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

by Richard Kirshenbaum

  “You’re just a simple guy, Don (not his real name). That’s what I have always loved about you.”

  “You see, you get it because you’re from New York. Most people here are so stupid. It’s the sun and all the working out and the implants. It just goes to the brain. That’s why I want my kids to get out of this state. But I think they’re too low-key to go to Princeton or Yale.” He shrugged.

  “I understand. Maybe they need to take a year off when they graduate,” I suggested.

  “Look, I was a f**k-off when I was their age. They have discipline and are smarter than their dad. But even though the Ivies would grab them up in a second—given their grades, scores, the athletics I’ve paid for—they just don’t see the point in going to one just to say ‘I go to an Ivy,’” he reverse bragged. “So they’re going to Europe for the year traveling before they go to [think Ivy of the Ivies].”

  “Maybe you should move to New York?” I said, goading him.

  “I would in a minute. After the award season, which I hate, I’m going to look for a place. We’ll have dinner.”

  “Great seeing you. Love the shorts.”

  “That’s what I love about his stuff. Just California Casual.”

  As we were boarding Jet Blue (with the luxury of extra legroom) one weekend heading back from a shoot in the Caribbean, I ran into a noisy New York family of five I knew all getting on the same flight, nannies and strollers and all.

  “Hi, Richard. So great to see you. Were you down here on vacation?” the father asked.

  “No, I was on a shoot for a client.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “How about you? Vacation?” I asked.

  “We were down for the weekend for a party.”

  “Fun?”

  “The party was great, but I didn’t love the villa.” He mentioned an older resort on the island. “A bit run down.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Everything was chipped and broken. The bathrooms were a disaster,” the wife added, as she shook her head and moaned.

  “I mean, not that we should be complaining,” Stew (not his real name) said. “The so-and-sos (the hosts) paid for everything. It was for a fiftieth birthday. I wanted to upgrade, like I usually do, but I didn’t think it would be in good taste.”

  “They really should send someone from that resort to see the villas on [the island where Stew and his wife own a home]. It’s generous to put guests up, but a hovel isn’t exactly a vacation.” Mrs. Stew sniffed as she reached into her Bottega bag for Purell.

  “But the party was fun?” I asked

  “Really fun. They brought in so-and-so.” (She mentioned the very same famous female A-list singer I had seen at the charity ball.)

  “That must have been fabulous,” I said as I placed my roll-on in the overhead compartment. “She was great at [annual mandatory charity event]!”

  “I just wish she would have done two or three songs and then we could have danced to the DJ,” the wife complained.

  “I mean, how many private concerts can you go to?” Stew said.

  “I think for your fiftieth I’ll just get a DJ. Enough with these famous acts,” the wife said.

  “ It gets tiresome after a while,” Stew said. “And it was nice of [the host] to offer to fly us private, but I think it’s important for the children to experience flying commercial,” he reverse bragged.

  “Yes,” the wife said, yawning. “Once or twice.”

  When I got back to New York, I dropped off my luggage, showered and changed, and ran to a dinner at one of my all-time favorites, Shun Lee on the East Side. We were meeting our friends, the so-and-sos, and the well-attended service proved smooth sailing after a bumpy flight. As we caught up over lotus root and sole with ginger and scallions, discussing fun topics such as Ebola and the crisis in the Middle East, we strayed to somewhat lighter fare, timely divorces and breakups.

  “Another one bites the dust,” I said, citing a couple we thought seemed to have it all but were always fighting.

  “Was either having an affair?” I probed.

  “Not that I know of,” my friend said, sipping his tequila. “I think New York can just be particularly hard on certain couples.”

  “I know what happened,” Dana said, rolling her eyes.

  “What?” the table asked.

  “They just ran out of things to brag about,” she conjectured.

  “I buy that.” I explained my theory on reverse bragging. “They clearly weren’t meant to be. They were always contradicting each other in public. And you cannot reverse brag if you do that. Not possible. Think about it. There are couples who are so good at it they seem to have a prearranged press release.” I mentioned another couple who artfully knew how to reverse brag together and have a long-term, seemingly solid marriage.

  “So you don’t think it was an affair—they just weren’t on the same page?” My friend processed the idea.

  “In order to execute the reverse brag, your partner must reverse brag with you, or at the very least not contradict you,” I explained. “It’s the golden rule. He who has the gold makes the rules.”

  “Take the so-and-sos,” Dana said, stating her case. “They just celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary. They’re the couple that says they don’t believe in having any help and she doesn’t believe in nannies, but when you go over to their home they have ten people in shifts of two. Twenty years of solid reverse bragging. And she never shares her resources.”

  “And he always toasts her ‘doing it all.’ By herself,” I recalled.

  “You see? Now that’s a couple.” Dana laughed.

  “Couples that reverse brag together … stay together,” I said. “Honey, we’ll have to start reverse bragging.”

  “About what?” Dana asked, wide-eyed.

  “I can tell people that no one reads my articles, but when they do, they get upset. And you can agree that people hate it—given the dozens of e-mails, phone calls, and complaining street chats you are accosted with.”

  “I love that,” Dana said, nodding. “And the book comes out right around our anniversary, so I can complain about it myself at our anniversary party.”

  “Perfect.” I kiss her. “The perfect wife.”

  VI.

  ESCAPE FROM THE UPPER EAST SIDE

  19. BICOASTAL CURRENCY

  Fame Versus Money

  “IT TRULY IS A MASTERPIECE,” I stated, as I retrieved my horn-rimmed reading glasses from my handkerchief pocket and spied the ’60s Warhol, dazzled by the monochromatic pigments. It had found its way onto the paneled wall of one of the great private Beaux-Arts mansions between Madison and Fifth Avenues.

  “I am really happy for you.” I patted my friend’s shoulder, congratulating him on being able to acquire one of the great pieces of twentieth-century art in such a highly competitive market.

  “Thank you. We really are very excited,” he said, beaming. “And to top it off, it has great provenance.” He revealed the prior owner’s name, widely considered one of the century’s great financial geniuses and collectors, and whose name and reputation alone add to the buyers’ premium. “I never thought I’d have a [type of iconic Warhol], and I never thought it would have come from the Steinhauser (not the real name) collection,” he said, exhibiting collector’s reverie. Just knowing that the painting graced the Steinhauser manse had me guesstimating as to how much more he actually paid for it, although it would be listed on Artnet later that month if I really wanted to snoop.

  The following Tuesday I found myself having an alfresco lunch on the terrace of one of the great iconic Malibu beach homes, hosted by one of LA’s premier power couples. A famous TV producer and his boyfriend were guests in residence and were stylishly turned out in James Perse’s Malibu beachwear complemented by chic straw ’50s chapeaux. The waves were cresting as
we ate freshly assembled salads direct from the Malibu Mart and watched the towheaded children straddling their boards in the distance. In a case of mistaken (upscale) packaging identity, the wife inadvertently poured soap on her husband’s salad from a bottle resembling olive oil.

  “What, are you trying to poison me to get the real estate?” he choked.

  “Oh, no!” She laughed in a horrified fashion, picking up the bottle of liquid soap. “Everything out here looks like it’s straight from Tuscany,” she said, picking up and showing us the soap bottle, which had the same green glass and quill-pen-style typography of a high-end estate olive oil.

  “This house is truly a masterpiece.” I changed the subject as she remade and redressed her husband’s salad with real virgin oil from another, but similar bottle she plucked from the pantry. I looked around and marveled at the distinctive ’60s architecture, which often appears on book covers.

  “Yes, we are very lucky,” the sexy blond LA Hollywood wife remarked. “My father-in-law was smart enough to have bought it from [a MAJOR ’70s rock star]. Every time I run into his ex-wife [former, major Hollywood wife], she tells me she is so sorry to have sold it in the divorce. The walls must have seen a lot in their day.” She winked; images of ’70s hair, spandex, and half-naked, gyrating groupies floated through my head. That said, the house took on a sexier allure, now that I knew that the überfamous blond rocker previously owned it. Rock Superstar provenance is as good at it gets in LA.

  What serves as provenance clearly differs between financially based New York and fame-based LA. While certainly not a new topic and one that has been long documented in film, TV, and literature, the divide between the coasts has become more palpable. Economics often bring things to a head, and the cultures have grown more distinct with people on each coast eyeing one another more suspiciously than in the past. Fame versus money can be a potent argument.

  “I would NEVER raise my children in Los Angeles.” Park Avenue Matron sniffed, pronouncing the word with a clear disdain in reaction to a friend who had just relayed the news that a New York couple, who had moved there, was filing for divorce. I was standing at a Mecox Bay cocktail party catching up with some friends, overlooking the purple sunset from the bay to the ocean and declining fattening hors d’oeuvres from the dashing cater waiter staff.

  “And why is that?” I said with clear interest.

  “I don’t even want him going there on business,” she said, talking about her Lilliputian but Legendary Hedge Fund Manager husband. He was standing there silently, in a sheepish fashion. “It’s just not good for a marriage,” she declared, the other women gathering around nodding in agreement.

  “And why would that be? There are plenty of happily married people in LA,” I offered.

  “Are there?” Park Avenue Matron asked, her temperature rising as she adjusted her cashmere sweater set. “Name them. All I know is that whenever someone I know moves to LA, six months later the husband meets an actress or a porn star. Or worse, goes over to the other side.”

  “Other side?”

  “What do they call it? The velvet mafia?”

  “So you think affairs and sexuality are location based?” I asked.

  “Richard, don’t get cute with me.”

  “I’m not,” I said, somewhat flushed. “I am not being funny. It’s just, I’m writing an article and wanted to know what people think.”

  “Well, I just told you. I think LA has no morals and I would never raise my children there. So they can turn out like so-and-so and so-and-so.” She harrumphed and listed the progeny from two well-regarded and name-brand families—where the well-known children have clearly spotty reputations.

  “Now that you mention it, I can see your point.” I nodded, thinking of the possibility of circulating porn tapes and oft-reported drunken brawls.

  “The problem is that LA is all about fame, and people will do anything to get it. Anything.” She sounded as if she were Aimee Semple McPherson preaching to the faithful.

  “Is this restriction against LA socializing limited to living there or does it also include visiting?”

  “We sometimes stop off at the Beverly Hills Hotel before we fly off to Punta Mita or Hawaii. I can abide a day or two, but he’s NOT ALLOWED to go to bars and restaurants by himself.”

  “Is he allowed to go out to business dinners and trips in New York?”

  “Of course he is,” she stated.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because no one is really interested in him in New York,” she said with the utmost seriousness. “The really pretty ones here want unattached, real money and aren’t that interested in someone with four children in private school.” She went on approvingly, “Everyone knows the economics in New York, especially the younger girls. You can get a house with a pool for virtually nothing in LA, but everyone knows how expensive New York apartments are. Even if one’s rich. Family baggage is too expensive for the pretty young things.”

  “And LA?”

  “From what I hear, they’ll go out with anyone if the man buys them a new set of boobs or can lease them a Mercedes.”

  “So I take it USC or UCLA will not be on your children’s radar for college.”

  “Why would they want to go there, when they will be perfectly happy at Penn?” She reached for a pig in a blanket.

  “I see your point. Although I hear the girls are prettier at Miami,” I joked, knowing she has college-age boys.

  “Just what I need. A daughter-in-law from LA or … heaven help me, from Miami. I’d rather commit hari-kari.” And with that she walked away, looking for her husband, who somehow had disappeared.

  “LA is really about what your last project was or your next one is,” Resort Friend told me. (A resort friend is someone you see and are friendly with on vacations at resorts but don’t see during the year.) Resort Friend, a native New Yorker, had moved his NY-based family to LA to work for an investment bank. I called RF to catch up and reached him on the phone in his car, which is where he spends a disproportionate amount of his day.

  “Did I get you at a bad time?” I asked from my landline in New York.

  “No. This is great. I’m in traffic on the freeway,” he reported from the gridlock.

  “How much time do you spend in your car?”

  “Too much. It’s really one of the only issues I have with LA.”

  “I know,” I empathized. “If I had to write an advertising tagline slogan for LA it would be ‘it’s great when you finally get where you’re going.’”

  I heard the honking of horns in the background.

  “So how has it been now that you’re living there? Are you guys loving it?” I asked.

  “I really do. I love the weather, and it’s so much less stress than New York. Except for the traffic and the smog and some of the people.”

  “What are the major differences?”

  “LA really is about what your next project is and New York is really about what your next purchase is. So LA is about outdoing your friends from a project POV and New York is about outspending your neighbor with purchases. My experience has been New York is all about the money culture. And it’s only getting worse.”

  “So do you find yourself more or less interesting to people because you’re not in entertainment in LA?”

  “It varies. Some people really enjoy speaking to someone different and they are interested in how to invest—so there are those people who think I’m more interesting. That said, there are some people in the entertainment grid who only want to talk about the industry and have no patience for anyone who is not involved. I’d be a waste of their time because I’m not a stepping-stone to their next project or movie.”

  “Do you find that in LA fame is a currency like money?”

  “Absolutely.” I heard a screech. “Sorry, a car just almost sideswiped me. You have to unders
tand, when you’re talking about famous in LA you’re talking about really famous. So if I go to the school baseball game at [prestigious LA private school] and I’m hanging with the dads, the paparazzi could be waiting outside the field. It’s no big deal to me.”

  “And your wife?”

  “I think she cares a bit more about going to industry parties. You know, the red carpet events.”

  “So she likes the fame game?”

  “I think so. And she thinks it would be good for her business.”

  “Business? I thought she was a homemaker?”

  “She is, but she’s writing a screenplay and wants to direct.”

  “Celebrity has traditionally worked against the real estate process in New York, which is why celebs used to be relegated to living on Central Park West,” Ageless Real Estate Broker commented, pointing out the window of the chauffeur-driven Mercedes. “Marco, can you take us down to the Dakota?” She again pointed a perfectly lacquered fingernail.

  “Not a bad place to camp out,” I observed.

  “Up until a few years ago most co-ops on Fifth Avenue wouldn’t accept actors,” she said with a sniff. She reeled off a list of superstars who were all turned down by tony Fifth and Park Avenue buildings, including one of the most famous leading men of the 1970s, who was turned down at the building I actually live in.

  “The West Side was always more accepting of creative people,” she commented.

  “I just read a quote attributed to Lauren Bacall where she said ‘New York was far more interesting when it just wasn’t about the money.’”

  “I’m sure it was. That’s why she lived in the Dakota. It always accepted the most fabulous show people: Baryshnikov, John Lennon of course. I’m trying to get the listing for her apartment. I hear it is coming on the market … somewhere in the twenty-six-million-dollar range,” she speculated. “So she did very well for herself despite what she said.”

  “Why do you think celebrities are shunned at East Side co-ops?”

  “Richard, don’t be naive. I once tried to sell a major celebrity superstar an apartment from an old line heiress on Fifth Avenue. I said, ‘You must meet so-and-so; she really is fabulous and she’s one of the major singers of her generation,’ trying to impress the old witch.”