Miami News Blog

Mia Leonin

​Poet, UM creative writing professor, and former Miami New Times theater critic Mia Leonin grew up believing her father was dead, and after years of listening to her mother's disparate stories regarding his identity - -internist, ophthalmologist, Filipino, foreign islander -- she finally learned the truth shortly after her 16th birthday. Her father was a Cuban exile, a psychiatrist sent to Louisville to get his American medical certification, and he wasn't dead. He simply wanted nothing to do with Leonin.

Melville House Books

I used to spend a lot of time and money purchasing slick vinyl re-issues of "forgotten" or "lost" eras in American music: albums with titles like New Orleans Funk, Vol. 1: The Original Sound of Funk, 1960-1975 and Miami Sound: Rare Funk and Soul from Miami, Florida 1967-1974.

Listening to the artists, who were usually minorities signed to small, regional labels, it was sometimes hard to figure out why they never made it. Bad luck? Lack of ambition? The wrong look? Racism? Even still, why did some artists hit it big while others remained regional phenomenons? Why James Brown but not Eddie Bo? Why Aretha Franklin and not Bessie Griffin? The '60s and '70s were such a fruitful time for American music that we're still discovering bands no one has heard of that were perhaps way ahead of their time (and therefore unsuccessful) -- I'm referring specifically to the Detroit, Michigan rock band Death, whose seven-song LP was widely released for the first time by Drag City records just this year, despite the fact that the band broke up in 1976. (The master tapes were, of course, "lost" in someone's attic.)

So to write the biography of a never-before-heard-of '60s rock star, one needn't resort to fiction. In fact, if one counts liner notes as a genre of literature, Ben Greenman was standing on the shoulders of giants when he composed his newest novel, Please Step Back, the untold story of Rock Foxx, a rock star who never was but certainly could have been.

Since Chicago, the 2002 flick about murderous, fame-seeking vixens and starring Renee Zellwegger, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Richard Gere debuted, fans of the original musical were joined by legions of new-age cohorts. Being one of the newbies myself, I was sure that the Adrienne Arsht Center's version would only restore the passion I'd let wander since the soundtrack had somehow been removed from a state of constant rotation on my iPod. Still, I entered the theater with average expectations knowing that one never knows what to expect with live off-Broadway performances of classics. As soon as the first few chords of "All That Jazz" were played I knew that I would be enchanted by the production and the countless jaunty twists it threw my way.

The ensemble cast was electrifying, wearing the hell out of the 1920s era wardrobe, belting out tunes of murder and deception (my favorite "Cell Block Tango..."He had it coming!") and executing hot-to-trot dance moves with strength and precision. The one weak link in the production was Sofia Vergara as Matron Mama Morton - featured performer and supposed "draw" for the whole evening. Her stage presence left something to be desired; she sang the opening number way flat, and what was up with the prom updo and hotel front desk agent suit? It's understood that stage productions needs a big name to draw crowds to the show, but I'd prefer big talent to a big name who's presence is simply pandering to the minority that need a name they know to draw them to a cultural event.

Joel McHale loves pussy.

And not just the kind that sits in front of a plate of sauce-free spaghetti, but also the kind that belongs to his wife. That way, when it gets stung by a bee in the park while she's pregnant, he can totally use the story as material for his stand-up.

Just like he did last Saturday night at the South Beach Comedy Festival during a performance in which he admitted to adoring many, many more things. Like giving trashy reality shows new names such as "Huge Hefner's Merry Band of Albino Ho's" (The Girls Next Door) and "You Should've Been Aborted" (My Super Sweet 16). Comparing Kourtney and Khloe Kardashian to George Milton and Lennie from Of Mice or Men was a source of great joy for the host of The Soup. But his greatest adulation had to be the revelation that he could see boobs bronze for free on our model-filled beaches, which seemed to even surpass his devotion to his son, Eddie -- a toddler the comic is convinced feeds through photosynthesis and pretends to be a dog so he can take dumps in the McHales' garden.

And although tales of his cheap-ass Costco-gas-station-loving father and man-voice mother-in-law were humorous, no one tops McHale in blasting celebrities. Not even snarky wannabe's such as Ryan Seacrest, whom McHale is finally allowed to make eye-contact with in the hallways of E! and will one day slay Tom Cruise in order to gain the title of "president of the world."

And yes, you read that right, cast of Best Week Ever and Topanga (via The Dish) said "no one tops McHale." 

Well, okay, other than Mankini.

And Tyra Banks. But only if she goes undercover as an obese homeless person whose size of her ego can be topped only by the height of her forehead.

Lewis Black
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The Fillmore Miami Beach at the Jackie Gleason Theater

Better Than: Crying about things.

The Bush Administration may be gone, but don't think for a second that they've taken away all of Lewis Black's targets. "People think stupidity left the country," cracks Black. Well, it didn't.

Cases in point: an incoming Treasury Secretary "who didn't pay his taxes;" a former Merrill Lynch head so "out of touch" he laid out "$1.2 million in company money refurbishing his office, including $68,000 on a fucking credenza" just as said company was tanking, and a party of donkeys that just "spent eight years doing absolutely nothing" as the country was pillaged by elephants, and having a Black man in the highest office isn't gonna change that fact.

In other words: Now, it's the economy, stupid. And the economy sucks!

Black, who struck celebrity status back in '96 after The Daily Show started giving him a regular three minutes to rant and rave, clearly is at his best when he's pissed about the malfeasance practiced by those in positions of power. And the facts that Treasury Secretary designate Timothy Geithner ran the New York's Federal Reserve while Wall Street burned, former Merrill Lynch CEO John Thain doled out billions in bonuses before Bank of America were forced to swoop in to save the company, and that the Obamas have reportedly hired the very same interior designer, er, credited with pimping-out Thain's former office, surely serve to stoke his anger, whether or not he spells it out.

Revolution Fight Club
December 19, 2008
Gusman Center for the Performing Arts

Better Than: Who knows?

Forgive me, but I don't have any photos of Friday night's Revolution Fight Club. No, I didn't lose my camera. And no, it didn't break. And I wasn't shirking my assignment, either. I don't have a snap because right after I bent down to shoot, some man in a lilac shirt grabbed me by the scruff of my collar, yanked me to my feet, and kicked me off the Olympia Theater stage.

Really.

And you know what? I still have no idea why he did it.

It takes nerve to recreate a movie on a stage, especially when that movie is as brilliant and beloved as The Wizard of Oz, but the new production that opened at the Arsht Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Miami last night pulls it off with ingenuity, verve, and polish. The show is based on a Royal Shakespeare production that launched in 1987, based on the 1939 film.
 
If you’ve ever attempted to read L. Frank Baum’s original children’s novel, you know that the movie was a great leap forward, largely thanks to Technicolor and a few indelible tunes by Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg, who nabbed an Oscar for “Over the Rainbow.”

Dear Kathy Griffin –- you dirty, skanky, goddamn, whore,

I am writing you this fan letter to commend you on starting out your show last night at the Seminole Hard Rock Live with the word "pussy." And not just a little pussy, a whole "bucket full of pussy." Thanks. I'm sure your gays appreciated that. But not as much as we all appreciated it when, mid-show, you shamelessly pushed the sale of your “Everybody Can Suck It!” boxer shorts. And then told Allah to suck it. You forgot to tell Ryan Seacrest to suck it, but that’s okay, she already does. How else can you explain that straight-up suck-fest Keeping Up With the Kardashians that you let us know Seacrest produces -- and your mother enjoys just as much as a box of wine.

About 10 p.m. on Tuesday night, to my left TV news anchor Belkys Nerey smiled as her daughter was showered in 10,000 tiny bits of paper. To my right, a dignified Russian woman giggled nonstop as her 70-year-old mom was bonked on the head with a 20-foot diameter, air-pumped ball.

All around the grand hall of the half-billion-dollar Adrienne Arsht Center for the Performing Parts, fans guffawed as funky weirdness – in the form of Russian clowns -- made ‘em forget about recession and war….Slava’s SnowShow had come to town.

On the DVD commentary of Cocaine Cowboys 2, rakontur director Billy Corben describes the aesthetic difference between CC1 and CC2 as East Coast versus West Coast. Because the first film revolved around Miami in the '80s, it was made to feel like Miami Vice. Jan Hammer did the score, and, as Corben has noted, the predominant color in the film was white. But with the central character of CC2 being a young black drug dealer from Oakland named Charles Cosby, the rakontur team turned to nineties films like Boyz n the Hood, Colors, Juice, and Menace II Society for a very California palette of orange and black; the music was commissioned from a Bay Area rapper named Incredible, and the film is sprinkled with archival footage from Oakland in the '80s.

If the distinction reminds you of the various Grand Theft Auto installments, it should. The DVD menu could easily be the opening screen of a Cocaine Cowboys video game, and the film’s skillful animation would fit right into the weeknight Adult Swim line-up. In short, the new film is much more consciously targeted to young males whose cultural universe descends directly from 1980s Compton.

Chris Rock
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Seminole Hard Rock, Hollywood

Better Than: CB4, Head of State, and I Think I Love My Wife combined.

A friendly note to anyone planning to attend an event at the Seminole Hard Rock – get there as early as you can. And after the show, plan to hang out for over an hour before you hit the parking lot and try to leave. Repeated visits to the venue will teach you that insane traffic and rude, I-will-cut-you-off-and-give-you-the-finger drivers seem to make up a hefty portion of the clientele – all of this with nary a traffic cop in sight. We drove smack into Hard Rock traffic at 7:30, and didn’t even actually drive into the parking garage until a full hour later. Chris Rock was scheduled to begin at 8. Our fingers were crossed for an opening act, and thank the Lord, there was one. We were definitely not the only ones who completely missed the warm-up performance.

Earlier this week, Amber Hawk Swanson spent her final day on South Beach with her sex doll.The dark-haired 27 year old lounged for one last photo shoot with Amber Doll, the 115 pound-plus silicone figure that was molded from her face.

The sisterly pair sported matching white glam shades. The doll wore a bikini with the word, love, printed on one breast. Amber dressed in a flirty, red sundress. “We’re done, a total wrap,” the Chicago multimedia artist said after the final photos were snapped on a gorgeous sunny day with a postcard-ready blue sky.

Past moments captured when artist and doll went roller-skating, married each other, and sat in on tailgate parties are featured in, “To Have, To Hold, and To Violate: Amber and Doll,” an exhibition at Locust Projects in Wynwood. It opened this Saturday and will show through June 28.

Folks who know stuff – and one’s gotta presume the folks at a Bill Maher show know stuff – know that stuff is, er, fucked up. A lot of stuff. Among such stuff: oil’s through the roof, housing’s in the gutter, and we’re at war where we shouldn’t even be.

So it stands to damn good reason that a man like Bill Maher would be popular among a certain subset of know-somethings; what seems unreasonable is why all these know-somethings need Bill Maher to tell ‘em what they already know, let alone validate their opinions.

But such seemed to be the case Friday night at The Fillmore Gleason, where America’s favorite leftie curmudgeon preached to a choir that had already concluded their song.