My thought process was more or less like this:

I like parties.
I like the holidays.
I like New York magazine.
Therefore, I would like to write about holiday parties for New York magazine.

What I failed to realize was:

I would not be invited to (most of) these parties.

Oh well.  It wasn't cold, so skulking outside for quotes produced only mild discomfort.  At Hearst people were nice enough to talk, although "How was the party?" invariably ensured a host of really bland platitudes like "it was fun!"  Great.  You had a good time.  I'm really happy for you.  Now tell me who you schtupped in the bathroom after one too many white cranberry cosmos.

Vogue, on the other hand, was like The Cult of the Cigarette Smoking Bitches.  I've been treated pretty rudely before, but never, ever, have I seen anything like that.  (And I wasn't even wearing my Slutty Santa suit!)  They didn't deign to acknowledge my presence with EYE CONTACT, let alone and "I'm so sorry" or "Anna Wintour will skin my alive like her minks if I talk to you."  Even for the type of women bitches drawn to Vogue, that level of insolence takes serious practice.

In other news, the PETA people were really nice.  Sigh.