Élephante

I'm going to lunch today at Élephante Scottsdale, which serves southern Italian cuisine.

For some, that sentence gives the entire story. I will enjoy recounting it to gales of laughter in my next life in France.

An affluent friend, a gifted and harmed philosopher, is in town during my last months in The Valley of The Sun. I am eagerly anticipating meeting his wife, whom circumstance has prevented me from knowing until today.

I do not wish to cast aspersions at my friend, but this story is so real and strikes so deep in me that I must tell it.

When I say "harmed philosopher" of my friend, I mean that he has suffered the same and worse as I have. Poisoned by this culture and his upbringing to see his value only in his ability to acquire money or some equally vacuous success. The contradiction between that poison and his authentic core has destroyed him, again and again, in the years I have known him. Bringing him, brutally, closer to the brink than my own perilous path.

I think I love the word "vacuous" in this context. It implies both emptiness and endless devouring.

But I digress (there's a surprise).

We are going to Élephante Scottsdale, a corporate-curated social experience feed trough from The Blabla Group (New York, Los Angeles, Venice Beach, Las Vegas, Scottsdale, coming soon to Daytona Beach, Atlanta Motor Speedway and everywhere tattoos are considered high culture). It serves southern Italian cuisine.

It is the most perfectly American thing.

Éléphant is how you say "elephant" in French.

Elefante is how you say "elephant" in Italian.

Élephante is how you say "I want to buy a Tesla" in American.