Definitively Answering the Question:
Should Rich People Be Allowed to Breed?
Charlotte Bocly, Debutard of the Year
Very few things render me speechless. This article was one of them.
"I Am Charlotte Bocly," indeed ... she's straight out of a Gossip Girls novel, at least one of which I am not proud to say that I have skimmed. Okay, fine. Read.
Although Gawker didn't name her to the Douchebag Hall of Fame, I think she has a pretty good shot at it.
In case you're too lazy to read the whole train-wreck, here are some choice quotes:
"I Am Charlotte Bocly," by George Gurley, published in the NY Observer 10/26/06
"Besides apartments in New York and Paris, and the house in Bridgehampton, her parents have a chalet in Gstaad, Switzerland, where Charlotte says she’s a “member for life” at the super-exclusive Eagle Club (three-year waiting list to rub parkas with the likes of Roger Moore.)"Honestly, it gets worse from there. Trust me.
Charlotte on Her "Crazy" Summer in the Hamptons: “It was just a crazy, crazy time,” she said. “Somehow, everyone ended up at my house, and everyone’s in my pool, everyone’s naked, Paul is naked—this is at 5 in the morning, by the way—then Alexandra drove up. Out of nowhere, there are like 20 cars. Alexandra disappeared with a house guest, and I disappeared with this boy I thought was cute—it’s been a year, it’s not my style—a good-looking boy who I found out was in high school the next morning, but looked much older. And then Emily goes off with Paul—Paul!—and I’m in my underwear and a bra and I’m chasing after this guy, and I’m on the lawn—this is a little scandalous. My father comes out in his underwear—you don’t wake up my dad—and he was yelling in French and everyone was out of there. The world was shaking. Then I passed out in bed. That was a great night, for the Hamptons.”
Charlotte on Being SO Over Partying: “I was like, ‘I’m done with it,’” Charlotte said. “You know, like drama, drama, drama, drama, drama, drama, drama. I needed time away.”
Charlotte on Rehab: “I think I had Billy Joel’s room,” she said. “I had a great time. I met great people. I went there to have the experience. I needed to change, and that just seemed like the biggest extreme way to do it, regardless of whether I needed to do it or not. I was actually just supposed to go for one week, and I loved it. I was like, ‘Mom I want to stay longer.’ Oh, I loved it! It was like a spa, there was a pool."
Charlotte on Money: “I’m definitely aware of it,” she said. “I am, you know, spoiled. I am. Most of us are. The thing is, I’m not like a brat. You know, my two maids, Rubé and Maria, are like my best friends. I love Rubé and Maria; they will come in my room and go, ‘Charlotta, get up! Get out of bed, put on your shoes!’ I’m like, ‘Rubé, noooo.’ Then I’ll go and get her coffee, you know, they’re like family.” She said she adores her doormen and that, if she returns home with no money after a night of clubbing, the doormen pay the cab driver.
Charlotte on Gstaad: “Gstaad is New York City without, like—I’m not going to say like the commoners, but you take a certain group of people and you just put them together in a little world, in a bubble, and that’s what it is,” she said. “I have come to love it. I had a phase where I was like, ‘Fuck all these people; it’s not real life.’ I’ve come to love it because I can go there, have fun with people I think are ridiculous, just enjoy their company.”
Charlotte on Her Dad: “I love my dad. My dad gave me money like it was Kleenex.”
Look, I've done some douchebaggy things in my life. Lots of them, in fact. Most of us, especially at 19 years old, have a little douchebag in us.
That having been said, Charlotte Bocly takes it to a new level. Didn't her mother (who was quoted in the article) realize how ATROCIOUSLY HORRIBLE Charlotte's spoiled teenage musings would sound if, you know, they were, like, totally recorded verbatim?
Honestly, I didn't know whether to indulge in copious amounts of schadenfreude (not that it will matter - she'll just fly off to Gstaad, where no one reads the Observer), or feel really sorry for her (she actually doesn't realize she's a brat. WTF??), or cry because I can barely make my rent and she ... well ... exists.
I think I'm going for the last. Sniff. Maybe her dad can give me some of that Kleenex.