As it turned out, I was a slave to convention and did dress in white for The White Party. Has it really been three days already? On Thursday, Thomas Barker whisked me away and treated me to dinner on Lincoln Rd. Like all things here, it got out of hand and became a five hour bacchanal of club people. Yesterday was taken up by a sea of gossip mongers flowing in and out. If gossip was a commodity, The Palace would be the New York Stock Exchange.

As soon as I gracefully entered the front ballroom on Wednesday, there was Riley with that smirk on his face. "So, where is the red chiffon?" he asked. I wanted to slap that smirk off his face with my white-gloved hand, but you always need a good lawyer, so I replied, "Oh, I didn't want to be too controversial." Big mistake; for the rest of the night, indeed probably for the rest of my life, he kept answering anything I said with, "Well, you wouldn't want to be too controversial."

Some of the old guard showed up and when I looked around it reminded me that we are in the tropics and it is easy to over-dress. One moment you are looking so serene in your brocade gown and the next you can be passed out from heat exhaustion.

Still, some of us did do our best to keep up appearances.

Chanel and Edgar have been leaders in the Rear Guard for five months now.

As Ricky says, "They are a bunch of good kids", and they are; they have loyally stuck by Ray and The Palace day after day.

In the end, everyone did appear to be quite wasted, but that is the whole point of this island. Despite what the old hags in City Hall try to do, Carl Fisher invented this town to be a play pen and it goes down that path with an extraordinary flare. From the time the sun comes up to...well, the time the sun comes up, the partying in this city never stops. It will be the death of all of us, but it won't be a boring demise.

And may love forever flourish in this den of sin.