OPEN POST: Hosted By "Today On Cooking With Brooklyn Beckham": CROSTINI!

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Peckerwood's Weekly Lunocracy Post is RIGHT HERE.

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The party is already in full, frothy swing when you arrive, and you're 45 minutes late. Welcome to Greenwich Village, mid-1980s, and Elkie’s apartment is packed tighter than a cocaine executive’s day planner. Her duplex walk-up smells like Campari, Shalimar, and hair products. The stereo's blasting the Talking Heads at an anxiety-inducing volume, and someone’s brought a ferret. It’s wearing a leather collar. Naturally. Elkie herself—daughter of a dubious, possibly fascist German businessman and a former Miss Switzerland runner-up—is gliding around in a backless gold lamé number and neon green heels. She has the posture of a disco giraffe and the voice of a chain-smoking dove. She never blinks. No one knows what she *does*, but everyone knows she’s *done* things. Legendary things. She curates chaos. Warhol is in the corner, snapping Polaroids with slow, skeletal movements. Basquiat’s tagging the inside of Elkie’s coat closet with a Sharpie he stole from the hostess stand at Danc...
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The Reagan era — a time when the American Dream got a perm, Wall Street got high on its own supply, and compassion was drowned in a jacuzzi at Studio 54.

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