I've always said, if you can survive the last two weeks of December--and especially the one between the two holidays--you can make it through anything. Although it is not over yet, it would appear that we got through it handsomely. The decorating, gift-giving, and holiday parties went of without incident. One can only hope it is a sign that this year will be better than last.
At 10 PM we joined a large group of friends sitting outside on Ocean Drive; the dollar bills were for drag queens performing on the sidewalk. It was fun to see a parade of queens prancing between wide-eyed tourists and families.

Henrietta was absolutely radiant in a custom-made sequined gown and a new diamond necklace. "I look pretty, damn good," she quipped, "for an old broad." Last weekend we went out on the town with her and marveled at how she passed out hundred dollar bills to the bartenders at Score and Twist. She told us that night that she had spent over $30,000 on jewelry in the past six months. "I figure, I can't take it with me," she laughed. I figure Henrietta pumps enough money into the Beach economy to warrant Woman of the Year, by The Wire.

Alan and Darren, along with their friend Andrea, were in town all week having escaped the winter horror of New England. They hosted party after party, and Alan acted as my personal physician for my hand accident. You really don't realize how many objects your hand touches or bumps into until you break a bone in one. I was, however, able to take off the splint for the evening; unless I Bedazzled it, there was no way it was going to compliment black Armani.

We ran into good ol' Thomas Barker all over town last night, too, towing along a cute Latino (the accessory of note in this town).
And, it wouldn't be a night on the town without getting to know another possible pool boy.

Like many an end of The Eve, there were no cabs in sight. We had to walk home past crowds on every street corner seeking transportation, endless bottles, and even several bodies in the gutters being attended to by police. We made it, though, without incident although Mr. Astor has no recollection of the trip home. I awoke to a bedroom that looked as if a bomb had gone of in the Men's Department of Saks and soon our housemates and guests were drinking by the pool. Like Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish, I maintain long-standing standards that decent society waits until 1 PM to open a bottle, unless--of course--it's just a nip of brandy to keep you warm on a winter morning.