On Private Agonies

I’ve been thinking a bit about the recent suicide of fashion designer L’Wren Scott, which has been in the news a lot lately. I wasn’t super-knowledgeable about her designs — though I heard her dresses were immaculately cut — and while I remembered she was a stylist at a time when being a stylist was a “thing,” I didn’t know much about her outside of her work and her famous Rolling Stone boyfriend. She was one of those “fashion sphinxes” in my mind immaculate, glamorous in a very intimidating, dramatic way, a bit rarefied and remote. Though by all media

Look of the Week: In Which I Re-Enact My Particular Version of My NYC 90s with a Pair of Fancy Track Pants

Lately I have been intrigued by the emergence of what I call the “fancy track pant” in fashion. It all began, like many weird yet strangely awesome ideas in fashion, with Phoebe Philo’s work at Celine, the bougie French brand she is quickly turning a heritage-level powerhouse. She showed a pair of black leather track pants in her pre-fall 2012 collection (and was subsequently photographed in them for a Vogue interview.) And I was kind of into the idea. Not literally — I’ve long learned that if I’m going to wear something slouchy on my hips, it has to be

On Being a Semi-Retired Libertine

1. The pleasure of talking with old friends is how they remind you of crazy things you’ve done in the past. Sneaking backstage, making out with abandon, champagne nights and next-day brunches wearing sunglasses and a disheveled vibe: stories like these dot the past like rhinestones from a broken bracelet, crushd on a nightclub floor. But not anymore. Don’t get me wrong: I love my life now. But sometimes the Stooges’ Fun House pops up on my iPod or I look at my old studded boots or my crazy party dresses in my closet, getting antsy as they wait to

A Patchwork of November

Funny how this month has raced by, propelling us to the end of 2012! It’s been a full November, complete with furious novel scribbling and a trip to my former stomping grounds in NYC and the Thanksgiving holiday. I’m paralyzed by the need to write something cohesive, something that’ll unfurl in clean sheets of insight and beauty. But that would mean I wouldn’t publish until 2013. (Isn’t that weird to see “2013”?) So instead, I’ll just go for broke with an “everything but the kitchen sink” kind of entry. NYC Still Has a Secret Chamber of My Heart It is