May 25, 2026 The Ted Sarandos Set Luke Ford No sacred cows.

The Ted Sarandos Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Ted Sarandos (b. 1964) sits at a junction that did not exist thirty years ago. He runs a technology company that makes movies, and he married into Hollywood royalty when he wed Nicole Avant (b. 1968), daughter of the music executive Clarence Avant (1931-2023), the man they called the Black Godfather. That marriage tells you most of what you need to know about the set. It joins old entertainment money and civil-rights-era Black power brokerage to new streaming capital. Sarandos came up renting tapes at a video store in Phoenix. He now holds a CBE from King Charles and a seat on the board of the Academy Museum. The arc from clerk to knighted mogul is the story the set tells about itself, and it likes the story very much.
What do these people value? Taste, first. They believe they can tell good from bad, and they believe their judgment carries moral weight. A man who greenlights the right show feels he has done something for the culture, not just for the quarter. They value reach next. The Netflix line about enabling nearly the whole planet to watch at once is a religious statement dressed as a metrics report. To touch a billion people is the dream, and the dream flatters them as benefactors rather than merchants. They value access to power, and they trade in it. The set overlaps heavily with the Obama-era donor class, with the Aspen Institute fellowship circuit, with the philanthropy galas where studio chiefs and senators and museum trustees rotate through the same rooms. Sarandos hosted fundraisers. He sits where money, art, and politics meet, and he treats that seat as earned.
Their hero is the visionary operator. Not the artist alone, and not the suit alone, but the man who combines them. Reed Hastings (b. 1960) built the myth of the founder who disrupts an industry through nerve and culture, and Sarandos is the content man who proved the founder right by betting on House of Cards in 2013 when the town said streaming could not make prestige television. The heroic act in this world is the early, lonely, correct call. You saw what others missed. You backed it with capital. You were vindicated by scale. When Sarandos walked away from the $83 billion Warner Bros. bid this year and pocketed a breakup fee, he framed it as discipline, as the strength to set ego aside. That framing is itself a hero pose. The man who can walk away is stronger than the man who must win.
The status games run on a few currencies. Hits are the obvious one, but a single hit means less than a slate, because a slate proves you have a method and not just luck. Awards matter, and the set craves them, because awards convert commerce into legitimacy. Netflix spent years and fortunes chasing the Best Picture Oscar partly to buy entrance into a room that old Hollywood guarded. Proximity to talent is a currency. To be the executive a great director trusts, to be the one auteurs call, raises a man above the spreadsheet class. Philanthropy and board seats form another tier. A trusteeship at the museum, a fellowship at Aspen, a gala chairmanship, these certify that you have crossed from making money to stewarding culture. And political access sits at the top, because a man who can get a president on the phone has reached a height that no box office number alone confers.
Now the normative claims, the shoulds these people press on the world. They hold that storytelling shapes society and that broad, inclusive storytelling makes society better. The streamer should put more faces and more nations on the screen, and doing so reads as justice, not just market expansion into new subscriber territories. They hold that the gatekeepers of the old system were narrow and exclusionary and that the new platform democratizes who gets seen. They hold that the consumer should be served, and they invoke the consumer as a moral authority. Sarandos said this month that you do not run in the opposite direction of the American consumer, and he meant it as common sense and as ethics at once. Give people what they want, and you serve them. The claim hides the harder truth that giving people what they want and shaping what they want are the same act when you control the menu.
The essentialist claims sit underneath. The set believes some men simply have taste and most do not, that the gift to know what will land is real and rare and roughly inborn. They believe the creative and the commercial are not opposites but can be fused in the right kind of man, and they believe they are that kind. They hold an essentialist faith in the audience too, a sense that human beings everywhere share a hunger for story, that narrative is part of what a person is, which is why a show from Korea or Spain can travel the globe. This faith is sincere and it is also convenient, because it makes a worldwide subscriber business feel like the fulfillment of human nature rather than the conquest of attention. And they believe in disruption as a kind of natural law, that the old forms were destined to fall and the new ones destined to rise, which lets the winners read their victory as the working out of something deeper than their own ambition.
The set is generous, cosmopolitan, and convinced of its own decency. The harder thing to hold in view is that taste, reach, and stewardship are also the tools by which a handful of men decide what hundreds of millions of people watch tonight, and that the language of service and inclusion makes that power easier to hold and harder to question.

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The City of Private Rooms

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Los Angeles in 2026 holds a set of overlapping prestige worlds, each with its own gatekeepers, its own real estate, its own theory of why its members deserve the room. The most powerful figures sit in several of these worlds at once. What follows maps the leading cliques, the feuds running between and inside them, and where the pressure points seem to lead.

The discretionary salon elite

The closest thing the city has to a governing salon gathers around San Vicente Bungalows, the Bird Streets Club, Soho House West Hollywood, The Aster, and Little Beach House Malibu. Jeff Klein built the template. His insight was that the scarce luxury for famous people is no longer visibility but controlled invisibility. The no-phone rule at San Vicente is a doctrine. Serious men do not live in public. Privacy becomes the aristocratic good, and oversharing becomes a class tell.
The membership runs through Steven Spielberg (b. 1946), David Geffen (b. 1943), Bob Iger (b. 1951), Ted Sarandos (b. 1964), Bryan Lourd (b. 1960), Ari Emanuel (b. 1961), Dana Walden (b. 1964), Bela Bajaria (b. 1968), Jimmy Iovine (b. 1953), Scooter Braun (b. 1981), Tom Ford (b. 1961), Leonardo DiCaprio (b. 1974), Gwyneth Paltrow (b. 1972), Larry David (b. 1947), and a long tail of attorneys, financiers, and founders who never trend. Spielberg holds the center as the figure of permanence with dignity. Geffen is the patriarch who fused entertainment, money, and philanthropy into one identity. Emanuel is the kinetic opposite. The status game runs on the right seat at the right dinner, not on followers. The claim this class makes is that civilization needs curators, and that taste is close to a biological gift.

The traditional entertainment command structure

The agencies still broker the city. CAA, WME, and UTA link talent, capital, sport, fashion, and politics. The studio map still matters, though it is about to be redrawn. Key figures: Bryan Lourd, Kevin Huvane (b. 1958), Richard Lovett (b. 1959), Ari Emanuel, Patrick Whitesell (b. 1965), Kathleen Kennedy (b. 1953), Donna Langley, Michael De Luca (b. 1965), Pamela Abdy, and the lawyers Skip Brittenham (1942-2025) and Ken Ziffren (b. 1940), who often outweigh the stars they represent. Michael Ovitz (b. 1946) remains the myth of relationship power before platforms broke it. The restaurants, Tower Bar, the Polo Lounge, Giorgio Baldi, Funke, Craig’s, Nobu Malibu, Sunset Tower, work as governance chambers because Los Angeles has no K Street and no financial district to concentrate the deal.
The single largest fact reshaping this world arrived this spring. Paramount Skydance, run by David Ellison (b. 1983) and backstopped by his father Larry Ellison (b. 1944), won shareholder approval in April 2026 for a roughly $110 billion takeover of Warner Bros. Discovery, with the deal expected to close in the third quarter of 2026. Netflix had agreed in December to buy Warner’s studio and streaming assets, then walked away in late February rather than match Paramount’s higher all-cash bid. David Zaslav (b. 1960), who had planned to run a split-off Warner Bros. streaming-and-studios company, instead hands the studio to the Ellisons. So the command structure now has a new sovereign house, and the older agency aristocracy must decide whether to court it or resist it.

The Beverly Hills Persian Jewish network

Among the strongest and least discussed systems is the Persian Jewish network across Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and the luxury commercial corridors. The Nazarians, Yadegars, and Mahboubis, plus a dense web of developers, lenders, and jewelers, hold large positions in Southern California property. Sam Nazarian (b. 1975) bridges that world into global hospitality. Brokers move between entertainment money and international capital: Aaron Kirman, Mauricio Umansky (b. 1970), Josh Altman (b. 1979), Matt Altman, Sally Forster Jones, and Jason Oppenheim (b. 1977). The founding story centers on exile after 1979 and disciplined rebuilding. The admired man converts instability into a dynasty. Status runs through ownership, not exposure. Quiet liquidity carries the prestige. This clique often sees itself as the group that bought the land under the spectacle while the spectacle takes the credit.

The gallery, museum, and art fair complex

Blue-chip galleries turn raw money into cultural standing. Gagosian, Regen Projects, Hauser & Wirth, Pace, David Kordansky, and Jeffrey Deitch Projects link billionaires, sovereign wealth, and museum boards. Larry Gagosian (b. 1945) is the purest broker of the type. Jeffrey Deitch (b. 1952) fuses downtown experiment with institutional weight. Add Marc Glimcher (b. 1964) of Pace, Maurice Marciano (b. 1948), Mera and Don Rubell, Michael Govan (b. 1963) at LACMA, and the long shadow of Eli Broad (1933-2021). Frieze Los Angeles plugged the city into the global circuit of collectors and Gulf and Asian capital. For one week the city becomes a floating archipelago of money and curation. The claim here is the most candid of any clique: that aesthetic judgment marks a refined minority, and that art holds off commercial flattening.

The tech founder and creator economy clique

Venice, Playa Vista, Santa Monica, and parts of West Hollywood host founders, venture capital, influencers, and AI entrepreneurs. Evan Spiegel (b. 1990) made the city a real tech capital with Snap. David Ellison’s Skydance marries computation to production, and now to a major studio. Patrick Schwarzenegger (b. 1993) and Maria Shriver (b. 1955) push wellness venture culture through MOSH. The creator side runs through MrBeast (b. 1998), Emma Chamberlain (b. 2001), Logan Paul (b. 1995), and a generation that skipped studio gatekeeping. The admired man scales a personality into infrastructure and removes the middleman. Status runs on metrics: subscribers, valuations, retention, IP ownership. The claim is that distribution democratizes opportunity, and that legacy institutions move too slowly to deserve their rents.

The Brentwood-Palisades institutional liberal elite

Around Brentwood, Pacific Palisades, and Hancock Park sits the philanthropic and policy class that inherited the moral authority of the old liberal establishment. Laurene Powell Jobs (b. 1963), Casey Wasserman (b. 1974), Rick Caruso (b. 1959), Getty and Hammer trustees, RAND affiliates, and UCLA and USC board members anchor it. Wealth alone fails to confer standing here. It must become a museum, an endowed chair, a school, a foundation. The self-image is enlightened stewardship, and the claim is technocratic: a fragmented society needs trained managers to hold it together. The Palisades fire of January 2025 sharpened the politics of this corner of the map, since many of these homes and the civic argument about rebuilding run straight through it.

The elite educational matrix

The prep schools may be the most decisive sorting system the city has. Harvard-Westlake, Brentwood School, Crossroads, Marlborough, Archer, Buckley, Campbell Hall, and Viewpoint feed elite reproduction across entertainment, finance, medicine, law, and tech. Admission signals entry into the network. The friendships made there often outrank the later Ivy League line on a résumé. The status games run through varsity sport, admissions consulting, trustee influence, and college placement. The stated claim is meritocratic cultivation. The unstated one is that talent clusters inside certain families.

The Kardashian-Jenner brand empire

Kris Jenner (b. 1955) built the prototype for scalable parasocial capitalism, and Kim Kardashian (b. 1980) industrialized personality. The family showed that intimacy, conflict, motherhood, and grievance could all become vertically integrated property. The reach runs past celebrity into beauty commerce, social monetization, and the governance of influence. The admired figure converts personal narrative into an economic structure, and Kris functions as the matriarch-strategist. Status runs on brand launches, controlled disclosures, and visibility calibrated to avoid burnout. The claim is that self-construction frees a person, and that charisma is a rare innate gift.

The wellness and longevity aristocracy

Malibu, Topanga, Venice, and Beverly Hills host a bio-optimization class organized around longevity science, hormones, psychedelics, and boutique medicine. It overlaps with Erewhon culture, supplement empires, and Silicon Beach capital. Peter Attia (b. 1973) and the discourse adjacent to Andrew Huberman (b. 1975) set the register. Aging becomes a management failure, and dysregulation becomes a sign of weak discipline. Status runs on invitation-only retreats, testing protocols, and curated routines. The claim is that industrial life poisons the body, and that a disciplined elite can transcend the common decline through information and self-mastery. I will note that several of the most-followed names in this world push claims that run ahead of the evidence.

The crypto and sovereign capital network

A quieter formation links Bird Streets compounds, Malibu estates, Gulf and Asian family offices, crypto founders, and private aviation. For these men the city works as a luxury neutral zone rather than a civic home. The hero is the hyper-mobile investor who moves billions across borders while staying socially invisible. The claim is that states weaken while private capital becomes the only stable order.

The feuds and faultlines

No figure draws more fear and fascination than Ari Emanuel. His career runs on conflict, and the fictional Ari Gold sealed the legend. For years Patrick Whitesell played the calm diplomatic counterweight at Endeavor, and the fracture of that partnership after the Silver Lake move marked a real elite rupture. The deeper quarrel sets old relationship Hollywood against the financialized platform version Emanuel built across UFC, WWE, betting, and live events.
CAA against WME runs as an argument over what legitimacy should look like. Bryan Lourd projects discretion, museum trusteeship, and dynastic calm. Emanuel projects acquisition and confrontation. CAA reads WME as vulgar. WME reads CAA as passive and over-cautious. The Writers Guild battles over packaging poured fuel on this, since the agencies started to look like private-equity shops rather than advocates.
Zaslav stands as the figure creative Hollywood loves to hate. He spoke in metrics, leverage, and debt, canceled finished films for tax reasons, and shattered the romance that let the town justify its wealth as cultural stewardship. The hostility ran close to theological. Now the irony lands hard: the man cast as the liquidator delivers the century-old studio to the Ellisons, and the resentment may transfer to the new owners or soften into nostalgia for the devil they knew.
The streaming wars bred their own blood feuds. Ted Sarandos empowered creators and broke theatrical prestige, backend pay, and syndication at the same time. Traditional executives still read Netflix culture as data-driven barbarism in progressive dress. The recent twist sharpens this: Netflix chased Warner, then walked, and the studio it wanted went to a rival. Sarandos and Greg Peters (b. 1975) now run the largest pure streamer with a cleaner balance sheet and no Warner debt, while Paramount Skydance swallows the very assets they bid on.
Old Hollywood against the creator economy stays a permanent faultline. The studios still treat YouTubers and podcasters as illegitimate while envying their audience ownership. The creators crave prestige validation while mocking studio bloat. The Joe Rogan (b. 1967) corridor of heterodox media, Theo Von (b. 1980), and the Substack intellectuals positions itself against legacy media and the universities, and each side reads the other as a fraud.
The art world runs vicious feuds under a polished surface. Gagosian, Hauser & Wirth, Pace, and David Zwirner (b. 1964) fight over who defines cultural legitimacy, while curatorial purists accuse the mega-galleries of turning art into a luxury asset class. Downtown artists resent the financial colonization of the Arts District.
Tech and sovereign capital collide with civic Los Angeles over housing, transit, schools, and homelessness. Founders read city governance as a corrupt patronage racket. The civic class reads the founders as extractionists who want private sovereignty without obligation.
Rick Caruso sits at his own crossroads of real estate, philanthropy, policing politics, and centrist management. Critics see privatized urbanism in his secured retail compounds. Supporters see one of the few competent civic actors in a faltering municipal order. The fire recovery and another possible mayoral run keep him at the center of the argument over whether the city should be more public or more privately managed.
The school wars produce the most emotional feuds of all, because they touch dynastic continuity rather than a single deal. Parents who appear cordial wage quiet war over placement, trustee seats, and friend-group engineering. Even wellness has split into hostile tribes over vaccines, psychedelics, hormones, and Ozempic, sorting elite dinner tables the way party politics once did.

Where this might lead

The Paramount Skydance takeover of Warner concentrates studio power in a single allied house at the moment streaming consolidates around a few survivors. That points toward fewer buyers, harder terms for talent, and a fresh round of agency repositioning as CAA, WME, and UTA court the Ellisons. The creative class that hated Zaslav might find the new ownership less sentimental, not more, since the financing leans on tens of billions in debt and a parent backed by a tech fortune with its own AI ambitions.
The tech and AI money keeps annexing entertainment from below and above, through Skydance on one end and the creator platforms on the other. The studios might end as content arms inside larger computational firms, which would shift real power west and offshore, toward Venice founders and Gulf and Asian capital, and away from Burbank.
The civic faultline looks most volatile. Fire recovery, the housing fight, the homelessness argument, and the run-up to the 2028 Olympics force a choice between a publicly governed city and a privately managed one. Caruso-style urbanism gains ground each time municipal capacity fails, which means the archipelago of private clubs, private schools, private terminals, and gated compounds keeps extending while common civic space thins.
The school and dynasty system remains the quiet engine under all of it, since it reproduces the network regardless of which studio wins or which app survives. The names on the marquee change. The families in the front rows of Harvard-Westlake graduations change far less. If you want the long-run map of power in this city, watch the admissions lists and the trustee rolls, not the box office.

The Parties

The highest-status parties in Los Angeles manage proximity, hierarchy, liquidity, secrecy, and trust. The city no longer runs prestige through public spectacle. The old Hollywood myth ran on glamour anyone could see: premieres on Hollywood Boulevard, packed rooms on the Sunset Strip, paparazzi outside Chateau Marmont, the velvet rope at Hyde. That world survives in thin form for tourists, influencers, and entertainment press. The apex system now runs through invitation-only rooms built to strip out unpredictability and exposure.
The parties that matter are almost never ticketed. They happen inside gated compounds in Trousdale Estates, private clubs in West Hollywood, architectural houses in Malibu, hidden dining rooms in Beverly Hills hotels, museum courtyards after midnight, or salons assembled for one night and gone by morning. Phones go into pouches. Guest lists stay small. Security resembles a diplomatic summit. The best gatherings leave no trace online. A new architecture of controlled intimacy has emerged. The upper tier turns on rooms where billionaires, studio heads, sovereign-wealth intermediaries, celebrity founders, elite attorneys, museum trustees, AI entrepreneurs, fashion executives, luxury brokers, and A-list talent meet without surveillance. Privacy is the highest luxury good in Hollywood. The prestige economy runs on invisibility.
At the center stands Guy Oseary’s (b. 1972) Oscars-night after-afterparty with Madonna (b. 1958), known to insiders as The Party. Few gatherings carry comparable mythology. Oseary hosts it at his Coldwater Canyon estate, and it starts only after the official machinery of the night exhausts itself. Guests pass through the Governors Ball, the Vanity Fair party, Netflix suites, Disney events, agency dinners, and brand installations. Then, between two and three in the morning, the migration begins. Cars climb into the hills. Publicists fall away. Wardrobes change. Security tightens. The inner circle reconvenes.
Attending Oseary’s gathering signals that a man has crossed past ordinary visibility into the deeper bloodstream of the entertainment aristocracy. Recent guests have included Demi Moore (b. 1962), Adrien Brody (b. 1973), Nicole Kidman (b. 1967), Emma Stone (b. 1988), Zoë Kravitz (b. 1988), Kim Kardashian, Leonardo DiCaprio, Katy Perry (b. 1984), Jeff Bezos (b. 1964), tech founders, luxury executives, athletes, and political figures whose presence stays off the record. Oseary is the new archetype of Los Angeles power, the invisible orchestrator. His weight comes not from a face on screen but from his reach across music, technology, venture capital, luxury branding, and celebrity management at once. His long management of Madonna gave him entrée across several generations of global fame. His investments tied him into Silicon Valley founders and billionaire capital. The mood at The Party mixes decompression with recalibration. Awards-season tension dissolves into an exhausted aristocratic release. Few deals get signed. Alliances deepen, resentments soften, introductions happen, and the informal order becomes visible for a few hours. Hollywood gathers to take its own measure.
If Oseary’s night is the annual coronation, the year-round sovereign ground belongs to San Vicente Bungalows and its creator Jeff Klein. Klein saw the paradox of the social-media era. As exposure rose, elite intimacy grew almost impossible. San Vicente answers as a protected habitat for high-status people worn down by permanent visibility. The no-phone rule is strict and famous. Photography is taboo. A leak is a catastrophe. The club is a place where A-list figures relax without performing. Members include Bob Iger, Ted Sarandos, David Geffen, Jennifer Aniston (b. 1969), Larry David, Bryan Lourd, Ari Emanuel, Gwyneth Paltrow, Tom Ford, Rihanna (b. 1988), and a rotating cast of actors, producers, investors, lawyers, founders, and foreign elites.
San Vicente draws its power from texture rather than spectacle. Tropical gardens, hidden paths, screening rooms, low-lit bungalows, and small dining spaces build a room of quiet exclusivity. Deals unfold over dinner. Actors sit with billionaires and museum trustees. Venture capitalists drift between producers and fashion executives. The choreography looks accidental and is not. The status game here runs hot because it looks understated. Membership marks entry into the current elite. To host a dinner there raises a man further. To become the member who brings the guests everyone wants raises him further still. The ideal figure looks unhurried and sophisticated while holding extraordinary connections. San Vicente has become the city’s central convergence node. Traditional Hollywood, Silicon Beach founders, fashion, museum patrons, sovereign-capital intermediaries, real-estate dynasties, and wellness entrepreneurs overlap there. It works as an unofficial embassy for the city’s scattered aristocracies.
Next to it sits the newer world of the Bird Streets Club and the h.wood Group, built by John Terzian and Brian Toll. Bird Streets is the younger, more kinetic, nightlife branch of the same anti-public logic. Taylor Swift (b. 1989) and Travis Kelce (b. 1989) sightings, Leonardo DiCaprio appearances, athlete entourages, influencer billionaires, and creator-economy stars feed its myth because the documentation stays thin. Bird Streets breaks from Sunset Strip nightlife because it is built around scarcity. The less visible the night, the more attendance is worth. The club marks the merger of Hollywood celebrity with social-media prestige. Presence counts most when no one can verify it. The crowd skews younger than San Vicente. Athletes, musicians, YouTubers, crypto founders, and luxury-brand executives mix with actors and studio men. Under the looseness sits hard stratification. Table placement, booth adjacency, arrival time, security, and who introduces whom all signal rank.
Darren Dzienciol’s awards-season parties at James Goldstein’s Sheats-Goldstein Residence form another branch. The house, designed by John Lautner (1911-1994), is a defining architectural symbol of the city, concrete geometry suspended over the canyon lights like a private citadel. Dzienciol draws a younger glamour set than the old studio dinners: models, musicians, athletes, fashion executives, influencers, European aristocrats, luxury operators, and entertainment figures outside the old institutions. The exclusivity comes partly from spatial compression. The lists stay small against the property’s fame. The result is a temporary micro-world where everyone present knows almost no one else in the city can get in. DJs play beside the infinity pool above the lights. Architectural lighting turns the house into a film set. Open bars, luxury sponsors, and designer installations build the air of immersive privilege. Even these nights hold hidden layers. The most photographed guests often stand in the outer zones while the deeper talk happens elsewhere inside, among financiers, sovereign-wealth intermediaries, sports-management executives, and media investors. This nested order now defines elite nightlife. The visible room rarely holds the important conversation.
The Vanity Fair Oscar Party stays the city’s most iconic public-facing gathering, shaped now by global editorial director Mark Guiducci. This year it changed character along with its address. The party moved from its longtime home next to the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills to LACMA’s new David Geffen Galleries for the March 15, 2026 event. Guiducci also cut the guest list and barred outside media, where reporters from other outlets had been allowed inside to observe in past years. Every major nominee, winner, executive, fashion figure, and luxury advertiser still passes through. The role has shifted. Vanity Fair is the visible ceremonial face of a deeper private system. The red carpet matters worldwide because it makes images for the public. Among insiders the party works as a transit point between public glamour and private circulation. High-status guests stay briefly, then climb to the restricted rooms in the hills.
Past the branded institutions lies the frontier: nomadic micro-salons and secret dining societies. These have no permanent venue, no membership, no public identity. Luxury concierges, private chefs, estate managers, venture intermediaries, art-world connectors, and social secretaries arrange them. The locations move: empty Bel Air trophy homes, hidden rooms in Sunset Tower, Malibu estates, Trousdale compounds, listings waiting for a buyer. A list might hold twelve or fourteen names. No sponsors. No posts afterward. Sometimes no written list at all. The logic minimizes exposure and raises trust density. These dinners draw the highest-status guests because they strip away the last institutional visibility of even the elite clubs. The people there hold enough power that formal membership feels like clutter.
What drives all of this forward is the pursuit of class symmetry. Elite Los Angeles engineers frictionless rooms where everyone has passed parallel filters: elite schooling, social fluency, similar wealth bands, calibrated taste, shared references, reputational vetting. The aim is efficiency. No one explains a reference. No one brings unpredictable conflict. No one threatens contamination. Everyone speaks the same social language by instinct. This has reshaped the map of the city. Los Angeles runs as an archipelago of private prestige zones linked by chauffeured mobility. A modern elite Angeleno moves from a Venice AI salon to a San Vicente dinner to a Trousdale afterparty to a Malibu recovery estate without touching public Los Angeles. The old dream factory ran on aspiration and visibility. Elite Los Angeles now runs on invisibility. The highest-status party in the city is the one whose existence is hardest to verify.

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The Rival Courts of Washington

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Washington in 2026 holds power in one place and legitimacy in none. The city keeps the agencies, the courts, the Capitol, the embassies, and the money, but the old idea that a single governing class sits above the parties and tends the republic has gone. What remains is a set of rival courts, each with its own patrons, its own prestige economy, its own sacred words, and its own claim to speak for the American state. A portrait, then, court by court.
The national-security institutionalists hold the residue of the postwar establishment. They descend from the world of Henry Kissinger (1923-2023) and George Shultz (1920-2021), and they still gather in Kalorama drawing rooms, at the Council on Foreign Relations, and at Aspen. Their living figures argue for alliance management, deterrence, and slow institutional continuity: Robert Kagan (b. 1958), Anne Applebaum (b. 1964), Fareed Zakaria (b. 1964), David Ignatius (b. 1950), David Brooks (b. 1961), and the Biden-era operators now in think-tank exile, Jake Sullivan (b. 1976), Antony Blinken (b. 1962), and Victoria Nuland (b. 1961). Sally Quinn (b. 1941) survives as the curator of the Georgetown memory. This court once owned the gate. It set who counted. It has lost the gate, and it knows it, which gives its members a tone of elegy that younger rivals smell and despise.
The populist-national right is the court that captured the executive and most enjoys its capture. Its older Republican fathers, Dick Cheney (1941-2025), Karl Rove (b. 1950), Paul Wolfowitz (b. 1943), Richard Perle (b. 1941), and Bill Kristol (b. 1952), have been expelled or buried, and the new men define themselves against them. J.D. Vance (b. 1984) sits at the center as the figure who joins venture money, Catholic post-liberal thought, and online combat in one career. Around him move the donors and impresarios: Donald Trump Jr. (b. 1977), Omeed Malik and the Executive Branch club, Peter Thiel (b. 1967), David Sacks (b. 1972), Chamath Palihapitiya (b. 1976), and Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss (b. 1981). The intellectual wing runs from Michael Anton (b. 1969) through Curtis Yarvin (b. 1973), Sohrab Ahmari (b. 1985), Yoram Hazony, Christopher Rufo, and Patrick Deneen (b. 1964). The operational wing, the men who hold actual offices and write actual orders, includes Stephen Miller (b. 1985), Russ Vought (b. 1976), and Susie Wiles. Heritage, under Kevin Roberts, supplied the staffing blueprint through Project 2025, and Charlie Kirk and Turning Point feed the youth pipeline. The court’s atmosphere is masculine, fast, contemptuous of credential, and fluent in the grammar of social media. It does not want a seat at the old table. It wants the table.
The progressive-managerial class is the populist right’s mirror, and the two define each other. It runs on foundation money from George Soros (b. 1930), Reid Hoffman (b. 1967), Laurene Powell Jobs (b. 1963), Pierre Omidyar (b. 1967), and the Open Philanthropy and Dustin Moskovitz orbit, and it staffs the Center for American Progress, Brookings, New America, and a wide nonprofit archipelago. Its hero is the credentialed reformer who marries managerial skill to moral language. Pete Buttigieg (b. 1982) is the type’s purest specimen. Around him stand Neera Tanden (b. 1970), Jen Psaki (b. 1978), Ezra Klein (b. 1984), Anand Giridharadas (b. 1981), Kara Swisher (b. 1962), and Anne-Marie Slaughter (b. 1958). Its words are democracy protection, inclusion, resilience, equity, and disinformation. Its credentials are the Ivy degree, the foundation board, the fellowship, and the TED stage. Out of power in the executive, it has retreated into philanthropy, litigation, and the universities, where it remains dense and well funded.
The AI and defense-technology court has risen fastest and may already weigh more than any of the others. Its geography lies less in Georgetown than in McLean, Tysons Corner, Palo Alto, and Austin, and in the classified rooms scattered through Northern Virginia. Its firms, Palantir, Anduril, OpenAI, Anthropic, SpaceX, and Scale, now sit inside the national-security state rather than beside it. Its men present intelligence as a moral rank: Sam Altman (b. 1985), Dario Amodei (b. 1983), Alex Karp (b. 1967), Marc Andreessen (b. 1971), Ben Horowitz (b. 1966), Palmer Luckey (b. 1992), Eric Schmidt (b. 1955), and Mira Murati (b. 1988). Elon Musk (b. 1971) straddles this court and the populist right and answers to neither. The court treats artificial intelligence as the strategic ground of the century, which folds its commerce, its philosophy, and its lobbying into one project. It speaks of deterrence, compute, supply chains, and civilizational risk in the same breath, and it has learned to make senators feel slow.
The conservative legal movement is the most disciplined court in the city. Leonard Leo (b. 1965) anchors the donor system, the Federalist Society anchors the network, and the federal bench anchors the prize. Its members circulate through the elite law schools, the clerkships, the Catholic intellectual institutions, and the donor retreats, and they have moved from reforming the administrative state to dismantling it. Clarence Thomas (b. 1948) and Samuel Alito (b. 1950) supply the jurisprudence. Adrian Vermeule (b. 1968) and Patrick Deneen (b. 1964) supply the post-liberal theory. John Eastman (b. 1960), Harmeet Dhillon, Ed Whelan, and the litigators at America First Legal supply the combat, and they treat the injunction and the procedural challenge as instruments of permanent administrative war. Stephen Miller’s outfit feeds the same current.
The progressive legal world answers in kind. Marc Elias (b. 1969) built an election-law machine, Democracy Docket turned litigation into a continuous campaign, and the American Civil Liberties Union and a row of impact-litigation shops treat the courtroom as the front that survived the loss of the executive. Norm Eisen and the assorted accountability outfits belong here too. Both legal courts have abandoned the older fiction that judges merely interpret. They fight, and they say so.
K Street persists beneath all of it, indifferent to the wars above. Ballard Partners, Brownstein Hyatt Farber Schreck, BGR, Akin Gump, and the successors to Patton Boggs sell access and survive every transition. Brian Ballard’s proximity to the current administration made his firm the clearinghouse of the hour, much as other firms held that place under earlier rulers. The lobbyist’s hero is the operator who keeps his lines open through any turnover. He prizes stamina, discretion, and a calculated vagueness, and he wants operational continuity, not purity. He translates between courts that no longer speak to one another, and he profits exactly because they do not.
Several smaller courts deserve names. The crypto lobby, organized around Coinbase and Brian Armstrong and flush after a friendly turn in policy, now funds campaigns at a scale that buys deference in both parties. The foreign-policy restrainers at the Quincy Institute, and the libertarians at Cato and Niskanen, occupy a thin but articulate middle that both major coalitions ignore until they need a vote. The Never-Trump remnant at The Bulwark, Sarah Longwell and Charlie Sykes among them, holds an audience without holding any office. The new-media center of gravity sits outside the District entirely, with Joe Rogan (b. 1967), Tucker Carlson (b. 1969), Megyn Kelly (b. 1970), Ben Shapiro (b. 1984), Bari Weiss (b. 1984), Matt Taibbi (b. 1970), Glenn Greenwald (b. 1967), and the Saagar Enjeti and Krystal Ball axis, each commanding more direct reach than most editorial boards and most senators. A figure now rises by owning an audience rather than by climbing an institution, and Washington has reorganized itself around that change in the route to power.
The geography maps the courts. Kalorama and Georgetown keep the diplomats and the legacy press. Tysons Corner and McLean hold the defense-tech corridor and the intelligence veterans. Capitol Hill and Alexandria fill with nationalist staffers, podcasters, and the insurgent-right donor set. The Wharf and Navy Yard draw the younger progressive-managerial workers tied to the nonprofits and the agencies. Each quarter carries a separate moral air, and the men in one rarely dine with the men in another.
The single fact that organizes all of this is not polarization. It is multiplication. Washington no longer has an establishment. It has rival establishments, each certain it deserves to be the establishment, each arriving in power with its own staffing system, its own donors, its own legal theory, its own technologists, and its own moral vocabulary. A transition now looks less like an alternation than an occupation. The capital still governs the country. It no longer agrees on what governing means, or on who may say.

The fault lines do not run between the parties. They run inside each court and between courts that nominally share a flag. The bitterest fights of 2026 are family fights, and family fights are always the worst.
The Iran war split the populist coalition down the middle. On February 28, 2026, the United States joined Israel in major strikes on Iran, and Trump announced the start of major combat operations. Tucker Carlson condemned the joint attack as disgusting and evil and went further, branding the campaign Israel’s war and calling Trump a slave to Netanyahu’s ambitions. This is no longer a podcast disagreement. It is the central feud of the year, restrainer against hawk, and it has set Carlson, the America First isolationist wing, and a younger nationalist readership against the administration that they helped install. The hawks answer with the old vocabulary of deterrence and credibility, the men around the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, the Israel-aligned donor class, and the talk-radio enforcers led by Mark Levin (b. 1957). Vance sits in the worst seat in the house, bound by office to a war his own intellectual coalition treats as betrayal. The fight matters because it reruns the Iraq argument that defined an earlier generation, except now the antiwar voice comes from the right and carries an audience of millions. The restrainers think the hawks captured the president. The hawks think the restrainers flirt with treason. Neither side forgives.
The second great fracture splits the tech court from the nativist base, and it broke open over immigration. The H-1B quarrel of late 2024 set the Silicon Valley faction, Elon Musk, David Sacks, Vivek Ramaswamy, against the restrictionist core of the movement, Steve Bannon (b. 1953) and Laura Loomer foremost. The engineers want skilled foreign labor and global talent. The nativists want the border sealed and the wage floor raised, and they regard the founders as opportunists who bought a seat in a movement they do not believe in. Bannon has called the tech men a hostile occupation of the right. The feud never fully closed. It only went quiet, waiting for the next flashpoint, and the men on each side hold each other in contempt that no shared enemy quite erases.
The Trump and Musk rupture. The two broke in June 2025 over the spending bill Musk called an abomination, traded insults across Truth Social and X through the summer, and then made peace. By May 2026 Musk rode aboard Air Force One to Beijing, a sign that the pair had made amends. The reconciliation is real, but the episode taught both courts a lesson about how fast an alliance of convenience can detonate, and the scar tissue remains.
Now the legal court, where the bitterest feud carries the most consequence for the structure of the state. Trump has turned on the men who built his judiciary. He called Leonard Leo a sleazebag and blamed the Federalist Society for bad advice on judicial nominations, after a panel that included his own appointee struck down his tariffs. He accused Leo of bragging that he controls judges and even Supreme Court justices. The attack opened a rebellion. A MAGA legal faction led by Mike Davis and his Article III Project now pushes a loyalty test for judges, advancing nominees like Emil Bove, and treats the old Federalist Society network as a spent and disloyal establishment. The originalists who spent forty years building a bench answer that loyalty to a man is not law. Leo himself declined to fight back and praised Trump’s record on the courts, which only confirmed the insurgents’ charge that the old guard bends to keep its access. Beneath this runs a deeper theory war, the common-good constitutionalists around Adrian Vermeule and the post-liberals around Patrick Deneen against the proceduralist originalists who still believe the text restrains the ruler. One side wants the judiciary as a weapon. The other wants it as a wall. They no longer pretend to want the same thing.
The AI court has its own civil war, and it tracks a real division about danger. The accelerationists, Marc Andreessen and David Sacks among them, treat fear of artificial intelligence as a racket that regulators and rival firms use to slow the leader and capture the field. The safety faction, centered on Dario Amodei and Anthropic, argues that the technology carries civilizational risk and needs guardrails. Sacks, holding a White House technology portfolio, has attacked the safety camp as self-interested doom merchants seeking regulatory moats, and Amodei’s warnings draw open scorn from the men who want no brake at all. The firms fight commercially at the same time, OpenAI against Anthropic against Musk’s xAI against the cluster of defense-AI shops, so the philosophical quarrel and the market quarrel feed each other. The court that presents intelligence as moral rank cannot agree on whether its own creation is salvation or threat.
The Democratic side fights its own war of recrimination, quieter because it holds no executive power, no less bitter for that. The managerial-abundance liberals, Ezra Klein and Derek Thompson and their readers, blame the activist left and its language for the 2024 defeat and want the party to deliver housing, energy, and competence rather than slogans. The populist left, Bernie Sanders (b. 1941), Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and the insurgents drawn to figures like Zohran Mamdani, blame corporate capture and timidity and want confrontation. The party’s internal fights, including the ouster of David Hogg from a Democratic National Committee post, are skirmishes in this larger argument over who lost and why. The foundation donors who fund the managerial wing and the small-dollar base that funds the populists pull the party in opposite directions, and each faction privately thinks the other is the reason they lost.
The media war pits the new audience-owned operators against the legacy press they have hollowed out, and it turned strange when the Free Press and Bari Weiss moved inside CBS News through the Paramount deal, which set the old network journalists against a new editor they regard as an ideological import. And the Never-Trump remnant, The Bulwark and Sarah Longwell and Charlie Sykes, wages a war it cannot win against a movement that treats it as a museum of the defeated, made sharper by the death of Dick Cheney, whose late turn toward the Democrats and whose daughter Liz completed the expulsion of the old Republican establishment from the party it once ran.

The Iran war already leans toward the bad column. Iran shut the Strait of Hormuz, the national average for gas has reached $4.56, the highest in four years, and military analysts describe Iran as more resilient than anticipated, with the Hormuz closure disrupting world trade. A ceasefire mediated by Pakistan and a possible deal are in play, but nothing is settled. So the maps below are not symmetric bets. The downside is closer to the present than the upside.
If the war goes badly, prolonged, bloody, Hormuz still strangled, oil high, American casualties mounting, no clean victory, the restrainers win the future of the right. Tucker Carlson becomes a prophet. The man who called it Israel’s war and named Trump a slave to Netanyahu (b. 1949) gets to say he told them, and the America First antiwar wing inherits the movement’s energy. The old Iraq argument returns, except now the antiwar voice comes from the right and owns a mass audience. Thomas Massie (b. 1971) and the libertarian-leaning skeptics gain standing. The hawks lose everything they staked: the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, Mark Levin, Lindsey Graham (b. 1955), Ted Cruz (b. 1970), and the Israel-aligned donor class find themselves holding the bag that Wolfowitz and Perle held twenty years ago.
The national-security institutionalists and the Never-Trump remnant get a sour vindication. They can say reckless populism produced a quagmire, and the realists at the Quincy Institute and the libertarians at Cato gain a hearing they have lacked for years. They win the argument without winning power, which is the establishment’s familiar fate.
The progressive-managerial court wins the most in plain political terms. A failed war damages the administration before the 2026 midterms and hands Democrats an issue they did not have. The litigation wing gains real traction, because many experts argue the war is illegal under US law, a claim the administration rejects, and Marc Elias and the accountability lawyers turn that claim into a weapon. Trump himself loses, and the populist-right establishment in power loses with him. Vance loses if he stays tied to the war and survives only if he finds daylight, which the office makes hard.
The defense-tech court is the hedge that wins either way. A long war means more contracts, more drones, more targeting software, so Palantir, Anduril, and the AI-defense cluster, Alex Karp and Palmer Luckey foremost, profit even from a war that goes badly for everyone else. The only thing that hurts them is a public backlash severe enough to turn the country against the whole project, and that takes a deep and visible failure.
If the war ends successfully, a fast and decisive outcome, the nuclear program ended, Hormuz reopened, oil normalized, Khamenei already gone and no slide into occupation, the map flips. The hawks win total vindication. Levin, Graham, Cruz, the FDD, and the donor class who pushed the strikes get to say force worked where talk failed, and Netanyahu collects the credit abroad. Trump wins biggest. A foreign-policy triumph launders the legality question, drowns the antiwar critique, and might carry the populist-right establishment through the midterms on a victory rally. Vance wins by loyalty, having stayed in the boat that reached shore.
Carlson and the restrainers lose hardest in this scenario. The man who called it evil and called the president a slave watches the war end in success, and his prophecy becomes the thing his enemies quote back at him. The antiwar right goes quiet, at least for a season, and the Quincy and Cato skeptics lose the hearing a failure might have bought them. Democrats lose an issue. The illegality lawyers find their case moot, because victory pardons procedure in the public mind even when it should not.
The defense-tech court wins here too, and wins cleaner. A quick victory credited to American technology proves the thesis that engineering decides modern war. Palantir and Anduril become national champions, the founders move from contractors to statesmen, and the money and the prestige both rise. The institutionalists, by contrast, gain nothing from a clean win. A Trump-led victory shows the populists can wage and win a war without the old foreign-policy class, which might push Kissinger‘s heirs further toward the museum.

The Filtration Rooms: Washington’s Highest-Status Parties in 2026

The best parties in Washington no longer put the governing class on display. They sort it. A great party in the capital now does the work that the old civic spectacles pretended to do and never did. It decides who belongs inside a trusted network, who can hear a sensitive thing without repeating it, who stands close enough to money and power to be worth knowing, and who carries enough standing to cross between rival camps without setting off alarms. The guest list does the governing. Glamour is incidental.
A party counts now when the list is short and chosen, when several centers of power sit in one room at once, when nothing leaks to a phone in real time, when financial, political, technological, and media people overlap, and when the invitation itself reads as a stamp of legitimacy. The old society prized being seen. The new society prizes insulation, and the shift tells you most of what changed about the city.
At the top sits Executive Branch, the clubhouse of the Trump court. It opened in a Georgetown space in 2025 and bills itself as a club for the MAGA elite. Donald Trump Jr. owns it with Omeed Malik, with Chris Buskirk of 1789 Capital, a Vance ally, and with Alex and Zach Witkoff, the sons of Middle East envoy Steve Witkoff. Founding membership ran half a million dollars, and a later tier opens at a hundred fifty thousand with fifteen thousand in annual dues. The point of the price is the filter. The club bans phones and keeps reporters and unknown lobbyists out, a rule its founders state plainly. David Sacks (b. 1972) described the older Washington clubs as stuffy and Bush-era and pitched this one as the Trump-aligned answer.
What gives the room its weight is the concentration of regime-adjacent people inside it. At the opening, Nvidia’s Jensen Huang (b. 1963), the investor Keith Rabois (b. 1969), the Jets owner Woody Johnson (b. 1947), and Mehmet Oz (b. 1960) moved through alongside the crypto and AI czar David Sacks, Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick (b. 1961), Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent (b. 1962), Attorney General Pam Bondi (b. 1965), the health secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. (b. 1954), and Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem (b. 1971). Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss and Chamath Palihapitiya hold founding cards. The kitchen serves a menu approved by the administration’s health camp, beef tallow in place of seed oils, and former Navy SEALs run security; one guest called the night a Gilded Age experience. The club draws its prestige from a kind of chosen invisibility. The man who matters is the one who gets in, brings a guest, and keeps his mouth shut afterward.
Against this new court stands the old order’s surviving monarch, Tammy Haddad, whose White House Correspondents’ Garden Brunch remains the single most integrative event in the city. The 2026 brunch was the thirty-second, held at the Beall-Washington House in Georgetown on the Saturday of correspondents’ weekend. Haddad runs it with a steady ring of connectors, Kevin Sheekey, Mark and Sally Ein, David Urban, Franco Nuschese, and Jon Banner. These are not ideologues. They are brokers, and their value lies in staging controlled collisions among tribes that no longer dine together. The brunch survives because it still does what the factional rooms cannot. It mixes media owners, cabinet officials, billionaires, diplomats, generals, Hollywood faces, tech chiefs, lobbyists, reporters, and donors in one garden for two hours, and an invitation still signals arrival. This year a line formed around Governor Gavin Newsom (b. 1967) at the brunch, and Van Jones (b. 1968) and David Urban handed out the Garden Brunch award, the small rituals of a court that refuses to die.
The Georgetown and Kalorama dinner circuit is the purest survival of the old aristocracy. These gatherings happen inside historic homes owned by financiers, ambassadors, media chiefs, and donors, and the aesthetic runs anti-flashy on purpose: candlelit gardens, a private chef, inherited rooms, a curated cellar, low light, no cameras, a short list. What separates them from New York or Los Angeles is the worship of institutional power over celebrity. The guests are senators, intelligence veterans, Supreme Court litigators, NATO officials, Silicon Valley founders, think-tank presidents, and donors. David Ignatius (b. 1950), Fareed Zakaria (b. 1964), Robert Kagan (b. 1958), Anne Applebaum (b. 1964), Michèle Flournoy (b. 1960), and ambassadors from Gulf, European, and Indo-Pacific posts circulate through these rooms. The aim is strategic intimacy, the chance to test an alliance over wine before risking it in daylight.
Embassy parties hold their weight because diplomacy is one of the last neutral grounds where rival American camps still mix. The British, French, Australian, Irish, Swiss, and Gulf missions all host through correspondents’ weekend and across the year. Yet embassy culture has split. The European receptions keep the older cosmopolitan ideal of bipartisan coexistence. The Gulf receptions have turned into sovereign-wealth networking, where political access meets infrastructure money, AI financing, defense procurement, and energy strategy in the same handshake. In some of those rooms the most courted man is not an elected official at all but an investment manager who can move billions into a technology or defense partnership.
Correspondents’ weekend remains the social Super Bowl because it compresses every ecosystem into one stretch of geography for a few days, and the 2026 edition carried more charge than any in a decade. Trump attended the dinner for the first time as president after boycotting it through his earlier years, and the association replaced the comedian with the mentalist Oz Pearlman after dropping last year’s headliner under pressure from Trump allies. The satellite parties show how media and talent firms now manufacture the social reality they once merely covered. Puck threw a penthouse pre-party on the Hepburn rooftop, the Journal and ABC and the Washington Post held their receptions inside the Hilton, and Politico‘s event with CBS News featured Bari Weiss (b. 1984), the network’s new chief. Substack, Semafor, Puck, and Status staged their own rooms, UTA hosted the night before, CAA and Vanity Fair shared an evening, and MS NOW ran dueling afterparties with NBC News. Corporate money followed, with Boeing, Amazon, and Meta backing events. The strangest entrant captured the new overlap of capital culture with internet culture. Grindr, the dating app, threw a Georgetown party of its own, a hyper-mediated nightlife scene a long way from a candlelit Kalorama dinner, and the contrast itself maps the fracture of elite Washington into separate prestige languages.
Beneath the new court runs a more internationalized luxury layer. Ned’s Club opened steps from the White House earlier in the cycle, modeled on the Soho House idea, and it draws younger administration aides, tech-policy hands, founders, luxury-brand executives, and globally mobile financiers. Its look is polished and cosmopolitan rather than ideological, the merger of political power with hospitality branding.
The real hierarchy inside all these rooms is quiet. Fame counts for less than density of connection. A little-known donor with a line to sovereign capital outranks a cable celebrity. A Supreme Court clerk on the right trajectory draws more attention than an actor. Seating charts carry weight. Who arrives with whom carries weight. The status game is read by people fluent in a grammar outsiders never see.
The deepest change under the canapés is the collapse of ecumenical confidence. The older society assumed that rivals still belonged to one governing civilization and could be trusted to behave like it. That assumption is gone. Today’s parties sort people into fortified camps and reproduce trust inside them. The most in-demand room is no longer the largest or the most glamorous. It is the room where valuable people relax their guard, where talk stays off the record, where several kinds of power meet at once, and where a future alliance can be tried out without risk. Washington throws these parties to govern a ruling class that no longer trusts itself.

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The All In Podcast Social Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

The social set around All In is a Silicon Valley money class that has moved into politics. The core is four men: Chamath Palihapitiya (b. 1976), Jason Calacanis (b. 1970), David Sacks (b. 1972), and David Friedberg (b. 1980). Around them sits a wider orbit of venture capitalists, founders, and PayPal alumni, with Elon Musk (b. 1971) as the figure they orient toward most. Sacks served as Trump’s AI and crypto czar until he stepped down in March 2026, which pulled the whole set closer to state power than a tech podcast usually gets. The Summit, the poker games, the deal flow, and the X feeds form the rest of the world they move in.
What they value is building. A man who ships a product, raises a fund, takes the risk, and wins counts for everything. A man who only talks, regulates, or writes counts for little. They prize the founder, the operator, the early bet that paid. Wealth functions as the scoreboard, and they treat a big exit as proof that a man saw something real before others did. They value contrarian calls that turned out right, and they replay those calls often. They value the immigrant who arrived with nothing and built billions, because Chamath is that story and it flatters the whole table. They value speed, leverage, and the idea that the future belongs to whoever moves on it first.
Their hero is the builder who defies the gatekeepers. Musk sits at the top of this. He took rockets and cars and a social platform that no sober person would have backed, and he won, and he did it while the press and the agencies told him he would fail. That is the shape of the hero they admire: a man with capital and nerve who treats expert consensus as an obstacle rather than a guide. Below Musk they admire the founder who scales fast, the investor who got into SpaceX or Uber early, the operator who fixed a broken company. The villain in this scheme is the man who produces nothing and still claims authority: the journalist, the academic, the NGO head, the regulator, the legacy executive coasting on a name.
The status games run on a few currencies. Net worth and exits come first, though they rarely state a number out loud. Proximity to power now matters as much. Sacks going into the White House raised his standing inside the group, and the others measure themselves against that climb. Calling a market or a policy right and getting credit for it on a later episode is its own prize. So is the guest list at the Summit, the follower count on X, and the seat at the high-stakes poker table. Among the four of them the ribbing is constant, and the ribbing is a status game too: who got owned in the last argument, who was wrong about tariffs, who is performing for the camera. They police each other while presenting a united front against the outside world.
Their normative claims. Government should get out of the way. The institutions that ran the country for fifty years, the press, the universities, the bureaucracy, have failed and forfeited their authority. Merit should rule, and the men who built things have earned the right to be heard on everything else. Censorship is the central threat. America must win the AI race against China, and the people qualified to lead that race are the builders, not the safety class or the regulators. They hold that incentives explain most behavior and that a market tells you the truth faster than a panel of experts.
Underneath sits a set of essentialist claims. Some men are builders and some men are parasites, and the difference is real, not a matter of luck or position. Talent and drive exist, they cluster in certain men, and the market sorts men accordingly. The wealthy deserve their wealth because the wealth is a signal of value created. There is, in this view, a natural aristocracy of competence, and the rest of the order should defer to it.
Now the truth they tend not to say. The anti-elite posture comes from four very rich men who run a top podcast, advise presidents, and shape policy. They are the elite. The meritocracy claim conveniently certifies their own fortunes as earned rather than partly timed, inherited, or lucky. The “we are just builders telling the truth” framing is itself a status move, because it grants their opinions on tariffs, war, and medicine the same authority their company exits earned them, and those are different things. When their interests and their stated principles collide, on government contracts, on a friendly administration, on a deal that needs a regulator’s blessing, the principles bend. The hero system rewards the men sitting at the table.

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The Peter Thiel Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Peter Thiel (b. 1967) reads René Girard (1923-2015) as a young man at Stanford and never stops. Girard teaches him that human desire copies other desire, that crowds form by scapegoating, and that imitation drives men toward the same prizes and then toward mutual destruction. Thiel takes the lesson and inverts it into a competitive doctrine. Competition is for losers. The mimetic crowd chases the same things and grinds its returns to zero. The winner escapes the crowd, builds a monopoly, and stands alone. That single idea organizes the set around him.
The inner ring comes from PayPal and the Stanford Review. David Sacks (b. 1972), Keith Rabois (b. 1969), Ken Howery (b. 1975), Joe Lonsdale (b. 1982), and on the periphery Elon Musk (b. 1971). They met young, fought a media war in college over speech codes and diversity orthodoxy, then made a fortune together. Sacks and Thiel wrote The Diversity Myth, a 1998 polemic against the early-1990s campus regime. The book is a founding text for the set. It tells you what they oppose before it tells you what they want. The bond is loyalty forged in a shared enemy, and the set keeps recruiting the same way, by ideological combat that produces trust.
What they value first is escape. Escape from the average, from the consensus, from the median return, from the median opinion. They prize the contrarian who is right when everyone else is wrong. Thiel’s interview question, what important truth do very few people agree with you on, is the entry exam. The man who can answer it well has a soul they recognize. The man who cannot is a conformist, and conformity is the cardinal sin. They value founders over managers, builders over rentiers, the zero-to-one creator over the one-to-n copyist. They value technology as the engine of growth and read stagnation as a civilizational emergency. We were promised flying cars and got 140 characters. That line carries their grief and their program.
Their hero is the founder-king. Not the committee, not the institution, not the elected board, but the single visionary man who sees what others cannot and bends the world to it. They admire the figure who concentrates power and refuses to apologize for it. Thiel advised Mark Zuckerberg (b. 1984) to lock up control of Facebook. Founder control is doctrine, because the crowd dilutes vision and the founder protects it. The hero suffers persecution from the herd, the press, and the regulators, and his suffering confirms his election. Galileo before the Inquisition is the template. The set tells this story about itself constantly. We are the heretics. They want to silence us. History will vindicate us. Thiel’s secret funding of the lawsuit that destroyed Gawker fits the myth. The persecuted man strikes back and wins. That is the heroic arc they honor.
Status inside the set runs on a few currencies. The first is being early and right, the proven contrarian call cashed out in money or power. The second is founding something real, a company, a fund, a country charter, a movement. The third is producing the heterodox idea that travels. The fourth is proximity to Thiel himself, who functions as the kingmaker and the validator. He launched JD Vance (b. 1984) with money and introduction, backed Blake Masters (b. 1986), seeded a generation of founders through the Thiel Fellowship, which pays young men to drop out of college and build. Drop out of college is itself a status move against the credential. The fellowship says the degree is a tax on the talented and the real elite needs no permission slip. Mainstream prestige, the Harvard seat, the Times op-ed, the establishment award, earns you nothing here and may cost you. They invert the outside hierarchy. The credentialed insider is suspect. The exiled outsider with a hard idea ranks higher.
The set keeps intellectual outriders who supply theory. Curtis Yarvin (b. 1973), the neoreactionary writer, gives them the argument that democracy is a failed operating system and the country should be run like a startup under a CEO with real authority. Thiel wrote in 2009 that he no longer believes freedom and democracy are compatible, and the sentence still defines the edge of the set’s thinking. Balaji Srinivasan (b. 1980) supplies the network state, the idea that the future polity is a digital community that acquires territory, an exit from the nation rather than a reform of it. Exit over voice is the deep preference. When a system is captured, you do not vote to fix it, you leave and build a clean one. The seasteading dream, the charter city, the bunker in New Zealand, the Mars colony, all express the same instinct. The competent few withdraw from the decaying many and start again.
Now the normative claims. Stagnation is sin and growth is salvation, so the highest duty is to build and to remove whatever blocks building. Regulation, the administrative state, the risk-averse institution, the credentialing guild, these are the obstacles, and clearing them is righteous work. Greatness deserves freedom from the leveling crowd, so concentrated power in the right hands is good, not dangerous. They reject the egalitarian premise that outcomes should be flattened. They hold that a small number of exceptional men create almost everything of value and the rest mostly follow, so deference and resources should flow to the exceptional. Decline is real and the West is failing, so a recovery requires hard men willing to be hated. Comfort is a trap. Safety culture is decadence. The willingness to offend is a mark of seriousness.
The essentialist claims. Talent is rare, innate, and unevenly distributed, and you can spot it. Founders are a type, not a role, a kind of man with vision and will, and the type is mostly born not trained. The crowd is essentially mimetic, driven by copied desire and prone to scapegoating, which is why mass opinion deserves suspicion rather than respect. Institutions tend toward capture and sclerosis by their nature, so they cannot be trusted to reform and must be routed around. Markets and exit reveal truth while politics and voice obscure it. And there is a quasi-religious layer, strongest in Thiel, who reads the Antichrist and the Katechon, who frames technology and stagnation in apocalyptic and Christian terms, and who treats the present as a hinge where civilization either accelerates into greatness or slides into a managed, peaceful, mediocre death. Sacks and the more secular members carry the political and commercial version without the theology, but the shape holds. A few see the truth. The many resist it. The future belongs to the few who build and refuse to apologize.
The set preaches competition is for losers and monopoly is the prize, then preaches markets and exit as freedom, but a monopoly is the end of the market and concentrated founder power is the end of exit for everyone inside the company or the polity. The doctrine that frees the founder cancels the freedom of the followers. They resolve this by trusting the character of the right man, which is the oldest move in political theory and the least reliable. The Girardian who fears the scapegoating crowd has built a circle that scapegoats the conformist, the credentialed, the journalist, and the bureaucrat with real relish. The persecuted heretics now hold the Vice Presidency, the AI policy desk under David Sacks, and a billion dollars in Palantir contracts. Sacks serves as the White House AI and crypto czar, and Palantir has won large federal contracts, including a roughly one billion dollar Homeland Security agreement. The outsider myth survives the acquisition of insider power, because the myth was never about marginality. It was about a self-image of election that justifies whatever power the elect happen to hold.
Thiel is gay, married to Matt Danzeisen, who runs money inside Thiel’s operation. Keith Rabois is gay, married to Jacob Helberg (b. 1989), now Under Secretary of State, in a wedding Sam Altman (b. 1985) officiated. Around Thiel for years ran a coterie of beautiful young men, among them the model Jeff Thomas (1988-2023), who died in a fall in Miami. Vance swore Helberg in while Rabois stood beside him. So at the center and the near-center of a hard-right political formation you find a married gay founder-king and a married gay power couple holding real federal office.
This is a faction of the gay right that refuses the mainstream gay political identity. The dominant LGBT politics of the last forty years is egalitarian, therapeutic, group-based, and allied with the left. It asks for recognition, protection, and inclusion. The Thiel-set gay man rejects every part of that. He does not want to be a member of a protected class. He does not want his homosexuality to be his politics or his tribe. He treats it as a private fact about whom he loves and otherwise irrelevant to his standing, which he wants to earn as a builder, a contrarian, a founder. Helberg presents himself first as a China hawk and a patriot, the grandson of Holocaust survivors, a man of the new American century, and only incidentally as gay. He was raised in a Jewish home in Paris and frames belonging in national rather than identity terms. Rabois has spent years attacking the diversity regime that the gay left helped build. The Diversity Myth, written by two of the set’s founders, is partly an attack on the very identity politics that the mainstream gay movement runs on. So you get the spectacle of gay men funding and staffing a movement the gay establishment regards as the enemy.
This fits the hero system rather than straining against it. The set worships the exceptional individual who escapes the crowd, and the gay members live that story twice. Once as founders, once as men who refused the script their own demographic handed them. The contrarian who is right when his tribe is wrong is the highest type here, and the gay Thielite is contrarian against his tribe by definition. His sexuality, far from a liability, becomes proof of independence. He is nobody’s token. He owes the LGBT movement nothing and says so. That posture buys status inside the set, because the set prizes the man who walks away from the obvious coalition and bets on himself.
A homoerotic and homosocial charge sits inside founder-worship, the cult of the exceptional young man, the mentor and the protégé, the circle of brilliant males bound by loyalty and rivalry. Thiel funds young men, surrounds himself with them, elevates them, marries into the network. The Thiel Fellowship, the protégé chain from PayPal forward, the kingmaking of Vance and Masters, all of it has the shape of an older male erotics of mentorship and succession, the master and the gifted youth, whatever the sexual facts in any given case. Most of the protégés are straight. The pattern of devotion and elevation is homosocial regardless. The set venerates a certain kind of beautiful, brilliant, willful young man, and that veneration is part of its energy.
The gay Thielite holds that sexuality is private and apolitical, that it confers no group claim and no moral standing, and that the man who builds his identity around it has surrendered to the mimetic crowd he should despise. He holds that masculinity, hierarchy, and excellence are real and good, and that the therapeutic, victim-centered LGBT politics is a form of the leveling weakness the whole set opposes. He treats his own homosexuality the way the set treats everything, as raw material for an individual life rather than a ticket into a coalition. The essentialist claim underneath is the set’s master claim applied to himself. A few exceptional men see clearly and build, the many follow scripts, and being gay does not change which kind of man you are.
The set allies with a religious right that still regards homosexuality as sin and is working to roll back its public legitimacy, and the gay members serve that alliance while exempting themselves from its sexual morality. They resolve the strain the way they resolve the monopoly-versus-markets strain, by exception. The rule is for the crowd. The exceptional man writes his own. Helberg can serve an administration courting Christian-nationalist sentiment because he does not experience himself as a member of the class that politics targets. He is an individual, an exception, a builder. Whether the alliance returns the favor and keeps treating him as an exception is the open question.

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The Reid Hoffman Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Reid Hoffman (b. 1967) sits at the center of a particular tribe inside American wealth. It overlaps the old PayPal founding group, but it is the optimist wing, the half that did not follow Peter Thiel (b. 1967) and Elon_Musk (b. 1971) rightward. Around Hoffman you find Greylock partners, OpenAI and Microsoft board figures, Sam Altman (b. 1985) at the edge, Democratic donor-strategists like Dmitri Mehlhorn, and a wider float of founders, fund managers, conference hosts, and the kind of intellectual-for-hire who writes the book and gives the talk. They cluster at Davos, at Sun Valley, at private AI salons, at the donor retreats. The membership card is a seat in the room where the next thing gets decided.
What they value first is scale. The founder who takes a thing from nothing to a billion users is their saint, and Hoffman wrote the gospel for it. His books, Blitzscaling and The Start-Up of You, argue that speed and network growth beat caution, that the man who captures the network wins everything. The network is the deity here. Hoffman built LinkedIn, a machine for mapping who knows whom, and he lives the product. He is the connector, the man who introduces, who sits on the boards, who brokered the Microsoft and OpenAI deal that lit the current fire. His self-image is the hub. Status flows to the man more people need to reach than he needs to reach.
So the hero is the entrepreneur, and under that, the man who was early. The myth runs on the bet that paid: Hoffman in Facebook, in Airbnb. Being early is the proof of vision, and vision is the trait the tribe most admires in itself. Right now the early bet is AI, and the whole set has rotated toward it at once. Hoffman played a key role brokering the partnership that let OpenAI scale its computing, and Greylock has put money into the major labs. The man who saw it coming gets to narrate what it means.
There is a second hero alongside the founder, and it is the philosopher-investor. Hoffman took a philosophy degree at Oxford, and he markets the mind as much as the money. He talks game theory, talks Wittgenstein, frames investing as applied epistemology. The tribe rewards the man who can be rich and thoughtful at once, who can sit on a panel and sound like a don. This matters because raw money carries a faint shame in this world. Money laundered through ideas does not. The podcast, the Wharton course, the conference, the book with the clever title, these convert capital into the higher currency, which is to be taken seriously as a thinker.
The status games. Who returns your call. Whose round you got into. Which founder texts you back. The early stake that cashed out. The board seat at the company that matters this year. Proximity to the founders ranks above the founders themselves in some ways, because the broker touches many crowns and the king touches one. Hoffman’s particular game is to be indispensable to everyone and captured by no one. He keeps the bipartisan pose for this reason. He tells the crypto industry not to overcommit to one party, that staying bipartisan protects the ecosystem long term. The pose is partly belief and partly position. The man who can talk to both sides keeps more doors open, and open doors are the currency.
Now the normative claims. Technology, steered by the right hands, improves the human lot. Markets reward merit. Entrepreneurs create the value everyone else lives on, so they earn deference and a light regulatory touch. The successful owe a civic debt and must pay it by funding and shaping politics. Liberal democracy is good and must be defended, and Trump threatens it. AI will help rather than harm if guided well, and the guides are men like them. Hoffman argues AI could improve human life because it is infinitely patient. Each claim has a self in it. The tribe’s morality keeps arriving at the conclusion that the tribe should hold the wheel.
The civic-duty claim. Hoffman holds that people are morally obliged to take part in civic life, and Thiel calls it a character trait in him more than an ideology. The duty sounds like service. In practice it runs through checks. He has given $15.4 million to the Wisconsin Democratic Party alone since 2019, after a law lifted the cap, making him its largest donor. He gave at least $34.8 million in a recent cycle, among the top thirty donors in the country. The stated value is democratic participation. The method is the purchase of a state party by one man. The tribe does not see the tension, because inside the tribe the rich man with good intentions steering politics is participation, not its corruption.
The essentialist claims. The deepest belief is that founders are a kind, that most men cannot do what they do, that talent of the world-building sort is real and rare and unevenly given. The “0 to 1” man exists, and you either are one or you serve one. From this follows the belief that network position tracks merit, that the people in the room belong in the room, that the map of who-knows-whom is also a map of who deserves what. Intelligence is treated as the scarce and sovereign resource, the thing that explains success and licenses authority. Hoffman’s whole brand, the philosopher who builds, rests on the claim that a certain cast of mind sees what others miss and should therefore lead.
The set preaches openness, inclusion, and dialogue while running closed networks that decide outcomes among a few hundred men. It funds startups for civil discourse while buying parties wholesale. It defends democracy by oligarchic means and feels no contradiction, because the founder-essentialism quietly tells it that some men should count for more. The bipartisan talk coexists with heavy partisan giving.
Against the rightward PayPal men, the Hoffman tribe tells a softer story about itself. Thiel and Musk say the strong should rule and say it plainly. Hoffman’s set says the gifted should serve and steer, which is the same arrangement wearing better manners. The fight between the two halves looks like a fight over politics. It is closer to a fight over which virtue the founder gets to claim, dominance or stewardship, while both halves agree on the prior thing, that the founder is the man who matters most.

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The Anti-Bureaucrat: MacKenzie Scott and the Reinvention of Elite Giving

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

MacKenzie Scott (b. 1970) built a decentralized model of elite wealth redistribution marked by speed, institutional minimalism, unrestricted grants, and a willingness to surrender control over capital once it left her hands. This model broke from the centralized foundation, the managerial bureaucracy, and the ideological project that defined earlier billionaire giving. It also broke from the technocratic confidence that came to dominate mega-philanthropy after the rise of Silicon Valley venture capital and the Gates Foundation template.
She was born MacKenzie Scott Tuttle in San Francisco in 1970. She grew up inside the financialized professional culture that took shape in California during the closing decades of the Cold War. Her father worked as a financial planner, which placed her childhood within the managerial economy that displaced older industrial structures after the 1970s. She attended Princeton University and studied under Toni Morrison (1931-2019), who later named her among the finest students she had taught and praised her intellectual discipline and literary seriousness. This formation matters for what came later. Most technology billionaires emerge from engineering, finance, or computational systems. Scott emerged from fiction, narrative psychology, and moral ambiguity, and the difference shows in her public language, which avoids the engineering optimism of Silicon Valley solutionism and instead emphasizes contingency, interdependence, luck, and historical inequality.
After Princeton she worked briefly in finance and then joined the hedge fund D. E. Shaw in New York, where she met Jeff Bezos (b. 1964). They married in 1993, on the eve of the rise of platform capitalism and digitally integrated global commerce. The couple moved to Seattle in 1994 during the founding of Amazon. In Amazon’s earliest years Scott reportedly handled operational work while Bezos pursued expansion and platform strategy. As the company grew into one of the most powerful corporations in the world, she withdrew from corporate visibility and turned toward writing and family.
Her literary career was serious rather than decorative. She published The Testing of Luther Albright in 2005 and Traps in 2013. Both novels turn on emotional restraint, interpersonal tension, psychological fragmentation, and moral uncertainty. These same themes later surface in her philanthropic posture, which rejects triumphalist accounts of wealth and entrepreneurial superiority.
The 2019 divorce from Bezos ranks among the largest wealth transfers in modern history. Scott received roughly four percent of Amazon stock and became one of the richest women in the world overnight. She did not build a conventional philanthropic dynasty around personal branding, institutional bureaucracy, conference celebrity, or ideological self-promotion. She built something different.
Soon after the divorce she signed the Giving Pledge and committed to give away most of her fortune within her lifetime. Many billionaires make such promises while their assets keep compounding under centralized control. Scott began moving enormous sums into nonprofit organizations almost at once. By the mid-2020s she had distributed more than nineteen billion dollars to over two thousand organizations. The scale was remarkable. The method mattered more.
She rejected the operational norms that came to govern modern philanthropy after the 1990s. Her grants were generally unrestricted. Organizations often received little advance notice. Application procedures were minimal or absent. Reporting requirements stayed light. Recipients frequently learned of an award only after quiet evaluations conducted through independent research networks and consultants. Large foundations had moved toward metrics-heavy oversight, strategic deliverables, consultant frameworks, branding exercises, measurable outputs, and donor-directed agendas. Scott discarded much of that architecture. Her philosophy rested on a simple but radical premise: organizations embedded in their communities understand their own needs better than distant billionaire bureaucracies.
The effects ran through the whole nonprofit sector. Unrestricted grants strengthened balance sheets, increased organizational independence, expanded long-term planning, improved staff retention, and reduced dependence on the endless cycle of grant writing. Executives described the gifts as transformative because they came without a thicket of donor conditions. The method also reflected a wider shift inside elite liberalism after the financial crisis of 2008 and the racial unrest of the 2010s. Confidence in centralized expertise weakened even within progressive institutional culture, and Scott’s giving mirrored that shift by trusting local judgment over central planning.
Her targets revealed a clear moral and sociological orientation. She directed large sums toward historically underfunded institutions: Historically Black Colleges and Universities, tribal colleges, immigrant-assistance groups, food-security networks, public-health programs, rural nonprofits, women’s organizations, libraries, local social services, and community development. Unlike many activist donors, she rarely led with ideological rhetoric. Her statements stayed sparse and modest by billionaire standards. She avoided the role of public intellectual or policy celebrity that Bill Gates (b. 1955) and Elon Musk (b. 1971) embraced. She rarely gave interviews, avoided social-media spectacle, and minimized conference appearances. Her giving amounted to an anti-celebrity redistribution model. She wielded great structural influence while reducing personal theater.
Beneath the apparent simplicity sat a sophisticated financial and operational architecture. Scott did not build a traditional mega-foundation with headquarters, trustees, large staffs, and internal bureaucracies. She relied on donor-advised funds, consulting networks, and outsourced vetting. Traditional foundations operate under annual payout rules, public disclosure requirements, governance boards, and staffing systems. Donor-advised funds gave Scott flexibility and anonymity while she outsourced evaluation to consulting organizations such as the Bridgespan Group. The result was a philanthropic counter-bureaucracy. She did not abolish institutional infrastructure. She redistributed it into modular external systems. Bridgespan handled vetting. Donor-advised funds handled capital management and tax structure. Independent research teams identified recipients. The machine could move billions within months, and this minimalism became one of the defining innovations of post-2010 philanthropy.
Over time she formalized parts of this apparatus through Yield Giving. The name carried a moral duality, since to yield means both to surrender control and to generate returns. The institution marked an evolution. Scott had relied on quiet research networks and largely invisible selection. In 2023 she launched an open-call initiative managed through Lever for Change, which let organizations outside her original scouting circles apply for funding. The initiative gave six hundred forty million dollars to three hundred sixty-one organizations in early 2024, more than doubling the planned allocation. The shift showed that her decentralized philosophy could institutionalize itself in part without reverting to traditional bureaucracy.
Her giving also exposed tensions inside modern nonprofit capitalism. The grants often repaired what researchers call the nonprofit starvation cycle, the structural condition in which organizations stay perpetually underfunded because donors refuse to support infrastructure, reserves, executive salaries, or long-term stability. Large unrestricted grants let hundreds of organizations build reserves, stabilize staffing, raise compensation, and plan ahead for the first time. Yet abundance created new pressures. Many recipients ran on annual budgets below one million dollars. A sudden infusion of five or ten million brought operational strain alongside relief. Organizations faced rapid-scaling pressure, governance challenges, hiring complications, and questions about sustainability. The funding cliff drew particular concern, since the gifts were usually one-time infusions rather than renewable commitments. Some leaders worried that other donors would assume their problems had been solved for good, which might lead to donor displacement and future instability. Even decentralized generosity can reshape an institutional ecosystem in destabilizing ways through the sheer scale of concentrated wealth.
Another paradox grew out of the anti-branding philosophy. Because she resisted a visible centralized foundation, Yield Giving became a searchable public grants database, and the effort to reduce personal visibility produced one of the more influential prestige-signaling systems in the sector. Organizations in the database had passed rigorous quiet vetting by elite consultants. Inclusion became a certification signal. Other donors and foundations treated Scott-funded groups as pre-vetted and worthy of secondary investment. While trying to decentralize donor authority, she created a reputational index that guides future capital flows. The lesson runs deep. Anti-bureaucratic philanthropy still generates gatekeeping. Scott did not abolish elite filtering. She changed its form, trading centralized foundation bureaucracy for distributed prestige networks built on consultants, databases, donor imitation, and reputational signaling.
She also became a figure within the constellation of independent female mega-philanthropists created by the fragmentation of technology fortunes. Alongside Melinda French Gates (b. 1964) and Laurene Powell Jobs (b. 1963), she helped form an alternative power center operating partly outside the male-dominated venture-capital and foundation worlds. Her position within the triad was distinct. French Gates concentrated on gender governance, caregiving, reproductive rights, and political advocacy. Powell Jobs focused on media, immigration, climate governance, education reform, and elite narrative institutions. Scott specialized in redistribution itself. Her central intervention was procedural rather than ideological. She changed not only what philanthropy funds but how its capital moves through civil society.
Her fortune remains inseparable from the platform capitalism that produced many of the inequalities her giving tries to ease. Amazon reshaped labor markets, logistics, surveillance infrastructure, urban economies, retail, and global wealth concentration. Her philanthropy therefore lives in permanent tension with the economic order that created it. This contradiction sits at the center of modern elite philanthropy, where billionaire donors try to relieve the instability generated by the same technological and financial systems that made them rich. Her rhetoric differs from earlier industrial and technological elites in one respect. She rarely frames wealth as proof of personal merit. Her public language returns again and again to luck, social dependency, historical contingency, and obligation, which gives her giving a penitential tone largely absent from the triumphalist stories of Silicon Valley.
History may remember her less for any single policy agenda than for changing the operational culture of philanthropy. She showed that elite redistribution could happen fast, quietly, with fewer bureaucratic layers, and with far greater trust in recipient institutions. She marks the transition from managerial philanthropy toward decentralized redistribution. Her career also illuminates a larger transformation in American elite society after the rise of platform capitalism, in which new forms of private wealth deployment shape universities, nonprofits, local governance, racial-equity efforts, and civil society outside traditional democratic structures. Her philanthropy is at once a critique of concentrated wealth and one of its purest products. That tension defines her place in the record.

The Set

Her set is the post-Amazon donor class that sits at the meeting point of three older worlds: the literary humanities of the elite university, the professionalized nonprofit and foundation sector, and the fragmenting fortunes of platform capitalism. These people went to Princeton and Stanford and Harvard. They read fiction and took seriously the moral weight of narrative. They moved through D. E. Shaw and Amazon and the Gates Foundation and Emerson Collective. They sit on the Giving Pledge mailing list. They hire Bridgespan and they fund through Lever for Change. They are coastal, educated, secular or lightly observant, and they hold a settled liberal politics that turned skeptical of its own technocracy after 2008 and again after 2014.
What they value first is restraint. They prize the absence of vulgarity, the refusal of the trophy, the quiet voice. They value moral seriousness over cleverness and contingency over merit. They tell themselves and each other that fortune is luck, that success rests on inheritance and structure and timing, and that the honest rich man knows this. They value trust placed in people closer to the ground than themselves. They value taste, and taste for them means knowing when not to appear, when not to brand, when not to speak. Privacy is itself a good. The literary formation matters here, because it teaches that the interesting truth is the ambiguous one and that the confident solution is usually a lie.
The hero system follows. To count as a worthy life in this set, a person must give, and must give in a particular way. The hero is the donor who surrenders control. The vulgar rich man builds a monument with his name on it, demands metrics and quarterly reports, and treats the gift as a lever over the recipient. The hero hands over the money and walks away. He trusts. He takes no seat on the board. He attaches no conditions. Heroism runs through self-effacement, and the proof of virtue is the renunciation of the very power the gift could buy. Scott offers the cleanest version of this ideal, which is why the set holds her up. She gives at enormous scale, she takes almost nothing back, and she does not perform. The penitential note in her language, the constant return to luck and obligation, is the hero system speaking. The good billionaire atones. The bad billionaire boasts.
In a world where money is abundant and visibility is cheap, the scarce thing becomes credible restraint, and restraint turns into the prize currency. The donor competes not on how loudly he gives but on how quietly, not on how much he controls but on how much he lets go. Conspicuous modesty becomes the move. Not appearing on the stage at Davos reads as higher status than appearing on it. The unrestricted grant with no reporting requirement signals both wealth and security and taste, since only the truly secure can afford to stop counting. Inside this game Scott wins by playing least, and her victory pressures the rest of the set to imitate the form even when they cannot match the scale. The database she built to avoid branding became a ranking anyway. To be vetted by her people and named on her list became a certification, and other donors now treat her recipients as pre-approved. So the anti-status posture generated its own status ladder, and the people who claimed to have left the game built a new one with subtler rules.
Their normative claims. They hold that communities understand their own needs better than distant funders, and that the funder who overrides local judgment does harm even when he means well. They hold that control corrupts the gift, that metrics and deliverables and strategic frameworks are forms of distrust dressed up as rigor, and that the honest response to that distrust is to stop. They hold that great wealth carries an obligation to move and not to sit, that the Pledge made in public should be kept fast rather than deferred while the assets compound. They hold that historically starved institutions, the Black colleges and the tribal colleges and the rural nonprofits, have a claim on this money that earlier philanthropy ignored, and that paying that claim is justice rather than charity. And they hold that the confident reformer with a theory of change is more dangerous than the humble funder who admits he does not know.
The essentialist claims. The set treats grassroots and community organizations as authentic by nature, as carrying a real knowledge that the foundation bureaucracy lacks by nature. The local is true and the central is artificial. It treats the wealthy as lucky rather than deserving, which makes merit itself a kind of illusion and recasts the fortune as an accident the holder is morally bound to redistribute. It treats the historically marginalized institution as possessing a worth that funding can restore rather than create, so the gift becomes recognition of something already real instead of an investment in something speculative. And it treats moral character as legible through manner, so the quiet donor is taken to be the good one and the loud donor the suspect one. That last belief is the softest and the most questionable, since manner can be cultivated and humility can be a costume, but the set holds it firmly because it lets them read virtue off of style.
Two honest cracks run through all of this. First, the renunciation of control is partial. The money still flows according to choices that elite consultants and research networks make in private, so the claim to have surrendered judgment is overstated. Power moved from the boardroom to the vetting firm, and it stayed elite. Second, the essentialism about community knowledge sometimes collides with the funding cliff and the scaling strain, where local groups blessed with sudden millions struggle precisely because closeness to the ground does not by itself confer the capacity to absorb large capital. The set does not like to dwell on either crack, because both touch the place where the hero system meets its limit.

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The Steve Ballmer Social Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Steve Ballmer (b. 1956) sits at the center of a set where people broadcast their values. The set is the operator wing of American wealth. These are men who ran or built large enterprises, who measure themselves by scale and execution, and who have turned in late life toward data-driven philanthropy and trophy ownership. Ballmer’s nearest neighbors in temperament are the post-Microsoft establishment of the Pacific Northwest, the club of NBA owners now valued in the billions, and the civic-data and high-impact giving world that treats charity as a portfolio. He is not the founder-visionary type. He came to Microsoft as employee thirty, the salesman to Bill Gates (b. 1955) and Paul Allen (1953-2018), and he made his fortune by running the engine rather than designing it. That origin shapes everything about the man and the men he resembles. He worships effort, volume, and results he can count.
What they value, first, is measurement. Ballmer’s purest self-expression is USAFacts, which presents the federal government as a 10-K, a set of numbers you can audit. The site now tracks roughly ten trillion dollars in spending and he funds it to the tune of a hundred million. The belief underneath the project is that disagreement comes from missing the facts, and that facts, once assembled, settle the argument. They value scale. A life counts if it touches millions, whether through software, through giving, or through a basketball arena that seats eighteen thousand and measures how loud each fan screams down to the individual seat. They value energy and the appearance of unfiltered enthusiasm. Ballmer built his persona on sweat and shouting, the developers chant, the courtside roar. In a class of polished, lawyered, PR-managed billionaires, raw exuberance reads as honesty, and honesty buys standing. They value family stability and a kind of selective frugality. Ballmer drives a Ford to honor his father, who managed for Ford in Detroit. He stays married to Connie (b. 1962), avoids scandal, and frames his restraint as character rather than performance.
The hero builds something enormous and then converts the proceeds into rigorous, evidence-led repair of broken systems. The good man does not merely give. He gives at scale, with metrics, with a theory of change, with measured outcomes. The Ballmer Group pours hundreds of millions a year into economic mobility for poor children in Detroit, Los Angeles County, and Washington. The framing is always the same. We will fix the pipe from childhood to a better job, and we will know whether it worked. Heroism here is effectiveness. The villain is sentimentality, the soft giver who funds his own feelings rather than results. The shameful death is to leave nothing measurable behind. The honored death is to leave a foundation that runs on dashboards after you are gone. Sports ownership fits the same hero script in a second key. The Clippers were a laughingstock and a disgrace under Donald Sterling (b. 1934), and Ballmer bought them for two billion in 2014 after the racism scandal, then built the two-billion-dollar Intuit Dome in Inglewood. The story he tells is redemption through ownership and investment. He took a broken thing and ran it right.
Status comes from the wealth ranking, and Ballmer now sits among the ten or so richest men alive, somewhere between a hundred eighteen and a hundred fifty billion depending on the index and the day, the largest individual Microsoft holder, richer than Gates for stretches since 2024. That number is a scoreboard and these men read scoreboards. Status comes from the size and rigor of the giving, so the men compete on how much they pledged and how serious their method looks. Status comes from being taken for a numbers man rather than a vibes man, because in this world the worst thing to be is unserious. Status comes from sports ownership, the rare trophy that also buys civic belonging and a seat at a tiny table. And status comes, oddly, from authenticity capital, the credit Ballmer earns by seeming to lack the usual billionaire polish. The screaming and the Ford and the commercial flights, real or curated, all signal that he is one of us, which among men this rich is a costly and valuable signal.
Now their normative claims. Facts ought to govern policy, and partisanship is a failure of seriousness. The responsible posture is above the fray, nonpartisan, evidence-led. The rich ought to give back, and they ought to give the way a competent executive runs a business, with rigor and accountability rather than vanity. Government ought to be transparent and run like an enterprise answerable to its shareholders, who are the citizens. Opportunity for poor children is the moral imperative, and effort and merit ought to be rewarded because the men who say this rose, in their own telling, on effort and merit. There is a strong egalitarian surface here, real concern for mobility, sitting on top of a deep meritocratic faith that the cream rose and deserved to.
Their essentialist claims. They believe the world is quantifiable, that if you measure a thing correctly you have understood it. They believe problems are engineering problems with solutions, including poverty, including government, including a basketball franchise. They believe human institutions are systems describable by inputs and outputs, which is why a federal budget and a software business and a foundation all submit to the same treatment. The bedrock belief is the sufficiency of data, that beneath political fights there is a neutral factual floor, and that the floor is solid and self-interpreting. The choice of what to count, how to define it, and how to frame it is contestable all the way down, and no quantity of data resolves a dispute about what matters. A nonpartisan fact site rests on a partisan-looking premise, that the important questions are settled once the numbers arrive, when often the numbers are the least settled part. Ballmer and his set treat their faith in measurement as the absence of a worldview. It is a worldview, a confident metaphysics that mistakes itself for neutrality, and it serves the men who hold it by placing their judgments above the contest while other people’s judgments stay inside it.

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The Warren Buffett Social Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Warren Buffett (b. 1930) runs a world that prizes one thing above all: being right slowly. The set around him, the Omaha circle, the value-investing faithful, the shareholders who fly in each May, treats patience as the highest virtue and impatience as the original sin. They hold. They wait. They compound. A man who sells in a panic has failed a character test, not a market test.
The center of this world sat for decades in Buffett and Charlie Munger (1924-2023) at a folding table on a stage in Omaha, taking questions for hours, eating peanut brittle, drinking Coke, talking in maxims. Munger died, and the room felt it. Buffett gave up the CEO title on the first of January 2026 and handed it to Greg Abel (b. 1962), though he stays on as chairman. The 2026 meeting drew a thinner crowd, the arena half full, the old jokes gone. The faithful noticed. The annual meeting works as their high holy day, and the high priest had stepped back from the pulpit.
What they value reads like a moral code dressed as an investment style. Live below your means. Buffett still lives in the house he bought in 1958. He eats at Dairy Queen and drinks Cherry Coke and talks about it, and the talking matters as much as the eating, because the frugality signals that wealth has not corrupted him. The man who could own anything owns a modest house and an old car, and that restraint becomes proof of soundness. They value clarity over cleverness. They distrust anything they cannot explain in plain words. Buffett built a whole rhetoric on this, the “circle of competence,” the idea that a man should buy only what he understands and leave the rest alone. They value honesty as a business asset, not a luxury. Reputation compounds like capital, and a man can lose in a minute what he built over a lifetime. That line gets repeated like scripture.
Their hero is the rational long-term owner who keeps his head while others lose theirs. The hero buys when the crowd sells. He sits on cash and feels no shame, waiting years for the right pitch, because the count never runs out and there are no called strikes. He treats a stock as a piece of a business, not a ticker. He ignores the noise, the forecasts, the macro chatter, the men on television shouting. He reads. He thinks. He waits. The villain in this story is the speculator, the trader, the financial engineer, the man who makes money from motion rather than ownership. Wall Street, in this telling, sells activity to people who would do better doing nothing. The hero earns his fortune by owning good companies forever and letting time do the work. Immortality, in this world, comes through the compounding itself, through the record, through the letters that men will read in fifty years, through the businesses that outlast their builder. Buffett wrote his own monument in those annual letters, and the faithful quote them the way other men quote Marcus Aurelius.
In most rich circles, spending signals rank. Here, not spending signals rank. The man who flies coach, or used to, who keeps the old house, who refuses the trappings, stands above the man who buys the jet and the art. Status comes from proximity to Buffett, from the lunch auction, from being mentioned in a letter, from having held Berkshire shares since the seventies and never sold. Tenure as a shareholder works like seniority in a guild. The longtime holder who bought at a few hundred dollars and rode it for decades carries more honor than the hedge-fund man who made more money faster, because the slow money came from faith and the fast money came from trading, and trading is suspect. Among the inner set, the currency runs on track record and temperament. A man earns respect by having been right and patient, by having said no to bad deals, by having admitted his mistakes in print. Buffett confesses errors in the letters, and the confession raises his standing rather than lowering it, because owning a mistake proves you have the temperament to learn.
The philanthropic wing has its own ranking. The Giving Pledge, which Buffett built with Bill Gates (b. 1955), turned giving away the fortune into the final and highest move. The hero does not pass the money to his children. He gives it back. Buffett said his children should have enough to do anything but not enough to do nothing, and that line became doctrine in the set. To die rich, in this code, looks like a failure of character. The great wealth was a stewardship, not a possession, and handing it off to foundations completes the arc.
Now the normative claims. A man should think for himself and ignore the crowd. A man should stay inside his competence and feel no shame about what he does not understand. A man should hold for the long term and treat trading as a vice. A man should keep his word, guard his name, and run his business as if a smart journalist were watching. Buffett tells his managers to act so that they could explain any decision to their families on the front page of the paper. A man should live simply no matter how much he has. A man should give the money back rather than dynast it down through generations. These read as financial rules, but they function as a theory of how a good man should live. The investing and the ethics fuse. To buy and hold is to be steady, loyal, and self-controlled. To trade and speculate is to be greedy, fearful, and weak. The portfolio becomes a report card on the soul.
The essentialist claims. The deepest one holds that character is fixed, visible, and decisive. Buffett says he hires for integrity, intelligence, and energy, and that without the first the other two will hurt you. He claims he can read a man, that he knows within minutes whether he wants to do business with him, that some people simply have the right temperament and others never will. Temperament, in this faith, beats intellect, and temperament cannot be taught. You either have the stomach to buy in a crash or you do not. You either feel envy and fear or you have been built without much of either, as Buffett seems to have been. This is a claim about human nature, that men come pre-sorted into the sound and the unsound, and that the market sorts them again over time.
A second essentialist claim attaches to businesses themselves. Good companies have a “moat,” a durable edge that protects them by their nature, and the investor’s job is to recognize the moat and pay a fair price for it. The moat is treated as a real and lasting property of the business, not a temporary condition. Some firms are simply built to endure and throw off cash, and others are not, and no amount of management genius can save a fundamentally bad business. Buffett says that when a manager with a reputation for brilliance takes on a business with a reputation for bad economics, the reputation of the business survives. The economics are essential. The man is not.
A third runs through the whole worldview: that the market, given enough time, reveals true value, that price and worth diverge in the short run and converge in the long run, that reality eventually asserts itself over fashion and noise. This is close to a faith claim. It holds that there is a real, knowable value beneath the daily price, that patience and analysis can find it, and that the patient man gets rewarded because the world is, in the end, rational. The speculator bets on what other men will think. The investor bets on what a thing is worth. The set believes the second man wins, and that his winning proves the world has a sound floor under it.

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The Michael Bloomberg Social Set

Posted on May 25, 2026 by Luke Ford

Michael Bloomberg (b. 1942) sits at the center of a world that runs on competence and money, in that order, though the money makes the competence visible. The set is global, but its capital is Manhattan. Its members come from finance, data, media, public health, the big foundations, and the upper reaches of the Democratic and old moderate-Republican worlds. They went to good schools. Many built rather than inherited. They wear this lightly.
What they value first is results. A problem stated, measured, and solved. They distrust passion that does not move a number. They like the man who can run a thing, a city, a company, a disease-eradication campaign, and show you the chart afterward. Scale impresses them more than originality. A clever idea that helps a hundred people interests them less than a dull idea that helps ten million.
Their hero is the operator. The builder who makes a fortune and then turns it on the public problems that governments fumble. He is calm, numerate, and a little impatient. He does not shout. He fixes. The model is the man himself: a trading-terminal company, three terms running New York, then billions aimed at smoking, guns, coal plants, and obesity. The honored figure measures, intervenes, measures again. The villain in this picture is the demagogue who feels loud and accomplishes nothing, and just behind him, the trust-fund heir who never built a thing.
Flash is for people who have not arrived. The flex is the subway ride, the plain suit, the small apartment kept alongside the large one. Real standing shows in access and in giving. Who sits at the principal’s table. Who gets the call returned. Whose name goes on the building, the school, the wing, the initiative. How many zeroes on the pledge, and to which cause, since causes carry their own rank. Climate and public health sit high. The gala, the Aspen panel, the Davos breakfast, these are the courts where rank gets confirmed. Holding office is optional. The prize is influence, to be the man other powerful men listen to.
The normative claims. Competence should govern. The serious should outrank the loud. Expertise and data ought to override the appetites of the crowd, including the crowd’s appetite for cheap sugar, cheap tobacco, and easy guns. The state may shape private behavior toward better ends, and the men who measure those ends best should hold the levers. Wealth, in this view, earns the right to steer the commons, so long as it gives back. Philanthropy becomes governance, and a cleaner one than elections, because it answers to outcomes rather than to voters.
Underneath sits the essentialist belief. Some men are more capable. The world sorts into the serious and the unserious, and the sorting is real, visible, and roughly permanent. Merit exists. They have it. The trader who built the terminal and the surgeon who runs the hospital share a kind, and that kind belongs at the controls. Failure, on this account, tends to mean a failure of seriousness in the one who failed. The poor health, the bad policy, the lost city, all trace back to people who would not, or could not, do the work the way the capable do it.
It is a generous creed and a flattering one. It funds real hospitals, real research, real cuts in smoking deaths. It also lets a small number of rich men believe their fortune proves their fitness to decide how the rest should live.

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