The lease I can do

It’s The Lease I Can Do






I woke up to sign the lease to rent a house for me to live in day. An auspicious day to say the least. My family will stay in Old Greenwich, which has become the lair of the rich hedge fund robots, the house my father built and the house I grew up in. Now, or should I say up to now, I was raising my son and daughter in the house my father raised his son and daughter in. Now I must move to a stranger’s house, a couple of exits away on I95. For the first time since I can remember, I will be completely alone. I hope I don’t kill anybody. I will still see my children, almost every day, as my production studio (I am in the music business, such as it has deteriorated into), and my studio is on the same property as my home. I mean her home. Their home. My father’s house. He built it from a kit from Sears, back in the forties, I think for about fourteen thousand, we “fixed it up” with borrowed money and it is now worth about two million. We’re in a very nice little area in New England, called Old Greenwich, although perhaps it should be called New Whitewich, because of the void, the perfect dearth of ethnic diversity. This is a hedge fund paradise. It’s where the white, and khaki, strive and thrive. I have socialized with many of these subjects, been forced to, because of my sons school related events. These are “men” that are shockingly devoid of personality, humor and light. This is a town, and we’ve all heard the cliché about epicurean Connecticut towns, but this is a town which whole heartedly deserves its reputation. This soulless “more is more” mentality has been cultivated to an art form. The tear downs, the Macmansions as they are called, the BMW’s, the convertible Lotus, the five hundred dollar loafers WITHOUT SOCKS, the combed side part, the bleach blonde bleached toothed fake tan fake breasts tennis playing social climbing “women”, who have no substance whatsoever, but believe that they are the cream of the crop, a crop I would consider rotten, this is the place I leave behind. The only problem is that my children are here, and I feel like I am feeding them to the lions, but the lions are wearing pink polo shirts, with the collar starched and raised, like a flag from a country of lost souls, and they wave the flag, and shout “I hate myself but money makes me good, my wife is a robot and I have lost all sense of what really makes a man, and I wear our uniform, which lets the others of my ilk easily identify me, because if I don’t fit in, than I am a gypsy, a pariah, a threat to the collective, and I for one, do not have the stomach to be Locutus.”