In a move guaranteed to swell my head beyond Barry Bonds proportions, Time Out New York has Stumbled. Collapsed. Failed miserably. Gone stark raving mad. And named me a "stylish New Yorker" in this week's issue.
If you're interested in windbaggery and grotesque narcissism heretofore unseen since, well, the days of Narcissus himself, then by all means gaze at my bad self.
Enjoy, and remember that I only dress well to conceal rampant self-doubt and hideously withered limbs.