I saw Clive Davis, the record producer, out to supper with friends last night…

Frankly, I didn’t know he was still alive, but there he was with a smartly turned out group, all in suits and ties, or designer dresses. I remarked to my dinner companions that I hadn’t seen people that well dressed since last I was in Manhattan. I would say half of the Davis party was my age, and the others were into their eighties—meaning they came of age in an era when people dressed for dinner or to go night-clubbing.

I did notice that the music in the restaurant was particularly booming, and that their party headed for a quiet patio under the stars…

Then our table launched into a conversation about which was more crooked: the music industry or the film industry, but my eyes were fixed on a very elderly lady dining with Clive Davis. She had a perfect Jackie O. hairdo, complete with hairspray. She wore heels of startling height, a dress that might have been vintage couture…white silk organza embroidered with pink roses, cinched waist, flared skirt, pink angora sweater… All I could think was of the effort it must have taken to prepare for the evening, and the admiration I had for her. What style! What a contrast to the room filled with people clad in jeans and unstructured shifts…

Me? Jeans. As I said, nothing but admiration.