Free Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent by Richard Kirshenbaum, Michael Gross Page A

getting the financial papers on Sunday on Lexington Avenue when I ran into an acquaintance, a high-end real estate broker who specializes in white shoe co-ops; he was listing an exclusive Park Avenue 12 with southern exposure.
    “It just came on the market. You know death and divorce are the best things about real estate in this city,” he said darkly.
    “Whose apartment is it?”
    He mentioned a high-profile couple who had recently split.
    I remembered the fabulous layout. “She doesn’t want it?” I asked.
    “She can’t afford to buy him out.”
    “Too bad.”
    “I know. If she’s smart, she’ll get down to business and land an oligarch for papers,” he joked. “You know some of these women are like the real estate themselves. They come on the market, too many showings, sit too long without a bid, and then the product gets burned.”
    Luckily, no such fate awaits two newly minted and very eligible divorced people I introduced in February at our annual Valentine’s Day Jazz Brunch, where we served up a torch singer and made-to-order omelets to a variety of guests. Both parties have interesting careers, in addition to having children.
    “You two should know each other.” I literally hip-checked the lanky European businessman into view of my friend, a lovely entrepreneur. A friendship and fireworks ensued. Perhaps they had the advantage of finding each other when they were both considered fresh listings, new to the market, in prime Fifth and CPW locations. They snapped each other up.
    A thank-you text appeared on my phone just yesterday revealing summer plans for the new couple: first a romantic trip to Anguilla, then two weeks in Cap Ferrat. Not only is love in bloom on two continents, but the very best thing is that in spite of it all, they won’t have to move to Florida.

9. THE HIGH FLIERS
    Uptown Pill-Poppers Struggle to Hide Excesses from the Kids
    SPRING BREAK FOUND US fleeing manhattan for the glorious Los Angeleno sunshine, palm trees, and alfresco lunches by the Beverly Hills Hotel pool. We were ensconced in the famed Howard Hughes bungalow, which I am sure has withstood its own share of vibrations over the years. Still, nothing prepared us for the 4.9 earthquake that interrupted our reverie and shook us out of bed at 6:30 a.m. Like a fool I called the front desk for confirmation. “Yes, Mr. Kirshenbaum. That was indeed an earthquake.”
    The next day, after a sleepless night, we ran into myriad New York families, all on spring break, having McCarthy salads by the pool, fiddling with the romaine and cheddar. “Aftershocks can be worse than the quake,” I worried aloud to anyone who would listen.
    “Don’t worry,” my friend’s platinum blond wife said, retrieving her pillbox, implants immovable in her string bikini top. As her toddlers pranced about, she opened what seemed like a veritable pharmacy in her designer clutch.
    “A little Xany will do you good,” she said, picking around in the compartments. “Let’s see, I have Valium, Xanax. Oh, those are the antidepressants. Wait, are those the Klonopin or the Zoloft … ?” she pondered.
    “A cosmo and Molly and you won’t remember a thing,” she offered. “Even if the big one comes.”
    Having grown up in the “Just Say No” generation, afflicted by fear, guilt, and propaganda, it’s strange to see so many New York parents smoking, popping, and snorting as soon as their kids are counting sheep.
    “It’s the ’80s again,” a good friend said at a recent party, inhaling a funny cigarette and passing it along.
    “Why’s that?” I said, taking in the duplex transformed into a dance party.
    She gesticulated above the din and deejay spinning electronic dance music. “Let’s say you’re at a party and it’s a five. By smoking or drinking you already elevate it to a six or a seven. Time is valuable. All I have to say is: elevate your party level for better times, baaaby .”
    “Well, they certainly are,” I said, pointing to