Good. Better. Best. Bested.

A few people have asked me how I came up with the idea of interviewing playwright Edward Albee for this month's fiction issue of Vice magazine. Basically, Albee wrote one of my favorite plays, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and last year, after falling madly in love with Montauk, I learned he also owns a barn out there, where he runs an artist-and-writer residency program. I applied -- and ultimately, did not get in.  (Yes, I was sad.) When Vice came looking for story ideas, it naturally occurred to me that I would've been just as happy having a conversation with the octogenarian, preferably sitting out by the beach at his Eastern Long Island abode. Of course, as much as we tried to schedule a meeting in Montauk, where he spends much of his summer, we ended up at his loft in Tribeca. I was not disappointed. However, I should note that I felt unusually nervous about this interview -- and I've chatted up many luminaries throughout my career, so I had prepared a very long list of questions. Turns out, I barely looked at them throughout the conversation.

P.S. Albee told me he has nothing to do with the selection process for writers in his residency program, so no hard feelings.

Coffee, butter, biscuit.

Over it.

This Thursday, Oct 28 at 1 pm, the New York City Council's Committee on Women's Issues is holding a public hearing about street harassment of women and girls. Show your support and attend: near City Hall at 250 Broadway, 14th Floor committee room.

And for future reference, if you're in a situation where a guy is threatening to do physical harm to you, has indeed just shoved you from behind, or groped you et al, and you draw a blank on how to respond - dial 911. After all these years of repeated assaults, I finally did the research. Even if there is no literal fire in his pants or guns or knives or bashing of a woman's head onto a metal sewer grate, etc. involved (yet), you still can call 911. And if the situation is safe enough, take a picture of the douche and post it.

Paris, je sorta t'aime

In other news, I have just returned from France, where I had the opportunity to see Rick Owens' Spring-Summer Collection '11 at Paris Fashion Week. Even though I had a seat directly behind his wife Michele Lamy, my photos were not nearly as good as these. Here is an excerpt from the show:



Though I have never truly entertained the idea of spending more than my rent (*I have an apartment in Manhattan) on a single item of clothing, I ended up going to his boutique at the Palais Royal and his section at Le Bon Marche to try on some of his coats. Of course, both times, I left empty handed. Tant pis.

In any case, I used to hate Paris. Now, on my sixth or so visit, I feel differently. Thank you Mr Owens, Mr. fig-avocado-cheese sandwich guy, bowl of buttermilk at Breizh, Bordier beurre aux algues, Velib, Mr. Montparnasse-cemeterie Pepe le Pew, citron yogurt in the glass jar, fans of Oscar Wilde, Christian Constant fat chip, Bibliothèque François Mitterrand and Jochen.

The tree house is up!

My Vice magazine story about tree houses, that is.  Read it here.
It's worth taking a look at, even if you've already seen it, because I posted new photos and edited the ending. In the original version, posted on the Vice site,  there was some confusion in the last paragraph about when I made the call to my neighbor. We talked at 3 a.m., long before I had arrived in the tranquil no-service zone of west Sonoma County. It's also worth it because it's my favorite story I've written in over half-a-decade.

Tickled pink

My latest, an interview with fashion designer Rick Owens on the Paris Review Daily.

Not The Yellow Book.

In the library collections of the Edward Albee Foundation barn. I know exactly which one I would immediately pull out. Watch for my interview with the playwright himself, coming sooner or later to a Vice magazine near you -- once I finish writing the thing, of course.