The Secret Past of Adrian Grenier

So far, he's not much interested in upgrading his lifestyle. A lot of young stars go for Bohemian hipster looks, but Grenier's is authentic. He lives in a ramshackle railroad flat in Williamsburg, for one thing, not the East Village. His wardrobe is culled from thrift stores in Brooklyn, friends and lost-and-found boxes ‑- "I think winter wear is communal," he says. "You get some gloves and a scarf from a lost-and-found box, wash them, wear them for a while until you lose them. Then somebody else does the same thing."

Grenier's clothes are well-matched, at least. There are no outrageous colors. But his plain blue T-shirt is worn thin and sports a few holes, and he complains that it doesn't sit right on his shoulders. His second-hand jeans have a muted red stain in the crotch, which he displays with a thrust. "Do I really want to know what that is," he asks. "I like to think some guy was riding along in his car drinking a red soda, he hit a curve and spilled some."

Most of the space in Grenier's apartment is given over to instruments and recording equipment. Genier has an unadorned room roughly the size of his bed, facing the street. Paris puts on one of their band's tracks, a melody much sweeter than one would expect from such an atmosphere. Sweaty in the un-air-conditioned heat and rank with cigarette smoke, the place looks less like a wrecked frat house than the den of a satanic cult.