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The very very rich

March 27, 2012

 

The very, very rich must get bored sometimes.  Surely that is the reason for solid gold guns, jewel encrusted sports cars, yachts on which you can land a helicopter and other such mindless extravagances.

The very, very rich must sometimes eat at McDonald’s, or Pizza Hut.  Might some of their clothes come from The Gap?  Or do they pay twenty times as much to get designer duds that look exactly like clothing for sale at The Gap?  How often can you wear tuxedos or gowns?

Do some of them donate large amounts of money in the hope that they’ll get to hang out with the celebrities that endorse the organizations they’ve donated money to?  Maybe there’s a quid pro quo.  Donate one million bucks and have dinner with Brad and Angelina.  Or George.

Of course, Brad and Angelina (and George) are among the very very rich.  Or are there very, very rich people who don’t consider those three as very, very rich?  They seem very, very rich to me.

Are there very, very rich people, sitting at home tonight, watching TV, with, perhaps, 150 channels to choose from, and they can’t find anything they want to watch?  And they’ve seen all their DVDs, and they don’t feel like reading, or swimming in the heated indoor pool, or working out in the fully appointed gym, or playing with the dogs.  And they sit on the couch bored.  Like I do sometimes.

Or maybe their lives are like what we see on TV and in the movies.  The lives of the very, very rich are filled with social events, and beautiful people, and great food, and fine wines, and gorgeous clothes, and dramatic situations.  Maybe the very, very rich are energetic, dynamic, interesting people, whose lives you and I can only dream of.

I’d like to be rich.  Or, if I take into account the millions that can barely dream of the wealth I live with every day (safe running water, cold and hot.  A car.  A computer.  A flat screen TV.  All the food I want.  A safe neighborhood.) maybe to them I’m rich.  Still I’d like to be much richer.  I’d like to have a house rather than an apartment.  A big yard for a dog to run around in.  Financial security.

But no matter how much money I might have, I’ll bet sometimes I’d get bored.  Not often, probably, since I don’t often get bored now.  But sometimes.  Maybe then I’d buy something really, really stupid for some obscene amount of money.  But I hope not.

 

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