Every so often, whether I’m with casual acquaintances, among close friends, or talking to a man who’s interested in me, I enjoy dropping the infamous influencer/writer/so-called grifter Caroline Calloway’s name, just to see what happens.
“What’s Caroline Calloway up to these days, I wonder?” I ventured at a recent dinner party at a Carroll Gardens brownstone. Across the table, I watched a curly-haired girl’s face turn pink with rage. “She’s insane,” the girl spat. “She used to drug her cat and bring it to parties!” (I have no idea if that story is true, but I do know the cat is named Matisse.)
Last weekend, I brought my copy of Scammer—Calloway’s debut memoir, self-published under Dead Dad Press and available, as of this week, for pre-order on her website for $65—to the beach. “Just because she wrote a memoir doesn’t make her a writer,” a close friend said, assessing Scammer’s robin’s egg-blue cover with utter disdain.
