Let’s not mince words or use hyperbole. I’ve just attended the best, most glamorous ball since the ’50s, and two weeks later the best party ever, and this from a man who has been partying for more than sixty years. I will not go into details because my hosts in the English countryside and their beautiful property Daylesford, Lord and Lady Bamford, are different from the publicity-seeking Hiltons, Kardashians, and their ilk. They’ve asked for radio silence. I will only go as far as to say that the last time someone even approached the glamour and magnificence of their ball was at Guy de Rothschild’s dance, and whose château outside Paris, Ferriere, was the venue. I was in my 20s.
The Second World War
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“What I fear is that separating a young person from their smartphone will one day be considered a capital offense.”
Two weeks later, in Paris, Arki Busson, whose parents are no longer with us but were very close lifelong friends of mine, took over Maxim’s, the most fabled Parisian restaurant of all time, and outdid even Franz Lehar’s fabled Merry Widow operetta that takes place in the restaurant on rue Royale. Never have I heard better music or seen more charming cancan dancers kicking up a storm while we drank champagne nonstop. Never have I seen Maxim’s come more alive, and it was all due to Arki. His children were present, two wonderful boys whose mother is Elle Macpherson, and his daughter with Uma Thurman. Arki’s now with a beautiful lady who’d rather be Madame Busson than the Duchess of Wellington, something that finds me in total agreement. Life can be beautiful when one has friends like Arki, Anthony, and Carole, and now that I’ve spilled the beans, here’s my incredible discovery at both parties: I didn’t see a single person talking on a mobile, proof that the two parties were unique and no one outsourced their humanity to their devices.
And speaking of these horrors, it is now accepted in the West that viewing is superior to reading. I believe that risk-averse parents are to blame. Prying smartphones out of the small hands of children is the first step. Following the parties I flew to the Bagel and made certain to look for any signs of books or newspapers on board or in the airports. Not a single one. Take my word for it. Instead, well, you know the rest. Everyone glued to those devices like slaves used to be glued to their oars, the only sound missing being the big bully banging on a slab giving the beat to those in chains.
A Jew to the Jews: Jew...
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What I don’t understand is that in America, where I now find myself, everything is disposable, so why don’t concerned parents get rid of these devices and leave their children on their own? The little monsters are bound to open a book, or are they? Perhaps I’m judging from my generation’s outlook. What I fear is that separating a young person from their smartphone will one day be considered a capital offense.
Drinking champagne nonstop gives one a terrible hangover the next day but illuminates the conversation the night before. I had some good ones: Western affluence and luxury abundance have led to exaggerated, nonexistent health problems; at least that’s what my beautiful and young dinner neighbor insisted. I wholeheartedly agreed. PTSD is now claimed nonstop by anyone disappointed over any result: an election, a football match, even a traffic ticket. An epidemic of mental illness seems to be everywhere in the West, and terms such as “bipolar” are bandied about by shyster lawyers, whereas once upon a time “shell-shocked” was used sparingly about victims of gunshot wounds or natural disasters.
