A Work of Art

That's what everyone calls Mr. Astor, and I couldn't agree more. Sweet, sexy, amusing, and more, Leopoldo has brightened the lives of many since bursting on the beach scene. He also is not shy and approved this little snapshot I took during a recent nap. I can't express how much love there is for him, but others can. Like that old octopus, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish! She couldn't keep her tentacles off of him Friday night, finding every excuse under the Florida sun to rub up against Leopoldo; I swear to get a restraining order if she doesn't leave him alone. You'd think that all her charity work in the reading rooms would wear out that social tsunami.

Memorial Day Weekend is not the nightmare it used to be, but a decent person can't walk on the ocean side of the island after dusk. So far, the only shootings have been of two young men right in front of police headquarters, which is just about the safest place to commit a crime in this town. Since most of the police are on Lincoln Rd. having coffee at David's, there is usually just one, sleepy officer behind the information desk at headquarters.

Jeremy returned from his three week assignment in Chile, reporting that Santiago is not the hot spot Bogota is. Soon he's going to Paraguay and Uruguay and will update us on what's going on there. The Baroness Seitzinger is in Denver and must be as bored as I am this weekend as she keeps sending me snapshots of tree-lined roads and scenic alleys. (As if she isn't aware of my total dread of nature.) Mark 1 is in Trannsychusetts most likely getting liquored up with those two society booze-hounds, Countesses Bedelia and du Barry (who, contrary to reports of her demise, is still knocking them back.) I'm just bored and caught in the middle of a weekend in which the town has been taken over by Visigoths, waiting for my baby to come home. Leopoldo has three days off and we will start a rampage of our own to reclaim this town beginning tomorrow.

Look out.

On Your Mark, Get Ready...

GO!!! The flight has begun for the residents of South Beach. The Urban Beach Party has begun with nearly 300,000 young hip-hoppers expected to descend upon a city of about 90,000. The carriages of the town's elite have been rumbling west since yesterday as most here have bitter memories of past Memorial Day weekends. Personally, I witnessed a man lose his right arm in 2003 when he tried to show what a tough guy he was and punched the plate glass window of Level Nightclub. A guillotine couldn't have done a cleaner job. The Sun Post here wrote: "If you’ve never been, just picture South Beach transformed into a rap video world, with pimped-out rides, “grillz” flashing in the sun, girls in skimpy bikinis and high heels shaking it to the latest beats." It will cost over $650,000 to police the event, a dozen cities and counties providing help to the rather small Miami Beach force. Last year 60 hand guns were confiscated, which is about 20 more than City police own.

But, I've never left town and preferred to be cautious and enjoy the quiet of a usually warm and sunny weekend. The real problem is, as always, in the evening and--for local businesses--the restaurants. There is a well-known game played by the crowd to eat and run, not tip, and consume 90% of the plate and return it as "bad". Many restaurants close entirely for the weekend. At first, black promoters threatened to sue any establishment which closed; the businesses countered by "renovating" for the weekend. After that charade, I attended one of the Tuesday morning breakfast club meetings of local business leaders and when the topic came up reminded the group that you don't need a reason to close; just close and see what they can do (which was nothing, of course). There's no reason to be intimidated by mob mentality.

We'll see what happens, but with the price of gas (many drive from points like Atlanta) and the cheapest hotel rooms going for $269 (and they are the dumpy ones), much of the riff-raff will probably and hopefully stay away. The big-spenders of the hip-hop world are already emptying Saks, Neimans, and the other high-end stores and the hotels totally booked. So, there is a lot of money flowing around this weekend; you just have to be good at taking it.

Politics brings out the worst in people, especially when they are your friends. Some time back, I offhandedly remarked that Obama may be the nominee of the Democrats, but that I doubted his national electability. This wasn't because I didn't like him--I had constantly reminded all those friends who originally liked the other candidates (yes, you Jeremy) that the tremendous growth in Obama's supporters could be tied to one, overwhelming fact: Obama alone among the major players was saying the war in Iraq had to end. The others were playing the middle road (as most Democrats have for years) and were so afraid of appearing weak.

Well, I've been watching his stand and listening to his speeches and I still think he is the only one saying what the people want to hear. Can he be elected? Who knows. The vast sea of the stupid middle class have for eight years let their sons and daughters be killed in The Endless War, they have allowed the gangster Bush administration of outsource their jobs and even the supplying of the army. One can only imagine that now that their homes are being taken away that something might sink into their hollow heads, so--yes--it is quite probable now, I think.

But that's not my real problem; except when the ugly head of stupidity rises, I seldom waste my time with politics. When I had too with the mayor's race here, I jumped into the mess with glee.

The real problem is Riley. He is a sharp knife in my drawer of friends, a legal pit bull, and has a long history of campaign work. He also claims that I said I'd buy him a drink if Obama was ever elected president. Riley--who only ever drinks domestic beer--has informed me that he is going premium liquor on Nov. 5, even perhaps in a high-end hotel bar (the most pricey here). I find this very opportunistic, and--although there are no witnesses to my supposed bet--it obviously is a case I will lose. He even sarcastically suggested I start putting the money I save by using Publix coupons in a cookie jar. I guess he thinks "a drink" means a case of champagne now.

That is the ugly world of politics we live in.

I Survived

Actually, when you give yourself over to the vibrant Latin crowd of Miami you live. Nothing makes me happier than watching hot Latinos execute The Merengue or two ravishing Latinas circling in step with The Salsa. A great DJ accompanied by a great drummer turned the dance floor of Score into a writhing, sexy people; strippers were upstairs, but the fun was on the dance floor. Surprisingly, there was a group I knew from the men's department of my favorite store, Blaks. I looked at their happy faces and counted up the sea of discounts they represented. When one of them asked if I could merengue, I laughed and told him that I had often joined in with the crazy dance crowd of New York's "L' Esquelita". Unfortunately, that was when I was asked to dance by every one's favorite Mexican-movie-star- type and, it didn't stop there. My final presentation of what a New England matron can do was performed to Shakira.

The pain I felt was similar to a five-mile run this morning. Latins are born with an extra ball bearing in their hips, New England matrons not. Anyway, Riley sarcastically called today to say he had notified Interpol of my kidnapping, but he really needed to send medics--Latino ones to implant that ball bearing in me for next week.

Sending Out an S.O.S....

...or a C.Q.D.; whatever works. Once again I'm being kidnapped and forced to go to "Cha-Cha-Land"; Latinos are not supposed to want their boyfriends to even look into a Latino party palace. But Leopoldo and his co-worker, cohort, and co-conspirator are bringing me screaming and kicking to Planeta Macho tonight. (Fortunately, it is two blocks away and not two hours away; I could conceivably light my clothes on fire and still make it home before the flames burned down to my petticoats.) If you send a helicopter out over club Score, that will be my signal on the roof, spelled in sea shells, "S.O.S." The things you do for love...

This was The Baroness Seitzinger's table for Saturday's dinner; it was a pleasent setting, a friendly group of guests, and the view from her balconey a stunning visual of the smoke-filled skies of a state slowly burning from top to bottom. Earlier in the day Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish rang us up asking for company as she started an early cocktail hour. "She's got to go to Las Vegas tomorrow," I warned Mr. Astor, "and, she's probably frisky." So off to Tommy Decker's arms we went to comfort Mrs. S-F and enjoy Tommy's collection of I Love Lucy shows. Frisky was not the way to put it--at least in polite society--and she just couldn't keep her gloved hands off of Mr. A. (I've just learned to live with this.)


Hours later (and to a point where spending more time most likely would have had Mrs. S-F stripping) we came home and made a decision that would haunt me later. Would we eat or nap? So far we had consumed only some chips at Twist, but the knowledge of Seitzinger's pending dinner and all the preparations that had gone into it, seemed to make the nap make sense. We arrived promptly at 8 and by 8:01 had cocktails in hand. There was a delay in the cooking of a roast that was either 7 lbs. or 7 feet (I can't remember; it could have been a whole cow). As my stomach begged for food, cocktail after cocktail tried to soothe it; I hovered near the kitchen hoping to catch the food planner basting the beast. (I was ready to chew off a corner of anything baking in that stove, but no luck.) "Have another cocktail, Alexis." Over and over we toasted our gracious host until I felt the inevitable: I was going to sink through the floorboards or collapse on the bed. Being married gives you a guardian of sorts and Leopoldo wisely took me home. No din-din for me that night.


The next day we prepared for Pimpernel's "Daiquiri Brunch", but he is so well-known for his lavish lunches that I had waved off the possibility of going hungry for long. As soon as we arrived a daiquiri was thrust in our hands. Fresh strawberries and peaches were in abundance, but that was the only food I could see; the horror was real: we were meeting to test all the daiquiris he was planning for a new bar. (Within a hour I was ready to eat Mr. Astor's Prada shoes if only he would take them off.) We survived on some wild berries until we made it to Twist's Sunday.

I've taken to my bed today, fending off the first signs of malnutrition and my head feels like a Panzer tank ran over it. I'm also dusting off an old idea I once had of making an outfit of edible buttons; of course, if pagoda sleeves would just come back I could hide a mini-bagel in each one.

RuPaul's Drag Race

To the best of my recollection, this was the first photo of RuPaul I ever took. I remember to this day (we are talking 20 years ago), how amazed I was by this Amazon with the Confederate flag mini-skirt. We became fast friends as only myself and famed night life photographer, Tina Paul of the Fifibears, were allowed to take photos in this four-story, seedy, fabulous, drag-ridden club in the meat packing district of Fourteenth and the West Side Highway name Mars. I usually had three cameras: the 35mm, the brand new Sony hand cam video, and the Nimslo 3-D with me; I could have gotten into so much fun/trouble had I not been encumbered by all this equipment. Still, we all had fun as much as three Extacy's might have been expected to produce. Ah, the memories.

Today Edison Farrow informed me of a new reality show that, for the first time, will glue me to the TV. RuPaul is hosting a show named RuPaul's Drag Race which will showcase drag talent in competition for titles. (Maybe I'm crazy, but David Archuleta should have saved himself; Leo and I would love to see him as Pia Zadora.)

In those glory days of New York during which I roamed the gutters in search of every imaginable creature with a dress and a wig, Ru was the only one at the time who had a vision. She had cleaned up her act (no more drunken stage shows at La Palace de Beaute') and focused on a highway ahead that had no exits but that which she envisioned. She's been a great model for drag queens in the wings. RuPaul's Drag Race. The time has come.