The Ides of March
Somewhere deep in the entitled bourgeois womb of Carmel, Indiana I sit in the back of a Starbucks and sip my coffee while watching the housewives play out their daily round of personal prestige chess. They are Grandmasters of passive aggressive slights, Umpa Lumpa colored Bobby Fischers with better tits and only a bit less antisemtic spirit. It’s fantastic to watch their subtle moves. Every mention of their child’s schooling or their house remodeling is the word, “check.” Oh, and something to the effect of “yeah Paris is okay, but have you even been to Avignon?” is as if you spiked a rook into their face to finish the game. Here are two of my favorite yuppie moments I’ve seen here in the past week:
Two late 30s women sitting directly to my left at a small table. One has clearly just come from the gym and the other is dressed as if she might actually be Ann Taylor. After several minutes of whispering the tracksuit-clad redhead says with a bit of frustration, “I don’t hate them because they’re not white, Julie. I just don’t like them there because minorities bring down property values.”
Good save, lady.
Yesterday, I had gotten to the Starbucks early to get some reading done and was approaching the bar to order when a man in his mid 20s was just packing up his laptop. On his way out he paused in front of the bar and said, “Sheryl Crow at 9:30 in the morning? It’s a bit much.” And then he turned and walked out. I know what you mean sir, some days, I don’t know how we make it.
Carmelites, you are to white people what Tyler Perry is to black people. What the gay pride parade is to gay people. What Rush Limbaugh is to his Mole People race. What Paris Hilton is to Paris Hilton.
