Letter from the Founder

o I’m having dinner with a friend of mine and he tells me that he’s going to be a father again, and that his son is going to be born in May. Which is cool. Except that he’s 64 years old. Though he’s not just any 64-year-old. Until two years ago he was running multiple marathons in those crazy barefoot shoes, and he still bangs out 40km a week like he’s standing on his head. And at the end of the evening I was left feeling inspired. As some of you know, this year I’ll hit my douchebags. Which I don’t think they will be because, first, I’m not that well off that I could ever afford a school like that, to allow them the privilege of rubbing elbows with the prepubescent denizens of the . Though even if I were I would never send them there. Because it would fuck up their perspective on life and ruin them as human beings forever. I have to say that, with rare exceptions, the majority of people I know who come from families with crazy wealth are miserable. It’s like, they go and do something stupid like buy a big-ass yacht and then they’re paranoid about people only wanting to hang with them because they’re stupid-rich and have a big-ass yacht. Which is like, “Dude. Why the hell did you buy that big-ass yacht to begin with?” Incidentally, this is not a swipe at the producers of big-ass yachts, many of whom we work with at this magazine. But you get what I mean. Also, I draw a big distinction between inherited and earned wealth. But anyway…