Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams

Will the Girl be ruined by the good life? Stay tuned!

The orgy—the natural 4 a.m. evolution of what had been merely a giant rocking party complete with our new best friend, a darling young Marxist named Brooke who gave us this United Nations statistic, which we shall pound for the rest of our natural life and possibly beyond: "If the five richest individuals in the world gave up 40 percent of their income for one year, it would pay for the underdeveloped world's education, health care, and [uh, something else] for 20 years"—was held right there in the unnamed Francis' room in the penthouse loft of the historic Alexandria Hotel. You could have knocked us over with a cat-o'-nine-tails when we (that's "we," singular) awoke Sunday morning, sunlight streaming through the glorious floor-to-20-foot-ceiling windows onto the Art Deco moldings, to hear some girls next to us discussing the putative orgy, which had reportedly been held on a futon a few feet away from the cloud-like bed on which we'd soundly slept. "Orgy?" asked we. "Who had an orgy?"

"[Kedric Francis] did!" the girls enlightened us. "We tried to wake you up to see if you wanted to watch with us, but you were out." We were heartbroken that we'd missed it; we could have made popcorn and snide but extremely hilarious comments, like singing over and over Morrissey's refrain, "He was the last of the famous international playboys," which we proceeded to do for the rest of the day anyway, as a large group of us dim-summed in Chinatown, but it would have been much funnier if we'd gotten to do it while the anonymous "Beach Buzz" writer was actually having sex with people.

O, life's bitter dregs.

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