October 13, 2005


I am disgusted, absolutely appalled, by my "friend" Michaud's most un-civil behaviour towards me. He spat insults into my face in my very abode and in front of my guests, the homeless, nonetheless! Incredulous!

Why do I suffer Michaud's arrogance? Why am I the constant target of his paltry wit while practically a martyr as I suffer the endless emails shuttled back and forth between Etienne and Gerard mocking his terrible lack of social graces? Yes Michaud read it and weep. Everyone feels you are a nuisance, and your lack of cheer has overstepped that invisible line which any delicate dandy knows should never be crossed.

Michaud, you are a boor!

That said, with the exception of the incident, I hosted quite a lovely gathering at my home last night. I prepared a goat shoulder braised with prunes and preserved lemons that was absolutely delicious.

Have I piqued your interest (or perhaps your appetite?) As Bryce is away enjoying a big family wedding in beautiful New Mexico (no…I was NOT invited), I decided to host a charity dinner for a pitiable group of Hurricane Katrina survivors I discovered cowering in the recycling bin of my West Village brownstone. The means by which those poor souls got there is complete mystery to me. There they were, picking through my back issues of "100% Beef Magazine" all fingerless wool gloves and tattered scarves and Eliza Dolittle-dirt-smudged-faces; three men, a woman, two children and a goat shivering in the blustery October rain. Their presence was a nuisance at first. However, once I shooed them out of the way as I could deposit my vodka and gin bottles, I realized their pitiful example could serve as a precious beacon of inspiration to my friends (and Michaud).

What is charity without due recognition of it?

So I let the woman and the two children into my home and set about inviting my socialite friends to my impromptu dinner. What of the men and the goat you ask? I gave them money to drop the foul creature off at the butcher before going to Century 21 to purchase crimson jackets for the evening. Although they each knew how to drive, none of them had ever practiced parking on New York City streets. Dented fenders be damned, my Hurricane Katrina charity dinner would still go on!

Upon taking estimate of my wardrobe, I nearly fainted for I simply had nothing to wear in any of my six closets. I would have to design a suit on-the-spot and commission it to a tailor that very afternoon! I leaned towards a white suit in the style of Tennessee Williams. Williams is one of my personal literary heroes. The eldest child, Tammy I think, took one look at my fashion illustration and announced I'd be dressed like Colonel Sanders. Can you believe the gall?
I retorted she'd be eating Colonel Sanders if she continued with her insolence! The woman, maybe the girl's mother or a friend of the girl's mother who died, took the children into the guest bath to wash them up a bit. I quickly got on the phone with Enrique, my hair stylist to hop on his burro and get his brown ass to my apartment. I needed styling! I also needed some big names for the charity event!

"Oh Jayeeest Neel, dos bambinos are sooooo ahdorrahhbul! Ahn awso hi teenk dat woman she look like Tyra Banks. No?" Enrique scraped the remnants of a mango pore peel from my glowing, effervescent skin.

"Enrique you are a life saver! I should invite Tyra Banks to this dinner." I had heard Tyra was in town for a publicity junket regarding her boring new talk show. I called her personal line and reached Tyra's assistant, a spunky sounding guy named Ron who informed me, unfortunately, Tyra was booked for the evening. His voice trailed off as he spoke to someone in the background. (How rude.) Then he asked me to hold as the person he was speaking to now wished to speak with me. Then it dawned on me. I was too slow to hang up the line. Jay Manuel answered the phone.

"Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay Gayest Neil. How have you been darlin'?" Ick.

"Hello Jay."

"Please sugar. Call me Mr. Jay, girlfriend."


Our conversation continued. I could feel the heat of his fake, orange tan radiating through the phone. I chewed words with barely concealed contempt, spitting them through clenched teeth and he, somehow, weaseled his way into a guest invitation to my First Annual Hurricane Katrina Relief Dinner & Symposium. Damn it. Also the three homeless men had disappeared with the four hundred dollars I'd given them for valet jackets and Enrique wasn't speaking to me, furious that I'd invited his ex, Mr. Jay, to the dinner.

"She is a beeetch! She tink she all jigh and mighty on Top Model! Fuck her and fuck you! I'll see you neht Juhrsday aht your rehgular time Neel. Adios."
And with that the cranky Chihuahua snatched his hair gel and stormed out of my apartment just as my guests were beginning to arrive.

No matter. I refused to be swayed. Like an elderly hurricane survivor sweating it out in a 100 degree shelter, stinking of human waste and delirious from dehydration, I too know a thing or two about hardship! I had guests arriving. I had martinis to stir. I had the homeless to feed. I shot a steely glare into my antique, Continental parclose mirror. I fluffed my ascot and spinning on an ivory heel descended to my atrium. It was time to give something back to those who had lost so much. It was time for my friends to see me doing so. It was time for some charity.
To be continued...

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