By Labor day (or as Mikevil likes to write, Labour Day) as hell had broken loose on The Beach. It was hot, it was packed, it had more nearly-naked boys than a high school locker room and there was nothing to do but throw the doors open to the rabble. All I can say is rabble can be fun under the right circumstances. Social luminaries, like Edison Farrow, came to celebrate the three year anniversary of Miss Tiffany Fantasia Phillip's work with The Palace.

Tiffany even called me up to thank me for hiring her two years ago to host the weekend. All I could do was to thank her; she has brought so much to the plate.

Since all the members of proper society had fled the town for the weekend, I had no choice but to open The Palace to the masses. At first, I remained as aloof as Queen Elizabeth at a factory opening, but soon found it rather fun and invigorating. I am not ashamed to say that I was actually shaking my bustle on the dance floor with many of these young scoundrels.

To my horror I had to let The Mob into the famous ballroom; there was no stopping them, fueled as they were by booze and visions of sex. Sometimes it is best to play along and survive.

The ravishingly handsome Captain Marc of The Poles is now all that stood between me and The Mob, but he struck up a close relationship with the Mata Hari of South Beach. I am suspect, now.

There no lack of enthusiasm on the part of the boys; the extra logs we threw in the fireplace made it hot enough for shirts to come off. I always keep some logs in my office.

I witnessed the night start to unravel like a piece of cheap fabric in a windstorm. Old, aristocratic figures were mixing with young ruffians, usually not an unwelcome occurrence with those of us in Court, but there was no doubt things were getting out of hand.

Dances certainly never taught to me in the three years I spent in ballroom dance classes in middle school started to take form, and I started to take note of the exits.

By midnight there was no doubt in mind that the crowd was turning dangerous.

In the end, I had to employ Tiffany for a late number to keep the riff-raff at bay while Mr. Astor and I slipped out the side door of Ditmar's bar disguised an Austrian parlor maid and butler. We made it to the waiting carriage, and I took the pearls out; we weren't arriving back at Le Petit Maison to be spied upon dressed a servants by the neighbors. They see enough already.