NY Mirror

Fiendish Floridians might be trying to rig the election, but at Miami Fashion Week, things were pure and honest, and there was a really good gift bag (though it included the ultimate comp whore's dilemma: a coupon for $200 worth of free food—in Boca Raton!). Unlike New York's Fashion Week, Miami's allows any old person to pay a fee and watch the shows, so the event attracts a sprinkling of really interested folk, not just jaded journos who'd rather be home looking at the slides. Even better, the models are allowed to perform shtick on the runway rather than having to do that constipated strut into hell, and as a result, I got flashed with body parts of three colors, six genders, and nine doctors.

I was sent down by the organizers to see KIMORA LEE SIMMONS's Baby Phat show, though Kimora herself didn't make it because—as is now legend—her cat Max had passed on to furball heaven. "Max was like her first baby," a publicist explained to me, with a trembling voice. "The Baby Phat logo is based on him. She went to Paris with that cat!" I feigned an uncontrollable sob, not letting on that I only really well up from allergies to cats.

The shows were held in a deco building that had been painted pink for a BRITNEY SPEARS video, then, when she canceled, was restored to a shade even whiter than her trailer trash heinie. (I love a happy ending.) Fortunately, the fashion on parade was not ready for the big litter box in the sky. First, Ryan Kenny's "luxury hip-hop" line trotted out studly guys in fabulously fruity floral shirts, proving that today's hip-hop maestro is very secure in his sexuality, whatever (know what I'm sayin'?) that may be. Alas, one of the models was so secure he later ran off with the $20,000 watch he wore on the runway, but the police took care of that, and now the guy knows what time it is.

Suddenly Iknew it was time for the Baby Phat show, which was a perfectly legal mix of harem, highland, alien, and POINTER SISTERS influences, all saucily served in open-toed lamé fuck-me heels. Max would have licked himself with glee.

But I needed to work my own runway in South Beach at night, inevitably hitting upon the perfectly named the Hotel, where the garden restaurant Wish serves light-up "electronic cocktails" that redefine "getting lit," and the sultry rooftop Spire Bar has tie-dye-wearing waiters keeping you iridescent. The kook caravan also stopped everywhere from the refreshingly civilized Talula, where the chef should be governor, to the gay bar Twist, where the go-go gods look sizzling hot until they step down off their platforms and only reach up to your navel (though their weirdly placed muscles make them six feet wide)!

On Sunday, the sprawling poolside party at the Raleigh took on a ritualistic touch as skinny people gathered 'round a fire as if making some kind of Survivor decision. The bash's co-host is INGRID CASARES, who, as you'll remember, PARIS HILTON vehemently denied making out with last year. (That's where the airy heiress draws the line, I guess.) Well, the local Miami papers recently had Hilton practically tonguing a female VJ, tee hee!

The wildest adventure of all was a day trip to Jimbo's, a swampy fishermen's shack on Biscayne Bay where overripe babes and overage bikers buy $2 slabs of "smoked fish," score some mulch, and bop their fab flab to Journey songs amid strewn copies of The Economist. You practically expect the Country Bears to hop out of a shrimping boat and start singing "Afternoon Delight," but then you're awakened by the sight of one of the gals "grinding" old Jimbo.


XXX MARKS THE G-SPOT

Back in New York, sex acts got more highbrow treatment at the HBO premiere of TIMOTHY GREENFIELD-SANDERS's porn star documentary, Thinking XXX. (Disclosure: I'm in it—wearing clothes—though I'm eclipsed by fellow commentator GORE VIDAL's immortal remark, "Boys are expected to squirt as often as possible in order to fructify an egg.") By the phallic hors d'oeuvres, I asked SAVANNA SAMSON what's the most shocking thing she's ever done on camera (besides being interviewed by BILL O'REILLY). "I did five guys at once," she crowed. "At first I thought it would make me look cheap, but then I regrouped and said, 'I'm doing this. I can step up to the plate and I can do it well.' " Well, I couldn't, mainly because I'd never figure out where five fructifying thingies would go. "You can't do it if you're claustrophobic," instructed Samson, interestingly.

I got a claustro attack watching the dread Brooklyn the Musical, which has five cast members doing you at once, all wrapped in trash bags. They can certainly sang, and I loved their costumes made of found objects ("Salvation Armani," one character quips). But the lead character has no discernible personality except to keep repeating, "I'm looking for my father so I can complete the 'Unfinished Lullaby,' " and unlike Brooklyn the borough, Brooklyn the Musical ends up being unforgivably boring.

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