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How I ended up living at the corner of Prince and Mercer, above Fanelli Cafe, in Soho on the Island of Manhattan is another story.

Right now, I’m scoring Wi-Fi on my Southwest flight from Dallas to Newark, dreading the trek from baggage claim to Air Trans to New Jersey Transit to Penn Station to 94 Prince Street and up the stairs to my loft. It’s hard to look sexy, sweating two big TUMI’s up and down escalators, off and on trains, in and out of taxis. Thank god for Lisa and her hammy-down (that’s short for hand-me-down) Prada backpack, it’s about all that I have going for me right now.

Living in Manhattan isn’t all its cracked up to be. There is a reason why everyone is always trying to look so good. It’s because living here can be that bad. When you are framed in concrete, stepping over garbage and dodging cars and crazy people, the cut of your cloak, the hem of your dress, the shape of your shoe, and the bag you carry, matters.  Fashion is like foliage here. It is live art and the one beautiful thing that you can count on. When all else fails you, the streets of New York City will roll into a red carpet matrix, where fashion is the landscape, and you can be the sun.

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