High life
Too quiet for comfort
Taki
he ladies who lunch, those social X-rays made famous by Tom Wolfe in his Bonfire novel, have been awfully quiet since the start of the new year. If I didn't know better I'd be excused for thinking they had suddenly discovered patriotism 'Just sign here, please.' and had cut down on the socialising out of respect for the boys about to fight in the Gulf.
Needless to say, nothing could be further from the truth. The Big Bagel shuts down after 1 January, and its social leaders pursue their climbing in warmer climates down south, or snowier places out west. The quintessential X-ray, Nan Kempner, the lady who has asked to be interred in the tomb of the unknown socialite once the good Lord invites her to that non-stop cocktail party up above, was the only one to break ranks with the new patriots. She gave a party for Jerry Zipkin, which in today's climate is like Bush throwing a party for Saddam Hussein, a bash that did not exactly set the world on fire, no pun intended. As a good friend of mine, one who refused to attend, said, 'I'd almost prefer to be in Kuwait than to spend an evening with a silly old man talking about Susan Gutfreund.'
Mind you, it is sordid to be gossiping about social X-rays as the fighting is about to start. I write this late Tuesday morning, 15 January, and if my antennae are correct, the bombing should begin within 72 hours. The weekend will be hot, to say the least. But what is one to do? To add 700 words to the thousands of millions already written about the Gulf is as silly as Zipkin, so one might as well offer not-so-comic relief by writing about another war, one that has already drawn blood right here in the Big Bagel.
It has been named the five-day war, and most of New York participated by talking about it. The aggressor was Grace Dudley, widow of Eric Dudley and current moll of Bob Silvers, editor of the New York Review of Books, a left-wing weekly. The aggressee was Pat Buckley, wife of the great William F. Buckley, and — more important — mother of Christopher, wri- ter, novelist, playwright and speech-writer for the Reagan administration. (The down- side of Christopher Buckley is that he was my best man at my second marriage.) Christopher reviewed a book about Wil- liam Paley, the CBS chief, now program- ming sit-corns in that sauna-like place down below, for the New York Times, a review which displeased La Dudley enough to scream at the reviewer's mother during a chic dinner. Pat Buckley, a lady of breed- ing, did not answer, but later on did offer the opinion that her son was a professional, and that there is a difference between the reviewer of a book and the writer. (The book was not exactly a hagiography.) The irony is that La Dudley's man's organ has savaged more people than Saddam.
Now Paley was no angel, and nor is Grace Dudley, and Christopher's review was brilliant, so the victory in the war went to Pat Buckley, although I heard the victor was upset, and that made me sad. I only wish all wars were like this one. Unlike the Rosenthals and Kissingers of this world, I don't care to see even Iraqi blood shed.
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