The White Party

James Deering built his Italianate mansion in 1916 and was perhaps the first rich, gay man to realize just what delights the tropics offered. John Singer Sargent was one of the first, famous visitors and was captivated by the formal gardens and little details like the indoor/outdoor pool, the solid gold bathtub, and an encounter with Lillian Gish at the pool. For over two decades his home, Vizcaya, has played host to The White Party.

There was a lot of discussion about how well-attended the twenty-fourth White Party would be; no one knew just how many people would still fork out $150 a ticket plus drinks in times like these; the estimated cost for a couple reaches nearly $1,000, if done right. Apparently, there are still many who will.

You could land a plane on Mario's nipples and still have space to spare.

And, one day, we had Enrique balance a martini glass on his bubble-butt; if that's not talent, I don't what is.

Deering constructed a Spanish galleon out of coral rock so that he could row out and picnic. At one time, he employed over 10% of the workforce of Miami.

When he built it, Deering's home was well in the wilderness outside of Miami; now it rests in the middle of it. It is so sprawling, though, that you still can't imagine that it is anything but the remote fantasy Deering planned. Its 180 acres contained multiple gardens and lagoons, cow pastures, citrus groves, tennis courts, yacht harbors, and a village to supply the main house with flowers. In the nineties, Madonna lived next door.

The guests and their outfits speak for themselves.

Miss Elaine Lancaster; a white goddess in her own right.

At the end of our extraordinary evening, The Admiral of The Atlantic saluted The Admiral of The Pacific with a kiss; it was smooth sailing.

Dear, dear, dear; that bloody holiday is finally over. After cooking all day, I watched the event turn into a Neronian pool orgy; no amount of good advice prevailed, and I politely excused myself from it. That pool has been the worst attraction for the worst behaviour for five years.
Mr. Astor's and my hats are ready for tonight's White Party at which we will be the escorts of The Queen of South Beach, Henrietta the Beneficent. I really don't know the future of mega-benefits like this during times like this, but tonight will be telling. We are bringing Connie Chung, too; she will be some sort of Oriental foot healer tonight.

On the event of our fifth Thanksgiving here at Jefferson, we did what we do best: drink.

Thanksgiving update at mid-afternoon. Hi-Jinx continue until it becomes apparent that the real world is about to intrude:

Suddenly, all hands are called to fold napkins.

Thanksgiving 2008 has begun. While I took over the turkey and the boys jumped into the pool, a shudder went through the crowd when the realization took hold that dinner was still four hours off. Bob had purchased every libation by the case, but danger lurked with a four-hour window, so I rolled up the sleeves an--while basting the turkey--made everyone one of my "special" chicken salad sandwiches (so special, that if I told you the ingredients, I'd have to kill you). At this hour, hope seems to have prevailed in these trouble times and the drinking and swimming has resumed.

Tomorrow there will be a most interesting meeting of the City Commission during which the issue of whether to allow The Palace to hold "female impersonation" shows on their own terrace. This city has a history--in the making for the past ten years--of trying to regulate everything, everywhere. How many plants you can have outside your business, or a neon light in the window, or the mat at your door; they all need over-paid city employees, eager to justify their jobs, to constantly roam the streets. It all reminds me of one commissioner--typical of this town--, Nancy Leibman, an over-zealous Jewish grandmother who somehow got on the commission (it doesn't take much, mind you). She set out to place her stamp on everything from food displays by restaurants to making their umbrellas match; she didn't last long (although we did enlist her help in blocking a more dangerous woman, Congresswoman Elaine Bloom from winning as mayor).

There was the memorable movement to stop street performers, especially the Disco Dolly (a taxi driver who moonlighted in his platform shoes on Lincoln Rd. demonstrating to delighted tourists his spectacular dancing ability). For the life of me, I couldn't find anything wrong here, or with the mime, or the moving statues; it seems like an inherent right to sing or dance within reason and in a dress, if so desired. Needless to say, Disco Dolly won his lawsuit and on a good day you might catch him dancing to Grace Jones.

For years, the Commission has tried to put out the fire of South Beach even though SoBe is the tail that wags not only the dog of Mid Beach and the tragic poor sister of North Beach, but the entire, bloody county. Allowing drag shows on property you own and pay exorbitant taxes on is a right, not a gift (like the rainbow flag, just so recently "allowed"). It should be a very interesting meeting (and rather colorful, if I know this town).

Riley, his legal mind ever grinding, asked today, "Who do you think will represent them?"

The obvious answer: F. Lee FernanDcute, Esq. "If the dress isn't IT, you gotta refit."

The Countess Bedelia was such a dear in a tender email she sent about KiKi's health. She's been through this before and knows what I'm going through now. Fortunately, although he had lost control of his hind legs some days back, the effects apparently reversed themselves as he was running in the park yesterday and, when I stopped by today, he ran to me and actually tried to jump up on my legs. He just keeps chugging along.

What is it about the power a pet dog has over us, the power of making us their pets. They have powers of hypnosis: the power to make you feel guilty when you leave them, the power to convince you to feed the something really special, or the ability to make you believe that no human can give you the unconditional love they can--on the condition that you feed and walk them. It's all there in those eyes. I've been hypnotized for many years.

I met up with Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish for a glass or two of medicinal sherry yesterday; I was particularly moved that she had declined to go out on Friday since we were under the weather and she felt that there was no sense of appearing at Ye Old Gin Hall without the Astors to spar with. Actually, she spars with me and paws at Mr. Astor. We sat with the with the great financial minds of Baron Irwin and Sir Pimpernel; their gloom and doom scenario of our future was enough to make anyone drink and jump off a cliff (if there were one in Miami).
Fortunately, we were surprised by the visit to the gin hall by Alan and Darren who have taken up residence at their condo in The Tides for a week of escape from the cold winds of Newport. I could detect a distinct mischievous nature brewing in Darren; yes, he was back in the tropical candy store.

Well, that was quick; one day on my death bed and it's over. Of course, I will be careful and stay away from the gin halls for a day or so, but taking care of a sick husband for three days as well as the stress of a sick dog has taken its toll. After taking the antedote to every sickness: shopping, I have to straighten up La Casa. It actually looks like there was a whole ward of sick people here with all the medicine, blankets, and thermometers lying around. Why if the Duchess of Cornwall were to surprise me with a visit, I'd be mortified (and not altogether uncertain Mrs. S-F didn't put her up to it).

There was a grand party a week ago from Prince Charles' birthday. Queen Elizabeth hosted a gala evening at Buckingham Palace in London on the occasion of the 60th birthday of her eldest son, the Prince of Wales. The event was attended by British and European royals. A champagne reception was followed by a recital by the Philharmonic Orchestra in the ballroom of the palace. Afterwards a dinner took place, where Balmoral salmon and venison was served. Among the guests were King Carl XVI Gustaf and Queen Silvia of Sweden, Queen Sonja of Norway, Prince of Orange and Princess Máxima of the Netherlands, the Prince and Princess of Asturias, the Duke and Duchess of Palma de Mallorca, Crown Prince Frederik and Crown Princess Mary of Denmark, Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden, Crown Prince Haakon of Norway, Prince Philippe and Princess Mathilde of Belgium, former King Constantine II and Queen Anne-Marie of Greece, Crown Prince Pavlos and Crown Princess Marie-Chantal of Greece, Prince Nikolaos of Greece, former King Simeon II and Queen Margarita of Bulgaria, Princess Margarita of Romania and Radu Duda, Crown Prince Alexander II and Crown Princess Katherine of Yugoslavia, King Hamad ibn Isa al-Khalifa of Bahrain, Prince Hassan and Princess Sarvath of Jordan.

No one seems to have told Alexander II that Yugoslavia doesn't exist, but these things never seem to matter. Just pick up a copy of Hola' Magazine.

Now, I can go back to doting on KiKi. Since he is in no pain and is just acting like a dottie old aunt, we've decided to to let him sleep and enjoy his life. He is the only dog I know who sleeps in his own queen-size futon; sometimes Lucy cuddles up to him, licking his ear. Hmmm...that was sort of what was going on in our bed this week, too.

Woe is me; I have caught Mr. Astor's cold while soothing him for the past two days. I don't take well to sickness; when it does fall upon me I tend to act like those elephants in old Tarzan movies that lumbered to The Graveyard of the Elephants and collapsed over. Now we are both sick. Received a cable for Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish starting off with Dear Battleaxe, and proposing that she come over and give a hot oil massage to Leopoldo. I needn't write what I replied.

Woe is Twist; it looks like we won't be able to attend our favorite gin hall for its Friday night of boozing and snapping. This will leave Mrs. S-F with no one to box her in. I can see it now: flailing he hands all around as the mutters one preposterous notion after another. We won't be able to engage in our Cat Claw Fight, where we claw at each other to the crowd's amusement (except for the stupid tourists who every now and then ask us to stop).

But--most of all--woe is KiKi. He had a series of minor seizures two nights ago and I spent all day with my arm around him. We agreed that he's not in paid, still eats, and gallantly still goes outside to do his business (although he has to be carried as his back legs are wobbly). We honestly don't know if he will make it to his eighteenth birthday in three weeks.

Too much woe this week.

I've listened for days on how the Bush administration has been quickly maneuvering to implement laws to protect their interests in the final weeks of their ill-gotten power. Presidential orders, GOP-lead congressional passages are all making their way to the finish line like a Derby afternoon. It seems like the final pangs of a world about to end, but about to impose their final thoughts upon a nation tired and fed up with them.

My proposal: The military immediately arrests the entire Bush administration in a declaration of emergency, sends them to their ranches and ski lodges (without being shot) and either maintains the government payroll for two months themselves or immediately brings in the new administration. Forget the "blanket" pardons now being devised by the criminal Bush; it is heartening that most judicial lawyers believe you can't pardon yourself or and entire mass of flunkies who did your bidding. Desperate times need desperate measures. We have been brought to our financial knees by these thieves and liars; without retribution, the nation will drift for years looking for answers. The best answer are quick trials and a scaffold.

Everyone remembers The Rat. He made his first appearance on Halloween, two years ago, as the serving meal of Miss Jane Hudson.

Since then he has made many command performances, sometimes in the pants of young boys.

Most of all, Mr. Rat has been the constant companion of the two of us in the never-ending game of scaring each other. Hidden in the underwear drawer, Mr. Rat can elicit a sure scream; place on the bathroom floor--well-place to clear the door--he can garner three screams. He pops up everywhere, and every time we promise each other we will never use him again, he does just shows up again.

There's a new rat in town who is popping up all over; the only thing is is that when you are a real rat--one on the lamb, so to speak--you don't attract attention--so to squeak. Knock, knock....who's there?

Efrem Zimbalist, Jr.

It had to start sometime: The Christmas Spirit. My Humbug Level developed very quickly when I moved here from the Northeast eleven years ago this month. It seemed that--finally--I could give up the sing-songy carols, the messy trees, the snow, and especially that more-pious-than-thou attitude of the most famous Christian day. Finally my dream of having a palm tree next to me on December 25 was realized.

Dear Terry was the first to start the assault when he began decorated the house in a big, vulgar way; that seemed OK. The white garland ringing the staircase, the aluminum tree with the color wheel, odd-very odd--figurines he found in bizarre stores, and (most of all) the Hammacher Schlemmer disco wheel on the front lawn that sends a cascade of snowflake-like lights "falling" on the front of the house, all seemed so very natural here in Florida.

But, in the second Christmas spent with Leopoldo, I am finding the ugly head of a warm-hearted Christmas about to leap up. Every time I turn a corner there is a new wreath or object of holiday decoration. Up until today they still had a bit of glitz and chintz to pass, but now there is the Saks teddy bear, complete with a bag of designer chocolates. Tomorrow I have been warned that we are going to Miami to buy "some real decoration" (South Beach wouldn't bore itself). Although it is too early to buy live wreaths and all the problematic needles on the floor they produce, I did hear the word "lights".

I guess I should get out my eggnog recipe; at least liquor is involved in that spirit.

I put aside my private concerns about the venue of today's protest against gay marriage ban, and found an extremely vocal and lively bunch just one block from La Casa at City Hall.

Lo and behold, I found my dear society sister, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish, under the spreading chestnut tree with her loyal followers. Under the guise of good will, she seemed the picture of concerned society, although I suspect she was just biding time until she could get to a gin hall which still recognized her credit.

Of course, the freaks were out and they reminded me about the Mormon Church's press release today saying they were being singled out by the gay mobsters. Seems to me that, if the Mormon Church wasn't so anti-gay, they might escape focus and on such an organization there draws so much. That church would seem to be crossing the line in the separation of church and state. It's probably time to start burning them down.

I knew The People's Mayor, Matti, was in the house when I spotted her signature Cadillac with the tire on the trunk in the crowd.

And, sure enough, she was there with her rainbow fan. With all her duties and pressures, she turned to me and asked how Leopoldo was; THAT is a leader. Plus, she had a groovy top.

After the mayor, our favorite captain of The Poles, Marc, took control of the crowd and we were left very happy indeed.

Le Compt Larmot kisses Lady Stewart after raising the rainbow flag over Twist.

That was a fun day. But what doesn't sound fun is tomorrow's protest against the ban on gay marriages at City Hall. What are these organizers thinking? The mayors and the commissioners have consistently supported every gay issue and bill 100%, even in defiance of the county and state. Not one person involved in this has adequately explained the choice of protesting at the one institution here that has been on our side. What about Police Headquarters? How about starting the protest at the one place that refused to symbolically hoist the flag the other day and the one place where vehement anti-gay actions still spew out despite all the "sensitivity training"?

There is a reason why Miami Beach, with its large gay population, remains so poorly organized and bad planning like this is the main one. It makes you just want to stay by the pool.

WMD of the Domestic Kind

The new regimen continues: out of bed by 6.30 AM, to the gym by 7.30, out by 9 and at the helm of my ship of projects by 9.30. Mr. Astor is a cruel trainer, even when I cry out for mercy. My arms have joined the revolt led by my legs.

Of course, I am not without my own Weapons of Mass Discomfort; today I relegated him to one egg, one slice of toast (with butter, though), and one large glass of orange juice. This quite a deviation from his usual banquet, and I could see the pain on his face as the meager portion was served on a purposely large plate. (I am all for suffering for an end, but I'm not going down alone.) Supper will hold more surprises for him.

After the nightmarish voting in Florida during the 2000 election with punch cards and the suspicious no-paper-trail electronic voting of 2004, this year's seemed to run about as smoothly as a corrupt Southern state could, but it did have some quirks. The election of commissioner in Opa Locka, a particularly sad part of Miami-Dade, lead to a recount with the incumbent, Rose Tydus, winning over her opponent, Gail Miller, by one vote. What makes this of particular political interest was that Miller'a mother lost the 1986 mayoral race by one vote. It doesn't get much stranger than at the voting booths of Miami.

We were nearly brought to tears by Keith Obermann's passionate comment on Prop 8 and gay marriage. He and Rachel Maddow are nightly favorites. I used to be somewhat conservative, but those were in the days when that meant not spending more than you took in, respecting individual rights like keeping out of the bedroom, and staying out of foreign conflicts unless our own security was in jeopardy. Of course, Grover Cleveland was president then.

The rainbow flag ceremony yesterday was eventually marred as it ended its route (I had decided to retire home after Thomas Barker climbed the ladder at Score). Mayor Matti is furious that when the procession reached police headquarters, access to their flagpole was denied, this after a prearranged agreement for the symbolic ceremony. This could be the start of something; a big scandal in a small town tends to keep people awake to their fate.

And, you know Season has begun when the Yankees start visiting. This weekend my favorite gay Mormon (and my only), Dave came for a long weekend with his English beau Mark (a.k.a, Lois). Here Dave demonstrates how to save the most pale boy in Florida from drowning with the little-known maneuver, the Crotch-Save. Let the games begin.

The pain, the pain... Of? The economy, the specter of Sarah Palin will raise its ugly hairdo again in our lifetime? No; it is the very real pain of the sadistic workings of Leopoldo in making me get up an second day at the crack of dawn to undergo his personal training at the new David Barton Gym here. I love the place itself; it is sort of a hybrid of a Turkish palace and the movie Metropolis.
I dragged my tortured body to City Hall late this afternoon to attend Thomas Barker's and Mayor Matti's ceremonial raising of the rainbow flag over City Hall. Although one had to applaud their effort and intent, I couldn't help but think it was so overdue that is was a bit of an anticlimax. When I first started visiting this sandbar in the late eighties, it was still a slum. Deserted in the seventies after the Mariel boat lift, it was a large, living graveyard of the old and infirm who couldn't leave spiced with the riveting mix of gay Latinos, drag queens, cheap rents, and lots of drugs. Very quickly, the gay money started renovating this Art Deco dream and--with the help of Barbara Capitman and her preservation drive--saved this city from being bulldozed into history. So, in my mind, there didn't need to be a unanimous vote by the City Commission lead by a great mayor with thought and feeling to allow the flying of the rainbow flag; it should have been a right of birth. But, OK; it was a feel-good moment.

Of course, if the City Hall flagpole had been IN FRONT of the building rather behind, it might have been all that more important. This is Miami; nothing is what it should be.

Thomas Barker tirelessly led a parade down Lincoln Rd. raising the flag at Score, then The New World Symphony, and proceeded down Washington to The Wolfsonian Museum and the final raising at Twist.

God bless him; he never rests. I wish I could, but have just been informed we will be at the gym at 8 AM tomorrow, "We must look our best for White Party!"

Is my husband trying to kill me? Some think so. First it was the bicycle. I remember my housemate, Bob, asking him, "Do you really want him on that thing?" The implication was obvious: I would meet my untimely demise on this thing. Yet, I've become addicted to it and have even taken it to the dreaded mainland. Surely, there have been some close calls, but there I am, all over town on the thing. Secondly, it is the gym membership. My baby bought us memberships in the very chic David Barton Gym in the Gaansvort Bldg. (actually the post condo complex The Baroness Seitzinger resides in). Mr. Astor got me out of bed at the crack of dawn today, dressed me up in an "outfit", and placed me on the aforementioned bike on a ride to the gym. There he ran me through a series of premeditated "routines" where I watch myself run around a track over and over while pumping some running machine and then marched me over to complete three repetitions each on a number of complicated upper body machines. Finally, he put me a bike machine for an hour of cardio assault.

I countered by sneaking off when he went to work for a four hour lunch at Da Leo's with the greatest guardian of town gossip, Carl Z. of The Wire magazine. This was infinitely more my style, as unlimited champagne was part of the brunch, and that type of lubricant greases of the mind and tongue in a gossip-fest like that.

Both The Baroness and Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish were away on Palm Beach this weekend. I bribed the border guards at the Miami-Dade line to detain MSF's carriage; I was hoping that a cavity search might resolve the case of the missing tea service here at Casa Astor, but she somehow eluded detection. Early reports have her hiding in a barrel of margarita mix, and I have nothing to make me doubt otherwise.

The business we used to call The Happy Place is now known as Misery, its employees fearful of a seemingly unhinged owner. I can faithfully say that his hinges are about to be tested even more as investigations proceed into shady practices in far-off states. Karma....it can be so nasty.

Last night, while preparing a quite extravagant dinner for Mr. Astor, I saw flashing lights outside. There not having been a crime committed in this neighborhood since the neighbors painted their 1925 Spanish colonial a Bubble Gum Green, I rush out and saw this UFO, a mother ship, hovering over the house. I felt faint, but totally conscious and full of awe. The obvious out-of-this-world technology told me that the beings maneuvering this craft--so now close to my head--were not only obviously more intelligent, but also had a lot of coke on board. The sounds, though soft, of Abba started to emit from the craft and I suddenly heard voices. They told me they would beam me up and I would relive a world of fantasy and fun forever. I would be given new platform sandals and that powder blue jumpsuit I made long ago (it had been rescued years before by them and preserved for my return). Although dizzy from the thought of ruling the dance floor with steps long-forgotten, I begged off, saying I had pork chops covered in walnuts and Gorgonzola cheese in the oven for my hubby. That was just it, they revealed; they have been watching my kitchen gymnastics for years and were after my mind, not my dance expertise. The nerve.

After careful negotiations, they settled for a list of my recipes and a color, 8 x 10 glossy of me at my battle station; intergalactic peace was maintained and Mr. Astor was assured of dinners in perpetuity.

Some here refused to admit that Florida went blue two days ago; they parade their color in the desperation like that of a Russian countess in a dingy Parisian attic keeping a picture of the Tsar next to an icon in the dashed hope he will return and bring her glory back. I have to thank the residents of Florida for 1). Doing the right thing, 2). Not messing it up and making a fool of us again, and 3). Allowing me to look someone in the eye again when they ask where I live.

And, then there is Governor Charlie Christ, a well-like Republican who remains a bit of an enigma. After years of political manipulation by the sow-like brother of the thankfully outgoing George Bush, any normal man might appear mysterious. But Governor Christ did something which was amazing to me. In light of the overwhelming numbers of Floridians trying to vote he extended early voting by three hours a day, to twelve. When the Republicans moaned about it (only they would want to limit voting, of course), Christ said that he was not doing it for the Republicans or the Democrats, "I'm doing it for the people." Now, that's something you don't hear very often. I thank him too.

Now we've all awakened from the all-night parties and dancing on table tops. What next? I'm sure we'll all be regrouping this weekend with the tireless Thomas Barker; in his mind there is never time to rest, there's always another mission, and always another party.


I suppose I should get back on the track of recording the beauty of the town in which I live (in between the political crusades of Barker). November weather is perfect with its cool mornings and warm, dry afternoons; you can actually wear a jacket and not feel faint. The downside of this, of course, is that there isn't a constant parade of Speedo-clay boys to keep the town aflutter.

Sometimes, though, just a set of brown eyes and an alluring smirk is all the beauty you need to flutter.

These are the faces of Victory and of extreme confidence of such. The unsinkable Thomas Barker hosted the Obama victory party at Halo tonight, and it was packed with jubilant voters cheering wildly as each senate seat, each governorship, and each state was placed in the Obama column. A normally happy crowd was drunk with success (and it was still a long time from certainty). Still, it was as if all the inner feelings were being vindicated. Even at writing this, I could not say with certainty that Obama will win, but I somehow know it--like all the boys and girls at Halo tonight. We have worked hard and the right path down the road is open again. Of course, he will be offered a platter of poo-poo thanks to the war criminals and profiteers of the Bush administration. He will need a lot of help, as will we.

Well at 11.30 we have won. I do--on a personal level--have to say that I feel McCain's speech of defeat to hold the nobility we always though was there in a man many of us liked despite he association with the "old guard" we so hated. Poor McCain...in other times and in other periods where his didn't have to tow the line for him, he might have the good guy we needed. Unfortunately, history wasn't waiting for him.

Perhaps, we can go to bed tonight with a bit of comfort; at least until we have to wake up.

I greatly miss the crazy days of the past few years. I have benefited from the most amazing relationship I could ever have fallen into, though. I am a happy person. Still, I look back and happily recall:
In my book, if you have a lovely, late afternoon cocktail dress that is sitting in the closet and doing nothing, you have to put it on and just go out. Who cares if the makeup isn't right? Valentino is Valentin0, no matter what anyone says.

I've always thought that if you are going to do drag and be crazy, and or homeless, you should do it well. Hence: Bat Drag. I miss his regular visits.

I miss getting up at the ungodly hour of 6 AM and walking along the beach. Good God, this is why we live here; this is on a winter day.

I miss The Sweeper. A homeless, confused person, she sweeps the sidewalks every day (usually just in front of the highly-paid city workers who drink espressos while she does their job). Well-known in town, The Sweeper accepts no money for her mission, although I once found she took a pack of cigarettes.

I miss Nina, the old Chihuahua which makes the rounds every day trying to gather a few dollars to allow her and her owner to eat.

I miss going to the beach--even though I don't go in--and finding a marvelous example of energy, the type that the very beach promotes.

I miss fireworks. Living on the East River in New York City, I saw the best, but I still yearn for them. Every time I see them--even here--I get excited; I don't know what it is, but I love them.

I miss a scavenger group so intent upon meeting a certain goal that they will moon for me. That is noble.

I miss the fanciful, hand-made hats of Pink Lady. I haven't seen her for some time, which worries me. Unlike the other mal-adjusted members of the peripheral part of this town's society, she had a genuine talent and likableness. As she said once to me, "I just want to bring my hats to Fifth Avenue."

I miss when there was only one, true God: Mothra. A force of good for all humanity, she seems to have be a victim of the Vatican government's vicious campaign.

I miss the classics like Carl's religious medallion. On its own, it is a gorgeous piece of workmanship..

...but I soar in spirit when I see it is used to carry his Vicoden. These things bring a happy tear to my eye.

I miss the good old days when having a Latino for dinner was just that. Oh, you didn't have to have the good silver out or the damask linens; it was all about just having a good time--and a good meal. Mr. Astor keeps me very well fed, but I long for the days of laying out a table with a fine dinner for all involved.

We are all so glad that this election is just about over; tasered Alaskan relatives mixed with aunts living here illegally show that we have just about gone as far as possible to humiliate ourselves before the world. There will be a time soon that seven aircraft carrier groups no longer project a sense of power and respect, not the least of which is that we won't be able to afford them anymore.

One way or another, it is all over tomorrow; until we have to put together the pieces.