Not the TV show.  I mean Sheilah Graham Westbrook, the gossip columnist who was born in 1904 who had the affair with F. Scott Fitzgerald.  See yesterday.



"I am never telling you anything anymore," M says, referring to the news he shared with me about our friends Z and L and their enormous weight gain, about which I duly reported, here, a few days ago. 

"Do you think they'll ever read it?" I ask.

"Not unless you post it on the refrigerator door," he replies.

"You are like the Truman Capote of the blogging set," Carlos says, exaggeratng greatly.  I protest.  I mention how I change names and details.  This is really not about the people I know.  

My friend from Brooklyn writes to me.  He is furious.  "I know I am X," he says, referring to an earlier post of mine.  We have very different politics.  I never argue with him.  I only listen.  Which I have possibly made reference to.   This much is true.

I tell Eduardo about the Christmas party I have attended at which all the ex-couples in town who have broken up over the past year showed up.  The competition was fierce as to who would arrive with the best model upgrade in New Boy Friend.  The opinions of the judges, of course, diverged widely as to who actually won, because taste is a fickle thing and personal alliances are complicated.  Everyone is biased.  I run out of initials for the various contestants and their holiday dates.  Words fail me describing who had the youngest and cutest and most expensive.  My personal favorite is the very successful casting director doctor friend of ours who showed up with someone so radiantly charming and good-looking people went blind from staring.  It was only because I carry a small piece of smoked mirror for just such occasions that I was spared. 

"You must blog about this," Eduardo advises.

Another friend approaches.  "I AM X," she says, referring to the exact same post my Brooklyn friend took umbrage with.  "AM I X?  I AM," she adds, answering her own question.

"No," I protest. 

She refers to an adventure we had months ago which involved photographing her shoes which were subsequently identified in a post as the shoes belonging to X.  "Okay," I admit.  "Then you were X.  But not this time."

I have gotten my alphabet and initials mixed up.  I fear she does not believe me. 

This is dangerous work.  You should see the pictures I can't post.  You should hear the stories I can't tell.