Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish left yesterday for The Great White North, Palm Beach, to take care of the Wilmerding estate and its dogs; I hope Mrs. Wilmerding locked up the liquor. Before she left, and after she called me a hag, Mamie asked that I keep a lid on the bad behaviour so prevalent on South Beach, which I found interesting since Mamie herself if behind most of the bad behaviour here (and if you knew that behind...).

So, Mr. Astor and I got into our carriage to check up on what Society was up to at Tommy Decker's gin hall last night and were shocked to see what was going on. First of all, Baroness Seitzinger, who earlier in the day said she couldn't possible entertain the idea of going out, was totally out of control. Not only had that purchased title gone to her head, but so did a lot of feathers. She behaved like a chorus girl gone wild, grinding her buttocks into any man standing and making loud proclamations much the way Mamie does when the tequila soaks her brain. Ex-Palace owners Douglas and Henry were doing The Charleston on the bar, Mark 1 and Mark 2 were trying to out-potty mouth each other, and Dr. Brad was trying to hold onto nurse Georgette, who was one step away from a striptease. The place was packed with everyone vying to be the one who drank the most and lived to remember it. We felt like we were watching the fabric of society unravel before us and quickly jumped into the fray.

This is how people cope with the none-ending flood of bad news; the quickest stimulus package is the one that pours out of a bottle and the mood is quickly sliding into a Weimar Republic sensibility. As long as the printing presses keep rolling and the gin flowing life will be beautiful.

Several friends called to say that, once again, I had made The Herald . It doesn't take much to titillate the small town mentality; a smart turban or a Baby Jane wig makes the newsroom swoon. I just wish The Herald would write about the growing number of homeless people walking the streets and sleeping on the sidewalks of The Riviera of America. Our own street--one of the quietest, well-manicured areas of Miami Beach--now has a homeless woman sleeping on it. You just feel helpless seeing all these people, some very well-groomed themselves and obviously new to the situation.

Yes, the parties and decadence do smack of The Weimar Republic; who will the new Hitler be? Much is made lately of the growing influence of Rush Limbaugh, but he strikes me as more of a pill-popping Hermann Goering. Sarah Palin could be the new Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS, if she could just utter something that didn't make her sound like a loon. It's almost comforting to hear the Republican party being described as the new Whigs, a party in the early 1800's that simply ceased to be relevant. I'd re-invent them as the "Wigs" and bring back knee breeches and the minuet, but the mob outside with the pitchforks and torches seems to be clamoring for something else. I constantly wonder if we will really get through it this time because the figures just don't add up.

I'd better stop as I seldom wring my hands here. I'm too sober, too, and will take care of that.