When the great fashion artist, portraitist, and bon viveur René Bouché died, in 1963, Vogue declared that “his life and work were one.”
An elusive goal. But tucked away in the Beverly Hills Hotel recently, with work and leisure in rare, lazy harmony, I congratulated myself on inching closer to it. About time. My 65th birthday—that incontrovertible portal into old age—hung over the horizon like thunder. What better way to spend it than in Las Vegas with a stripper? I have an understanding family.
