The Wintour of Our Malcontents

It was great fun while it lasted. It certainly was elegant, exclusive, and attended by men who were gentlemen and women who were ladies. Society beauties like Cee Zee Guest, Babe Paley, Natalie Cushing and their ilk were regulars. It was run by Pat Buckley, William F.’s better half, and she kept the level exclusive and high. It celebrated artistry and beauty, and attendants paid for it with pleasure. I remember introducing the author Walter Isaacson to Cee Zee, and how impressed with her ethereal elegance and looks the writer was; he told me so. And the lady in question was in her mid sixties at the time. When some Andy Warhol hangers-on asked me if I could get them an invite, Pat Buckley screamed, “But they’re so ugly….” 

I am talking about the New York Metropolitan Museum Gala—the way it was long ago, that is. Because after Pat Buckley’s reign came the deluge, catastrophe rather. It is now the freak show to end all freak shows, run by Anna Wintour, the Brit lefty that poses as an upper class lassie, except to some of us who knew her long ago and her rather vulgar lefty old man. I first met Anna on the Queen Elizabeth liner crossing from England to New York. The year was 1973 and she was with her boyfriend Jon Bradshaw, an American writer living in London who was always in need of funds. Bradshaw and I were good buddies. In mid-Atlantic Anna met another buddy of mine, Claude Beer, a backgammon player financially better off than Bradshaw. She left the poorer one for the richer. Shock, horror, but not surprising. Soon after our arrival she began her dizzying climb, culminating as editor supreme of Condé Nast, or whatever those glossy rags call their top banana. 

When she began seeing yet another friend of mine, Michael Stone, I warned him that both her previous boyfriends had died prematurely. Stone also died way before his time. As did her husband. I leave to you, dear readers, in case you are superstitious, to make your own conclusions.  Needless to say, Anna read Americans better than anyone I know. And developed her looks and personality accordingly. Her ubiquitous dark glasses reminded the peasants of the widow Kennedy, later Jackie O., while her frosty manner was designed to keep the natives impressed and unaware that she was not exactly to the manner born.  Soon Si Newhouse, the multi-billionaire owner of Condé Nast, was sniffing around and presto, a star was born. In addition to her many other tasks, she became the head of the Met Gala. (Si is now also gone.) 

How did the once elegant soiree turn into a freak show? Step forward yet again Anna Wintour, the make-believe aristocrat who thinks Jay Z, Beyonce, Megan Thee Stallion, and Lizzo are the types that draw crowds to culture; in that, she might even be right. Nowadays ain’t what it used to be, that’s for sure. In beauty and elegance versus ugliness and vulgarity, the latter wins big time. The Gala is supposedly a fundraiser, and some know-nothings refer to it as the party of the year, but it’s nothing of the kind. Basically it is a showpiece for the Costume Institute, and its new home, which is the Condé Nast Galleries. This year’s cochairs of the gala are Beyonce, Nicole Kidman, Venus Williams, Anna Wintour. Need I say more? 

Well, yes. Wintour is no fool. She sniffs out where the money is quicker than Dick Tracy uncovered bad guys. The honorary chairs this year are Jeff Bezos and his wife, both obviously greatly impressed by the Brit “aristo” Anna. There are, however, some clouds in the immediate horizon. One poster put up by so-called activists reads: “The Bezos Met Gala: Brought to you by workers’ exploitation.” All I can say is that activists are always going on about worker exploitation since time immemorial. Climate activists have protested the gala in the past, as have Black Lives Matter activists, before it was discovered that BLM leaders had helped themselves to most of the money raised by well-meaning American donors. 

Has Bezos exploited his workers? Has he pillaged and plundered the poor? Of course not, but any successful man or woman in today’s world will be accused by the left of doing so. Ironically, the Newhouse family has never been accused of exploitation, although it pays peanuts to its writers and employees. But here is a suggestion that might please everyone involved, excluding Wintour: The left-wing influencer and arch-phony Hasan Piker and the New Yorker (owned by Condé Nast) writer Jia Tolentino are on record for being in favor of stealing. Larceny is an appropriate response to the capitalist system, according to them. So, I suggest that Piker and Tolentino, and their ilk, steal everything from Condé Nast buildings, including from the Newhouse and Wintour private homes. As Piker and Tolentino went on record saying: “It is cool to steal and we gotta get back to cool crimes.” Your move, Condé Nast.

Let’s see how cool you are, Piker and Tolentino: steal from Condé Nast and Wintour. Or maybe you’re just two more lefty phonies, all talk and no action.

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