Dan Neil had a big Hollywood party to attend Sunday evening. An excerpt:
This would be the place to establish my cool cynicism about the affair, to assert my purely forensic interest in the entertainment industry—which is, first of all, an industry, a business, and not a very pretty one despite the relative prettiness of the employees. Yes, I have many sober things to say about the crass and empty, and destructive, illusionism of Hollywood, which I’d be happy to run up the rhetorical flagpole if only I weren’t so worried about what I’m going to wear.
Now, obviously, my sartorial dilemma is nothing, nothing compared to my wife’s, a fact she hastens to point out. But Tina has an advantage. She would look fabulous in anything—a dress made of chocolate-covered doughnuts, or parking citations, or pink building insulation. If she went wearing a family of possums, the next week you’d see wives in the OC sporting possum couture.
Me? Not so much.