Amid the whispers of a double-dip recession, I’ve decided that there are two and only two ways to live: in quiet desperation, or in loud, sequined, overly tanned desperation. I think we all know where the path of wisdom, or at least resilience, leads, and I can only offer the most paltry advice in its navigation: you’re going to need your own ostrich-feathered fan.
It was a social dinner-party experiment gone horribly right that prompted this prophetic insight, and I can blame no one but Karlos Anzoategui, the indefatigable host, for its haunting permanence.
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