The world's gone mad today, and good's bad today and black's white today, and day's night today..... What was going through my mind when I promised to sing Cole Porter tonight at Score. Was it the immense pleasure I garnered by seeing my Sweetie? I wrote that post not knowing she was not only staying town, but staying in the penthouse of the Townhouse. Goog Lord, how far she has come; she even bought me a drink with a platinum Amex along with Henrietta. She is my greatest success story considering I supported her broke ass for ten years. Still, I have to worry about singing tonight; I can't let my mouth write a check my body can't cash. Mr. Astor is giving me a D Squared belt to soften the pain.

We are beginning backwards here. Boys late in the night were all over Henrietta. Why wouldn't they be?
Dusitin Refka and his boyfriend, Patrick, were in attendance to Henrietta's appearance.
Henrietta's shoes (purchased in the sixties) were dice loaded in loose lucite. How fabulous.
And, here is my baby and my Sweetie (Lincoln) with the Grand Duchess of South Beach social life, Henrietta. How far Sweetie has come to be the travel agent to The Stars.

My baby, Leopoldo, with promoter Dustin Refka and the infinitely fabulous Henrietta. I graciously bow to her for inviting us to enjoy her journey this evening.,

The far, outer bands of Hurricane Gustav made for a very unsettled day and all eyes are on the unpredictable, Hannah, now. I've already made plans to secure the property in case of the worse, but no one knows what will happen now. I met Leopoldo at Twist to cavort with the scrumptous Tommy Decker after work when I recieved the call.

I looked at caller ID and it read: "Henrietta"; royalty was calling. I rushed to a more quiet spot and got a request to accompany her to Score tonight. We were really planning to go to retire early again tonight, but in the immortal words of Empress Elizabeth of Austria when she received the mother of the girl (Mary Vetsera) who committed suicide with her only son in 1889 and and the mother, crying, turned to leave the room," One does not turn their back to Magesty". Well, that's were we are now; Mr. Astor is napping and we both want to retire, but....One does not turn their back on Majesty. We will do what we have to do. The story of life.

I have been blessed with a rich life of people and experiences; quite frankly, there is no reason in science why I should still be alive, but for the thought that divine providence chose me to record and later report all I saw. This brings me to Sweetie. What a tragic character on the stage of life. She was what some would call a "package deal"; she was the best friend of a guy who became my boyfriend in 1989. With this package came all of Sweetie's little faults. She liked parks, and not for the reason of preserving them (unless it was to have a bush to hide behind). When I adopted her that year she immediately adopted Stuyvesant Park as her playground. Then, there was her drug habit; she just had to have it all the time. Quickly, I realized that I had to make a bad situation work for me; she was just taking way too much of my money not to. So, I dressed her up for photos knowing that in the era of Club Kid Land, anyone would be attracted to a freak. Sweetie was the best; as long as she was fed a constant stream of liquor and coke she did anything I asked. She was known as my retarded daughter, but there was nothing retarded about her. As much as I used her, she used New York City's glitterati; she was working in the airline industry and everyone wanted a deal. I truly admired how Sweetie parlayed it all; she was--and is--a pro. We always understood each other completely, even after our mutual acquaintance was gone.

In this photo (taken at Wigstock in 1990), she attached the caption: "Taxes? Why should I pay taxes? That money only goes to pay for things I could not possibly use." She still addresses me as Daddy O, and I still call her my Sweetie.

This was the press release photo; we began the day elegantly trimming the ferns now taking over the pool.

It was more intense than anyone would think. The ferns--out of reach of the gardeners and the pool cleaners--try to take over the western edge of the pool. This is the rainy and growing season; if you don't confront nature eye-to-eye almost every day, it takes over. In this case, the ferns think they are Triffads and droop into the pool clogging up everything they can. We now use the two days off Leopoldo has to go it and kill them (or at least try to make them know who is boss). There are worse jobs.

Late in the day we went to visit Darren and Allen at their condo at The Tides. The lobby is so tasteful.

We quickly made friends with Eduardo at our cabana. He is from Ecuador and I'm glad Jeremy was not around.

The two pool bunnies, Allen and Leopoldo. There were no rampant ferns to tamed here.

And the lovely Diana; we met her last season at The Tides. She's like a casting call.

My baby. I can honestly wonder what I would have done without him during this great year of change. He has been supportive of everything I do (and I do a lot).

And--you know what? I put aside every emotion and evoked a few new ones and went to ThePalace. Allen and Darren asked me to, and I thought nothing of it. We had fun. But that was the past; it won't happen again. Oddly, for a beautiful afternoon, there were few customers.

Edison Farrow has decided where everyone will be this Sunday. He is again invoking the past with a party celebrating the legendary club, Amnesia. Up until the Opium Group took it over and transformed it into a hip hop haven for Guidos, thugs, and the hoochie mamas who like them, it was a unique gay club known for its reverence for hedonism, foam parties, and drag queens. Oh, yeah; there were the hundreds of nearly naked boys, too, gyrating the night away. A free-standing building, the visitor entered a multi level party with a large atrium; it was possible to actually be in the club and dance under the stars. That was a long time ago, though; the transformation of that area south of Fifth Street into condo heaven heralded the end of hedonism in an area where the rich residents resented the boom-boom of the DJ's wafting up to their balconies. Thanks to Edison those South Beach party animals can relive the past this Sunday, but note the time: 4 PM to 10 PM. No need chancing a noise complaint from idiots who moved to South Beach for the excitement and go to bed at 11.

It is catch-up time, not that I didn't need a rest or anything (and I didn't get one). Tropical Storm Fay was one of the "wet events"; it rained and rained for days. I spent two sleepless nights checking for leaks in both buildings, making sure the pool didn't overflow, and fretting about power outages. It was those minor power outages (3 or 4 seconds, only) that did my computer in for good; luckily I've known one of the most brilliant computer techs in Miami and he was able to get me a new computer and save a portion of my files.

As far as the storm went, it was a nuisance mainly in that in came just as Leopoldo was beginning his vacation; since our visits were to be in the Keys and Everglades, all had to be cancelled when the mandatory evacuations began of the Keys. That left us with the realization Monday morning that we were not prepared for a storm and off we went to Publix, where shopping is usually a pleasure. Never, ever go to a supermarket here the day before a storm--even if it means starving on crackers and peanut butter for a few days. Cars were lined up on the street trying to get in the garage and--even worse--there were almost no carts left. Two types made up the madness of Publix that morning: Cuban housewives hoarding water, milk, and bread, and the South Beach gays who were stocking up on beer, wine, and pastries. In a bit of a daze from the weekend, I rounded the corner with the last cart and bumped into Mr. Thomas Barker. Barker had just come off a four day birthday binge and looked worse than I; "I'm not having this," he moaned. I looked at his cart; it was full of beer. He looked at mine; it was full of wine and pastry. Leo rushed around a corner and exclaimed, "They are out of lemon-lime soda!" (Obviously, things were deteriorating rapidly.) Thomas and I both rolled our eyes and vowed to get together for cocktails later (which we did, at Score as the winds and rains swelled).

Mr. Astor wanted to go to Score's Latin Night on Tuesday, so off we went to cha-cha-land. As usual, it had the energy of a thousand atom bombs (forget about wind power; if we could harness the energy on those boys' hips we'd be home free). We rented a car the latter part of the week, and--instead of traveling to Palm Beach or the Keys--did what Leopoldo is best at: Shopping. For someone who can smell a discount a mile away, having a car for a few days is enough of a vacation. He shopped and shopped until he just couldn't think of anything else to buy; what a doll. We capped off his week with another trip to Score on Sunday for it's Salvation Tea Dance; I knew it was not going to be a normal night when we entered and saw fifteen foot crosses adorning the vast room. But, then, it was Sunday.

Importantly, I also spent some quality time with KiKi, who was surprisingly lively and playful (or at least as playful as that little terror--whose favorite game is Bite the Tarantula-- can be). We also drove up to Ft. Lauderdale (not one of my favorite things) and saw Ditmar at his new venue, The Bird Cage and took Ricky to George's Alibi. Boy, can those boys drink up there. We couldn't--well Leo couldn't--drink because one just doesn't take the chance anymore. I'll be figuring out some of the new tricks of this computer and ascertaining just what was lost, but we are back to work in the real world.

I saw it the moment I entered the gin hall: the rump roast of Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish, and I whacked it with my parasol. To my surprise, something that fortified, something that makes the Maginot Line look like a line in the sand, something that--well--is magnificent, actually felt the assault. It was, of course, a premeditated attack for Mamie had already cabled me about my husband, "I shall not be man-handled during the daylight hours or otherwise.Please ensure his hands are properly restrained to ensure my safety,security and maintenance of said good name and reputation."

The nerve...not that it surprised me all that much; she has always been so full of herself (which means intoxicated). Every time I looked away I came back to find her hands all over Mr. Astor. "Oh, I have heavy fingers," she explained. I replied, "Fingers that heavy with old jewelry can only be engorged by the constraint of blood flow." It didn't stop her.

Other society tragedies were there like The Baroness Seitzinger. There was never a moment where she didn't have two drinks in her hands. To add to the madness La Compte La Mot was seen wheeling a veritable tool box of sex toys through the crowd. Is there anything left but madness?

Mamie did offer some beams of wisdom with regard for a trip to the interior this weekend. I want to visit a backwater, trapped in the 1920's named Everglades City and stay at The Gun and Rod Club. "Tell fancy pants (Mr. Astor) that shine, all black or any sparklies will not be necessary". Then she offered advise for my going to visit Palm Beach again with, "I believe Naples is just a bunch of folks not rich enough for Palm Beach, so therefore avoid and go for the real thing there. The hotels there are a steal right now. The Colony hotel has a very gay friendly cocktail on Thursdays, and with the hotel at the end of Worth Avenue, Mr. Astor would be in hog heaven. Remind Mr. Astor that they're white in Palm Beach; plaid, pink and other frivolity required during the daylight hours".

She needs a show on the Travel Channel.

Turnabout 2008 Remembered

We stayed out way too late, drank way too much, and spewed way to many compliments, but Twist's Turnabout brought about the most charming of it's employees' feminine sides.
My live-in Chick Magnet, Leopoldo, went into overdrive starting with Pusilla.

The ordinarily zesty, Mario--always a topic of our affection--captured the spirit of Charro for the night.

Usually, you wouldn't want to cross Juan, one of the bigger security guards, but last night we wanted to kiss him all over.

This look totally escapes me. Is it Mall Girl?

Miss Like A Virgin poured a drink like a drunken pirate.

From right to left: Poor Lost Soul. That's Not My Sister, That's My Horse. and Little Miss Plump (one step from being knifed in the crowd for grinding that fat ass into Mr. Astor).

Poor Charro; there are always Label Queens in the crowd.

Something bigger than beer cans got this hair off the ground; and, Charlie, you just couldn't have dressed more the part (especially the fishnet gloves).

This sweety reminded us of a one-hit wonder from the eighties; on the other hand, those arms might be those of a Mexican wrestler I once met in a steamy bar on Cozumel.

Sometimes the mirror lies; a little make-up would have gone a long way here.

Adora is a long-lived veteran of the drag world here on South Beach, a colorful bird in an aviary of special talents.

This beauty--although lacking somewhat in the breasts--nonetheless had a striking body.

When asked, "Show me something really good", we got it: the underwear. It's always what's underneath that counts.

Turnabout...

...Dressing as a member of the opposite sex and "turning about" (usually with a drink in hand).
Tonight is Twist's fifteen annual Turnabout party where all employees, male and female, straight and gay, have to "turn" and dress as the opposite sex. Nearby business owners, politicians, and just plain-Jane friends like me are encouraged to participate. Everyone already knows how much my dear husband, Leopoldo, likes me to "dress up", but I am lobbying hard to get out of it this year. Of course, if that battle ax Mamie Stuyvesant-Fish was to partake, I might just have to open the drag locker, the glove box, the pantyhose box, the wig trunk, and--let me think--Oh, yes the woman's shoe closet to counter a threat like that. It would be a sort of Drag-Con 4.

In past years I tried to shy away from showmanship and flashy demonstrations of tranvestitism. The year I went as "Berlin 1945", I came with a story (which was hilariously quoted in the press). In it, I had stayed in the Fuhrers Bunker almost to the end in order to help Martin Borman get into a drag that would pass at checkpoints. Russian tanks were rumbling overhead and I was squeezing him into a third pair of nylons and a girdle which Eva Braun was baking a cake out of sawdust. I had an in with a band of Russian cross dressers who smuggled us to Lake Como, from whence it was just a jump and a skip to the coast and the waiting submarine. Miami was the logical pick; never was a town so in need of a Kosher deli, and--giggling--called it Wolffies. It was just a game.

The next year brought a strong feeling of noblesse oblige: The great struggle of the American woman to gain the right to vote. I had always been intrigued by the support our very own Newporter, Alva Vanderbilt, devoted to the cause. Breaking away from the confines of New York and Newport society, getting rid of her husband when it simply wasn't done, and then throwing her immense fortune for the suffragette movement, Alva did what she did best: Take on the world. She paid the office rents, the bails, the ads, and was regarded by the male members of power who ruled this country then as a heretic. But, note is was the "male" members; their spouses, just as powerful and often wealthier, smiled silently and offered immense support and money. Of course, the men backed down; noone could stand up to Alva for long.

That particular night found me dancing with Twist's go-go boys. Women never have to worry about voting again, so I was just trying to express the fact that a woman of achievement, of strength, of need.... Well, she could enjoy a go-go boy, too, in this modern age.

One has to wonder why this didn't happen sooner, but Edison Farrow has booked ten weeks, beginning Tuesday September 2, at the Lucky Strike bowling lanes. It will be a departure from his traveling, Tuesday martini parties, several of which have been held at the lanes. Mr. Astor is an accomplished bowler and was a league player in his early teens; he was--if you can believe it--even lauded for being one of the first Latino members of the San Franciscan league. I never entered a bowling lane until I discovered the mighty fun lanes on University Place in New York; there were gay nights, but I first embarrassed myself at the designer nights where Prescriptives, Matsuda, Estee Lauder, and other companies sent their finest. I was not the finest, and that won't be repeated here (unless, of course, I could get Her Magnificence, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish out there).

This Thursday will see many of the party monsters gather to wish a happy birthday to someone who has made being happy a science, Mr. Thomas Barker. We have a vague memory of last year's birthday; his seem to go on for several days and nights and tend to end up at his Melrose-like apartment building.

The Beach has slipped into its usual August malaise, fed by intense humidity, rain, hungry Europeans, more rain, the desire to stay in the air conditioning, and the dreaded watch to the East. No one mentions the H word.

Leopoldo didn't actually have the whole weekend off, just Friday and Sunday so it is like a three-day weekend with time out. After waking me at the crack of dawn to ride our bikes over the Venetian Islands to Miami and back, he let me take care of a few business matters. After some obligatory shopping, we chose a quiet afternoon at home cleaning the pool and trimming those annoying ferns which seem to want nothing but to jump in the pool. It's like Day of the Triffids; every week we cut them back and one week later they are drooping into the pool. I hate nature, but the the excuse to get Leopoldo into the pool every week for "trimming the ferns" allows for plenty of boyish shenanigans. So, Nature do your thing.

I've been having many dreams about KiKi lately. Often he has run away and I chase, calling his name; he always comes back and lately has started to talk to me. The other night he fell off of a balcony and I jumped and saved him in a dream. I know all these dreams are about my deep dread of what happens when he dies; we are already planning his 18th birthday in December. I see him often, bringing him some of his favorite--if now slimming--dishes. Leo brings him his favorite cookies and together we all enjoy lots of kisses and the playing of The Tarantula Game with him. The vet says he's hesitant to operate on the tail growth as dogs KiKi's age don't respond well to anesthesia. When I saw him yesterday (on the silk bed throw I knew he would like), he was his usual "happy to see ya" dog; he grandly enjoyed the long-simmered beef and corn I brought (but, no more cream or cheese sauces, alas). Today I found myself in a store pricing an enormous hand wagon; it would have to be enormous to include his bedding, books, cookie jar, portable TV, scrabble game, and hat collection. I would also have to erect a fringed tent on the wagon to shade The King. I've already talked to Ramon about it and he's excited; like me, he believes KiKi will be happy to visit Casa Astor again. Still, he seemed so frail yesterday; I wish he could really talk with me so that we could laugh about all the things we did over the years and all the toes he tried to bite off.

I don't know what I will do without him.

If only Leni Riefenstahl could only be alive. The Chinese have captured the spirit of 1936. The world is transfixed, they are cautious to rattle a old power, and the Powers-that-be are totally comforted by the self-annointed view of life.

Sometimes you come across a person in history and you really wonder how that person got there (or how they got out, as the case may be). One of these for me is the story of Princess Cantacuzene, the Countess Speransky. She could have been just another many-titled Russian refugee writing a memoir from an attic in Paris were it not for the fact that she had been born, Julia Dent Grant and was the granddaughter of General Ulysses S. Grant. Her interesting journey began when a grateful U.S. government appointed her father, Major-General Frederick Dent Grant, as American ambassador to the court of Emperor Franz Josef of Austria-Hungary. Her recollections of Vienna contain some amusing memories of very somber and plain parents mixing with the glittering Hapsburg court; you can almost feel the shyness of a young girl whose parents are looked down upon at fancy balls for their simple attire. Still, Julia was in a position, both to see how the other side existed and to be seen.

While in Europe she met the charming, intelligent, and--she writes--likable Prince Mikhail Cantacuzene, later to be an aid to Tsar Nicholas II and from an ancient, noble family. They were married in Newport, R.I. in 1899 in the great society manner that town was known for; but Newport--and even the Hapsburg court--could not prepare her for that of the Romanovs. Her husband's estate on the Steppes of Russia, Bouromka, was not the typical country estate; it was a self-sufficient city-state which originally was made up of nearly 100,000 acres (half of it was split and given to the serfs when Alexander II liberated them). She describes an idyllic, if hard working, life filled with harvests, spectacular seasons, and sleigh rides to nearby Gypsy villages for all-night dancing and drinking. You also read a particularly American questioning of the social order, the poverty in the villages, and the lack of roads, plumbing, etc. Her entry into St. Petersburg is marked by amusing memories of court gossip and intrigue; after the awkward presentation to Alexandra, the Empress makes a remark about her square cut bodice and it is the talk for a week. Still she becomes a favorite of The Dowager Empress and--as an American--is a well-received oddity, especially being married to Cantacuzene. This book (there is another) ends on the eve of World War I, but she sees the coming storm, perhaps more clearly than her society friends in the capital.

But there is another part of this story that interests me. The Cantacuzenes were descended from the Voivodes of Wallachia (a Voivode was a hereditary prince, elected by the nobles). The Voivodes of Wallachia (the region now Roumania) were on the front lines of the Ottoman invasions of the 14th and 15th centuries. Long after reading this book, I came across a trace of the family line of the Cantacuzenes and it lead to Vlad the Impaler, Vlad Tepes, the original Dracula (actual son of the dragon or devil as he was son of Vlad III Drac). It is a tough read to follow, and I get lost somewhere in the 1600's, but it sure is interesting to think that a descendant of Grant today could be carrying the blood of Dracula.

Of note is that Julia Dent Grant was the youngest member of The Mrs. Astor's infamous "400"; she was the last, living member of that stellar group until she died in 1975.

And, that's my history lesson tonight; everyone go to bed early because the weekend is here, Leopoldo has it off, and there is going to be a whole lot of drinking and impaling.

I have to stop watching the news; it must have been what put me in a haze today. With the country on the brink of collapse, Paris Hilton's entry into the presidential campaign competed with the 911 call from a customer at Subway who didn't get the right sauce as the most chilling threats to civilization. It's back to the Food Channel for me. Good Ol' Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish hauled me out for libations after work. She listened to my mounting concerns for society and calmly announced, "Reality is totally overrated." That got me silly again, the the world is definitely a better place when you are silly and have a drink in your hand.

I also read way too much about The Montauk Monster, the rather gruesome thing that washed up a week ago. The conspiracy network is working overtime with the fact that the site is across from Plum Island, a government facility that researches the most dangerous animal diseases. There was an amusing suggestion that is was el chupacabra, the spawn of Amy Winehouse and Robert Novak, or Jurassic pork.

I'm going back to the safety of The Past tomorrow with another fascinating woman from the Russian Revolution. Yes, that will be safe.

Another Night Trip To Miami

I didn't want to go, although I had been warned a week earlier about the birthday of a colleague of Leopoldo's; still I conspired to get out of it. Simple reasoning didn't work as I got The Sad Look (and I can't deal with that). Injuring myself wouldn't work; days earlier in a radical turn into the driveway I had an encounter with a tree branch that left me with a band aid on the bridge of my nose. "Nobody will notice it," Leo said. "Right," I thought, "an entire room of fashionistas will think it's a nose job." So I decided on an old course of action, Culinary Warfare, and presented a four-course Italian dinner--usually a sure TKO. But the dinner just energized him, especially the dessert of raspberry sorbet topped with cream and a raspberry sauce made with soon-to-be-history raspberries (I love whipping up near death items) and blackberry brandy (another pint of which I had downed in a testing while making it). I resigned myself to traveling to Miami at night, one of my biggest nightmares.

Half way to Miami, holding a bag with a liter of liquor, I heard Leopoldo gasp and turned to see him looking at my exquisite, white, embroidered shirt. There--just next to my left sleeve was a red stain; in clearing the table before leaving of the raspberry dessert the heavens sort to wreak havoc on my nerves by a small splatter of the red delight. I started to shudder and wanted to jump out and run home. "Nobody will notice it." Leo said, this time with considerably less conviction. Later he said he noticed my arm hold the bag shaking with the onset of the panic attack, but wisely said nothing as I stared straight ahead thinking that a leap from the penthouse apartment on his friend Tony was preferable to attending a party of fashion and entertainment people with a band aid on my nose and a red blotch on my shirt. As the elevator slowly brought us up to the fifteenth flood, I said,"Now all I need is dog poo on my shoe with a piece of toilet paper stuck to it." Jumping was becoming a welcome relief from the pain of life.

Long story short: It was a tropical-themed party and as soon as we entered I was bestowed with several red leis which covered the stain, and--to my amazement--everyone must have thought I had a nose job. And the first person I met was a bartender from Twist and we even left before the cake and champagne was served. As The Countess would say, I got my panties all tied up for nothing. Today we are joining Pimpernell for lunch at China Grill. My panties will be untied.

I've pulled out two more books for the KiKi Fund, and I was immediately struck by the differences between the women who wrote them. The first is Confessions of the Czarina by Count Paul Vassili. Paul Vassili's real name was Princess Catherine Radziwill and she was--by all accounts-- a character. At the age of 15 she was married to Prince Wilhelm Radziwill in 1873 and by the mid 1880's had begun writing under the name of Vassili. These were tell-all books of political and court life like, Behind the Veil of The Russian Court (1914) and The Austrian Court from Within (1916). She even wrote, The Royal Marriage Market of Europe but its 1915 date of publish was very, very ill-timed with the start of World War I. A scandal involving her and Cecil Rhodes and a claim of forgery ended her marriage and she just kept writing her tell alls (or what she claimed was "all"). She is one of those quirky characters who leaps across one world and into the next with seeming ease. She ended her days where most quirky characters do: America.


Upheaval, published in 1925, is altogether different; Olga Woronoff was the real thing. Her husband was the chief officer of Nicholas II's yacht, The Standart. She grew up close to Court and attended many of its functions; she was also a close companion of The Grand Duchess Marie and her brother Grand Duke Dmitri (eventually one of the assassins of Rasputin). It's typical of most of the survivors reminisces of that period. The first part of the book is a life of privilege and beauty, roller skating on the wooden decks of The Standart with the Tsar's five children, and memories of uniforms and tea parties. Then something happens and her world (and that of many others) comes to an abrupt halt; the war goes badly, food becomes scarce, and the trains stop running. Suddenly she is running in the middle of the night to someplace--anyplace--safe, staying one step ahead of the bayonet.


I like these books for the same reason my grandmother did; although drenched in bitterness of a world lost, of happiness snatched away, and of loved ones dead, these aristocratic eye witness accounts can't be duplicated because of that intense feeling of loss and survival.

Good Bye Good Captain

Our trusted friend and captain, Jeremy, has packed his bags again and will return to Columbia for six months. He loves Bogota, but after watching "Locked Up Abroad" too much, I think I'll pass on seeing the sites of a country where over a third of it is in rebel hands and kidnapping its national sport. Sure it's a bargain, the gay life in Bogota quite vibrant, and the food great, but I can't help but thinking that one wrong turn and I'd be eating bug hash in the jungle for an eternity.

But, Jeremy's been down there a dozen times and has no fears even though those eyes and that hair make him stick out. Tonight, starting at 7 will have a toast to our favorite captain--no, let's make that many toasts--at Twist.

Well, I'm finally doing it: Selling of the first edition books my grandmother passed on to me on Imperial Russia (a quite a few other interested periods of history) for a good cause. My ex, Ramon, came up to me and said, "Do you remember when you sold a lot of old books to get KiKi and operation?" Yes, I did; it was amazing how there always seemed to be at least one person who simply had to have the book that was collection dust on the shelf. I've read these books a dozen times over the years and perhaps it's time for someone else to enjoy them

Anyway KiKi means more to mean than any old book and operations for dogs these days are not too far off those on humans when the bill comes. Sometime back we put KiKi on a diet to extend his life span; now we will take off that nasty growth on his take. He's sensitive to what the other dogs talk about. You can view the books here . We won't even brink up the fact that space is at a premium since Mr. Fashion moved in.