We were all afloat as I entered the Audubon Club with Mr. Astor (his first public appearance in nearly three weeks); there was so much to talk about The Baroness that our mouths were watering so much I thought there might me a remake of The Johnstown Flood.  As we trotted into The Club, who do we see sitting at the corner of the bar but The Baroness.  How could she have known of our plans?  Now, I know that she has one of the pool boys on her payroll.

Obviously, the mood changed immediately and we started to talk about Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish; you have to go with the social flow.  Mrs. S-F finally arrived and received The Baroness with obvious horror.  The Baroness never travels without a superfluous amount of jewels and I tried to swallow her bauble, the Star of the Pond (or Lake, or Sea--I'm never sure what she calls that God-awful gaudy thing), but a gag reflex forced it up.  It lives to be obnoxious still.

We ended the afternoon as always, with a sense of happiness--especially since The Baroness gave us a ride home in her carriage with the fake ducal crests.  The poor thing; she actually told Mrs. S-F that she was ready to go one rung up the the ladder to Duchess.  Mrs. S-F and I both had a laugh wondering how she forgot all the rungs in between.  I mean, we couldn't sleep we laughed so hard.

I am joining my buxom buddy, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish together with Mr. Astor at the Audubon Club today for one reason: to talk about The Baroness Seitzinger, her vulgarity, her rampant flaunting of money on things the can only end up in a coffee table book entitled Bad Taste.  Like my first book, Henrietta, The Queen of South Beach, the new book needs only one stop: the home of Baroness Seitzinger.

As everyone knows, here, my household has been turned upside down by the illness of Mr.

Astor.  Thankfully, I am here every day to take care of him.

Meanwhile, let's get back to nonsense, and her name was Sweetie.

I inherited Sweetie from a boyfriend in New York.  She was a mess.  She liked drugs, alcohol, and cheap boys.  I felt obligated to look over her.  I bailed her out of more messes than a normal human could.  Sometimes it was a "rough position" in Stuyvesant Part and others in a back room.  Still, I loved (and love) my Sweetie daughter; she didn't know what she was doing some of the time and did most.

When I took this photo of her in the the glamorous Thompkins Square park, she said something to the the effect of:  "Work?  What do you mean?  You slave all day from nine to five.  Whatever you earn, goes to taxes.  Why should I work?"

That was, and is, my Sweetie (although her father left her a long time ago.)  Sweetie worked her way up to the travel agent of the stars.  Only in New York.

Every other Sunday there is a flea market/antique show on Lincoln Rd.; it is quite an eclectic assortment of knick knacks, old clothing, furniture, magazines (none of the good ones), and whatever.  I stumbled across this set--probably Italian--and one name came to mind: The Baroness Seitzinger.  Ever since she moved into her new penthouse on Biscayne Bay, she has been buying things like a tapestry that was too big for her walls; (...but I just HAD to have it).  Well, I took a long look at this set; it would have given so many so much to snicker at, but in the end I figured even she did have the poor taste to explain it.

I learned a long time ago that this is a two-fisted town.  It doesn't mean two guns in the the hand or two hands up of Satan's hole, but two drinks in hand (usually just before last call is called).  Ladies of birth (or purchased title) know to have the bartender discretely place the extra drinks under lace doilies.

Our good friend, Carl was just appointed Chief of Staff to The Mayor, Matti Bower.  Most would say this is about five years too late, considering how hard he worked to get her elected.  It is--in any respect--good to have another ear in City Hall.  Of course, being selected in a position like this is like being rescued at sea by The Titanic a few days before the big cube.

City Hall, always a caldron of corruption, has spilled over.  Since this has been open knowledge for as long as records have been kept here in The Twenties, it seemed as if nothing would ever change, that is before the F.B.I. knocked on the door and swooped up a gaggle of department heads, managers, and workers in bribe schemes....and there are more to come.  Add to this the trigger-happy police department and the internal probe there, the out-of-this-world salary and retirement plans, and any sane person would wonder how we go on.  The answer is that there is so much money on this tiny island of 80,000 full-time that everyone has their hands in it.

Anyway, good luck Carl; if I had a car you'd be the first I'd go to to have it fixed.

 

Mr. Astor made a second visit out today for a luncheon hosted by Henrietta for members of the highest society; although Leopoldo had to leave mid-lunch for fatigue, it was good to see him out and about.  Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish was otherwise occupied by lecturing a group in The Bowery about abstinence, while champagne was being spilled uptown.  She is such a trouper.  As for me, I have devoted my time to Mr. Astor as he slowly recovers; actually it is nothing I haven't been doing for over six years.

Of course, Mrs S-F wasn't fooling anyone; her devotion to the alcohol-ed addicted young Latinos in The Bowery was more than off-set by the following article:.

 One of the most outrageous examples of enormous wealth, coupled with a profound lack of taste, was at a dinner party thrown by Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish to honor her dog – who arrived sporting a $15,000 [$389,637.70 in today’s dollars!] diamond collar.  

Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish

 To put that kind of money into perspective, while Mrs. Fish’s spoiled pooch wore diamonds, many human Americans wore rags. In 1890, 11 million of the nation’s 12 million families earned less than $1200 per year [$28,818.49 current U.S. dollars]; of this group, the average annual income was $380 [$9,125.85 current U.S. dollars], well below the poverty line. 

Well, certainly no one on Miami Beach is living in rags.  This is a town on which Gucci and Ferragamo are rags compared to Prada the D Squared.  The end is near when Mamie thinks she can--as she says--"fire a salvo across my bustle" and not declare war.

The day after he came home from the hospital, I informed Mr. Astor that he might be well-served to make a brief appearance in Society.  So we made that brief appearance at the Audubon Club, where he received a standing ovation, which was so remarkable for that crowd.  Usually, they can't get off (or fall off) their chairs, and still remount them.  Mike Burke, the thorn in City Hall's side, drew up this silly and deeply appreciated cartoon, which he asked members of The Society to note.  Even Miami Beach has a heart.

Mr. Astor finally came home from the hospital; he had a superb room on the penthouse floor, and everyone was as nice as pie, but I like my pie at home.  As it turned out, Leopoldo didn't have a heart attack, but a breakdown of his esophagus that lead to all the other symptoms.  I asked the doctor if drinking eight glasses of Coca Cola had any way been in there, and he said said, "Yes.  It is one of the most corrosive liquids out there".  (This reminded me of a story I heard as as a child about how Coke could take the rust off of a chrome, car bumper."   Well, we collected him and brought him back to La Casa, where he fell in love with our bed.  As we all know, you don't know what you have lost until it is gone (and they paved over the park to put up a parking lot...).

I have been having a very bad time while having a good one.  I don't know where this leads, but...

Life hasn't been boring at all.  70,000 people crammed Ocean Drive and we were there to drive The Queen of South Beach, Henrietta, in the brand new Mercedes.  It was difficult to keep the multitude away from her, but we did have The Imperial Guard with swords drawn.

It has been a long time, but events of late make me update life.  After a great fear that Leopoldo had a heart attack yesterday, it appears that it might "only" be a growth in his esophagus causing the pain and other problems.  I have been maintaining bedside vigilance for the only man I truly loved.

I plan to reopen this blog as soon as I can figure out what Google did to it.