After The Fall

Ouch! I was walking back to the house with Officer Brian, Ditmar, and Ditmar's parents (who had just arrived from Austria the day before) and did not see the broken street sign. I stumbled on it and hit the sidewalk. Everything hurts, but no real damage; unless, of course, you consider that scrap above my left brow. Now I feel the porcelain has a scratch and will now sell for a reduced price.

I really think I should leave the antics of last night to Brian for posting; it is truly embarrassing what you will do when you are wearing a leather mask with a little boy's blonde wig on top. Besides beating Brian, who was wearing an orange State Prison jumpsuit and real leg and wrist chains and eating out Ditmar, who was a serial-killer Heidi-of-The-Alps, our dinner with Ditmar's parents on Lincoln Road was a class event. (I did have a bit of a problem with getting the Belgian salad through the zipper on my mouth; next time think soup with straw.)

This is my old pal, Kenny Kenny who is coming down next week to throw a series of parties with another old pal, Susan Bartsch. Kenny was the uber-doorman in New York nightlife; if you crossed him it meant exile from at least two thirds of the club world as know to man at that time. In real life, Kenny was a sweet boy from Ireland who--if you didn't know better--you just wanted to hug. I wonder if we will all be doing this twenty years from now with walkers? I wonder--after last night--if I should move to Montana or Wyoming? OH! Sorry Knottyboy, that's your territory.

With The Palace still closed and all this time on my hands, I'm going to take Brian to The Erotic Museum today. Once again I will head right to that ten-foot penis throne.