Please Allow Stupid People to Die

Here I go again. When will stupid people stop being stupid? The answer is: Never. They were born and bred that way, and we will forever be burdened with rescuing them, watching them on Jerry Springer, or electing them to high office.

Another nighttime, naked swim in a dark, murky lake brought on an alligator attack yesterday. Sheriff’s deputies had to jump in the muddy lake and rescue another nutcase, Adrian Agpar Yes, Agpar; God only knows where that name comes from. But, the poor man, who lost an arm to a twelve foot alligator, did admit that just before tempting fate he had smoked some crack. Great thinking; he’ll get on Springer soon, now, and probably be kept in crack money from government disability for the rest of his life. The alligator, though, had to be tracked down and taught a lesson the crackhead should have: be put to death

Someone looks very worried as he leaves the walls of Vatican City to visit the Turks. In his mind he knows very well that it was not all that long ago that they were at the gates of Vienna threatening the foundation of all that was civilized. However, he is convinced his good heart and great sense of humor will prevail when he ends his speech of piety and forgiveness with the famous ditty:

Take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks'

He says his rendition will slay them.

In the never-ending battle between good (that would be me) and evil, I embarked on another series of conflicts with City Hall today. Unless we hire a professional permit dealer to complete THIS battle, I am sure to lose it. This morning, as I was being shifted to one office to another, I stood in line for 40 minutes paying a bill from a previous owner for $2.80 trying to explain that I wanted to pay and wanted them to erase it from their records.

This afternoon I found myself at the same counter trying to pay the same people $2,800 for a current bill; it looked as if I might have to wait 40,000 minutes to pay that, but something quite unusual and something I just eat up happened.

Next to me was an elderly lady, exquisitly dress in cream linen slacks and a fire-engine red blazer with a near, white bob going on about how confusing all these city and county bills had become, how she couldn't understand why they were billing for property she no longer owed, how her only daughter had died and left her alone to deal with these things, and why weren't there people to help her. She was nearly crying when she said she had trouble going to the drugstore, let alone wandering around City Hall. I was feeling very sad, but the clerk was being extremely understanding and helpful (something I had never seen before there), and every now and then we shot a glance to each other as if to say, "We wish we could help. Getting old and being alone is A Bitch". I listened, too, as I had about another 39,950 minutes to wait.

It was obvious from her dress and carriage that she was not poor and she had what turned out to be a Swedish accent. She brought out many ID's and said, "Look; I've always kept all my paperwork. Here's my original driver's license when I first arrive in 1961." (It was of a young, blonde woman, my eyes were all over her now.) "I still have everything; even my first Social Security Card." The clerk, a patient black woman of about 50 exclaimed, "I've never seen that before on a card", and I bent over to look closer, too. It read "Countess so-and-so de Lewenhaupt" (no more full names until Google melts down)

The old lady said, "We were Swedish nobility when we arrived. We never started any wars. We did everything the right way. Wen I came here they asked by name and that's how I gave it." Fabulous! We all could have "Countess" on our cards if only our parents had been bright enough. She lightened up, the clerk and I were just gleeful and the lady asked the clerk to lunch. I left them still arguing about lunch (that elegant, lonely lady wanted someone to talk with so badly) and--of course--Googled the De Lewenhaupt name.

This is the Star of 1780 from Areen and Lewenhaupt. and that family does have quite a history it appears. Oh, that City Hall.

It's good to have Jeremy back and the troops came out to welcome him. He loved Bogota and said it had about 50 gay bars (which is 46 more that South Beach). Most of us have trouble imagining a city like that maintaining such an open life, but he said life was good there for American visitors.

Some people refuse to acknowledge the end of White Party; they can never let go. But South Beach should settle into a sleepy three and a half weeks now. Although I bemoaned the level of activity there was one, civilized moment when Pimpernel gave a lunch on Sunday; it was a welcomed retreat for several hours and was--of course--a bonanza of foods and beverages. I truly exhibited some restraint after the feast of Thursday, and obsessed about that this morning. No worry, though; he's invited me over for another late lunch tomorrow and then onto his champagne Goodbye Party at 7 PM tomorrow. The gates of The Palace will be flung open again to The Court and, unless I want to meet him at the airport on Wednesday for some nuts and cocktails, it will be the last, farewell gathering. Well, who knows....there's always breakfast.

White Party is almost over, but I have departed the scene anyway. Most of us worked 20 hour days and--although I realize that "working" doesn't necessarily mean assembling something in a factory here--it still mean't a constant attention to activity even if a cocktail was in hand. You would come home, collapse, and reassemble yourself the next day. I stopped taking photos days ago, but did capture one of the "moments" with Dave ("Miss Bea"), our favorite gay Mormon.


Dave is one of those exceptionally positive people who understands that the reason you visit South Beach is to have fun. So, it did not surprise me to find him with his hands down Emiliano's pants; doesn't everyone want to do that?

Then, I noticed a very handsome couple and loudly inquired, "Just what are they looking for here? I know it's Bi-sexual night, but...." Dave cut me off and just exclaimed, "Well, I'll find out!" He found out that they were engaged to be married in a couple of months and just liked the atmosphere.

Within seconds it was established that the girl had no problem with attention of men to her betrothed, that she would even think of watching something, and the boyfriend was unbuttoning his shirt for all of to admire. And there was much to admire.

Dave asked, "Do you mind having your nipples pinched by other men?" and the guy said, "Hell, no" which I thought, "This is the way to start White Party". South Beach is kooky; there are those who understand that it is an Anything Goes place and make the best of it without the attitude and uptightness.

Before I came home I watched thousands of people--all types--engaged in or observing the great beach dance that is held every year. At 8 PM barges just off the coast set off a splendid array of fireworks and it was a little emotional to realize again that I am lucky enough to live in a city which celebrates diversity like that. There are so many less lucky.

Aida, My "Little" Slave Girl

The new Opera House, actually named The Ziff Ballet Opera House after Sanford Ziff, was a nice surprise. It wasn't an earth-shattering experience and was typical of modern architecture, but it was grand. The interior of the auditorium disappointed me, but I can easily dismiss that to a jaded past; the great hall is reputed to have one of the best acoustics in modern times, so if it was a little bland for my taste so be it. The sound was great; perhaps gold leaf and gargoyles don't help all that much in that area.

The show was stolen by Angela Brown as the princess-in-captivity/slave girl. She wasn't the most fragile of slave lovers, but her vocal abilities precluded all else. We were lucky to run into a employee of the Florida Grand Opera before hand who told us that the grand, Victory March of 140 performers did NOT have live elephants but (gorgeous) slave boys carrying huge tusks. I complimented her for not contributing to animal abuse and silently thanked her for giving me a new idea for slave boys.

We all agreed that is was refreshing to see Miami come out in all it's glory. Although the men were as boring as London on a Sunday, Miami's woman were in full regalia of jewels, gowns, and furs. And, there were plenty of what I called, in New York, Opera Queens.

So, I did what any Opera Queen WOULD do today: I bought tickets to the whole season including the world premier next March of "Anna Karenina". (And, I knew her back in the good, old days in St. Petersburg, so they better do her right!)

All is set for Ditmar's opera party tonight for the premier of Aida.

The most striking thing to me about going to see the premier of Aida at the premier of the new Opera Center is that the joke is that the Opera Center took longer to complete than the Great Pyramid. Outrageously over-budget and long after several booked divas had passed away already, it opens in a glittering performance of an opera written by Verdi to celebrate the opening of the Suez Canal.

It was a great original premier. It was 1871 and the Egyptian Khedive and the French were flush with success at the joint venture to open the canal and staged the opera with the Pyramids as the backdrop. Slaves were easy to come by, as were elephants.
Elephants have always been one of the main players, but since the Miami Opera Center has no parking, they surely have no dressing rooms for elephants. (They wouldn't even try it anymore; PETA is just a call away.)

Anyway, I've seen Aida before and ANY story that ends in a tomb is fine with me. 1871, by the way, was the tomb for the French. It marked the year that one of the most glittering courts in Europe, Napolean III and his glamorous wife, Eugenie were sent into exile in the Franco-Prussian War, a prelude of two more, very more horrible wars to come.

The opera on the Suez was actually postponed because the war delayed the shipment of the costumes. How rude.

I rubbed my eyes is disbelief this morning to the news that the Bush government warned that Syria was destabilizing Lebanon by involvement in the assassination of some low level minister of fig tree growth or something.

Condie, Condie, Condie..... Don't you remember that the gang of liars and thieves you work with have already been taken to task for your hypocrisy by the voters? And, just WHAT about Israel and its hand in this; wasn't there a little destabilization in destroying the infrastructure of Lebanon and killing hundreds of civilians by them? Oh, yeah; and, those "smart" bombs that brought down apartment buildings and cluster bombs that killed children in fields....You supplied them, too, right?

Some day soon, you and your boss will hopefully be indicted by The Hague for war crimes and jailed. And, you know what I hope the most? That your hair--deprived of straightener--will make you look like Angela Davis.

Welcome Home Jeremy

As the temperature dips again, even I must resort to the furs for tonight's party.
Two words were on everyone's lips today: "The Forties", and I don't mean the wartime years. Special alerts were broadcast all day to take in the pets and plants tonight. KiKi is in his ermin cape already (the tails on the cape dance when he takes a walk to his water dish).

Jeremy stopped by for lunch today and took over command once more. Columbia--and the rest of the world--can leave him in our care for a while. We have some corny, patriotic decorations and an awful amount of liquor to celebrate the return of our hero. And, Order must be restored. (I bet his tail will dance a little when he walks to his "water" dish.)

At 6 AM this morning I was cleaning my oven. In preparation for Thursday? Of course. An ulterior motive? You know it. I figured that if I kept my head in a pre-heated oven long enough, perhaps I might be able to bring my body temperature back into the mid-nineties.

The temperature dropped into the low 50's on The Beach, even lower on the mainland, and it is nothing compared to the rest of the country's weather woes, but we are not used to it. By Sunday night we were seeing our first furs and leather coats. It is, of course, only a temporary thing down here and the temps should be back in the mid 70's by Thursday (and my oven will be clean).

As if the weekend wasn't enough to deal with on the job front, KiKi picked a fight with a dog three times his size and probably a lot younger and had a chunk of skin behind his ear chewed off. (Don't small dogs look at themselves in the mirror before they leave the house and see how small they really are?) Despite all the blood, the local animal hospital patched him up and told me to just watch out for infection. He's playing it for what he can now; since he's alone during the day I stop by to apply his medicine and bring him a treat. (The biggest treat for me is to get away from work now, anyway.)

Jeremy's party is tonight, although we may have lunch this afternoon first and then White Party begins. My "white party" event will the Ditmars opera party on Wednesday night when we all attend Aida at the new opera house; there's great interest in seeing just what took so many years over time and over budget to complete. Of course, in true Miami fashion, at the last moment the builders and all their cousins in City Hall decided NOT to build the three parking garages to go with it. Why would you, when the mayor's cousin owns the biggest taxi company?

A near meltdown occurred this week with a Herculean effort being made to open the new back bar and Boris resigning and drifting off. When told this morning that the entire staff was drunk by closing, I could only reply, "What else do you expect from the stress they are under? I'm surprised no one has killed someone else." Everyone has been working 14 hour days and the fighting and screaming is more than anyone should put up with. Still, chaos often brings opportunity and my grandmother--always full of snarky quips--once said, "In a time of confusion, he who knows what he wants can get it".

As nice as the Balkan staff is, Boris had allowed The Palace to drift away from it's gay roots and I seized upon the week's drama to conduct a raiding party under plan for some time.


First, I stole Gere from Seventh. I knew he could handle it, although the poor thing was put to work on Ditmar's new bisexual night, Sexy People, Open Your Minds. (Bisexuals are a nutty and fun bunch, although we weren't prepared for the wild atmosphere that developes when there really IS something for everyone.)

Then I lifted James from Score in an daring move to actually have a blonde, gay, American boy working for us without a vowel at the end of his name or an accent like Count Dracula.

Our other blonde and beloved Jeremy returns tomorrow and perhaps he can crack the whip again and maintain some order around here. His welcome home party on Tuesday night should put to rest all those pretenders to his long vacant position, and I certainly will feel more secure when--as Riley always likes to point out--I "wield power" with my captain beside me.

Palmer's image of a man without hope in Miami summed up my day today with Ditmar.

With Ditmar? Well, he coaxed me to go to Downtown today to advise on the purchase of a large amount of fabric. I agreed, although with great reluctance, but I did know the best fabric stores: the Spanish ones if you want something a little gaudy and affordable. Everyone knows my dislike of Miami, the city, and I wasn't proven wrong.

Traffic is a nightmare even though the thinking is that the twenty new skyscraper condomiums in Downtown will add little stress to a city that was laid out by dyslexic drunkards in 1910. Some streets go East at 3 PM and the West at 5 Pm. After finding a garage in which we wouldn't be knifed because we found a spot on the first floor, we ventured out into a Twilight Zone. While billion-dollar buldings are going up on virutally every other corner, the cheesy "novelty" stores, the discount cha-cha shoe emporiums, and the "$4.00 Buffest, All You Can Eat" bodegas still thrive. (Their leases are coming up, no doubt.) Mexican pinata music confused my staid mind with the next business's hip-hop blare.

I wanted to run like Tippy Hedren. We purchased the fabric easily enough (I DO know my fabric), and--therefore--why I was brought to suffer this pain, but I became disoriented trying to find the way back to the garage; and I MUST be forgiven. If you go to Downtown Miami, bring a Xanax for the panic, a Vicodin for the pain of walking on unfinished sidewalks, and an attitude of "Tomorrow we die? Oh, no; it is today on Flagler Street."

Store after grimey store was blaring something I can only describe as "foreign" and I started to have a panic attack. There are no crosswalk lights for pedestrians; at one point a well-dress old lady said, "Well, I guess we are going to have to make a break for it." The noise of the constant drilling and hammering of these scryscapers was gnawing at my nerves and after nearly tripping on an unfinished sidewalk, started repeating, "I hate this city, I hate this city, I.....(again)" Ditmar finally cut me off and exclaimed, "Stop it! Stop it; you are becoming hysterical."
When we finally got in his car and was on the road to home, Ditmar stalled the car and said, "I can't believe this is happening". That was when I lost it and before I jumped out of the car and begged for a ride to safety, he said, "Gotcha!" What a wise-ass.

Oh, That Countess.....

Everyone knows how much I love The Countess Bedelia; I absolutely adore her. She maintains a glittering court; well, as glittering as can be in the dark, cold mountains of Transylchusetts. (Even her pet bats winter here in Miami.) And, although there have been issues between us in the past about stealing young men from my court when she visits, I long ago resigned myself to the fact that there are just too many of them to count; I let her have all she wants.

But my spies in Boston reported in an early morning telegram (coded, of course, and shoved in my sleepy face by the gloved hand of servant) that The Countess had once again defied the Countess Code and was seen dancing--on of all things--a podium. REALLY! Surely it is permitted to take a dance with a fine, young guardsman (or two) and I have even been known to lead The Quadrille for the sake of levity. But, a podium? We are NOT politicians!


I was shaking my head when I realized she had given me a biography of her early, Countess years. And, there it was; dancing comes as second nature to the head of the Court of Bedelia. I grimaced, thinking about how stark, boring, and frugal my early Countess years had been. It was as if I was brought up by Puritans until I finally ran away to New York and found a table to dance on.

So, The Great Southern Court sends a message to Bedelia: "You go girl!" (And you can be SURE that we will never show that video of you doing The Watusi.)

I know that I have been through many fashion phases where hats expressed my ideas and feelings, my way of life, my hope for the future. Sometimes my hat beckoned to a life that was exotic, almost Mata Hari-like; at any moment you could face a firing squad, but would I'd feel gorgeous nonetheless. I often wore this to early evening events like the opera when I was new in New York and needed to draw attention to myself.

Later, as social life settled down to be more of a more constant and stable existence, and pearls in the hair gave way to silver, I became more confidant of my social position and embraced the theory of "Less is More" (although it never was, of course. You'd have to be a fool to believe that).


This afternoon I ventured to my Court-in-Exile on Lincoln Road rather dressed down. I did not want to draw attention to myself and, yet, had to express my feelings. My dress was drab, to be sure; it was nothing less than Berlin 1919, ("I Once Had Something, But Now Do The Best I Can"); you couldn't have even called it Casual Chic, because it was just drab. HOWEVER, I did what any decent white woman would do under the circumstances and "accessorized".

So, I became rather distraught when the third or fourth person come up to me and said, "Oh, I didn't recognize you with the baseball hat on." In each instance, I shot back, "It is NOT a baseball cap; it is a polo cap."

People are so blind.

The great Northern Court of The Countess Bedelia has been in obvious competition with the great Southern Court of Mrs. Astor. This week they attended a performance of Hairspray, GLBT parties, star-stalked helpless entertainers (they ARE ruthless up in Trannsylchusetts), indulged themselves in lavish treats from Newport's duBarry, and seem to have had a great time of it.

Although we spent most of the week dancing on table tops in celebration of Victory, we now feel the need to plan and plot an exciting event of our own. The opportunity came in the form of a phone call from Bogota yesterday when our beloved Captain Jeremy exclaimed how happy he is to be returning to a free America in ten days. And there it was: The Welcome Home Party.

On Tuesday, Nov. 21, everyone is invited to The Palace to celebrate the return of our hero, Jeremy. Well, by "everyone" I--of course--I don't mean everyone; you will have to have been presented at Court already, you will have to be impeccably dressed (or undressed as the body might dictate), you will have to be able to execute the most delicate steps of Court dance (or at least be able to execute a peasant), and be mindful of "The Carpet".

"The Carpet" is the designated area of Jeremy's position. This area is reserved for me, legal counsel/campaign manager, Riley, Chris (there is always room for a Swiss banker), and any former members of the famed 7th Gay Calvary. All others must not stay on "The Carpet" for more than a minute or two of greetings.

Ok, "The Carpet" is a silly joke, but based on a true story. In the highly stratified world of the court life of Queen Victoria, position near her was dictated by position in royal society. The French Empress, Eugenie, had been living in exile since 1871 when the Franco-Prussian war caused the fall of her husband, Napoleon III. Victoria, as Empress of India, regarded Eugenie as an equal and both stood on a special carpet at royal receptions. No one dared step on that carpet; there were only two empresses in England.

One day an American actress of great regard was being presented at Victoria's court and, upon entering the room, got excited and dashed toward the two empresses, hand extended. Everyone gasped at this horrible break in protocol, but the real terror was that the actress was about to step on "The Carpet". Both Victoria and Eugenie maintained a frozen stance until--just a step from "The Carpet"--The Duchess of So-and-So gracefully grabbed the American's arm and led her to the side. Civilization had been saved.

"V" is for Victory or Veuve

The very, very last political victory celebration was hosted by Chris, the Magnanimous Chris, again. He managed to purchase every bottle of Veuve Cliquot The Palace had on hand and then finished it off with a Dom; the book, "Modesty in The Drinking Venue", has no place in his library. We like that; the victors have no need of immediate modesty, just long term and, we had better demonstrate that. (There is always a Photo Hog ready to barge at every opportunity, as you can see.)


The edginess of the night was brought to a crescendo when Geraldine performed this week's Belly Shot off of a lesbian. Although gasps went up in the crowd, I thought this a wonderful example of our diversified crowd.




And, perhaps the most endearing part of the evening was when the very tipsy and ever-vibrant Cosette requested a photo with our new hottie, Argentine bartender, Emiliano. She said, after, "I would fuck him East, West and In-between and show him what a woman of an Indian, Saudi, and German background can do for him."

We all looked at each other and nodded with brilliant smirks.

Celebration

I know, I know; I was supposed to take the afternoon off and catch up on much-needed rest, but it was not only Papa's (Ditmar's) birthday week, but a great day to be alive in America after a long, long nightmare. So, I naturally accepted the invitation by Chris to attend his lavish lunch at Smith and Wollansky because it was a victory party, too. We dined at our usual table overlooking the fortress-like Fisher Island and watched boats dashing across Government Cut and, that was so appropriate today because we cut their balls off and were about to dine on them.

Victory is sweet and I ended the lunch with Smith's famous Apple-Browned Betty although I can truthfully report I only took a few bites of it to join in the celebration. However, before that, I agonized over my main course as the servings tend to reflect the prices and be too much and too rich. Like Mama and Papa, I chose the conservative tomato basil soup and then thought to pick another prudent dish, The Free Range Lemon Chicken; all seemed under control as Ditmar went on and on about recent parties and his father vented his lament about how the Austrians are always portrayed as Nazis when it was really the Germans.

Then, lunch arrived. Lamb, pork ribs, prime rib, and other meats were all passed out before my sensible chicken dish and for a moment I thought they forgot mine. Suddenly a dish was presented of an ENTIRE roasted chicken which dwarfed the Flinstone-size portions of the rest of the table; gasps, then laughter erupted from everyone. "Would you like me to quarter it, sir?" the waiter asked. "Please", I moaned.

So, that was the big joke of the day, through the dinner and the cocktails at the waterside bar afterward, and then all the way home. However.....



I am not the only one who has dined on whole-dish Nero-like meals. A look back into the archives finds a day when fox was on the menu for Ditmar. I never wanted to show this photo because I thought the addition of ketchup to fox to be so common. Everyone knows fox is best served in a zesty gorganzola sauce, but--as we all know--there is no accounting for taste.

The greatest cheer went up at tonight's election party when Lincoln Chaffee was dealt a humiliating defeat in Rhode Island. Chaffee was a decent man, like his father, but although he struck a middle-of-road stance, more often than not he caved in to the Republican Party's wishes on crucial votes and thereby became the victim of the repudiation of all things Bush.

There has been a Chaffee representing Rhode Island for nearly half a century; they are members of a family of landed gentry and revered as much as the aristocratic (but Democratic) Claiborne Pell of Newport. But enough was enough and off went his head. The thinking was if you could get a Chaffee out in Rhode Island, anything was possible, and--what do you know--it was.
Rhode Island is a quirky state; as Chris Matthews pointed out, "Rhode Island is a practical state", but it goes even further. The state was always a lightening rod for pragmatic radicalism. It was founded on the notion of religious freedom by Roger Williams for the quakers in Providence and Anne Hutchinson down in Newport and saw the establishment of the first Jewish temple, Touro Synagogue in Neport. It was the first state to declare its independence from England and--ever mindful of its independence--the last to ratify the Constitution (and only did so when threatened to be treated like a foreign country by the other 12 states). It may be the only state that had an armed rebellion called the Dorr War when another patrician politician, Thomas Dorr, tried to seize armed power and give the right to vote to more than landed males. It is a state that has always defied outside influence and no more vividly by the fact that it was the only state not to ratify the the 18th Amendment prohibiting the consumption of alcohol.

Tonight it sent a favorite son to the gallows for complicity in the lies, corruption, and bankruptcy of the Bush administration. That makes Jeremy very happy for he despised Chaffee. I remember his father, John Chaffee and sister, Libby, as a child; they lived near my aunt and were such gentle and well-liked people that we actually cried when Libby was killed by the kick of one of their horses, so I always was a little soft on Lincoln's inexplicable membership in the Republican Party.

Now he's been kicked out, too; this time by a donkey. May the investigations begin and the heads start rolling.

Being Happy...

...in The Happy Place. Tonight brought a close to a ten day tsunami of parties, dinners, and dancing. Instead of moaning and groaning about the changes we have suffered through at The Palace, we focused on being happy and proved that an enlightened group of like-minded people can turn any place "happy". There were conga lines of hipsters like The Countess and Ditmar to join in on...

...or pockets of "The Kids", our resident, constantly gyrating Latins.

I didn't go directly to La Casa. There is always work to be done and I had to plan tomorrow's victory celebration; regretably Jeremy can't be here for that. With John Kerry's mouth duct taped shut there isn't much chance of a Democratic "mistake" and after they are kicked out of the Congress tomorrow, I fully expect the Republicans' heads to be mounted on pikes. All this election nonsense could have been avoided if my other suggestion of just surrounding the The Capitol with troops and shooting every other one was deemed too harsh. (I miss the old days when The Tsar would just send The Duma home; it was a simple solution to an annoying problem, and one that assured that we didn't have to sit through so many nasty commercials.)

Another issue addressed was the assembling of a two-year plan for Jeremy when he returns. This white paper (being drafted by Riley) will set out a list of recommended activities and positions for Jeremy's own congressional run down the road. Our steering committee will review every action, every statement, every possible "mistake" he might make; who knows what crazy ideas he's going to be carrying back with him from Bogata! We are going to be very firm with our friend and quite frankly tell him that our future ambassador positions are on the line and we have already begun planning the countries we will serve in. That's right, Jeremy, it's not just about you any more; it's US, and by that I of course mean the country.

I don't know what happened.

Every time I have ever slipped into a satin dress, I have felt gorgeous, frail, and alluring. The recipe was there: blonde, curly hair, lace gloves, darling (if tight) satin, bowed slippers, but some how the cake came out wrong. The boys should have been lining up for a dance with me-- perhaps a stolen kiss, or even a ...... Well, I did have that crippled sister of mine, that "big, fat movie star" acting so abused like I didn't feed her or something. I'd take a big, long sip of my gin, look at her like this, and start kicking. Sometimes I'd kick her so hard I'd bruise my feet.

But the crowd loved it because it was ME they came to see.

The Herald Gets Revenge!

After years of my mocking it, The Miami Herald finally got it's revenge on me in today's paper. There, in a feel-good section of this mindless publication, I awoke to a full-page cover photo of me as Baby Jane Hudson.

Of course, I didn't see it first because I don't buy The Herald, but plenty of others did.

And the "In character"; I know that's a crack of some sort. The screaming has continued all day. and you can just catch a glimpse of those dainty lavender, bowed slippers that nearly resulted in my feet being amputated.

Then we'd both have to fight over the wheel chair.

More of The Ritz Carlton Lunch

Well, there's always Picassa. And as tedious as I find it, I can show a few more photos of that afternoon. Once again, it was just a superb combination of glam and fun and proof that if you EVAH turn down an invitation to an event of duBarry's, you are a fool. She ruled at the head of the table and I noticed that she maintained the same sort of seating-according-to-rank I do on Lincoln Road. The Countess was immediately on her right, a seat reserved for only the highest of rank. I sat at the opposite end with South Beach powers; it was a delight.

(And, I'm not one to gossip, but Brian had so many plates at that brunch, that I swear at one point he bribed a chef for his cap and was behind the tenderloin board, cutting his own.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brian's glasses, naturally, were adorned with handcuffs, guns, badges, and other appropriate garnish. This was shortly before he began his feast. 

A clearer shot of the elegant table. 

Am I the only one having trouble with uploading photos on Blogger?