It was Saturday night of Labor Day weekend and I was out at my summer share in Fire Island Pines. As my housemates and I were finishing dinner we became playful (as a group of eight gay men can easily do after a marvelous dinner and a few glasses of wine) and for some reason we were inspired to try on some campy hats & feather boas that happened to be lying around (having a gay old time - literally). Eventually we got around to clearing the table and loading the dishwasher and then decided to go out to Sip’n Twirl, a dance bar in the harbor. It was well past midnight when we finally got our asses in gear and left the house. We were walking along the rickety boardwalk called Fire Island Boulevard when an acquaintance of one of our housemates walked by and said rather dismissively, “Oh, I guess you’re going down to join the rest of the queens sobbing over Diana”. We didn’t know what he was talking about (our house didn’t have a TV) so he told us of the recent news bulletin reporting Diana’s death in Paris. Stunned, we returned home instead of continuing to the bar/club. Since we didn’t have a TV in the house it was actually somewhat of a relief because we weren’t immersed in the news coverage that dominated the rest of the weekend.
Two summers later, during a weekend in mid-July when I was again out at FIP, another tragedy occurred, this time to a member of U.S. “royalty” of sorts. It was just past noon on a torrid Saturday afternoon (the temperature approached 100 back in Manhattan) and I was slathering on the #8 lotion when one of my housemates returned from a beach walk and told us that he had heard that a private plane piloted by John Kennedy Jr. was missing. He hadn't been heard from since the plane left for Martha’s Vineyard yesterday evening in a thick haze (his wife & sister in-law were passengers). Again, since we had no TV we weren’t able to keep current (to this day we still don’t have a TV but we now have wireless for our laptops). That weekend the annual Fire Island Dance Festival (a benefit for Dancers Responding to AIDS) was being held and the tragedy put somewhat of a damper on the event as John-John’s fate was in the back of many of our minds, especially since the stage overlooked Long Island’s Great South Bay which served as a subtle reminder.
Two summers later, during a weekend in mid-July when I was again out at FIP, another tragedy occurred, this time to a member of U.S. “royalty” of sorts. It was just past noon on a torrid Saturday afternoon (the temperature approached 100 back in Manhattan) and I was slathering on the #8 lotion when one of my housemates returned from a beach walk and told us that he had heard that a private plane piloted by John Kennedy Jr. was missing. He hadn't been heard from since the plane left for Martha’s Vineyard yesterday evening in a thick haze (his wife & sister in-law were passengers). Again, since we had no TV we weren’t able to keep current (to this day we still don’t have a TV but we now have wireless for our laptops). That weekend the annual Fire Island Dance Festival (a benefit for Dancers Responding to AIDS) was being held and the tragedy put somewhat of a damper on the event as John-John’s fate was in the back of many of our minds, especially since the stage overlooked Long Island’s Great South Bay which served as a subtle reminder. 
花花公子的責任就是要很平均的愛他認識的每一個女孩子~~我們的責任則在於公平的回應每一篇blog..................................................................
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