Hold the presses! The Baroness Seitzinger has been involved in a most tragic accident. Apparently, she was taking her refuse down her back stairs (alas, we have all had to give up help in this economy). Almost down, she ran into a huge, Gila Monster (actually a two inch lizard), startled herself, and twisted her ankle. Tragically, gangrene set it and her foot has reportedly (by Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish) to have been amputated. Equally tragic, she has had to be scratched off of my up-coming Society Quadrille for The Poor. I don't know....can I start a stubbed Quadrille?
No one knows what happened to this shoe in the emergency room. If found, please let us know (or pay for the match).

A coded note from her hospital room reported the treatment she has received from her unofficial caretaker, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish: "Nurse Ratched desires order, and she wants complete power, so she manipulates her patients and the staff to do fulfill her desires. As the head nurse and as a woman with many connections both inside and outside of the hospital, she is able to maneuver things so that most situations fit her expectations. If she needs to, she uses the force of her hatred to get things done. Though she smiles a lot and talks sweetly, she’s definitely not a kind or charming woman. She is, however, a woman with strong will and a fanaticism for control. She pursues power with intensity and is very successful at getting people to do what she wants."

Once again, we had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner made up of family and friends, perhaps the best combination of all. We all ate too much, and--after a short nap--I took Henrietta out for a Thanksgiving night on the town.

I really never understood why The Baroness Seitzinger decided to vacation in Las Vegas. I actually like the city inasmuch as it has an "anything goes" attitude much in the same way Miami Beach does. However, it IS in the desert and no beach to be found; although I don't like sand,I have always lived within sight of the Atlantic Ocean. The Baroness is going on and on about her visit; you'd think it was a Papal trip of some sort. I don't even know that she gambles (at least in respect to a table or a slot machine). Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish wants to call Homeland Security to stop her non-ending photo texts.

Somehow, Seitzinger got a little girl to help her with the luggage (she kept the jewel box close to her bosom). In Miami, only Latino boys help you with whatever you need.

Meanwhile, Officer Brian made one of his usual, unannounced visits yesterday. I blame him for keeping me out so late, although the go-go boys shared some of that blame.

The glorious, Henritta, took use out to dinner at the best Chinese restaurant in town, Miss Yip. I wonder what it is like to not be able to go out to dinner at a moment's notice. The coming government of the the Republican majority of The House is only tempered by the fact that the Grand Old Party has it's neck chocked by The Tea Baggers; watch as they cave in and--and in my opinion become the modern version of the Whig Party, a group that became out of touch so much that they simply disappeared. Mob rule is next, but as long as you have furs, jewels, and style, you will survive the bayonets long after everyone else. You might even be able to bribe yourself out of it all all and re-invent yourself and your "party". In this town, everything is about a "party".

At long last there have been more arrests in the Madoff swindle of the century, this time of "back office" people. Nobody in their right mind ever thought Bernie did it all himself; to this day I don't know why his sons aren't in a cell, too. And, I'add the wife and a whole lot more of the "back office"--and the front one, too.

But what bothers me the most is that one of the recently arrested, pictured here, was Annette Bongiorno, who--after making a huge salary doing what she obviously did best (bilk), cashed in a $900,000 investment with Madoff for $14,000,000 soon before the house of cards came down Is that what bothers me? No. Look at her. You'd think that $14,000,000 could make you look better that a kindergarten teacher in a trailer park. Why, she makes Linda Tripp look like Pamela Anderson. There are many things wrong with these people, but not to look good is inexcusable.

We just rolled in from a dinner with Henrietta at Miss Yip's, probably the most elegant, satisfying Chinese restaurant on Lincoln Road, this in a town where good Asian and Indian restaurants are at a premium. How the three of us ate enough into the the three figure realm is a mystery (since none of us drank alcohol, and I can't, anyway). Still, it was wonderful.
In the meantime, Leopoldo and I went to Twist on Sunday night. It was not the usual night out at Twist; I can't drink so we had to improvise. After wandering around and greeting all the bartenders, we sat ourselves down at Frankie's Bar One and decided to watch what ebbed in and out. It was a freak show of the highest order. Maybe because I was always moving around or taking care of Henrietta, but we never really noted the high level of madness that entered the club, took a walk around, and then found their base of operation. We didn't stay long, given my delicate nature, but---wow---I never saw so may interesting people outside of a carnival side show.

My doctors have been besides themselves about how fast I have been healing from that nasty operation one week ago tonight. Not the least of the admirers have been my daily nurses, Diana and Ernesto, who show up every afternoon at four to do their thing. They are both delightful and full of fun--something you don't expect from such a situation. I have to admit that I am partial to the the tender, young fingers of Ernesto (Diana understands, and amusingly steps aside).
Of course, it takes a lot to keep me down on the farm, and I went out looking for Bob and Terry and ran into Giorgio and his pack of friends, long poolside friends.
All roads lead to the enticing, alluring Giorgio, as they always did. He's a good sport about all the kidding. Far more intelligent than even beautiful, he is always a pleasure to be in his company.
Naturally, more roads lead to the pool, and more and more party monsters started to gather before I--given my delicate health--excused myself in order to not only remove myself from the debauchery that may ensue, but to cook dinner for Mr. Astor who arrives home late from work tonight.

It's good to be alive (or at least to Twist for a late night appearance).

I try not to get political; it is so useless, like having the back wheels of the Cadillac of your mind on cinder blocks and pressing on the accelerator and going no where. But.....yesterday's snub of President Obama by South Korea makes my mind dizzy. Where do they think they came from, even exist? My solution: Withdraw all troops tomorrow and save all that money, leaving them to the devices of my favorite....
...Uncle Kim. Wouldn't they just love that. The withdrawal from South Korea could be followed by the bloody withdrawal from everywhere. Why are we paying for nothing?

What a strange ten days. During Halloween weekend, I felt a little weak--a not unusual thing--with a slight irritation on side. I had treated this abrasion with Neosporyn and carried on until Monday, when I came down with a fever and took to bed. Meanwhile the irritation had grown. Two days of fever, no appetite, and no sleep took the wind out of me. When I came to my senses on Thursday, the irritation had grown to the size of a baseball of fluid under my skin, was extremely painful, and produced a reddened line that stretch from the belly button to the middle of the back. The mound of fluid made it painful to move, cough, or sleep. By the time I went to a local doctor's office, I was told that my vitals were fine, but that I had an enormous abcess for which they could do nothing. I went home, packed my bags and paperwork, went into the office for a few, painful hours on Saturday, and check myself into the best hospital in town. The doctors were amazed that such a thing had grown so quickly, and I immediately became the oddity of the hospital as every doctor had to come and bring a student to see this.

By this time, I was in too much pain to care. I had had the time to make final arrangements and was rather content that it was in the hands of a power greater than mine and that I would be playing with KiKi soon. Within a few hours of prep and interviews, the operation proceeded at midnight. It entailed a five inch slit, one inch deep for which I was awake for (albeit they have gave me twelve doses of morphine). For three days I endured countless tests to rule out this or that; during this time my temperature and blood pressure were supremely normal, thank God. The stay was not unpleasant; I had my own, private room, the staff was extremely friendly,the food good, and the male nurses to die for.

In the end, they found nothing but that I had picked up an every-day, common staph infection that exists on all surfaces, including the skin. I was told you don't need an open wound for it to enter; it can do that through a hair follicle. Scary. I've always been a little nutty about touching things, especially doorknobs. I was told another person's sweat is your death certificate.

I always carry Purell with me, but am going to add a host of new germ-fighting products to my carry bag. (I've thought for a long time that the re-introduction of the wearing of elegant gloves by both gentlemen and ladies is a look long in coming back in this age of germophobia.)I girl can't be too careful. And a word to the wise: Take precaution: you don't want to go through the pain I just did for someone else's sweat.

I live to roam the earth.

I think the Leather Man was taking this photo, but we had a blast entertaining the crowd.
Of course, no one entertained better than The Indian. There were so many hands on him and down his loin cloth that I just gave up.
My tool belt contained the tools of my trade: a dildo, poppers, lubes, and Xanax. It was a crowd please, too. I've spent three days in bed recovering from that weekend.

We started out with the traditional dinner on Lincoln Road with the girls. My little Indian was so hot that I had to carry a tazer in my tool belt.
The shocker of the evening was the appearance of the West Virginia relatives of Mr. Stuyvesant-Fish and the Wilmerdings. They kept pestering for drink tickets and attention. Their trailer must have been parked nearby as they kept disappearing for a "refresher". Needless to say, they never got fresher. It was ghastly, simply ghastly.
And, we all knew this must be a very distant relation to Mamie as the real one would never put white cock to her delicate lips.
Our cute little Nathan did his nerd/superhero routine for us.
Hey, there! Oh, I guess it's OK for the Leather Man to handle the merchandise. When you have that much inventory, you have to move it. I am the one who has put up with this each morning.
Contrary to all belief, we didn't over-drink, left together, and engaged in some wild costumed sex (at home this time).