Snuffle. Snuffle. Snuffle. The little black nose is cold and wet on my arm. “Gracie, stop that!” media writer Michael Wolff scolds the small, spastic spaniel wriggling next to me on the sofa. Gracie tumbles to the floor, but Trixie the cat soon takes her place and delivers an exploratory head butt. “No. No. No. Come on,” says an embarrassed Wolff, leaning out of his high-backed red chair and waving an arm.

Wolff and I are seated in the living room of his comfy Upper East Side home. The sixth-floor co-op is bright and airy, with buttercream walls, multiple built-ins, and proudly hung rows of black-and-white photos that Wolff has taken of his three kids. Every few minutes, our chat is interrupted by phones ringing, pets prowling, or family members popping in to introduce themselves and see how we’re getting along. (Famously, thank you.) Slouched low in his seat, wearing a dark gray t-shirt, gray cotton pants, and black sneakers, the 50-year-old Wolff has an air of casual domesticity that fits perfectly into this low-key, family circus scene. But, having heard so much about the columnist’s calculating nature--especially his meticulous, leave-nothing-to-chance P.R. skills--I start to feel like the picture is a little too perfect, the casualness too studied. Wolff clearly wants me to see what a charming, regular-guy dad he is, even as he explains what it’s like to be one of the most powerful, most talked about, and most hated figures in New York media.

It’s difficult for non-New Yorkers to fully grasp the Michael Wolff phenomenon. In the most literal terms, Wolff, from 1998 until he decamped for Vanity Fair this winter, wrote the weekly “This Media Life” column for New York magazine, spinning out stylish, pointed observations on everything from Viacom’s power struggles to Rupert Murdoch’s love life. From the start, Wolff was adamant about being neither a media reporter (working the phones isn’t really his style) nor a media critic (“that dour schoolmarm figure”). Instead, he put himself at the center of the story, giving readers a first-person glimpse of the inner workings of the media biz as it happened to, and all around, him. Uninterested in the working press, Wolff’s special focus (fixation, even) has always been on the power players--the moguls--most of whom he has relentlessly and repeatedly skewered, scraping away the sheen of power and money to reveal the warts, flab, and psychic scars plaguing that rarefied breed of (in Wolff’s view) super-wealthy narcissists who buy, run, and ruin media companies for the gratification of their insatiable egos.

But to describe what Wolff does hardly explains what he is. With his wicked rants, Wolff swiftly emerged as the It Boy of New York media. His quick wit, dizzying writing style, and willingness to say absolutely anything about anybody made his column a must-read. Plus, he was writing (gossiping, really) about the New York media’s favorite subject--the New York media--in a catty, caustic way that no one else dared. (Snarky critiques of his subjects’ grooming habits are a Wolff perennial.) Love him or hate him (and many of his colleagues truly despise him), Wolff could not be ignored. And, as the columns sparked ever more buzz, the columnist became nearly ubiquitous: speaking at conferences, hosting conferences, holding forth on American media in the foreign press (the Euros absolutely adore his cheekiness), schmoozing at all the best parties, and grabbing as much airtime as possible on the chat shows. In 2002, Wolff won a National Magazine Award for commentary, followed by a second nomination in 2003 and then a second win in 2004. Meanwhile, his coverage of the media elite was elevating him to the level of bona fide big dog. (Page Six gossiped about him! Mort Zuckerman returned his calls!) Around New York, this status was best manifested by Wolff’s securing his own table--number five--at Michael’s, the Midtown eatery where everyone who’s anyone in media goes to be seen having lunch. A coveted piece of real estate, table five signaled Wolff’s professional dominance far more than any award.

As New York’s marquee name, Wolff was free to write about whatever he wanted. As Wolff defines it, media is an all-encompassing “superstructure,” a refracting lens through which to examine all aspects of American culture. Increasingly over the past couple of years, he has focused this lens on national politics. In early 2003, Wolff traveled to Qatar for a brief stint as war correspondent. (There, he produced a series of columns that won him his second National Magazine Award.) As the presidential race got underway, he frequently held forth on the Democratic primaries. And, all along, the Bush administration has been a favorite whipping boy. Now, in his posh new post at Vanity Fair, Wolff plans to continue this political musing. His July piece for the magazine looked at the media elite’s response to Abu Ghraib. For August, he wrote a profile of Democratic uber-adviser Bob Shrum. And, in light of Editor Graydon Carter’s antipathy toward the current administration, if George W. Bush wins reelection, Wolff will certainly be encouraged to spend the next four years making the president’s life as unpleasant as possible.