Yes, this is Andy having a lime sucked out of his mouth by Geraldine; this is my world. I give up on the rehabilitation thing. Sin is so pervasive here that it nips at your well-turned ankles as you walk down tony Lincoln Road. I declare myself fully rehabilitated (since no one else will); anything I did last week was magnificently eclipsed by what I did this past weekend. There is no hope.

I was seeking a quiet afternoon on Saturday and went to Twist, where I ran into my favorite Gaysian, Donnie. We watched videos, including one he brought "300". I was mesmerized by the cinematography and afterwards he asked if I wanted to accompany him to The Palace. I said, "Well, OK; for five minutes." Who was I kidding? Just what can be accomplished in "five minutes". We arrived at the beginning of the drag show and I was amazed at how just about every gay socialite on South Beach was there. Nine shows later I was just about through saying "hello" to everyone when FernanDcute started to whip the crowd into a frenzy. Some DJ's have that power. Boys were gyrating on the floor, on chairs, on tables, on the bar, and on each other. And these were not just The Kids; members of high society like Lady Simpson were on the bar throwing ice; Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish was cradling a tempting (if temporary) Latino in her gloved hands; Riley had his shirt off and everyone was fingering his nipple rings. Yes, things were out of control and that really bothers me, so I ran. I ran right into the back bar and into a little pond of Latino fishies. There is no hope in this town.