These Deals Will Blow You Away

Should Local Buyers Watch Out for "Katrina Cars" ?

Ask Nasty

Nasty: He's a South Florida original, a biker visionary, and a regular columnist for the local motorcycle mag Wheels on the Road. And now, Nasty answers your most urgent questions about life, love, and the call of the open road.

Q: My son's bar mitzvah is coming up next month, and I've been having problems finding a good place to hold it. Any suggestions?

A: Try Nothin' Fancy Bar & Grill at 4645 Gun Club Rd. in western Palm Beach County. Secure bike parking is in the rear next to the outside tiki bar. Live bands almost every night help keep this place rockin'. Nightly lingerie shows are an added plus. Cold beer and hot, very hot, bartenders are the order of the day. The stunning Jackie, who works on Sunday, is the best biker bartender in all of South Florida, and you have got to see how she cleans the bar top. She and another hot bartender each get at opposite ends of the bar and crawl on their hands and knees wiping down the bar top as they go. When the two girls meet and have to pass, there is usually fondling and kissing, and on many occasions, whipped cream is squirted onto breasts and other body parts. Then some licking ensues until the two pass and continue on down the bar. Oh my! Hot! Hot! Hot!

Biker fun and games abound nightly. Games such as the camel toe contest and the famous Pornapalooza games are must-sees. Smitty manages the place and is always planning a special event. In true biker fashion, almost anything goes. It is also the place where I collected a record 13 pairs of panties in one night for my collection. That is why this bar is "Nasty Approved."

Grace! My Idol!

The woman singing to the empty hospital auditorium last week, is an old-school songbird, a Broadway belter, the sort who will turn an ordinary note into a field trip up the chromatic scale and back. The other day, the 'Pipe watched Grace LaPidussqueeze "Come Back to Sorrento" like a wet towel, wringing out every little drop of pathos the song could render. This was during her audition for a talent competition titled "Senior Idol," sponsored by Holy Cross Hospital. Nearly a hundred 65-and-overs sang for three judges, who selected a dozen finalists for a May competition.

For anyone who grabs the remote when Fox TV trots out a passel of 20-something Stevie Wonder imitators for the Clearasil crowd watching American Idol, a performance like LaPidus' was like morning sunshine. The song was a favorite of her late husband's, Edward, who died two years ago after 55 years of marriage. The lines, "But you said goodbye to me/Now all I can do is grieve" rang truer than any frothy pop sputum.

Judge Maureen Kohler said she looked for stage presence and trusted that if she got goose bumps, the singer had the goods. Indeed, LaPidus, who used to sing in clubs in upstate New York, carried herself with a beguiling confidence. "I like most of Ethel Merman's songs. I'm kind of an Ethel Merman type," she said after her performance, winking.

Seymour Blyman, 78, spent years designing women's lingerie in New York City before retiring in 1993 to Pembroke Pines. He started singing because he had nothing else to do. He joined a group in Century Village, three songsters who fell a little short of Carreras, Domingo, and Pavarotti. "Goulet, when he was young," Blyman said. "That's my man."

Blyman sang "All the Things You Are" with an un-Goulet-like quaver in his voice.

"Do you remember what show that was in?" he asked his friend Martin Bass.

"No," Bass replied. "Hey, I'm old. My memory's not so good. I'm better at tennis."

"Cabaret," Blyman remembered. (Sorry, Seymour, way wrong. It was from the Jerome Kern 1939 flop Very Warm for May.)

"A lot of people are up there who shouldn't be, at least in the early rounds. But you notice that they have professionals to help them with their voices. I wish we had something like that."

"But you know what?" Bass asked. "At our age, we do pretty good."

Alas, not good enough, according to the judges. Neither LaPidus nor Blyman nor Bass made the cut. But stick with it, kids. There's always next year.

BOLO Knife

In this corner, we have Diop Kamau, formerly known as Don Jackson, an ex-police detective in California who now heads the Police Complaint Center, a watchdog group that's been making life tough for South Florida police stations recently ("Calling All Cars," Jeff Stratton, March 23). And wearing the red trunks (or at least, seeing red) is Dick Brickman, retired detective head of the Broward County Police Benevolent Association, who's sick and tired of Kamau and his sting operations.

After the PBA posted a BOLO ("be on the look-out") bulletin for PCC investigator Greg Slate and Channel 4 reporter Mike Kirsch (whose photo is still included in the online bulletin despite a cease-and-desist action by CBS-4), Kamau called Brickman at home and gave him a chance to explain himself. Tailpipe got a copy of the tape.

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