Monday, December 8, 2014

Jewish Male Narcissism in 20th Century American Literature

Another grand scheme shot to hell! I saw the Lisa Ling thing, ring a ding ding, on CNN about Websites that match hot young golddiggers with very wealthy men, and thought, “Well, why not?” My royalties from my dismissive Rolling Stone review of the first Led Zeppelin album continue to pour in, and I’m much in demand as an after-dinner speaker. I’m not wealthy as many in Beverly Hills or the nicer parts of the San Fernando Valley, certainly, but the Talmud teaches us that the rich person is the one content with what he or she has, and the only time I ever feel sorely dissatisfied is during a long plane ride in Cattle, with my video screen two and a half inches from my nose because the inconsiderate so-and-so in the seat in front of me has decided to tilt his or her seat ‘way, ‘way back.

I went to a party sponsored by, and there met a young woman with large breasts, false eyelashes, and high cheekbones. Three out of three! We will here refer to her as Naomi, though her name is in fact Paulette. She was well aware of the Talmudic view of wealth by virtue of having just enrolled in the American Jewish University of Los Angeles, with the intention of becoming a rabbi, or at least of meeting a handsome young man with one of those circular fur hats. She laughed at all my jokes, and didn’t run away when I told her that I customarily fly in Cattle, and we exchanged phone numbers.

I met her “for coffee” a few days later, and we struck a deal. In exchange for my paying her AJU tuition, renting her a penthouse apartment in the Marina, and buying her a car, she would accompany me to restaurants in a low-cut blouse and a pushup brassiere, and would have sexual intercourse with me no fewer than five times per month, provided I could manage it at my age. I had to liquidate both of my two younger kids’ college funds, re-mortgage my house, and sell the Lexus, but you already go around once in life, and the bus isn’t so bad once you get used to the fact that there’s always at least one loud lunatic aboard, either arguing passionately with himself or shrilly beseeching the rest of us to embrace Jesus Christ as our Lord ‘n’ Savior.

Things went smoothly for the first two months. When I took her to the Ivy the first week in November, I could tell that several of my fellow male diners were thinking,  “Oh, yeah!” or “I wouldn’t mind some of that myself!” or “As long as I’ve got a face, she’ll never lack for a place to sit!” And she seemed pretty content with her apartment and car and my not minding that she supplemented our own, uh, relations with regular visits from the reigning stud at AJU, who taught her Jewish Male Narcissism in 20th Century American Literature class.

Now, though, I learn that it hasn’t been her professor with whom she’s been supplementing my own desultory lovemaking, but Patrick Cardinal Holman, Archbishop of the San Fernando Valley. It has always been my understanding that Catholic priests are supposed to be celibate, but I don’t pretend to know everything about everything, as I could hardly be expected to do.

I wish I were gracious enough to wish them every happiness. They will have to be content with my wishing them most happinesses.


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