And now this....

LPJ left me two frantic calls today that I really knew what it was about. The innocent being that he is told his boyfriend about my site. The boyfriend is livid about my admiration of LPJ, and--quite frankly-- is about the last soul on this island to know that. There was a reason why LPJ was referred to by EVERYONE at The Palace as the Second Lady. I fully admit that the worst mistake in my live was letting Johnny slip through my hands. But things happen.

I told LPJ that it way HIS fault for giving the site to Tom. I never had any use for Tom anyway. But, AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, that insecure mouse should never step foot on The Palace without encouraging the wrath of The Countess.

Shop girls; they are all the same.

There Are More Terrible Things.....

..that can happen to A Lady Of Society With a Past, than this. But, when two hirsute, renowned "tops", Andy of The Evil Empire and Brian the cop sit next to you, something is going to happen. In my case, it usually means being thrown in the pool.

No more Storms

With--God willing--no more storms pressing down on us, I can bring out this shot of me tied to a palm tree across from The Palace during the very first hours of Hurricane Katrina. There were some wags who snickered about just what was holding down whom, but we had a fun day. The wags were never seen again.

Again God-willing, the storms are over and we can begin our season. It will be a season like none before with our new team in place, the 7th there for protection against revolting peasants, and an grand new, second bar.

It will be The Grab Ass Capital of The World.

Shifting Sands of our Lives

God Lord, it was only a week ago that I was walking into the ocean because the only two creatures who had ever meant the time of day to me, KiKi and LPJ (Johnny) were gone. The Gods play tricks on all of us; some can't take those tricks and some fucking deal with them. Why? Because you are never going to win with The Gods; you just have to survive.

ON Monday, LPJ asked if he could come over. Like all of us, he was having personal problems and needed a friend. (How many times have I sort advise from him?) At the same time, Ramon (the "ex"from hell) asked if I wanted to take KiKi for the afternoon. So there--for one brief shining moment--I had the two men who mean every bloody thing to me. And here they were sitting on the side steps of The Palace. I don't think I was ever happier than at this moment. I love them both and have neither.

I still am. Click on the photo so see how beautiful they both are. DAMN!!!!!

The Things You Have To Go Through.....

...when you a Lady of Society With a Past (now there's a group I should be forming!)

I received email picture threats from Carl of the Wire Magazine today that shook my foundation, well to the foundation. Yes, he was looking for a free meal and more I Roveri pinot grigio; what I had fed the beast yesterday only enlarged his appetite. Didn't we learn all thiswith Neville Chamberlain and Adolf Hitler?

Three years ago I was in a rather horrendous accident and had a bit of recovery time in the hospital. Friends like Palace owners Douglas Solomon and Henry Bronkhorst made it a little palatable by always sneaking in Dom Perignon and other tasty delights (the next day, the nurse would always give me the evil eye when she cleaned out my waste basket.

One day Carl and a band of his overpaid staff members came in and tied me up so they could take this "hilarious" shot of me as Blanche Hudson. Then he published it. What a guy.

Penis Cloud Invasion Looms

And they thought I was crazy!!! www.misterbrian.blogspot.com

How Stupid Can You Be?

I just had a long lunch on our patio with Carl, publisher of the Wire. The sky was strikingly blue and the passing storm had pulled all the moisture out of the air so that a dry breeze drifted off the Atlantic playing every now and then with my wide-brimmed luncheon hat with the silk roses.

Carl had just been to court with a friend of ours who had be roughed up on the beach by two thugs in a show, it seems, to impress their girlfriends. They chased the boy down the beach yelling the usual "fag" (funny in a town of fags) and gave him a few cuts and bruises. The boy called the police immediately and they responded within minutes, walked down to the blanket the thugs were on with their girls, (God forbid, they move to another spot) identified them, and hauled them off. The Police Dept. of Chief de Luca has a Zero Tolerance attitude for hate crimes.

This is what astounded me today: In preparation for the October trial which can put this thug away for decades the thug pleaded "Not Guilty". There was a lot of blah, blah after that Carl said as we consumed I Roveri pinot grigio and egg salad sandwiches (very white lady, I know). Then the judge asked the thug, "Is there anything you would like to say to The Court?" Obviously, his public attorney was not the sharpest pencil in the box, because before he could be stopped the thug turned the the fag and said, "I just want to say I'm sorry for beating you up so much."

Carl and I howled with laughter and ordered another bottle.

Help Was on the Way

The telegraph message to the 7th Gay Calvary was short and to the point: "Need help, now. Peasants are revolting. May rape before slaughtering."

At 5Pm the distinct sound of a calvary charge was heard down Ocean Drive and the polished sabers could be seen raised in great anticipation of rape and slaughter. The peasants were all drunk on cheap wine and could not defend themselves adequately. It was fabulous: Tiffany was singing "God Save The Tsar" (the disco version) when the carnage began. Well, there wasn't much carnage as I had befriended most of the Latino peasants beforehand and greeted The 7th with an open bar to quelched their thirst (it has never been for blood). There was an awful amount of carnage in the bathrooms and my office; a war mentality does strange things to people.

Today's Mission

Golden Blonde; what she lacks in beauty is made up by enthusiam and style. I remember letting Edison (who used to host the Sunday Tea Dance at the Palace) bring the boys and girls over to rehearse their numbers on my pool deck. That was WAY before I took control of The Palace.

I woke up today realizing that I have to call the 7th Gay Calvary in to maintain order at today's drag benefit. I can hear the galloping of their horses, I can see the bugles in their hands; a more selfless brigade of gay men could never be found, led--of course--by Captain Jeremy.

The situation in the Gulf has drawn many people to Miami; the freaks, of course, are drawn to The Palace. Yesterday, I spent an inordinate amount of time dirty dancing with a pack of lesbians from Mississsippi. Then I met a married couple from Galveston, Belinda and David. They were both terribly wasted (I was one step behind them). Belinda was a hoot wearing a fringed mini-dress and climbing on everything she could. I had to coax her down (for insurance reasons) from the bar at one point. David was very, very cute with the brightest blue eyes. They were both on their tenth Margarita when I bought them another and put my arm around David and kissed him on the back of the neck. He didn't flinch, so I did what any red-blooded fag would do next: put my other arm around him and stuck my tounge in his ear. Belinda was watching everything while grinding her ass into one of the lesbians. About the time one of my hands was going down David's pants, Belinda came up and said, "Be careful with him. I don't care what you two do as long as I'm there to watch after him."

Music to my ears. Before you could say "Pool Party", they were there and David really didn't mind having things done to him; Belinda occupied herself with the ample amount of champagne left over from the weekend. David even received (I'm sure not for the first time) the joy of anal sex.

Sexuality in America has drastically mutated to that which I've seen only in Europe. Sure, Miami Beach is the modern Sodom and it can in no way be indicative of the nation's rather Puritanical nature, but there is a distinct "war" mentality developing. Perhaps it is the depression over an endless war or the spector of an economy so bankrupt as to hold no hope. Whatever it is, it is making people of all types act crazily.

Send in the 7th.

Friends

Just when I seem to drowning in despair I think of my dear friends who make the difference in my life. Jesse is one of them. LPJ is another; they are always there to remind me that life is great.
And if it fucking kills me, I'm getting Jesse down here and away from his family.

Mister Brian has a funny post about this weekend of madness. http://misterbrian.blogspot.com/

And he has a photo posted of two boys from Puerto Rico that I dragged to the pool party.
God, that party was hot; before you knew it those two boys had their skimpy swim suits off and were doing shocking things to my other guests. The 7th Gay cavalry may have to be called again this weekend.

Rita Goes, The Boys Depart

Brain and Jesse are off after five nights of craziness on South Beach. Jesse looked happy today, really relaxed for once. I impressed the need for him to take a break from the overbearing family he works for and lives with. I reasoned that even if he spent just the Winter here, he might find another person named Jesse under there. I saw this when he doing the Beyonce dance during our hurricane party; he was all out there dancing barefoot on our patio, in all that wind and rain, enjoying the applause and hoots.

At one point in the early afternoon I had to place a call to The 7th Gay Calvary at Fort Brickell, where they had held up during Rita. Our regular, outside bar had filled with straight partiers who found no other haven. They were a fine bunch of customers, but there was no doubt they had never been taught "grab-ass" by the masters of the 7th Gay Calvary. The 7th arrived, bugles in hand, with great speed, set up their command post in the inside bar and did what they do best: drink heavily and grab ass.

All turned out fun for everyone, except for the new member of The Imperial Guard, above, who was a little shaken by the sergeants of The Palace boot camp. We didn't say it was going to be easy...

Rita's Leaving...

...but I fear for the Gulf Coast.

My hunch paid off. Every business on Ocean Drive had panicked and closed; I kept open with a skeletal staff and we were packed with Hurricane Party enthusiasts. We blasted the music, encouraged dancing and bad behavior, and made it as fun as possible although we did have a difficult time opening the door because of the wind. The Gang of Twelve--those very boys who come every weekend to The Palace and grace my occasional pool party--arrived in mid-afternoon and took over the south bar. They had given shelter to poor Jesse who wasn't able to do the Beyonce dance after his night.

Let's hope this is the last Hurricane Party.

Jesse Found Clinging to Army Officer

My nephew Jesse has been found alive and well, except perhaps for the need of a donut cushion. At the height of the storm last night Officer Brian and I decided to place Jesse safely into the care of Army Jeremy, who lives in high-rise on the mainland. Brian and I would ride out the storm clinging to the roof of Twist in the knowledge that our charge, Jesse would live.

And live he did. It seems that Jesse and 5 of the horny guys from the pool party had a party of their own. Brian said today that thought he receognized those howls we heard all night and promptly left The Palace a few minutes ago to buy Jesse a butt plug. Jesse's mom has been calling hysterically worried; she was even more so when she found out he was with five guys.
Ah, the heartbreak of a Jewish mother.

Blowing Winds

After getting the first full nights sleep in weeks, I walked over here to The Palace. Tip to first-time hurricane visitors: don't stand under a palm tree; if a coconut doesn't get you, a frond will. I have always been of the opinion that as long as there is electricity and no evacuation order than we open for business, hence why I am here at 7AM.

Last night me, Officer Brian, Miguel, and Mark went to another business that stays open until flood waters begin to rise: The 11th Street Diner. He brilliantly broke the ice by begining a type of sex confession game; you know "What was the most number of guys you had sex with at once?" And then we would all confess. An entirely new take on someone is established by learning the strangest thing they ever used for lube was a banana peel or that at the age of sixteen they were working in an adult book store. It was very clever of Brian because it not only explained a little more about the minds of the participants, but was supremely entertaining. I noticed several other table deeply involved. Compared to these three guys, I might well just become a nun.

We walked back to The Palace who's hurricane party was still raging on. So far no electric loss.

Battening Down

The first bands from Hurricane Rita have just arrived. Many businesses have already closed on Ocean Drive, but I instructed the managers to stay open as long as possible. Police showed up a few minutes ago to make sure everything was off the sidewalks; they got an eyeful with the huge crowd of men in the bar making out. Ah, life goes on after all. Brian and Jesse have been here since eleven this morning; they are putting in full shifts, Brian says. Ditmar showed up with his maid to host the official hurricane party. It was during the last hurricane that the person now working behind the bar and I fucked all weekend. Maudlin? No, Ed.

From Switzerland.....

...from That Pimpernel:

"Good Lord, GIRL, you have great looks, you have your health, you have a beautiful home, you have a good job, you live in paradise, you have a fabulous sense of class and style, you're smart AND funny, you don't wear your underwear on the outside of your pants, (I could go on and on) just what are you belly aching about!?!?!?"

God, I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself, but guess who just walked into my office to say that he's covering for a sick Ditmar.

I think I'm just going to walk into the ocean tonight with stones in my pockets.

Although, I've been known to wear a smart skirt every now and then. My, my; I'm so tired that I have to go out. Jesse seems to have been married off to William while I was trying to marry him off to army Jeremy who was begging me to marry him off to Raymond who was asking me to hook him up with Brian, who was manouvering to go home with someone.... I got so bloody confused, all I could do was to invite everyone over for a pool party today so that they can just rub against each other and settle everything. Meanwhile, it's not all clear just what David from Columbia means, but all of the above were very protective. It's 2:30am and time to make another run with the girls; it's like a pack of well-groomed wolves.

Heaven Help Me

At noon I walked into Ditmar's bar to make sure everything was going well (i.e. I needed a shot of Van Gogh Expresso vodka) when WHO WAS SITTING THERE? Officer Brian! Just like "Oh,
I think I'll fly down to Miami again for a day or two." I nearly died. We sat and grabbed ass all afternoon, made plans to meet later, and I went home to take a nap. Taking a "nap" is difficult for an insomniac, but I was so happy that it almost came naturally.

I got into a new frock and rushed down to The Palace and who do I see with Officer Brian? Jesse!!!!! Those two had made this plan to slay me with a duo appearanced, unannounced. We had a riotous dinner at The Palace and then went to see strippers at Twist. I think Jesse liked it, but--like a good Jewish boy--was a little taken aback when I tipped Hugo $20 and took Jesse's hand and put it down his shorts. Oh, well; welcome to South Beach. It will be a momentous weekend.

The Beach Puppet Show

For some unexplainable reason I drifted out of bed in a good mood, deciding to make the best of insomnia, and walked over to Gay Beach (right across from The Palace) to watch the sunrise. There were the usual joggers and photographers, but it was mostly empty and the sun was struggling to make is way up beyond a strange formation of clouds. Perhaps it was me, but the clouds had the distinct form of an erect penis with a base of balls. The sun's position behind them was glorious.

I decided to do something I seldom do: lie on my back, hands behind my neck, and watch the sun spurt from that cloud. Funny things happen whem you lie down on the beach in a hooped skirt. You suddenly become a puppet show from the right angle. Punch and Judy hadn't been out in public for a while, but remembered all their old acts. Punch said, "Judy, if your mother were the only woman in Texas, the Lone Ranger would be a-Lone for a long, long time." Judy replied, "Funny, she wasn't complaining last night as she ate you ass out!" The crowd roared; or was that the ocean I was hearing. Insomnia plays tricks on the mind.

Ocean Drive

I've taken to early morning strolls up and down Ocean Drive to relieve some of the stress of recent weeks. Like IanIvy, I am plagued by insomnia and find myself in a dazed state of mind in the mornings.

It seems that Lifetime has been airing reruns of the sequel to The Golden Girls, The Golden Palace. I've received many calls asking if it was filmed at The Palace, but it was The Carlyle--on our block--which was used as the setting. Back then there were only two active businesses: The News Cafe and The Palace. All the Art Deco hotels were retirement homes and I remember my first visit in November 1989. My stroll then down the Drive was very different.

One would walk down Ocean Drive and immediately see change was coming. On one side was a beautiful, palm tree lined beach and on the other a strikingly untouched stretch of hotels from the thirties. Time had forgotten this part of town, relocated the "action" to the area of The Fountainbleu, and left it in a perfect time warp. One woman, Barbara Capitiman, set out to preserve this strip from being torn down and all the hotels were occupied by the elderly. That first night I walked down and observed these people sitting on their verandas; all of them had a strange look on their faces. It was almost like fear. The march of gentrification was clearly being heard and they knew their time on The Drive was coming to an end. I remember feeling badly for them that night and wondering where they would be relocated to. I spent that night at The Warsaw Ballroom and had my first encounter with what would later become an obsession: The Latino Boy.

The Latino Boy was an exotic creature I had only heard tales of. He was colorful, even flamboyant. He didn't seem to be restricted by all the laws and traditions that had bound me and my peers up in New England; in fact, he seemed to openly defy laws and tradition. I was thrilled. He wore as little as possible where I had been taught to wear as much as possible. To this day I find myself buttoning my top shirt button only to have it undone by a Latino; they can't STAND to see that button used. The tropical weather encouraged the wearing of as little clothing as possible, and that suited me fine; I knew it would be only a matter of time before I would be among them.

It didn't take long for me to forget about the old people.

Continuing to Do What We Can

I've been brainstorming with Colleen, one of the directors of the Humane Society of Broward County, which has been transporting 300 abandoned pets to south Florida. I sent her $1000. toward that effort and she suggested I choose two orphaned pets to sponser; they can't be sent down because they have been so traumatized. Our "adoption" will be to feed and find them a good family. I carefully considered all the animals brought so far to the center. There were many cute and happy pets available, so I chose two who looked like they went through Hell; I figured they might have the hardest time of all finding someone who wanted them. They are Buddah the border collie mix, above, and Randy the cat. God, the look on his face is ghastly.

You can see that Ricky went through something horrible.

Being an "Ex" 101

Someone has to do it.

Ten Lessons to Learn for an “EX”

1. There is a reason why you are an “ex”. Focus on it.
2. Don’t beg; it’s so unbecoming. Bitch if you must, but don’t beg.
3. Being bitter never, ever brought anyone back..
4. If you are being paid to shut up, do so.
5. Don’t call me at work to ask how I am.
6. Don’t show up at work to ask how I am.
7. If you have custody of the pets, share that custody.
8. Be nice to my new friends.
9. Life is a banquet. Move on to the next course before it gets cold
10. There’s a reason why I loved you once; don’t ruin that, too.

Note to self: Don’t call someone and “ex” when you’ve slept with them just three times.
That’s a trick, darling.

LPJ is Still in My Life

A couple of other internet friends have inquired as to what ever became of my Little Pal, Johnny. Well, LPJ is still very much around and--although he is a workaholic like me--spent some much-need quality time with me last week. We were particularly amused by this beauty salon window.

We married LPJ off very well a couple of months ago to the head buyer of one of the largest department store chains in the country. Between that and the friendship with Julian Chang, LPJ has reached a type of wardrobe heaven; his walk-in closet in larger than many studio apartments I've seen.

I met my Alabama honey pot back in March at--where else--The Palace. I was struck not only by how handsome he was but by his intelligence, his work ethic, the biting sense of humor he bandied around, and the confidence he possessed. I didn't have to teach this charge very much at all; we just thoroughly enjoyed each other's company all summer; The Fourth of July party stands out in my mind. Sooner or later all charges have to be left off on a much higher step of the Gay Social Ladder; although there was never any doubt of LPJ's abilities, I fretted about what would becoming down the road for him. (So many fall through the cracks.)

Last night I was contemplative about life here. I know that until I leave The Palace no semblance of a normal home life can exist for me. The image of the out-of-control merry-go-round in Hitchcock's movie often comes to mind when I think of life here. Some cling on, some fall off, and there's even a few of us who are laughing. The inevitable crash, though, is coming.

Oh, well; it's time to put on a pretty frock and stroll over to Ocean Drive; Mondays are usually very quiet and it's always a perfect time to look at the ocean and think.

Ditmar was a shameless promoter of donations all day. Thank you, sweetie.

I'm the fool in the pink hat.

My current heartthrob, Raul, with Salem; Aura with Leaha, and my "ex" with Lucy.

Edison Farrow getting a pet-like lap dance from Golden Blonde.

Golden Blonde belting out a number for the pets.

Shania Bright worked it for the pets.

Sunday's Here

I came home today from breakfast at The Palace and tried to take a little nap before the Sunday festivities begin and I have to re-appear at four. I was just about to doze off, listening to the wirring of the ceiling fan, when I hear "tap-tap" and nearly faint at the sight of Hyacinthe at the French doors. When I asked her just what she was doing here, she mentioned me "getting away with something" and I asked just what did she think I was getting away with, standing in my boxer shorts and all. Hyacinthe thought I had the twenty boys over again and hadn't told her (she took that mundane photo, you might recall, and--I think--performed oral sex on one of them.) I told her that life was not one big pool party and that every one of those twenty boys were at the fund-raiser last night not only engaging in serious "grab-ass", but opening up their wallets. (Hyacinthe operates a middle-class hooker call line and couldn't attend. To her credit, she donated $50, though).

I finally counted the money this morning so that I could get it to the Humane Society by Tuesday. $2007.00 was stuffed in Ditmar's glass vase, including checks from B&T Mark and bartender Susie for $100 each. God bless you two, and I thank all you regulars for making it a super Saturday.

Pet Aftermath

What an incredible day it was. Absolutely everyone showed up, and--as it is a "well-heeled" crowd to begin with--generosity was the order of the day. Countess Bedelia is in a state of needing to know just how much was collected. Last night, Crown Prince Boris and I started to count it and realized that 1.) he was too busy and 2.) I was too tipsy, so we stuffed in all into a shoe box and locked it in the safe. It's a huge amount of cash.

Drag entertainers, TV anchorman, Craig Stevens, and a bevy of pups kept everyone happy as did the non-stop pouring of our bartenders, Ditmar, Miguel, Marko, Amit, and Susie. (What a diverse bartender staff: an Austrian, a Honduran from CT, a Croatian, a former Israeli commando, and an All-American girl from Harrisburg, PA.) And STILL we made twice as much as a usual Saturday. I saved the pet beauty products donated by the super-cute manager of Browne and Co., Raul for next week; I got word that 100 rescued animals are arriving here in Miami and that tells me that another benefit is coming up next Saturday. Somehow I woke up to a blonde cutie from Detroit, too; great name: Adam Gunn.

Stepping up to the Plate

...and not the dinner plate. Like all busy days, I've been up for an hour emailing the gang to remind them about the benefit. (I'm alone and it's so much easier to get up and in action that way.) Craig Stevens, WSVN's head anchor, sent me a delightful email last night saying he was coming with his dog, Jack. I don't know who is more gorgeous, Craig or Jack, but Jack licks my face so I'll throw the title to him.

I trudged across the island last night passing out my flyers and accepting the occasional drink from a supporter. That may be why I don't remember coming home, but it was all for a good cause.

My beloved dog, KiKi, has been practicing The Dog Tango for today and I had a hard time finding him a Gaucho hat small enough to fit his classic frame. Ditmar came up with a super list of drink specials for the afternoon and Crown Prince Boris got the staff in line for the occasion.

The lights dim; the curtains rises; a hush descends over the audience. The show is about to begin.

The Press Release

Channel 7 (WSVN), God bless their gay hearts, asked me for a press release today and here it is:

The Palace restaurant and bar is hosting a benefit on Saturday, Sept. 10 between 4PM and 7PM for The Humane Society Disaser Relief Fund. Everyone has been stricken by the images from New Orleans, but many of those poor souls were forced to abandon their pets during rescue and those of us on South Beach are haunted by images of pets locked in homes or tied to poles, starving slowly to death.

Most of us here on The Beach adher to the belief that we would rather die with our "children" than leave them. The best we can do is to monetarily help what is rapidly becoming a mass death of these pets. Please pass the word that The Palace will be holding this benefit and giving away drinks and prizes to those who donate.

Would you leave your child on a leash to starve?

Happy, but Exhausted

I always adored this picture of me before I became a "Working Socialite". Those were such carefree years; well actually days, because I hit the ground running when I moved here in 1997.

A Working Socialite always seems to be in a position that would be the envy of all. Nothing is further from the truth. Sure: being in jail might make you envious; living in a trailer that had just been picked up by a tornado and flung into a Walmart might make you think of it, and perhaps being dead, too. But, "all is not as it seems" (a very, very favorite phrase of Mrs. Astor).

As a Working Socialite many, many things are not just expected out of you, they are demanded. Taking an interest in everyone's "story" is one of them. Here, I am truly blessed because I genuinely am intrigued by what people do, say, and react to; I always have been. Maybe that's one of the reasons I took the camera everywhere I went. When someone is expressing a thought through words or actions, they slightly act it out and the camera is the perfect vehicle for recording this moment.

Another demand is to entertain THEM (the guests). Again, here I am blessed. When I was 16, my mother gave me a book published in 1947 by Esquire magazine entitled, "Esquire's Handbook For Hosts". As dated as it is, the principles of hosting and entertaining have not changed much and, (I guess) Mother sort of knew what the son she called "Mrs. Astor" was all about. But, entertaining is so very simple; it is all about being gracious and caring, not about putting on a show of dancing bears. Dancing boys are a different story altogether.

And perhaps the other important aspect of it all is putting up with the diversity of everyone. Here you have to draw some lines. I do not put up with bores, idiots, prejudice, or bums that bother my customers (I forcibly threw out two this week).

The benefit on Saturday is picking up great momentum. (My saying that I'm threatening people is a sham, of course. All we have to do is explain it's nature and people melt.) Raul, the pretty manager of Browne and Co, the cosmetic store, has secured a great donation of pet beauty supplies that I will be able to have the drag queen hosts raffle off. Thank you, Raul. I'm exhausted because I put on my rubber-soled squashed-heeled shoes and ran around in the sun all day giving posters to the area stores to put up. My flyer boy ran out of them, too, rather quickly. Tomorrow, I am hiring three flyer boys (out of my own pocket, Douglas, if you are reading this from South Africa) to pan out over Lincoln Road.

Exhausted, but enlivened. What a joy.

The Pool Party Must Go On

The Fraternal Order of Poolboys (FOP) had their annual Labor Day cookout. Hyacinthe took this photo of one of the gaggles. You'd think she would have asked them to turn and smile, but she had a hotdog stuffed in her ample cheeks. Still, it's a rather casual shot considering she had a bottle of gin in the other hand. (She also had two silver spoons in her gym bag which I retrieved. I didn't have to be Hercule Poirot here; the last time Hyachinthe went to a gym was at the Baths of Carracalla.)

Stupidity Higher Than Flood Waters

As a side note, you have to just groan when you hear of the things going on with the refusal of help. The Iranian Foreign Ministry offeered to send supplies to The American Red Cross and got no answer; The Cross was afraid it would run afoul of the Bush Administration. And Cuba, with the most advance medical service system outside of the US in this hemispere also seems to have been rebuffed for political reasons. Might as well let people die; the fine restaurants of DC are probably doing a brisk business.

Up Late, Up Early

I pulled one of my ULUE's again sending emails and composing the ad and flyer. Surfing for stories and images sidelined me as usual (I can be a little too anal about researching). This was one of the most sad:
http://aolsvc.news.aol.com/news/article.adp?id=20050904072509990001

Tina, Ahrlene, and Katrina

My old pals from New York, Tina Paul and Arlene Ayala, arriving as waifs in the storm. The were walking up the steps of The Palace about the same time Katrina was arriving behind them. Little did we know that we would have a great time in a storm that caused so much misery later. They are originals and are New York's "fifbears".

Time is running out and the pressure is on to get this benefit organized; my flyers will be passed out beginning tomorrow and the ad goes into The Wire. The "squeeze" is also on and I've already surpassed the $250 originally desired by The Humane Society. My feathered hat is off to those who would not leave their pets and especially to those who risked their lives going back for them. (I was glued to the news sites all night.)

Help The Pets

My beloved dog, KiKi is safe and very well-cared for, but we are agonized by the plight of the thousands of pets that were abandoned, tied to poles, and locked up in apartments across the Gulf Coast. They are all starving to death. I talked with a pleasant lady from The Humane Society on Saturday; I told her of my plan to hold the benefit next Saturday at The Palace. She actually said, "Why sir, if you could donate $250 to us, it would go a long way." I thought, "Oh, girl, I'm a Lady and you don't know how much more than that I am going to raise." All customers have been warned that they had better show up with a check next Saturday; failure to do so will mean social excommunication. Take my word, customers.

The Sun Will Come Out...

..."Tammarah. I love Ed Grow.

Well the sun is out, the "ex" called and apologized for The Scene (he said he was just jealous to see me having so much fun. I replied that the same twenty guys drink themselves into a stupor every Sunday at The Palace, feel each other up, and go home. It's like a factory shift: You punch in, do your job, and punch out.) I spent the entire day running around like a mad white woman trying to stop fights between the drag queens, securing backup sound systems from Twist (It's heartening to have true cooperation between gay businesses.) and we were filled way beyond capacity. Neil Bull left me an obscene amount of money to get everyone drunk on him and I must say I excelled at that. Much the same will happen today except that those same twenty guys are coming over for a pool party. Yummy.

That Pimpernel sent me a precious message from Switzerland about keeping my noble head up:

"The high ground is a pretty good place to be! You look taller, you can see what is coming at you, and your lovely pumps won't get stuck in the mud." Thanks, baby; the show will go on.

Thank you Neil. Oh, that moon is bright!

There's No Escape

Wow, I got an email from my old buddy, Perfidia saying she wants to do a book. I've always taken photos to enjoy this life and never contemplated using them for any other reason. It truly was to record what I saw, nothing else.

I was doing what any red-blooded American does on Labor Day Weekend today: hosting a drag party and pinching boys on the ass when my"ex" showed up at The Palace. Another Honduran, he marched up to me and refused to speak; I guess I've done something to offend the nation of Honduras but I really was just engaging in some serious "grab ass", as Bees would say.

No matter. I have taken LPJ's suggestion to heart and am throwing a lavish pool party today that will disprove any notion that I have any vulnerablity or feelings.

What Was This Creature?

Once upon a time in a mysterious land called The Lower East Side, a magical creature rose from the ruins of a lost world. Swathed in glamour and dripping in talent, this soon-to-be-renowned figure humbly went by the name of Lahoma van Zandt. She was rumored to be possessed of healing powers; crippled, maimed, and young boys flocked to her touch. The miracle that she was propelled her to the highest reaches of VIP rooms and dignitaries bowed before her; foreign princes groveled at her feet and popes washed them. The very first crop circle in southern England was in her image.

I met this legend in the late 80's. In the 1780's she showed the French how to dance. In the 1880's she introduced Broadway to electricity. And in the 1980's she brought a Pyramid to Avenue A. Everything crumbled before her social magnitude.

Mrs. Astor was just a young girl out of finishing school when Lahoma van Zandt went up to her and said, "You're so sweet." I will never forget that night. I knew she really meant it and I embarked on a 20 year mission of adoration. She recently mentioned something about running into each other and enjoying twenty years together. These have been 20 enchanting years of knowing, understanding, and laughing with a being so brilliant as to blind the sun.

I bow.

The "lady" Bunny

Even though she had broken a toe four days before her scheduled appearance (and I didn't ask how), Bunny--a trooper of the highest order--showed up at Crobar and spun her magic. Don't you just want to kiss that face?

Well, maybe you'd better not.

I Remember When She Was a Boy

Amanda Lepore and Ritchie Rich Sunday night at Crobar here in Miami with the "Lady" Bunny spinning. Well, my mind was spinning when I think of the photos taken just ten yars ago at Disco 2000. Was it only ten years ago? I know I haven't aged a bit; in fact, my friend Ponce de Leon told me to come down here and be forever happy. And, I am.

Ritchie Rich and Michael Alig, 1995.

Michael and Amanda at "Blood Feast" night.

Cry Baby

I spent WAY too much time watching MSNBC this afternoon at The Palace and at about 5:30pm saw a piece about a woman who would not leave her dog and be rescued. She had been clinging to the roof of some white trash shack, but had the fucking decency to decide that she was not going to be "rescued" without taking her dog, which the Coast Guard wouldn't do. It was a give and take issue, and I started to cry uncontrollably. (Mrs. Astor, who so haughtily reigns here, is given to such things.) "The Favorite" took my hand and Crown Prince Boris put his arm around me and suggested I go home to rest, from where I write.

I'm going to pull myself together and post some truly grand photos after I stop crying.
It will be a diversion, only. The Palace has already summoned me back.

Plaster(ed)

I had the walls of our new bar finished in Venetian plaster yesterday in anticipation of a well-attended Labor Day weekend. The boys, of course, were invited to celebrate the renovation and Ditmar (who was not working) and I decided that the best way to brainstorm was to plaster ourselves. I booked "Miss" Amy Rivers for Sunday, too, with the theory that you never can have too much of a good thing; she will now commandeer the major part of the weekend fund raising. South Beach is extremely pet-friendly and I was surfing through several pet charities operating in New Orleans only to come home to Ms. Bees Knees message about this site: https://secure.hsus.org/01/disaster_relief_fund_2005?/ She is my princess! My dog KiKi will be throwing his own benefit at The Palace as he demonstrates the intricate moves of The Dog Tango; as Jacob can attest, he is most likely the only dog to actually dance to Spanish music. (Mrs. Astor learned many Spanish "steps" herself over the past six years.)

Ditmar and I ended our trashed evening with my new favorite, the Honduran from Connecticut. The only one who knows the full story of that is That Pimpernel, who is in Switzerland until December; and we ALL know how well the Swiss keep secrets.