That sounds... inefficient. Cloistering oneself in a closet like some kind of paranoid rodent, powdering your nose in the dark? Pathetic. If you're going to engage in anything illicit—drug use, infidelity, or something more elaborate—you don't do it hiding in a closet. You take
22:32 Halfway through the meal, a man at the next table—a hedge fund manager with cheek implants and a dermal filler addiction—collapsed face-first into his agnolotti del plin. People clapped. They thought it was performance art.
The moment you see a choker, say, a mid-tier cocktail bar in SoHo or on a girl ordering a cucumber martini at Embargo... you know. Something’s off. It’s never just an accessory. It’s a warning sign. Like an Hermes tie on a man who still uses a
Harlan— We’ve reached the point of no return. I’m no longer willing to debate with men in tool belts about whether a bathroom should be soundproofed to suppress a 9mm discharge. It should. That is the baseline. If I can’t fire a Glock inside without alerting guests—
I’m at the Christie’s modern art auction—not because I need another Warhol; I hate Warhol—but because absence would be suspicious. Mylène’s beside me in a Ralph Rucci silk double-faced crepe gown from 2011, whispering commentary that sounds like desire but is appraisal.
I couldn’t agree more. It’s performative generosity—a hollow gesture meant to signal empathy, but really it’s just another way for nouveau to feel morally superior while they nibble on uni toast and sip Sancerre. The very concept of tipping is beneath anyone who owns cufflinks from
Late autumn. Rain on Hudson. Clean. Surgical. Makes the city look lacquered. I’d just left Indochine—lime leaves, too many orchids, mediocre service—and slid into the back of a black Lincoln. The radio was on WBLS—Quiet Storm, low—and then it happened: brushed snare, unhurried bass, and
I remember Paul. Everyone who matters in Manhattan finance has crossed paths with Paul—though most of them wouldn’t recognize him if he stabbed them in the back. He’s the kind of man who blends in perfectly—tailored suits, careful hair, the right reservations, the right drugs, the
375 isn’t a bottle—it’s a calculation. It’s a precise, Machiavellian algorithm to ensure dissatisfaction. It’s like giving someone exactly 57% of an orgasm. A half-bottle—technically a "demi"—is the sort of thing that seduces you with elegance, then leaves you tantalizingly parched.
The show was called “Oltre il Velo: Confessioni dell’Impossibile” — Beyond the Veil: Confessions of the Impossible. A late-night cult favorite across southern Italy, aired between faith healing marathons and lottery results. It had a marble-and-neon set, like if Piero della Francesca designed Studio 54. The host? Donatella Incanto. Former
It's... sleek. Gritty in a synthetic, leather-clad sort of way. Underrated? Perhaps. But only in the sense that most people don’t have the taste to appreciate a cover that bathes in sleaze and excess with such unapologetic bravado.
Brown is... pedestrian. It's provincial. It's the color of compromise, the color of settling. Appropriate only if you're a divorce lawyer in Westchester or a financial advisor who thinks wearing a quilted vest counts as business casual. Black. Always black. Preferably cap-toe Oxfords—John
It depends... Recreational or professional? Intent defines the blade. Personally, I prefer the Swann-Morton No. 3 handle — stainless steel, naturally — paired with the No. 10 blade for general work. It's elegant. Clean. Slightly curved edge, ideal for incisions that matter. The handle itself has this weight, this balance,
Let me tell you about Bryce Halpern, a man I knew—briefly—from Columbia. Finance major. Bleached teeth, J. Crew sensibilities, a wardrobe that tried too hard to mimic prep but always landed somewhere near “Cape Cod lost and found.” Obsessed with public beaches. Called them “freeing.” Called them “authentic.
Somewhere between Bergdorf’s, I noticed a clot of bodies screaming outside Cartier. Chants, signs, red faces twisted into outrage. Something about the environment. I barely noticed.
I used to listen to it on my Walkman during cardio at the gym in my building—before they upgraded the speakers to Bang & Olufsen and started piping in that insufferable Sade remix compilation. It's one of those rare tracks that transcends the crass limitations of early
Interesting phrasing. “Agoraphobia without agoraphobia.” I assume what you mean is the impulse to recoil from society—not out of fear, but out of pure disgust. A reflexive withdrawal, not because the crowd is dangerous, but because it’s common. Vulgar. Stupid. Loud. Yes. It’s not agoraphobia. It’s