Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent

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  Isn’t That Rich?

  Life Among the 1 Percent

  Richard Kirshenbaum

  F. Scott had Zelda and I have Dana …

  To have a friend or lover is divine; to have a muse is eternal.

  Thank you, my darling, for your unwavering love and support, and for urging me not to change one word, for anyone.

  I owe the column and the book entirely to you.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  I. EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES

  1. Billionaire Buzzkill

  2. The Changing of the Guard

  3. Rise of the Art Insta-Collectors

  II. ON THE PARK

  4. I Get No Respect, Just the Bills

  5. The New Divorce Is No Divorce

  6. Never Mind the Nannies, Drivers Are the New Dads

  7. Need an Intern with a Strong Sense of Entitlement and Bad Manners? Hire a Rich Kid

  III. UPTOWN PROBLEMS

  8. Dating Tips for Uptown Divorcées

  9. The High Fliers

  10. Paid Friends

  11. The Customer Is Always Wrong

  IV. LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND INFAMOUS

  12. Why the Italians Have Style All Sewed Up

  13. Let Them Eat Kale

  14. Frozen

  15. They’re Shaving a Bundle

  V. THE RICH ARE IN-DIFFERENT

  16. Social Climb-Overs

  17. The Wealfie

  18. The Reverse Brag

  VI. ESCAPE FROM THE UPPER EAST SIDE

  19. Bicoastal Currency

  20. The Emptons

  21. Stressmas Vacation

  22. Bling Versus the Bong

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FOREWORD

  Richard Kirshenbaum dedicates Isn’t That Rich? to his wife, “for urging me not to change one word, for anyone.” With all due respect to the author, that isn’t precisely true.

  Shortly after he started the column on which this book is based, for a local community newspaper, the New York Observer—which used to be called “the pink paper” even though it was, more accurately, printed on orange-y paper—he asked me out to lunch. As best I could tell, he wanted to pick my brain about what he could and couldn’t get away with when covering the behavior of our city’s rich.

  I had long been a reader of the pink paper, and generally enjoyed it, because it did exactly what I have always done as a journalist: it sought to tell the truth about powerful and influential people. I started doing that instinctually decades ago when, after a brief spell as something akin to a promotion writer, helping rock stars sell their albums and concert tickets by making them out to be more heroic than they really were, I began telling the truth about them, and—oops—made myself a bit of a pariah.

  Not long after that, I changed careers (not entirely by choice, as you might imagine) and briefly became an advertising copywriter. That wasn’t how I met Richard, even though he was in advertising too, but it gave me the background necessary to appreciate his skills once I did encounter him after another career switch, this time back to journalism. I started writing about fashion and the folks who then pretty much exclusively consumed it (shorthand: the 1 percent). Richard had some fashion clients, which is how we met, and, I think, how we came to appreciate each other. He approached advertising the same way I approached fashion journalism, with tongue firmly in cheek and the rule book balancing on the lip of the trash.

  Back then, I worked for one of the legends of journalism, an editor named Clay Felker. He’d founded the first magazine I adored, New York, which was one of the crucibles of what was called New Journalism, and was all about “tell the truth, damn the consequences, and do it in a way that’s as entertaining as it is informative.” I went to work for Felker when he started another publication, long since mostly forgotten, that was the spiritual forefather of the formerly pink paper Richard now writes for. I bring this up because at one of our first editorial meetings, Felker said something to the new staff that I have never forgotten concerning the 1 percenters who would be our main subjects: remember that you are in their world, but you are not of it, and you will succeed in covering them.

  Which brings us back to the subject at hand, Richard’s fine, funny, and informative book, which also has the virtue of being very entertaining, even if it doesn’t exactly adhere to Clay Felker’s dictum. Because, you see, at some point, Richard sold the advertising agency he founded and made a boatload of money, and now he lives on Fifth Avenue and eats at dives like Harry Cipriani, where a salad costs something like forty dollars. In other words, he is not only in the world he writes about in the pages that follow, he is of it, as well.

  So it’s a bit of a white lie to say that Richard hasn’t changed one word for anyone. Well, not a white lie, precisely, but a misdirection. The kind of thing advertising folk do naturally. Because what I discovered after our lunch was that Richard does something I don’t do. Or rather, Richard doesn’t do something that I do do, which has sometimes gotten me into, well, deep doo-doo. I write about the 1 percent and name names and figure that if I tell maybe 80 percent of what I’ve been able to learn about them, which may be 70 percent of the truth about them, I’ve done a job I can be proud of.

  Richard, on the other hand, tells, I’d estimate, 95 percent of what he’s been able to learn about the 1 percent who are his friends and neighbors, and while he too may only get to that golden 70-percent-of-the-truth threshold, he seems not to get into the kind of trouble that made me somewhat radioactive among the more humorless denizens of Mr. Kirshenbaum’s neighborhood. You know, the ones who think their doo-doo comes direct from Guerlain. Fortunately, a lot of Richard’s friends, or at least those quoted herein, do have a sense of humor about themselves and their cohort, and you, lucky reader, get to dine on their dish.

  Richard’s secret is a simple one. He doesn’t name names like I have always done. His approach is almost genial, even if the net effect is still outrageous. Which is probably why he lives on Fifth Avenue and has more money in the bank than I do. We still get together and talk shop and laugh, and somehow (especially since he usually pays for dinner) I don’t hold his wealth against him. Or the fact that he’s now invaded my turf. And, come to think of it, been rather quickly successful at it.

  Maybe I should hate him. I just can’t. He has a keen sense of perspective that some of his subjects lack. As he notes, he still flies commercial. I like that. I like his book, too. And I can pretty much guarantee that you will as well. But if you don’t, don’t call me for a refund. He’s the one in and of the world of those who can afford to pay for guaranteed satisfaction.

  Michael Gross

  Michael Gross is the author of books including House of Outrageous Fortune, 740 Park, Rogues’ Gallery, and Unreal Estate. His writing has appeared in the New York Times, New York, Vanity Fair, Esquire, GQ, and countless other publications.

  I.

  EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES

  1. BILLIONAIRE BUZZKILL

  They’re Ruining the Fun for Mere Millionaires

  AT THE TAIL END of the summer, I found myself in Millbrook, New York, the guest of a dashing blond sportsman who consistently beats me at squash. As we exited his stately Georgian mansion, I asked him if he preferred the
tranquility of the country or whether he missed the electricity of Manhattan.

  “Perhaps I would, if I were still relevant.” He shrugged, tossing his squash gear into his vintage woodie station wagon.

  “Relevant? You can’t be serious,” I said.

  “I am. Honestly,” he countered. “I’m 1990s money—in a new age—with one less zero.” He sighed as we drove down the leafy lane to his club for a game of squash and a flight of dry martinis.

  Over the past few years, New York has turned into a receiving line for billionaires. While the superrich and their attending lifestyles have dwarfed the average American success story, they have also depositioned the wealthy, creating a vast and palpable divide, not only between the haves and the have-nots, but the haves and have-mores.

  While there may be fewer of them in New York City than one may imagine (under one hundred), billionaires’ influence has spawned an era of excess, entitlement, grandiosity, and outright glitz not seen since the Roaring Twenties, causing their lesser-endowed peers to suffer from what I call billionaire buzzkill.

  “A millionaire used to mean you’ve made it.” A Master of the Universe decanted a beautiful bottle of Saint-Émilion. His staff hovered, bringing oversize crystal goblets and chic pressed linen napkins that were as thin as crepes and starched as a wimple. “Everyone wants to be Gatsby, without the car crash.”

  “Are you sure you want to drink in the living room?” I asked as he poured the ruby-red liquid above his white furniture.

  “No worries,” he said, taking a call from one of his many brokers, his pressed French cuffs slicing the air.

  “So what’s considered real money today, if you only happen to be a millionaire?”

  “I would say a hundy.”

  “A hundy?”

  “A hundred million. But not including your real estate. I mean investible assets.”

  “So a hundred gets you in the game?”

  “Well, maybe two hundred,” he said thoughtfully, swirling the red liquid dangerously over creamy white cashmere throws.

  The .01 percent have had an enormous impact on the psyches of people formerly running New York and have taken the fun out of la vida loca. The resulting syndrome—let’s call it millionaire malaise—includes symptoms such as loss of identity, the throwing in of the competitive towel, and Xanax- and chardonnay-level anxiety.

  The terrace of Orsay seemed a perfect place to broach the subject of billionaire buzzkill with a standard-issue millionaire. Had he ever experienced it?

  “Of course. Just when you think you’ve made it with your mack-daddy ten-million-dollar apartment, your wife comes home and says, ‘So-and-so just bought a thirty-five-million-dollar apartment,’ and you feel like a loser,” he said.

  “Does this happen a lot?”

  “It happens at least once a week,” he admitted. “You think you’re a player, flying your family first class, then so-and-so asks for your tail number, and they look at you like you’re taking the bus because you’re flying commercial.”

  “Wow, that’s a trip.”

  “You’re excited for your recent art acquisition, and then they invite you to the opening of their new museum. Buzzkill. You spend your bonus buying your wife an eight-carat cushion-cut diamond, and her best friend calls it cute when she flashes the twenty. You’re psyched you splurged for floor seats, and they’re buying the team. Buzzkill. I need another glass of wine,” he said, grimacing.

  “Or I can throw you a charity dinner,” I offered.

  I paid a visit to an old friend whose family name adorns one of the city’s most prominent cultural institutions. I wondered whether he had similar experiences, given his burnished stature. We sat in his cavernous Fifth Avenue apartment with family portraits looming.

  “Understatement went out the window with Lehman,” he said, sipping a Blackwell rum on the rocks. “Personally, I like walking around in my old khakis and a sweater with holes in the elbows. I like my hoboish style. Of course, you get no service.”

  “I’m not sure that’s entirely the case,” I countered.

  “Look, I’m so far from being important now. I feel like a shrinking star with a bit of Yankee thrift. I’m just hunkering down. A person of modest wealth and achievement protecting the franchise,” he said among the Corgis and chinoiserie.

  “Well, take this apartment,” I said. “Very few people could ever pass the board interview, no matter how much money they had.”

  “That’s the point,” he said. “Those people don’t want to live here. They don’t want to live by anyone else’s rules.”

  The exclusivity of some of New York’s toughest co-op boards has had a reverse effect. I recalled reading a recent article in the Wall Street Journal about one of New York’s most prestigious co-ops hiring a public relations firm to help promote sales.

  “In a way, it’s good, because the new condos represent another product for another group,” he observed. “People want to live in a co-op because they appreciate communal living with like-minded people living quietly, privately in understated elegance, not to mention the prewar details.”

  He continued: “There are quiet billionaires who live here, but you’d never know it. It’s just that if you don’t like being told ‘no’ and your wife has a personal publicist, it’s probably better if you live on the West Side or Downtown.”

  “It’s not my Madison Avenue anymore,” Chic Brunette Heiress explained over sea breezes in her classic East Hampton sunroom, the low-key wicker set prompting me to recall the well-known quote about how it takes a few generations to actually understand wicker.

  “Growing up in the city, I remember it as a small village, where I used to know everyone and … don’t take this the wrong way, that I was somebody.”

  “And now?

  “I walk up and down the avenue, I don’t know many people, and they don’t know me. Honestly, I don’t even recognize the brands. A cashmere sweater costs as much as a small car. And who are all these people anyway? Hardly anyone speaks English.” She sniffed.

  “What is the biggest change since your days at [an elite private girls school]?”

  “The tone has changed. The taste and the manners especially.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The old-school wealthy do things a certain way. Handwritten notes instead of e-mail. Having dinner conversation without the person across from you on their cell phone the whole time. Texting has ruined a whole generation. Then there are what we call the new West Side billionaires. You know, the ones who live in those condos.”

  “And would you ever live there?”

  “I wouldn’t call that area living. More likely visiting.”

  “Well, it’s all near the park, isn’t it?”

  “That’s like saying there’s no difference between East and West Hampton, even though they all share the same coastline. Can I get you a refill?” She surveyed the tinkling ice cubes in her glass.

  I put in a call to a real estate agent who is known for prying loose all of those newly acquired hundies.

  “Today, the superrich want to live in glass boxes,” the überbroker said, offering me a walking tour of the West Side as she navigated three digital devices and tottered on skyscraper heels.

  “They want light, air. They want modern, contemporary. They want ceiling-height, recessed lighting. They want wall space for the art. They want glass, views, service. They want to do what they want when they want. They want to renovate, decorate. The whole shebang.”

  “They want a lot.”

  “And they get it.”

  “So, do you only sell condos?”

  “I don’t sell, I specialize,” she said, applying dizzying red lipstick. “They sell themselves, even before they’re built.”

  “What about co-ops?”

  “Most of my clients don’t have the time or patience to
sit in a room with a bunch of fuddy-duddies judging them,” she said, marching down CPW like General Patton in Louboutins.

  “Do your clients even look at co-ops?”

  “Mostly no. Some don’t want to reveal all their financial info to a board,” she added. “But most want a level of freedom and have zero tolerance for a restricted building. They don’t want co-op rules like no dogs allowed and grandma taste. New York real estate is a gold mine, and there’s hardly any great inventory. That said, condos have clearly outpriced co-ops in terms of price and changed the way the superrich look at the luxury market. In my opinion, it’s where the supersmart money is going. Listen, I have to run.” She looked at her diamond-encrusted, saucer-size timepiece.

  “Where to?”

  “I have an appointment to show a thirty-million-dollar apartment to, like, a twenty-year-old.”

  “Tech?”

  “How did you know?” she asked, taking the bottle of water from her driver.

  “A wild guess. So no co-op for him?”

  “I’d like to see their faces when he shows up to that board interview in a hoodie,” she said with a smirk. “Although he could buy and sell the lot of them.”

  “I really don’t think it’s only a new-money versus old-money thing,” a billionaire philanthropist and political donor told me as we walked around the reservoir with the buildings on Fifth Avenue, CPW, and CPS providing an ironic tableaux.

  “There are newly minted billionaires who value old-money pedigree and old-school billionaires who’d rather live in a Tribeca loft. That said, this happens every hundred years when new wealth is created and shakes up the old guard. And then both sides take potshots at each other,” he said, sipping his Juice Press Fountain of Youth.

  “How so?” I asked, drinking a Runa Energy.

  “The old money says the new money is gauche and parvenu. And the new money has contempt for the establishment’s moribund practices and strictures.”

  “Such as?”