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.
Private Island
When I bought my first island, I thought, This is gonna be great. Pristine beaches, solitude, all the tropical fruit I can eat. And, those things are true. But, it’s not all mangos and rainbows owning your own island.
First off, people are constantly getting shipwrecked. It’s not like how they portray it in movies and TV. There are waaayyy more stranded shipwreck survivors than Hollywood wants you to believe. Every month or so, some bedraggled couple washes ashore. Hasn’t anyone heard of GPS?
I used to leave them alone for the first week and let them have the authentic shipwreck experience—building a lean-to, creating fire, stalking a wild boar. But, I was running out of boars. So, now I just send my personal chef down with some cous cous and an inflatable raft.
Secondly, other eccentric billionaires constantly drop in to visit my island. I know why they’re swinging by on their mega-yachts; It’s because they want to see what little improvements I’ve made to my island. This is not a competition, guys. Just because I built an underwater viewing station doesn’t mean you have to build one too. I’m looking at you, Shah Omar.
Finally, international spies--such a nuisance. You spend months planning and fabricating a hollow volcano to house your weather-controlling laser. Then, at the last minute, some jerk in a tuxedo parachutes in and thinks he owns the place. Sexy female assassins don’t grow on trees. You can’t just go around seducing and killing them, Agent Whatever-Your-Name-Is.
That’s why I’ve started buying up decoy islands. I have a couple spread out around the globe. Sure, the upkeep expenses add up—not just the utility bills, but also the maintenance staff and the body doubles of myself. It’s an investment, though.
Listen, I gotta bounce. I’m finishing a project to bore into the Earth’s mantle and install earthquake machines under major cities. I’ve got a ton of little details to shore up before the end of the day. If you guys want a Mai Tai or anything, just ring the bell for Rolf. He’s the one with the glass eye and face scar. He makes a super nummy Mai Tai.
The Curse of Money
Is money a curse? No, I don’t think so. If anything, I think that having money makes life easier. The poor look at us, the rich, and see wealth as a burden--more decisions, more land, more obligations. But, what the poor don’t know is that we enjoy the challenge.
The poor labor what? Thirteen, fourteen hours a day, scrubbing toilets and building clothes? And, what do they earn per day--fourteen, fifteen thousand dollars? My god, can you imagine? The interest alone on my fortune earns that in … now.
And, yet it is the poor who pity us. They look up at us in our ivory towers and must think it so lonely. First off, anyone building their towers out of ivory hasn't heard that this season is alabaster. Secondly, I could never be lonely. I have my tiny purebred dogs and my collection of Napoleon’s finger bones. And, of course, my unseen staff.
Still, the unwashed masses look at us and feel sorry for our hectic social schedules. I don’t think of croquet or yachting as chores. I think of them as simply another aspect of daily life, right next to having someone brush your teeth. And, if I didn’t escape from the grounds every now and then, I might go mad. Uncle Rupert certainly could have used a few moments away from the swan pond.
But, no, I wouldn’t give up my money if I had the choice. Because, I don’t think of it as a curse so much as a blessing. In fact, to anyone who thinks differently, I say spend a day in my dodo skin moccasins. I think you’ll find then incredibly comfortable. And, when you’re finished, please throw them out. I don’t wear shoes more than once.