Noon on Friday; not a soul to be seen on Ocean Drive. September is the most distressed month of the year. It is hot, humid, and you are always watching satellite pictures of what's rolling off the coast of Africa. At mid-month you feel like you might be getting away this year and the "H" word is only whispered.

But something else is wrong with September. Everyone keeps asking "What happened to the Europeans?" Although little will ever stop a gay tourist from getting where he or she wants to go, the families stayed home this year, and who blames them. If get through security there is a good chance your plane will be escorted back by a jet fighter when a forbidden jar of hair gel is discovered in flight. We are being slowly strangled by the interruption of commerce, a technique well-known to the people who are not really "terrorists" but shrewd, calculating foes.

At two I am having another lunch with David Kelsey, the head of The South Beach Hotel and Restaurant Association. It is actually part 2 of last Saturday's lunch meeting where I am trying to get a clear idea of where this town is headed. He's also always got a big bag of city gossip to sort through and everyone knows how much I adore gossip. A great site for Miami gossip is thedirtmiami.com; everyone in town is wondering who writes it (and it isn't me, although I should). I avoid the spinach salad this week and stick to the wine.