My retirement from the night life is almost ten days into the future, and there have been some episodes: The pouts, the telephone calls; The Saturday night knock on the door ("We went to The Palace and they said you were at Twist. We went to Twist and they said you were at Score. We went to Score and they said you never showed up. "Well, I came home, but I'll go out with you for a nightcap.") There exists the same amount of mischief at 4 PM as at 4 AM; it's just that the 4 AM crowd is much more exotic and way more willing to accept what you say.

The 4 PM the crowd, though, will argue. On Tuesday afternoon a rather energetic and loud argument erupted between four of us at a bar on Lincoln Road. The ignition was just what was the national background of the ill-fated and short-lived Emperor and Emperess of Mexico, Maximilian and Carlota. The family of Max was never in doubt; as the brother of Franz Josef, he was definately Austrian. But the tragic Carlota, born The Princess Charlotte, was confused by the mighty garrison of French troops which guarded them in Mexico City. In the end, it was as if all you had to do was close your eyes and hear Hercule Poiret say, "She's not French; she's Belgian!"

At ten days, I am dangerously close to becoming boring, at which point I will put a revolver to my head. Or a drink...I'm not sure which.