" Veronica
by Mary Gaitskill
From Publishers Weekly Imagine that Edie Sedgwick penned a roman a clef in her 50s, and that she discovered, in her ugly, diseased decrepitude, that celebrities and downtown loft spaces and skuzzy rich hangers-on were the nadir of existence."
The author actually attended a party at my humble apartment on Tichester Ave. in Toronto many years ago. An ex of mine (sort of), Steve, brought her from the Blackhawk Tavern, north of the city, where she was stripping (I believe that this was some sort of social experiment). She arrived in hot pants and thigh high boots. Where did Steve, a dweeb if ever there was one, find her? She'd just written a story called "Christy, the Aggressive Scarf", for children, I think.
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