Swelter

More insatiable clubbing, here and there, leading to an encounter with Tony Theodore of the upcoming Sinatra Bar, taking over the lobby of the Charles Hotel. Theodore working all the angles: "We've got 4000 square feet, dancing in the lobby, and then a patio outside, a cool-out zone, where you can escape all this craziness, decompress, and actually talk to your date." Desperately seeking fun on a Monday night -- always a bad idea -- and clinging to The Whiskey, the only place with an approximation of action. Another dawn-of-the-dead evening, the toll mounting steadily. A 5:00-a.m. person, at one place or another, actually asking if the 26-year-old woman in our own private movable feast was our daughter.

Attempting to cool out and wind down with a quiet dinner at Bang, seeking solace with very tasty modern ethnic food/islands-of-the-world cuisine. Feeling rather shabby about the quest for more parties, but brightening considerably after a conversation with Desmond Atholl, author of the new book At Your Service: Memoirs of a Majordomo. Atholl, currently at work on Steinberg in Private: Return to Greed, putting things in perspective, reporting that the social disease cuts across the board: "Gayfryd Steinberg was absolutely awful, horrible to everybody. Nothing was ever enough. She spent a million dollars on Saul's birthday party, which was just trashed by the press. For the PEN things, she'd paint all the author's books gold, trying to get them to match the decor. When the baby was coming along too slow, she actually had a cesarean, just so she could have a party on Labor Day. Can you imagine? With the very rich, and too many other people, everything in life revolves around the next party.

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