The failing San Francisco Chronicle has started—in the midst of the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression—a blog by two idly rich guys. Topic: "What's it like to be rich?" Lots of dodging pitchforks, I imagine.
The rich guy bloggers are Peter and Billy Getty, famous in San Fran as heirs to the Getty oil fortune. Maybe they're good guys and they try to be self-deprecating but they have clearly stepped much, much deeper in the violent waters of class rage than they are prepared for. None of this works, guys. Starting with your bio:
Since graduating from college in 1988, Peter Getty has flirted occasionally with real work, but finding it wearisome, has returned full time to his first love, watching television.
Not to be confused with serious responsibilities are Mr. Getty's infrequent forays into music and writing, nor is the obscure music blog he has kept pseudonymously for the past several years.
Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up with your idle life. Do you see the irrational, unfocused nature of class rage, the force with which you are now in contention? It cannot be reasoned with. It's doubtful this bit of democratic public outreach will work out for you two in a positive fashion. Your blog is called "What the Butler Didn't See," which, shut the fuck up with that, as a title. You just put up your first post yesterday. It purports to answer the question purportedly on the minds of many purported people: "What's it like to be rich?" A sample of your work:
By the way: there are slews of people richer than we are, just in this neighborhood. We're more famous for being rich than we really are rich. But we have enough to belong to the leisure class, meaning we get to spend very little of our time doing anything we don't feel like, and we have means to sample, if not to gorge on, pleasures that most people, sad to say, won't likely ever share in — things like yacht trips and safaris, ludicrously expensive wine, and private jet travel.
This section is a caveat, meant to display both humility and no-frills honesty about your relative privilege. But men, you have forgotten: class rage. Your section serves to produce anger rather than identification. You continue:
Not to sound patronizing, but if you watch the Giants on TV — well, ideally HDTV — you partake equally in the most satisfying indulgence we know. We share a private box at Pac Bell or whatever the hell they're calling it these days, and it's actually kind of a hassle, to tell the truth. You can easily make far better hot dogs at home than they give you in the luxury boxes.
Again: your self-awareness of your uncomfortable position serves only to make you seem weaker to the angry, underprivileged hordes. Had you had somewhat more perfect self-awareness, you would not have agreed to write this blog, for the dying San Francisco Chronicle. As it is, your reader is unable to fight the urge to shout, "Well I'll come sit in your fucking luxury box while you microwave hot dogs at my studio apartment, then, motherfucker!"