Barbarians at the Watergate

THIS PLACE

Washington society adjusts to a new breed: the fast-moving, different-thinking, so very dot-com riche

In a blaze of lights at the MCI Center Arena, the nouveau Madison Square Garden of Washington, D.C., basketball superstar Michael Jordan made his announcement. He was acquiring an ownership stake in the Washington Wizards and would serve as the team's president of basketball operations.

The news, widely anticipated because of leaks prior to Jordan's January 19 appearance, played well in the capital. Neighbors couldn't stop talking about it. Pundits had a field day. It was the knell that signaled an end to the district's darkest days. There was a new Washington now, with a new, can-do mayor, Anthony Williams. The city's financial crisis was over. Real estate was rebounding. And now Michael Jordan, with that perennial movie-star grin, had arrived. Only one way to go, everyone seemed to be saying -- up -- a direction particularly well suited to His Airness (and the loss-ridden Wizards, too).

It hasn't been that long since D.C. -- besides being the seat of the most powerful government in the free world -- was a ranking murder capital with a standing mayor who was an international embarrassment. The city government was so mismanaged that stories of payroll checks being issued to dead or nonexistent employees were daily fodder for the Washington Post. "We've taken such a bruising in the past 10 years," says John Tydings, president of the Greater Washington Board of Trade, sort of a chamber of commerce for the Beltway. Now, though, the new mayor, the city's comeback, and Michael Jordan -- hell, even the Washington Redskins' finally making the NFL playoffs -- were like manna from heaven.

But Jordan's entrance was eye-popping in another, more significant way. The deal that brought him to town was done without any help from the usual suspects -- the cabinet officials, career politicians, lobbyists, media stars, Georgetown Brahmins, society hostesses, policy heads, real estate barons, and well-connected lawyers who have made the town what it is for decades, if not centuries. No, the people who landed Jordan were outsiders, like Wizards part-owner Ted Leonsis, who helped build a local company called America Online Inc. into, arguably, the first dot-com Goliath.

These new big-city players did the Jordan deal in their off-hours with play money, much of it from tech fortunes. They made a huge splash for guys who five years before hadn't even been on the radar screen, let alone on society-party lists. But this is a new day, and not only in Washington. Now politicians are no longer the role models they used to be, especially when compared with the strike-it-rich business stars. On March 9 the Wall Street Journal likened the new era to the turn of the last century, when industrialists with names like Carnegie and Rockefeller led the first entrepreneurial revolution. "It was an era when the economy -- with wildcat prosperity, businessmen as media superstars -- was shifting like tectonic plates; an era when Wall Street, not the White House, drove events," the Journal reported.

The first big wake-up call for Olde Washington had come only a week before the Jordan deal went down. That's when America Online -- a once unknown speck of a company dabbling in that Internet thing from offices in the distant suburbs -- announced it was buying Time Warner Inc. for upwards of $166 billion. The establishment movers and shakers were caught off guard by the hordes of tech millionaires making waves in "our city."

"They don't know who these people are. They don't know anything about them. They don't even know enough to be suspicious," says Sally Quinn, the Georgetown high-society hostess who offers a window on the elite and also helps shape its outlook through her writings in the pages of the Post. "The first moment anyone ever thought about it was the AOL thing, and they said, 'Oh, my God! That's what they do over there."

None of those people were bred in Georgetown. Nor did they attend St. Albans, the elite private school in northwest Washington. Most don't even have degrees from Yale or Harvard. Worse, they couldn't care less about the society way of life. They trade neither on their social connections nor on their pedigree but rather on their business exploits, which might include a flaming dot-com failure (it seems to give them credibility, of all things) as easily as a stunning success. Instead of considering social standing in the good old-fashioned meaning of the term, they measure one another by the growth curve of their companies, the size of their paper fortunes, and the global impact of their businesses.

Washington, to put it politely, has always been defined by power and access -- who's got it, who wants it, who lost it. Money has never been a part of the equation; certainly not in the way it is in, say, New York. But now money is a force to be reckoned with, big-time, and it's here to stay. Politics has always supplied Washington with a new crop of movers and shakers, who tended to assimilate into the standing social fabric, refreshing their own ranks with each election. But this new group of tech-fortune youngsters isn't leaving with the next election. "The way I view it, this is the biggest thing to happen to this city since Washington was made the capital of the nation," says Quinn, who notes that the recent arrivals are infusing much-needed new blood into a town where the old money kind of "dried up." And she enthusiastically welcomes the transfusion. "It's going to have a big impact in every way," she predicts.

Washington used to be quaint, run by a stable circle of friends. Not anymore.

To understand how all that is playing out, you need to look at the people who made the Jordan deal happen. The aforementioned Ted Leonsis, now president of AOL Interactive Properties Group and worth an estimated $1 billion, came up with the idea. Originally, he'd been a marketing guy with a company of his own, whose operations were folded into AOL when the larger company bought him out, in 1994. The then-unproven online service paid $45 million, mostly in stock, for Leonsis's CD-ROM catalog company. That brought Leonsis on board for practically the whole AOL ride, all the way from obscurity to megagiant. Now he's using the resources he gained to have some real fun.