Filthy Rich...

So what can I talk about now? Ugh, running out of ideas here. All I’m doing now is looking at this screen, listening to Skynard’s Ballard of Curtis Lowe and being stared at by a German Shepherd.

I’m dressed in Polartec pants and a ratty looking plaid shirt (I won’t get rid of it, I like it!). My hair is a wild mess and I.don’t.care. The bills are paid, the bank account is nicely stuffed and I have no real pressing issues to attend to today.

God, if were a millionaire, I’d be worse. There’s a scene near the end of There Will Be Blood where Daniel Day Lewis is lying, passed out in a hallway of his mansion, with a half eaten steak on a plate and a bottle of vodka by his head. Olympic style sloth! I might be able to one up him on that if I had that ridiculous freedom the super rich have, to be able to ignore even those most basic social norms like going out in public looking like you’ve been dipped in Crisco oil.

I once worked briefly at a hoity toity country club where I could witness the rich. The entrance fee was $40,000 and yearly dues about $10,000. Not only did you need that but being a WASP was a help. Membership was by invite ONLY. Being an eye-talin cathylick just won’t do.

There was a group of women members there, in their late 50’s, who spent the day drinking martinis and vogue-ing their way throughout the place. All of them dressed like the Queen Mother and probably didn’t shower in days. Their hair was unkempt and their skin had that oily sheen. What’s funny, that look was aped by the other older women who didn’t have access to that particular clique just yet.

The men? One I swore was a SS Waffen type. This guy was Aryan Poster Boy and when he found out I used to work in social services, he could barely hide his disgust. The other guys either were perfectly dressed or looked like the caddys.

You know, it’s probably good I don’t own 51% of Pfizer’s stock. I’d be so immoral and crooked it would take three lawyers to screw me into my clothing each day. That kind of freedom would allow me to do anything I wanted…and I’d probably do it. Then I’d get bored and try to find something even more outlandish to try out. I’d be an adrenalin junkie.

*****

I once dated a rich cougar way out of my range. To give you an idea of her assets, her parents owned a large oil delivery business and were kind enough to buy each of their three kids a house of their own.

I met her at a club in Providence one night and after the usual phone chat we made a date. She gave me the directions to her home in Scituate and when I pulled up I realized I was way out of my league. She met me at the door with a glass of white wine in her hand, dressed in Nieman Marcus and gave me the quick tour of her country estate home. Know what I was thinking as I saw all these assets tastefully displayed? I thought, “Oh god, she wants me to be her Kept Boy.” I was feeling like this date was going to suck real quick, real fast.

Well, that night turned into a summer and autumn. Things went better than I thought that first day when I saw her in her home.


She had that air of “protection” enveloping her. The protection that family money can bring. No matter how badly she behaved, not that she did, there was always Daddy to pluck her out of it. Well, when you do have that cocoon, what do you know of daily threats when you’re just middle class? You are going to be spoiled by that comfy lifestyle.

Ok, that’s it…I will work on this more or not.

You Can Get Anything You Want...

When I awake, the first thing I do in the morning is get the dog out side to do his thing. If I’m not fast enough, he’ll find the “good” carpet and do it on that. I’ll stand there in the backyard, still very drowsy, swaying somewhat on my feet as my balance hasn’t returned yet. For me, doing any task two minutes after waking up is pathetic. I have terrible coordination, but that’s another story.


For several mornings I’ve been noticing the grey skies, the leaves piling up on the ground and that enveloping silence as the song birds have fled south. I stood there a few days ago, looking around and whispered to myself, ”November…a perfect November.”

 To tell the truth, I like November.

 November meant this to me growing up. Tan and gray looking woods, the first stinging cold nights and Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in our family was a small affair as our family was small to begin with. Also, there was this weird Edwardian air to our family and that holiday. We weren’t boisterous nor garrulous. We seemed almost “proper” when we sat at the table. Then again, the tablecloths came out and the good plates were used. Nothing was told to us kids to shut up and be on our best manners. It was expected.

As you grow and move from just the experience of your family to others, you can be wide eyed at how different others are. I can remember a Thanksgiving while around an Italian family. They seemed to be SHOUTING all the time and had relatives in the thousands stuffed into a small house. These people are nuts I can remember thinking.

Other Thanksgivings showed me how some families had NO problem rekindling a family feud over some grievance that occurred fifth-teen years ago. I once saw one where the brothers started whomping one another and then spilling out into the driveway to continue it. The only injuries they sustained was from falling down hard onto the concrete and not from any fists.

A few Thanksgivings had me drunker than a monkey, eating too much and then collapsing on the couch or even the floor to sleep it all off. But that was back then when I could drink warm, straight Popov vodka. It helps to be a teen with a liver that works very, very well.

One ceremony I make sure to do is find on the radio, Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant Massacree. That’s how you finish out Thanksgiving and cap off a November.