The Conclave Begins
The Whoopi Goldberg and Sally Field of newsletters is back in the habit—and comin’ in hot from the West Village.
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Spreadenizens,
On Monday morning, the drumbeat of texts began; by afternoon, our phones were vibrating to the tune of “Wipeout.” People needed us to know: The West Village had been ruined by an army of strangely identical gorgeous, blonde, skinny, twentysomething girlies! These texters had, of course, just sllllllurped down Brock Colyar’s (by our lights) pitch-perfect and already-iconic New York cover story like a jumbo iced matcha latte. Colyar crystallizes the latest crop of young women to treat New York’s most young-woman-idolized neighborhood like they’re on their semester abroad. These girlies, as Colyar calls them, enjoy brunch, shopping, and dinner with a quantity of cocktails that would put their perimenopausal elders on life support. They date finance guys. They wear a uniform consisting of white tanks, light jeans, and, with strange specificity, puffers from Aritzia. (Also: cowboy boots?) And they post about it all on TikTok, sometimes for cash. So far, so 2023, right? Not to these Spreadfriends. Those who had the most to say about it, we noted, were the ones who had lived in downtown Manhattan in the nineties or early aughts, and who—lo, these many years later—still feel a sense of ownership. This time, they told us, the influencers had gone too far! How dare these young women (they drew the line at “girlies”) refuse to work *real* jobs while prancing over this precious real estate like they own the joint? And why are the girlies so the same? More than one dissenter told us it felt like fascism incarnate. “Is Brock Colyar a pseudonym for Stephen Miller?” wrote a particularly riled-up pal, who happens to be raising three young daughters. “The story is perfect, if Stephen Miller was trying to finally get me to take my girls and move to a nunnery in a random Asian country.”
Before we knew it, in blew a micro version of the same storm on Twitter: “This specific type of transplant is load-bearing for this city. They’re what Carrie Bradshaw was,” wrote @HeidiNMoore. “You should put respect on their names, these Carolines and Jessicas keep this city moving.” Aw hell no, replied @gossipbabies (aka Cancela Lansberry): “Carrie was a pseudo-intellectual who broke up with Liz lemon's bf bc he hadn't heard of Henry James. She would never dream of posting an affiliate link.” Look, there’s something comforting about it. And just like that—even with the world on fire—we were arguing again about the intellectualism or lack thereof of Carrie Bradshaw, and mustering indignance about the latest wave of privileged young women to take over “our” old haunts. Kinda sweet, no?
See ya, girlies,
Rachel & Maggie
P.S. Give us some ❤️, wouldja?
“To me, to be a Black dandy is to dress as though you know you’re loved and therefore have no use for shame.” — Jeremy O. Harris in Vogue
Let’s all breathe a sigh of relief for Vogue, which did not go down in flames this week but rather managed to really nail the Met Gala theme of Black Dandyism despite the concept being littered with more cultural landmines than even the Spread’s elite team of trained canines could detect. Well into the evening of the first Monday in May, Gabrielle Union was telling Vogue’s own runway reporter that she was a little nervous about “how other people are going to do us.” But WaPo’s Rachel Tashjian—whom we can’t seem to get through a week without quoting around here—called this year’s Gala, “a thumb in the eye of the conservative politics and policies seeking to erase the art and culture of people of color. Oh, that stuff you want to get rid of? Those ideas, those looks, these people? Those are actually the most graceful thing around.”
That BD Energy
There are two takes on the excerpt that New York just published from Barry Diller’s new memoir, and we’ve heard them both from you, Spreaders. One goes something like, no f*cking kidding! Is it really news that Diller is a gay man married to one of the most glamorous sex symbols of the last century? (It’s not.) The other is, What a moving, singular love story! To be inside that relationship—and to read, in Diller’s words, about his abiding love for von Fürstenberg—is an almost dizzyingly tender experience.
Read it here.
The new-old way to hard launch (to us)
Anybody else somehow miss the press release about Gus Wenner being shacked up with Elle Fanning? Google tells us they went public way back at last year’s Golden Globes, but we only caught on while scrolling a deeply enjoyable portfolio by photographer Gillian Laub of New Yorkers in their living rooms. These cute kiddos—who you just know quoteth Bob Dylan while they muncheth those Granny Smiths—are joined by Sarah Sherman and her Garbage Pail Kids poster; Anna Sorokin and her ankle monitor; Ella Emhoff and her skeins of yarn; and, oh yeah, by Roman, oops, Alex Soros and his fiancé, Huma Abedin. The news of that duo would have been a real shock to our systems if we hadn’t devoured last week’s excellent, must-read profile of the Soros scion by Simon van Zuylen-Wood. That story opens in that very same living room, and has had us thinking nonstop about the de la Renta-lovin’, do-gooding Carlos Danger ex and Clintonite we thought we knew. Huma, girl, you contain multitudes!
Browse “Power Houses” here.
Murmurings Rather Than Roars
“A helper, a perfect helper, pleasant, unflappable, immune to insults, come-ons and bossiness…forever placating, always even-keeled, impervious…someone trying to keep the peace…” said no one about your Spreaditors ever.
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