Explore "Glamorama" by Bret Easton Ellis on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I'm walking through Washington Square Park, carrying a Kenneth Cole leather portfolio that holds my lawbooks and a bottle of Evian water. I'm dressed casually, in Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a camel-hair sweater, a wool overcoat from Burberrys. I'm stepping out of the way of Rollerbladers and avoiding clusters of Japanese NYU film students shooting movies. From a nearby boom box Jamaican trip-hop plays, from another boom box the Eagles' "New Kid in Town," and I'm smiling to myself. My beeper keeps going off. Chris Cuomo keeps calling, as does Alison Poole, whom I rather like and plan to see later this evening. On University, I run into my newly appointed guru and spiritual adviser, Deepak.
Deepak is wearing a Donna Karan suit and Diesel sunglasses, smoking a cigar. "Partagas Perfecto," he purrs in a distinct Indian accent. I purr back "Hoo-ha" admiringly. We exchange opinions about a trendy new restaurant (oh, there are so many) and the upcoming photo shoot I'm doing for George magazine, how someone's AIDS has gone into remission, how someone's liver disease has been cured, the exorcism of a haunted town house in Gramercy Park, the evil spirits that were flushed out by the goodwill of angels.