Imaginary Socialite

When Laguna Beach first came out, Jake and I decided it needed a sequel: Lower East Side. Cameras would trail after black hoodies and spider leg jeans; sidekick chats would be bleeped to oblivion; the future would get a trailer. We started lining up the Laguna kids with ourselves: which boys would be Stephen; which boys would be Kristen. I would be LC, of course.

But part of the problem with living in New York is that your life is always, kind of, a tv show. Your iPod is your soundtrack. Your friends are your cast credits. Scott does your studio portraits and Merlin is your paparazzi.

So it seemed quite natural to be on Wooster Street today, with a giant poster of 8th and Ocean Sabrina in the window. It also seemed quite natural to wonder when I would be in the window instead. Whether this is a problem or a solution is still up for debate…

[MICHAEL RUSH - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Some people are label whores. I’m a little bit more upscale - perhaps one could call me a label escort.

Especially since when I saw this bag, in the dark, in a friend’s Tribeca loft, I almost asked if I could escort it straight to my closet.

Of course, with only a nightlight, labels may be deceiving…

[ALLEGRA HICKS - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Despite the dangers of big city living, New York can feels deceptively safe. People surround you at all times. You never drive. Your drugs have delivery service. It’s all too tranquil.

And then there are times like today, when you go, oh shit. This isn’t as easy as it looks.

I was crossing the street, under some scaffolding. In front of me, a bottle drops from the sky. A broken glass sound, the kind in the movies. Construction workers freeze. A cop starts his siren. A truck driver stops his engine - in the middle of 7th avenue - and climbs into the middle of the street.

“Baby!” he screams, “Oh my god, are you okay? Get in my truck, we’re going to the hospital!”

I can’t feel anything so I look down for blood. But there’s nothing. Some shards by my feet. Some horrified tourists. My iPod on pause. But otherwise, I am the same as I was before. I tell this to the truck driver.

“You were an inch away from dead,” he shakes.

“I was?” I ask. I’m kind of gleeful.

“You should call your mother.” He gets back in his truck. The cop drives away. The tourists scurry. I start to laugh and can’t stop.

Later I buy chocolate chip ice cream, and eat it for lunch, and then for dinner.

[BREE LARSON - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

Add this to the month’s OMG factor:

Last Saturday, an incredible girl walked into MisShapes. She was so pretty and so raw, it was almost too much. She was also totally alone, which was too cool.

So of course, I followed her to the stage, snapped her photo, and ran away. A week later, I finally get it.

It’s Molly Sue from Top Model.

Dammit Tyra - stop kicking off the good ones.

[FURONDA - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

To: am.i@imaginarysocialite.com
From: alice@blunderland.com

Hey, did you get my email? I have major stuff to talk to you about, plus I really need some advice.

Also, I’ve heard some serious rumors about your guy situation. What is going on? And where are yooooooou?

Love ya!

It seems spammers have me pegged as a huge target. I’m not getting ANY mail because of it, so if you want to reach me, your best bet is a MySpace message:

www.myspace.com/imaginarysocialite

And if you don’t have myspace, you’ll have to play telephone with my friends… remarkably easy if you live below 14th St…

[CYNDI LAUPER - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]