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!
Scathing indictment of the American Farcetocracy, old man.
ReplyDeleteHolla!
Beautiful writing; like a description from a John Cheever novel, only meaner.
ReplyDeleteProtestant girls, sometimes even aging preppy matriarchs, in these circumstances, even funerals, are best for carnal knowledge. Any Jewess found on premises also will sometimes do. Usually sufficient demon rum is required.
ReplyDeleteRoman Catholic girls usually have too much guilt about such basic instincts. In addition, never dismiss ugly women out of hand.
Throw Fairfield County under the bus or what....
ReplyDeleteSpent some time in darien and Wilton in psot-college days and recognoze all of these types.
Fortunately, this breed was not as prevalent on the Main Line of my youth.
That was marvellous, I felt as if I was flicking through a pop up book of American stereotypes.
ReplyDeleteAdmiral, if you think American girls in New England are bad (oh, and they are), never venture even so far south as Maryland. Shambling monsters composed entirely of fat as far as the eye can see.
ReplyDeleteEn ce monde de present
ReplyDeleteJe ne voy que tromperie,
Car barat (ruse) et tricheries
Y sont logiés bien avant.
Interestingly enough, I wore a tweed jacket today and decided against a shetland sweater. I recently had a conversation about a Yale man colliding with a Hah-vahd fellow The Big Game.
ReplyDeleteStill laughing my ass off about this and the outrage you occasionally engender.
If they got HALF the references in your posts or on your list of sites, they'd run you out of town on a rail, old sport.
Si vales, valeo.
Old Sport, you have to consider the facts that: you were invited, and; you went.
ReplyDeleteAlcoholic bullshitters; takes one to know one.
ReplyDeleteStay in LB next time or fuck off if it's allll soooo offensive. That's right, you can't. You need us.
ReplyDeleteThis may be the funniest "trad" thing ever put up on blogspot.
ReplyDeleteAC,
ReplyDeleteThe post is, well...quite vivid and in a odd way erotic. I felt like a voyeur as I read.
And the Comments...oh my!
I'll add this: In my part of the world steam vents from my ears when the Christmas cards come with a picture of, for instance, Missy and Trey, the college kids, along with parents Muff and BJ. Solidly decked out in brands and colors we all know well, all with large red plastic Dixie Cups in hand, full of demon rum. They are posed pre-game in the Grove, smiling and vibing out "don't you wish you were me"... No, I say as I add the card to the tacky picture fridge. I'd rather be Keith Richards.
Keep it up, AC. I enjoy your posts.
Best to all,
LD
aluckydoglife.blogspot.com
Sir, as some of these comments evince another aspect of American society is to Disneyfy the truth into something corn syrupy and plastic colored, and if that's too challenging (if tunnel vision and celluloid lenses aren't enough) to simply stick one's head in the sand. I'm relived to see other comments demonstrate the brave and steadfast sagacity that the country was founded on endures. Long may you continue to have the freedom of speech to continue discomforting the obsequious and tongue-tied masses.
ReplyDeleteThat's better.
ReplyDeleteFatfriend.
1. Judging by the "(1)", I hope this to be an installation bit.
ReplyDelete2. The term "douche-bag" is so unbecoming of a man of worth.
3. You had me at "jellyfish features".
Good sir,
ReplyDeleteYou undeniably write well. I cannot argue with your description; I wasn't invited. I would add a sidebar that first, arguing over latest QB at any Ivy is like discussing a Volvo; sure there is a small clique that loves them, but they are not, nor ever will be, a Ferrari, or in your case a Jaguar.
Second, the finer nuances in the term douchbag are endless and always funny, and finally, who's snobishness finally won, theirs or yours?
Whichever it is, and whatever I think of your tale, it was well worth reading.
Such and underrated and eloquent term: "douchebag".
ReplyDeleteIs it making a come back?
No other language can capture its essence.
Enjoyed the post entirely.