Tales from a Stamford Soiree

Along with fixed condescension, botox and jewelry seemed preordained in this epicenter of high society frivolity conveniently located at an ostentatious Stamford waterside restaurant. The superficial stares of interest plastered on these wealth stained middle aged to just aged merchants of high class pretension warranted at the least a cautious awareness of my company and at the worst a self inflicted shotgun blast to the head. The shotgun blast option gained steam early on as two elderly gentlemen in specially tailored white slacks matching their crisp oxford, collared button downs disdainfully brushed me aside without even a “thank you” while I stood holding the door for them. The night, without the availability of an infinite supply of alcohols, some stronger, some tastier, but all nonetheless alcoholic, would likely have concluded with a gradual self bludgeoning to the cranium with any blunt object within reach. Somehow I doubt this would’ve caused the slightest stir among these people so ingrained in a culture of denial, deception, and ignorance to the plight of men outside the top 2% of net wealth. Needless to say at this point it was a stage set for obnoxious self gratification of the undeservedly wealthy as they all simultaneously gave themselves unwarranted pats on the back for their “charity.” They called spending a miniscule amount of their daily income on some pompous fundraiser “volunteerism.” They were engrossed in celebrating their own humanitarian ideals and simultaneously drinking and enjoying the very affluence which their supposed benefactors would never touch or taste. It was truly mutual masturbation in the most unholy of ways as they lubricated themselves with mutual funds and long term assets and ejaculated out whiny diatribes of thoughtless reflection revolving around the disenfranchised workers across our great nation and the possibility of an aided youth putting these injustices to rest. I now disgustingly wiped off these very “injustices” from my just dry cleaned shirt. So long as you don’t shine a black light on me I thought.

The outdoor terrace on a lofty wooden deck over looked a bay of mansions and yachts gently swaying in the calm breeze. It was a “White Hot Night Party.” It certainly was white I observed. Aside from the Indian co worker that joined us on this unfortunate foray the only non Caucasian attendees were the courageous service corps of waiters and bar tenders. They really did promote “diversity” at this charitable event. The mood was uplifting as conversation centered on second and third homes, what Maggie had done with her new Mercedes, and how Rebecca really looked dashing with that new stylist from Romero that took 10 years off her age. I’m sure the plastic surgery had nothing to do with it nor did the thousand dollar spa treatment including a facial.

If only I had given these sheltered aristocrats my idea of a facial I would’ve at least humbled them to the real treatment of the people they step on while wasting more energy than a West African Village and spending more on dinner than the GDP of Ethiopia. To the end this is just thoughtless ranting at a segment I blindly dislike and am unable to tolerate. They don’t know me, and if I’m lucky they never will.