Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, October 1921 · page 22 of 68
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang #25 — page 22: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a satirical editorial essay criticizing wealthy American society's materialism and moral emptiness. The author describes an elderly woman at what appears to be a high-society gathering, desperate for attention despite her age. She's laden with jewelry and finery—pearls, diamonds, gold chains, bracelets—yet her physical decay ("wrinkled," "snaky neck," "withered arms") contrasts starkly with her desperate display. The satire's point: external wealth merely exposes inner spiritual poverty. The author finds it obscene that an elderly woman should spend her final years pursuing fashion and social validation rather than spiritual preparation ("Bible on her knees"). The piece then transitions to describing the "Beach Club," presented as America's equivalent to Monte Carlo gambling resort, suggesting wealthy leisure culture promotes vice. The reference to "Cerberus at the door" (the mythological guard dog) implies exclusionary gatekeeping. The text breaks off mid-sentence, suggesting continued criticism of this exclusive institution.
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20 Captain Billy's Whiz Bang to flaunt their gold and diamonds and exhibit everything they could on their outside which did but advertise the naked poverty of their inner mentality and morality. Amid all this glare, gold and giddiness, I watched an old woman, who was out of the society race, but painfully anxious to be no- ticed. This slave of fashion with rope of pearls around her neck, bosom bound round with chains of gold, and handcuffed with brace- lets, leaned back in her chair. When she saw me look at her she raised the lace on her breast that I might see her hidden diamonds, then rested her withered arms for me to admire her bracelets, moved her bony, be-diamonded fin- gers, heaved her upholstered bosom and writhed her wrinkled, snaky neck. Ye Gods, what a sight! This last leaf on Life's tree—this winter of discontent amid these tropical surroundings—this dying spark in life's conflagration of passion—this woman of three score years making this unholy show of herself, when she ought to be in bed or with a Bible on her knees preparing to meet her God. This after-dinner sideshow was a fulsome fiesta of Fashion, a vicious Vanity Fair. The “Beach Club” is the Monte Carlo of the U. S. A. To gain admission you must be a member, or be vouched for by a member in good standing. I met a member who offered to take me in and show me around. I had seen the real Monte Carlo abroad and was told this was like it with its games and sports. I did manage to get by the Cerberus at the door, but was then politely stopped by a smiling, monkey