Her shop is one of dozens along the NW 7th Avenue corridor that are breathing new life into Liberty City.
She also is a healer in the economic sense. "If your hair is busted I can fix it," Queen boasts. With a home-brewed concoction of herbs, aloe, and oils she'll transform just about anybody's hair into a headdress worthy of royalty. In her Happy 2 B Nappy Boutique, Queen dispenses African culture and treats dreadlocks.
The words, the vision, and the dessert are free the book is not. at Books & Books, 265 Aragon Ave., Coral Gables. The Gables creation myth gets read at 8:00 p.m. Brown in reading pieces from the book, watch them trump the power brokers of all neighboring municipalities with a classy nod to high culture and local tradition. When Coral Gables commissioners join their city manager David L. The occasion is the reprinting in an ambitious retro format of Song of the Wind on a Southern Shore, George Merrick's collection of poems originally published in 1920. What came first, the chicken or the egg? Coral Gables, the City Beautiful, or verse about the town's creation? You can ponder this weighty question and test the oratory skills and raw nerve of your local pols as they recite poems penned by the revered city father tonight. The moment it's complete, it'll be time to start all over again! Call the Paving Miami's Future Hotline (30) - no, we're not kidding, a hotline - to find out about resurfacing locations and construction dates near you. Flacks say the plan will "reconstruct, resurface, or repair every deficient roadway, sidewalk, and curb within the city." Hmm, at 55 miles of road, 13 miles of sidewalk, and who knows how much curb, there's just one catch: Paving Miami's Future, as they've christened it, will take about 12 years. In early February the City of Miami kicked off its first-ever Capital Improvements Plan, tapping funding sources and setting aside more than $560 million to work on important issues such as public safety, recreation and culture, government services, and roadway enhancements. "Have these streets ever been paved?" you barked in exasperation.
The homeless guys gathered on the east and west strips of sidewalk were the sole giveaway that you were on Earth. By Juan Carlos Rodriguezīouncing along a downtown Miami avenue in your car, you could have sworn you were piloting a Mars Rover on that planet's surface. Thursday, March 4, at 2041 Biscayne Blvd. But those of us who prefer the divey side at least have a place to drink, albeit temporarily. All the pretty boys go to Club Jade on Fridays and to roving martini parties. The A-list muscle queens quit the Cactus long ago. The vacant lot made for a walk on the wild side where many a sleazy encounter took place. A new condo complex stands where Cactus denizens once parked their cars. The bar used to be packed with beefcake on its Thursday members night and Wednesday slut dancer shows.
Should we cheer? Is this some sort of victory? Are they not just prolonging their macabre dance on the Cactus's inevitable grave? Just as Club Space staged a headline-grabbing closing and reopening, this event presents a new low in manipulation.īut will it pay off? Will the heightened attention of a Miami Herald front-page story be enough to counter the Cactus's bleak weeknights, which fostered a group of frumpy Scotch-drinking regulars who showed up to stuff dollar bills into the thongs of bored-looking go-go boys? The new owners are milking the free publicity. Now it seems the joint will reopen under new management. The closing of the Cactus seemed the perfect outlet for our frustrations. We moaned about the unbearable vanilla-ness of contemporary queer culture and the neutering of glammy queendom in exchange for legal marriage, adoption, and normalness. We lamented the passing of glam and grift, once hallmarks of the gay underworld and fodder for gay lore from Tom of Finland posters to the Village People. We bitched when we heard that the Cactus Bar and Grill, Miami's longest-running gay bar and home to Biscayne Boulevard rough trade, was closing. We barely had time to scream our tits off.