Once again, I sorely missed Mamma Leone’s on a Wednesday. If it were still around, Panchito could have ambled over, wasted the beleaguered boss’s credit and trashed the hell out of it, to exactly no one’s surprise. What was he smoking, informing the world that a publishing canteen sucks? I can’t wait for him to discover Elaine’s. And somehow I don’t think we’ll be reading about sagging underpants. Seymour B must be resting in total peace, knowing how good he looks with every new embarrassment.