(image via nypost)
As we have written previously on the annual Conde Nast holiday luncheon: "Ah, the holidays are here again, and that means missletoe, the ambient tones of Manheim Steamroller, pine needles underfoot, that silly woman who invariably gets carried home through the chilly streets of New York by her patient chums because she drank too much egg nog at the company party, and, of course, the Conde Nast Four Seasons editor and pubisher bash. Imagine the collective egos assembled in that one room; all that hot air in a single location."
Of course there is -- wink, wink -- no smoking at the Four Seasons (That is, of course, unless you are referring to Cindi Leive's perfect motherfucking ass; if there is such a thing as the Platonically perfect Ass, it belongs to Cindi Leive). More:
"Just as Dante Aligheri places the true Paradiso in the Empyrean, situated outside the universe, and therefore outside space and time, those outer tables, far away from the Mystic Rose, that celestial choir that is Si Newhouse, are less appealing, less -- shall we say -- 'holy.'
"And would it be a far stretch of the imagination to envision the editors at Conde Nast dressed in ermine?
"Why, Teen Vogue Editor-in-Chief Amy Astley is seated so close to Si that she can just ... just dip her head, slightly and gently brush her rose lips against his signet ring.
"Not since the Court of the Sun King has anyone assembled such a crowd of nonpareil beauty and excellence."
Amy Astley, we cannot fail to note, is in Outer Siberia this year. Plus sa change ...
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