The Coming-Out Party was originated by the Sinoway Indians. Young Indian maidens of the tribe were stripped naked, smeared with buffalo grease, and required to dance before the young bucks of the tribe while the bucks beat their tom toms. In order to come-out, a pre-squaw needed a large escort, and could not hold a coming-out party without a lot of bucks.
Over the centuries the coming out party has evolved into a charming and graceful affair in which debutantes get to drink champagne, eat caviar, dance all night at the country club, and wear fashionable gowns which cover-up the buffalo grease.
The recent debut of Pricilla Papworth Longbottom is an example. Pricilla, “Pru”, did not want to have a coming-out party. She wanted to give all of the money to the poor people of Darien, Connecticut, and become a nun in the Catholic Church. Her father was pleased, but her mother, a pillar of the Round Hill Episcopal Church, took an overdose of Diet Valium, and spent six weeks in Greenwich Hospital. Finally Pru agreed to have a coming-out party, and Mrs. Papworth Longbottom came home well and ready to hire the caterers.
Pru looked lovely in her white gown with only a hint of buffalo grease in the cleft. She was escorted by Tip Wellsmith, son of the renowned proctologist, Skip Wellsmith, and by Rip Flosswhight, son of the financier and part time beer mug collector, Flip Flosswhight. Everyone danced under the tents to the music of Lester Lanin and his band.
Late that night Sister Mary of the Little Sisters of St. Myrtle parked her van at the dark end of the Longbottom driveway and stole up the road to the back of the house. The ladder was out of the garage, and Sister Mary pulled it up and leaned it against the house. Soon a dark figure descended the ladder carrying a bundle. At the bottom, Sister Mary said, “Jesus is happy tonight. You’ve made the right decision. Now you can spend the rest of your life working for God instead of idling your time in decadent high society.” Mr. Longbottom looked up: “I’ve wanted to be a Trappist monk for twenty years now. Thanks for the lift Sister. Those two women can have the Junior League, I’m off for Kentucky and a life of contemplation.”
Friday, October 28, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The People of Greenwich
Greenwich, Connecticut, is populated by rich, white, anglo-saxon protestants (WASPS). Some of these people are as rich as Croseus, but Croseus lives across the line in Stamford and cannot get into the Greenwich Country Club.
When I first moved to Greenwich from polyglot Manhattan, I said to myself, “Jack” (That’s what I call myself), “Jack, who are these rich Wasps to think that they are superior to everyone else?” I decided to research the question and consulted the leading authorities.
To my amazement, I discovered that I was all wrong. Rich Wasps really are superior to everybody else. They do deserve to live in the best houses, drive BMWs, and shop at Talbots. In every study, Wasps scored higher than other ethnic groups. One leading survey of the subject is the March 1998 Consumer Report’s rating of ethnic groups. Listing the groups in order of estimated overall quality, Consumer Reports puts Wasps first by a wide margin.
The only dissenter in this chorus of praise for Wasps was the consumer advocate Ralph Nader, who said Wasps should be recalled for an adjustment in their senses of humor.
Professor Malcolm Mullet of Harvard University is an anthropologist who has spent many years among the Wasps of Greenwich studying their fascinating customs and rituals. Dr. Mullet says that at first the Wasps were apprehensive and distrustful in his presence, but after years of growing familiarity, they came to accept him into even their most private ceremonies. What Dr. Mullet discovered is astounding and has revolutionized the outside world’s picture of these remarkable people.
In his report for National Geographic Magazine, richly illustrated with pictures of Wasps in their colorful costumes, Dr. Mullet investigates the central ritual of Wasp culture, the ceremony in which they gather to share food and the latest gossip of the tribe-- the dinner party.
The food is carefully prepared and served with a great flourish amid much favorable commentary. It is not, however, something any civilized person would want to eat. To the normal palate, accustomed as it is to the many joys of Big Macs, pizzas, Taco Bells, and General Tso’s Chicken, the ingestion of Wasp comestibles usually results in extensive gagging.
The marketing for these edibles is done at a local establishment by the women in fetching short cotton outfits called “tennis dresses.” Although no tennis is actually played in the supermarket, there is much lively conversation about it among the shoppers who gaily participate in the collective subterfuge that they are coming from or going to tennis matches.
When I first moved to Greenwich from polyglot Manhattan, I said to myself, “Jack” (That’s what I call myself), “Jack, who are these rich Wasps to think that they are superior to everyone else?” I decided to research the question and consulted the leading authorities.
To my amazement, I discovered that I was all wrong. Rich Wasps really are superior to everybody else. They do deserve to live in the best houses, drive BMWs, and shop at Talbots. In every study, Wasps scored higher than other ethnic groups. One leading survey of the subject is the March 1998 Consumer Report’s rating of ethnic groups. Listing the groups in order of estimated overall quality, Consumer Reports puts Wasps first by a wide margin.
The only dissenter in this chorus of praise for Wasps was the consumer advocate Ralph Nader, who said Wasps should be recalled for an adjustment in their senses of humor.
Professor Malcolm Mullet of Harvard University is an anthropologist who has spent many years among the Wasps of Greenwich studying their fascinating customs and rituals. Dr. Mullet says that at first the Wasps were apprehensive and distrustful in his presence, but after years of growing familiarity, they came to accept him into even their most private ceremonies. What Dr. Mullet discovered is astounding and has revolutionized the outside world’s picture of these remarkable people.
In his report for National Geographic Magazine, richly illustrated with pictures of Wasps in their colorful costumes, Dr. Mullet investigates the central ritual of Wasp culture, the ceremony in which they gather to share food and the latest gossip of the tribe-- the dinner party.
The food is carefully prepared and served with a great flourish amid much favorable commentary. It is not, however, something any civilized person would want to eat. To the normal palate, accustomed as it is to the many joys of Big Macs, pizzas, Taco Bells, and General Tso’s Chicken, the ingestion of Wasp comestibles usually results in extensive gagging.
The marketing for these edibles is done at a local establishment by the women in fetching short cotton outfits called “tennis dresses.” Although no tennis is actually played in the supermarket, there is much lively conversation about it among the shoppers who gaily participate in the collective subterfuge that they are coming from or going to tennis matches.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Buying the Castle
A spectacular night of successive winners at Aqueduct Racetrack produced a most unexpected surplus on my balance sheet. Up to this point, I had lived the customary hand-to-mouth existence of a seedy counselor at law residing in New York City. But now, I was able to stop wearing the false beard and rubber nose employed to avoid the hectoring attentions of my many creditors. I looked forward to bright nights in the Big Apple, sampling the haute cuisine and premier vintages of the best restaurants, hitting the hit shows, spending weekdays at the track.
But my wife Grunhilda, descendent of Viking warriors, declared in the dulcet tones of Hulk Hogan that we were moving out of “this dump.” She asserted that the healthy air and wholesome atmosphere of suburbia would help clear up our son’s chronic facial boils and intractable juvenile delinquency. Bowing to the persuasiveness of her arguments, and to the fact that she could beat me in arm-wrestling, I agreed. We were heading for Greenwich Connecticut.
Greenwich is a town of about fifty-eight thousand people of whom fifty thousand are real estate agents. The other eight thousand spend all of their time being shown around by the brokers. It is Hobbs’ war of “all against all” with every agent prowling, protective, paranoid, angry, and armed to the teeth. Every morning the police find the bodies of brokers strewn about the streets of Greenwich, but that is mainly because most real estate agents are heavy drinkers.
Our agent, a burly female martial arts expert in pink blazer and black belt, met us at the railroad station in her armored BMW. She asked what type of residence we were interested in. Grunhilda and I answered in unison (C Flat Major) “something on the water.” After an appraising stare, our agent politely inquired if we meant perhaps something like a houseboat or Chinese junk. We responded that we would prefer something equipped with trees and grass. Disregarding the narrow possibility that I represented some derelict branch of the Rockefeller family, our agent queried whether we were prepared to pay the $10,000 per blade of grass commanded by waterfront property. As the blood drained from our faces, she suggested several alternatives; i.e. something with a distant glimpse of the water, which she labeled “indirect water;” something on a stream, namely “direct creek;” or something attached to the town water line, or “direct pipe.”
Our agent showed us an authentic castle which had been built by an eccentric earwax tycoon who had brought it over, stone by stone, from Nutley New Jersey. The bridge over the moat led directly into a room with a cathedral ceiling. Grunhilda was charmed, but said we would have to get rid of the stained glass windows, pulpit, and pews. We decided to buy it.
But my wife Grunhilda, descendent of Viking warriors, declared in the dulcet tones of Hulk Hogan that we were moving out of “this dump.” She asserted that the healthy air and wholesome atmosphere of suburbia would help clear up our son’s chronic facial boils and intractable juvenile delinquency. Bowing to the persuasiveness of her arguments, and to the fact that she could beat me in arm-wrestling, I agreed. We were heading for Greenwich Connecticut.
Greenwich is a town of about fifty-eight thousand people of whom fifty thousand are real estate agents. The other eight thousand spend all of their time being shown around by the brokers. It is Hobbs’ war of “all against all” with every agent prowling, protective, paranoid, angry, and armed to the teeth. Every morning the police find the bodies of brokers strewn about the streets of Greenwich, but that is mainly because most real estate agents are heavy drinkers.
Our agent, a burly female martial arts expert in pink blazer and black belt, met us at the railroad station in her armored BMW. She asked what type of residence we were interested in. Grunhilda and I answered in unison (C Flat Major) “something on the water.” After an appraising stare, our agent politely inquired if we meant perhaps something like a houseboat or Chinese junk. We responded that we would prefer something equipped with trees and grass. Disregarding the narrow possibility that I represented some derelict branch of the Rockefeller family, our agent queried whether we were prepared to pay the $10,000 per blade of grass commanded by waterfront property. As the blood drained from our faces, she suggested several alternatives; i.e. something with a distant glimpse of the water, which she labeled “indirect water;” something on a stream, namely “direct creek;” or something attached to the town water line, or “direct pipe.”
Our agent showed us an authentic castle which had been built by an eccentric earwax tycoon who had brought it over, stone by stone, from Nutley New Jersey. The bridge over the moat led directly into a room with a cathedral ceiling. Grunhilda was charmed, but said we would have to get rid of the stained glass windows, pulpit, and pews. We decided to buy it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)