There’s an old saying: Children are like farts—you only enjoy your own. I happen to disagree, partly because I don’t have any children of my own, but mostly because it’s great fun being a guncle (gay uncle).

One time, when my nephew Sam was three and it was time for bed, he begged his mother, “Can I paint my toenails like Uncle Nonnie?”  My exasperated sister-in-law heaved a weary sigh and said, “Yes, but it takes special paint that we’ll have to get at the drugstore tomorrow.” The following evening, my brother returned home from a long day of doing whatever it is that cardiologists do, to find my nephew standing on a stool in the kitchen, maniacally thrashing a cocktail shaker up and down. Pointing at his orange, green and brown pedicure, he said, “Look, Daddy! My toenails are painted just like Uncle Nonnie’s, and he taught me how to make martinis!” (For the record: my toenails were a professionally applied Corvette blue.)

I’m sure my brother and sister-in-law have never had second thoughts about naming me Sam’s godfather.

Here are ten more reasons why it’s good to be a guncle:

1. Other people’s babies make unique and highly decorative accessories.

2. You get to dress them up in awesome outfits.

3. You can get ‘em all hopped up on sugar and then hand them back to their parents.

4. They make you things using Elmer’s Glue.

5. They call you up to light a candle at their Bat Mitzvah’s (and what gay doesn’t LOVE a candle?)

6. At a certain age, they start helping you make fun of their parents.

7. Once they’re legal, they’re some of the few adults who will encourage you to chug sake.

8. They believe pretty much anything you say.

9. And sometimes, when you give them something cool like shark slippers to wear whilst brandishing a light saber…

10. …their Moms will buy you a pair of velvet opera pumps embroidered with martini glasses.

So there you have it: all the joy and none of the responsibility. Take that, fairy godmothers!

Its 60s space-age modernity captured my imagination as a kid, when my father took us there, and I think we even went out onto an observation deck that got closed after 9/11. The only other time I went was in the late 80s, when my friend overestimated the traffic on La Cienega, and we got to the airport early enough for a couple of pops. Still, I’ve never flown into or out of L.A. without at least trying to get a peek at it.

Recently, I found myself with a 7-hour layover in L.A.—not something I’d normally welcome. But when I called my Hollywood-dwelling friend and asked if he wanted to meet for an early dinner, I was pants-wettingly excited when he suggested Encounter—the restaurant in the Theme building that’s not particularly convenient to anyone who lives in L.A. but should definitely be the restaurant where James Bond meets “Magma-gina .”

Apparently redone in 1997, it’s now a mini-theme park inside LAX. Here’s what it’s like when you arrive:

Trippiest Elevator Music Ever. 

Here’s what it looks like inside:

And here’s what it’s like when you leave:

Even Trippier Elevator Music

One of many reasons to love LAX.

I’ve had over 48 hours to digest what happened on Monday, and here’s the deal: It’s indigestible. To any civilized human being, the bombings at the Boston Marathon were incomprehensible.

My experience was terrifying, although nowhere near as horrific as others’. Three days later, I’m still shaken, weepy and finding it difficult to concentrate. And this is all that happened to me:

Sam and I were at his company’s annual marathon party, directly above the finish line. When the first bomb went off, almost directly beneath the windows we’d been leaning out, cheering on the racers throughout the day, we were sitting at his desk, at the back of the building. Both of our chairs were physically moved by the blast, and I poked my head around the corner to see smoke pouring in through the windows. I heard the word “bomb!” and an instant later, the second explosion occurred. Everyone at the front of the building was rushing towards us wearing masks of horror. After that, all I remember was scrambling to get the back windows open and helping people out onto the fire escape. One girl came out crying, with chunks of plaster in her hair. If the windows facing Boylston St. hadn’t been open, it would have been glass. In blind terror, we ran to a friend’s house in Back Bay, where we spent the next five or six hours monitoring the news and reaching out to everyone we knew who had been near the site, trembling with relief each time we found out someone was OK and then remembering someone else who could have been hurt. Numb beyond reckoning, we somehow made our way home that night and woke up Tuesday morning wondering if it had all actually happened, then traumatized to realize that it had.

Tuesday passed in a fog, as more information rolled in. Sam’s boss, Marlo, who held back to make sure all her guests were alright, had surveyed the room we’d all been partying in. Metal shrapnel and glass were on the floor. It was a miracle no one had been maimed, or worse. The FBI had been at Marlo’s house, and had requested any and all photos taken at the party. Sam’s co-worker, Ben, who had acted heroically by calmly directing people to the fire escape instead of the stairs leading out to Boylston St., said that he’d poked his head out the window and seen a severed arm lying on the sidewalk and streams of blood. An acquaintance reported that she’d been nearby and helped to do triage, while another said that a pair of parents had asked him to help find their kid. He did, but the kid’s legs were blown off below the knee.

Besides the televised reports of death and injury, the horror stories kept trickling in. Yesterday, I learned that a good friend’s daughter was in the hospital, badly hurt.

So terrorism turns out to be the gift that keeps on giving—nausea, that is.

Nevertheless, as rattled as I still am, and as many lives as this thing has shattered, the one thing I’ve tried to concentrate on—the anti-emetic, as it were—are all the equally numerous stories of bravery, kindness and generosity. People ripping off their shirts to use as tourniquets, opening their homes to strangers, offering their phones to let them call their loved ones. A man giving a shivering runner his jacket. Runners at the finish line continuing to run two more miles to the hospital to donate blood.

That’s what will eventually make this all possible to swallow, however unlikely that may seem.

And to quote my friend, William Martin: I’ll see you at the finish line next year.

So the other day, when a friend of a friend contacted me, I was leery, to say the least. She had opened a spray tanning salon in Boston and wanted me to check it out.

“I don’t want to look like a Cheeto,” I said.

This place was different, she said. There’s no smell, and it looks completely natural, she promised.

So I said what the hey. On Friday, I went to the Femme Fatale Airbrush Tan salon, and stripped naked (I don’t care what Tom Ford says; I hate tan lines). Amy said she could go however light or dark I wanted, but being a believer in the “Go big, or go home” philosophy, I told her to make me as dark as possible. I wanted to look like the kid in “Life of Pi.”

So she misted me all over, and I must say it was an odd sensation to feel cold while getting tanned. Then I stood in front of an industrial fan to dry and marveled in the mirror at my ten-minute trip to the tropics. At lunch, my friend Rina kept saying I looked amazing, but that could have been the bottle of Sancerre talking.

That evening, I had a black tie gala for Save Venice to attend, and my date, as we entered the Boston Public Library, said, “Jesus Christ! You look like George Hamilton!” Throughout the evening, sundry people asked if I’d been somewhere like St. Barth’s or Aspen. I told one of them that I’d been helping the freedom fighters in the Sudan.

So now I knew the secret to Jennifer Aniston’s permanent sun-kissed glow: The Infinity Sun System, which Femme Fatale uses.

“Best of all, there’s no sun damage,” Amy had reassured me. Which is great. Now let’s just hope they don’t discover that the chemicals they use are carcinogenic.

An old friend invited me to an intimate audience with the Dalai Lama at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning. Of course, I accepted, although, as it turned out, I had two conflicting funerals, a dentist’s appointment and a board meeting on the same day. But what better way to improve your karma than to start your day off with the ultimate rock star of Buddhist monks?

For security purposes, I gave them my social security number, confident that if anyone who had taken a vow of poverty ever hacked into my bank accounts, they’d be singularly unimpressed. I arrived 20 minutes early at the Charles Hotel, where the Dalai Lama was staying. A dining room at Rialto (the restaurant) was arranged with seats against the wall along three sides of the room, and an armchair with a table and a glass of water sitting by itself at the other end. There was a good deal of kerfluffle, as the security detail announced that His Holiness was on his way, even before some of the other guests had arrived.

Attended by an interpreter, some guys in suits with wires in their ears and more monks in crimson and saffron robes than you generally see, even in Harvard Square, the Dalai Lama arrived. He took one look at the seating arrangement and started pulling his chair into the center of the room while encouraging us to do likewise. Soon, it was as cozy as a kindergarten class, and Dick Friedman, our host and the owner of the hotel, was sitting inches from the Dalai Lama. Dick is a man with whom my personal interchanges tend toward the trading of good-natured but profanity-laced wisecracks, but for the next hour, he held the Dalai Lama’s hand, as I marveled that the longest I can hold anyone’s hand is a few minutes before it gets clammy or one of my knuckles starts to hurt.

So I just blurted mine out.

“Has anyone ever had the nerve to say, ‘Well, Hello, Dalai?’”

A much more awkward silence ensued, as the interpreter explained the cultural reference (which I was surprised he didn’t get, given the number of friends he has in show business).

Then the Dalai Lama chuckled and looked at me. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but with that hair, maybe you could.”

Yes. The  Dalai Lama poked fun at my hair. Then he said something delightfully polite about how much he loved the informality of Americans, and I’m pretty sure everyone else in the room breathed for the first time since I’d opened my mouth.

From there, the conversation got serious, with questions about China, meditation, US foreign policy, etc., and I was sorry not to get in a follow-up question (which, much as I was tempted, was not going to be whether he believed the rumor about Richard Gere and the gerbil). The whole experience, needless to say, was fascinating. His Holiness explained that the Tibetan people have their own culture, language and traditions, and therefore deserve autonomy despite acknowledging themselves as part of the People’s Republic of China. He reiterated the sentiment that Tibet has been transformed into a prison for its people, and said that totalitarian states or any authority that relied on violence to retain power were illogical and couldn’t possibly sustain. He said that there are countless ways to meditate and characterized his own style as “analytical.” He explained that altruism was the surest path to happiness and fulfillment. Surprisingly, he even praised many Chinese leaders, past and present, and called himself a “Marxist Buddhist.”

1. This view, from the living room of my father’s house, which I’ve been privileged enough to call home for 35 years.

2. Having Rob Wilson named the first male spokesmodel on The Price Is Right

 3. Seeing Joshua Bell play Bernstein’s Serenade after Plato 

4. My Bamm-Bamm Rubble toothpaste cap cover

5. The Failla Chardonnay and Pinot Noir Sam uncorked for a dinner party

6. Having a drink with Peter Farrelly, whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age, and John Hamm, who is way hotter in person

7. My friend’s brass knuckle iPhone case

8. My nephew’s 10th birthday party (that’s him and his brother), especially when his friend looked at my brother’s mother-in-law and demanded to know if she was from Arkansas.

9. My new bracelet by April Soderstrom

10. Finally seeing War Horse (the play, not the movie, which can’t possibly be as good.)

11. The press release inviting me to meet 70s porn oddity Ron Jeremy and sample his new brand of rum

12. The fortune cookie I got on National Coming Out Day that said, “One must dare to be himself, no matter how frightening or strange that self may prove to be.”

The Bangkok Oriental, Bangkok…

…because in one of the world’s most exotic cities, it sets the gold standard for luxury and service

Twin Farms, Barnard, VT…

…because there actually is a world-class, ultra-luxurious inn (complete with its own ski mountain) in Vermont

The Villa La Massa, Florence, Italy…

because this Medici Villa on the banks of the Arno (where David Bowie and Iman got married) is the sister hotel of the Villa d’Este in Lake Como, and it feels like the Tuscan countryside but it’s only 10 minutes from the Ponte Vecchio

The Serena Lodge, Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania…

…because it overlooks one of the most extraordinarily wild places on the planet but remains so civilized that the gin martini’s are chilled to 28 degrees

Emerson and Green, Zanzibar…

because I can’t even confirm whether or not it exists anymore, but when this pair of converted 19th-century merchant’s mansions operated, it was a time machine back to the days when the Sultan of Oman ruled his empire from Stone Town

The Bitter End Yacht Club, Virgin Gorda, B.V.I.’s…

…because it’s the apex of laid-back Caribbean luxury

Kona Village, Ka’Upulehu, Hawaii…

…because this ancient Hawaiian fishing village is the authentic Big Island place to unplug

The Casa Sierra Nevada, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico…

…because it remains as colorful and charming as the town surrounding it

The King David Hotel, Jerusalem…

…because it’s the grande dame overlooking the Gold Dome

Hotel Isla Seca, Zapallar, Chile…

…because it might not be as grand as it pretends to be but it’s the only game in town in Chile’s answer to the Hamptons

8. Kunsterlerheime, Louise, Berlin…

….because art is what Berlin is all about

Four Seasons, Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt…

…because it retains a touch of the old Sharm amid the rampant development

The Connaught, London…

…because it’s the ultimate Hooray Henry hotel, and even though the Dorchester has the Krug room, I was a groomsman at a toff’s wedding breakfast here

Langham Place Mongkok, Hong Kong…

…because in a city built on 24/7 retail, it offers 5-star accommodations and luxury shopping, high atop the frenetic, down and dirty city markets

Beverly Wilshire, Beverly Hills…

…because the suites and the spa are the only things that can justify a movie as bad as “Pretty Woman”

The Hotel Hassler, Rome…

…because when I was five years old, one of the waiters tried so hard to please me that he brought hot chocolate with ice cubes in it

Hotel de Colegio, Sao Miguel, The Azores, Portugal…

…because this former convent is the ideal place to explore one of the most beautiful volcanic islands in the world

Sunglow Ranch, Pierce, AZ…

…because this rustic but elegant ranch is nestled in rugged Apache-country, at the foot of the Chiricahua mountains, where Geronimo and Cochise fought the last Indian war against the U.S. government

Hotel Winery El Juncal, Ronda, Spain…

…because there’s no more romantic area of Spain, and no more romantic place to stay

The Lodge at Sun Valley, Sun Valley, Idaho…

…because it’s old-school glamour in the Sawtooth Mountains, and regardless of the season, there’s literally something for everyone to do outdoors

Rendezvous Bay Hotel, Anguilla…

….because it might be the ugly step-sister to more expensive resorts like Cap Juluca and Alta Mar, but it’s located on the island’s prettiest beach

Sri Lanta Hotel, Koh Lanta, Krabi, Thailand…

…because by the time you read this, the island will probably have become as developed as Phuket, Ko Samui and Phi Phi, but at one time, these funky little bungalows offered a genuine paradise on the Andaman Sea

Banff Springs Hotel, Alberta, Canada…

…because it’s nice to stay in a castle after a long day of skiing

La Casa de la Marquesa, Queretaro, Mexico…

…because I met a ghost there once, with the help of a Scottish terrier named after the Emperor Maximilian

De Real Macaw, Caye Caulker, Belize…

…because there’s no muss and no fuss, and the best diving in the world is right outside the front door

Chateau Andre Ziltener, Burgundy, France

…because it’s on the Cote d’Or, within biking distance of such wine-lover’s pilgrimages as Beaune, Gevrey-Chambertin, Nuits Saint-Georges, and the domaines of Corton-Charlemagne and Romanee Conti

Beit Zaman Hotel and Resort, Petra, Jordan…

…because there might be fancier European chain hotels nearby, but there’s no place better than this recreated Bedouin village to explore the wonders of one of the world’s great archaeological sites

The Brava Hotel, Buzios, Brazil…

…because it might be trying hard to be Miami, but it’s outside town, near the nude beach

The Regent Esplanade, Zagreb, Croatia

…because it was built in 1925 to house guests on the Orient Express, and they’ve retained the original art deco details but beautifully updated them with the help of a London-based Greek interior designer.

L’Auberge de Sedona..because it’s the one spot in Sedona where  looking down is as stunning as looking up

In the surreal and foggy hours and days that followed 9/11, the shock and horror I felt gave way to dismay and despair, as well as a sort of numbness, as the death toll kept increasing of friends, loved ones and acquaintances lost on the planes that originated from Boston and in the offices of the Twin Towers. It was obvious that the world would never be the same again.

Exactly one week after the terrorist attacks, I was scheduled to leave for a friend’s wedding in Berlin. I was traveling with three other friends and a 6-month-old baby, and there was a lot of discussion of whether or not we should or would even be able to go. We all decided that missing our friend’s wedding out of fear would be just another win for the terrorists, and on Sept. 18th, we boarded one of the first commercial flights to leave the U.S. after the attacks.

We arrived in Berlin and were greeted by the Brandenberg Gate draped in black bunting with words of sympathy for the American people, American flags flying everywhere, spontaneous peace rallies, and strangers saying how wonderful it was to see Americans abroad after such a disaster.

The wedding was an elaborate affair—several dinners and late-night parties, a brunch atop the Reichstag and lunch at the Berlin TV tower, the wedding ceremony inside the National Gallery (which was closed for renovations, but the family had enough clout to host the nuptials there), and a feast at the family’s home, amid their vast art collection, capped by a toast with a vintage Chateau d’Yquem the groom’s parents had bought at his birth and put away for the occasion. Despite the opulence and the conviviality, the memory of the terrorist attacks cast a shadow over the proceedings, like a cloud periodically blocking the sun.

The last event of the wedding was a barge trip up the Wannsee to Potsdam, to tour Frederick the Great’s palace, Sans Souci, followed by a farewell dinner at Cecilienhof Palace. We were to be served the exact same menu that Truman, Churchill and Stalin ate after signing the treaty that ended World War II.

At the time, I still smoked, and my friend Joan and I went outside for a cigarette. Sitting on a bench and staring at the mock-Tudor palace, I marveled at the fact that if I’d been there 50 years earlier, I would have been killed on the spot for any number of reasons: I’m American. I’m Jewish. I’m gay. And I turned to Joan and said, “Just think—this is where all that madness ended.”

Just then, a Japanese couple approached us and asked if we knew where the bus stop was. As they walked away, Joan said, “Don’t forget. We were at war with them, too.”

And for the first time since 9/11, I laughed without feeling awkward or guilty, and felt a glimmer of hope for mankind.

I’ll never forget the friends and loved ones who died in the terrorist attacks: On the planes were my sister’s childhood friend, the father of a friend, a prominent socialite I knew well and admired, and the wife of a man who eventually remarried one of my closest friends. In New York, there were college friends and the father of an acquaintance, as well as a firefighter from Staten Island, married to my friend, whose wedding anniversary was that day and who jumped on the ladder when the alarm went off and never came home. In the weeks and months that followed, I’d learn of more and more.

9/11 left a gaping hole in the fabric of humanity, and for those hit the hardest, that tear will remain as fresh and raw as it was 11 years ago.

But for me, that trip to Berlin was the first stitch in repairing it.

A rip-snorting romp through Arizona! Read all about it here 

I had the pleasure of meeting, and even eating with, Julia Child, on several occasions, and there’s nothing I can add to all that’s been said about how delightful and funny and down-to-earth she was.

What I remember most vividly was her voice: that unmistakable warbly sing-song, which was the basis for one of my all-time favorite party tricks.

She had a phone line that only rang in her office, so I knew I wouldn’t be bothering her, and I knew the number by heart. At bars, I used to take people’s cell phones and dial the number, hand it back to them, and watch their jaws drop when they heard the answering machine pick up and say: “Hi, there! It’s Julia!”

Over a period of several years, that trick earned me hundreds of free drinks, which she would undoubtedly approve of (it’s true that she knew how to throw down).

So happy 100th birthday in heaven, Julia! And this time, the drinks are on me.