Jia Tolentino, The New Yorker
My night at the Oscars ended on Melrose, around 1 a.m., teetering on a curb in the clean cold air of Los Angeles after a winter snap and a rainstorm, offering girlfriend-outside-the-club encouragement to the beloved actress in her fifties whose stilettos had sunk into the grass outside the Vanity Fair party at the same time as mine. She’d pulled me onto the curb with her. “The grass is terrible,” she said. Behind us were perpetual flashbulbs, heat lamps, a cluster of models dressed like exotic birds. In front of us, black S.U.V.s crawled down the street without stopping….
Source: Real Clear Politics