On Labor Day I came down with something that was part exhaustion part retribution for a weekend of excess; I have taken to my bed most of the week reading cables from well-wishes and watching the Food Network. A box of cream-filled chocolates so thoughtfully sent by Mamie was given to a roving band of gypsies; it was so sad that they died soon afterward. Mr. Astor did make me keep a promise to attend with him the Wednesday performance by the Pet Shop Boys at the Fillmore, and what a delight that was.

They are still immensely entertaining and the art direction was as effective as it was simple.

The were enthusiastically received by a packed house.

The vast crowd made me think: What would happen if a bomb went off that night. Certainly most every middle-aged gay man in South Florida would be gone. Wilton Manors, the gay-owned gay-governed, enclave in Ft. Lauderdale would be a ghost town. The over-the-top Magnum's restaurant would have a few aging women around the piano bar. Pink Palm wouldn't have anyone to sell saucy greeting cards to. George's Alibi would be a lesbian bar (no difference in beer sales there, though). We all survived, fortunately, and business will go on as usual; I, however, must return to my Cleopatra couch. The Barefoot Contessa is coming on and tomorrow I have What Would Brian Boitano Make?. Now, THERE's something to live for.