Have you ever wondered if other people consider you riffraff?
I’m not talking about the rapper who goes by that name (actually, he spells it as two words, Riff Raff). What I mean is, do others think you are part of a “group of people regarded as disreputable and worthless … the lowest class”?
The riffraff question came up because of an email I received from the publicist for a dating service. Here’s the pitch: “There’s OkCupid.com for the masses, Farmersdatingsite.com for country folk and Tinder for the hook-up crowd. And, now, there’s an app for the wealthy — MillionaireMatch Pro.”
In fact, the dating business is one of the fastest-growing US industries. Of the 54 million single people here, 41 million have tried online dating. Revenue for the industry was estimated at $2.1 billion in 2014.
But the field is already pretty crowded, with some 3,900 companies running dating sites, according to research firm IBISWorld. That makes it tough for any new player.
The MillionaireMatch app is more pricey; it has, after all, a “No Riff Raff Policy.” (The app spells it as two words, as the rapper does, but the policy has nothing to do with him.)
“Members have to specify their annual income and we remove dozens of profiles every day of the week,” its publicist wrote.
Several things came to mind before I started “research” for this column. The first was Groucho Marx, who famously said, “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.”
Groucho apparently reveled in his riffraff-ism, as I do on most occasions, especially if it gets me out of wearing a suit. Would I want to be a member of MillionaireMatch.com even if it would let me in?
And then there was a comment I once heard a stand-up comic make: “I recently joined a charitable organization. It’s called Match.com. The goal is to feed hungry women.”
Ouch! Imagine what an easy mark I’d become if those hungry women thought I was rich. They’d probably order surf and turf — and an extra entrée to go.
But the lure was intense when I read more of the press release: “The luxury dating site encourages members to upload photos of their luxuries: arts and culture, autos, aviation, boats, electronics, food and spirits, home decor, jewelry, leisure and real estate.”
And then there were the endorsements from people who are said to use the site. “There’s nothing like driving up the Pacific Coast Highway in my Ferrari en route to wine country for a long weekend of relaxation,” said one guy, who I hope wasn’t texting that message while steering that fine machine.
And another: “I have a summer home in Cape Cod and it’s so much sweeter when I have someone to share it with me. Check it out.”
Hell, I have a house near the Jersey Shore. It happens to be the only house I own, but it’s a nice house. And I have a car.
Art? I did buy a couple of prints from a guy standing outside Madison Square Garden the other day. But they were three for $10, so I don’t think that counts. And I was recently on the PCH, as Californians call that highway. But I was in a discount tour bus, so that probably doesn’t count either.
But if I sold my house and was willing to live in a box for the rest of my life, I guess I would be considered a millionaire. Besides, if the women on MillionaireMatch were rich, I wouldn’t need my house — I’d move in with one of them.
OK, so I decided to join. But my first attempt failed, probably because I used my New York Post email address and asked to be matched with a woman worth $100 million or more.
I know, that was ambitious. So I brought down my expectations. Next, I applied under my personal email address and asked for women with only $10 million. Enough to keep us comfortable, but — you know — not greedy.
First mistake: MillionaireMatch apparently doesn’t think it is funny if you post a picture of yourself as a 5-year-old. And where it asked for videos, it probably wasn’t a good idea to write: “I have adorable videos of me as a kid. I’ll bring them along on our first date.”
So I posted a real picture of what I look like today. My profile, under the heading “I’m sick and tired of meeting riffraff,” got through.
And even if I have to say so myself, my pitch was probably as honest as anyone on MillionaireMatch has ever read: “First things first, what are your assets?” I wrote.
There were also height requirements. I’m 5-foot-9½ if the wind is blowing straight up.
“Anyone who is my height or taller will need to scrunch down whenever we are together. If she agrees to that, taller is OK too. (My darling’s answer to ‘what are your assets?’ might change my feelings about height.)”
You are probably wondering how I did. Twenty women and one guy have checked out my profile so far. Three winked at me, the online equivalent of saying, “Hey, sailor!” Another requested a photo. (It’s already there.)
I couldn’t learn very much about my would-be MillionaireMatches because — like all of these sites — it requires you to give your credit card before it allows access to that info level. And because its targeted clientele is rich, MillionaireMatch is more expensive than most. So I didn’t carry the gag that far.
I figure Groucho wouldn’t pay. So neither would I.