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The best article I read on the plane out here was about Fashion Nova clothing, a brand built on Instagram. Cheap clothing with tons of varieties sold by models both known and unknown,

You want to be a Nova girl. Big or small. This is not the highfalutin’ fashion industry, not the one with runway shows, this is for real people, who buy and wear fashions, oftentimes inspired by the celebrities on Instagram, like Kylie Jenner or Cardi B.

Let me start all over again, this article was in the latest issue of “New York” magazine, the one with Elizabeth Warren on the cover. In case you haven’t noticed, periodicals have changed their formula, used to be that magazines subscriptions were cheap, supported by ads, the key was to drive circulation up, for a guaranteed readership. But then ads tanked and the economics no longer worked. Now per issue price can be close to ten bucks, and a subscription is fifty or more dollars, instead of 40% of that.

So most people stopped reading, they were satiated with surfing the web, or oldsters addicted to print stuck with the newspapers and…

It’s astounding what people don’t know.

Me too, I don’t know everything, no one can, but the key to understanding this world is to hoover up information, which is why by refusing to read his briefings the President is doing our country a disservice.

So I’d never heard of Fashion Nova, which is fine, because so many stories in the rags are publicity plants. Even in the “New York Times,” every Sunday they feature a story about a book or a potion with no track record that promptly goes into the dumper.

But that is not Fashion Nova.

The owner reacted to the marketplace.

He started off selling jeans, in one store, in the San Fernando Valley, at the Panorama Mall if you live close.

And at first it was high-waisted jeans, but he listened to what his customer base wanted.

This is the flaw the music business unveiled and still hasn’t owned. This is the birth of Napster. It was not about theft of music so much as overpriced CDs with only one good track. Hell, it’s been proven in this almost no piracy era that people still don’t want the album, even when they’re paying for it on Spotify, but the artists keep making them and the labels keep distributing them, EVEN THOUGH PEOPLE DON’T WANT THEM!

But it’s hard to change, right?

WRONG!

Second, Fashion Nova’s products are cheap. Its proprietor, Richard Saghian, knows he’s selling dope, it’s about getting people addicted, which is why when you talk about price points and protection you’ve missed the memo. In fashion and entertainment it’s all about heat, have a hot product and you can sell not only it, but…merch, fragrances, sponsorships… The track is the gateway drug, it’s what gets people hooked.

And there are a lot of products, which is why if you’re putting an album out every other year and touring it you’re delusional.

You put it out and see what works and then double-down. Fashion Nova offers a thousand new styles A WEEK! That’s right, put out a lot of music! And the products are cheap and not so well made. Today’s music is not made for tomorrow, just for today, when you ask if they’ll play the tracks of 2018 at weddings and bar mitzvahs twenty years from now, you’re missing the point.

And you’ve got to let everybody play.

That’s right, anybody can be a Fashion Nova model. You put up your look on Instagram and wait to get found by the company, to gain fame and discounts, this is reality television without the networks. There’s no lead time, you’re discovered and you’re featured, and you know it’s not forever, you just feel good for a moment or two and then you’re on to the next thing.

And you don’t have to be tall and thin. Fashion Nova sells skin-tight clothing for the curvy, and I don’t mean the mildly curvy, but what the charts say is obese. Because the overweight are people too, they’ve got to wear clothing too, they’ve got money to spend too.

But for far too long we’ve had an elite that believes it dictates. Primarily in news media. But in music media too. It’s been all about major labels and terrestrial radio, but that is changing, not that anybody wants you to know. An active user doesn’t wait for radio, by time it hits the airwaves they’re over it, you don’t want the casual fan, but the true one, that’s how you make your bucks.

And no one cares about your pedigree.

And sure, it’s driven by influencers, but they come and go and savvy brands remain.

We keep hearing how Facebook is in trouble, then you read about a brand that was built on the Facebook-owned social network Instagram. And for those lamenting the future, there’s no Fashion Nova without pics and video online. So you think you can stay with your old phone and slow speed but the truth is 5G is going to provide endless business opportunities, which entrepreneurs will take advantage of, not usual suspects.

This is the Clayton Christensen formula. You’re gonna be disrupted by someone doing a worse job at a cheaper price utilizing new technology, so you’re best off disrupting yourself. Amazon is killing physical retail. Fashion Nova is killing “aspirational” brands. Come on, who has the cash for the big brands, who wants to spend on the big brands when you can buy multiple items and look like a queen instantly!

And a king too, Fashion Nova is moving into men’s fashion.

And I wouldn’t have known all this if it weren’t for ponying up for “New York” magazine.

And “New York” lets you read so much for free, but not this.

And I’m sure there are people reading this slapping their foreheads and laughing at me, wondering how I could be so out of it.

I AM!

But we all are.

But even more important than collecting information is seeing how it’s all put together.

New platforms engender new business opportunities, they create new stars.

And today anybody can be a star, it’s like the Me Decade reconstituted. You’re the principal in your own movie, which is not linear, but is paraded all over social networks. And just like real movies, there are only a few superstars, but the barrier to entry is nonexistent, you can play, you could possibly be a Nova Babe.

Don’t laugh, this is the story of tomorrow, the joke is on YOU!

Fashion Nova

You expect nothing to change. Your mental movie says one thing, but reality is something else.

We started the day in New Canaan. At the Philip Johnson Glass House, which I studied in college but had never been to before. I recommend the tour, in this case led by the type of woman who doesn’t exist in California, at least not L.A., an upper-crust WASP with an edge, who kept telling us not to ask questions about the future while we were still in the past, i.e. don’t ask about the swimming pool outside the house while we were still in it. But she implored us to quiz her, and therein lay the conundrum.

As for Philip Johnson…

He was rich. Never underestimate the power of money. He created a weekend empire where he entertained his buddies, it was an endless salon. Andy Warhol was the only friend allowed to stay over, and the Velvet Underground played, and it’s hard to believe this happened just half an hour away, but that’s the way it used to be, before the internet, people had privacy, you could not truly peer into their lives, they certainly weren’t tweeting, and there was no TMZ to track their every move. In other words, Edie Sedgwick was yesteryear’s Kim Kardashian, and you had no idea who she was until they wrote a book about her, meanwhile, she blew her money in pursuit of fame, she didn’t make any.

And then we went to Pepe’s Pizza. I know, I know, we should have gone to the original in New Haven, but my mother is handicapped and parking there is challenging whereas in Fairfield you can walk right in.

For the white clam pizza. Now that’s something you’ve never had, that’s something unique to the east coast. And a tomato pie with sausage, mushrooms and anchovies. We never ate plain pizza as kids, we always loaded it up. And Bridgeport/Fairfield is laden with great pizza to the point where Domino’s, Pizza Hut and Papa John’s are a non-factor, you can’t sell dressed bread in the land of the real thing. And what separates east coast pizza from the rest is the crust, if you don’t want to eat it it’s not done right. It’s firm, it’s crunchy, it’s tasty. But Pepe’s is the apotheosis. The pizza is thin and you just cannot stop eating it.

And then we drove through the old neighborhood.

Someone is living in our house, even though it’s got the same address. That’s a head-spinner unto itself, there was a girl peering out of the living room window, but I can only guess as to what transpires where I spent my formative years, with a sticky, smelly septic tank before there were sewers.

And the truth is the houses seem closer together, although not smaller. I walked to school, every day, I can remember on two fingers the number of times my mother picked me up, not even during the hurricane when we were sent home early. And it seemed a longer trudge than it does now.

And on our street the houses look the same.

But on Barry Scott Drive, every edifice has been enlarged. I remembered everybody who lived in each domicile, the Romes, the Westons, the Gallaghers, those people with the first built-in pool. But now all those families are gone.

And you used to be able to toboggan from our house to the street three backyards away. But now neighbors have erected fences, out of wood in this case, but the new thing in this area is plastic fences. Which rarely fake you out, you know they’re not wood. Whereas if you had a wall in the fifties and sixties you were ostracized, we kids roamed the neighborhood, from one yard to another, yes, there were a couple we knew to stay off of, but we ruled, back before letting your kid out of your sight was a crime.

And the cut-through from Fairfield Woods through the neighborhood was still there, that’s where I went to elementary school, and junior high. I remember riding my bike home through the houses.

But where we played kickball with Mr. Conley?

It’s now a parking lot.

My first grade classroom, right next to my kindergarten?

It’s still there, but they’ve built a giant addition to a school that was pretty big to begin with.

And the hill where I first donned skis? It’s gone, turned into a parking lot, and the chain-link fence that marked the boundary between the schoolyard and the houses is obscured by foliage.

That’s the big surprise, along with the late model cars in the driveway. There’s so much greenery, you just can’t see what you used to, whereas the neighborhood was open and carefree, now it resembles an arboretum on steroids.

But that’s what happens in fifty years.

There’s no traffic.

I know, I know, if you go on the 95, it can be gridlocked, BUT THERE ARE ONLY THREE LANES! But my mother lives on Park Avenue, on the Bridgeport side, the main artery from Sacred Heart University to the beach, and…I never have to wait to enter traffic, I can pull a U-turn, it’s positively sleepy whereas in Los Angeles traffic is so bad that everybody employs WAZE and even the backstreets, thank you Bruce, are bumper to bumper.

You don’t need a jacket at night.

Oh, you might wear a fur during the SoCal winter, but the truth is my first year in California I wore my jean jacket, when that was a thing, all winter long. But during the summer? You always have to bring a wrap. Not only for the overchilled movies, but for the nip in the air, whether it be on the Westside or the Valley. I just locked the car and strode across the parking lot a half hour shy of midnight and I was revelling in the lack of a need for a jacket, this is the summer I remember.

You can be rich or be an artist, take your choice.

Today we went to the Rockefeller estate in Pocantico Hills. I never knew Tarrytown had such a long downtown, I never knew White Plains had high rises, but I do know the Rockefellers had tons of money. Did I ever tell you I went to college with Eileen Rockefeller, David’s daughter? Not that we were best friends, not that she’d remember me, but we did have some conversations, I remember she had a loom in her dorm room. And as a matter of fact, in the basement of the house on the hill, where Nelson’s art collection is, they have tapestries of Picassos. That’s the stunning element of Kykuit, the artwork, both outside and in. Anybody rich can build an edifice, maybe even a golf course, assuming they have enough property, the Rockefellers had 4,000 acres, but do you have the taste to acquire great art? Nelson liked to think he had talent because he knew where to place sculptures, but being inspired to create the work, that’s the thing. Today every artist wants to be a Roc-A-Fella, but the truth is you never can be. Dr. Dre may have reached a billion, but he cannot compete with Zuckerberg and Bezos, never mind Gates and Buffett. But money is no match for art. Steve Jobs is nearly forgotten, he won’t be remembered but Picasso will, the Beatles probably too, that’s the power of songwriting, that’s the power of melody. So, do you want to leave your mark or accumulate cash? Those are different paths, what it takes to get rich is cunning business skills. Do you know any truly rich people? That money was not easy to earn, they had to compete, kill a few people along the way, not that they are not smart. But we understand business, we can see the path, but art is incomprehensible, and the greatest art is about testing limits. Me-too is nowhere. We’re interested in those who challenge conceptions, who test limits, who take us to new heights, like the aforementioned Picasso as well as Motherwell and Calder and Warhol in Nelson’s subterranean collection, never mind the Brancusi and Maillol outside…

Progress happens.

There’s a carriage house, with carriages, you know, the horse-drawn kind, that’s how John D. got to Kykuit. But then the automobile came along and soon no one will own a car and then at some point the car will be superseded, by what, I don’t know. And I know you’re in future shock, and I know you lament the loss of the past, but the truth is the future keeps on coming down the track, faster and faster, and those who adapt win, and are happy in the end. That’s how you know you’re too old, when the tech and the changes overwhelm you, you’re done.

Everybody wants to talk about Trump.

Last night I went to a dinner party with seven women, most of the conversation was about Trump (and the death of a synagogue!) Tonight I was at a restaurant and the owner couldn’t stop talking about Trump, wondering how many illegals were working at the President’s clubs. The restaurateur says the truth is America runs on immigrant labor, workers who oftentimes pay taxes, even though they never collect social security.

You can see world class talent in Fairfield.

It used to be another suburb, no one commuted to New York, I won’t say my hometown was a backwater, but if you wanted to see a show you had to drive to NYC, or maybe New Haven, now we have the Fairfield Theatre Company, with two rooms, one a 700+ cap and the other 200. Furthermore, it’s not a dump. That’s right, too many clubs are warehouses and nothing more, no amenities and dirty toilets, even backstage FTC was first class, surprised me, but not as much as…

Australian bands can PLAY!

Castlecomer, that was the band playing in the small room, to not a big audience, another rock band trying to make it. But hearing them perform through the walls, I could tell their music was good, and almost all of these unknown bands are bad. The drummer… The pounding was powerful, it drove the music forward, but when we emerged into the venue I found the frontman to be doing the act of someone performing to thousands. That’s the mark of someone who’s gonna make it, someone who closes the few in attendance knowing they will never forget them.

Castlecomer played 500 gigs before they were anybody. The frontman was an attorney who gave up the practice to write songs, because really you can’t do both. He wrote “Fire Alarm” the night he quit his gig. It attracted attention, the band flew to SXSW and were courted by labels and are now signed to Concord. “Fire Alarm” has 6,000,000 streams on Spotify, which means the band is not making any money, but they are getting attention, building a fan base. And if you see them you’ll be closed. But rock in the States is a backwater, there’s little room for new stuff on commercial radio, and it never crosses over to the mainstream, yet I enjoyed sitting there listening to an unknown band perform, reminded me of the way it used to be, way back when, in the seventies, before Netflix, when being home was a drag, when you had to go out, and there was no deejay playing records, there weren’t even any sports bars, you listened to bands. Now only the hard core is interested, the looky-loos, the casual fans, have moved on to other pursuits, but the hard core remains, and from this hard core emanates a rebirth. Only takes a spark to start a fire, but people, fans, communicators, are the oxygen, they make the whole thing go, they make it blow up.

More…

And the truth is although it’s the same country, the east coast is very different from the west. It’s beautiful, but somewhat calcified, kinda like Europe, there’s a ton of tradition, but it’s hard to break out of, whereas in California, the west, it’s new, everything’s being invented for the first time, there’s more freedom. Then again, some great art comes from those reacting to the status quo.

I’m in Connecticut, visiting my 91 year old mother.

I didn’t arrive until 1:30 AM, the flight was late because of weather in NYC and it took nearly an hour for my bag to descend and the pickup area needed to be overseen by FEMA. Why is it everybody in America feels entitled? Especially the richer they are? This one person with a Range Rover wouldn’t move, no matter what the “cops” said. Therefore, all pickup traffic was slowed-down and…

It was not like L.A. Where the gestapo reigns. Where it is not so humid. Where you can’t get a good bagel.

Now my father used to visit the deli every Sunday morning. After Sunday School we had family brunch. With whitefish and herring and other seafood I never touched, as well as bagels and lox and pastrami… That’s right, Jews never want to run out of food, if you don’t have leftovers, you bought too little. And there were the milkshakes, made in the ancient blender, my father loved to buy used curios. From a player piano to a meat-slicing machine, he got a “deal.”

But I never ate the lox.

And I didn’t think twice about the bagels.

Our rye bread came from Richelsoph’s, down on Black Rock Turnpike. We’d order and they’d run it through the slicing machine and I’d eat two or three slices before we got home, which was close nearby. My mother would always warn me that I would lose my appetite, but this never happened, an old wives’ tale like waiting an hour after you eat to resume swimming, not that my mother was so rigid on that, but it’s been recently debunked. But just wait another year and they’ll reinstate the doctrine, kinda like stretching, you should do it and then you shouldn’t. The science news is full of contradictions.

And the best part of the rye bread was the end, the heel. It’s all about the crust, especially after the inside cools off. My mother never bought Wonder Bread, although I envied those at school who ate it, we all want to fit in. Then again, my mother never ever made lunch for us, we ate the hot meal in the cafeteria.

So when I arrive in Connecticut I get freaked out. Because not only is it so different, I used to live here and I knew no better. Didn’t think twice about how green it was, about the rolling hills. The aforementioned humidity. And my mother’s condo is full of pictures. All of us younger and thinner, some of us no longer here. At first it creeps you out, reminds you of the passage of time, how we’re all just animals, here to reproduce. You’re young and you think you understand the game, then you grow old and you realize there is no game. If you’re trying to ascend the ladder, acquire possessions, the joke is on you, no one is really paying attention.

So it’s disorienting. You think you know what’s going on and then you don’t.

And after sleeping I woke up to converse with my mother at the kitchen table. It’s always at the kitchen table. And she asked me if I was hungry, after eating a coffee yogurt and taking my pills I said no, but then she said she needed a sandwich and I opened the fridge to find…

Lox.

Now I don’t know when I started to like lox, maybe sometime in my twenties, when I was already living in Los Angeles. But that’s faux lox, relatively dry, relatively tasteless. But east coast lox… It’s oily and neither sharp nor tasteless, rather it’s satisfying, with a soft solidity and a subtle palate tang.

And then there’s the cream cheese. Sure, if you’re on the run you buy Philadelphia, but when you go to the deli you always get the handmade stuff, which is thicker.

And I’m sitting there eating the lox and cream cheese because I’m not supposed to be eating carbs, and then my mother has half of her bagel left, that she’s not gonna eat.

Now I toasted it for her. In the Black & Decker Toast-R-Oven. Remember when these were made by GE? When GE used to make everything? And bagels oftentimes did not fit in our regular toaster, the Toast-R-Oven was a breakthrough. But how do you get the browning right? Personally, I love a deep brown, my mother wanted a light brown, but you know how it is, the window is very short, and I didn’t want to overdo it.

But a watched bagel does not toast.

But there are pictures on the dial. I chose the one that was half & half, half light, half dark, and the two sides of the bagel did not remain the same, one was darker than the other. Worried about burning I popped the window, shmeared the results with cream cheese, put the lox on top.

And…

Breaking the rules of my nutritionist, after getting a good report from the cardiologist, I ate the final half of bagel.

It was a REVELATION!

The bagel has been dumbed-down. Still round, still with a hole, but in most places it’s akin to bread. Used to be you could use them as car tires in a pinch, today’s bagels would just collapse. Certainly on the west coast. Even many east coast bagels, like the vaunted S&S, are too soft, a bagel’s skin should be so hard that you might break a tooth when you bite into it, your choppers should leave a mark, it should be crusty.

And this one was.

And the dough, the inside, it should be stiffer than soft, and it should have the consistency of nearly-cured cement. It should be chewy. You should need to roll it around in your mouth a few times before swallowing it.

And this one was.

And my mother took it for granted, but not me.

This lox and bagel was the elixir of youth.