During a recent photo shoot in Paris for Harper’s Bazaar, acclaimed fashion photographer Peter Lindbergh chose to give the Look Book spread a decidedly edgy theme—“They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab.” While the Amy Winehouse shout-out is slightly amusing and Ms. Sevigny’s security in her sobriety is kind of refreshing, these pics make her look creepy. In this clip from the Parisian photo sesh, she offers her sense of Mr. Lindbergh’s work. “I love the way he shoots women; they’re always very strong and confident,” she says, adding: “There’s just something romantic and very feminine about his pictures.” Really?

"I want it to tour like a rock band," said I.O.C.’s designer, Tara Subkoff, who has been swanning around like a bit of a rock star herself recently in the pages of Harper’s Bazaar, etc. "I had an idea for a store that was completely minimalist, completely functional and completely nomadic, so that my shopkeeper could pick it up and run with it down the street if need be."

Ms. Subkoff’s "shopkeeper" is her brother’s best friend, Jed Miner. He was standing inside the Plexiglas in a pale suit and tie, with angelic golden locks, delivering a steady stream of banter. The "Imitation Store" was slated to hit 30 New York City locations in one week, Mr. Miner said, with a new item each day, and is ultimately destined for Los Angeles, Paris, London and Tokyo. "And my bedroom is an additional location, for all you groupies out there," he murmured.

But seriously, folks: "I will be doing my best to uphold the fashion-design sensibilities of Tara Subkoff," Mr. Miner said. "Rich people really do want to show the rest of the world that they can spend $7,000 right next to the hot-dog stand."

Several days later, Ms. Subkoff showed up at Bottino on 10th Avenue and 24th Street—following Daniel Subkoff, her brother and creative partner, by a few minutes—and ordered lunch (brunch was no longer available, much to her chagrin). She was wearing a one-sleeved silver-gray work shirt and suede shorts, accessorized by Roman-style sandals that came all the way up her lovely calves, and she was accompanied by a small entourage that included Mr. Miner. Her blond hair was slicked back in a bun at the nape of her neck in a Grace Kelly style. The designer said she had tried to avoid negative press by braiding her hair in cornrows for the show—"by having them put me down rather than the ideas," she said. "By having them completely make fun of me and my hair style."

After her salmon arrived, Ms. Subkoff began discussing I.O.C.’s runway show, which had begun with a small child reading the Pledge of Allegiance aloud, while photographs of women and children in Iraq were projected on the back wall and four American flags hung from above. Ms. Subkoff alleged that it wasn’t a runway show at all—despite the presence of male and female models parading up and down the catwalk in clothing of her design—but "a complicated social experiment."

And what was the outcome of this experiment?

"You saw it, you came, you were there," the designer said flatly. "I’d rather you explain it than I."

Then she relented a bit. "I think this President we have now should be impeached," Ms. Subkoff said. "He’s atrocious. The only area of influence I have is the fashion world. If I changed one person’s mind, then I think all the bad reviews would be worth it."

Of her new retail venture, Ms. Subkoff said: "I’m not trying to start a movement—I’m just trying to have a completely original branding experience. I think my store is the most democratic store that ever existed! We have no security guards, and our salesman is lovely to everyone equally." And then, with commendable exuberance: "I think we have the most American, patriotic store that ever existed on the planet!"

One of the store’s first stops had been amidst the throng on Grand and Wooster, right outside the Deitch Projects opening of Terry Richardson’s revolting Terry World. "Terry—who is a dear friend, who was such a good sport …. " Ms. Subkoff said, then trailed off. That evening, the Imitation Store sold a $400, vintage-1930’s pair of glass eyeballs, which had been worn by the same man: one in the daytime and the other at night.

O.K. to be gaudy again? Hey, if Gwyneth Paltrow can bare her buttocks in the new Harper's Bazaar, perhaps people are ready to plunge back into frothy glitz … or maybe it's just Gwyneth. Tonight, the fashion mafia tests the waters as it shuttles between the Dia Center for the Arts' fall gala in Chelsea, chaired by Donna Karan , and the Fashion Group International's Night of Stars in midtown, hosted by former CNN fashion star Elsa Klensch -and where the aforementioned Ms. Paltrow, with her parents Bruce Paltrow and Blythe Danner , will be picking up an award, along with Oscar de la Renta and his stepdaughter Eliza Reed Bolen, and kooky designer Betsey Johnson and her daughter Lulu . The theme-you guessed it-is " Dynasties ." So (why not?) we called Nolan Miller, the fellow who designed the ruffled gowns for TV's Dynasty , at his boutique in Beverly Hills and asked him how people were holding up out there. "I think everyone's very nervous!" he said. "No matter where you go, people say, 'Are you afraid to fly? Are you afraid to fly?' Fortunately, we're very busy, because everybody's saying, 'Well, we've canceled our trip to Europe, might as well buy clothes .'" Tonight, if you can get your boyfriend to stop playing anti-terrorist games on the Internet, you can log on to Sothebys.com and bid on some of Mr. Miller's old schmattes . "I just decided it was time to clean out the warehouse, get rid of everything and simplify my life," said the designer. The spoils include a white dress Eva Gabor wore in Green Acres , a riding costume from Barbara Stanwyck ("She thought she owned me; she ran my life!" said Mr. Miller), a red chiffon beaded number with big slits that Cyd Charisse wore to the Oscars, and the costume Ginger Rogers wore the last time she danced, which happened to be on Love Boat . "It's blue sequined pants on jersey with a chiffon overcoat, because she was dancing with four boys and they lifted her on their shoulders," said Mr. Miller. Our big-cheese editor just booted up his laptop ….

[Dia Center for the Arts, 548 West 22nd Street,

7 p.m., 989-5566; Fashion Group International's Night of Stars, Cipriani 42nd Street, 110 East 42nd Street, 6:30 p.m., 593-1715; Nolan Miller collection, www.sothebys.com.]

Sink or Schwimmer? Although it looks like Friends may last forever, its cutest cast member, David Schwimmer , isn't taking any chances and is making a bid for "serious acting roles"-hence his bumbling appearance in Band of Brothers , that HBO World War II miniseries that we can't pry our Precious from; and Uprising , a TV movie (on NBC on Nov. 4 and 5) about Jewishresistance against the Nazis. Themoviepremieres tonight with a subdued party and an oddcastthatincludes LeeleeSobieski (lookslike HelenHunt's naughtylittlesister), HankAzaria (Helen Hunt's ex), Jon Voight (fatherofAngelina Jolie, who looks nothing likeHelenHunt), Cary Elwes (he was in The Princess Bride , looks vaguely like Helen Hunt) ….

[Reception, Decade, 1117 First Avenue, 6 p.m., screening to follow, Clearview Cinemas Beekman Theatre, 1254 Second Avenue, 7:30 p.m.,

by invitation only, 595-6161.]

Thursday 25th

Gucci or jihad? Leave the gas mask at home and head to the Gucci store for a private cocktail party followed by drunken shopping; a portion of the receipts go to the Joseph Papp Public Theatre–New York Shakespeare Festival, which boasts a benefit committee including Sandra Bernhard , Harry Connick Jr . and Alan Cumming , all of whom may or may not show tonight …. If you can't crash, there's always the 92nd Street Y , which has gamely added a "Life After 9/11/01" series to its roster of swingin' singles nights disguised as poetry readings, art lectures and cooking classes. Tonight, Princeton professor and Islamic expert Bernard Lewis speaks on "The Meaning of Jihad." People listen.

[Gucci party, 685 Fifth Avenue, 7 p.m., by invitation only, 816-2500; Jihad talk, 1395 Lexington Avenue, 8 p.m., 415-5500.]

Friday 26th

What can't she do? CNN anchor Paula Zahn , who's been broadcasting war news, is also an avid cellist! Yo-Yo Ma, move over ! Tonight, Ms. Zahn M.C.'s a benefit for the International Sejong Soloists , a 12-person, conductorless string ensemble whose young, comely members appear in publicity photos sullenly prowling the streets of Manhattan à la U2 …. Meanwhile, if you're like us and are barreling down on 30 but still have white walls , use today to buy some art and photos from one of the 150 galleries participating in the I Love New York Benefit -all the proceeds are being donated to the Robin Hood Foundation for families of W.T.C. victims.

[New-York Historical Society, 2 West 77th Street, 7 p.m., 580-5494; find out about buying art at www.ilovenyartbenefit.org.]

Saturday 27th

"The show must go on," said Bash Dibra, animal behaviorist and trainer, who's inviting New Yorkers and their pets to Madison Square Garden today for a big expo. "You'll see some weird lizards with horns, and birds with beautiful plumage, and we also will be honoring the search-and-rescue dogs-I want to call them New York's Faithful. Animals are very sympathetic and responsive to changes in our feelings." Does he have pets? "There's the bulldog, Ziggy; Cora, the Rottweiler; Phoebe, the Maltese … then we have Skippy, the fox terrier, then Harry the spaniel, Mopsy the shaggy dog; then we have Winnie thePersian, Thomasina the domesticshorthair; Vinnie is another cat, also Reggie , and the bird's nameis Tweety ." ChoiceB: Putyour feministboyfriend -theone with the Matchbox20haircut and clunky,shinyblack shoes -on aleashanddraghimtoa Barnard women's-leadership summit, where Naomi Wolf (pumping a new book) and Janet Reno (pumping a new political career) will address the question, "Women and the Public World: Do Women Leaders Make a Difference?"

[Pet show, Madison Square Garden, 10 a.m., 800-243-9774; Barnard leadership summit, 3009 Broadway, 9 a.m., 854-2037.]

Sunday 28th

Need one more reason to feel a pervasive sense of encroaching melancholy ? Daylight Savings Time ends at

2 a.m. ; everything goes back one hour, and our Precious gets out his scented alarm clock and sets it to "apple pie."

Monday 29th

What makes someone a New Yorker writer in 2001? Is it enough to have merely a single pithy story published alongside a large color photo of oneself vamping in a silky camisole? Or do you have to publish a whole entire big "serious" book? Tonight, New Yorker editor David Remnick entertains the crowd with card tricks at a party for a bunch of fall 2001 books by New Yorker writers and artists, including Too Close to Call: The Thirty-Six-Day Battle to Decide the 2000 Election by Jeffrey Toobin (O.J. expert, remember him? ); The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen (quite the party guy post–Sept. 11); and a New Yorker cartoon anthology. Meanwhile, new Harper's Bazaar editor Glenda Bailey throws a party for Laura Day, the Demi Moore guru who's written a new book called The Circle . We'll spare you an excerpt and offer you a review of the new Harper's Bazaar instead: 1) It's very British, but not in a high-end way-for example, Sting's wife Trudie Styler is on the masthead, Joan Collins writes a piece about shopping, etc. 2) As reported above, Gwyneth Paltrow drops her pants. 3) Instead of book reviews, Ms. Bailey revives Diana Vreeland's old edict "Why Don't You" and has a bunch of designers make brief cultural recommendations. "Why Don't You Hear This Music Recommended by Anna Sui … Why Don't You See This Exhibition Recommended by Nicole Miller … Why Don't You Watch This TV and Theater Recommended by Cynthia Rowley ." To which we might reply: Why don't you hire some actual critics?

[ New Yorker party, Housing Works Used Books Cafe, 126 Crosby Street, 7 p.m., by invitation only, 286-5357; The Circle party, a fancy Upper East Side address, 6:30 p.m., by invitation only, 310-288-4941.]

Tuesday 30th

Twist my Naipaul? For most of us, Flushing, Queens, still feels like the safest place to be -and what good luck, because tonight V.S. Naipaul (we hope his Nobel Prize put him in a better mood than usual) reads at Queens College. Or should one head to a spa ? There's a launch party at the Chambers Hotel for The Canyon Ranch Guide to Living Younger Longer ; watch for scrubbed New York magazine editors trying to win a Canyon Ranch vacation for two …. The guest of honor is Linda Richman, comedian Mike Myers' mother-in-law, who inspired the "Coffee Talk" sketch on Saturday Night Live and went on to be a motivational speaker and Canyon Ranch devotee. "An unlikely love affair is what it was," said Ms. Richman, the Fran Lebowitz of Aventura, Fla. "I actually ended up living at Canyon Ranch for two years. It's nirvana; it's like the movie Lost Horizons , it's just paradise …. My conception of Canyon Ranch was that you exercise and run and hike and bike and have a froufrou service, but you know what? If you're like me, you hike an inch ; you don't have to climb Mt. Everest!" Meanwhile, Shoshanna Lonstein alert at the Madison Avenue Bookshop, where Noelle Cleary and Dini von Mueffling are serving potent white wine and signing their new book, The Art and Power of Being a Lady .

[V.S. Naipaul, Music Building, Queens College, Flushing, 7 p.m., 718-997-4646; Canyon Ranch Guide party, Chambers Hotel, 15 West 56th Street, 5:30 p.m., by invitation only, 800-975-8880; The Art and Power of Being a Lady , Madison Avenue Bookshop, 833 Madison Avenue, 5:30 p.m., by invitation only, 535-6130.]

Socialites young and not-so-young attempt to "Raise Your Spirits" -that's a triple-entendre-at a ball benefiting the Central Park Conservancy. Get spooky with junior blueblood Alexandra Lind, and possibly, fearsome giantess-actress Sigourney Weaver …

[Sorcerers' Tent, Mall in Central Park, mid-park at 72nd Street; 7 p.m., 310-6609.]

Wednesday 31st

Halloween?! And yet, we can't possibly think of anything scarier than reality just now . ( Memo to self: Stop speaking to friends who forward pointless chain e-mails from "my father's friend's father, who works for the F.B.I.," about avoiding the malls on Halloween.)

Start by remembering that it takes two to tango, and that you are doubtless playing Veda to your mom's Mildred (see: Mildred Pierce , the 1945 noir epic starring Joan Crawford). Don't bother dragging her to your therapist–you need quick results. I'm talking radical cathartic therapy, e.g. a mother-and-daughter trip to Pie in the Sky , the brilliant documentary about former Warhol muse Brigid Berlin, directed by Vincent and Shelly Dunn Freemont. I guarantee that, no matter how painfully baroque the psychodynamic between you and Mom, you will come away from this hilariously poignant shock-doc feeling relatively normal. And loving Brigid.

Ms. Berlin is fondly remembered by many as the plump, Fifth Avenue-bred Warhol acolyte who lolled around shooting whipped cream into her mouth and amphetamines into her ass (through her jeans in the 1967 movie, Chelsea Girls ). In the 1960's Warhol milieu, she found an adaptive stage for her grandiose exhibitionism and monumentally obsessive-compulsive personality. Within the confines of the Factory, she was a fully functional creative freak who actually made a significant contribution to 20th-century art. Brigid's mania for recording conversations, Polaroiding and, most importantly, monologuing informed and shaped large chunks of the Warhol canon. She inspired Andy Warhol, and he in turn encouraged her entertainingly degenerate antics, which was all fine and dandy–until word got back to Honey Berlin, her Fifth Avenue mom. Pie in the Sky gives a fabulous window into what happened when Honey's anal expectations got derailed by the freight train of Brigid's oral impulses–over and over and over again.

I phoned the still wildly ebullient Brigid and asked her to free-associate about what made Honey Berlin tick. She obliged, and then obliged some more. "Mother was a New York society girl–22 years younger than my father. She smoked. She didn't read books–only W and Town & Country , Harper's Bazaar , blah, blah. 'The last book I read was Raggedy Anne ,' she used to say, proudly. She went to every fashion show because Daddy ran the show at Hearst," said Ms. Berlin, referring to Richard Berlin's 52-year stewardship of the media giant. "He got the company out of debt; he sold off newspapers to buy television stations. When Patty Hearst was kidnapped, he held the purse strings, and he was reluctant to give up the ransom money to get her back."

At 61, Brigid the brilliant raconteuse (see The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again ) has lost none of her ranting piquancy–especially when her late mother is the topic. "At our apartment, at 834 Fifth Avenue, my mother had needle-point thrones, not toilets–very French. My mother slept with her makeup on. When I was 10 years old I found her Tampax, and she told me they were for removing makeup. So every night I cleansed my face with cold cream and Tampax. She had plastic vibrators, and she told us they were for her neck. I cannot picture her having sex. She wore heels at home–in the house, for Christ's sake!" I heard Brigid light a ciggie and inhale Tallulah-ishly. "My mother didn't work," she continued. "She got her hair done every day, over at the House of Charm on Mad and 61st Street. When I was 11, she gave me a permanent."

Brigid's mamma monologue pingponged back and forth, managing to cover every seminal event and place in 20th-century history. "I would pick up the phone and it would be Richard Nixon. My parents entertained Lyndon Johnson, J. Edgar Hoover, and there were lots of Hollywood people because of San Simeon–Clark Gable, Joan Crawford, Dorothy Kilgallen."

European royalty also dined chez Berlin. "I have a box full of letters, written to my parents in the late 1940's and 1950's from the Duke and Duchess of Windsor." Ms Berlin proceeded to read me a few of these fascinatingly doltish missives: The main topics are Communism ("the war of nerves being conducted by the Kremlin") and upcoming golf games.

In the 1950's, Ms. Berlin made a life-altering discovery about her parents and their glitterati friends. "My mother would go to Papillon and the Colony and have three asparagus spears. She was a one-spoonful gal. Not me! She used to take us to Paris, but she spent her whole time in couture fittings, so my sister and I ran around Paris eating …. They all ate like birds, so I started to sneak the uneaten food in the middle of the night."

As a result, Brigid did the unforgivable, at least in Honey's eyes: Brigid got chubby. "I was sent to the family doctor to get amphetamines. I was 11. Dexedrine, too–little orange hearts. Mother would take Preludin. Then diuretics became popular–my sister wouldn't drink water. Everyone was doing it. Jack and Jackie Kennedy went to Max Jacobson's." Despite the modish doses of speed, the weight piled on. "When I was 16, my mother sent me to school in Switzerland, St.-Blaise, to lose 50 pounds–and I would pilfer the other girls' money and go on pastry binges."

In Switzerland, Teen Brigid launched into an addiction-fueled rebellion, and the results were so much more impressive than anything Robert Downey Jr. has come up with. "My roommate and I decided to get drunk. I got so fucking wasted I was doing Indian dances. I woke up the next day, and there was shit on the floor next to my bed. One of the mademoiselles entered the room and demanded, ' Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça ?' I said, ' C'est le chien ,'" blaming it on the dog. "She said ' C'est trop grand !' Then they wrote home to my parents and told them I was using my bedroom as a toilet."

During her school holidays, Brigid's parents sent her to work at Harper's Bazaar . "All the women wore hats–so I wore one, too. My job was to detach the dollar bills from the letters people sent in requesting the Harper's Bazaar Beauty Box. The editor then, Carmel Snow, took me out to lunch. 'Get that thing off your head,' she said. How was I to know that only editors wore hats? Daddy was Carmel's boss, so I just thought I was an editor. Vreeland was on the second floor wearing a snood."

Brigid paused to admonish one of her pugs and fast-forwarded her rollicking epic. At 18, she finished her schooling at the Convent of the Sacred Heart Eden Hall in Pennsylvania and returned to New York just in time for her coming-out party–and a fresh assault on her mother's nerve endings. "I was a debutante, so I needed two escorts. My mother went crazy when I invited the electrician who was working on our TV wires at our house in Westchester …. I can't remember the other one." La Berlin lit another Marlboro. Eschewing college, Brigid hung around the city with Wendy Vanderbilt and George Hamilton. "I think I spent the night with him–I'm not sure. Anyway, we used to go to Michael the II's on 70th, Malachy McCourt's–Frank's brother's–bar on Third Avenue and Clavin's, opposite the first Serendipity."

These skip-along years were enhanced by an escalating speed intake. "Dr. Freiman–we called him Dr. Feelgood–gave me my first injection in my arm. He took my Hermès scarf off and blindfolded himself and said, 'I'm going to make you feel better than any man has made you feel.' His shots were amphetamine, diuretic and B12. By then I was 19 and very high, and my sister and I would go straight to Bloomie's and start charging."

Honey Berlin was not, according to Brigid, unduly fazed by Brigid's escalating amphetamine use. "It was legal. Her issues with me were weight and lifestyle." However, when Brigid started hanging out with poofters, she really touched a nelly nerve. "Mother called them 'pansies.' She was on the phone to Bill Blass every day, but for some reason that was different–my friends were mere pansies! When I was 21, I married a window trimmer, John Parker. He worked at a store on 57th and Fifth called the Tailored Woman. He had the deepest windows in town. I knew all the window-dressers up and down the avenue–Joel Schumacher, Gene Moore. [John and I] stole Daddy's Cadillac and ran off. I rented a house in Cherry Grove [on Fire Island]. We renamed it Brigadoon. I used to come into the city on the seaplane just to get checks. I hung out with all these piss-elegant queens … Jimmy Donohue–have you heard of him? I was insane, but also very grand. I went through $100,000, and my mother went berserk." Had she known what was about to happen, Honey Berlin might have saved her energy.

Brigid can't quite remember how she met Andy Warhol. "I think it was 1964. Henry Geldzahler took me to the old Factory, but I already knew about Andy through all the staple-gun queens." To say they hit it off is an understatement. The Berlin-Warhol symbiosis produced an avalanche of filthy and fabulous creative collaboration and movie appearances– Chelsea Girls , Bike Boy , Imitation of Christ and more. Brigid, who now went by the name Brigid Polk–"because I poked myself in the heinie with speed"–even recorded her mother's telephonic reproaches and turned them into an off-Broadway stage play.

The years flew by in a blur of drugs, booze, food and general grooviness, with the occasional random attempt to modify her behavior. "In the early 70's, I went to Woolworth's and bought a jigger so I could have just one getting-dressed drink. By the time I left the house, I'd had 20. One time, I was in a hairdresser under the dryer getting bored. I went to the bar across the street in my rollers and had a glass of white wine. Then another glass of wine and another. I can't remember anything else until I woke up in a Howard Johnson near LaGuardia Airport. And there were pancakes and maple syrup. There was a cute boy in the room watching Kids Are People, Too . I think I thought that Andy would put him on the cover of Interview . He didn't."

Eventually, much to Honey's relief, Brigid got sick of what she calls "waking up in the plants." She doesn't regret those years of driving her mother bonkers. "I enjoyed it, but I didn't do it on purpose. Growing up, I was really scared of my parents; they were strict. I just rebelled." Now she rarely goes out, and her oral compulsions are confined to bingeing on Key Lime pies–hence the title of the new documentary.

I attempt, reluctantly, to conclude our phone interview with a word-association and acrostics game: M-O-T-H-E-R.

M: "Maids! My mother had tons of them–always women. No butlers, because they drank. She didn't like couples, because they conspired. Irish maids. One was called Minnie Curtain."

O: "Obsessional. In 1986, she was lying in her bed, dying of cancer, and she was still calling the saleswomen to get new Adolfo's at the Saks in White Plains. She had them hung on her door so she could look at them. She died four months after Andy."

T: "Tweezers! Her French tweezers! I have to have a tweezer in my night table to pull out stray hairs, and the highest-magnifying mirror–an X5. They sell them in Bergdorf Goodman. She was hooked on them."

H: "Hair. And so much Spray Net. And H is for Honey–I named a pug after her. I've turned into her. It's scary. She was right to be disgusted by so many things I did. I'm a mother now, to my pugs–India and Africa. I don't like it when they call them 'dogs'–they are my children. I have to have a car and a driver; I want them with me. Every day we stop at Grace's Market and get chicken breasts."

E: "Esther, another maid. She was obsessional and she drank, with a thousand hairpins. On her day off, she would stay home and polish our door knobs; that was her idea of fun."

R: "Rigaud. The original green ones. The Cypress–she bought them in Paris before you could get them here."

In summation–again–I asked Brigid if she recalled ever buying her mother a gift on Mother's Day. "Daddy would always give us a couple of $100 bills," she replied, and then was off on another free-association bender. "Daddy's Alzheimer's was really fun. He denied everything–'You're not my children!'–and gave my gay sister's girlfriend a cigar when she came over. I would buy my mother a boring porcelain box from some store on Madison Avenue. There are four of us; I was first. Then Richie–she was named after my father. Then my brother Richard and my sister Christina, who arranged the defection of Baryshnikov. I remember Daddy went nuts–'If she marries that commie bastard … !' He sent us to Catholic schools. He'd say, 'At least you're not going to get communism from the nuns!'

"When Mommie Dearest came out, I told my mother it was the best movie I'd ever seen. She was a friend of Joan's. She said, 'How could Christina do that to her mother?' I told her Joan was just like her. She was–she used to go through our closets and throw it all on the floor, looking for wire hangers pointing the wrong way. 'These beautiful clothes I buy you–you can't fit into them because you're getting fat.' The clothes itched. I used to cut the insides of the sleeves."

Feeling just a tad Oprah-ish, I asked Brigid if she loved her mother. "I'm not sure if I loved her. I don't have much experience with love. I love my sister Richie, and I love my pugs. When Honey [the pug] died recently, I went out and got another one. But you can't do that with people. Death is weird–it's too abstract. Andy said it's as if somebody went off to Bloomingdale's and never came back. When my mother died, I went upstairs with two pocketfuls of Toll House cookies and started going through her jewelry."

Pie in the Sky is playing at Two Boots Pioneer Theater, 155 East Third Street, from May 18 to May 25.

Mollifying Gifts for Mom

1. For modernist mom: Mat, by Masaki Matsushima. With its top notes of mango pulp and bamboo, this hiply packaged fragrance is perfect for the sophisticated, Helmut Lang-wearin' mother. She'll love the bottle, even if she hates the smell ($60 for 1.35 ounces at Jeffrey New York).

2. For Denise Rich-ish mom: a diamond-and-platinum Art Deco pendant with a whopping Siberian amethyst designed by Fouquet ($60,000 from A La Vieille Russie, André Leon Tally's fave jewelry shop, at 781 Fifth Avenue).

3. For New Age, anti-face-lift mom: Sundari's Neem eye cream ($55 for 0.5 ounces from Barneys or Bergdorf Goodman). Sundari partner Christy Turlington wore it up Kilimanjaro last year.

4. For snotty Anglophile-elitist mom: Miller Harris, three fragrances created by English perfumer Lyn Harris ($80 for one ounce, exclusively at Barneys).

5. For QVC-lovin' mom: Joan Rivers' Now & Forever. Like Brigid and Honey, Joan and Melissa are no strangers to a bit of mother-and-daughter friction, but that hasn't stopped Joan from coming up with the best fragrance of the season. I blindfolded a group of friends, and they all picked Now & Forever over the more trendy fragrances listed above. It's the tuberose ($45 for 1.7 ounces on QVC.com). Highly recommended.

6. For a mom called Pat or Meg: M. and J. Savitt name bracelets from Jeffrey. You need a chain ($440) and diamond-encrusted letters ($460 each). Caution: If her name is Wilhelmina, the bracelet will cost you $5,040.

7. For label-lovin' mom: Remember the ugly scene last year when you got busted for giving Canal Street fakes? Don't be a tightwad, buy her the real thing: Loehmann's on Seventh Avenue and 16th Street has Ivana-ish lilac nylon Prada totes ($299.99) and black monogrammed Gucci wallets ($199). Incinerate all shopping bags and receipts bearing the Loehmann's logo.

8. So-out-of-it-she's-groovy-again mom: Chanel and Gucci have both put those rhinestone initials (theirs) in the corner of their frameless tinted eyewear ($270 and $250, respectively) from the eponymous boutiques. Mom's still wearing these naff, 1970's-inspired shades from the first time around, so you know she'll dig them.

9. Your daddy's rich and your momma wants a purse smothered in Swarovski crystals? Do what Brigid Berlin always did when it was time to buy Honey a gift–hit daddy up for the money. The Judith Leiber watermelon ($2,375) is the best bag (at Judith Leiber, 987 Madison Avenue).

10. For the South Fork-lovin' mom: Georgica lip gloss ($18) and East Hampton silky blush ($20) from Sue Devitt Studio at Barneys.

It heralds, for one thing, the end of the women's magazine editor as celebrity; as domineering, matriarchal presence; as "editrix."

In their 1940's to 1960's heyday, Vogue 's Diana Vreeland and Harper's Bazaar 's Carmel Snow were not only arbiters of style, they themselves were stylish people. Ms. Snow, whose very name promised toothsome photo spreads of luxurious clothes in fairyland settings, was known for, among other things, reeling boisterously around town. Ms. Vreeland was famous for speaking in italics, for her deliciously dictatorial morning memos: " Today, let's think pig white! Wouldn't it be wonderful to have stockings that were pig white! The color of baby pigs, not quite white and not quite pink? " A striking figure with her ink-black bob, flushed cheeks and erect posture, she was frequently photographed in her lavish living and working quarters, leaving in her wake a bracing whiff of dramatic African art, red lacquer and leopard prints. In more recent years, Cosmopolitan 's Helen Gurley Brown picked up the skein of these stern mother figures, what with those Burt Reynolds centerfolds and sprightly suggestions: "Why not greet your husband at the door dressed in nothing but Saran Wrap?" "Why not go an entire day without underwear?" One might not have liked these women, one might have rebelled against their pronouncements, one might have decried them as elitist or sexist, but it could not be denied: They were personalities.

It is hard to detect this kind of presence in today's crop of women's magazine editors. Vogue 's Anna Wintour once seemed formidable, dining vampirically on rare hamburgers at "44," but think of her now: still hiding behind those sunglasses, scuttling down to the Condé Nast cafeteria and green-lighting undignified, demographically sensible projects like Teen Vogue . Liz Tilberis of Harper's Bazaar had a bit of the old, welcome eccentricity in her silver-haired, stubborn size-12-ness, but she died of ovarian cancer in 1999. Her replacement, Katherine Betts–"Kate" to pals, which apparently include you, the reader–seems a bit like the wholesome, nicely dressed girl down the hall you knew in college. Soon after her first issue, Ms. Betts taped segments for the cable TV network Lifetime on the challenges of being a working mom. She has since hired a publicist at P.M.K. to screen her from the press, as if she were Meg Ryan.

When Ms. Wintour's predecessor, Grace Mirabella, was fired in 1988 after her attempts to democratize Vogue , she recouped by getting her own eponymous magazine, Mirabella . (As did, briefly, Frances Lear: Lear's .) This seems unthinkable today. Save for Jane , helmed by former Sassy editor Jane Pratt, whose name is conveniently generic enough to mean "everywoman," it is people who are already famous–multimillion-dollar entrepreneurs or "stars" in other industries– who are now successfully putting their imprimaturs on magazines: Martha Stewart with her Living ; Oprah Winfrey with her O ; Rosie O'Donnell, who recently ate McCall 's. If celebrities aren't actually "editing" magazines, they are driving their sales: Witness the most successful of them all, In Style , and the mad rush by the others to duplicate its formula. (Who's on the cover of this month's Vogue ? Nicole Kidman.)

Since editors can't possibly compete with the ready-made narratives celebrities provide, they have slowly begun to erase themselves. Mirabella closed up shop for good this past summer. Its final editor, Roberta Myers, now edits Elle ; she has omitted her photograph from her editor's letter. In the latest issue of Glamour , Condé Nast's most lucrative title, editor Bonnie Fuller didn't even bother to write a letter; she instead prints a picture of herself posing with actresses Sharon Stone and Kristin Davis, as if she might absorb their celebrity by osmosis.

It is a fool's errand. The new model of the women's magazine editor–Ms. Pratt, Mademoiselle 's Mandi Norwood, Marie Claire 's Glenda Bailey–is not a dictator, not a queen, but a girlish and conspiratorial chum. (How can you dictate, after all, in a world of eBay and casual Friday? How elite can you be when most socialites have day jobs?) The youthful Ms. France is the ultimate self-erasing editor, posing for her editor's letter quite literally in the closet. "I'd like you to think of Lucky as your personal shopping playground," she writes, "overseen by that one friend who knows exactly which jeans are the most butt flattering." Her magazine goes on to present no stories, no advice on job hunts, no how-to, no horoscopes (finally!), no vision of your ideal life, just first-person squibs from her editors accompanying photographs of items, items, items –the reason why magazines were existing all along. It's crass, perhaps–note the $68 dish-drying rack on page 104–but there's something honest about it. Something even brave.

Ms. France goes one, even braver step further: She has not only erased the idea of the women's magazine editor as celebrity, she has erased celebrities ! The few actual living people who do appear in Lucky are either a) editors; b) unknown models ( Lucky 's models are no more striking than the prettiest woman in your office, and just as anonymous; compare this to Vogue running something like six successive covers of Gisele Bundchen last year); or, c) unknown creative types–designers, interior decorators, hair stylists–women who are making a living just like you or me. O.K., maybe they're making a living perpetuating the Beauty Myth, but who cares? At least they, and not Charles Revson (or Ron Perelman) are the ones profiting!

Of course, it will ultimately be Condé Nast's Si Newhouse who profits if Lucky is successful. And while it is a Condé Nast tradition to maintain a stable of beautiful glossies, Lucky also signifies the end of the women's magazine as a cultural artifact, an ornament, a quasi-book. There was a time when the fashion layouts of women's magazines were so heartbreakingly beautiful, they were set pieces unto themselves. It seems unbelievable now, but entire movie sequences were constructed around women's magazines (think Kay Thompson, Vreelandishly decreeing "Think Pink" in 1957's Funny Face ).

The 70's and 80's brought the slightly schlockier woman's mag: the embarrassing relationship advice to be pored over, corner folded; the quiz to be filled in with erasable ball-point; the insert of recipe cards to be extracted and filed and smudged. Ms. Tilberis did some gorgeous covers for Bazaar in the mid-1990's, but for the most part, women's magazines were now consigned to the recycling heap without an afterthought. They had ceased to be coffee-table artifacts and were now furtive entertainment for the doctor's office or the airplane. All the more so since Mr. Newhouse poached Ms. Fuller, the current editor of Glamour , from Hearst's Cosmo in 1998 (in the process "retiring" yet another dignified, old-school mother figure, Ruth Whitney).

Lucky takes this phenomenon to its logical conclusion: It is a women's magazine as project . By its editor's fiat, its pages are meant quite explicitly to be annotated ("I want this Cosabella thong in these colors"), doctored, torn up and out. One of its pages is covered with peel-off stickers–a rip-off from the popular Bliss spa catalog, one person who worked on the magazine remarked–to flag the items that the reader wants to buy. In the initial test issue, the stickers read "maybe" and "yes"; one read "yes!"–to indicate, one supposes, that one must-have item. In the current issue, all the yesses are adorned with exclamation points. Shopping as never-ending orgasm. It is gross, but at least more novel than the never-ending loop of sex advice in a Cosmo , Glamour or Mademoiselle –"Happy Horni-Days: 50 Ways to make Xmas really jingle," limply promises the latter's December cover.

And then there is sex. In the recent past, women's magazines had so many pictures of practically naked women that a woman's boyfriend or husband could be forgiven for occasionally sneaking a peek. Take away the text, and women's magazines resembled soft porn for straight men. Magazines like In Style and now Lucky , which place a far greater emphasis on the merchandise itself–the "product" shot–are in a sense much more a woman's women's magazine. Lucky 's test issue had a startling photo of a bare-buttocked woman racing up the escalator of a department store, but the second contains no such bizarre fantasy scenarios. What it has, instead, is a sense of the modern marketplace as a battlefield that needs to be navigated, a mountain of products to be scaled, with Ms. France and her posse as our Sherpas. There is the ubiquitous "gift guide." What is the deal with "gift guides," anyway? We need "guidance" to buy gifts because there is too much to choose from; our sense of overwhelmedness at the vast array has become a pathology to be sorted through. Ms. France's browsers are, as the magazine puts it, "intrepid"–it's war out there. The magazine even employs a columnist, Mim Udovitch, that they have dubbed "Dr. Shopper." There are so many products out there, perhaps one literally feels diseased.

But Lucky is not a prescriptive magazine, it is a descriptive one. In the December/January issue, there is a guide to cheese with an accompanying layout of accessories–"Everything you need to pick, plane, trim, grate, and scoop the cheese." Unlike the dictatorial magazines of yore, Lucky is not saying, "Cheese is the thing to serve at your holiday bash!" It is saying, " Should you serve cheese, here are your options ." (For some, a $105 parmesan grater.) Maybe Lucky is not just a woman's women's magazine. Maybe it is the end of women's magazines entirely .

It comes down to, again, the end of narrative. Women's magazines used to publish literary fiction–Truman Capote, Carson McCullers and, more recently, Susan Minot. When they stopped doing that, most of them were and still are trying to spin narratives, stories about their readers: who their readers expected and hoped and were trying to be, whether it was floating on a yacht in Belize or gamely climbing the corporate ladder. The idea that a woman might derive her identity from a magazine–actually be a Cosmo girl, a Fun Fearless Female–now seems quaint and ridiculous. ( Mademoiselle seems to be trying to revive the genre with some kind of "thoroughly Modern Millie" conceit, but it is falling flat. As are the magazine's sales.) No, women now draw their identity, as men increasingly do as well, from the stuff they have, from the products that construe their own personal "style."

It goes without saying that there is no Susan Minot story in Lucky . But unlike most of the others women's magazines, which still publish little critical nubs of recognition for this month's Bridget Jones's Diary , Ms. France isn't even offering book reviews ("I find it's very patronizing when women's magazines feel you have to give women a little dose of arts and books," she told Women's Wear Daily ). There is, however, a piece on how to begin collecting vintage paperback books. Who needs to even read anymore to construe an identity, when you can instead display copies of old Lolita s in your living room filled with mid-century modernist furniture?Maybe we are all floating, blissfully gender-neutral, in the same consumerist stew–a bleak and possibly soulless place to be, but at least we are all in it together. Men have magazines now called Gear and Stuff . There used to be a magazine for women called Charm . We don't need to learn Charm anymore. We are, for better or worse, Lucky .

Those three people are Nathan Misner, Reggie Miller and Leslie Sokolowsky. They also ran the on-line versions of Spin and Blaze magazines, which are put out by Vibe 's parent, Miller Publishing Company.

"We're starting our own thing," said Mr. Misner.

Apparently, the three have privatized themselves. The three offered to continue doing their jobs on contract from the outside, rather than as Miller staff members.

Anne Welch, vice president of operations for Miller Publishing, said she hasn't decided whether to take them up on their proposal, which they gave to her on Aug. 10. "I told them I'd give them an answer by the end of the week," she said. But Ms. Welch didn't sound like she was in a hurry. "I just don't feel handicapped right now without them," she said.

The three who quit apparently were frustrated that Miller wasn't funding the on-line versions of the magazines heavily enough, while at the same expecting them to make a good profit.

Miller's on-line operation has not run aground. "There are still people working on all these titles," said a Miller spokesman.

Sex columnist Amy Sohn is leaving the New York Press for the promised land of the New York Post 's Living section.

Ms. Sohn started writing for the Press after sending in an unsolicited manuscript about her romantic frustrations in 1996. At the time, she was nine months out of Brown and trying to make it as an actress. Her column, which seemed to give detailed accounts of her sexual adventures in New York, was a hit for the free weekly. On the strength of the column, Ms. Sohn got a deal for a novel with Simon & Schuster; the book, Run, Catch, Kiss , came out in July. Naturally, Ms. Sohn is now working on a screenplay. Her last column is set for the Aug. 17 issue of the Press .

It was easy to leave. "We have no contracts with writers," said Press editor in chief and chief executive Russ Smith. "They don't get benefits. They're freelancers."

Ms. Sohn described her departure as "not at all Siftonesque," referring to Sam Sifton, a former Press writer and editor who left for Talk magazine. Following that departure, Mr. Smith had some bitter words for Mr. Sifton in his Mugger column.

Will Ms. Sohn miss the Press ? "Hmmmmm, I'm gonna miss it because it was a great launching pad for me," she said. "But am I going to miss writing about the most intimate details of my life every week for 250,000 people? No. And besides, I have a boyfriend now."

At the Post , Ms. Sohn will join such notable life style columnists as Meredith Berkman and Susan Brady Konig.

Three freelance writers for Bikini magazine are suing its parent company, Ray Gun Publishing, for allegedly not paying them, and several others are considering doing the same thing. Bikini , a men's monthly, has veered away from its artsy roots in an attempt to become profitable since it was sold a year ago in April. But staff paychecks were late this past April.

One writer said she has been having trouble trying to cash a check she got from Ray Gun Publishing. "In a week's space I went five times," she said. "They basically laughed at me." She's been reluctant to sue so far. "I feel like I'm putting in more work getting paid than the actual work I did for them," she said.

Writer Craig Rosen said he's owed "at least $1,000 for two features and one record review I did for Bikini … Yes, I'm considering suing. It's turned me off freelancing for life." Jennifer King said she's owed $1,250 for an article for the May 1999 Bikini. "Since they fired my editor, Erik Himmelsbach, … I have not heard a peep from them, despite numerous phone calls, e-mails and invoices." She's planning to file Aug. 16 unless she gets paid in cash. Other writers apparently owed money include Jennifer Vineyard and David Ulin, who said he was planning to file Aug. 11 if he didn't hear back from the magazine.

Mr. Himmelsbach filed suit Aug. 2 over $600. Freelancers Sandy Fertman and Vince Beiser, who are each owed about $1,000, have also filed. Calls to Ray Gun Publishing president Seth Seaberg were not returned.

A new byline in the Circuits section of The New York Times has been catching readers' eyes lately: Jennifer 8. Lee.

It looks weird. It's not a typo. And it's working for her.

Ms. Lee, a Times intern, is a cheerful recent graduate of Harvard College. "Every place I've ever worked, someone's written a story about it!" she said. So here's another one. Her résumé includes internships at The Boston Globe , where a giveaway paper called The Improper Bostonian wrote about it, and The Washington Post , where the Washington City Paper did a piece on her. She's also written for Newsday and The Wall Street Journal . All have printed her distinctive byline, although The Journal gave her some trouble about it. The Times , Ms. Lee said, "was very chill about it. It's the least problem I've had at any paper."

Circuits editor Jim Gorman backed her up on this. Was Allan Siegal, the assistant managing editor in charge of guarding Times style, resistant? "As far as I know, there was no question," Mr. Gorman said. "I had a casual conversation about it and I said it's her middle name, so I guess we're going to run it. They said O.K."

What good is a middle name like "8." if you can't get a piece out of it? Ms. Lee wrote one, in the Living section of The Globe 's Aug. 8, 1996, edition: "My wacky middle initial arose from the generic quality of the rest of my name. In their great wisdom, my parents decided to pair Lee, the second most common Chinese surname, with the most popular name for newborn girls in 1976, Jennifer."

Clearly something had to be done. So she adopted that wacky "8.," "a lucky numeral in Chinese numerology," she said. It's on her Harvard diploma, it's on her driver's license, checks and credit cards. Best of all, in the clutter of The Times , it has gotten her a memorable byline. A brand. Everybody needs a brand these days, right?

"I guess, ah, yeah," Ms. Lee said. "I never thought of it that way."

Condé Nast Publications abandoned 350 Madison Avenue with its executives claiming that the place was old and falling apart. For one thing, they said, the elevators kept getting stuck.

So it was rather upsetting that the elevators in the gleaming new building at 4 Times Square seemed to be having problems, too. Almost as soon as the magazines began moving, there were rumors of elevators making sudden multifloor drops or the doors opening and there be nothing but … shaft … where the cabs should be. All of which could be dismissed as paranoid urban legend until Allure editor Linda Wells was trapped in the elevator the evening of Aug. 4.

Jill Bright, the head of Condé Nast's human resources, sent an e-mail out on Aug. 6, not naming Ms. Wells but explaining that a rider was "detained" by the elevator as a result of a safety feature. Apparently, "when the computer which monitors elevator service detected that the safety switch was not functioning properly, the elevator was automatically placed in a locked position until the potential problem could be detected and remedied." The memo went on to say: "While this delay was very unfortunate, and of course concerning to the individuals in the elevator, it was the result of a precautionary feature which is critical to the safety of the elevator. Our elevators are equipped with several such features to ensure the safest elevator service possible."

Ms. Wells was alone in the stuck elevator. To get out, she said, she "pressed the alarm. That went off for a while and nothing happened. So I shouted. Finally, one of the maintenance workers heard me and rescued me." She added that she likes the new building very much.

Katherine Betts, the new editor of Harper's Bazaar , is remaking that magazine in the image of her last place of employment: Vogue . Ms. Betts, who has been spending her time lately in East Hampton, L.I., on maternity leave, has hired away Vogue fashion writer Kristina Zimbalist, Vogue production director Dawn Roode. She has also looked to Condé Nast Publications for Allure market editor Samira Aboul Nasr. And the Betts regime at Harper's Bazaar will go forward without features director Eve MacSweeney. who left the magazine Aug. 9. "Resigned to pursue other interests," said a magazine spokesman.

Former Philadelphia magazine editor Eliot Kaplan, now serving as Hearst Magazines' talent scout, has been helping the new editor find new people. Ms. Betts took the job of Harper's Bazaar editor in July, months after the death of Elizabeth Tilberis. Meanwhile,as the Daily News reported Aug.10, Vogue editor Anna Wintour has hired Harper's Bazaar fashion director Tonne Goodman. What's next, a panty raid?

Très désolée . Très, très désolée … not to mention desolate, disconsolate and heartbroken. Ferociously depressed. It has been over two years since Mr. Stine went the way of all rich first husbands. Have tumbled since in divorce purgatory, trying to get myself set up with a good future. Have worn everything anyone in fashion ever told me to wear and applied myself to any number of notions, as you, Dear Diary, can attest, but none have worked out. Woman plans and God laughs. Is that it?

People say I should stop looking for a paying job and do charity work, but I find I don't have time for charity work. Whereas, I feel it is my destiny to be paid to do things that stimulate the economy, a.k.a. fashion.

En route today to L.A. because why not? Besides, Maxfield's, the marvelous store, is having its private sale this week. By invitation only.

Am wearing oatmeal cashmere and silk T-shirt and leggings by Michael Kors for Celine and 5-inch green leather and plastic Prada heels.

What's wrong? Didn't get Harper's Bazaar . Thought it was mine. The denouement of my turn-of-the-century turmoil. Instead, as everyone knows, job went to Katherine Betts, a Fieldston-Choate-Princeton-educated WASP who was married in a John Galliano couture wedding dress in a Sag Harbor church. Amplifies meaning of "Look British, think Yiddish." My turf, and I think she's on it.

Prepared long memo of ideas for what stories I would do if I were editor in chief of Harper's Bazaar . Handwrote them on my Cartier letterhead, sprayed a wee bit of Fracas on the pages, and sent them around to Cathleen Black, president of the Hearst Magazines Division. Although Ms. Black never responded, everyone said my proposals were the talk of the fashion media set, so I was very hopeful and ordered new clothes accordingly. (Look, it's the Grand Canyon outside my window. Such a void.)

I listed enough features and fashion ideas to fill three months of issues. For instance:

Fabulous and Forty! The Bigger, Better Implants.

Sleeping With Monet. Why buy pictures when you can rent?

How to Adopt the Miller Sisters.

Is Wrestling You?

Past Lives, New Face. A special real people report and cover story profiling Elizabeth Christensen, the 39-year-old British woman who has spent about $156,000 over the past 12 years and had 23 cosmetic surgery operations to look like Queen Nefertiti, whom she believes she was in a past life. Dazzling!

Getting to Woods: Anne Bass' New Country Hideaway.

Squeezing Bill Blass: Seven Socialites Teach You How to Hug and Social Kiss.

The Way to a Man's Heart Is Through His Stomach: Taking Care of Him After Cosmetic Surgery. Sidebar: Dr. Patricia Wexler Shops for the Best Post-Op Recliners and Ice Buckets.

Why Jackie Wore Pink: 10 Women Who Bought Things From Jackie's Auction Tell How Their Lives Have Changed.

Sex: Does It Make You Want More New Clothes or Less?

Around the Block With Manolo Blahnik: Sarah Jessica Parker Taps Her Way Through the Triborough Area in the Newest Shoes.

Size Matters: Getting Him to Give You a Bigger Diamond, and Other Wedding Secrets.

Bruce Weber Photographs the Dalai Lama and Some Dishy Monks in the Adirondacks.

Brainwaves: Mario Sorrenti X-Rays the Brains of Fashion's Greatest Thinkers.

The New Political Activism: Our Readers Fight Buckingham Palace So Fergie's Daughters, Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie, Are Not Asked to Renounce Their Titles When They Turn 18.

Great Nudes: Helmut Lang Naked on St. Barts, a Special Paparazzi Report.

Ask Carmel: Psychic Maria Papapetros Channels Advice From Late, Great Bazaar Editor Carmel Show.

Bulemia: Get Off My Back. Women Defend Their Right to Purge.

To cinch the deal, I knew I had to come up with an arresting idea for getting Harper's Bazaar onto television, hence the following awards ceremony show.

Picture it: The Versailles Fashion Awards . International socialites, models, singers and actors compete in their own categories for best entrance at historic Versailles. Picture it: a special style council of about 30 or 40 men and women fashion designers and fashion editors are dressed in period 18th-century Versailles court costume and are seated in a circle around a fire. (Got this idea from a book I bought.) Contestants in each category–Missy Elliott as a musician, Madeleine Albright as a stateswoman and Stephanie Seymour as supermodel, Ricky Martin and Lenny Kravitz, etc …–must penetrate this circle by bowing slightly to everyone, then advance straight to the master or mistress of the circle, played by one of our advertisers, and greet said advertisers, then retreat without clumsily disarranging his or her fine clothes, lace ruffles and headdress of 36 curls powdered like frost in a truffle forest. Absolutely fabulous television. Think it was Groucho Marx who said, "Refusal is elegance." But I refuse to think that way.

You see, despite my giddiness, I am capable of some big ideas sometimes.

June 29. Chateau Marmont hotel. Besides Maxfield's private sale, I was supposed to see Sherry Lansing about consulting on new film entitled Personal Shopper, as I have known them all. She canceled because Allan Carr is dead. Hollywood terribly upset. It'll pass. Wear Louis Vuitton mirror tank, Chloe denim pants with tuxedo stripe, Christian Dior aquamarine satin crepe shoes with diamond buckles, diamonds by the yard and gold Rolex. Retreat to Michele Elyzabeth Salon Privé on Sunset Boulevard for caviar facial (literally, caviar) and it comes to me: my next move. Go home and get on board Hillary's Senate campaign.

Billy's List: Quiz time!

1. On New Year's Eve, a new ball will drop in Times Square. Whose ball is it?

a. Tiffany's.

b. Waterford Crystal's.

c. Gucci's.

2. What are civets and why are they endangered?

a. French seamstresses in a union that Bernard Arnault would like to see broken.

b. British footmen and they are hard to find.

c. African animals whose scent glands are scraped for musk perfume.

3. Who recently designed a line of hospital gowns?

a. Cynthia Rowley.

b. Susan Lucci.

c. Tommy Hilfiger.

Answers: (1) b; (2) c; (3) a.