I recently agreed to a date with a man from Vegas who dabbles in real estate (to the tune of several hundred million) and has a house on the water in Newport Beach, approximately an hour drive from L.A. As he was driving up from Newport to meet me at the Roof Garden Restaurant at The Peninsula Beverly Hills, he called from his Maybach (one of two he owned, along with a long list of other penis cars including two Bentleys, a Porsche racing car, a Ferrari, and my personal favorite – a Cadillac Escalade, or as like to call it “The Compensator”). Evidently he had no idea how to use the GPS in his $430,000 toy, as he normally had a driver. Today was my lucky day. I got to give him block-by-block directions from the 405 freeway to the destination, a mere 1.2 miles away, and he still managed to get turned around a half dozen times.
He finally arrived and ambled over to the table where I was seated – smack dab center of the patio. A towering 6’4”, he looked and sounded like a distant relative of Herman Munster with long gangly arms, nails bitten to the quick, and saggy alcoholic eyes like Larry Hagman, circa 1995, prior to his liver-transplant. At the time, Larry Hagman was 64 and not well; my date claimed to be only 52. I was a huge fan of Larry Hagman in I Dream of Jeanie and Dallas, but that didn’t make me want to date a celebrity look-a-like. Despite Munster’s stated youth, he kept talking about his bucket list, which included going to every Nascar race in the world, every major league baseball stadium in the US, the US Open, The French Open, Wimbledon and the Australian Open, and pretty much every sporting even under the sun. I could take the tennis matches and the Monaco Grand Prix would be kinda cool, but it is a rather lame bucket list if you ask me. If that was the list and he wanted to do it with me, I would hope that he’d kick the bucket sooner than later. It certainly doesn’t match my bucket list, partly because I’m too young to have one yet. Other than talking about his list, he talked about his real estate holdings – thousands and thousands of acres in Vegas, Dallas and Dana Point. He admits to having barely graduated high school (like I didn’t notice) and learned everything he knows about business from reading books by Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and the likes. Mr. Munster never asked me one thing about myself. When he did refer to me, he made asinine jokes, such as “Did your mother lift weights, because you’re a real dumbbell.” Now, that would be marginally funny, if he weren’t such a dumbbell himself and if I actually were a dumbbell. But, since my IQ registers at least double his, it was rather pathetic. He then bragged about how many one-line zingers he had stored in his head and I thought that is exactly where he should keep them.
During the agonizing two-hour brunch, the service staff all but vacated the premises and got me wondering if I had overlooked a fire alarm drill. Finally brunch ended and we made our way to the valet parking where he waited for his Maybach, which was parked out front on proud display. As I was paying for my parking (he did not offer to pay), he asked me how much it was and made a comment on how he’d have to give the valet more than a $10 for his car since that would only be a $2 tip. He pulled out a twenty. Still not offering to pay for my valet. I guess he left his manners in the glovebox of the Maybach. In this era, it is standard dating protocol for a man to pay for a woman’s parking or taxi, as it is no longer acceptable for a man to pick a woman up at her home on a first date (due to safety reasons, though it is always polite to offer).
With a house in the best development in Summerlin, the most elite suburb of Vegas, a waterfront home in Newport Beach, and his various toys – I can only assume private jet was on the list – this guy would be a magnet to the multitude of blond haired, tits-on-a-stick, aging plastic surgery Playboy bunny retirees who grace the streets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills in their Ugg/miniskirt combos and stripperesque clothes with their nipples barely covered covered, but he is repellent to a woman like myself. I would be popping pills, shooting heroin in the bathroom and have alcoholic eyes myself if I spent more than a day with this man. How one woman married him for 15+ years and another for 7 years, is beyond me. Oh, right… the 15-year marriage landed the wife and mother-of-two a 12-million dollar settlement, and the 7-year marriage, well she walked out one day – loaded up the moving trucks and tossed the keys on the front porch – while he was boating on Lake Mead. That divorce is pending. I have to admire these women for their tenacity and endurance. Were I a gold digger, I would have been married seven times over and would be commuting via private jet from my vineyard in Napa to the Van Nuys airport where my driver would await me in my Mercedes sedan (I would never be so nouveau riche gauche to own a Maybach) and take me to my 3-acre waterfront home on the cliffs of Point Dume, Malibu.
Snob, yes, most definitely I am. Stickler for manners and social graces, agreed. But, gold digger? I wish.