Every day I walk by the Old City Hall, a monument to the days when Miami Beach was Carl Fisher's dream baby and everything was Spanish Rococo Moderne. I don't know when Old City Hall was left to be just an administrative relic that gave out marriage licenses and adjudicated parking tickets, but New City Hall is a monstrosity of architecture just two blocks from La Casa and has all the charm of Hitler's Bunker above ground, and none of the excitement.

The lasting charm to Old City Hall is that about three years ago it started to fall apart. One day a lovely cornice crumbled and fell to the sidewalk. A "safety net" was put up over the affected area only to see a ledge on the other side take out a homeless person, so scaffolding was erected around the place. Savy practicioners of personal injury suits, egged on by their lawyers Dittleman, Fittleberg, and Cardozo just a block away, walked back and forth all day waiting for another chip to fall. Carefully planned, they had a long-fallen piece of masonry in the pocket to apply to the forehead.

Alas, The City closed the building before it just tumbled to the ground and began an intense job of refinishing that can only leave me to suspect one commissioner with a brother-in-law in the business.


But my cynical nature has been put aside, because I now realize The City is turning the relic into our own Tower of Terror. Now, I know why I hear the screams coming from inside lately. They think they are clever, but all they really have to do is take away the scaffolding for a ride like that. I know; the other day I passed by and did NOT walk under the scaffolding when a mass of plaster fell. It was exciting; I screamed like a little girl and ran to Twist.