Thank God for friends; Carl and Thomas Barker--two bigger drunks than me-- drove me home tonight to save me from myself. First, they gave me a lovely Man-Bag to take my mind off of things and then we played Baby Jane. We had been talking about that movie all night and when we arrived home we re-enacted the scene where a drunk Jane opens the the gate to the mansion; when I got to the gate I turned, froze, and Carl gunned his car toward a startled me. We were all laughing, but unfortunately a neighbor happened to be walking by and got very concerned. Fag humor doesn't travel well everywhere; fuck him if he can't get a joke.

Then, to prove life goes on, wax-sealed invitations arrived and set off a social fire storm at Court. I had to come out of semi-mourning just to beat off the scoundrels seeking a treasured spot at du Barry's upcoming soiree', Tiaras at The Palace. The super, private affair in the new, back bar will feature unique, hand-made tiaras for every attendee, and the first invited were flaunting these invitations like jewels as local newspaper coverage of du Barry's Halloween extravaganza at The Ritz Carlton cemented his name and glamour together forever.

This, together with my working on the fifth annual Dachshund Winterfest, the Food and Wine Festival, and half a dozen other projects suggests that an easy escape from Court may be difficult. Ditmar has got me so wrapped up in his bisexual night that I don't know if I'm coming or going and his other "theme nights" take even more work and attention. I did get a job offer/interview from a club in Honolulu (Jeremy may seek a five year appointment there, so I've started covering bases.)

While the economy slides into the abyss and Ethiopians (off all people) are mounting invasions, I am consumed by the thought of just who is getting the biggest tiara.