By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
So those desperate housewives are getting on your nerves; the Marlins, even in a late pennant run, don't excite you (you're a South Floridian and, hey, baseball ain't football); and the best the multiplex has to offer seems to be one Nic Cage flick after another, with our hound-dog hero wearing out shoe leather on long, aimless quests. What else can you do for entertainment?
Well, there's always the Hollywood Board of Commissioners' twice-a-month meetings. The drama here isn't canned or airbrushed or predictable. It has the feel of real life, like a dysfunctional family gathered around the Thanksgiving table, with Hollywood's own Little Napoleon, Mayor Mara Giulianti, brandishing the carving knife over the Hollywood turkey.
At last week's meeting, the family bonds were being tested by media scrutiny of the commissioners' generosity to developers. People like Cynthia Berman-Miller and Steve Berman are hungry to build condominiums in Hollywood, it seems, as long as they get millions in incentives from the city.
As executive director of Hollywood's Community Redevelopment Association, Neil Fritz is the naughty boy who squandered his allowance. Or at least that's how the commission's grandmother, Cathleen Anderson, made it appear. She unleashed a high-pitched, non sequitur-filled diatribe that made the audience bust out in giggles.
Fritz, however, broke the rules by not keeping a poker face during his spanking.
"Are you laughing?" Anderson asked, sounding a little like Joe Pesciin Good Fellas. Stammering and blushing, Fritz tried to explain that the city was in much more robust financial shape than Anderson knew. But Grandma had him on the ropes. She raised her voice another octave.
"You need some money, because you're bankrupt!" she raged. "Sara Case is right about that." (Case edits the Hollywood blog balancesheetonline.com, which recently claimed the CRA was operating on fumes.)
Mama Giulianti twitched, glancing nervously at Tailpipe and some reporters sitting in the back of the room.
Enter attorney Rod Feiner, smoother than cooking oil in an expensive suit. He welcomed the commissioners back from vacation, tactfully avoiding any mention of the incentive package his developer clients are supposed to receive for putting up a 326-unit high rise next to the Hollywood Beach Golf & Country Club. Feiner wanted to talk about zoning.
But the family elders, Anderson and Uncle Sal (Commissioner Sal Oliveri) were feeling cantankerous. They wanted to know, damn it: What do the developers of the 14-story Golfview expect from the city in the way of incentives?
Well, that would be $8.31 million, Feiner said delicately, careful to note that it was part of the agreement that commissioners "passed unanimously" he used this phrase several times two years before. Unanimous? Uh, yes, meaning that Oliveri and Anderson had already voted for it.
"I have never been given $8 million as a figure," Oliveri huffed. "I will not approve $8 million in incentives."
This finally shattered Mom's patience. "Well, unfortunately you already have, Sal!" Giulianti said shrilly.
"Well, I made a mistake," Oliveri said. "I'm a human being."
With a subtle word, Mom Mara reminded everyone that going back on promises made earlier to lawyer-loving developers would land the city in a mess of big fat lawsuits.
Looking embarrassed, Oliveri crossed his arms and backed away from his microphone.
Finally, Giulianti marshaled the kids mama's boy Keith Wasserstrom, goody two-shoes Beam Furr, would-be rebel Peter Bober to have the Golfview tract zoned for condos. Anderson and Oliveri voted against it, but great-aunt Frances Russo joined the majority.
Thank you, Lord. Now, Mama, give the Golfview gang a slice of breast meat.
Fire Her Up
A lady friend let the 'Pipe in on a bizarre Internet encounter she had recently. And this auto part has had a hard time stomaching anything since.
Tailpipe's lady pal had run across a guy who identified himself only as Jake4Dinner. He claimed to be searching cyberspace for a woman, preferably a busty dominatrix-type, to put him on a spit and roast him alive. While she was not interested in the least, the 'Pipe's friend did find something intriguing about the proposition.
She looked up Jake4Dinner's profile and discovered that he was involved in a hobby called "Dolcett." This referred to a secretive Toronto artist known for drawing comic strips depicting bondage, torture, impalement, and cannibalism. His specialty is drawing luscious young babes impaled on barbecue spits. Ugh.
The 'Pipe's friend also found that the twisted hobby has fostered an online community with its own government. Citizens of Dolcett, California, post short stories they write about women getting eaten by surprise and eaten by choice. It's a surprisingly folksy crowd.
"Welcome to Dolcett CA and pull up a lawn chair," greeted a Dolcett City Council member when she paid the place a visit. "You're next up on the Fundraiser BBQ. You want Carolina Honey or Spicy Japaleno on that Florida tan of yers?"
Through Dolcett a fantasy town that is reportedly frequented by serial killers she befriended a culinary cannibal, Krbass301. The self-described 21-year-old "punk freak" says he grew up in South Florida and claims to attend the Florida Culinary Institute in West Palm Beach. He's serious about becoming a head chef and is currently looking for a job at a place like Red Lobster, because he finds seafood so, uh, interesting to cook. In class, Krbass301 often finds himself fantasizing about "cooking little things like you... in a brown demiglaze wine sauce."