In Williamsburg, before the rents ballooned and the irony calcified, there was a window of time when people believed they were creating something important. It was 1997/8 and for one humid, candlelit evening, we were in Notting Hill — or at least pretending hard enough that it almost held. This was before 9/11, before algorithms, before Uber and influencers and curated realities. Nostalgia has turned it golden, but even then, we knew something delicate was happening. Fragile. Possibly delusional. But pure in its own chaotic sincerity.   The apartment belonged to Caulder, a 29-year-old gallerist with no formal gallery and no formal income. He wore tuxedo pants every day and claimed not to believe in chairs. His loft had one couch, no television, a salvaged butcher block table, and a faint, inescapable scent of eucalyptus.   The party began late because parties always began late. The guests arrived in staggered waves, all limbs and linen, clutching wine bottles wit...

Darlings, throw on your pearls and peel yourself off the fainting couch — this Sunday, we’re going somewhere deliciously decadent. Tonight’s setting? A roaring 1920s dinner party that would make Gatsby feel underdressed. There is no specific year — we’re simply in the 1920s, the decade that invented champagne-soaked chaos.   Arrivals & Aesthetic The guests arrive in chauffeured Hispano-Suizas and Packards, stepping out in velvet cloaks, chinchilla wraps, and the occasional scandal. Josephine Baker glides in like silk dipped in firelight, fresh from a Paris revue. Ernest Hemingway, still smoldering with youth and trauma, saunters in with a flask of something strong and a story twice as strong. And Cole Porter? He’s already at the piano, turning your indiscretions into sheet music. Dorothy Parker is parked on a tufted velvet chaise in the corner, armed with a gimlet, ready to dismantle everyone’s ego in ten words or less. “Brevity,” she purrs, “is the soul of lingerie.” Oscar Wil...

It might be Wednesday, but our golden time machine is dropping us off for a party at Studio 54. I will provide some outfit ideas, some inspiration, some ideas of the glittering stars that might be there, and some music for your playlists. Get your disco dancing shoes on, blow dry that hair, fellas. Ladies, crimping is an idea. Blush is your friend. Be outrageous. Let that wild person in your imagination out to play for a night. You are a superstar! If 78-year-old Disco Sally can get down, so can you.  I ask that you comport yourself with a modicum of elegance and self-restraint. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, which means you get to do everything. And keep some of those ideas. Our next stop might be Maxim's in Paris or Blitz in London. Or we could go to London in the Swinging 60s.  Alain Ducasse will provide the pre-disco feast, and Ina Garten will provide our return breakfast. Nurse Ramon will be there to hook us up to IVs to make sure none of us get a pesky hangover to r...