Deneumostier, known by the screen name “susanleon33326,” pleaded guilty to two counts of illegal interception of oral communications before U.S. District Judge Cecilia Altonaga. He faces up to 10 years in prison at his sentencing on Nov. 29, though he is expected to receive less time. As part of his plea agreement, three related charges will be dropped by federal prosecutors….
…Deneumostier was arrested in July on charges of making unlawful recordings of commercial sex acts for an adult website. An indictment, filed by prosecutors Cary Aronovitz and Mona Sedky, lists three victims related to his operation of “StraightBoyz.” The site promised gay men videos of real straight men being conned into accepting sex acts, all while blindfolded or wearing blacked-out goggles.
Investigators believe Deneumostier helped operate the subscription-based adult site, which featured about 620 video hookups, over the past four years. Although the website is no longer in operation, many of the videos can still be viewed on other porn sites.
“The site offered for streaming approximately 619 ‘hook up’ videos that depicted sexual activity between Deneumostier and other men,” according to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. “The defendant had surreptitiously made audio and video recordings of the sexual encounters, without the victims’ knowledge or consent. He later sold the ‘hook up’ videos to a third party located overseas and caused them to be posted onto the website.”
To be clear, straight men all over the world want to be deceived, but we Floridians have the entrepreneurial spirit.
Eric Peter Verbeeck, a Key Biscayne youth transitioning to a girl named Hope, killed herself nine days ago. Howard Cohen has her story:
“He left behind a letter, the most beautiful letter you could imagine, and it was on his pillow,” Eric’s mother said. “I got up and realized I didn’t see him in my apartment.”
The letter began: “Dear Mommy and Papa, I am so sorry to do this to you but I have killed myself by jumping off the top floor …”
Eric was always precise, Verbeeck said.
“I could no longer live my life as a lie,” her letter continued. “I’m so sorry I lied to you. I was losing hope in the world and could not see my way out of the wrong body so I decided it was time for my life to end. Please forgive me for any sins I committed.”
Verbeeck: “He didn’t have any sins. I never used the word sin with him.”
The child who loved to attend Broadway and London musical theater shows, who had a beloved dog named Rocky, who started performing at 6 and already had a favorite role — The Mad Hatter from “Alice in Wonderland” — and who “planned out trips to the tiniest detail,” was equally precise in her last wishes.
She didn’t want her parents, who were separated, to argue. She wanted her ashes split between her parents.
The statistics for adolescents who kill themselves as a result of sexual confusion , included in the story, are stark. According to Hope’s mom, she had given her child as much empathy and patience. It wasn’t enough. In an era when psychology can explain most conditions, suicide remains the great abyss into which education and empathy stare, helplessly.
Hug your kids tonight.
Sea level rise, a barely competent governor, flying roaches — these and other elements make Florida an earthly paradise. If said governor signs the following legislation, we’ll deal with Daylight Savings Timem for the rest of our lives:
According to the federal Uniform Time Act of 1966, states may exempt themselves from observing daylight saving time, as Hawaii and most of Arizona do. But there isn’t an option for states to exempt themselves from standard time.
So the change Florida lawmakers desire is technically a change of time zone. The majority of Florida would move from Eastern time to Atlantic time: the zone that’s home to Puerto Rico, the U.S. Virgin Islands and the Canadian Maritime provinces. The western part of the state’s panhandle is on Central time; residents there would shift to Eastern time.
Moving to Atlantic time is something that New England states including Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Maine have been mulling over — and they arguably need the sunshine more than Florida does.
A time zone change requires either an act of Congress or a regulatory action from the Department of Transportation. U.S. and Canadian time zones were adopted in 1883 to reduce confusion at railroad terminals.
Why we Floridians would want more sunlight and a longer working day is beyond me.
At the dawn of the new millennium I covered Parkland as a Sun-Sentinel news intern. A quiet city undergirded by an opulence that avoided ostentation — Al Gore visited several times that autumn (it remains a Democratic stronghold in Florida’s most Democratic county). Compared to, say, Sunrise and Plantation, Parkland was a model city, known for vicious zoning battles, as shown by the only commission meeting I covered. Many former students attended Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, named after one of Florida’s few literary giants. Well-named too, for its graduates are among the state’s brightest.
The only way to stop carnage like this afternoon’s is to create a coalition that aims for a repeal of the Second Amendment, for thanks to Heller and the late Nino the right to own a personal weapon, within certain limits, is constitutional. “Background checks” ain’t gonna work, sorry, not when the suspect had a legal right, as of this post, to buy a gun.
The other option is to let sea level rise finish the job.
The initial reviews for The Florida Project suggest a digital sociology experiment rather than a successful narrative film. Watching Sean Baker’s story about scrappy kids and their parents trying to survive in the third-rate motels clustered around Walt Disney World was an enervating experience for me. It should have worked: the material is promising, suggesting an approach similar to what Victor Nuñez had wrought in Ulee’s Gold and Ruby in Paradise; writer-director Baker’s previous film Tangerine had a bawdy humor and, shot entirely on iPhones, made the most of its rudimentary construction; and the title itself, the generic name given to the theme park during its 1960s planning phase, buzzes with possibilities. But the result is a ungainly mess. Baker hasn’t a clue about pacing or the direction of actors, which is hell on the audience, for there are few things more hellish than being stuck with brats. The crushing two hours in which The Florida Project insists on telling its vaporous story is akin to babysitting caffeinated kids at the Magic Kingdom for an afternoon with no parent in sight. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t wait to leave.
The Florida Project gets one thing right: the increasingly hardscrabble existence of the hospitality industry in the Kissimmee area. The opening of the Osceola Parkway in the late nineties decimated hotel managers like Bobby (Willem Dafoe); where before visitors to the Disney theme parks inched several miles up or down U.S. 192 and its miserable traffic, now they bypass it entirely, a straight fifteen-minute shot to Disney’s doorstep. Nevertheless, many of these motels boast themes, clean pools, regular maintenance, and maid service; they aren’t flophouses yet. Enter the Magic Castle Inn & Suites, where Moonee (Brooklynn Price) and her young mom Halley (Bria Vinaite) eke out an existence. When for the sake of the rent Halley isn’t hoodwinking tourists into buying perfume in the parking lots of neighboring hotels she’s partying with a friend who gets her free breakfast from the diner at which she works. Mooney spends those broiling summer days hanging with Scooty (Christopher Rivera), spitting on cars from balconies, eating ice cream, being nuisances. Then Scooty’s dad forbids him from playing with Mooney. She needs a replacement. The older woman on whose car she’s spit in The Florida Project‘s opening moments has a granddaughter, the more demure Jancey (Valeria Cotto).
So far as plot goes, that’s about it, but The Florida Project‘s episodic nature doesn’t crimp it. From Pather Panchali to The 400 Blows the last century has given countless examples of movies chronicling the adventures of street kids. But these children are so obnoxious that even Mooney’s cutting the power at the Magic Castle just cuz she can fails to resonate as an innocuous oh-those-golden-days-of-childhood moment; I just wanted to belt her. Baker doesn’t modulate their performances; Mooney and Jancey screech and holler and laugh. Dafoe has the worst of it. As Bobby, he plays Goodness Incarnate. He lets Halley slide on the rent, indulges Mooney, and knows every guest’s name. Taking into account that his clientele lives a step above the poverty line, it’s a wonder he hasn’t been fired or had his hotel shut down; with his good cheer he should be working at a Magic Kingdom gift shop. Baker and cinematographer Alexis Zabe are less reluctant to objectify Halley, often shot in unflattering close-ups and harsh light. Baker’s intention is clear: we can’t blame children for the mistakes of their parents. But what is on screen has the opposite effect: awful parents produce awful moppets. Infatuated with the children, Baker identifies with them.
But what most disappointed this native Floridian who visits the Disney area yearly is The Florida Project‘s anonymity. Baker and Zabe capture the colors of this landscape – those violent purples and sinister oranges coaxed out by unrelenting sound against sudden flaring clouds – rescued by hysterical overdevelopment but none of the character. The tracts of urban space ravished by Zabe’s camera could’ve been shot in Sarasota, Everglades City, or, hell, Tacoma. Central Florida weather in the summer has a sinister volatility: sun-damaged mornings surrender to torrential rains and lightning storms, with the humidity at all times sulphuric in intensity. And noisy. At all times.
I suspect The Florida Project will play better for audiences unacquainted with Central Florida and for whom the idea of spending money on such kitsch is laughable in itself. It avoids one mortal sin: despite the surfeit of intrusive closeups, Baker doesn’t err by romanticizing poverty. The camera sits, like a guest invited to stand by the door but not enter, as it captures the meticulousness with which Magic Castle permanent guests have decorated, not to say stuffed, their rooms with toaster ovens, kitchenettes, plastic hangers, bags of chips, blankets serving as shades to keep that horrible sun at bay. The film allows characters to nibble at the margins, like Sandy Kane’s vulgar Gloria, another Magic Castle resident, who insists on topless sunbathing while her corpuscles pump several gallons of McCormick vodka across her cheerful system. Still, gimme last year’s American Honey, also about kids left to their own devices but lighter, not to mention defter about situating its kids in a milieu.
But The Florida Project remains the most depressing drag – the kind of drag that makes me wonder if the modest Tangerine was a fluke (the last sequence is such a travesty that I wonder if the film’s swooning critics walked out of the picture before it). If The Florida Project is a hit, though, Baker will be back, emboldened by success, chastened by failure, or, I fear, emboldened by failure.
My parents and several friends belong to the ten percent of FPL customers without power this morning. Although the utility had been promising full restoration for the southeastern coast of Florida all week, it revised its statements on Friday: now those who live south of Miller Drive will get power restored by Tuesday latest. But FPL had twelve years and hundreds of millions spent updating the grid and technology only to have the technology crash (in the Sunshine State, residents aren’t allowed to disconnect from the grid even if they own solar panels; it’s another one of the perks that lobbyists can buy).
An example of the absurdity. On the way to the supermarket, my dad waved down a Michigan power company truck contracted by FPL. After he explained that power was out to eighty-eight homes connected to their transformer, the man said he was shocked; he checked the computer. Apparently the neighborhood wasn’t on the grid. Who knows then if trucks would have appeared at all. As I pointed out, a dozen years after Hurricane Wilma a powerful hurricane that delivered a glancing blow knocks out a million-plus customers in Miami-Dade County alone. Imagine if Irma had stuck to the Sept. 7 forecast, which had her buzzsawing through us and points north. Imagine if my father hadn’t flagged down the driver.
A week after Irma, the rest of us crawl toward normality. Classes resume at every level tomorrow. And north of the Caribbean Sea churns another tropical storm on its way to hurricane status following a similar trajectory as Irma’s. Early reports suggest Florida may get spared a direct hit. Normality in Florida means living with hurricane anxiety in September.