Brendan Murphy

The Walking ATM

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On September 23rd of this year, a New York player won the $104 million dollar Mega Millions jackpot. As always, the same conversation of ‘what would you do with that kind of money?’ rears its head. Would you buy a mansion? A yacht? Ten yachts? Maybe you would invest it and hope to make even more. Maybe you would donate some of it, half of it, all of it. When you hit that level of extreme wealth, the world is suddenly at your fingertips.

And yet, your mountain of green puts a red bullseye on your back. Wherever you turn next, someone will ask for a piece of the pie, and that’s fine, right? Your family will sustain themselves for generations; you’ll be able to help out your closest friends with any financial struggles they might be having; the charities of your choice will flourish with your lending hand, and nothing will put a dent in your seemingly endless stack of cash.

Then, suddenly, friends who haven’t returned your calls in years start to come out of the woodwork. Your ex wants to meet for lunch. Your third grade bully has a change in heart. You finally get an invite you to the neighbors’ Christmas party, the ones that have always hated you. Coincidentally, a lot of people realize what good company you are, and want to hang out.

This is precisely why I would live with my wealth in secret–to avoid the fakers. Sure, I’d get myself a comfortably big house in a nice neighborhood. I’d make sure my family had everything they needed. All of my children, and my children’s children, and their children’s children would be able to afford college. I would donate to various charities, though ask to remain anonymous. I wouldn’t sit on my pile of money and do nothing, but I wouldn’t squander it on material objects either.

 

I wouldn’t build a castle with a hundred rooms and a parking garage full of Bugattis. I wouldn’t pay to have my name on every building in the hemisphere.  I wouldn’t buy a racehorse, and I most certainly wouldn’t buy that $3,000 jacket from Brooks Brothers that they keep in a bulletproof display.

 

That’s $500 per gold button.

These are all unnecessary things that would invite the people that don’t truly care about me to come pretend that they do, and those are the poorest people of all.

With so much money comes the temptation to spend it on useless material things. Maybe my perspective would be different if this weren’t a hypothetical, but at this point in my life I am perfectly comfortable wearing sweats and driving an old Ford. Once you become a walking ATM, you lose the validity of your relationships, which truly are the most important things in your life. If I were filthy rich, my goal would be for you to never know it.

 

 

Wedding Crashers: Tom Buchanan Edition

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In the movies, weddings always seem to play out according to that same ridiculous script: one protagonist is about to marry some jerk, and the other protagonist is there just in time to stop it. Do priests or rabbis or ministers actually use that “if you have any objections…” line? Do people actually wait until the wedding to object other than in the movies? I don’t think I’d ever have it in me to spoil someone’s big day like that, no matter how much I objected.

One exception though. If it was my sister marrying Tom Buchanan, I’d be tipping pews and smashing wedding cakes in objection.

 

Where do you even start with this guy? I guess before you dive into the heavy stuff, you concede that he is a spoiled, pompous, arrogant sack of bricks. An Ivy League diploma–probably still framed on the refrigerator–afforded him a first class education in deceit and infidelity. He treats his wife, Daisy, like property, a trophy testament to his enormous wealth. 

But maybe you can look past all that. Afterall, he’s got a decent hairline and a whole lot of money. He was a star on the football field. Sure, he’s an insufferable loser on the surface, but maybe underneath that big hulking mass of self-importance is a genuine guy with a big heart.

 

 

 

 

Then you get to know him in all his racist, misogynistic, and abusive ugliness. He cheats on his wife and breaks his mistress’ nose without batting an eyelash. He effectively murders another man, Gatsby, by refusing to accept the consequences of his own actions. His deflection of George Wilson towards Gatsby is proof that he is both a master manipulator and a spineless coward. How could anyone let their family member marry a man that so clearly lacks regard for any life other than his own? Nick’s final description of Tom is ‘careless’. That, to me, is one of literature’s great understatements. Tom Buchanan is toxic, cancerous, and murderous. For all his wealth and status, he is among the poorest souls in American literature.

With any luck, my sister will have realized all of this long before picking out a white dress. If not, I guess I’ll hold on to hope that weddings these days still follow that old script.

“If anybody has any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

 

Image result for i object gif

 

 

Oh, The Places You’ll Go…

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There are a thousand ways to get where you’re going. Walk, run, crawl, bike, drive, fly, swim, paddle. Some ways will take longer than others. Some ways will be physically grueling, mentally exhausting, or unequivocally frustrating. Others will be smooth, comfortable, and expeditious. In any case, there will always be a way to get from point A to point B.

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