MR. DOOL


“My dog is on Facebook,” Mr. Estreich said, with a contemptuous snort.

Alex Williams’ piece in the New York Times about the Native Society – an exclusive social club for those born exclusively in New York - is a master class in how to include bitchy details diguised as reporting, in the grand NYT truffle fry tradition.  Here, some of my favorite excerpts:

  • “It’s not about who you were born, or what you were given, but what you’ve made of yourself,” explained one member, Alexa Winner, a 22-year-old stylist and fashion designer.
  • Like Zen monks marinating on the essence of nothingness, members tried to put their finger on that ineffable quality that makes them worthy of membership.
  • To Ms. Winner (“like winner, not a loser,’” she said, spelling her name), it was about a level of refinement and learning. She looked ready to accept the 1957 Oscar for best actress, in a flowing gold Maggie Norris Couture gown and chinchilla stole.
  • As guests mingled over champagne, the ash-haired Mr. Estreich, with his prominent jaw and above-it-all smile, worked the room with the practiced suaveness of a junior Sirio Maccioni, his boyish build (he could pass for 18) swimming a bit in his banker-ish gray pinstripe suit.
  • She had been the kind of city kid who summered on the fjords of Norway and sipped Côtes du Rhône at sidewalk cafes with her parents at 15. She was aghast to find fellow students sucking back Jell-O shots and dressing up for “pimps and hos” theme parties.
  • “My dog is on Facebook,” Mr. Estreich said, with a contemptuous snort.
  • No one talks about the rituals at those events. “That’s where we burn lambs,” joked Freddie Fackelmayer, a member who wears his hair in a dramatic swoop of forelocks — call it the Fop Flop — familiar from a thousand Ralph Lauren ads.



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