruption of sex and beauty where they both seem to lead. Questions without answers, filed away for another time, another place.

One thing, however, is without question. And that is, South Beach is a city suffocating in its own fabulousity—a town whose only allegiance is to orgasm and the next new thing. Simply put, South Beach is an alternative reality destination for those in the mood for some beautiful yet quite unwholesome pleasures. Ultimately, a place forever doomed to exist somewhere between the hip and the hideous.

Conceptually yours,
Joseph Brown

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the greatest show on earth—Miami Beach—a town conceived as a fantasy, framed in flamboyance and occasionally touched by the darker urges of humanity. An island paradise where the pure of heart confront the nature of desire. A town forever yearning for that shimmering paradise of eternal glamour. The Latin rhythms at Bolero …the pomp and circumcision at Score …Miami Beach! …Oh, the hippness of it all.

The newsboy lately attempting to salvage what’s left of his soul by avoiding the huge noisy clubs and the heavy-cash-euro-trash scenes for smaller more elegant venues—those tiny avant-garde flowers that bloom unannounced in the midnight hour and then quietly disappear before they can be trampled by the grip-less masses.

Hope Gainer’s “Let’s Make Love” at the Tides Hotel immediately coming to mind—a cocktail party setting with a soft, languid vibe allowing people to actually communicate with each other without having to resort to screams and hand signals. The crowd on this particular night most worthy of upper East Side status. Gender illusionist James Davis, sans chi-chi wig and lip gloss, dressed in black Armani, looking like he just stepped out of a full page GQ spread, relaxing with nightlife columnist Cubby. Billboard Live’s Rodolphe in his usual House of Zappa orange rayon ensemble, remaining one of the most interesting people in South Beach, the man having maintained true en vogue status since his days at Studio 54. Avant-gardians Nicodemous and Anitra of Men Smash Atoms fame appearing ashen-faced out of the mist in a striking death-as-fashion-statement garb. The participants of the whole affair clinging closely to one-another like nocturnal voyagers on a film noir ship of intrigue. Very chic affair, indeed.

Thursday night at the Marlin Hotel and yet another Hope Gainer soirée, the theme of which escaped us due to a blissful encounter with the evening’s special guests—four Playboy models. Upon first sight of these girls as they moved toward us through the crowd, two things became immediately apparent: 1.) these girls were very beautiful; and 2.) these girls were very naked, wearing only the thinnest coat of body-paint from the talented (and lucky) hands of artist Eden. The artist had just finished body-painting the girls and then painted huge portraits of each of them that hung all around the room.

Playboy cover-girl Madison Marie enthusiastically explaining to us how quickly body-paint actually dries once the artist finishes painting, extends her arm and invites us to feel for ourselves. The newsboy, trying hard to act interested in the evaporation rate of paint, obligingly caresses the extended forearm while vainly attempting to not stare at her ever-so-slightly jiggling breasts—fat chance.

New York Post celebrity photographer Adam Scull on scene to document the evening making a profound social commentary on America—when asked if being at war has slowed the celebrity gossip/smut/muck-raking industry at all, Scull replied, “Naah, the whole world can fall apart, but they still wanna know who’s fuckin’ who.” A society must have priorities, I guess.

As Playboy Model of the Year Heather Christensen mounts the bar to be photographed in front of her portrait she momentarily begins to lose her balance and as she wobbles precariously atop her platform heels, a hundred hands rise up from all directions to catch her fall. With the ravishing beauty bathed in soft amber light, the whole scene momentarily takes on the quality of a virgin being sacrificed to the gods—most likely the gods of fame and glitter, this being South Beach.

Heather’s virginity status aside, we soon depart the Marlin and once again find ourselves trapped in the orgiastic throes of yet another night in South Beach, meandering aimlessly through the trash-pile of lower Washington Avenue, past one satanic scene after another, contemplating the great existential question of our time—where to next. And then suddenly at 1:00 a.m. it’s the return of the itch that just can’t be scratched. The irresistible urge for exquisite debauchery, striking with overwhelming force and luring us back into the quadraphonic house of pain—the world of South Beach nightclubs. The newsboy bracing himself for the onslaught of offensiveness surely headed his way yet completely unable to resist witnessing the seduction and subsequent gang-rape of all civilized behavior, manners and good taste left on the planet.

Having, nor wanting absolutely no direction to our lives whatsoever, we simply follow the crowd into the first joint we come to, which turns out to be opening night of the newly Latin-ized Club Bash. Expecting the worse but actually finding a very cool scene, we are immediately engulfed in a sea of swaying hips, swirling lights and half-naked dancers. Nubian performance artist Jose, dressed in combination loin-cloth and yucca leaves, moving intently to the driving rhythm, working that Latin cha-cha thing hard, accompanied by four sultry female concubines bringing the packed club to a fever pitch.

Club general manager Gilles Curtat and fun-director Juan Carlos Perez later explaining that the club’s new theme is “Euro-Latin,” a term that holds a special place in our hearts, the newsboy having once spent a night in Barcelona wrapped in angelic debasement. They further explain that the club’s menu of mischief includes a Monday night party code-named “Le Boyz—for Brazilian boys,” an event apparently designed to put the local twink brigade on high alert.

An hour later, still reeling from the effects of four comped cocktails and a monsoon of merengue, it’s back out onto Washington Avenue where the 3:00 a.m. horror show is now in full swing—gansta rap pounding away, bad attitude all quadrants, gold-capped teeth—the full shot. On the corner, two young Latinas, surely not more than seventeen years old, yet both already in radiant bloom, valiantly fend off the un-welcomed advances of some skinny little paramour in payless shoes. The whole street, a vision from hell—thugs, whores, lost souls like us—Dante’s Inferno with a bad soundtrack.

Seeking shelter from the nocturnal emission well under way out on the street, we make our first trip into the new and very chi-chi 6 Degrees Supper Club on the corner of Washington and 7th hoping to numb the pain of another night of shabby behavior with one last cocktail. Expecting to find the place littered with nothing more than the usual South Beach collection of intellectual gigolos, latent club fossils and various other image-obsessed types that exist purely in the visual, we are pleasantly surprised to find that 6 Degrees is actually an island of civilization amidst the freak-show of Washington Avenue. Soon after we arrive, Circuit star and South Beach legend Shawn Palacious a.k.a. Kitty Meow on a boy’s-night-out, enters to a flurry of hugs and cheek-kisses from the crowd and finally lands at the bar long enough for one photo.

Then, as we sit at the long elevated bar enjoying the supper club’s laidback vibe, lounging in the very same room known in the 1950’s as the Paddock Club where avant-garde comedian Lenny Bruce performed, suddenly a spotlight hits the back curtain and from behind emerges drag queen Power draped in an ocean of pink feathers. His Royal Dragness momentarily vogues for the crowd then launches into an overtly flamboyant version of “Diamonds are a Girls Best Friend,” as the newsboy is soon informed that tonight is Jeffrey Sanker’s “Cafe Miranda” night at the new supper club. Power, right on target with the crowd—perching on tables, swooning cross-legged to and fro — la Marlene Dietrich—the dinner guests transfixed on the show and applauding wildly.

But as the energy of the show subsides and the soft languid tempo of the club returns, the travails of the night and the misgivings of a mortal existence slowly begin to wash away. And with Armageddon still raging out on the street, the newsboy soon comes to realize that even in the harshest of settings, there is warmth, conviviality and fun to be found.

Once again a tiny flower blooms—the shimmering paradise of eternal glamour draws near.

Life is not always fun and games. Unless, of course, you live here in South Beach, where each night is a disgustingly glorious wonderland of savage music, mystical chemicals, and pagan sexual behavior. A place where random encounters with the twisted pleasures of the night are continuously fueled by the holy trinity of plastic money, plastic promises, and plastic tits. A pop-culture netherworld where superficial things not really worth having are the ones most desired. Yep, just a little ol’ place we call home.

Thursday night, and a temporary reprieve from the usual clubland psychosis in the form of dinner and drinks at Blu Marine restaurant with writer John Buchanan and a raising star beauty named Martha Dominguez who will soon be writing a monthly sex/relationships column for Channels Magazine. From her outward appearance, the beautifully animated and refreshingly open former model is apparently very well qualified to comment on anything sexual in nature. The dinner conversation covering everything from the trials and tribulations of modern-day romance, to sure-fire cures for guys with occasional hydraulic problems. Problems which we, of course, wouldn’t know about.

Friday night at the Astor Hotel’s outdoor pool area, and a birthday party for South Beach scene maker, Monika Gaba. Our moment of enjoyment lounging with the beautiful crowd under the stars is soon interrupted by some low-level hack rushing up in a blabbering lather and offering us the inside track on photographing OJ as he carves up a steak in the hotel’s downstairs dining room. Our response, a polite, “No, thanks.”

Various news flashes coming our way ‘Mykel Stevens and Carmel Ophir, the Back Door Bamby boys, plus Crobar’s Kenny Smith and Cal Fortis, teaming up with owner David Bick to take Lola Bar to the next level with big-name DJs, live bands, and a whole array of fun and games. Eric and Francis, the Milon brothers making plans to attack downtown Miami with a new venue in the works. Madonna’s Drowned World Tour coming to Miami, with an after-party at Crobar, on August 15.  The opportunities for bad behavior are apparently endless here in sin city.

After receiving a tip softly whispered in our ear along the lines of “you won’t be disappointed,” we make a courtesy appearance at Red Square for a roving theme party code-named “Skin.” Arriving at 1:00am expecting nothing more than the usual silicone-enhanced scene, we soon realized that we had unwittingly stumbled into a rather enlightening little fantasy love-fest for bi-sexual women and their dates.

Definitely not the usual scene by any measure—girls dancing together four at a time on the dimly lit dance floor, each one clinging closely behind the other in a passionate embrace, all moving slowly in unison to the music, and all with their hands in the cookie-jar. One girl, all smiles, moving through the crowded room, greeting other women with a momentary caress in just the right spot from her battery-powered-boyfriend, and gazing deeply into their eyes to savor the effect. Definitely more effective than one of those “Hi, My Name is __” tags.

Deciding we were way out of our league in this setting, we reluctantly headed toward the door and as we were leaving, a local, 21 year-old, steeped-in-sex beauty we had photographed previously at other clubs, came up with a big smiling hug, and whispered, “You didn’t know I was a switch-hitter, did you.”

Badly in need of a drink (and a cold shower), we headed off to the continuing psycho-social drama of life in the lost world of South Beach nightclubs, where the youthful masses were once again busy devouring the earth one cocktail at a time in search of their next glamour fix. Star-struck storm troopers on a mission of madness, driven onward by their firmly held belief that the key to eternal fabulousity surely lies somewhere inside the velvet ropes.

The club scene this time around basically just the way we left it—everyone in turmoil ‘some wanting in, some wanting out, everyone wanting something, and no one really sure of anything, except for what drink to order.

Crobar, and Johnny-Boy’s Jungle Fever party. The place, one solid groove if ever there was one. Michael Capponi, relaxed and looking like a man truly in his element, doing the heavy-hang in Crobar’s upstairs VIP lounge, slowly deep-kissing a gorgeous blonde in the midst of a thundering musical maelstrom from DJ Lippy. Twenty feet away, Mick Jagger, protected by a jovial, yet potentially lethal bodyguard, partying the night away with the frantic crowd. Mick receiving an impromptu lap-dance from a Wilhelmina Models girl wondrously caught up in the excitement of all the waving arms, swaying bodies, and torrid music. Veteran clublander, Tony Cho and photographer Seth Browarnik whippin’ it hard to the beat. The whole club rocking like there’s no tomorrow. LA girl Lauren Sanchez, (“Is South Beach like this EVERY night?”) in town to interview for a news anchor position at one of the local TV stations, and being entertained by Tony Gonzales of the Kansas City Chiefs.

The ringleader of the whole affair, John Buchanan, floating around the club from table to table like a psychotic butterfly, decked out in a striking leapord-skin outfit, apparently having out-grown his usual fishnet stockings and oybug eyeliner. Numerous people throughout the night commenting on the club’s torrid vibe and pressing Johnny-Boy to make Jungle Fever a monthly event. Buchanan dismissing such comments with, “What, are you shittin’ me?…I do this EVERY night!”

A trip to the restroom produces yet another Pulp Fiction moment. Standing at the urinal, holding our camera in one hand and ourselves in the other, basically minding our own business, we’re cornered by some terminally hemorrhoidal individual with a curious residue of white powder surrounding his nostrils, who steps up to the next urinal, complements us on our equipment (not the camera) and launches into a vivid description of an X-rated gay video he will soon be starring in—the punchline being, would we be interested in photographing the whole thing, since we “look like the kind of guy that would enjoy it.”

That statement marking the perfect exit cue for us, we decide to zip-up not only our pants, but the entire evening as well, by bidding a quick farewell to Captain Video, of the Lost Planet Rump Rangers, and head for the door.

Moments later, walking home through the steamy neon darkness of Washington Avenue at 4:00am, with a deflated ego, ringing ears, and a body approaching hyper-nausea from three too many gin & tonics, we reflect on yet another shameful week of life on the South Beach glam circuit—truly laughable vignettes of a city obsessed with fame, sex, ferocious ass-kissing, and any number of other manifestations of a society on the fast-track to oblivion. A city forever willing to accept candy from strangers.

Be it ever so sleazy, there’s no place like home.

Dogs dropping dead on the sidewalk … shrubs bursting into flames … summer in South Beach is hot.

The fun city all-stars showing a distinct lack of nocturnal initiative during the dog days of summer, but as always, willing to rally one more time for the basic precepts that bind us one and all—cheap thrills and free drinks until 11. Driven onward by a primal fear that we might miss-out on something either pleasantly enlightening, moderately entertaining, or better yet, totally disgusting.

The first stop of the evening definitely non-disgusting. Level nightclub and the Miss Hawaiian Tropic regional finals, a parade of South Florida’s flashiest feminine component. One by one the gorgeous contestants doing that walk-of-fame thing down a long, elevated runway lined with rows of horny guys and their green-with-envy dates … plus a few lesbians doing some window shopping. All heads turning in unison, scoping out every voluptuous centimeter of the golden tanned lovelies. The beautiful girls doin’ it up before the huge crowd just like they practiced it … smile … work that ass … try not to step on anyone’s tongue … and keep that chest pushed w-a-y out. A fleeting horrific thought along the lines of—What if we had to parade up on stage in front of a nightclub full of horn-dogs like this? … then finally deciding that we’d gladly do it if we had tits like these girls. The crowd reflecting various attitudes toward appreciation of the feminine form. Comments ranging from “That one has the best personality,” to “I’d like to be her underwear.” Club owner Noah Lazes acting as one of the judges, entertaining a blonde beauty from Atlanta named Lindsey Stewart who should have been up on stage herself.

In between costume changes for the contestants, DJ Lazaro Leon cranks up the music and the crowd resumes dancing. Our immediate entertainment provided by a lone female X-head performing either the worst example of break-dancing known to man, or her impression of an epileptic seizure. Bouncers scratching their heads, not sure exactly what to do with the Baroness von Warpo, but knowing that something, sooner or later, must be done.

The winner of the Miss Hawaiian Tropic regional, a svelte 22-year-old beauty from Ft. Lauderdale named Tami Donaldson.

Various news flashes coming our way … Mynt soon to open on Collins Avenue, and certain key employees of other clubs around town looking forward to the big day, ready for a change of scenery from their present unsatisfying positions.

Club Rio, a Louis Canales, Gary James and Jeffery Knight production opening downtown on the Miami River.

Two new restaurant/clubs in the form of Kiss and Rumi coming to Lincoln Road, bringing back the glamour days of dining to our little city of sin.

South Beach’s avant-garde talent scene soon to suffer a loss with social critic and occasional cabaret performer Gilbert Stafford pronouncing the equivalent of “I’m outta here.” Commenting with a smile on the torrid South Beach nightlife scene, “I can’t take it any more,” then, after an instant of thoughtful pause, a seriously ominous, “It can’t BE taken.”  Christmas cards from Gilbert will most likely be postmarked “Santa Fe, NM.”

Nightclub performance art taking a giant leap forward with Gerry Kelly, Maxwell Blandford and crew at Level cranking up a new monthly Moulin Rouge party as an adjunct to their wildly successful Studio 54 parties. When asked how the first Moulin Rouge party went, Jorge Tellez, Production Manager for the club said, “Well, we’re still mopping up the champagne off the floor.” Some people just know how to throw a party.

The Deuce

With the pleasures of first-class entertainment soon giving way to the periodic human urge for something totally degrading, we make a command decision to end the evening, the week, and maybe even life itself with the ultimate off-the-list experience—an all-nighter at Club Deuce, arriving just in time for the 3:00 a.m. horror show.

The scene decidedly non-VIP. Assorted creatures of the night shuffling in and out. Harlots in hoochie-clothes, middle-aged drag queens. Aretha’s “Chain, Chain, Chain” pounding out on the jukebox. About as far from jet-set glamour as one can get.

Various mutant life-forms of indeterminate gender milling about in a complete dead zone of distaste. The whole scene, basically a Jackie 60 party gone psycho … more or less just what we were looking for. At the end of the bar, a rather attractive working girl explaining to her business manager the unsatisfactory amount of nightly revenue her sweet-thang was able to generate, “baby, these cops is all over us.”

A trip to the restroom revealing some rather quaint artwork adorning the ceiling, “Death to Queers” signed “The Johnny Wadd Hit Squad.” Cutting-edge stuff up in SoHo, but down here, just more postmodern sleaze.

Approaching 4:00 a.m., most of the sparse crowd adrift in an alcoholic stupor, watching “Amazing Pet Videos” on the Deuce’s big screen TV. There’s something truly spiritual about seeing the darkened profile of a drag queen seated at the bar, silhouetted against the video of a Chihuahua wrestling a vacuum cleaner hose that captures the true essence of South Beach.

Seconds later, finding ourselves being stared-down across the bar by an anorexic woman with a pained look of rage on her face, apparently having had either too much to drink or a tumor explode in her head. Recalling a line from some long forgotten Bogart movie, “In every man’s life there are pin-points of time that govern his destiny.”  I hope tonight ain’t one of ’em.

Alone in the heart of darkness, lost in the sleaze, pondering the essential emptiness of life on the South Beach glitter circuit. Laughing uncontrollably at certain fleeting thoughts passing through the brain—has Warsaw’s Danny the Wonder Pony ever found true love; will Madonna’s delivery-room scene make it into her next video. Fleeting thoughts that only have meaning amidst the psycho/social grotesqueness of Club Deuce at 4:55 a.m.

Wondering, does this place called South Beach have any connection whatsoever to the real world, or is it just one big, pre-paid lap dance for the world’s off-the-hook minions all stage-diving headlong into the abyss of pleasure? Is this place a paradise by the sea, or simply the geographic equivalent of a teenage trollop with good bone structure—a beautiful harlot who just can’t seem to get past her philandering ways because deep down inside she truly loves the life.

Part gorgeous folly, part naked narcissism. The rest, one big wad-shot of woe.

I’d leave town tomorrow if it wasn’t so much fun.

Cable sewage. Four hundred channels of proletariat sludge. God, this TV is depressing …

Trailer-trash screaming at the top of their lungs; teens having sex with their grandparents; a brother who’s really his sister’s father—has all the class been leeched completely out of modern entertainment—Couldn’t the MGM high glamour of the 1940’s be brought back, if only for a moment—Just a small piece of style is all I’m asking for—Bogie smoking a cigarette, Fred dancing with Ginger, Hepburn scratching her ass—anything for relief from this non-stop freak show of fools that the Hollywood hype nest passes off as entertainment.

Recalling the words of a slightly deranged former acquaintance pushed to the brink of retribution after watching an all-day marathon of Jerry Springer re-runs, “I’d like to see some guy in the audience stand up and blast a .357 wad-cutter right through Springer’s head, and when the smoke cleared, there’d be nothing left above his shoulders except this esophagus sticking up with blood and puke squirting out.” Little did my Son-of-Sam friend know that a rap like that would virtually guarantee him a spot on Ricki Lake any day of the week.

Depression with the state of modern-day entertainment being so intense lately, the only clear path to escapism leads back to the never-never-land of South Beach nightlife and the three pillars upon which it stands—life, liberty and free-drinks-til-11. Seeking solace in the fact that at least in the nightclubs the freaks are remotely entertaining and still have most of their front teeth left.

Off to the slightly soiled street of dreams known as Washington Avenue—homing in on the trash pile of cheesy clubs like a shit-seeking missile.

Major suckage brewing at the first stop with some self-aggrandizing buffoon engaging in a primitive display of Ball-Busting 101 with the door-guy working the ropes. But Mr. Mouth soon realizes the error of his ways when, from out of the club comes two rather large, and rapidly approaching black men, both obviously fresh out of the chorus line at Riker’s Island, and now re-born as working class citizens who make their living adjusting the attitudes of smart-mouthed white guys like him. With their suggestion that he “might be happier at another club,” which in South Beach translates to “move your honky ass on down the street or we’ll stick those Gucci shoes up your ass,” the guy curbs his tongue and shoves-off for greener pastures. Once again, there is peace in Trashville.

Then on to Lola Bar, the mood vaguely reminiscent of the three o’clock bell ringing back in grade school. Owner David Bick presiding over the club’s 1 a.m. high-jinx, decked out in his most glamorous outfit to date—a white V-neck ensemble from the Spring 2000 Munsingwear collection. DJ Smeejay, himself sporting a bit of cranial pop culture, one of those 1960’s I’m-driving-my-Austin-Healey hats—always the slave to fashion, these boys at Lola.

A personal word of thanks goes to SmeeJay for playing one song in particular, a catchy little jingle—sort of a Pinky-Lee-meets-Howdy-Doody thing that had all the girls wildly waving their arms in the air and gleefully jumping up and down to the beat. The payoff coming when one of the more hyper-endowed misses had her tube-top assume cummerbund status, revealing a chest that even Ripley wouldn’t believe. Atta-boy SmeeJay, I’m feeling better already about this trash-TV thing.

Planet Hollywood’s opening at the Edison Hotel and here we are, assuming our rightful place in the finely calibrated publicity pecking order, shinning like a one watt bulb in a sea of supernovas. Various notables trickling in—Marlon Wayans and posse, James Caan and the Mrs., K.C. sans Sunshine Band—and then, Mr. Pearl Harbor himself, Ben Affleck behind a wall of protective muscle. More attitudinal suckage developing between the paparazzi (“Hey, don’t push me, man”) and Affleck’s less-than-affable body-guards. Affleck, of course, taking it all in stride, content to let the bone-crushers handle the bad juju. All in all though, a very nice evening, courtesy of Susan Brustman’s team.

Talking with an acquaintance from New York (a guy possessing an ego so large he’s rumored to moan his own name during orgasm) about the sorry state of affairs developing in SoHo. Seems the happening little hot-spot has been invaded by waves of dot.com millionaire types all possessing bankrolls roughly equal to the national defense budget of Argentina, causing sky-rocketing rents and effectively pushing out the artists, beatniks and other assorted bohemian life-forms. After his ten minute there-goes-the-neighborhood tirade, the conversation, of course, makes a natural progression to the subject of sex, and his recent lack thereof. (“If I had a dollar for every time I snapped it, I’d be the Bill Gates of masturbation.”)

He did offer one interesting piece of info—seems that our very own La Vida Loca-motion man, Ricky Martin has agreed to do his first movie. He’ll star opposite British-born actress Joanne Whalley as her murderous ex-lover in a flick titled He Came Back.

Last stop of the week is Joseph Cinque’s Pink Poodle Lounge party in Level’s upstairs bar area, where the News-Boy is resolutely attempting to remain remotely presentable in the wake of a severe gin-storm that has just passed through at the hands of a beautiful blonde bartender. After a half-hour or so of yuking it up with the blonde bartender and a male make-up artist friend of hers, she proceeds to mix up a set of three tiny cocktails, we all toast each other and down the hatch it goes in one heathen gulp. My liver, by now extremely confused and not fully recognizing the alien mixture, I ask, “What’s this drink called—” Matter-of-factly she replies, “It’s called Pussy Juice.”

Longing to hear her speak those lovely words one more time, I slyly replied, “Huh—” Then, leaning forward and speaking in a deliberately sensual manner, she slowly repeated her sweet refrain.

As the sum total of my adult sexual experience flashed before my eyes so slowly that I could read the time-code marked on each frame, I quickly concluded that NEVER have I felt such a rush of pagan sensation (except maybe for that ice-water enema thing down in Rio a few years back). Fighting back through the nameless force that prevents one from being able to smile when faced with a seriously sensual creature, and being well on the way to a blissful cerebral douching from the previously ingested alcohol, I found my repertoire of repartee unable to rise to the occasion, and all the while, the make-up artist howled with laughter at my pitiful attempt to maintain.

Back out into the perversely beautiful neon darkness of Washington Avenue, as yet another pointless night of fun in South Beach came skidding to a close, I paused for a brief moment in the surreal solitude on the corner of Washington and 14th to witness the zombie nation arising at 5:01 a.m. as the nightclubs closed, mildly chuckling to myself as I soon realized……only 19 more hours and it’s show-time in fun city once again.

South Beach…the triumph of form over substance.