Marseilles. Under Construction. Photograph by the author
On the east coast you can have so much work done your own children don’t recognize you but you tell your friends you’ve been to Elizabeth Arden for a day of beauty and are trying a new lipstick color, can they tell? oh and the young man you’re with is your nephew.
On the west coast you can’t wait to tell your friends you’ve just had everything done again which makes 55 surgeries, oh and that’s the new pool boy you’re having sex with three times a day now because he’s 18 and can’t get enough, isn’t that fantastic?
Same thing. All a matter of presentation.
Yes, my darlings, this is a work in progress. I’m still making adjustments, and sadly a few things got lost along the way – the subscriber list, for one, I’m so sorry. On the bright side, however, you’ll notice you can now comment without moderation – for the time being, at least, so be nice.
I will figure out an email subscription soon, and although I’m working with a template, I’d like to tweak a few other features. Tweak in the good way, of course. An archive would be nice, with a proper index, for example. That’s coming. And a sidebar feature for my books.
But nothing is perfect, things happen, we are all works in progress. I was reading Cecil’s diaries this morning (Cecil Beaton, 1904-1980) about a Sunday lunch he attended at Diana Vreeland’s – who by the way just showed up a few days ago at a psychic reading of a friend in Malibu, full of life and advice from the other side. In 1971, however, the news was not good, Walter Moreira Salles, the richest man in Brazil, and his wife were in town at New York hospital with their son whose leg had become putrefied, Leland Hayward had just undergone brain surgery, Penelope Tree had a fever of 104, and when they sat down to lunch, the maid brought a note to the table. Diana borrowed Cecil’s glasses and read, “Peter (Mrs. G. Miller’s butler) found dead at bottom of swimming pool this morning.” (Unexpurgated Beaton, p. 141).
So you never know. Anything can happen.