My Life is a Drag
Before I left New York, I would often photograph pretty boys as pretty girls.
Before I left New York, I would often photograph pretty boys as pretty girls.
I would be negligent if I did not report that Linda has returned to South Beach for the past week. I first saw this vision of freed loveliness three years ago, and--for me--it was like the Miracle at Fatima. "Linda" is a financial officer from the Mid-Atlantic with a wife and family who comes to South Beach once a year to live out her fantasy and walk around town as "Linda". She doesn't wear falsies and always wears flats so that she can do her signature side-to-side hop of a dance. She once told me that South Beach is the only place that accepted her and let her walk around and live as Linda and that she was flattered by the attention I lavished on her. Friends reported that she went to the beach is a bikini, no padding, nothing....just being Linda. We had the honor to see Linda twice this week, and I even got to kiss he lace-gloved hand at Edison's piano bar party at The Ritz Carlton. People like Linda fascinate me. "If you want to sing out, sing out. And, if you want to be free, be free. Cuz there's a million things to be..." Cat Stevens really got it; I wish more people did.
I need to dust the broom closet. We have finally been vindicated by the Dailey Telegram of the UK. In a study just released, men and women over 35 years old have a marked decrease for dementia if they drink 28 drinks a week or more. This has led to jubulation here on South Beach; what about 28 drinks a day? I just knew there was a reason I had total clarity lately.
We attended Edison Farrow's night at the new piano bar in the Ritz Carlton last night, and what a grand event that was. There is not really anything like that here on the beach, and it was well-attended. Somehow, my work at the last mayoral campaign was brought up and we were sitting with a lesbian candidate for the Commission, being pumped by her gay, manager son. It is all so cloudy, but so, so very South Beach. I might have a new mission.
There has never been any doubt in my mind that Miami (which is not Miami Beach) is the most retarded city on the East Coast. It is a cesspool of corruption and indifference, rogue cops and wacky priests, and nothing that ever oozes out of that city surprises me. The financially challenged Performing Arts Center not only swallowed more than its share of bond money, but the politicians further cemented its doom by not erecting the final building: the parking garage! A new football stadium was shoved down the throats of the citizens only to be followed two weeks later with a report that--yes, indeed--the city was in the grip of financial collapse. Half of the new condos in downtown are empty.
Good Lord...you never know when you are going to walk down Lincoln Rd. and run into a pack of Elvis impersonators. It's a jungle out there. Sadly, I did not bring my camera out on our trip on the town tonight; sometimes I just don't want to lug it around, but regret it immensely later. Henrietta's dress was the hit of the evening. Her personal shopper at Neimans had called to notify her of a very special cocktail dress that had come in. It was a velvet, spaghetti strapped bodice with a silver and black skirt with black ostrich feathers as trim; Mamie had expressed concern that it sounded a bit much for the dead of summer, but somehow it worked, and the town paid homage to The Queen. Of deeper concern is the fact that I arrived home at 3 PM relatively sober; that hasn't happened in a long time. I wonder what it means.
Add to the list of dangerous creatures unleashed into the Florida wilds The Green Mamba, native to South Africa. An electrical worker was bitten this week and only narrowly survived, and until some sort of importing laws against creatures like this pops up it will just join the pythons and Nile monitor lizards flourishing here in the tropics. Since Florida has no shortage of crazy people, exotic and deadly species will continue to be introduced to The Everglades. Yet another reason to shun nature.
Mrs. Stuyesant-Fish wasted no time in coupling up with Henrietta; so many stories, so little time. One just has to imagine a drag-boy who worked for Meyer Lansky to grasp where we were. I didn't know until tonight that we are engaged with Henrietta for the entire weekend; oh, well, there are worst fates and this is one we are well-versed in. South Beach: Get Ready.
Baroness Seitzinger sent me this photo of one of her recent purchases; the vulgarity of that woman knows no bounds. In addition, she wiggled out of attending her own execution tonight. The nerve! Henrietta asked me to escort her out tonight. Back in New York I used to marvel at The Walkers: gay men who escorted older women out on the town. This is what I have become, with a slight twist. My poor hubby has to work late tonight, and I truly don't like going out without him; but duty calls and noone says "No" to The Queen of South Beach.
I could devour everything in this picture in ten seconds (or less). This is the agreed recipe for a fun, summer afternoon. Only that crazy bitch, Terry, has an extensive collection of deviled egg plates; yes, deviled egg plates. Some people collect Fiesta ware, some--like myself--fine British and French china, but Terry collects deviled egg plates. Leopoldo turns his nose up on deviled eggs, as does Bob, but Terry and I scarf them down by the dozen as long as there is a bottle of vodka to chase them. Speaking of vodka, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish has convened a sort of social inquisition for tomorrow; I fear for Baroness Seitzinger's life. In addition, I will not have my consort with me, so I have enlisted the care of a well-known chaperon to make sure my eyes don't stray as Mamie brings down the axe on the poor baroness in a familiar story: Old Money vs. New Money, or How Does Old Money Find The Money To Battle New.
Oh, my...I got so many emails about Felix (I as I usually do), that I must stand up for him t0 say, "Yes, I think he is special..." What a complicated boy...he liked to dress in drag in his teens to tease the Imperial Guardmen who liked that sort of thing, he had more money than anyone of earth, and he determined to risk it all to murder the very most corrupt being in Imperial Russian: Rasputin. Felix knew how to live and make it matter.
It seems that I spent the better part of last week bickering with Baroness Seitzinger; about what I can't recall, and I doubt that it matters, but it prompted Mamie to issue this public statement:
"We don't trust your silence" was the reoccurring message that started flowing last night. It's funny: The paranoia that festers when you don't talk about that flock of magpies that makes up South Beach. Truthfully, my main concern this week has been trying to save my precious garden from the ravages of six weeks of relentless sun and little rain; the water restrictions--and the methods I invent to circumvent them--take up a great deal of my time. Add to this the fact that I returned from Rhode Island to find the towering ficus trees being attacked by the locally infamous White Fly of Asia and you can get a sense of my burden (and my constant fight against Nature). Except for that wild pill frenzy last Saturday--which stretched from 2 PM to 2 AM--I have had only a small amount of time to donate to my favorite charity: Orphaned Bartenders of South Beach.
We all have our quirks. I am petrified of bugs--no matter how small--, will scream or swoon when I see one, but am enthralled by spiders. There is no way I will ever tear down their webs, and if they ARE in the way, I delicately re-direct the web so I can pass. Leopoldo, however, is a little more out-this-worldly; he is obsessed by "The Grays" (aliens). He believes they are behind every plot, every mystery, every missed bus. CNN will report a plane crash and he will mummer, "The Grays"; you tell him you missed a sale at Macy's and he will definitively whisper, "The Grays". Oh, well; we all have our quirks.
Travels Through Westerly were done in that reliable jeep kept here in the winter. In fact, I noted that whether in town or along the coast most people traveled in rugged, utilitarian vehicles; no flashy convertibles or luxury cars were evident. Joy-riding for the sake of showing off is frowned upon, unlike Miami Beach, where it is a life style.
Ah, The Great Westerly Trip--like all vacations--seemed to go by too quickly, but we still had time to consume a great deal of local food and international liquor. Leopoldo has always stubbornly refused to eat seafood, his wise Latina mother having convinced him of this without ever having tried any. I once, however, caught him at a party eating appetizers which he took to be chicken and I knew were shrimp; we agreed that he would finally try lobster (a New England staple) and by week's end was downing fresh clam chowder and lobster. Unsubstantiated fears can be so annoying.
I have been held against my will here in rhode Island with the expressed order NOT to post anything.... It was only today that I was able to convince everyone that I am not a beach person (all that sand getting into places it shouldn't be). Now they are at Weekapaug beach and I was able to chew my way through my restraints, make a pass at the bar, and claw my way up three flights of stairs to this computer. We spent all day in Newport yesterday, but never left Bowen's Wharf; God knows what we did all afternoon, but we got lost in Point Judith and almost had to swim home.
I am on the third floor of the four floors available; they think I can't hear them.... Hey,this is Rhode Island....we hear everything...