James and I got into the following debate: given a thousand dollars, would you spend the money on that Zillion Dollar Fritata lobster and caviar omelette they serve at the Parker Meridien hotel (Norma dares you to expense them — you might have to finance them or something) or on a pair of designer socks? I say omelette, James says socks.

James reasons as follows. There are certain people in the world who are, shall we say, impressed with the superficial things in life. And although James isn't quite one of them, he certainly resonates with them, browsing in Hugo Boss and Brooks Brothers, all metrosexualled up in the clubs. After all, he wants to go into the fashion industry.... Anyway, James figures that, damn, he'll be da shit in these fashionista cliques if he wears thousand dollar designer-label socks or, better yet, thousand dollar underwear. It's not just about keeping up with the Joneses, or the Versaces or Armanis or Yamamotos — it's about out-doing those snooty bastards and forcing them to respect you playing their own game. The more outrageous, the more it offends those of us who are reasonable, who were never blessed with a silver spoon, the more you win from those pricks.

And I concur. Imagine, you're sitting at lunch with, say, your loquacious, arrogant next-door neighbor (no bitterness... well, alright, some bitterness) and he's talking about his favorite topic — himself — and in the middle of one of his interminable sentences, I mention, "I was at Norma's, at the Parker Meridien, for breakfast and I had this omelette with homard lobster and topped with ten ounces of Sevruga caviar. Set me back a grand, too. But you were saying something... about your own insecurities, if I was reading you correctly." That'd shut him up.

For about ten minutes.