OK, it's 3AM and I just got home from The Laudry Bar. I think I'm happy that I came home alone, but not quite sure yet. But I did get this (I think) fabulous shot of these two girls. Laundry Bar is for everyone, but mostly for girls. God Almighty, I love this town.

One thing always puzzled me about this photo. It was not me mugging it up by making a Groucho Marx mustache out of Madame's head piece, nor was it Madame's regal pose, and no surprise was Baroness's haughty, "I-can't-be-bothered" expression. It was, is, and always will be: Who the fuck is the Serbian soldier with the flowers?

Dinner With A Lady

One of my dinner dates with Lady Barbara at Tavern on the Green. Isn't she the picture of confidence and glamour? Tavern, like many other high end restaurants in New York, had no qualms at all about having a transvestite on your arm for dinner as long at it all met the dress code. Naturally, it always did--and more. And it--also "naturally"--created a stir amongst customers, especially tourists (a Tavern staple).

Another great venue for this type of fun was The Russian Tea Room. I used to regularly go there with Bibi and Hermione, two long-time boyfriends to the the shows of "The incomparable" Hildegard. I saw her farewell performance there, before the Tea Room (which was a very large, two story restaurant catering to the flamboyant entertainment crowd), closed it's doors in the mid-nineties.

Anthony Wong was Lady Barbara's personal deisgner; boy, did she him busy. You never saw an outfit twice on Lady Barbara. Anthony here is flanked by Baroness and Frederica appropriately dressed and designed by him for the theme, Fire and Ice.

Lady Barbara

This was the first photo I took of Lady Barbara; she was emerging from The Vault, a fetish club in the meat-packing district. It was October 29, 1990, and we were all going for some fetish action: girls with young, naked boys on dog chains walking on all fours, rabbis being whipped; you know, the typical night out in New York back then. In order not to be charged $50 admission all guys had to wear wigs and make-up, but who wouldn't deny that this made things even more fun?

I, of course, eventually became friends with Lady
Barbara; I always said that if EVER I were to throw myself "at the mercy of The Court", it would be hers. She owned one of the last 1840's brick townhouses south of Canal Street and threw fabulous parties there. It was sort of like Auntie Mame meets Fetish New York, finds happiness. Only two types of characters were invited to Lady Barbara's parties: drag queens and transexuals, and the men who liked them. Every conceivable type could be found there: lawyers, truckdrivers, bankers, and silly boys like me who coddled all the girls with lots of flattering photos. I was always in a type of drag nirvana at her parties. Later down the road, she would grace me by attending the Susanne Bartsch parties on my arm. She always had a limosine handy and that was a big, shallow thing then; as I said, it was like heaven. My boyfriend at the time, Chris, and my "daughter" Lincolnia, and I would buzz around her like bees. She liked attention, and could dance up a storm with a martini glass in her hand (a trick I quickly learned; "knowledge is power".

Lady Barbara was so very generous to all around her. All she ever wanted from anyone else was to be regarded as the "Lady" she was, and we did that. Another one I miss.

An Unholy Trio

My Comrade publisher, Linda Simpson, Lady Barbara, and Sister Dimension at The Copacabana. Guess which one was a New York State Apellate Court judge by day and a "Lady" by night. (Hint: she's wearing the couture outfit and the real jewels.)

We lived an insane life.

No, No, A Thousand Times "No". This isn't me being "Made Up" by Perfidia'; my New England roots would NEVAH allow it. My sister would DIE. My grandmother would be spinning. My mother would be laughing.

My, my. There are so many "things" about to happen today now that the nasty tropical storm turned away from us.

I got dressed early as you can see (this was me at one of Richard Trainor's "Turn About" parties.)

I figure the same look will get me at the head of the line at Publix as I have to purchase enough hurricane supplies to last a week or two. Let's see: goose liver pate for Hyacinth, those dreadful lavender-scented candles that Bunny loves, extra coffee for Lahoma (she's so sober now that it scares cows), freckle remover lotion for Ru, OH, the list is endless; I'll be there all morning.

But I'll be at The Palace the rest of the day, and with a look like this I can't go wrong.

I have to stop being serious for a moment and go back to my silly roots. There's a lot of plans for the weekend now that the new tropical storm seems heading away. So we'll be getting out the outfits and calling the boys (especially LPJ); we'll be mounting our horses and in true Teddy Roosevelt style yelling, "Charge".

This was one of my most adored friends in New York, Perfidia. She works with Pat Fields as a superb hair stylist, but I just loved being her date. (she did my hair and make-up for one of the famous parties given by Cosima von B., another buddy at the time).

Here is Perfidia as we arrived at--of all places--The Tavern on the Green. I remember asking her to pose against this particular wall; "It'll make you look like you are in Tuscany" was the shallow, silly way I put it. But, somehow Perfidia's hair made a mockery of The Tavern's fake Tuscan wall.

Ah, only a good drag queen could lay waste to the kitsch of Tavern on the Green. Thanks Perfidia for all the great times, the way you did my makeup and hair on those "special" occasions at
The Vault, for introducing me to so much new music, and for coming over to dinner all the time as Steven.

News from Newport

I know du Barry's been busy since arriving from The Cape on July first for The Annual Newport Fourth of July Ball (so unlike our classy event down here), because she finished The Black Ships 2005 and is now completing her work at the famed Music Festival. But you have to drive bamboo shoots under her fingernails to get details (I mean gossip, of course).

Maybe I will drive a sort of shoot under her social nail. How about this invitation? The Newport Music Festival is world regarded and has been around for 40 years. And, I don't want to be a critic, but doesn't this feel like a Christmas card? I mean, certainly not Hallmark; but, if you look closely, you can see The Grinch.

That should do it: the Imperious Telephone Call at 9AM (her favorite time to chat). "How DARE you?" (Fully 30% of the way her calls to me begin.)

I love art. I love sculpture. I love ice sculptures that are voluminously full of vodka. And I love the fact that I carry one of the little fire guns, (or whatever those contraptions are called used to light grills) in my purse at all times.

Fox Pearls

I had Deep Tea with my dear friend Hyacinth today. She was reading out loud from USA Today ( why? who knows. I try to keep her amused.) So Hyachinth is reading this astounding biography of Barbara Bush and mentions her "Fox" pearls. I lifted up my heavy eyelids and asked, "Come again?", and she replied, "Fox, Fox pearls". I didn't have the will to attempt to explain to the difference between Fox and Faux, but the smirk on my face must have spoke volumns.

J's

I was out dancing The Charleston on a tabletop again last night with Joshua and the thought came to me about my apparent obssession with boys with a J in the first name. There is Jason with the blue eyes who pretends to be straight with everyone but me, that blonde bombshell, Jacob who lived in my rafters one year of supreme lunacy, Justin who is so thin that I can twirl him like a baton, and Johnny, the boy of the moment. And, of course, the most endearing J in the world, Jesse of Jesse's Reality Show. We talk every now and then about his return to Miami in late fall. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to marry him when he walks off that plane.

Look Out, 'Cause Here She Comes

I just got out of the pool, I have my new Oleg Cassini shirt on, and I am about to storm The Palace. No boy will be safe this afternoon; I feel like Dawn Davenport in this shirt. "I'm so fucking fabulous I'm going to explode."

It's an Oleg Type of Day

How shallow can you get when you awake thinking of Oleg Cassini? I was shopping at a kookie store here on Friday, Beatnix, when I spotted a rather nice shirt. It was sort of what I do best in: conservative funkie. Like every queen, I immediately looked at the label. This is when I nearly DIED; the label read Oleg Cassini. My mother was an Oleg freak when I was child and one of the most beautiful shirts I ever owned was a gray Mondrian Oleg Cassini she bought me. My mother was one of those pre-woman's liberationists who defied every part of Rhode Island convention. I always wondered what "Fredericks of Hollywood" meant when I would put on her white, spiked heels. My grandmother abhorred her and my mother just did anything she could to push my grandmother to the grave just a little faster.

This is a picture of my ex. We are friends again, and for that and the three dogs I am happy. We were going to one of Richard Trainor's "Turn About" parties where boys dress as girls and girls dress as boys. My ex had gone out that day looking for a sweet dress and came home with this sequinned number; it needed a little tacking in the back, and when I looked at the label I nearly DIED. The label read Oleg Cassini. I asked him if he knew what he had found for ten dollars and he had no clue. I told him that Oleg had been the personal designer to Jackie Kennedy and her sister Lee Radziwill; I also told him that I would take control of this dress after the party. I still have this dress in one of my closets; I like to take it out every now and then and look at it and think about the history of the woman who first purchased it. It is the perfect size of my mother and another friend, Carmina Marcial has my mom's white, Frederick's shoes.

My Little Jesse

I have to admit that when I get on a topic, it overwhelms me. Jesse Friedman carries me off to realms unknown and there are times that I can't get that Jewish American Princess out of my head. He is so fun, so sweet, the embodiment of happiness, a blessed soul, what any man could hope for... I love him for single-handedly bringing the white belt back into fashion when other house of fashion said otherwise.
I love you, Jesse, and long to have you in my gloved arms again......

Don't Get Jealous, Now....

I just got off the phone with The Countess de Velcro. What a joy she is; she had me howling as she tried to justify why every piece of clothing should have velcro on it. I maintained my New England aristocratic airs while all the while remembering how fucking hot she was. This is, of course Jesse of Jesse's Reality Show. He is the most gorgeous boy you could ever want to cross your path, and I feel that my life was advanced that Saturday I met him. We had SOOO much fun that day. Jesse, every time I hear the rip of velcro I will think of you.

Henry

My beloved Henry Peralta is leaving us and returning to New York until "season" begins again here in January. "Season" begins on December 26th and lasts through Easter. I used to be one of those "Snow Birds", but have found it a great place to be year-round. Yes, the hurricanes are going to be a problem of increasing interest, but I love the heat, the sweat, the scantily-clad bodies, the businessmen carrying a briefcase while wearing thongs, hoochie-mamas laughing up a storm, young boys trying to show you they have a mind, and drag queens running for mayor. Every day I walk to work looking at the palm trees, hearing the wild parrots squarking overhead, and arrive with a little smile on my face to a wonderful staff of gay and some straight guys and gals. I love Miami.

A Month of Independance.

Quite likely the most popular bartender on South Beach, Ditmar Perner, with the amazingly thin waiter, Henry Peralta. Two of my Palace favorites.

I am dizzy from the Bastille Day celebration last night. Ed Grow said he was going to storm my ramparts or something like that. I left my ramparts open to the "people" last night and found that the unwashed masses are not all that repulsive after all. Just buy them drinks and they throw down the pitchforks and start making out with each other.

I also found out that the peasants are immediately subdued when you ask the bartender to play "I'm The Deputy of Love." After the pitchforks are down, you then switch to
The Three Degrees' "When Will I See You Again" and take whomever you want into the bathroom. Call me what you want, (I admit to being a whore) but I know what the boys like.

Happy French Independence Day

We always had a ball on July 14 in New York. Lahoma, Rupaul, and Larry Tee lived at 5 Ninth Avenue just at the top of Gaansvort Street which was always closed for for French Independence Day. There would be drag queen can-can dancing, lots of street performers, and just a hell of a good time. Today I ran around like a queen about to have her head cut off (oops) trying to find a French flag; I did and we hoisted it next to our Rainbow one. It is glorious, and I will spend the rest of the day celebrating life, liberty and the pursuit of French boys.

Here is a picture I took last Monday of LPJ (my Little Pal Johnny) at our Fourth of July party. As you can see, he didn't disappoint anyone with his patriotic outfit. Good ol' LPJ; he's lasted a lot longer than most do on the arm (and other things) of Mrs. Astor.

And, once again, God Bless the French and all they have given America, like help in the Revolution, Lafayette, red wine, cute boys, Pompadour hair,
fashion beyond belief, and more cute boys. Whatever differences we have are the ilk of stupid politicians; perhaps if WE had a guillotine for our leaders things might be better here. But, forget all that because it is time to celebrate, and that we will.

The Chicken-eating Spider of Brazil

Wow, Ms. Bees, as usual you are the best; your mention of Googling Brazilian siders turned up thes: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/deepjungle/episode2_nicholas.html Hot-diggity spider.
I wonder if it has ever tasted KFC?

Even more wondrous was this quote by Nicholas: "We also discovered that those spiders appeared to be keeping a pet. There was a little frog that lived down in the hole with the spiders. It may offer some sort of service to spiders, like sweeping up ants that might bother the spiders."

My guess is that it was probably their houseboy.

Don't Let The Chickens Out

I met another interesting guy at The Palace tonight; I think I overheard his telling the bartender something about Brazil (a country I take a great interest in) and one thing led to another. If I can cut away from everything (pool parties, grab ass, slut friends) that happened, I'd like to remember a fascinating story told about a species of spiders he was studying in The Amazon. There was a very new Tarantula that, Leandro da Silva Castellano, was telling me about while we sipped wine after wine. His great interest was in a new species of Tarantula that had been spotted a few years ago during one of those unfortunate periods when vast areas of the tropical forest were being leveled for farmland. It seems that, out of nowhere, government scientists notice a very, very large tarantula that came out at night "to hunt". Now,for a spider "to hunt" was an action those professionals had never observed before. A very large tarantula had come out of the jungle to a farm, bit a chicken, and CARRIED if off to the the woods. Arachnids don't do this sort of thing, so the scientists rigged up many mini-cameras. The result was that they found, in the Amazon, a tarantula so big and so strong as to be able to bite a chicken and drag it off to a nest of babies, whereupon they would feed. Spiders usually pounce on a victim and leave it at that.

The finding of this film and study is still being evaluated, but Leandro's point was the same as my own: The Rain Forest is being so destroyed, so fast that we may discover a new species of spider or bird every now and then because of it, but the destruction will forever give up our chance for discovering cures and vaccines in an area very few scientists have studied, not to mention the move to extinction for these very creatures.

All this and the fact that Leandro is so cute. Welcome to the stable.

OK, let's start out with some the goings on at The Palace this weekend, despite Hurricane Dennis. (Actually, hurricanes spawn two things: tornados and hurricane parties. I've neer been able to determine which is more of a dancer, I mean danger to me.) Here's some of the regulars; and I mean regular like the come every day after work to drink and admire the supurb scenery. Angel, Chris, Gregg, Doug, and Jerry.

Adora posing with friends.

Adora performing.

Ah..."L'amour, L'amour, tu jour L'amour." Now where does that quote come from?

Ditmar standing behing the newly-built bar.

The adorable, Henrietta, with some young admirer.

It doesn't take much coaxing to get My Little Pal Johnny to take off his shirt (or anything else, for the matter.)

Palace owner Doug and Twist owner Richard having fun in the wee hours and looking very toasted and happy.

Regulars of the Palace: Edison Farrow, the most successful gay party promoter in town (Sobesocialclub.com), CJ, Scottie, and film critic, Martin Haro.

Scotty and Matt at The Palace (Matt is a bartender there). In a town of relentess temptation and sex, they remain devoted to each other. Scottie had to leave yesterday to visit his mother in Springfield, Mass. as she's been diagnosed with breast cancer; Matt dutifully followed. Scottie has his own, very close call with death from lymphoma two years ago, but beat it and we now hope he can pass that strenght off to his mom. Both are great guys who have lived through a lot.

The sun returned by mid afternoon, electricity is restored, and all the trees have been removed from blocking the streets. As I walked home, I was handed this flyer which I think is so cute.

I know I am more likely to be encouraging boys to take off their clothes for the camera, but this is not to be indicative of any lack of wildness on the part of our girl friends. The heat of the night, the booze, and a strategically placed drag queen does the trick quite nicely.

Thanks, Hurricane Dennis.

I finally got my electricity back on. Two days without electricity is enough to drive you to drink. The romance of candle light wears off in about three hours and suddenly you realize that all that food in the fridge is not going to make it. And two nights without my electric vibrator, I mean curling iron, was too much not to make it to Twist by the 4AM round-up. As Jake has pointed out nothing good EVER happens a Twist, and that's the way we like it.

Not to be held back I joined Randy and Chris on a trip to The Mainland, which usually frightens me. However, it was celebrity bartender Ditmar Perner's birthday/pool party and electric was on there. Chris--ever the sweetheart--flew Ditmar's parents in from Austria as his present; I love those two. His parents are enthralled by the carefree, wild world of Miami and they were very busy preparing food and taking photos. Everytime I ran into them they would grin and say, "Jahr, Jahr". Somewhere along the way Mrs. Astor must have gotten a little too haughty because three party animals picked me up and tossed me in the pool, pearls and all. I popped up to the surface and found myself in the arms of Humpilicious Brian, a Boston cop who flew down for the day. Oh, yes and he was naked, so I did what any lady would and hoisted him on my frail shoulders. It's always better to add jewels to the neckline. I fear there are some very, very embarrassing pictures about to surface, too.

My beloved Kitty.

Kitty

Barbra Seville makes me think of a story. I will now try to push all the nasty aspects of life out of the way and get to the fun aspics. Barbra Sevill brings to mind my all-time favorite, Kitty Carlyle Hart.

When I moved to New York City I hit the ground running; one neighbor was a bartenter at Studio 54 (the new version) and my other neighbor gave parties there. Broadway producer, Morton Gottleib, was after my other neighbor, Luis. One day I mentioned to Morty that I had a collection of Vouge magazines from the fifties (what fag didn't) and one had a full-page photo of Moss Hart and the then, nine-year-old Christopher Hart. Morty said "Bring the issue to my office" (47th and Broadway). I was so young and innocent then and bounced into Morty's office with the magazine. Morty gazed at the photo of the father and son, sighed, and said, "This is too beautiful. I have to call Kitty." I knew Morty was always trying to impress people and would do anything to continue getting into Luis's pants, but I was truly shocked that someone could just pick up the phone and call Kitty Carlyle. To my utter astonishment, Morty said, "I have this young man here who has this great picture of Moss and Chris and I AM SENDING HIM OVER."
He listened for a moment and replied, "NO, he doesn't mind if your hair isn't DONE." I was dizzy, truly dizzy as he wrote Kitty's address down. It is either East 62nd or 64th between Fifth and Madison. I walked into the marble foyer and a very elegant gentleman in a uniform asked why I was there. I said, "My name is Alexis and I am here to see Miss Hart." My blood was boiling and he made a call, said "Follow me", and I was taken to the elevator. The elevator opened up to Kitty's flooor and a very sweet Spanish maid greeted me. I was ushered in to a sitting room and God Almighty, Kitty Carlyle Hart walked in and said, "You're Morty's friend, how nice." I was fucking dying; I had watched Kitty all through my childhood on To Tell The Truth. I handed her the magazine opened to the back cover page and she gasped. (It was a truly exceptional photo of Moss and Chris sitting in a gazebo.) Kitty asked if I wanted tea or something and I just shook my head No. The maid was standing behind her, smiling. Kitty engaged me in some small talk about just having moved to New York and clothing design, which was my life then. She was so nice and I could hardly speak when she asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?" I was like, hummma, humma, humma and couldn't say anything except, "This is more than I ever hoped for in my life." All-knowingly she said, "I know what I can do" and jumped up in her black capri pants and white blouse and ran down a very long hallway. Moments later she returned with an 8 by 10 glossy of herself and jotted down a lovely note. I never framed this photo in fear that the note might be smudged or faded and kept it in a protected file foldered.

As I left the building, all I could think of was that NOT ONE PERSON would believe this had happened, when I ran into, of all people, while walking out but Ricky Boscarino of LUNAPARC fame. "What are you doing, coming out of that building" he asked. And I told him, and therefore the world as I knew learned of it..

Thank you Barbra Seville for shaking my memory.....

The Weekend Before Us

Things are getting back to normal; we had a meeting last night with two commissioners, Saul Gross and Mattie Bower, and I didn't hesitate to bring up the fact that not only did we queers band together to elect them, but that we had been instrumental in bringing down Nancy Lieberman when she started to ignore the electorate base and thought that God had put her in her seat. Well, it wasn't GOD; it was a broad-based group of gay people: rich, and not-so-rich, male and female, and some who wear dresses and wigs, but have a voice, too. This morning Carl and I got to watch the police vans picking up the human trash that from time to time accumulates here; they beat up the wrong guy Monday night.

I think I can go back to my carefree life now. Yes, that will be a gin martini; and make it two because there's no such thing as ONE martini.

My Dear Carl

I hate being serious, but one of my closest friends, Carl Zablotny the publisher of Miami's most read gay newspaper, The Wire, was beaten to a pulp after leaving The Palace's drag show on The Fourth. Two gay bashers followed him for several blocks while he was on the phone to 911 asking for help. 911 was it's usual aloofness, but --of course--the whole thing was taped. Most of the police department was attending the fireworks and there was little to send in the way of help. By the time the police arrived Carl was unconscious on the sidewalk. I and many other business people called police chief de Luca yesterday demanding action. de Luca is an amazingly gay-friendly man who, unfortunately can't depend upon his staff, which is made up of fat cops who don't live with or understand the community. We made it clear that this was no ordinary crime and that we were going to to do the "unthinkable" and make it public. Nothing is "public" here as the City loves to keep everything under wraps for tourist reasons. My calls to the Weasil-Mayor, David Dermer, went unreturned even though Carl, me, and many other gay activists elected that hack three years ago by turning out the gay vote 80% for him. Last night Channel 7, owned and operated by gays, showed up and started their evening's main story. It was about Carl and I had the music turned off so all the customers could hear what happened to a decent man who cared about The Beach and for whom The City cared less for. I'm really sorry public lynching has ceased here because I would begin with The Mayor and work my way down to the commissioners. I am so angry that I cry. I hate being serious; it's not my nature, but when I am--and I and a group of well-connect gays removed a commissioner three years ago--it gets dirty. This morning Chief de Luca publicly stated that he would "sweep" the streets of these animals, and I have no doubt that he will. But the weasil sitting in the mayor's chair is about to find out just what a group of gay business owners and Friends of Dorothy are capable of. The last time there was a public outcry he showed up wearing a yarmulka to show how pious he was; it better be made of kevlar this time, Dermer, because you're going to have some nasty gay WASPS attacking you.

The Late, Great Nan Kempner

I was so saddened to hear of the death of Nan Kempner this weekend. She was one of those REAL New York socialites and I regard her book, "RSVP" as a bible of the right way to host a party and how to prepare truly entertaining meals. One of my sweet boys, Terrance Enright, wrote in his column yesterday, "..now there are only two socialites left in the world: Alexis and Kitty Carlysle." That was nice of you Terrance, but Nan (and Kitty) were in a world far removed from our realm.

I met her once at Diana Vreeland's annual party at the Met for her costume exhibit. It may seem shallow, but we waited and planned all year long for this event; silly as it may sound, nothing excited us more than dancing at the Met's Temple of Dendur every year. We boys pulled out our tuxes, and the girls (and some of the boys) made extragant gowns. One year my neighbor, Milan, ran up to me and said, "Alexis, Alexis! There's someone I want you to meet". Milan was the most pompous creature to walk the earth, but he DID know everyone and I was always be introduced to "the right people" (his phrase, not mine).

I was hustled up to the thinnest woman I ever saw and it was Nan; later I would learn that she was called the "x-ray" because she looked like a walking one. She was elegant, dressed in the most extraordinary clothes and jewels, but was kind enough to chat with me for several moments about clothing (I was studying apparel design). She was accompanied by an odious man named Jerry Zipkin, a professional "walker" of rich ladies. He didn't say a word to me; he was an old, fat fag, and I was a young, thin handsome one.

Sadly, everyone passes on someday, but in the case of Nan there are few replacements of her caliber. The many charities she ran meant more to her than the parties and New York must feel the void. Poor Kitty; she's running out of girlfriends.

I spent an inordinant amout of time in the 90's in the basement of The Pyramid Club. Here i am kissing the hand of door goddess Myoko with Perfidia on the left and on the far right, Juanita Gorbachev, the unfortunate spawn of Mykail's fling with a Havana prostitute. You have to be nice to everyone.

Jacob (and that crazy bitch, Terry) as we left my home to celebrate New Years 2003.

The 4th of July Weekend

Early and fresh again; not because I wanted to, but because an airplane flew what must have been ten feet above the house at 6AM. This bout of good behavior will be the death of me because I normally would have just screamed and put a pillow over my head, but instead got up and ironed today's clothing (in summer you have to have 3 to 4 changes ready). Plus, the airlines are NOT supposed to fly over the densely populated coastline. Their approach is supposed to be over The Everglades which, apart from safety, assures that in the event of a crash, like the one of Valuejet's some years back, recovery efforts are minimalized since the alligators eat all the body parts.

Last night was a great success, although I find that I am always hampered in attending my own events; it becomes a night of mindless chatter mixed with eyeing who is entering next. Eventually, my fear of crowds--what keeps me from attending Madonna concerts and public lynching--forced me to take LPJ (my Little Pal Johnny) and my kocktail klatsch out to the terrace. It was warm and sultry and I could still keep an eye on new arrivals.

A hot, steamy holiday weekend will assure that it belongs to The Palace and I will make sure to bring my camera, Mickey; I doubt the good behavior things lasts very long (it's like linen down here: looks and feels good at the start, but doesn't hold up well in heat and sweat).

LPJ expressed his concerns about, in other words, my mental health after this week and said he wants to spend the rest of the weekend with me. Clever, very clever.

I'm late, I'm late....

... for the opening of our new bar. I worked like a dog all day today preparing the final details for the party. All of clubland is expected to attend; well, of course they will--there's an open bar. It will be filled with the gorgeous and vapid beauties that make this such a wonderful town. It will also be filled with other club owners warily eyeing what we did and how we might affect them. Weeks and weeks of planning hopefully will pay off and we will further cement our hold on what is returning as a truly popular spot.

Oh, and that craziness of several days this week? It's over; I can't imagine the depths of madness to which I sank. There's nothing wrong with me, it's THEM. Fortunately, the road to mental health was a short one. I don't think I even left the driveway.

Now, which dress to wear....

Jacob

I got a call from New York yesterday. I hate telephone calls, but there are always a few names that, when displayed, cause a little rush in me. Jacob is one of them. He read the confused post of two days ago and reminded me that there is little possibility of taking life seriously in a town where briefcase-carrying people are wearing flip flops and shorts.

It was way back in 2002 when an underling came to me and said, "There's someone looking for a job." I hate this sort of thing, but always make the effort to be gracious--at least for ten seconds. It usually takes me about that much time to determine whether a person full of shit or not.

I walked into the room, squinted, and saw a striking young man with blue eyes and blonde hair cut in a Dutch Boy shape. We had a very, very brief conversation, I asked him to return the next day, and turned to the underling and muttered, "Hired". In a town that bogs down in the heavy, humid air, Jacob was a fresh breeze from California. More than that, he was intelligent (a
rarity here), well-traveled (a rarity here), and completing his degree by attending UM.

Jacob was the new, star employee and rapidly rose through the ranks without any help from me. Of course, I provided a little protection from the vipers who saw an upstart impeding their own way up the staircase, but he held his own. I think now that he might have appeared a little like Eve Harrington to those other employees, but who cared.

I was always lecturing Jacob about getting involved with the wrong crowd; there is the "wrong" crowd that's fun and the "wrong" crowd that's wrong. One day he showed up at my doorstep with his bags; his crazy roommate had crossed the line, Jacob had moved out, and he was now being stalked. To this day Jacob refers to this period as "...the time I lived in the rafters of your villa and looked down upon debauchery." I like to refer to it as the time he lived in a spacious, second floor bedroom with lovely north and east views and when he always shared the same champagne from the same slipper. He was the boy in the leather mask who clung to the breast of The Blood Countess at Gerry Kelly's memorable 2002 costume ball and, after an all-too-brief year in Miami, Jacob returned to finish his studies in Spain.

Now Jacob is the general manager of a posh, new restaurant in New York and we speak every week about business, people, wine tasting, drag queens, celebrity sightings, and dogs that can dance the tango. I always get a rush when "Jacob"is displayed on the phone.