I have just found out that I need to be 'invitado' a Cuba. Well, with my charm, grace, wit, talent, zest for life and other natural assets, I don't see how it won't happen. In the interim, I have sent two emails - blindly - in hopes that some government official will respond, as I continue, on this end, to carry on with my normal day to day drudgery.

(Huh! It's not as if I'm working the cash register at K-Mart, ferfuckingchrissake.) But I gotta say that that lying fuck James Frey has fucked things up for the rest of us with his best-selling bullshit.

Just got back from a downtown rehearsal of seven exquisite human beings doing their glorious, albeit, wordless thing, cuz I can't make the actual performance tonight. Am going, instead, to a tribute for a renown writer/biographer who died in July. I didn't even know he was sick, and, when he didn't return my call several weeks before he croaked, I figured he was in Europe, hanging with his pal, Leslie Caron. Wonder if she'll be there tonight. She was amazing in "Damage," along with my darling Jeremy Irons, whom I had the privilege of meeting last summer backstage at the Hollywood Bowl (and, canyouimagine, he was worried he wouldn't be able to remember all the lyrics to "Camelot").

My B-lister pal is picking me up. Let's hope he stays in check tonight and doesn't throw one of his infamous divo tantrums. God, those are wretched.

It's mind-bogglingly incredible how boring most of these blogs are. Seriously. Hahaha...

I am thrilled. I am definitely going to Cuba. But this won't be happening until later in the year. I do want to learn Spanish, though. (I tried about seven years ago, enrolling in a Beverly Hills High adult class, but after paying for the course and the workbook, which was $60. in itself, I became frustrated with the level of stupidity when one woman was asked, "Como se llamo su nino?" and she replied, "Matthew." I stalked out of there, not wanting to put up with these rich old hags - mostly Jewish and Persian [redundant in this case], and several Koreans, who only wanted to be able to talk to their help.

Last night's dinner with my Lezzie pal was wonderful. She brought over a huge London broil that she'd marinated, her dog and two peppers, all of which she showed me how to cook on the Weber (well, not the dog, ferfuckingchrissake). She drank an entire bottle of red wine by herself, I polished off a Chardonnay. I also gave her one of my new Breezy Singers, with which she fell madly in love, and we watched a little "Dancing with the Stars" biz.

Now I must work.

Whew - it's always something, or so said the late great Gilda Radner. Now I can't access this site from my usual Safari program and am having to do an extra fucking step. This irks me to no end, despite the fact that I am one of those who believe the decline of western civilization began with the advent of the answering machine. Yes: I mean, are we really better off now, in this global village reeking of humiliating depersonalization, unnecessary multi-tasking and rampant overpopulation that seems to have been fused with abject homelessness.

Last night on the way home from an Oscar Wilde play whose production can best be described as excessive mediocrity (not to mention the set that looked as if it had been spawned from the .99 store), we saw two cops hurl a handcuffed black guy to the ground, after which there seemed to be a passing passing parade of barefooted shirtless men in a stupor heading towards unknown oblivions.

What's to be done? I give when I can (and had earlier that night), I volunteer at Project Angel Food, and have offered my talents gratis whenever I'm able, but I'm also worried about me. What's to become of me? I made half as much money last year from one of my main sources of income, am still frustratingly alone (sure, now I've got my Breezy Singer battery-operated Japanese warblers to keep me company, but they are no substitution for male hunkdom, which is underscored every night of the week in the form of another Japanese-manufactered accouterment), and I don't know how much longer I can maintain my own degree of beauty in a society that keeps worshipping at the altar of youth.

As I've mentioned, too bad I can't turn gay again, since my best friend - the rock-star gorgeous lesbo - is coming over tonight to inaugurate the baby Weber gas grill she surprised me with upon my return home earlier this month.

But I can't. Turn. In the interim, champagne and steaks, oh, yeah.

Doing 10 interviews in two days, sandwiched with a visit to the refurbished Getty Villa (nothing less than fabulous, btw), is not for the faint of heart - or those in danger of getting carpal tunnel syndrome. HELLLLP!

Ferfuckingchrissake. It's all getting to be a bit much. I am trying to relax (doing the NYT crossword - pretty easy on Wednesdays), catching the tail end of "Chinatown," figuring out what to wear tonight for another foray downtown (a new-but-looks-1940's black velvet skirt that weighs fucking three pounds paired with a lace and net velvet appliqued jacket), as well as strategizing for tomorrow.

Naturally, all of this has precluded me from going to the gym. I don't know how mothers do it - what with kids and all. Oy, just mentioning that reminds me of the biggest regret of my life (or should I say two - remorseful acts), which were: not having children...twice.

One of the fathers I met on the casino floor of Caesar's Palace - he was celebrating his 21st birthday and happened to be in the room next to mine. The other was a 12-stepping asshole who happened to be my boss and, as I've rarely had a real job, this slight aberration - gainful employment - though it didn't last long, nevertheless managed to turn out bonechillingly traumatic.

I guess I missed the Mozart boat by not being in Salzburg this week. Thank God I love the dude's music, otherwise the glut, spate and deluge of his many opuses (sic) blaring forth from the many and sundry outlets, would, undoubtedly, be too, too much. (Remembering the time I went out with a cellist from a major American orchestra - in hopes of going with the group to that Viennese city. Too bad said musician wanted, for our first date, to take me to The Sizzler. NEXT!).

Another fucking sunny day here in Southern California. Doesn't it ever stop?

And speaking of Wolfgang, I once wrote a 42-page treatise on the 41st Symphony, aka, "The Jupiter." Is there nothing so poetic as the lull (adagio), before the frenzied, scherzo-like finale. Well, perhaps the adagietto to Mahler's Fifth. I know, I know, it's been done to death and over-schmalzified in the commercial world.

This is getting obsessive and out of control: my putting fingers to keyboard when I should really be working.