A tongue-in-cheek consideration of the class politics at play at a well-heeled Southern California equestrian ranch, the article contrasts the caste system of the riders with the precarious ruralism of the setting.

Every now and then, even I will allow that not all rich people outside of the late Joan Kroc are the problem of evil. Most, but not all. That ratio is also true of the wealthy patrons of Rancho El Camino. There is the one woman, with her beautiful silver Arab and her beautiful silver 500-series Mercedes that has a license frame boasting “I’m Not Spoiled – My Husband Just Loves Me.” Someone told me that this woman is a successful real estate agent, so her declaration of trophy wife status is all the more puzzling though no less offensive. Then there is Marisa, a novice rider with a $40,000 Hanoverian. Mainly she seems to cruise around the grounds in a customized BMW golf cart, though to what purpose no one seems to know. Marisa unintentionally enlightened me as to the existence of the subcategory of trophy ex-wife, as her former husband is buying her a $3 million home in Rancho Santa Fe. In the meantime, Marisa is living with her mother, and evidently Grandmaman doesn’t permit slumber parties. Thus Marisa is renting a suite at the luxurious L’Auberge of Del Mar so that her young daughter and friends may giggle until all hours in their pajamas and order room-service popcorn. Word has it that Marisa said of the devoted if somewhat daffy woman who takes care of her fancy steed, gratis, for her, “She’s very lucky to be even around such an expensive horse.” The daffy equinophile is named Stacey, and she voted for Bush. Go figure.

These trophy wives, ex-wives and trophy offspring contrast sharply with the real horse people at the barn as well as with the delightfully democratic horses. The real horse people scrimp to pay for feed, board, vet and farrier; they muck out their own corrals, drive Hondas and Mustangs and pickup trucks sturdy enough to pull a trailer; they wear Lee or Wrangler jeans and sport ponytails and braids rather than salon cuts and blonde highlights. In fact, most of the trophy wives are brassy blondes – I don’t think I’ve seen so many since the Clinton impeachment loosed a veritable fleet of towheaded, miniskirted, right-wing bimbos upon the cable news networks to opine about the president’s duplicitous blowjob.