Itâs the Purple Magazine party during Fashion Week and Iâm at a booth with my friends.
And then there’s Lindsay Lohan.
âYou guys are exactly alike,â our mutual friends have told me over and over again. And so when sheâs in town, Iâor perhaps that moron, Amphetamine Logicâkeep expecting us to get along.
We sure do look alike: a couple of Bony Joanies in the club, our Balenciagas full of prescription bottles that rattle like maracas. Weâve both got hair so white-blonde it glows in the dark. Sheâs wearing heavy black eye makeupâphoto-shoot makeupâubiquitous false lashes, darling, and of course so am I.
And, then thereâs the permeating toxicity that we wear like heavy clouds of perfumeâto keep the boys away and all. (âI never have boyfriends either,â Iâd like to imagine our giggly girl talk going, were we ever to becomeâHAâfriends, as my other female friends actually are friends with her. âMy dad is totally, like, a way abusive pathological narcissist mega-asshole who terrorized my whole family until I left home at 15 just like you did, too.â)
Am I wrong? I donât think so. And weâve got those mutual friends, soâŠ Lindsay, you know I sort of know all about it.
Weâve both been black inside for a very long time, you see. Or, to look at it another way, weâve been sealed off from the light.
Whenâs the last time you saw joy on Lindsay Lohanâs face in a magazine?
If you know me, whenâs the last time you saw joy on mine?
Thereâs a âpinched amphetamine expression,â as doctors call it, that Iâll explain more to you in another columnâbut letâs get back to Le Bain.
It was recently reported in the tabloids that Lindsay claimed she doesnât even drink anymore, and I guess IâŠ vaguely believed this. I mean, at this point in my own life, I take so much amphetamine that I just sip one glass of champagne per hour, and thatâs not drinking, really.
But now, as Iâm sitting next to her and even tryingÂ not to watch her, doubt is creeping in. She is a fucking mess.
You just can’t help but see it.
Tonight my supposed doppelganger (Iâm not gonna go that farâmy Instagram celebrity matcher game said I looked like Uma Thurman, OK?) is wearing a red chiffon halter dress with a pleated skirt, like sheâs stuck in some sort of cheesecake Marilyn Monroe 20th Century Fox picture:Â Monkey Business! Donât Bother to Knock!
And hey, sheâs got the comedic timing nailed: every 20 minutes or so, she slips off the ledge of the booth where weâre perched and onto the seat below.Â Whoops!
And all her friends giggle and help her up.Â âOh, Lindsay!â
After about an hour of this, I watch as all of her friendsâand our mutual friendsâhappen to drift away from our booth at the same time.Â Oh dear, I think.
Iâm notâŠÂ scaredÂ of her or anything, but sheâs definitely never been nice to me. Or really anyone I know personally, except for our mutual friends and people Iâve worked with in magazines that have shot her.
Our previous encounters, over the past seven years or so, have been very few and very brief.
âCan you PLEASE stop sitting on my DRESS?â she hissed at me years ago when I was squished up next to her at Bungalow 8. (I was not sitting on her dress.)
âSheÂ canât come,â Lindsay once said on 28th Street, during that same Bungalow 8 era, pointing a finger at me as bunches of us piled into SUVs for an afterhours.
Things like that. I have about four more stories, but enough.
The common theme was: Weâve always had the same look. And Lindsay, I have come to understand, does not like that anywhere around her.
I get it.
So there we are at Le Bain, in this massive room lined with floor to ceiling glass way above the city, looking out over the Hudson River, with 500 hundred people packed inside. But they allâand Iâkeep a distance from her, like thereâs some strange force field repelling us.
And among all of this commotion we are now alone. • Read full story…