I don’t do holidays. I mean, I despise and avoid them to the extent I can. Holidays are to moi as honesty is to politicians. Do you understand? Part of the reason is historical. My waking hours are still aggravated on seasonal basis by memories of Christmas social gatherings that even at this late hour I labour to suppress. If that is the case—and it is—bring on more whisky.
LBF: Ah, here we go. We need more ice. Thank you, Ruggles.
Ruggles: Not at all, sir.
Okay then. Shall we continue?
Christmas in Greenwich. It is cold and snowing. December evenings at large houses with circular driveways on North Street and Lake Avenue (convenient for squash at Field Club). Neo-Classical columns and Christmas wreaths. A shaggy-haired boy from Brunswick takes your keys and parks your Benz on the far lawn. Standing outside the front door is an off-duty Greenwich cop, a big shaven-headed Italian guy from Chickahominy, hired as security for the night.
Inside, lugubrious Wall Street dullards, Ivy League assholes, exuding puffiness in Tweed jacket, Shetland sweater, and khakis, discussing college football and the latest QB at Yale. Your reaction? Big fucking deal. Delicate Ben Silver tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles steamed from the heat. Furtive alcoholics in weekend tartan from Orvis. Latest gossip? Balding prep caught banging Asian chick against bathroom wall at One Chase Manhattan Plaza. Like so many American males they remain forever boyish; in behaviour and outlook as well as anatomical feature, stunted.
Now let’s turn our attention to the girls. All-American Bitches raised on Daddy’s money and birthday trips to Paris and Turks & Caicos. Bloated Greenwich princesses with jellyfish features slivering with glee over their latest boyfriend and the Christmas sales in New York. “We’re taking the train in tomorrow and hitting the sales!” Episcopalian from Greenwich Academy, devout but plain, rebellious slut with daddy issues, dating ugly black from Brooklyn. Thick, round-faced blonde in big sweater, capris, and Birkenstocks studying ecology at University of Montana after freshman year at Trinity.
But I’m getting carried away with myself. I haven’t even mentioned the young All-American Douchebags, of the kind only a blend of American pop culture and higher education can produce, muttering annoyingly boastful quarter-truths about academic performance and career prospects.
Nor have I discussed in detail the ageing preppy matriarchs, whose passions are channeled into dogs, crafts, and Christianity of the low church Protestant variety. Don’t even get me started on these fine ladies. Can I get an amen? Hallelujah, bitchez!