Well, America, here we pant again through these torpid dog days as our Dear Leader, per usual, threatens new tariff deadlines if the world doesn’t step in line to whatever brain fart he’s currently expulsing. More countries get added daily to his “DO NOT ENTER AMERICA” Rolodex, as he grandly tours Florida’s cruddy new concentration camp, hastily erected in the guise of protecting us from all those illegally squatting vermin, smuggling in their fantasy oceans of fentanyl, replete with wild alligators to devour the scum should they dare attempt a futile Everglades’ escape with The Gulf of America as backup to drown them in just in case.
All the while, bunker busters rain down on Iran, achieving absolutely nothing except the Ayatollah’s promise of retaliatory wrath. Iran will, no doubt, deliver absolution when we least expect it, unlike the foam of state secrets frothing from the lips of our President TACO.
(For any of you out there still unfamiliar with the TACO acronym, I’ll let you google it for yourselves.)
That said, I refuse to grant our Orangutan L’Orange permission to dominate yet another of my entire columns. TACO is turning more stale than even his tweets warning of impending doomsday, supposedly on Aug. 1 when the E.U. and Mexico shall supposedly face 30 percent tariffs across the board.
Ho hum. Another snit fit; another yawner.
It’s high time I hand attention back over to my sweet readers’ fresh questions again. Let’s just get right to it, shall we?
Dear Howard: I have a question, but it’s about neither sex nor politics. I don’t come from money, but I fell in love with a man of genuine affluence. We married this past Valentine’s. Naturally, his whole family thinks of me as little more than a trashy gold digger, but that didn’t deter them from inviting themselves to our beach house for two weeks in August!
My husband shrugged off my concerns: “Just ignore them,” he said. “They’re grownups, perfectly capable of entertaining themselves.”
Am I supposed to spend the rest of our lives together trying to win over inherited relatives annually occupying our homes by ignoring them? Any advice you could give me? Even about properly stocking their rooms during this visit? I only wish somebody had warned me beforehand about how phenomenally exhausting all this rich bitch stuff is.
— She’s So Fine, There’s No Telling Where the Money Went
Dear Mrs. Fine: You’re telling me! And just remember: If it fucks, flies or floats, rent it; don’t buy. That said, my young married … lady/man? … everyone assumes wealth to be intoxicating. In truth, it’s the exact opposite: Fantastical money belongs in the realm of sudden death. Just the unhinging unexpectedness of it alone renders one practically numb.
The late Alva Vanderbilt, during our nation’s “Gilded Age” was raised an impoverished Alabaman, but through a combination of pluck, spunk and luck, co-opted the titles of Newport and Fifth Avenue’s reigning monarch. Having seized her throne through a fortuitous marriage, Alva pointedly remarked, “A private railroad car requires no getting used to; one takes to it immediately.”
What’s so telling is what’s left untold: Alva failed to mention that when money arrives by sudden magic, a constant fear of its instant evaporation becomes calcified within one’s bones. Alva always carried with her the knowledge that nothing is more transient than a lucky fluke like her marriage.
Flaunting looks that rivaled a mud fence and lacking any inherited wealth, Alva Erskine Stirling Smith, of Mobile, Ala., excelled in one crucial area: a rare, ephemeral flair for dazzlingly spontaneous innovation.
With just one shot to catch the bachelor William Vanderbilt’s roving eye, the only decent gown she owned was a black silk mourning dress. Black. For a summer party. On a stout girl, of no dowry, who was called rather plain-looking, if people were being polite.
Nobody much expected from Alva anything. She was the dark horse in the race to catch the eldest grandson of railroad tycoon Cornelius Vanderbilt. So, how?
In a scene worthy of Scarlet O’Hara, Alva stood desolately gazing out her out her window when golden inspiration struck: The lawn below was ablaze with Black-eyed Susans. And the maid that day just so happened to be a seamstress of near magical talent. That evening, all eyes were on the girl from Alabama wafting about the ballroom in a watered-silk gown sprouting a yellow meadow of couture summer daisies so flawlessly embroidered they looked practically real! The sight was not lost on Mr. Vanderbilt.
Now back to your question, Mrs. Fine: How to pre-dress a guest’s room properly? Start with a large vase of fresh flowers placed atop a desk or console/coffee table. Next, a live orchid for the bathroom, plus a fresh bar of soap next to the sink and in the shower. Perhaps a stack of assorted local pamphlets or magazines appealing to your guest’s interests.
Extra sheets, pillows, blankets and towels. Extra clothes hangers in the closet. Bottled water, a platter of fresh fruit, a bowl of nuts, bars of good chocolates, some chips, various teas and soft drinks. Disposable napkins, cutlery, and cups. An appropriate smart phone cord with wall adapter (everyone invariably forgets their own). And a good bottle of white wine chilling on ice, with the requisite two glass goblets and corkscrew opener awaiting your guest’s arrival.
Just consider these the barest essentials. In my experience that no guest ever complains should you wish to gild the lily even further.
Now, inevitably, all roads loop back to Trump, where Gen Ze-er Kyla Scanlon is suddenly leading theorist on The Economics of Attention. Scanlon nails it: “Trump is the first human-algorithm hybrid president — governing via Truth Social truths, bond market reactions and direct market signals. A feedback loop in a suit.”
Perhaps a few Black-eyed Susan touch-me-ups added to TACO’s summer attire is all that’s missing to elevate him to the very pinnacle of hollowed-out high society?
— Howard Lewis Russell
Send whatever ails you, kidz, to AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.