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The Filthy Rich Handbook By Christopher Tennant (247 pages Workman Publishing: $11.95)
I ordered this book from Amazon years ago because the title intrigued me. I have always had this dream of becoming a billionaire someday through our family’s various businesses. Obviously, this is one delusion of grandeur I refuse to shake off. Despite my family’s considerable fortune, I still have a lot of things I wish to acquire: a castle in Ireland, a 740 Park Avenue apartment, a fleet of Rolls-Royces, Bentleys and Maybachs, a dozen Aston Martins, a Boeing 747, a 250-foot megayacht, an army of English butlers and majordomos to run various summer cottages in Newport, Paris and Palm Beach, a European aristocratic title, and the friendship of Serene Highnesses and of the British Royal Family.
But instead, for now, I have to make do with what I have. Don’t get me wrong. I am really happy and content with what I have. The things I want are different from the things that I need, and I have way more than what I need. But sometimes you just can’t help but feel a little envious when you see someone have something you still can’t afford to buy at the moment. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you can afford to buy and sell someone like Kate Upton many times over and not even bat an eyelash?
Well, unless you are a billionaire or mega-multihundred millionaire, having a net worth below the neighborhood of $10, 000, 000 still won’t buy you the luxuries only the richest of the rich can afford — and Kate Upton. Or Chris Evans. These days, who knows what someone prefers.
Whether you’re looking for inspiration for that rich guy you wish to include as one of the characters in your novel, or doing some research about how the 1% of the richest 1% people live, or an arriviste who wants to be accepted by the establishment of the botoxed High Society and Ruling Classes, or in need of a crash course on how the ultra-rich talk the talk and walk the walk, or a social anthropologist or a social psychologist taking notes and chronicling how lazy leisure class lives, or just truly enjoy reading stuff about the ultra-rich, this reference book by Tennant has it all covered.
Here you’ll read about the Old Guard, the parvenus, Brahmans, the upstarts, and the things they have in common, the fabulous places they summer at, the clubs they belong to, the servants who wait on them, the multimillion dollar palatial residences they live in, the parties they give and attend, and anything and everything about the oh so filthy rich.
Tennant shows chapter by chapter things like “Old Money [Country] Clubs” and “New Money [Country] Clubs,” which tycoon paid millions to which superstar singer for his daughter’s party, and which friends to avoid and be proud of. Funnily, He says Princess Diana is one of those people everyone should want to be friends with (sadly, this isn’t possible anymore), and that Imelda Marcos, the infamous former First Lady and wife of the late Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, is one of those people everyone should never admit to having been friends with (this is still possible). I found the latter so hilarious, yet a little offended, too, because the Marcoses are related to one of my dearest friends, Mary Anne Vargas, a Manila socialite and philanthropist who loves the charismatic and regal former First Lady.
Mary Anne regaled me many times with anecdotes of the former First Lady’s eccentricities and charms. One time she said Mrs. Marcos was singing endlessly during one of her birthday parties in a yacht until the wee hours of the morning. She said everyone were already getting sleepy and wanted to go home, but everybody didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. Marcos that they wanted to go home. Now, I wonder what Mary Anne will say about this when she finds out her cousin Imelda was mentioned in this book as a shoe fetishist who should be blackballed from the charity and social circuits.
In this book, I think you will also find, like I did, the caricatures of the filthy rich people so charming and funny, along with pictures of random people where he illustrates what kind of clothes the filthy rich wear and what gadgets and different kinds of looks they sport. What also impressed upon me was his emphasis on the difference between the new rich and the old rich — the arrivistes and the blue bloods. I think this would generally help the uninitiated determine which ones are new and and which ones are old. One tip: the accent and how they pronounce Gstaad and the Carribean. Trust me, in every country, especially here in the Philippines, it’s easy to spot the parvenus from the pedigreed.
I hate talking about money and the describing wealth as it is crass and tacky to do that, but since this book is all about money and wealth, perhaps you’d be kind enough to make this an exception. Let me give you an example of the difference between the parvenu and the pedigreed. Well, I’d like to think of myself as a man of impeccable pedigree. Or maybe this is another of my delusions of grandeur I refuse to shake off, too.
One time a friend thought it funny to point out how one of our new rich friends was richer than me. To which I said jokingly with my quasi-British accent, “He may have the brass, but I have the class. You can never buy breeding and impeccable taste. He can hire someone to make it look like he has taste, but he can never acquire the breeding that only well-born people like me are born with. Unless he marries into our family, he can never have my name or my family’s illustrious background. He can show the world how rich he is with absurd and vulgar displays of wealth, whereas I have got nothing to prove.”
He laughed and replied, “Touche. Sometimes you can be such a snob.”
Part-satire, part-parody, and all the way true-to-life, Tennant’s well-researched book is one of those I would be happy to recommend to everybody even for just a good laugh. It’s got everything you need, and a veritable guide to anything and everything filthy rich. If you’re filthy rich enough, or with a stroke of luck you’ll strike it rich, or just want to know how and where to spend your money, or just curious as to how Bill Gates and the rest of the Forbes 400 Richest live, Tennant’s The Filthy Rich Handbook is all the book you’ll ever need. This is one mean Rolodex of watering holes, country clubs, vacation spots, tag prices for celebrity entertainers, and big bad toys that you should definitely have!
Rating: 5 of 5 stars
Benjamin Franklin once said, “Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing.” Before writing this blog post, I published another one before this, and then decided to unpublish it ten minutes after. In the following paragraphs, I shall explain my reasons for doing so, but know that if it weren’t for that blog post, there wouldn’t be any lessons to be learned now. The deleted blog post concerned was a product of my active, and in this case, my rather unimpressive imagination. The main theme I had in mind was to make humans look superior to aliens, or at the very least to make aliens look inferior to humans. In my mind, I thought it was hilarious, original, and creative. Everybody knows what Martians are. They’re our alien counterpart in Mars. Yes, it’s going to work, I thought. While writing the blog post I considered including some things for effect, things from my past that I never would have thought about sharing publicly save for my very own memoir that I soon hope to write and publish. Despite my apprehensions, I still included it in the deleted blog post that I named “Racing Thoughts Of A Bipolar Writer No. 3: On Reading, Aliens, And Honest Recollections.”
At the time, it seemed like a great idea. I thought it could work, and it could quite possibly be my funniest work yet. I was wrong. I realized quickly that there was nothing hilarious, original, and creative about it. It was, in truth, rather dull, unoriginal, and uncreative. I tried too hard to make it work that the whole thing, after having read it and given it some real thought, felt even to me, contrived, constipated, and corny.
It didn’t take a genius to see what was wrong with it. Thank God not many people had read it as I had deleted it just as quickly as I had published it. Here are my reasons for doing so:
Firstly, for the most part I think I was too close to it that I lost all sense of objectivity, so much so that I was blind to my own work’s faults and flaws. And while we’re on the subject of faults and flaws, know that I take full responsibility for such a monumental lapse of judgment. I deluded myself into thinking that my writing talent knows no bounds and limits, and I deluded myself into thinking that I could write anything and everything on my mind without pausing for revision, edition, filtration, and intelligent deliberation. Now, the cliche-ish phrase “Think before you click” is beginning to sound “I told you so.” One wonders why.
Secondly, I think I was having a manic episode of some sort (I’m bipolar). I must have been in a state of euphoria that everything seemed funny. All I could hear was the sound of of my laughing voice inside my head while I was writing it. Yes, I had punch lines, backhandedly sarcastic and bitingly cold remarks and punch lines, but I didn’t ask myself whether what may have worked inside my head and said out loud might also work just as well when written. I now learned that there are punch lines that are better left unwritten and said out loud than written. I believe the expression “Say what?!” is a very good example of something better left unwritten and said out loud than just written. Admittedly, I tried to incorporate this in the deleted blog post, but I thought that it immediately lost its charm altogether after I was slapped senseless back to lucidity, reality, and objectivity by my medications–and by myself. Ultimately, I think It’s not so much about having overestimated my capacity for humor (although, I must admit, this could be one of the main reasons for the failure of the blog post, too) as it is about having underestimated the power of revision, edition, filtration, and intelligent deliberation. The manic-euphoric reason is complete bollocks. I’m just making excuses for my shallow, amorphous ideas and lackluster writing in the deleted blog post.
Thirdly, the deleted the blog post didn’t seem to have the soul I thought I’d given it. It might have been filled with private things I didn’t want to share with the public, things that might be seen as brave and honest and admirable, but they were just merely there for embellishment–to adorn, to entertain, to shock. They weren’t written from an honest place, they were written for ratings–for views, hits, and clicks. I still regret the fact that I published those private things there, however briefly they may have been published. Just the thought that I actually wrote them just as a sub-theme and as adornment for that deleted blog post seems, I realize, a little callous and deplorable. I shall never write of my memoirs that lightly ever again. At the expense of sounding sentimental, what I did feels almost sacrilegious. Memories aren’t supposed to be just sub-themes, let alone a sub-theme for an “aliens versus humans” blog post. I might look back on this overreaction tomorrow with laughter, but for now let me feel what I’m supposed to feel. What was I thinking?! Never will such an oversight be made again. You’ll just have to buy the book of my memoirs once it’s published. Rest assured that I’ll give it all the soul it deserves, as do all writings deserve.
Fourthly and lastly, I feel that I am still at a point where, being a relatively novice writer, I’m still experimenting with different styles of writing. But with my experience with the previously deleted blog post, I am now quite certain that aliens don’t mesh well with humans and human experiences, and that I’d rather stick to what I know about–aliens and Martians shall obviously be crossed out of the picture henceforth, as shall all pathetic, desperate attempts at humor.
Overall, it has been such a good learning experience. For that, I am thankful. Had it not been for my recent writing and publishing incident, I wouldn’t have learned the things I had learned today. Indeed, writing is both a craft and an art. In time and with constant practice, all we can hope for is to get better. All we have to do is write and write until we get it right. Write something worth reading, you say, Mr. Franklin? Well, by all accounts, sir, I think it’s safe to say that this blog post is more worthy of reading than the previously deleted blog post. Yes, I think this one won’t go to the computer’s trash receptacle like its predecessor. No, this one will be just fine–more human, less alien. Yes, now I can say that everything will be allwrite.
I feel an alternating tinge of admiration, respect, insecurity, and envy whenever I read something beautifully written. It elicits all these positive and negative emotions within me. How could something so simple a thought be so complex in form and substance, yet so profound and succinct? There are all these ideas and brain blurbs inside my head that I wish to say with the eloquence of T.S. Elliot or Ernest Hemingway, but get stymied by my inability to do so. But then again, as I have said before in this blog, one mustn’t compare one’s writing to that of others because it will only lead to despair. I am such a man of walking contradictions. Would it behoove one to search exasperatedly for inspiration through other people’s writings, or would it just cause one to be unnecessarily competitive and insecure–to feel mediocre and inadequate? Sometimes I really wonder: Did the greatest writers of our time ever feel this way before, or did they ever have time to entertain such thoughts?
Essentially, what exactly makes a writer good or bad? What makes a writer great? Is everything just subjective? There are countless literary critics out there, but what kind of literary criticism are the most objective ones? Moreover, is literary criticism truly objective or is it just subject to and the product of the personal views, prejudices, and partiality of just another human being? Who has the right to say when writing is good or bad? Even the great F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby has received the worst reviews by real readers of the classics, even from other professional literary critics.
What, then, makes another writer truly better than the other? Is it the punctiliousness to everything–commas, periods, spelling, grammar, diction? A fanatical attention to detail? Is it the way one phrases one’s words and sentences, or is there really an inherent divine, genetic right to being a genius-artiste writer? Can mediocrity ever become mastery? And if so, where is one, as a writer, in the grand scale of the writing grade system? Can one really be ever objective with one’s own work? And more importantly, will others be truly objective when it comes to yours?
Am I the only one in this world who has these thoughts and questions? Do these questions make me look foolish, ignorant, and stupid? Or am I right when I say I might just as well be voicing out the collective feelings of all the writers out there who are afraid to think out loud, to acknowledge their weaknesses, and to resolve their issues publicly? After all, isn’t being a writer all about the courage to speak one’s mind, and on even more honest level, one’s feelings–on a global and social media savvy platform–like a blog?
But then again, I think when all is said and done, all these thoughts and questions I have can just be boiled down to [my] nagging feelings of inadequacy, mediocrity, and insecurity. Or maybe, just maybe, this is the bipolar twin writer talking–the overcritical, hard-on-himself son of a gun who can’t stop thinking, obsessing, and shutting his mouth and keeping his hands inside his straitjacket. Well, It isn’t called racing thoughts for nothing, anyway. Ultimately, these are just the musings of a guy who is still unsure of himself–a guy who is still finding his voice in the world–a guy whose interior world is filled with voices of blurred reason, fantasy, chaos, and uncertainty. Yes, living in one’s head can be a drag sometimes. But hey, don’t get me wrong. It really is still fun to be me.
Oh, well. C’est la vie.
1. What do blonde bombshell Marilyn Monroe and novelist Virginia Woolf have in common? What about pop star Britney Spears and poet Sylvia Plath? Manic-depression, otherwise known as bipolar disorder, is a mood disorder punctuated by heavenly highs and hellish lows. It is both a gift and a curse. I am both blessed and afflicted with the condition and the illness. Hollywood A-Listers Catherine Zeta-Jones and Ben Stiller, former heads of state Prime Minster Winston Churchill, and even President Bill Clinton, have been reported to have it, too. What is it about bipolar disorder and greatness? The population of writers, artists, poets, political and business leaders have been said to be more than likely to be manic-depressive? Does this explain why I almost always feel great (except when I’m having a depressive episode)? Will I be great, too, or is that just one of my delusions of grandeur? I actually love being bipolar. Okay, I hate it sometimes. But I have to admit, the good things about being bipolar outweigh the bad.
2. Despite a plenitude of literature supporting the correlation between creativity and bipolar disorder, it still remains a main theme in many a scientific and literary writings. It puzzles and befuddles me, albeit being manic-depressive myself, how a person of extraordinary talent like Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath could take their own lives. Were they born at a wrong time? Could they have been saved from themselves had the proper medications been available during their time or would they have refused them? Britney Spears is lucky she was born during these times. She would have eaten her children alive has she lived during the times of Plath and Woolf. She would have given them a run for their money and drive them crazy, er, crazy-er.
3. Novelists, short story writers, poets, essayists, memoirists, scriptwriters, biographers, and playwrights — these creative writers — have to be creative, and have to go beyond the realm of “normal professional, journalistic, academic, or technical forms of literature (Wikipedia’s definition of creative writing)” — and to go beyond the bounds of logical and scientific thinking. Journalists’, academicians’, scientists’, and even bloggers’, writings are based on hard facts and supporting evidences, logic, numbers, formulas, and equations. Creative writers, on the other, have to make use of imagination, feelings, experiences, and memories, and make use of literary acrobatics in order to produce a work of art, a literary masterpiece produced from their fertile minds. They don’t rely or base their writings on universal truths, postulates, theories, or hypotheses. I am more of the creative sort. I think the creative sort is superior to the scientific and logical-thinking writers. Don’t bite my head off, science writers and journalists. Jeez. It’s not my fault you weren’t born with the superior creative mind of the certifiable.
4. There are times when in one of my manic episodes, times when my entire being is wrapped up in a glorious wave of euphoria, I feel indestructibly superhuman. I can do anything and everything without going to sleep for days, my thoughts racing with a plethora of ideas that seem to spring out of nowhere like the brainchild of Zeus or one of the Greek gods. My thoughts crystallized, senses heightened, energy bottomlessed. See, I just made up a word. How creative can that get?
5. And at the other end of the mood spectrum, during my depressive episodes — times when I get deluged by an inexplicable surge of hopelessness, I become a shadow of my former indestructibly superhuman hyperself. I can’t do anything but get fraught with anxiety, riddled with guilt, and unable to concentrate. My mind and body horizontally languishing away in bed the whole day. What was once pleasurable would seem an automated routine of tedious tasks. What was once done out of passion and love would seem an exasperating and fruitless exercise. Labor of love turns into labor of hate. Passion turns into a stone of indifference. Life becomes the Angel of Death. I know, right?
6. So, what exactly is it about bipolar disorder that seems to almost always tend to produce creativity? Or is it the other way around? Is creativity the one that triggers a dormant bipolar disorder? Well, I really don’t know the whole truth. All I know is I wouldn’t love thinking, reading, and writing a much as I do now if I was just a normal, sane person. What pushes me to write, to be a prolific and accomplished writer, I believe, is this tinge of madness — this chemically imbalanced pendulum of manic-depression. To be a creative writer, one has to have at least a substantial amount of life experiences because different life experiences produce different kinds of emotions, memories, and insight necessary to bring to life convincing and relatable characters, and to tell a story as conceivably and believably life-like as possible. And empathy, the ability to not only feel what the other person is feeling, but to actually be the other person, I believe, is the most natural trait of a manic-depressive. You know why I know? Because I can feel it.
7. The interior world of a bipolar person is a hodgepodge of emotions, a veritable niagara of thoughts and feelings supplied by an overactive imagination and obsessive-compulsive behavior, exacerbated by real-life traumas, hopes, fantasies, and experiences. In short, we are self-absorbed, we love to live inside our heads, talk to ourselves, try out different personalities, and pretend to God, an English lord, a mad scientist, a celebrated author, or one of our characters in our book because there is so much going on in our head it’s practically a world within a world within a world. A universe of worlds! Oh, I’m telling you, it’s an asylum of characters and plots inside my genius skull. If you had half my brain, you would realize that. But I guess only a few people are as gifted as me — or cursed — depending on how you look at it. Alright, let’s just go with gifted, then.
8. Oh, I could go on and on and on and on. The question is, can you handle it? Hmmm. I thought so. But hey, if Britney Spears is up for a lovely chat, I’d be more than willing to discuss with her our future accommodations at the Betty Ford Clinic. Britney, if you’re reading this, call me? Oh, I forget. You don’t read. Okay, to the agent or publicist of Britney, you know what to do.
9. Just like the Author Profile and Book Review series in this blog, this Racing Thoughts Of A Creative Writer No. 1 post is the first in a series of my opinions, thoughts, and views about books, writing, politics, business, bipolar disorder, films, and entertainment. This will be a collection of my reflections, essays, and creative musings. This is a literary blog but it doesn’t have to be all that literary. I like to mix it up with things that are relevant to the times like “Is Obama Really A Muslim? If So, Does That Mean There Could Be A Fourth Lady?,” or “Is Piolo Pascual Really Gay? Because If He Is, What’s His Number?,” or “Is Hilary Clinton A Lesbian? If Yes, Did She Also Have An Affair With Monica Lewinsky?,” or “Why Are Catholics Born With Original Sin? Isn’t That Just A Bit Tad Unfair?” I have a lot of questions about everything and opinions on practically anything. So, if you’re reading this and following this blog, you are one lucky son of a fan, because you will be entitled to my opinion.
10. If you want to know my answers to the questions I asked on no. 9, how the hell should I know? I ask the questions around here, you give the answers. Capisce?
So, here’s the thing,
I am bipolar, so is Britney.
And if you follow this blog,
we’ll drive you crazy.
Hey, I just wrote a poem. Well, what do you know? I’m a poet, too! Take that, Sylvia Plath!
Books About Bipolar Disorder: