Originally posted 4/24/2011 on another site in a slightly different format
"The best defense against bad manners is good manners," so an old saying goes. I stand guilty. I lost my temper and tossed a guest out. No, not over the balcony railing.
A few weeks back I was invited down to the beach for some play. Knowing full well I'd be better off staying home, there I was, zipping southwest down Sunset Blvd. And then he texts:
"Shall we play a game?"
I phoned back, knowing full well I wasn't hooking up with Matthew Broderick or Ally Sheedy.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I'll have all the lights out, but come into the open garage door. Be quiet because Mummy, she's bedridden...but will be asleep upstairs. I'll be in the garage..and you come up behind me, admin..." said Beach Boy (who's older than me) in a throaty whisper that called to mind Watergate.
I politely declined his inane idea, primarily because I'd never been to his place before and wandering into a dark open garage didn't sound wise when the residents have a private security patrol on duty.
Parking a few houses away, I hopped out of my car, was greeted by my 'date'. It seems he had converted the garage into his bedroom: ala either Keith on The Partridge Family or Greg on The Brady Bunch and a) was reminded how QUIET neighborhoods are at 2AM b) stunned by the framed and signed photo of Barbara Bush above the deep freeze, c) learned that Mummy was not bedridden, and d) was tossed out because my offer to be timekeeper and stop the play at 6AM was ignored and it was now 8AM and someone had to get to work.
You'd think I'd not invite disaster into my home, but I did. The incentive this time was a) he'd drive up to see me b) he would bring a friend (a cute friend) who was a phlebotomist c) I don't have a garage.
They arrived and to my horror, Beach Boy looked as if his clothes (the few there were) had been through a shredder after an attack of moths. Since my building isn't on Tobacco Road and I have a doorman, camera security and NEIGHBORS, I was irritated. Clearly I had a Marie Antoinette-type who enjoyed playing with imagined peasants. I laid out house rules, most of which were broken within an hour. His Sidekick, I learned was indeed a phlebotomist but had no experience as an administrator : another lie exposed with a ‘sh*t-eating grin' that only blue bloods can pull off.
Under my firm direction and gentle threats, Sidekick learned a new skill; using Beach Boy as the pincushion. Tying Beach Boy down left me free to focus on my new student: who informed me he was a virgin under the watch of aliens. I offered to show his otherworldly masters how an typical Earth male fucks, but they didn't respond. Neither did he so I suggested breakfast. They declined, and I went by myself thinking they might get the hint and leave: Beach Boy being wealthy, theft was not a concern.
I returned, finding to my dismay there were still there, but I'd popped into Goodwill and presented Beach Boy with Ralph Lauren flamingo pink shorts, a royal blue seersucker shirt with embroidered yellow whales and an orange ball cap and to wear out (best 4 bucks I've ever spent),.
But the fat lady hadn't sang. Somehow, the conversation veered to my long-deceased parents, their money and Beach Boy asking "why wasn't I given a private university education? "
His question was trivial, and my reaction unbecoming of a man orphaned at 12 and one walked away from Baylor University's Pre-Medical Studies to follow his own drummer.
My parting words to this stuck-up SOB?
"At least I know how to dress when I go to the city to visit!" Ce que les mots cruel!
In my case, it was clearly was the drugs talking: that drug being Tylenol, to combat my headache.
For the record, I believe class is a state of mind, not one's financial position or zip code.
"The best defense against bad manners is good manners," so an old saying goes. I stand guilty. I lost my temper and tossed a guest out. No, not over the balcony railing.
A few weeks back I was invited down to the beach for some play. Knowing full well I'd be better off staying home, there I was, zipping southwest down Sunset Blvd. And then he texts:
"Shall we play a game?"
I phoned back, knowing full well I wasn't hooking up with Matthew Broderick or Ally Sheedy.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I'll have all the lights out, but come into the open garage door. Be quiet because Mummy, she's bedridden...but will be asleep upstairs. I'll be in the garage..and you come up behind me, admin..." said Beach Boy (who's older than me) in a throaty whisper that called to mind Watergate.
I politely declined his inane idea, primarily because I'd never been to his place before and wandering into a dark open garage didn't sound wise when the residents have a private security patrol on duty.
Parking a few houses away, I hopped out of my car, was greeted by my 'date'. It seems he had converted the garage into his bedroom: ala either Keith on The Partridge Family or Greg on The Brady Bunch and a) was reminded how QUIET neighborhoods are at 2AM b) stunned by the framed and signed photo of Barbara Bush above the deep freeze, c) learned that Mummy was not bedridden, and d) was tossed out because my offer to be timekeeper and stop the play at 6AM was ignored and it was now 8AM and someone had to get to work.
You'd think I'd not invite disaster into my home, but I did. The incentive this time was a) he'd drive up to see me b) he would bring a friend (a cute friend) who was a phlebotomist c) I don't have a garage.
They arrived and to my horror, Beach Boy looked as if his clothes (the few there were) had been through a shredder after an attack of moths. Since my building isn't on Tobacco Road and I have a doorman, camera security and NEIGHBORS, I was irritated. Clearly I had a Marie Antoinette-type who enjoyed playing with imagined peasants. I laid out house rules, most of which were broken within an hour. His Sidekick, I learned was indeed a phlebotomist but had no experience as an administrator : another lie exposed with a ‘sh*t-eating grin' that only blue bloods can pull off.
Under my firm direction and gentle threats, Sidekick learned a new skill; using Beach Boy as the pincushion. Tying Beach Boy down left me free to focus on my new student: who informed me he was a virgin under the watch of aliens. I offered to show his otherworldly masters how an typical Earth male fucks, but they didn't respond. Neither did he so I suggested breakfast. They declined, and I went by myself thinking they might get the hint and leave: Beach Boy being wealthy, theft was not a concern.
I returned, finding to my dismay there were still there, but I'd popped into Goodwill and presented Beach Boy with Ralph Lauren flamingo pink shorts, a royal blue seersucker shirt with embroidered yellow whales and an orange ball cap and to wear out (best 4 bucks I've ever spent),.
But the fat lady hadn't sang. Somehow, the conversation veered to my long-deceased parents, their money and Beach Boy asking "why wasn't I given a private university education? "
His question was trivial, and my reaction unbecoming of a man orphaned at 12 and one walked away from Baylor University's Pre-Medical Studies to follow his own drummer.
My parting words to this stuck-up SOB?
"At least I know how to dress when I go to the city to visit!" Ce que les mots cruel!
In my case, it was clearly was the drugs talking: that drug being Tylenol, to combat my headache.
For the record, I believe class is a state of mind, not one's financial position or zip code.
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