Richard Kirshenbaum - Isn’t That Rich? Life Among the 1%

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Portions of this book have appeared previously, in slightly different form, in the New York Observer.

Copyright 2015 by Richard Kirshenbaum

Cover design by Andy Ross

978-1-5040-0731-3

Published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

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.

I.

EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES

1. BILLIONAIRE BUZZKILL

Theyre 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 cant be serious, I said.

I am. Honestly, he countered. Im 1990s moneyin a new agewith 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 youve made it. A Master of the Universe decanted a beautiful bottle of Saint-milion. 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 whats 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 syndromelets call it millionaire malaiseincludes 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 youve 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 youre a player, flying your family first class, then so-and-so asks for your tail number, and they look at you like youre taking the bus because youre flying commercial.

Wow, thats a trip.

Youre 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. Youre psyched you splurged for floor seats, and theyre 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 citys 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.

Im not sure thats entirely the case, I countered.

Look, Im so far from being important now. I feel like a shrinking star with a bit of Yankee thrift. Im 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.

Thats the point, he said. Those people dont want to live here. They dont want to live by anyone elses rules.

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

In a way, its 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 youd never know it. Its just that if you dont like being told no and your wife has a personal publicist, its probably better if you live on the West Side or Downtown.

Its 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 dont take this the wrong way, that I was somebody.

And now?

I walk up and down the avenue, I dont know many people, and they dont know me. Honestly, I dont 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.