Monsieur L'Electric

That was what Marie Antoinette called American ambassador to France, Ben Franklin, and I walked to The Palace this morning to happily find some electricity. There is none in the rest of the town.
As the winds howled and the waves crashed in front of The Palace yesterday, Ditmar hosted our Hurricane Party. He took a charming picture of me strapped to a palm tree across the street, the sheets of rain pelting my frail body, the violent winds ripping my dress to tatters. I hope his maid (who seems to trail his every move these days) can figure out how to email me the image.

Late in the day I donned my hurricane outfit and made my way to Twist; I told Boris I would return, but that proved impossible as conditions worsened and The Palace had to be closed. Twist was wild with hurricane madness; we were treated to a strip tease by Madame Wickenhauser that proved red heads do have drapes that match the carpet. All was going fine until a gust of wind tore off the front door of the club; Valentino, the manager, tied it shut and we had to crawl out a small opening to leave. When the lights started failing, LPJ, the owner of The Wire newspaper, Carl and me decided it might be a good time to eat, and I suggested The 11th Street Diner. I'm an educated consumer and know that not only does The Diner served great American fare, but--as it is located across from police headquarters--is on the emergency power grid. We ate, drank, and sang and then made our way back to Twist; by now all power was out and drinks were being served by candlelight.

Making our way home proved daunting with no cabs in sight, 80 miles-per-hour winds, and a dress that was now really clinging to my body. Suddenly an angel pulled up in a BMW; it was Richard, The Mayor who told us to hop in (I now take back all of those things I've said about him in the last few months).

Nature has a way of pruning itself every now and then; I could not get out my back door because a tree has fallen against it. In fact, there is now a palm tree in my pool that was torn from my neighbor's back yard and I've lost all the banana and bird-of-paradise trees. They can be replaced, but the stained glass window of dragon flies can not; it was the only house damage I could find this morning.

All the visitors for the VMA's are starting to emerge from their hotels; it is time to open the bar and restaurant to welcome them. We'll call it a Post-Hurricane Party and Ditmar will be hosting that one, too.