New York
The high life has gone with the wind because of you know what. The last time I went to a glittering ball, Marie Antoinette still had a head on her shoulders, or so it seems, and sweats and leggings are now ubiquitous at intimate dinner parties. Here in the Bagel fashion has followed the street for a long time, making high fashion seem as irrelevant and obscene as Anna Wintour being paid millions to kiss the ass of celebrities.
No sweats, no leggings was my only rule for an intimate dinner for Prince Pavlos, expertly cooked by Michael Mailer and attended by Arki Busson and three youngsters of the female persuasion. A very interesting conversation took place in the middle of dinner, one that had one lady guest threatening to denounce me as a male chauvinist, until I pointed out that it was pointless threatening me as I’m rather proud of the fact that I am one. The Bagel now resembles Moscow circa 1935, with fear and loathing of the midnight knock by the PC police.
The rise in blood pressure was due to a documentary I had watched about Woody and Mia, one filmed with Mia’s approval and without Woody’s co-operation. It was long and quite boring, with extended period shots of numerous children hanging around a lake and garden. Mia Farrow dominated the proceedings, followed by the alleged victim Dylan. What I said was that I was with Woody when Mia first decided to go public.
The reason I was on his side when the brouhaha began was very simple. I could not envision how any normal person could seek sexual gratification by touching an innocent child.
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