In the late-80s, the Rolling Stone offices in NYC were located on 57th Street and Fifth Ave. This was where I traveled every weekday from the Lower East Side for my first journalism job out of college. The wonderful and legendary Bill Cunningham, ex-milliner, snapper of stylish folks, took photos on that corner for his weekly half-page NYT’s Sunday style offering. I would linger a little before going into the building hoping he’d notice me. You never knew when his shutter would go off because the photos weren’t posed. They were just folx jumping over puddles in bad weather or stepping onto curbs quickly and efficiently as New Yorkers do. All while wearing great stuff. It wasn’t fashion he was after but style. I loved style. I couldn’t afford fashion (with the capital F), but I knew how to find style in the thrift bins and other affordable locations around town. I would absolutely fall into the pit of buying trends, but the memories of particular pieces I wore and loved stand out because of where they transported me in confidence or funkiness or edgy EF-U moments. I wanted people to see who I was without me having to say a word about it.

During the Rolling Stone days, I had a particular outfit: gray light-linen, A-line skirt to the calves, very slight slit up the back, white crisp button-up shirt with the sleeves often rolled to the elbows. Can’t remember the shoes. I’d read Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged and rather than be rocked by the politics, I was instead smitten by how the clothes spoke to who and how the characters inhabited the story. Crisp seams, steely grays, stark whites, dark blues. Somehow this appealed to me as an armor I’d need for this first job. Nevermind that it was Rolling Stone magazine where rock t-shirts and jeans were actually what people wore. I slowly lost the severity and rolled into some T-shirts and jeans, although I honestly can’t call up one image of an outfit beyond that gray skirt and white shirt during my RS days. Three years later and 39 blocks down Fifth Ave., I stepped into my job at Spin looser, more adventurous, a touch of confidence around presenting my rock-chick self. The Fiorucci sale rack and Unique Clothing bargain bin became my discovery zone. The outfit I remember the best: Oversize, long-sleeve T-shirts (I love a sleeve that comes over my hand); black-with-white-dots circle skirt, short, worn over black leggings with black leather motorcycle boots, which I still have. I had a cerulean-blue scoop-neck dress that I wore if I needed to do a media appearance or meet with some corporate type, I think still wearing the boots (can’t remember). I absolutely know these pieces walked me into the world in a different, stronger way. When I’d put my headphones on, click play on my Walkman, Soundgarden flooding me, I’d feel an arrival of myself that was stronger than ever. I was still nervous as shit about my ability to write and deflect stupid comments about my general existence, but there was no doubt my outward facing was a line of defense, helping me move toward an “I got this” place.

It could go the other way too. By the time I’d moved into the corporate world of Elektra Records, I understood to some degree the need to up my sartorial presentation. I could afford the good stuff, by which I mean newer items not found in a thrift bin, but I was still drawn to that stuff no one else had and those things were usually found on a rack in the back needing a good steam and scrub. I did once take a bit of my big salary to the Tory Burch store on Mercer Street in Soho and buy a periwinkle blue sleeveless shift dress with a matching jacket and when I wore that combo, I felt incredibly chic, which emotionally translated to a kind of fabulous confidence tingle where the zipper snaked my back and the hem fell not too short, not too long so my legs caught the breeze. I think I spilled something like wine or Jaegermeister on that whole situation and because I didn’t really understand regular dry cleaning excursions, the whole caboodle became ruined. So sad. But the dress I most remember from my Elektra days was one I only wore once, then was tempted to burn in a bonfire. It was a sleeveless camel-colored brushed-wool affair with black leather piping along the neckline, sleeves, and hem. I’d very much looked forward to wearing it because I felt professional yet stylish, kind of Deneuve-ian. Unfortunately, what I felt putting on the dress that morning had been smashed to bits by the time I took it off that night. I’d made a colossal mistake on the job, promising something I never should have promised. I’d then been called into the CEO’s office to explain myself. I had no explanation and looking back realize there was more than a little self-sabotage going on given I really despised the job and wanted to be fired. I wasn’t fired though, I was only left feeling shitty and loser-like. I’d gone home, peeled off the now-emotionally ruined dress, and stuffed it in the donation bag I had at the back of the closet. The dress was a bit itchy even if I hadn’t spilled so much self-degradation over it, I wasn’t altogether comfortable in it because I hadn’t yet embraced the idea of undergarments like slips. Those still reminded me of matron-grandma kind of things. (I wouldn’t embrace the full sexiness of the slip until years later during SFactor classes.) My best armor in those record company days was an upholstered coat that looked like a circa-50s couch had been deconstructed, given sleeves and big shiny buttons, then made into outerwear. I’d found it at a thrift store in LA during one of my Christmas visits home. (SoCal is amazing for coat finds. I’d also found the brown leather fringed affair featured in the photo above in that no-one-ever-wears-a-coat part of the world.)

By the time I’d left the music industry and begun teaching writing workshops in the NYC public schools, I’d readjusted back to a no-boutique salary, which was totally fine. Most important wearable during these days: good shoes. This wasn’t a problem given I’d never been a high-heel kind of girl and my trusty DocMartens actually worked just fine. One of my favorite items at the time was a Mary-Poppins-meets-Anna-Karenina black waistcoat—fabric-covered buttons, cinched waist, flared back. One of the teachers offered me a good price to buy right off my back. I wore that thing down to its threads, almost literally. I’ve worked those thrift stores through all manner of freelance and full-timing, through Patti Smith asexual phases and Carole King–boho stuff.

Coming out to Cali almost three years ago, the daily outfit for the workaday, social play was not going to be a thing, but still certain pieces stand as markers around in time. Early March 2020, Long Beach, visiting my dear friend M, wearing a T-shirt gotten in London a few years earlier: “Keep Calm and Carry On.” News of a quickly spreading virus filling the news. Step into The Assistance League thrift store and there hangs a perfect pair of Levis 501 button-fly jeans: light blue, well-worn, good length and width. The frisson of fzzzt up my spine that says Yes. Want. No price tag. Up to the counter and the lady tells me they can’t sell them because there’s no set price. I get it, but I’m also hella stubborn and tell her they’re the only thing I want and I’ll come back later once they’ve worked out a price. She tells me to wait, goes into the back, returns and gives me a fine & doable number. I buy them and they’re perfect, becoming something of a uniform throughout the months of Dennis, dad, me bubble. They let me expand inside of much pandemic baking. Matched well with all protective clothing.

I still reach for them when I need to pull on something comforting. I walk them into the world and feel like I can do what I need to while giving some thanks to whoever broke them in so well, and then for whatever reason dropped them at the Long Beach thrift store so I could keep them moving and grooving in the world. Yesterday I particularly needed that quick-draw moment around utility and me-ness when my dad called and told me he’d gone flat on his back that morning in his well-carpeted (thank-creesus for that) hallway. He was shaken, I was stirred. To action. The jeans practically pulled on themselves as I grabbed a heating pad and sped over. I’m happy to say he’s OK. Heat, Ibuprofen, watching the World Cup, a winning combination to set him back in the world of his comfort.

Anymore, I don’t think about a Bill Cunningham–snap to prove my style existence because clothes don’t work for me like that now. Rather than an outward-facing announcement of who I am, they are instead an extension of my inside self. Reflecting my style for sure, but functional in a way that says I can do this. I am doing this. And if anyone asks What are you wearing? on the red carpet of my life, it’ll be Me. I’m wearing ME.