Miss Eartha Kitt has always been one of my favorite entertainers. That she, of "Santa Baby" fame, would die on Christmas is either ironic or fitting. When I saw her at an astonishing cabaret performance several years ago, she was in her early 70s, and looked twenty years younger (and not in a gross surgically stretched and pulled way). And damn, she could dance. Her photograph from that night, which she signed after her performance, her hand resting lightly on my arm during our brief chat, sits on the bookshelf right behind my desk. I was entranced that night, and I'm a little melancholy now. Every gay has his icon, I suppose: Cher or Madonna or Judy or Barbra or (shudder) Liza. I've always felt a little special that my heart belonged to Eartha.