Krucoff on the Quest 400

Just who, precisely are the Quest 400? They are the Masters of the Universe, my precious little soup bones. Walk down Fifth and the Upper Eighties on a Saturday Night and you will see the tribe in action. They are that tiny group of high society holdovers that parties on the Upper East Side. Sometimes, on Saturday nights, you can see them shuttling off to the benefits -- there: look at the man wearing a cape and sporting a cane, like Dracula. Now: think of dracula as metaphor.

Anyhoo: No longer do they tend to their rose gardens in Newport, Rhode Island. The ladies have little lap dogs instead of imperial colonies with brown people. The men are straight out of an Auchincloss novel. They sip Cutty Sark and cry real tears over the appalling state of their old prep schools (".. and, barmaid, *sob*, the old boys have made Latin an elective!"), or their sail boats. They frequent upscale bordello's after Michael's if they aren't already cheating with the illegal immigrant nanny. And to their cucumber-sandwich munching wives, those Rockefeller Republicans with the severe 1970s hair, the many facelifts, and the designer handbags, their dogeared copies of Debretts Peerage and Barontage ("Royalty is the ultimate reality, my dear") Cindy Adams can do no wrong. They make socially inappropriate comments mitigated by the fact that they are rich and don't really give a fuck that you might be offended by. Sometimes, they say, with the undigested cucumber sloshing about their botoxed lips -- sometimes a good right wing dictator really gets the trains running on time, Binky.

To be sure.

Krucoff crunches the numbers, god bless his snarky mathematical soul, and Gawker, for doing the math and putting it online. Where precisely did these Masters of the Universe make their fortunes? I'm saying.

The bad way. Media/ Publishing. Captains of Industry. Fashion.

And, surprisingly, one percent actually made it on the A-List through sports. Would I be cynical if I said those sports were more likely the ones with the little balls populated by white players? Yes, too cynical.

Bravo, Krucoff, bra-fucking-vo.