Another birthday. I developed a benign neglect for the day after a co-worker in New York once inscribed a card with "Better to be one year older, Dawn (Davenport), than fucking dead." And, yes, it is. There is so much fun and happiness to be squeezed out of every day of the year that leads up to the next Dreaded Day. We had a pre-birthday party at The Palace on Sunday with the usual gang. That Pimpernel had set aside the demands of Credit Suisse for three days and attended the Saturday dinner at Camp Astor, presented me with a huge stash of my favorite cheese and chocolate liqueurs, and took up a prominant position at the bar on Sunday.