I've been trying all day to come up with an excuse to not attend the White Party tonight. After a liquid lunch with Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish (who is in lock-down at 8 PM), I went to have my hair done and, particularly, my tips frosted. While sitting in the chair while the lovely Ana Sylvia fussed about my mane, the salon played a concert of Donna Summer's. It was an epiphany. I would wear red; in fact the same one in this picture of me taken just but a few years ago.

Liquid lunch with a woman of such social magnitude as Mamie, can give birth to great ideas. To Hell with ideals.