SWELTER by Tom Austin
The social circuit, plowing along heedlessly, the party monster sick, literally and existentially, from a regimen that would kill more sentient beings. A reception at the Doral Hotel for the South Florida International Wine and Food Festival, both ballrooms crammed with our favorite concept: free food and alcohol. Booths from various area restaurants A Giacosa, Janjo's, Florencia, the Foundlings, Restaurant St. Michel A and wine from all over the world, ranging from Bodega San Telmo of Argentina to Louis Jadot of France to Piper Sonoma of California. The usual frenzy, the hordes mixing cuisines with an alarming eclecticism, key lime pie followed by steak, that sort of thing. The guests including attorney I. Stanley Levine, speculating on the revival of the Beach ("I can't believe what we created here; it's beyond my dreams, maybe even too much already ...."), and various food-world types, many seeming rather unaccustomed to wine. People stumbling out into the night with glasses, an obnoxiously loud guy leaving with a bottle ("Jesus Christ, I picked up a bottle of water instead of wine ....") and one wretched woman mixing it up with security guards: "Leave me alone! I'll find my husband by myself."
That whole wretched excess thing a recurrent theme throughout the weekend. A Krug champagne luncheon at Max's Place. A Rave For Life benefit for the People With AIDS Coalition at Van Dome, featuring various door prizes and an art auction, with work from Bobby Radical Roly Chang, among others. A nice crowd, a nice time, a great cause. Feeling uplifted, and naturally compelled to trash our finer sensibilities at Rebar, staying on till last call and wallowing in gossip with various patrons. David Lee Roth, out on a not-so-quiet spree, stumbling out of the bar, bouncing off his bodyguards like a pinball. A tale about a soap opera star cum singer at another club, in town for public service work with the anti-drug organization D.A.R.E, doing coke off a credit card, laughing about the hypocrisy of it all. A local club owner and suddenly vanishing in the face of retribution, having scammed his partners. The debasement of beautiful women, a pervasive epidemic on the Beach, reaching new depths with Paul Montana of The Whiskey walking into Rebar at 4:00 a.m., openly fondling his companion's breasts at the bar. A story about Mickey Rourke, deeply in love with Carre Otis, sitting in a hotel room and pulling out a pistol, with a curious Barfly proposition: "If we don't get married, one of us is gonna die tonight." Wedded bliss, happily enough, coming shortly thereafter. La Donna E. Mobile.
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