Face Monsters
Earlier this week, I seeded the zeitgeist. I created the term "face monster.” I tweeted it and Facebooked it, and now it has a life of its own. Godspeed, face monster. Be fruitful and multiply.
The definition is simple; Face monster means any oblivious, rich woman whose money and sense of entitlement has transformed her face into that of a monster. That could mean plastic surgery, even the best of which eventually turns lizard-y and monster-like. Or, on a younger face monster, it can simply be a constant expression of annoyance that somebody has heated her 110 degree latte to 115 degrees.
You see face monsters every day. Especially if you work on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Or, if you serve on the board of an impressive, yet elitist arts organization. Or, if you sell coats for tiny dogs.
[Note: I've focused on women here, but of course there are male face monsters. Think any man wearing Ralph Lauren. Or, men with a tan after November. Also, any Southern politician.]
I don’t want to brag, but I think I think “face monster” amazingly poetic. Succinct and true, it highlights an overlooked detail of experience and shows it to be universal. Words have the power to do that. They can say, “Hey, you may feel isolated and adrift, but at least we can all agree that this lady in the fur coat and yoga pants is a horrible face monster.” You see? You’re not alone.
According to responses to my Facebook status, the term “face monster” is spreading like wildfire. It’s already reached the West Coast. It makes sense. That is the epicenter of face monsterism. But, interestingly, it just as quickly penetrated the heartland. One responder has already begun describing suburban Wisconsinites as face monsters. Interesting, right?
I expect it to reach across the entire globe soon. Especially now that I’ve posted it to this blog. I’ve read The Tipping Point. I know how this shit works.
Soon--maybe as early as tomorrow--some young child in the Luxembourg will look up at his grandmother. He’ll see her Hermes scarf and the tiny lip scab from the morning’s collagen injection. And, at that moment, he will finally have a word for her. “Face monster.”
You’re welcome, little boy … You’re welcome.
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