I had drinks last night at the Park with my friend Robert, his squeeze John, some of John's friends and another friend of Rob's named Alex. Alex and I talked a lot - mostly about how we weren't exactly meshing with the crowd's demographics - and as it turns out, Alex is currently working on a project at Condé Nast, and I once upon a time worked there as a freelance designer. We shared war/horror stories of the usual sort (on skinny, backstabbing bitches, etc.) and I got to retell my absolute favorite Condé-Nasty story:
On a certain summer day, a group of (Vogue) women were complaining in the elevator about why the cafeteria had to be closed for such an extended period of time. As it turns out, the over-the-top Frank Gehry eatery had floors that, although deliriously sheen, were so slick that people had been falling and, consequently, injuring themselves in attempting to walk from point A to point B with their lattes and lunches (they were to eat in theory anyway). The cafeteria had to be closed for about six weeks to turn the floor into a more, shall we say, $500-pointy-heel-friendly surface. The ladies moaned in the elevator about the inconvenience, concluding with this exchange:
VOGUE A: "What's the problem anyway?"
VOGUE B: "Evidently, the floor's too slippery. People were falling down."
VOGUE A: "Could you imagine? Falling in there with a tray of food."
VOGUE B: "I would just die."
VOGUE A: "Omigod. I know."
VOGUE C: "Oh, please. I think it's such a waste of time."
VOGUE B: "What do you mean?"
VOGUE C: "I mean, if you can't fucking walk in your Manolos, you shouldn't be working here."