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• The immense West Side dance club Copacabana seemed an odd choice for the employees-only Daily News holiday party. Did they really need that much space? Would they really use the enormous dance floor? Was someone really under the impression it was hip? ("His name was Morty; he was a mogul …"?) Actually, in the newspaper biz, one thing is most important: proximity to work. "In case we have to crawl back afterward," a Newsie explained. Neither Rush nor Molloy was sighted, nor editor-in-chief Martin Dunn — perhaps they'd already crawled back — but a 200-strong gang happily devoured dinner at several dozen tables while others washed down their meals by the large bar. A fedora-wearing face-painter made his rounds; only one employee — from the Brooklyn bureau — took him up on it, though that was one more than we'd have guessed. Later, as the lights were dimmed and the music turned up, a brave handful actually started dancing. "I'm not Latin, but I feel Latin being here," said one. We didn't feel Latin. We felt like we were at a bar mitzvah with old people and good food. Really good food. Did we mention the food? It was the best we've seen in our holiday-party-crash career: Three massive buffets held grilled veggies, couscous, chicken, lamb chops, fish, steak, and shrimp. And the desserts! Chocolate cake, apple pie, carrot cake, a selection of fruit — raspberries, strawberries, kiwi, pineapple — and a sundae stand. Columnist Michael Daly was chewing roast pork alongside colleague Denis Hamill. How's the party? "There's an old saying," yelled Hamill, still chewing his pork. "If it ain't jaded, it ain't journalism." Um, okay. Any favorite part? "The applesauce." He didn't so much as smile.
Verdict: Food: 5; drink: 3.5; venue: 3; debauchery: 3; exclusivity: 3.5

• Down on 14th Street, at Dirty Disco, we strolled easily past the velvet rope and bouncer and into Star magazine's party. (Hmm.) At one point more than 200 people had crowded inside, we were told, but by 9:30 the party was clearly winding down, with just a few stragglers still dancing on tables to blasting hip-hop. (As we entered, it was "Promiscuous Girl." Hmm. Then again, the invite featured a winking, Santa-hatted Janice Dickinson.) Yelling was the only possible method of communication, and so adorable deputy New York bureau chief David Caplan had lost his voice — if not his holiday spirit — by the time we arrived. There were specialty drinks — "Star martinis," featuring caffeinated vodka — but nothing else for free at the bar, to not a few guests' chagrin.) There was also no food, so intoxication levels were high. Who was invited? Star employees, of course, but also: "Basically there was a list of haves and have-nots," explained Caplan, giggling. "I only wanted the haves." (See "high intoxication levels" above.) Apparently this included famous party-crasher Shaggy, who gave us some advice: "Just put one foot after the other." Britney Gastineau had arrived, clad in "full-on fur," toured around the party, took photos, and exited to meet Jonathan Cheban, waiting outside in a car. Bonnie Fuller, too, had been and left. Did she dance? "Bonnie was very sensible," Caplan said diplomatically. Fellow editor Jon Auerbach was less cautious. "Bonnie was crazy," he said, "doing the robot and the running man. She and Joe [Dolce] did the lambada!" He was also probably pulling our leg.
Verdict: Food: 0; drink: 4 (if you really like caffeinated vodka; if not: 1); venue: 3.5; debauchery: 3.5; exclusivity: 3.5

We're not sure what we were expecting at News Corp.'s annual extravaganza for 6,000 of Rupert Murdoch's favorite employees (plus their plus ones), but it wasn't the bizarre menagerie that greeted us at the Sixth Avenue Hilton Friday night. The invite — not that we actually had one of our own — promised "a trip around the News Corp world without leaving New York City." How, uh, clever? We flirted our way past a security guard, arriving at the almost three floors taken over by what we can only say was the randomest party we've ever been to. Each ballroom was decorated to represent a continent, and each attempt was almost entirely unsuccessful. There was Australia, represented by a lifeguard. There was Asia, with video games. There was Africa — wait. Where was Africa? "It's an American, Republican, Fox view of the world," laughed one guest. "No Africa." Far away from hoi polloi, from a VIP section in the balcony above "Europe," Murdoch gave a brief toast, shook a few hands, then made himself scarce. Loaded onto a 50-foot buffet was the nastiest food we'd ever seen — mini hot dogs, fried chicken, meatloaf-burger patties reminiscent of White Castle, and something identified as Sheppard's pie. (As in, Shep Smith? Was that the joke? Ugh.) The bars — and there were many — held your typical frat-party liquor: Bacardi, Jack, something with orange juice. "In our defense," said one News Corper, "it's really hard to plan a party for between six and twelve thousand people." We saw his point. "And if you think about it, it's a pretty economical way to thank people." Ah, yes, thank the plebes! And, to be sure, although we searched for hours, we saw absolutely no boldfaced names — no on-air talent, no major execs. (Later, though, we were informed that HarperCollins chief Jane Friedman was there, freshly de-Regan'd and merrily singing karaoke with her colleagues.) When the clock struck eleven, the party was instantly disassembled. Merry Christmas, from Rupe.
Verdict: Food: 3 (if you like trans fats; if not: .5); drink: 2; venue: 2; debauchery: 3; exclusivity: 2.

• The New Yorker threw its annual holiday party at Lure Fishbar in Soho last night, and the venue was the perfect size — just crowded enough to feel celebratory but not crowded enough to suffocate. Tweed-attired literati mixed with young-Turk assistants, long-serving editors, perky ad reps, and loopy cartoonists, and everyone was in extremely high spirits, perhaps buoyed by the more-than-liberal flow of alcohol (or perhaps by the two separate oyster and sushi bars). "It's the only event the entire year where advertising and editorial get together in the same room," one guy noted. "We don't have much to say to each other." We spotted Malcolm Gladwell and his hair from across the room; he was dressed in a black suit and gray striped tie and clutching a glass of water. How did this party compare to his other holiday events? "I have nothing intelligent to say," he insisted. We were skeptical. "I haven't had anything to drink yet." Two convivial cartoonists who clearly had sat howling with laughter at a banquette. What would a cartoon of the party look like? "Beetle Bailey lying down, with Xs over his eyes and champagne bubbles from his lips," said one. Both dissolved into giggles. Anything noteworthy about the party? "I tried the clam chowder, but I noticed that as I ate the final clam, it turned to Wrigley's Spearmint gum," said the other. Talking to New Yorker cartoonists is like reading a New Yorker cartoon: It can be difficult to figure out what the joke is. One lanky guest said he'd just confessed his admiration to Lillian Ross. "She said, 'Do you? Because the last person who said that spilled an entire beer on me.'" The party's scheduled 10 p.m. end came and went, and still they partied on. "It's not like the dinner dances they used to have at the Plaza," sniffed a 30-year vet. "But it's pretty good."
Verdict: Food: 5 (if you like raw fish; if not: 1); drink: 5; venue: 3.5; debauchery: 4.5 (for nerdy types; for anyone else: 2); exclusivity: 4

• Over in the meatpacking district, beauty-tip loving Allure employees mixed at Double Seven, the same club that will host brother pub GQ later this week. (Did Condé — uncharacteristically — go for a volume discount?) With under a hundred guests — "80 percent women, 18 percent gays, and 2 percent me," said one apparently straight male guest — and strictly limited to employees, very little rambunctious behavior ensued. Indeed, some groused that it wasn't enough of a "scene." "It was a typical meatpacking-district, loungy bar, very dark," one Nastie said. "It wasn't crowded, and there were no celebrities — really just people who work at the mag." Editor-in-chief Linda Wells, perfectly blonde and perfectly dressed, held court while her staffers, apparently "not drinking much," munched on pad Thai and beef salad served in boxes with chopsticks. "It was very sedate, very mellow," said a guest. "Although it was a schmooze fest." Aren't they all?
Verdict: Food: 3.5; drink: 3; venue: 2.5; debauchery: 1; exclusivity: 3.5

• For the last decade, Hearst Magazines has crowded its staffers into Tavern on the Green for their holiday shindig. So this year the employees seemed enthusiastic about staying "Home for the Holidays," the oh-so-clever name for last night's fête, held in the company's brand-new office tower. The three-story lobby waterfall was glowing with festive red lights as we entered, with D.J.-provided music thumping. But we couldn't go any further, because holiday cheer was apparently only for those with a Hearst I.D. and one of the small, round white snowflake pins passed out the day before. Here's what we learned from spies: The marathon four-hour celebration started at 4:30, taking over three floors of the Norman Foster–designed building — 44, the Picasso-laden executive floor; 29, the Good Housekeeping Institute; and the mezzanine, which typically houses the stark, white cafeteria but last night was in party mode, completely encircled by bars. Food was passed by hordes of waiters ("No lines," crowed one exiting employee), but some missed the buffets of yesteryear. "Hearst is a WASPy company," said an assistant we won't name. "Plenty of alcohol, not enough food." Did anything crazy happen? "I'm not going to tell you anything gossipy, but no one's going nuts," CosmoGirl news and features director Michelle Ribeiro reported. One possible exception: Several people reported spotting Helen Gurley Brown burning up the dance floor. ("She really goes at it," one Hearstie said.) Kevin Schaub, Hearst International's office manager labeled the party a 9 "for a work party." He explained: "To get a 10, there had to be a waterslide or a rollercoaster." Hearst Magazines chief Cathie Black came rushing out at 7:45 with an armload of shopping bags. "My favorite part was seeing the amazing gingerbread shaped like our new building," she told us. "It took the baker 70 hours to make it."
Verdict: Food: 4; drink: 5; venue: 4.5; debauchery: 1; exclusivity: 3.5

• Several avenues east at the Grand, Vogue's annual celebration was, in the words of one guest, "very minimalistic [sic]." Next to a tree with only white lights, Vogue, Teen Vogue, and Men's Vogue employees — and just a few very select guests, like photographer Patrick Demarchelier — crowded into the dark bar. There was no dancing, despite seventies and eighties tunes ("happy music," the D.J. said). And to add to the holiday cheer, three sign-wielding PETA protesters stationed themselves outside. (Perhaps for naught: Vogueettes leaving the party, whether for a cigarette or to jump into one of the dozen idling Town Cars, didn't even break stride.) "Everyone was dressed festively," said one guest on his way out. He was covered completely in shades of gray, the women were in ubiquitous black tights, and no one looked festive in the least. "The only way to describe it is very elegant and sober," a guest told us. "The right people. All the editors have to come." No female Vogue staffer would deign to comment — "out of respect to Vogue, we can't talk," one tersely explained — and most just brushed by without even acknowledging our presence. But we wanted to know: Were they really forced to attend? "We don't have to come, we want to come," one skittish cig-puffing editor screeched, shifting her gaze nervously and clamming up. "Tons" of champagne was served, plus "two or three open bars" and Asian-fusion food. And remarkably, according to the caterer, guests were actually eating it. But not guest Tom Munro, a fashion photographer. "They had canapés — is that how you say it? — but I didn't have any," he said. "Please, I'm in fashion!" Indeed.
Verdict: Food: 2.5; drink: 4; venue: 3; debauchery: 1; exclusivity: 4.5

• Meanwhile, downtown, the PR gurus of Ken Sunshine Consultants took over the new club Room Service on East 21st Street with a not-just-for-employees crowd of more than 350 people — and just as many Godiva chocolates. We were actually welcomed inside this one, where we spotted Richard Johnson, Jimmy Fallon, Mark Ecko, and David Dinkins. Shawn Sachs, a Sunshine VP, explained that the party was "purposely inclusive." "It's not a very traditional way to have a holiday party," he said. But who needs an employees-only event? We hang out with each other all day long." Ken Sunshine was there, greeting guests with his 12-year-old daughter in tow. Liquor abounded, distributed copiously by both a bar and wait staff, and the cuisine was comfort food: on-the-bone chicken and fried balls of macaroni and cheese. ("They don't taste bad, but they're just embarrassing to eat," one guest griped.) We found Katie Couric laughing with friends in banquette, but she wouldn't comment: "I'm not working," she said with a scary smile. (Honey, for $13 million a year, you're always working.) Actress Rose McGowan, fresh from wrapping a movie, was happy to talk. "This is the first holiday party I've been to this year," she said. "I actually wore a red shirt, not on purpose, and when I realized it matched the holiday, I kept my coat on." And tireless Queens councilman Eric Gioia, flanked by his chief of staff, beamed amiably. "I had four parties tonight," he admitted. Was this the craziest? "Well, I haven't seen anyone doing beer slides, so I'm not ready to call the police commissioner yet!" Ah, city-government humor. But one magazine editor had a complaint. "It seems like it's all hangers-on," he said. "But it's a PR party — what do you expect?"
Verdict: Food: 1.5; drink: 4; venue: 2; debauchery: 3.5; exclusivity: 3