For those in town who have labeled me the Cassandra of South Beach for worrying about a severe downturn in business, I invite you to the death bed of an old friend, The 11th Street Diner. I visited my sick friend this morning for perhaps the next to last breakfast and found its employees preparing for the end; a notice had been posted of The Diner's impending demise on Monday. They walked around with worried looks, nervously moving sugar containers and other condiments around as if this activity might breathe some life into the patient.

Situated in the heart of the entertainment district, across from police headquarters, and sharing a wall with the equally venerable Twist, the 24-hour Diner was always the epicenter of activity and gossip. You would walk in at 7am on a Sunday and see the chief of police with his officers at one table, a bevy of drag queens at the next, and a family from Iowa beside them. Come back later and you would often see Rosie O'Donnell (so often that a salad was eventually created just for her, Kelly, and the kids).

Obvious indications of trouble had been mounting and, when the payrolls were missed recently, I could almost assure that my mourning gown would be coming out. It's a sad and mystifying passing; few places were as crowded and popular as The Diner, and--at the risk of not being believed still--I would think more trouble is on the way. Call me Cassandra.