Urban Weekend certainly has not touched the stratified neighborhood we live in, but I keep receiving cables of dramatic incidents in mid-South Beach. None of us will go there, of course. The Baroness Seitzinger, always ready to throw her money around (with the purchased title and all), actually took off to Nicaragua for a five day jaunt; unfortunately for her the flight was diverted to El Salvador. We don't know the full details yet, but the rumor that the airliner wasn't carrying her favorite bottle of wine and she threw a fit and it half sounds good enough for me to believe.

Mrs. Styvesant-Fish and I dared the Gods and met yesterday at Score for tea; she is such a doll, being a friend interested in what I'm doing with myself. To her credit, she announced that she and her staff would be keeping South of Fifth safe for decent people; on my side of the coin, I assured her that--once again--machine gun nests had been placed on the roof of Casa Astor. Everything in between is a No Man's Land. Still, life goes on, as always. I travel with two carriages, the first with the Astor crest and the second with me disguised as a fish monger.

The Herald had a story of a Miami Dolphins superstar making his way slowly up Ocean Drive with fourteen people inside and a girl on his lap. The officer asked him to stop, which he wouldn't, and when demanded to do so after it was determined that the plates on the car didn't match the records, the idiot slowly turned in order to pin the policeman to another car. Needless to say, Mr. Football Star is in jail; what possesses someone who make millions a year to throw it all away like that? Poor breeding? The girl on the lap? That's what we are dealing with.