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30 is the new 60 - A Very Golden Girls Pile o' Links

Allow me to recount a conversation Liz and I recently had:

Me: Is there a show based in Miami that’s funnier than Golden Girls?
Liz: There is no funnier show ever.

So in honor of the show’s debut 30 years ago this week, links ahoy!


Stephen Parr and the Peculiar Archives of Oddball Films Come to Miami
Screening This Weekend at O Cinema and the Frost Museum of Science

“The transition of film,” says Oddball Films owner and eternal archivist Stephen Parr, “and its 100-year plus longevity, to the ever-changing formats of digital media bring speed, lower cost and worldwide distributability though the trade-off is now everyone is an archivist, constantly migrating data from format to format, device to device.”

This lament might sting purists who long for streamlining and clarifying the ever-increasing muck of hubris clogging up the binary pipes of the modern, digital world like a dutiful librarian. But it is especially topical coming from a man who began archiving bizarre, oddball, one-off, and just plain eccentric moving images a little over 30 years ago.

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A brief review of Coco Nutz 'Miami Vice' Strawberry Colada Malt Beverage


The label states WARNING: CONTAINS COCONUTS, MILK. Which is to say: what? Do you mean coconut milk or both coconuts and milk? Because if the latter, that might explain a few things in regards to its awfulness.


Mistolin, bartender’s friend, a heavily powdered abuela.

On the tongue:

You know how alcohol burns? This is not that burn – this is the burn caused by someone not knowing what they’re doing and then trying to cover up failure with aspartame. Notes of accidentally spraying sunscreen in your mouth.


I’m confused how this is 8% alcohol? I’m also confused how these guys haven’t gotten sued yet by whoever actually owns the rights to Miami Vice nowindays? Anyway I couldn’t finish the 24 ounce can so I can’t confirm whether or not this actually gets you drunk. I get a headache long before I actually get girl drink drunk so I’m maybe not the right person to judge.


As smooth as Don Johnson’s chest. Today, I mean – not in 1986.


Reading Joan Didion's Miami On The Eve Of Normalization Of Cuban-American Relations

Listen – I can’t pretend to be an expert on any of this. I can though share some things from having grown up in it.

I was 6 when this book came out and living in Coconut Grove. The events Didion describes form a partial background of my upbringing, but in the way they do for a child who knows something is happening but cannot frame it against anything else due to inexperience and naivete. I knew vaguely that things were going on but didn’t know specifically what, and my parents weren’t in any hurry to explain how the city they moved to 15 years ago was not the city it was today.

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Fox's - Where I Learned How To Drink

“Fox’s? You’re going THERE?” my Dad would say. He was a professor at the University of Miami and always thought of Fox’s as a seedy poorly lit dump.

Which of course it kind of was – but it was ours, dammit.

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Good-bye, Fox's Sherron Inn, the Best Bar That Will Soon Fall to Pieces

(Press play before you read.)

I took my dad to Fox’s Sherron Inn this Father’s Day. It was 5:30 p.m. and the South Miami restaurant was dark, as usual, and cool. It was also empty. It felt like time paused and something erased all the other people in the world. Where did everyone go?

It’s almost the same as when I was growing up. The bar’s now larger, there’s a front patio instead of a curb to sit on, the back rooms are “nicer,” and that ceramic fox is gone. Remember the fox someone stole? I think I know who did it.

I read on Matthew Andrews’ Facebook earlier that this, one the oldest running establishments in town, is closing at the end of this month and the building will be torn down. His family owned it for decades. Remember when he was always there, and, dude, we were all always there. It was like being a kid and your cousins are kids and you all buzz around your grandparents’ house. And then you get to high school and you only stop in now and again. And then your grandparents die, and you can’t ever go back. We’re at that moment.

The best thing about Fox’s was always Patsy Cline on the juke box. Then the 2-4-1 happy hour special that got you so stupid drunk, you ended up crying to “Crazy” and playing it back to back. Then there were the conversations with the old regulars. Boat guys. One was my favorite. He lived with his mom, wore polos with shorts. He was in his 50s, and he liked to talk music. And that airplane painting on the wall — it’s unbeatable. It makes me feel like it’s OK to love where you’re at but also dream about being on your way to someplace different.

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WVUM alum and Ghostly International recording artist Michna nee Egg Foo Young done made you a playlist. Give it a listen.

by , posted Jun 29, 09:23 AM

I don't think I hate LeBron James anymore

Over the past few years, my friends were having babies. During that time, I learned to watch basketball. Single and broke, it was free and fun and the Miami Heat were winning, and the winning felt really, really good.

But when LeBron announced his betrayal, that he was leaving the Heat to go back home to the Cleveland Cavaliers, I took it a little personally.

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by , posted Jun 25, 03:14 PM


by , posted Jun 7, 12:27 PM


Atlantic Cities takes a look at Alton Road and the local effort to enact a ‘Complete Street’ policy.

by , posted May 8, 10:25 AM

How To Replicate The Pleasant Confusion That Is Thurston Moore
A Guide For Neophytes

I’ve dreamt of sycamore trees, homemade ice cream off the via delle setti ponti, and ex-wife alimonies but I’ve never been as confused as I was at the muli-disciplinary homage to Kurt Cobain at the Gusman Center yesterday. Let’s talk about being lured under false pretenses, let’s talk about the incongruences of the recently aborted, and let’s pretend we like each other for a minute or two.

I think Thurston Moore’s all right; he’s a local boy who’s done well and is known throughout the land but I am so pleasantly confused about the last night’s “Kurt” proceedings that I’ve got to chime in.

How do we explain it briefly? Well, there was a short film, interpretative dance, a yahoo with a guitar, the Thurston and a newly anointed German on the skins… But is that satisfactory music journalism? I’ve never been on the carburetor dung end of things, I’m a sham, a put on, a plan B; but I’m still me.

So, through the magic of the internet, I’ll do my darnest to recreate that which I saw.

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These Peaches-influenced Sweat T-Shirts are pretty rad. Pair them with a Peaches record crate and you have a holiday gift fit for any audiophile in your life.

by , posted Nov 27, 02:38 PM

Pure Imagination - "Joan of Arc" Part 4

The following is part four of the story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director. You can read parts one through three here.

Everyone makes mistakes. Even old Saint Joan of Arc. It’s just that folks like Joan make one or two every now and then and folks like me make them all the goddamn time.

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ANR has a Mid-Issac Message For You

The apocalypse is here and its name is John Hancock.


Pure Imagination - "Joan of Arc" Part 3

The following is part three of the story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director. You can read parts one and two here.

Sun. April 22, 2012 — Chica Chica Boom Chic (Uma Noite no Rio)

Well you can better believe I drank myself senseless on Monday night, what with Anne Frank materializing out of who-knows-where with a salty mouth and a fake ID and Joan of Arc armed and armored and gunning her hog past Jimborooni’s and all. Who knows what all I drank, but the next morning I sure was in a bad way. I was seeing double and was bruised in strange places and to top it off my alarm clock hadn’t gone off and I’d woken up at noon, which meant the old folks had probably been clamoring for an hour for a canasta game that would never come.

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Pure Imagination - "Joan of Arc" Part 2

The following is part two of the story “Joan of Arc,” concerning the temporal displacement and inebriated escapades of a womanizing retirement community activities director. You can read part one here.

Mon. April 23, 2012 — Enhancement and Propriety

The weekend passed predictably—Saturday night soaked in bourbon, Sunday morning gel-coated in aspirin—and then it was Monday and I was up at dawn, cursing my alarm clock, petting Mr. Mittens, driving my rusted Methuselah of a Honda Civic to Foxwood Prairies. I’d been the activities director at Foxwood for a few years. The old folks there were really something. There were two different communities of old folks at Foxwood—independent living for those still sound of body and mind, and assisted living for those whose bodies and/or minds had become less sound—and I scheduled and managed recreational activities and outings for them all. It was all standard stuff—bingo, canasta, Go Fish, cross-stitching, trips to the Piggly Wiggly and the flea market. The monthly schedules pretty much wrote themselves. The old folks didn’t want their activities director thinking outside the box. They wanted him making sure the canasta decks weren’t missing any cards and clearly enunciating B17, N27, O40, G33.

The old folks sure could be a pain in my ass, but I liked them all okay. They were old enough to not give a damn about anything anymore, and I appreciated that. People my own age still gave way too much of a damn. What was the point? Everyone was going to get old and not give a damn anymore anyway, so why not not give a damn now and save yourself a hell of a lot of trouble? But people my age didn’t think like that. And, to be fair, not everyone was going to get old. This 17-year-old kid in my town just got himself squashed to death by a vending machine, for instance. I never trusted those things. They were always stealing my money, and now apparently they were out to murder me, too.

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Take a walk down South Beach memory lane.

by , posted Jun 20, 03:43 PM

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