In the opposite corner Star Jones was being filmed, her face dancing a jig of a thousand expressions, each one seeming more grotesque than the one before it.

"Donald, Donald," called out a man on the far side of the velvet rope. Donald approached warily. The man extended his hand. His face was a marshland of splotchy red, and looked like it had been lifted no more than an hour ago. Instead of eyebrows, he had two smears of white cream. "It's me, Abe Wallach!"

Wallach was Trump's head of acquisitions for more than ten years before retiring. "Abe?" Trump said, incredulously, "I don't recognize you! You look 25 years younger." Trump turned to the security guy: "Let him in." The security man said," Sorry, Mr. Trump, but he needs a wristband." Trump turned to face the guard, his eyes somehow narrowing further. "You know who I am, don't you?" he hissed. "I do, sir. But he still needs a wristband." Trump unhooked the rope from its stand and in went Abe. Trump continued to insist, somewhat tactlessly, how he could not recognize Wallach. "Ha, that's what retirement will do," said Wallach, laughing uneasily.

When we finally got a hold of Trump he was hot and annoyed. "''Scuse me, Mr. Trump. Let's talk about a woman we both know well. Do you feel any sense of victory now that Rosie is out of The View?" He assessed for a split second before saying, "I don't want to talk about Rosie. She's a sleazebag, what more is there to say? I'm not going to talk about it."

Sensing our Trumpian moment was passing, we asked, "Ok, let's talk about ponies." "No," he said, moving on, "you're done." His newest wife, Melania, shot us a sympathetic look as she trailed her husband. We shot her one straight back, since she was the one that had to let him bed her routinely.

We never got to ask him about how he freaked out at that golf tournament last weekend—we hear he was partnered with some teenager, and near the end of the match, thinks went south and Trump stomped off and got in his car and just left. But now we'll never know for sure!

In the big tent for the poorer, the plastic surgery was a lot worse than even Mr. Wallach's. On the other hand, the crowd was pleasingly rowdy. In the far end, two "rocker dudes" were standing around. One had a choker on. They told us they were in the band Rammstein; obviously we didn't believe them. So we gave them a hard time. Who would pose as a German industrial band? Later it turned out they actually were in Rammstein! Oops, our bad.

As the Polo match wound down, Rocco DiSpirito could be seen wandering around dispirited and lonely. The ponies were being loaded back into their trailers; who would load Rocco into his trailer? The plastic faces and breasts of the polo goers sagged in the heat. Only Donald Trump, his hair an island of placidity, seemed unfazed. He took the mic and began to speak. Through the loudspeakers and echoing across the now empty field, the voice of Trump echoed, "Trump, trump, trump, trump, trump."

The big tent was reserved for the rich-and-yet-common guests. It felt like a State Fair or Comicon. Some people had had a lot of work done to their faces.

It became pretty apparent early on that though these people were technically rich; in the world of the Hamptons, they were nobodies. They were arrivistes, up and comers, down and outers, cads and, by 5 p.m., completely wasted. The Evian had run out earlier in the day, leaving only alcohol to quench the thirst. (Except in the VIP tent, where the Evian flowed like the Euphrates.) Pink- and blue-striped shirts became stained with beer and sweat. Ladies began to shake unsteadily atop their high heels and wedges. White skin, made red by the beating sun, jiggled and conversation became animated to the point of grotesque mimicry.

When the chukkers were over (no one watched, no one cared) the assembled company trekked through the field back to their luxury vehicles. Drunkenly compliant, they sat in their queued cars for the hour-long wait to get to the next party (sponsored by St. Regis at the W House), not noticing the glistening hides of the horses trotting nearby, the susurrus of the trees rustling in the wind nor the smell of fresh cut hay and wildflowers.

Covering these events, or spending time with these people at all if one isn't of that manor born, one is morally discombobulated. It's like looking at a shifting Seurat or a Magic Eye you just don't quite get. Up close, the rich and very rich range from nice to very nice. They've great people skills, look you in the eye, are well-kept, smell nice, and swell conversationalists. What's not to like?

Zoom out a few meters and their pastel getups, chauffeured Crown Vics, UES apartments, Netti-residencies are clearly horrid and deservedly mockable. Fine, but then, there amongst the green pastures and free-flowing champagne, one pauses to note that these plasticine dauphins and dauphines have gathered to raise what must be tens of thousands of dollars for charity. And so you like them again and are willing to forgive their small idiosyncrasies, like referring to their cleaning lady as "my Mexican," or, for that matter, the ghoulish amounts of money spent enlarging their bosoms or the silicon-abetted takeover their lips are performing over their face. But then you realize the whole reason you're in Connecticut, waiting in line at a bank of port-a-potties, full of little chicken salad sandwiches, feeling ill and that the reason, or one of the main reasons, that all these rich folk are around you, jostling to get into the same bank of port-a-potties of you, is that the way wealth works is that the more the haves have, the have nots don't. That is to say, insidiousness of the problem is systemic. Then you feel even more scorn and disgust. But ultimately, you don't really care. You just really need to pee.