How to Marry Rich

How to marry rich
By Xanadu Xero - RAW STORY COLUMNIST

Dusk. I was splayed on my loveseat when a Higher Power spoke to me. In song! Right through a laptop MP3! An old, wailing blues diva delivered the Word: “You can sell it, honey, or sit on it, but girl – don’t you give it away…”
NOW she tells me.
“It’s just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man,” my mother chirped throughout my teen-hood, when there was still hope. What a crock.

To marry a poor man, all you need is a fifth of Mescal and gas to Vegas. To marry rich in L.A. however…

Heed me, my sisters – you need a plan.

Back in Mom & friends’ moneyed MILF heyday, some hot, Swedish imports blew onto their scene, staking claims in the Beverly Hills Wife Club. They seemed to appear out of nowhere, but ah, ‘twas not the case.

Legend goes that an entrepreneurial older woman (I’d cast Charlotte Rampling) handpicked the perky cupcakes back in Sverige. She perfected their English, dressed them, taught them the arcane ‘which fork’ etiquette that B.H. mistakes for class.

When the bait was prepped (and here lies the brilliance) Madam dangled her herrings in all the right ponds. Lunch, dinner, cocktails at Rich Man haunts, golf/tennis lessons at country clubs, etc.
‘Etc.’ including, I’d wager, scads of unspeakable acts, and how to think of the Queen when grossly disgusted.

It wasn’t long before the bait was snapped up. Nouveau Riche men love nothing more than a natural blonde (carpet matches drapes). Madam was paid, discreetly, a large, pre-arranged fee.
(Wait. Time out. Think about this: ‘Extreme Makeover – The Real Thing’. Would that be a, like, dope reality show or what? Producers, contact me.)

I was recently buoyed by an ad for a seminar given by Lisa Johnson, auteur of the codex, ‘How To Snare A Millionaire.’ Who says our country has eschewed the middle class? Golddigging has come to the people!

“Erase the word ‘golddigging’ from your mind!” simply bubbles Ms. Johnson. Fast-forward to said seminar with my butt in a chair. “Women are hard-wired to mate with the alpha male. Biology is destiny.”

Yeah? Then wouldn’t it follow that the ‘alpha male’ would choose the youngest, most fertile, most beautiful female, knocking all of the broads here right out of the ring?

“I feel its my right as a woman to be well taken care of” snorts a tan, one-process redhead with dye on her scalp who, at fifty-some, has the face she deserves.
“Absolutely!” says Lisa. “I mean, all power to any woman who can get rich on her own, you know? But me…” she shrugs, “I’m artistic.”

We are gathered, to succor destiny, at the LAX (Airport) Holiday Inn, a ghastly place. A jog to the runways, on a sleazy boulevard, you can feel rats in the walls without being psychic. Packs of rap-clad young men clogged the entrance and lobby, perhaps looking for women to beat.

‘The Rich Have To Marry — Why Not You?’ took place in a ‘meeting’ room suitable for double use as a snuff film set. It was next to the bar, across from the men’s toilet. But none of this disturbed the Romans, no siree.

Our group included a be-wigged Hispanic hussy who said she was French, a phlegmy, dry-haired blonde d’un age no spring chicken, some Regis fans from Accounts Receivable, a scary Moroccan with implants akimbo, and a large, tattooed teacher who yelled ‘Yippee!’ at Lisa’s cock-kipeing tips.

“Millionaires just love me,” Lisa peeped. “I’ve been proposed to fifty times by millionaires. In really elegant places — yachts, fancy restaurants. Some of the proposals came from the same men; repeat offenders! And saying ‘no’ after seeing those big ol’ diamonds was not easy, believe me!”
I guess she sensed that every eye flew to her left hand fourth finger, which was bare. She held it up.
“I’m such a romantic,” she said. I’m just waiting for the right guy.”
I would venture to say… bull-pucky.

Until this point, I had compassion. Lisa is pleasant looking, that’s all. She describes herself as “no genius” and I believe her. She’s allegedly a journalist, but I could find no evidence, unless she writes about science in Vancouver. So she hacked out a little niche, however smarmy, and is working it. So what. A girl’s got to pay the bills.
But try to con me… and my core roils with thunder.

“There are a mill-ee-on single millionaires in L.A. County, ladies,” Lisa’s words squiggled forth. “Your chances are good.”

Out where? The lobby? Hades? The Andromeda Strain? As for their ‘chances’… If a mill-ee-on millionaires were trapped in this very room horny and starving – and if these women were naked with food on their loins… I’d say their chances still weren’t good.

“One of the best things you can do, girls, is learn to play golf. Millionaires love to play golf. You should start hitting balls at a driving range. One of the best is at Rancho Park.”

“Wrong!” I clacked out, snide. “Rich men in L.A. don’t go to public parks. They belong to country clubs, and use the range there.”

Lisa was flustered. “Well, yes, but… sometimes on their way home from work…”
“Never.” Okay, I was somewhat obnoxious. All of the lazy, wormy, lifeless, blank faces turned my way with a pout.

“And what do you mean by ‘millionaire’?” I blurted, indelicate. “That’s such a quaint term. Do you include guys who just have a mil on paper, or a million cash? If a guy has a million cash and lives off the interest, we are not talking yachts here, girls, or even Frexinet. Let’s say his money’s in a thirty-year t-bill. He’ll only gross about fifty-five thou. After taxes – thirty-five?

No health insurance. Hardly enough for himself around here, much less a family!”

Actually, I didn’t say that last part. I thought it.

I thought next of a B Actress I know who had managed engagements to three rich, famous men.
All three had dumped her. At one stroke to midnight she wrangled a third. Number three was in his sixties, newly divorced from his nasty wife of forty years. B Actress became his fantasy girl, cooking pot roast in flowing dresses and the like. Now she’s the mother of two hellions, trapped in convention, tied to an old, tired man she never loved.

‘Bow down before the cash you serve, you’re going to get what you deserve,’ as Nine Inch Nails would say.

As for Lisa’s ‘tips,’ I couldn’t bear to repeat them, but here are mine: Get off your ass, learn something and shut-up. You may not marry rich, but you just might have a nice life anyway.