Computer now seems clean. Here is the ubiquitous Thomas Barker with Matt Damon.

We started out the week with a political rally, the making of the relentless Thomas Barker. He was throwing his weight behind the effort for early voting and later drinking by summoning the faithful to the park behind the Bass Museum, leading them like a Democratic Pied Piper to vote at City Hall, and then to quench their thirsts at Score's tables outside on Lincoln Rd. To the excitement of everyone, Thomas produced Matt Damon as guest speaker. Damon has long resided on Miami Beach and is the sort of celebrity who leads a humble life in a place he loves; he also is not shy to demonstrate his support for many local causes. There is a great confidence here that Florida will go Blue this year; there has to be a certain amount of hesitation in thinking like this though. Florida is one of the most complicated political problems in modern times; the lower tip is relatively Blue, but the vast north is backward Red. As the old saying goes, the further north you travel, the further south you get.


On Tuesday I was taking by force to the inner bowels of Miami: Calle Ocho (8th St.), west of Little Havana. Leopoldo was intent on visiting the Saks Fifth Avenue of Army Navy stores and--as always--I couldn't say no. To me it was not so much Little Havana as Little Bad Part of Mexico City. Leopoldo quipped as we crossed one street corner with several unsavory characters hanging around, "You are the only white person for miles". He knows how to make me feel safe. Of course, he used the term "white" not in a racial way, but in the Miami way; "white" here means "Gringo", pasty American-born. There is also another force at work here, it being the South and all; I have often been called "Yankee" to separate me from those belles from south of the Mason-Dixon Line. There being more Yankees here than Rebels, we call them The Defeated. Belles like Peter from Twist never hesitate to remind me that "Your people ruined the lives of my people".

Hopefully, my computer will be fixed today so that I might post photos again.

A ghastly virus has frozen my computer and an urgent request for help has gone out.

In the meantime, the message for the faithful is as follows: All hands on Decker at 6.30 PM

Some things make me deliriously happy. Drag is one; drinking another. But nothing compares to getting a kiss from KiKi; we stopped by to bring him some homemade meatballs.

After our goodbyes, we started walking away and Leopoldo said, "Look. He won't go in." Ramon was calling him, but he just stared at us until we turned around the hedges. It was as if he was saying, "Why do you leave all the time." The emotional strings pulled and pushed by humans and their pets are a powerful force. In two months he turns eighteen.

A force of an entirely different type is downright lust, and I submit these photos to the court of world opinion.

Poor Mr. Astor is never safe when Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish thunders into a room. Within minutes her drink is down on the table and her hands down Mr. Astor's pants. No wonder she can't show her face in Newport any longer.

The maniacal look on her face is proof enough that the poor thing is not in control of her faculties.

Still, she is a hoot and a dear friend (and Mr. Astor can take care of himself) so I'm shelving my petition to the authorities to have that looney wind bag put away again. I usually just have to dangle another cute Latino to distract her; she's quite predictable in that way. My poor husband is too cute for his own good.

We attended the Barack Obama rally in Miami today after early voting; it was a great feeling in regard to the notion of voting for whom you like.

The crowd was quite intimidating; this was what--two hours before the speech began--was waiting to go through the metal detectors.

While waiting, you could see the fringe group in action.

Finally, Michelle came out to the thunderous applause of the crowd. It was a crowd that was more of a crown; it was a mixture (that I always tried to maintain in my clubs) of a gracious mingling of different, but like-minded people. It was magical.

Barack captivated the crowd with no doubt.

The fringe group was still in action when we left. They always will be.

Early voting began today in Florida, surely the starting gun of the final two weeks of madness. There were crowds outside City Hall carrying signs and shouting slogans as if any one's vote could be changed on the final approach to a voting machine. At least do it the old fashioned way and slip me a twenty; we vote tomorrow, so they still have time to get it right.

Infinitely more understandable was running into Geraldine on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of a soccer field. She was headed to Out in the Park, the first event to plan and finance South Beach's first Gay Pride parade in a long time next April. She was a lovely image of lawn-party-drag, and we walked together to the party.

Our adored mayor, Matti Bower, gave a speech acknowledging the great support our community turned out for her and how she always felt more comfortable at our events than at those stuffy political ones. There was lots to talk about, lots to drink and toast to, and many, many designer dogs.

But my favorite dog was the hot one because it had our favorite gadfly working it: the tireless Thomas Barker. Thomas is a natural at anything (especially if it has that slight hint of White Trash). He can raise oodles of money for Equality Florida, don a pair of pumps, a slut wig, and a tight mini-dress to delight a crowd with the salacious Peraldine, or drink the night away with the grace of a gazelle.

In looking through old postcards, I came across one of the many forgotten figures in history: Louis Napoleon (Napoleon IV). The only son of Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie, he was only fourteen when he accompanied his father to the front during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71. The French were humiliated by the Prussian Army and the Imperial Family escaped to Great Briton to avoid capture; when his father died two years later the boy was proclaimed Napoleon IV and head of the House of France, which for all intents and purposes ceased to exist. After attending British military academies Louis Napoleon was promoted to an officer in the Royal Artillery and begged his mother and their protector, Queen Victoria, to be sent to Africa to serve in the Zulu War. He was never supposed to be put in danger, but the young man wanted to prove himself and exposed himself to direct combat. In May 1879, at the age of twenty-three, he galloped into battle only to find himself overrun by the Zulus and he was speared to death, the only head of a royal house to fall in that manner.

Today, Flamingo Park will be overrun by the gay community in the first Out in the Park party, sponsored by many local businesses and our dear mayor, Matti Bower. Despite the impact the gays had in bringing this town out of the slums of the seventies and eighties, no official events--not even a Gay Pride parade--is held here. Much of the blame lies at the feet of the complacent, but Matti pushed us out by making her first mayoral committee a gay advisory board; Leo saw her drive by today and she stopped her vintage Cadillac and shouted that she expected to see us. My baby has to work today, but I will stop by to say thanks to our friend.

I know, I know; I've been distant again, but what can I say, but that this a time of general malaise. Also, I haven't been bringing out my camera on our outings as I don't just see anything worth the interest.

I did run into the great social greatness, herself, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish at the favorite gin hall of society, now: Twist's happy hour. She tried to hide from the glare of the camera because she was engaged in enough nefarious activities to warrant a congressional investigation. Last night at Twist witnessed a turnout of the old society matrons who used to attend court at the late, great Palace. The Palace is a shell of it's former glory now, lost in past fortune and bereft of unified fun. We have visited the poor place often, only to find it the most disappointing adventure one could take. Twist has garnered the lost, monied souls now.

Today I took my remaining money out of North Korean elevator shoe stock and did the only thing that makes sense now. I put every penny into Government Cheese futures. Not to seem like an opportunist, I quietly submitted to my publisher a cookbook on The Art of Cooking Government Cheese, and at the same time made a deal with a Chinese pan manufacturer (now suffering), to produce cheap fondue pots for my sequel book, The Art of Government Cheese Fondue. By the first of the new year, I expect to be the Warren Buffet of government cheese.

There's nothing like a bump to get you going again; of course, I mean a bump in the market. As much as it may be on weak and shifting sand, it brings a sparkle to the mind. So, why--oh why--, do modern vessels of merchant shipping lanes manage to get hijacked by Somalian "pirates"? This vexes me to no end. In this particular case, a Ukrainian vessel carrying tanks (of all things) has been captured by Somalian pirates, demanding a 20 million dollar ransom. U.S. warships have surrounded the captive to make sure the cargo doesn't fall into the hands of Somalian insurgents (i.e., We will sink the ship before you hijack it), and six other nations--including Russia--are dispatching warships to the area. So (and this is what vexes me): JUST how does a modern dugout of nearly indigenous pirates in a light craft sporting the modern version of the bone-in-the-nose threat ( The AK-47) capture a ship carrying heavy armor? Whatever happened to the mounted 55mm machine gun on the bow?

Maybe all this is not for me to waste my time on; indeed, my my whole life has been about having fun, being silly, and lost in the past. With that statement introduced to the Court of Opinion, I submit this: Article "Y" in the case of "Fun vs. Reality".

What can I say? It was a week of unbelievable financial collapse which sapped all strength. How do you lose 5 trillion dollars in national wealth in one, short period and hope it doesn't affect your state, your town, your family, or you is beyond comprehension. I don't want to be a resort town Casandra, but I've have been pointing out to whoever will listen that way too many retail spaces are popping up empty as well as renovation projects which seem to have just frozen in time. Sure, the big ones will be completed, hopefully; one used to hear, "Oh, the banks HAVE to complete them." We only hope.

We did make a night out on the town Friday; just before we left the house, we received a cable that potential assassins were spotted and we diverted out motorcade to Halo to visit on The Baroness Seitzinger. She was in her purchased-titled glory, surrounded by handsome men, the equally handsome Edison Farrow, and was just a delight. To top it off: She wasn't even wearing her signature garish jewelry. We had a ball. Getting the monster-all-clear signal, we carried on to the planned party at Twist where I came upon Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish holding center-stage in all her social glory. We put an end to that! There is supposed to be some sort of peace treaty between us, but I guess the tequila had set in and she, her two hands, and that tongue were all over Mr. Astor. Some habits die hard, so I tried to engage her in gracious conversation with the talk of what islands in the Caribbean were the best. A group of us concurred that St. Maartin--with its distinctly different sides of Dutch and French--was the most fun. All seemed well, until I said, "Well, in my day..." and Mamie cut me off with, "In your day was it even settled?" This seemed too much and I unwillingly said something about her "stubby fingers" molesting my husband. We had to separated for a civil amount of time. Jeremy made a surprise visit and we had a riotus night, but he returns to Columbia on Monday morning to all our displeasure. Just what are they doing down there?

Who knows what will happen in the days to come, but I would like to lend a hand in the effort to find missing people, or to be the sort of Internet milk carton.

Has anyone seen this tragic creature? She was last seen leaving a Seven-Eleven in Nashville where she had picked up a vending machine chili dog and a box of Pampers. Witnesses said she accepted the offer of the driver of the powder blue Pinto for a drive home and hasn't been seen since. Despite the bad hair, she is loved by someone (although the specifics on that complaint are a bit vague).

And there was the sad story of Rachel the pig to wrap up a thoroughly disturbing week. Someday soon the story of Peggy the Pig will come out; right now the spotlight is on Rachel.

The Right Animal in the Right Place

If you ever feel like things couldn't be worse, or the outlook bleak, all you have to do is a little research in the past and read what it was like in times and places under graver circumstances. One example is the 1870 siege of Paris by the Prussian Army. Count Bismark was determined to get the French provinces he wanted even if he had to starve the inhabitants of the unlucky French capital. In the 1871 book, Diary Of The Besieged Resident In Paris, life in the surrounded capital went along in typical French style; strolls through parks in which soldiers drilled, riding merry-go-rounds while cannons boomed the distance, and the disappearance of horses, then dogs, even elephants from the zoo, and cats were detailed as the city slowly starved. One section of the diary describes the serving of cat, Parisian-style:

"October 19th. Each person now receives 100 grammes of meat per diem, the system of distribution being that every one has to wait on an average two hours before he receives his meat at the door of a butcher's shop. I dine habitually at a bouillon; there horse-flesh is eaten in the place of beef, and cat is called rabbit. Both, however, are excellent, and the former is a little sweeter than beef, but in other respects much like it; the latter something between rabbit and squirrel, with a flavour all its own. It is delicious. I recommend those who have cats with philoprogenitive proclivities, instead of drowning the kittens, to eat them. Either smothered in onions or in a ragout they are excellent. When I return to London I shall frequently treat myself to one of these domestic animals, and ever feel grateful to Bismarck for having taught me that cat served up for dinner is the right animal in the right place."

It can be much worse.

We are all sliding down the pole to fiscal disaster and nobody expresses it as well as Geraldine. Still, there are some bright spots. Our housemates just purchased a six acre island on Quonachataug pond in Rhode Island; ever sleepless in their desire to go forward and find something new, I think they just got there.

I do have to take off my feathered hat to Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish as it is her birthday today. This great lady decided to keep the cap on the celebration because any day she can make it out the door of her mansion is cause for celebration. A great lady, a magnificent presence in society, and--most of all--a superb friend.

Who knows what will happen this week. The pond is frisky with adventure.

I know, I know; I've been absent, but don't give me any more shade or you will get my back side. Where does the time go? Especially since you aren't really doing much of anything. Well, we had another night out with Henrietta on Sunday at Dustin Refka's new venue for Click, and that was fabulous. The drag-o-meter was way, way up there, and you know how I like that. But that meant we were out three nights in a row, which is an occupational hazard here. If you go out to one, great party--and if you have been in the club business for a decade--you are inevitably greeted and invited to another. Sometimes you can't get out of it. We had a lovely night out with Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish on Tuesday where we came to a great accord; we will no longer attack each other and--therefore--be able to direct out sizable clout to "the others". Her peace offering was eloquently displayed in her cable: It's so good to get together and just giggle and snarl. I'm removing from memorya that reference to my backside being rather Rolls Royce-ish. I think in my delicate state - while noticing yours -that we should remove personal attacks on each other's greatness from discussion. This will leave us to speak of important things likejewels, questionable lineage, other people, Mr. Astor, etcToots,MSF....Peace in our time.

Leopoldo and I scooted from event to event, not making too many waves, but certainly soaking up all that is going on in this town; and what is going on is noteworthy. Today I prepared for the arrival of what is referred in this town is "The New Yorkers"; Bob and Terry now start to snowbird here for the next six months. So, you see, I haven't been asleep at the wheel; just careening.