I'd just gone to bed at 6:00 but at 7:30 Halston was knocking on my door. He hates being away from New York and he wanted to get back, but it was a horror trip getting up. And the hotel was just so beautiful, it had the geraniums in the window and red awnings. And Steve didn't want to get up and go, either, but after a half-hour of coaxing he did get up. We had to sit and eat breakfast but it was torture. Victor had his own room upstairs that he'd gotten after having an agitation, and he was cranky.
Halston really enjoys screaming. When he's paying he gets so grand and yells and tells everybody off about how rotten the service is for what he's paying, and when he pays the bill he makes you feel--well, he's like me, only worse. He tells you how he has to go back to New York to slave so hard so he can make money so you can go on spending it all, and oh, God!--he makes you feel so funny about it. But then it is just incredible what hotels cost now.
Finally Victor and everybody was in the car and we got to the Concorde on time, and Steve wasn't tipping the driver who hadn't even slept, he'd been out with us all night, so I gave him a fifty.
As soon as we got on the plane everyone fell asleep. The stewardess woke Halston up and he screamed at her that she better not wake him up again.
I wanted to get the Concorde silverware, and I wanted to wake Victor up and ask him to ask for food so I could get more settings--I'm working up to a twelve-piece setting--but I didn't wake him up so I only got one set. It was an easy flight. Then we went through customs and the customs guy used to be a cabdriver who had me in his cab once, so he sailed me right through. Got home and went to the office. Cab fares had gone up ($4).
It was a hot day and when I got to the office nobody was doing a thing. Brigid was waiting for the cake lady from New Jersey to deliver a cake for her mother's birthday, she was taking it out to the country for her later on.
David Whitney called and said I had to get some of the portraits to Paris, and I called Fred but I couldn't get him. Worked till about 7:30 with Rupert. Read my mail.
Warhol, A. (1989). The Andy Warhol Diaries (P. Hackett, Ed.). Pg. 231. New York: Warner Books.
