[NB: So apparently I'm not the only person to think of this; next time I guess I'll Google a gag before I spend forty-five minutes putting it together. Nonetheless, my piece quotes more extensively from Fitzgerald's novel than the others, so I'll leave it up as a legitimate variation on a meme. Enjoyez-vouz.]
Far be it for me to get all Decline and Fall Narrative on the upper dectile of our society, but man rich people have gotten dull.
Here's a scene from Romney's now-infamous Koch Bros. fundraiser last weekend in the Hamptons:
The line of Range Rovers, BMWs, Porsche roadsters and one gleaming cherry red Ferrari began queuing outside of Revlon Chairman Ronald Perelman's estate off Montauk Highway long before Romney arrived, as campaign aides and staffers in white polo shirts emblazoned with the logo of Perelman's property -- the Creeks -- checked off names under tight security.
Same thing, circa 1920. Note the level of name-checking going on:
By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing up-stairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names.
[...] There were three married couples and Jordan's escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the country-side—East Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety.
Who gets to go? In Romney's world, you must flash an income statement before you get to talk to the receptionist:
The price to hobnob with Mitt Romney in the Hamptons was steep. At Romney's luncheon with House Majority Leader Eric Cantor at the Creeks, supporters were asked to contribute or raise $25,000 per person for a VIP photo reception. (Among the co-hosts were lobbyist Wayne Berman, a former bundler for George W. Bush, as well as financiers Lew Eisenberg and Daniel Loeb).
In Gatsby's world, the plebe next door gets invited for the slight accomplishment of knowing some chick named Daisy:
I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin's-egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer: the honor would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his “little party.” that night. He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay Gatsby, in a majestic hand.
On to the men themselves. What do you hear about Romney, rich person?
A money manager in a green Jeep said it was time for Romney to "up his game and be more reactive." So far, said the donor (who would not give his name because he said it would hurt his business), Romney has had a "very timid offense."
Same thing, circa 1920:
"Gatsby. Somebody told me—"
The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
"Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once."
A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly.
"I don’t think it’s so much THAT," argued Lucille sceptically; "it's more that he was a German spy during the war."
No one's saying Romney should start a rumor that he's a German spy. But A rumor might help. The guy doesn't even drink soda.
What's the level of conversation at these things? Here's one of Romney's worried supporters, about those danged people who have "got the right to vote" (they should have IDs! POLL TAX! POLL TAX!):
A New York City donor a few cars back, who also would not give her name, said Romney needed to do a better job connecting. "I don't think the common person is getting it," she said from the passenger seat of a Range Rover stamped with East Hampton beach permits. "Nobody understands why Obama is hurting them.
"We've got the message," she added. "But my college kid, the baby sitters, the nails ladies -- everybody who's got the right to vote -- they don't understand what's going on. I just think if you're lower income -- one, you're not as educated, two, they don't understand how it works, they don't understand how the systems work, they don't understand the impact."
Slightly lacking in wonder, don't you think? 90 years ago, people were impressed by books they hadn't even read:
A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
"What do you think?" he demanded impetuously.
"About what?"
He waved his hand toward the book-shelves. "About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real."
"The books?"
He nodded.
"Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you."
Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the "Stoddard Lectures."
"See!" he cried triumphantly. "It's a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella's a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?"
This part's my favorite. Yes, that's a pick up truck with a Romney sticker on it:
As traffic snarled along Montauk Highway in both directions, a Ron Paul supporter who said his name was Jim continually circled in his pickup truck that bore large signs for his candidate. "I've gotten a few thumbs up," he said when asked whether his presence was having any effect. "He's the man."
At least in Fitzgerald's age they had the dignity to trash their toys for the sake of the party:
The evening was not quite over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupe which had left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall accounted for the detachment of the wheel, which was now getting considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, as they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant din from those in the rear had been audible for some time, and added to the already violent confusion of the scene.
And we close, as parties often do, with people crying:
Among Perelman's guests at the buffet lunch, which was topped off with chocolate mint cupcakes, were the Zambrellis of New York City, independent voters who attended a fundraiser for Obama four years ago.
Sharon Zambrelli voted for Obama in 2008 but has been disappointed with his handling of the economy and leadership style. "I was very disenchanted with the political process and he gave me hope," she said, but ultimately: "He's just a politician," she said, an "emperor with no clothes."
Sad trombone! For the record, here's how you weep at a party:
One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of champagne, and during the course of her song she had decided, ineptly, that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing, she was weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with gasping, broken sobs, and then took up the lyric again in a quavering soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however, for when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed an inky color, and pursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes on her face, whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and went off into a deep vinous sleep.
Don't worry, gentle readers. If Romney ever ends up in a gunfight with another man's wife (oh please God), more side-by-sides will follow.
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