Living The Life

They call Palm Beach the Southern paradise of dirty glitter; where glamor goes to retire from being glamorous. On this sleepy little island off the South-Eastern coast of our country's limp penis, you'll find old glitz mingling with sour glamor on golf courses and in five star restaurants. Sagging women who married into the family tree of paper bills apply the same shade of pomegranate lipstick they did when they were twenty two. Wrinkled men tuck white button-ups into Armani pants and strut one foot after the other into the Breakers, a martini in one hand and a ball-point pen in another. The pen as good as the sword to Palm Beachers, for neither Japanese steel nor Smith & Wesson will ever protect you from utter misfortune and pain like signing your name can. In fact, most residents of the Island of Palm Beach invest great time and money into picking out the perfect pen for doing so. Specialty shops that sell such items sprout like mushrooms after a spring rain, slapping price tags the size of an average American's yearly income on one perfectly crafted ink well. The pen, as you will overhear in passing conversation here, truly represents a man. Like a firm handshake, it's the clincher. The deal-breaker. The kicker, if you'll pardon my passé vernacular. When it comes down to it, even if one dressed in the sloppiest of drabs (mainly jeans, usually discounted, and any kind of off-brand top that the lower classes seem to fancy) pulls out a class-A pen to sign their name on their brunch bill, the person in question is automatically regarded as someone of at least mild importance.

In Palm Beach, price dictates value. A dog is not a dog unless it costs a pretty penny. In fact, most dogs aren't even considered animals unless they're stocked in cribs at pet stores and a rack of Channel carrying bags is within reach. (If you don't believe me, simply ask and I'll gladly produce photographic evidence of a nearby pet store that, yes, carries a wide array of small yappy-type dogs in baby cribs, each with a price tag that resembles that of my car.) Respectively, this means that high-fashion is of high-importance to the belles of Palm Beach. Granted, most of them probably couldn't spell couture, but generally speaking the more expensive, the better the item must be. Fashion is not about runway shows and Bryant Park to Palm Beach women. No, rather it's about credit card bills and deck shoes. It's about looking the youngest at one's book club meeting and boasting about the astronomical cost of one's terribly ugly handbag. Fashion is not about being fashionable, but instead about being as unfashionable as you possibly can and paying so much for it that it makes people think in passing that maybe there's something to it.

Palm Beach is where LA Neely O'Haras and their Leons go to die. It's where glamor goes when it spoils like milk. Palm Beach was never fashionable or, god forbid, rich enough to retain all the yuppies and hipsters, so instead it did what it was best at. It burned that proverbial (and literal, if you look back on Florida's racially charged history) bridge to the ground and left the rubble for everyone to see. And, strangely enough, some found comfort in that mess. After willingly chasing all of the real glamor away, Palm Beach pretty much said fuck you, rest of the world, we're making our own goddamned rules, and became dreamily content with its sour grapes. Like a cat so very proud of catching a poisonous snake, Palm Beach decided it was best to broadcast this accomplishment to the rest of the world as though it were, in fact, a very good thing that it was full of unfashionably haughty old people.

Strangely enough, the rest of the world bought it.

Yes kids, when it comes down to it, Palm Beach is full of partially educated corpses that you would never guess had ever stepped out into society before in their entire lives. One of my earliest and fondest memories on that great big island is walking a very old and mild-mannered Greyhound around the street to take a potty break (do not ask why I had Greyhounds on Palm Beach. It's a very long story and it does not fit well with my current sentence structure.) and having a fifty five pound woman who quite accurately resembled Tammy Faye Baker shriek at me at the top of her fucking lungs, from five feet away, claiming that my dog was going to bite her. The dog slowly lifted its head towards this walking Clinique warning label, and watched with heavy eyes as she continued to point and scream. He and I simply watched on with equal confusion as she backed away and continued screaming that the dog had rabies, that the dog was dirty, that the dog was attempting to slowly gnaw her leg off. At this point, I can almost guarantee that the dog was far more frightened that the woman was. Eventually, my employer strutted towards the late Joan Crawford and, assumedly, worked everything out, but not before we were threatened by security. Yes, that's right. We were threatened by security.

This, ladies and gentleman, is the kind of place that makes you wonder if common sense and dignity ever lived here in the first place; If there was anything ever remotely fashionable to wash up on the Palm Beach Municipal Beach other than a '76 Cadillac converted into a Cuban-smuggling raft and Ivana Trump's wedding bouquet. The collective insanity that happens here is not news. No, press releases about the mayor of Sarasota breaking into random strangers' back yards to rescue baby squirrels never makes the eleven o'clock news, and only occasionally gets a nod in the paper. It's just a blip on the radar of supremely strange shit that happens in this isolated little world of ours. If the United States is the kindergarten from hell, then Palm Beach is the mothertard. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can top this place on the Richter scale, and I think the rest of the nation is pretty much okay with that. They typically can cope with our "zanyness" because the Texans and, god forbid, even the New Yorkers could never relate to us without having lived here. They graciously acknowledge our existence, and sometimes even fantasize about the tropical climate and sandy beaches of glorious Flah-rida because they believe that where they live simply sucks.

To those people, I believe I have already stated my warning; my manifesto as a born-and-raised Floridian. I have witnessed this madness first hand, future snow-birds, and all I can say is that I will never be the same.