Sally Quinn is a rich creep who lives in a gold-walled mansion, throws big parties, and (still!) gets to write staggeringly inane things for the Washington Post, because she married its editor. Would you like to hear Sally Quinn's story about Lauren Bacall maybe fucking her husband? Too bad, here it is.

It is little wonder that our nation's newspaper industry is steadily declining, when you consider the fact that Sally Quinn is still allowed to publish stories in the Washington Post that begin, "It was the night on the dunes in Amagansett that nearly did me in. George Plimpton was having his annual fireworks party and Ben Bradlee and I had heard Lauren Bacall was going to be there."


Please... Sally... tell us more. Were you close, close friends, with this famous person, to whom you refer with a fond familiarity to indicate your level of closeness?

Betty [NAME THAT LAUREN BACALL'S CLOSE FRIENDS, LIKE SALLY QUINN, CALLED HER] continued to be a close friend and was always the life of the party at our annual New Year's Eve festivities in Washington. One year, she, wanting to adjust the heat in the guest room as she was dressing, accidentally set off the fire alarm, bringing what seemed to be the entire Washington fire department to our house as the party was just beginning, nearly trampling Alan Greenspan and Andrea Mitchell as they were arriving. The firemen marched upstairs to the third floor with their hoses and unceremoniously barged into Betty's room, only to find her in her skimpiest underwear. One of them recognized her and, after it was determined that the house was not on fire, they all asked for her autograph. She was thrilled and signed away, totally unselfconscious of her dishabille.

Totally unselfconscious of her dishabille.

She retained her wicked humor to the end. She knew Ben was not a dog person, so she gave him a framed picture of her dog for his birthday. She had written a card that said, "Love me, Love my Woo Woo."

"Love me, Love my Sally Quinn." -The Washington Post

[Photo: AP]