hand to land on my shoulder and
lead me away to some dark corner of the ^
museum. I moved through the party, nervous and hyper-alert, as if the pair of
sleeping lions in the corner diorama were still alive.
To calm myself, I did what comes naturally to any cool
hunter: I read the crowd.
The demographic of Hoi Aristoi was young and wealthy, the sort of people whose job it
is to go to this sort of party. You know who they are. Their names are in bold
type in gossip pages, presumably to remind them what they did last week. They
were here to refine their social skills, readying themselves for the day when
their trust funds would blossom into real inheritances, and they would join the
boards of museums and orchestras and opera companies and go to more parties.
The odd camera flash snapped, gathering fodder for the Sunday Styles section
and celeb magazines' back pages. Apparently Hoi Aristoi really had aristocratic roots. Any magazine that could
occupy the entire Museum of Natural History for a party was backed by people
with serious social connections.
I wondered if any of the people here would ever
actually read Hoi Aristoi. Would it run advice columns
for the single scion? Essays on mink coat maintenance? Bargain buys for the
bulimic's bathroom?
Not that the articles really mattered. Magazines are
just wrapping for ads, and advertisers must have been lining up to fill the
pages of Hoi Aristoi, ready to flog Hamptons real estate, deals on drug
treatment centers and liposuction, a dozen labels I shall not name. And for
every true aristocratic reader would come a hundred wannabes, pitiful creatures
willing to buy a handbag or wristwatch advertised, hoping the rest of the
lifestyle would somehow follow.
Why did this tribe annoy me so much? It's not like I'm
against social hierarchies—my job depends on them. Every cool constituency from
hardtop basketballers to Detroit DJs organizes itself into aristocrats and hoi
polloi, insiders and nonentities. But this crowd was different. Becoming an aristoi wasn't a matter of taste,
innovation, or style, but of being born into one of a select hundred or so
Manhattan families. Which is why aristocrats don't really have Innovators. For
their new looks they rely on designers from Paris and Rome, hired help selected
by Trendsetters like Hillary Hyphen. The top of the Hoi Aristoi cool pyramid—where the Innovators should be—is
chopped off, sort of like the one on the back of the one-dollar bill.
(Coincidence? Discuss.)
Suddenly my step faltered, my sour mood lifting. A few
yards away two rent-a-models were stationed in front of a trio of bedazzled
bison. And they were giving out gift bags.
Filthy rich or bomb-throwing anarchist, everyone loves gift bags.
I grabbed one, assuring myself that it was just to
look for clues about the party's sponsors. Parties in New York are always
multi-corporate orgies, a mix of advertising, guest lists, and giveaways. Gift
bags are the final repository of all this cross-marketing, with everyone
involved throwing in an abundance of free toiletries, magazines, movie
tickets, CD singles, chocolates, and minuscule bottles of liquor. The main
sponsors (I don't mind naming brands, because you can't buy them in stores, for
reasons that will soon become clear) were Hoi Aristoi magazine itself, a spiced rum called Noble Savage, and
a new shampoo that went by the peculiar name of Poo-Sham. The big prize in the
bag was a free digital camera, no bigger than an old-fashioned cigarette
lighter, with the Poo-Sham logo plastered all over it.
A free digital camera as a carrier for advertising. I
gave this the Nod.
Man cannot live on gift bags alone, though. I consumed
the chocolate and looked around for real food.
A tray went past carrying champagne and orange juice.
I grabbed a glass of the juice and gulped, only to discover it was spiked with
Noble Savage ... a lot of Noble Savage. I managed not to sputter, drank it down for the sugar, and
immediately regretted it. An
lead me away to some dark corner of the ^
museum. I moved through the party, nervous and hyper-alert, as if the pair of
sleeping lions in the corner diorama were still alive.
To calm myself, I did what comes naturally to any cool
hunter: I read the crowd.
The demographic of Hoi Aristoi was young and wealthy, the sort of people whose job it
is to go to this sort of party. You know who they are. Their names are in bold
type in gossip pages, presumably to remind them what they did last week. They
were here to refine their social skills, readying themselves for the day when
their trust funds would blossom into real inheritances, and they would join the
boards of museums and orchestras and opera companies and go to more parties.
The odd camera flash snapped, gathering fodder for the Sunday Styles section
and celeb magazines' back pages. Apparently Hoi Aristoi really had aristocratic roots. Any magazine that could
occupy the entire Museum of Natural History for a party was backed by people
with serious social connections.
I wondered if any of the people here would ever
actually read Hoi Aristoi. Would it run advice columns
for the single scion? Essays on mink coat maintenance? Bargain buys for the
bulimic's bathroom?
Not that the articles really mattered. Magazines are
just wrapping for ads, and advertisers must have been lining up to fill the
pages of Hoi Aristoi, ready to flog Hamptons real estate, deals on drug
treatment centers and liposuction, a dozen labels I shall not name. And for
every true aristocratic reader would come a hundred wannabes, pitiful creatures
willing to buy a handbag or wristwatch advertised, hoping the rest of the
lifestyle would somehow follow.
Why did this tribe annoy me so much? It's not like I'm
against social hierarchies—my job depends on them. Every cool constituency from
hardtop basketballers to Detroit DJs organizes itself into aristocrats and hoi
polloi, insiders and nonentities. But this crowd was different. Becoming an aristoi wasn't a matter of taste,
innovation, or style, but of being born into one of a select hundred or so
Manhattan families. Which is why aristocrats don't really have Innovators. For
their new looks they rely on designers from Paris and Rome, hired help selected
by Trendsetters like Hillary Hyphen. The top of the Hoi Aristoi cool pyramid—where the Innovators should be—is
chopped off, sort of like the one on the back of the one-dollar bill.
(Coincidence? Discuss.)
Suddenly my step faltered, my sour mood lifting. A few
yards away two rent-a-models were stationed in front of a trio of bedazzled
bison. And they were giving out gift bags.
Filthy rich or bomb-throwing anarchist, everyone loves gift bags.
I grabbed one, assuring myself that it was just to
look for clues about the party's sponsors. Parties in New York are always
multi-corporate orgies, a mix of advertising, guest lists, and giveaways. Gift
bags are the final repository of all this cross-marketing, with everyone
involved throwing in an abundance of free toiletries, magazines, movie
tickets, CD singles, chocolates, and minuscule bottles of liquor. The main
sponsors (I don't mind naming brands, because you can't buy them in stores, for
reasons that will soon become clear) were Hoi Aristoi magazine itself, a spiced rum called Noble Savage, and
a new shampoo that went by the peculiar name of Poo-Sham. The big prize in the
bag was a free digital camera, no bigger than an old-fashioned cigarette
lighter, with the Poo-Sham logo plastered all over it.
A free digital camera as a carrier for advertising. I
gave this the Nod.
Man cannot live on gift bags alone, though. I consumed
the chocolate and looked around for real food.
A tray went past carrying champagne and orange juice.
I grabbed a glass of the juice and gulped, only to discover it was spiked with
Noble Savage ... a lot of Noble Savage. I managed not to sputter, drank it down for the sugar, and
immediately regretted it. An
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