You, too, can go from riches to rags in just one day!

Every now and then, the universe likes to remind me that I am its bitch, to be bought and sold for cartons of Kools.

For Christmas, I received a total of $450 in monetary instruments, in addition to other fine gifts. Not a bad haul. I had grand plans for this infusion of funds: gentle-manly garments, adornments for my auto-voiture, books, and household improvements. After the events of yesterday, these purchases must be postponed.

The first event I actually halfway expected to happen. My trusty Ford refused to start up yester-morn. It had sat idle outside the house for three days, and for the past few weeks had been hesitant to start. A call to AAA and an hour later, I was writing a check for $130 for a new battery and a new positive battery clamp (the old one had been practically disintegrated by leaking acid). I may have gotten screwed, but the brand was supposedly top of the line, plus it was very convenient to have it installed right there at my doorstep. The battery he removed was the brand AAA used to sell, and it had lasted 7 years, so I imagine they know their stuff when it comes to selecting products.

So off to work I went, my coffers $130 lighter. When I returned home in the evening, I let the dog out as usual and went into the living room, intending to sit down and view the Peanuts 1970s DVDs I had received, when what to my wandering eye should appear, but a torn-up candy wrapper on the sofa, oh dear. Our little 25-pound dog had eaten a good 4 ounces of dark chocolate. Off to the after-hours emergency vet she went for a forced vomiting and an overnight observation costing $657. Yes, there are three digits there and no decimal. Six-hundred fifty-seven and no/100 dollars. We decided it was worth the money not to risk her having an arrhythmia without immediate medical attention.

Ma and Pa helped out with the veterinary bill, but in total I dropped my entire Christmas monies plus $80 yesterday. Any New Year's Eve festivities, therefore, will have to be on the super-cheap. We may just go hang out with friends in Raleigh. No fabulous clothes beyond what the gift card will afford. No chrome side molding or Grand Marquis corner lights for Vicky. I had damn well better win something in the lottery this week.

Crappy Christmas Gifts

Before getting to the main subject matter of this post, I'll begin by being a boastful bastard: all my shopping for Annual Gift Exchange Day is complete. I will not be rushing out to a crowded mall or cluster-fucked shopping center competing with lower life forms for parking spaces a week before the big day. Nay, I shall be relaxing in my warm, cozy home all day on the 24th, enjoying my pretty tree and loafing about.

Now that my enviable good planning has been properly flaunted, on to today's topic. Most of us, either through our own or, in my case, a spouse's sense of obligation, have people on our gift list whom we rarely see or talk to, sometimes intentionally, but to whom we nonetheless feel obligated to give some trinket in the spirit of Annual Gift Exchange Day. I brought no such people into my marriage. I never give gifts to the various aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends of the family, co-workers, postmen, footmen, grocers, fishmongers, shamans, bootblacks, barrel-coopers, shit-shovelers, and boil-lancers in my life. In exchange, they don't burden me with any useless shit that I don't need or want, and no one feels any pangs of guilt for not participating in the commercial spirit. Alas, due to my dear wife's deficiency of guilt immunity, we end up purchasing or recycling crappy gifts for her miscellaneous relatives and acquaintances. Equally disconcertingly, the same people bestow us with a yearly dose of crap.

The following is a list of crappy gifts I have either given, received, or seen in stores marketed as "perfect gifts:"

Scented candles. Who the fuck actually uses these? I can't think of any particular moment in my life when I yearned for my house to smell like an old woman's perfume.

Assortments of soaps, bath oils, lotions, etc. Number one, I do not take baths, I shower like any normal American. Baths are for when I have extreme muscle pain or a broken leg, and in such cases I have no desire to smell like a god-damned rose garden. Number two, most of these kinds of gifty products have given me breakouts when I've actually used them. What better gift than a fresh crop of zits that takes me back to my awkward teenage years?

Matching sets of holiday-themed paper napkins and paper plates. Thanks, I can really use this for that party I'm having last fucking week. Oh, and thanks for giving me something I can only use once.

Framed photographs. Because I want nothing more than to enshrine you in my gigantic house where I have so many bare surfaces where this would fit perfectly.

Roadside emergency kits. You know, just in case AAA and cell phones suddenly disappear off the face of the earth.

Travel alarm clock. Yeah, my cell phone's alarm clock function just mysteriously stops working as soon as I cross the state line.

Compact umbrella. Oh my god! I... I never had an umbrella before! I never thought I'd own one! Until now I've had to dash through the rain sheltering myself with a newspaper soiled with a homeless man's feces!

Portable cassette player, or even worse, portable AM/FM radio. Where do I even start? Cassette players were already aging when I was given one in 1995. Thanks, I can't wait to spend hours making mix tapes from my CD collection! Can you imagine getting one of these now? I actually saw someone listening to a portable cassette player at the gym recently, and I think she was doing it without ironic nostalgia.

A wallet. No adult in the world already has one.

Keyrings of any sort. The keyring I already have is just not working out for me.

Etiquette guide. Nothing makes you feel the joy of Christmas like being told you're an uncouth slob.

Singing/talking bottle opener. Good for a few giggles, but once the irreplaceable battery dies, you're left with a paperweight with your favorite team logo or cartoon character.

Speaking of which, Paperweights. I don't know about you, but I constantly find myself trying to keep papers from blowing away, because I do all my work on the bow of a speedboat at 50 knots.

Miniature books. The stupid tree-killers with pictures of dogs in funny hats, or a piece of sage advice on each page. These are usually good for a chuckle or a few pearls of wisdom, but what the fuck do I do with it after I've read it once, in the space of about 5 minutes? Maybe I should build a tiny bookshelf with the power tools you could have given me.

Any product labeled "As Seen On TV!" At best, it will break, disappoint, or not work at all. More likely, it will give the user a rash, electric shock, or cancer.

Cheese slicing set. This will put an end to those recurring nightmares I have where William Howard Taft won't stop teabagging me because I can't slice my cheese perfectly.

Word-a-day calendars. The perfect gift for the man with a 7th-grade reading level.

Meat & cheese assortments. If you're lucky, they'll be yummy, but an aftertaste of thoughtlessness will linger.

Christmas ornaments. I sure don't already have a tree full of ornaments, and I'll only have to wait an entire fucking year to use it.

Stocking hangers. Not only are they just plain tacky, they also have to wait a year to see any use.

Christmas-themed trivets, platters, potholders, china, and glassware. Yet again, doomed to sit in a closet for 11 months before seeing daylight.

Gift certificates to places you don't or can't go, or that won't cover the full cost of something. Specific examples come to mind: 1: my aunt used to give me gift certificates to an independent book store in Chapel Hill. I lived in Raleigh, and this was before I could drive. So I couldn't even use the thing until the next time my mom or my friend's mom felt like going to Chapel Hill. Plus they were always for 5 bucks, and Garfield books cost $6.95. 2: I once received one for an independent music store on Hillsborough Street. It was a store I rarely ever went to, and all their CDs cost a good 4–5 bucks more than at Best Buy. Thanks, I'll use this 10 bucks as a down payment on an album. 3: a $10 Applebee's gift card for me and my wife to go out to dinner. Um, thanks, I guess we'll split a plate of nachos and only one of us can get a soda.

Homemade crafts. Unless you're an artist with an understanding of craft, color, materials, and composition, just don't do it.

Not a bad December, so far

I was just musing on how relatively enjoyable this December has been, compared to Decembers of years past. Annual Gift-Giving Day has thus far imposed very little stress upon my fragile psyche. Most of our gifts have already been acquired. Our pagan tree has been purchased, erected, and festooned with lights and fanciful ornaments. Our set of Christmas china has been fetched from the storage closet and washed. It's been a disturbingly smooth December. I am a bit frightened by the unfamiliarity of such a thing.

In years past, something always got put off or forgotten until the last possible moment. A recipient was left off the mental gift list. The perfect gift for so-and-so was not located until the 24th. The living room was still without a tree a week before the big day. Long ago, when I was still under my parents' roof, I would be sent nearly every year after being a licensed motorist to the frenzied shit-storm known as Crabtree Valley Mall on Christmas Eve to fight the vulturous throngs and retrieve some trinket to give to some relative somewhere.

This year, the bulk of the shopping was completed this past Saturday, when the local shopping center was noticeably busier than other times of the year but not nearly as hectic as the last week before the big day. The rest of the shopping has been taken care of by my fabulous bride during her convenient down-time while the little darlings are in school. Practically everything I've purchased for her is coming through the mail, eliminating the need to mingle with the diseased masses. And talk about savings! The books and DVDs I bought for her online with free shipping cost less than I would have paid with a 10% member discount at Barnes & Noble. So on Saturday, as the shades of evening drew, we bought our Christmas tree and set it up, then chowed down on delicious pizza (delivered, of course). The next day we decorated the tree while munching on popcorn, sipping hot spiced wine, and playing seasonal tunes. It was a grand time filled with holiday cheer and no stress. For the first time in a few years, I find myself looking forward to Christmas, instead of wishing it would just hurry up and be over with. If only I were going to have more than $130 in my account after my car insurance gets paid . . .

I do, however, yearn for the days when I had 3–4 weeks of vacation time during the Annual Gift-Giving season. In my glorious university days, exams would be over around the 15th or so, and classes didn't resume until at least the 6th. Those were the most precious weeks of the year, because unlike summer, there was no pressure to get a job, nor was there any expectation to get fresh air and exercise. I had every excuse to go to bed late, get up at 11AM, and loaf around the house or hang out with friends all day. Christmas shopping was done at my leisure, in the middle of the day when the corporate drones were toiling away in their cubicles.

This morning I dragged my ass out of bed at 7:30 and walked out into the 40-degree chill to get into my icy car and go to my soul-sucking cubicle, and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, get up in another 3 hours, and sit on the couch all day in my PJs, slurping hot chocolate, chomping down popcorn, and looking at my pretty tree.

My latest idiotic project idea

Well, the general insanity continues. I want to repaint my dining room in an ivory color and install some crown molding, but not just to fancy it up. I believe this would provide a better setting for theme dinners (which we would host if we could get our cluttered shit-hole of a house cleaned up).

Friends who read this blog no doubt recall my Oval Office-themed study at my parents' house. I attempted the same at my current residence but finally came to terms with the fact that I won't have a convincing home version until I have the means to build a custom-designed house. I had a brilliant thought, however: I could have a White House-themed dining room, in which I could host a Presidential dinner. My dining room is nowhere near the size of the state dining room, but it could be, in my deluded mind, the smaller "family dining room" found in the executive mansion. A lick of ivory paint and some molding would give off the desired effect. I took the time to render my idea in Photoshop (too lazy to add the crown molding):


The materials wouldn't be terribly expensive. I already have the eagle and the flags, poles would simply be dowels stained or painted, and the portrait would be a framed poster print.

For a Titanic dinner (mentioned in an earlier post), I'd simply replace the portrait with a poster of ships at sea and remove the flags and eagle. I'd also rig up an electric table lamp similar to those used on the ship by putting an LED flashlight inside a small brass lamp base.

Back from the swell life

I was livin' it up last week.

I took the entire week of Thanksgiving off (3 work days) and went with my bride to D.C. We had a blast. Nerds that we are, we spent 2 days in the American History Museum, a day at the Natural Science Museum, a long afternoon at the Air & Space Museum, and a day viewing the monuments on the National Mall. In between, we made a trip out to the country to her godmother's country estate for Thanksgiving.

It wasn't quite the sprawling estate we'd envisioned. It was on a plot of only a few acres, but the land was attractively kept in a mostly natural state with some landscaping. A large fountain sat out front in a pond near a gazebo. The back yard had a large swimming pool (covered up for the season) lined with small statues; nearby a luxurious hot tub awaited us, with a man-made waterfall as a backdrop. The house itself was very elegantly appointed inside with fine antiques and artworks. My favorite room was the beautiful library, with its rich green walls, towering cases full of books about history, architecture, and art, plush sofas perfect for long reading sessions, and charming antique writing desk. The dining room, where Thanksgiving dinner was served, boasted a long (18 feet maybe?) table and sideboard littered with antique silver. The hostess decorated the table herself with flowers and foliage in harvest colors, with glass gourds. The table was set with fine china, antique silverware, and Waterford crystal drinking vessels. Such is the only way a gentle-man would dine on this holiday.

Our bedroom was in a large finished part of the basement, expertly decorated like a Western huntsman's lodge, complete with bearskin rug, big sectional sofa upholstered in a geometric Native American pattern, stone fireplace topped off with a trophy deer's head, and a stuffed & mounted black bear. There were times when I didn't want to leave the cozy comfort of our little suite.

Of course, I couldn't resist dressing for the part in D.C. I donned dress trousers, conservative necktie, and my tan trench coat, to evoke the archetypal government agent, and walked with a confident stride and a serious demeanor. My shaggy mane, however, probably diminished the effect. I opted to leave the coiled earphone at home. A great little touch was a blue & gold American eagle lapel pin I found at a museum gift shop. The tan trench coat is by no means a cliché or passé in that town; it was a fairly common sight on the metro on weekday mornings & evenings. Part of the excitement of the District is the concentration of shadowy G-men. I may have passed by Secret Service agents, FBI agents, or NSA spooks without knowing it. If I won the lottery, I could see myself having a place in Arlington and riding the metro to town and back during rush hour dressed in my government goon gear, just for the hell of it. I'd have to get a haircut, though.

My enjoyment of our vacation was enhanced by not having to do anything we didn't want to do. No getting up with the alarm at 7:15 and trudging to a boring office, no worrying about what to eat for supper. For a week I got to live the life I've always wanted. Now I'm back in my gray little cubicle, doing shit I don't want to do, dreaming of a better life lived on my own terms.

On an unrelated topic, I think if I win the lottery, I would assemble a private motorcade. It would be awesome to ride around town in a black limo, escorted by big black SUVs and perhaps a few motorcycles. If I had enough winnings, I'd have a few different styles of motorcades: Presidential (Cadillac limo with little flags on the fenders and a personal seal on the doors, GMC Suburbans, Crown Victorias), European (Rolls Royce limo and Range Rovers, BMW motorcycles with drivers wearing yellow hi-vis jackets), and generic American VIP (Lincoln Town Cars, Lincoln Navigators, and Lincoln limo). I'd say that would be a hell of a lot better than what most of the dumb hicks who usually win the lotto do with their winnings, like buy ATVs and invest in relatives' cockamamie business schemes. God, how much longer must I languish in this cubicle before I have the means to do what I know I'm meant to do, which is live fabulously?

Rain, Rain, Go the Fuck Away

I know rain is good for the earth. I learned about the water cycle in grade school. I know we're finally getting back in stride with our average yearly rainfall after a shortfall earlier in the year. I'm still about damned tired of all this foul-ass weather. Rain has been pounding the area nonstop for 3 or 4 days, combined with high winds and chilly temperatures. The worst thing about weather like this is that I have to go out in it. I have to get my ass up at 7:30am, put on my rain gear, and schlep to my cubicle in the rain and cold, then back again in the 5:30 blackness. Let me tell you how much fun it is to drive home in the rain, in the dark, on well-worn roads. The painted lines may as well be imaginary. On days like this I just want to go back to sleep until 10 and stay in my bedclothes all day, eating soup and popcorn and slurping hot chocolate while snuggled up on the couch watching the idiot box.

These blustery days have also coincided with an effort to rearrange my car's entertainment-related gadgetry in time for the drive to the RenFest this weekend. Ever try doing stuff to your car when it's raining and you don't have a garage? It sucks, dear reader, it powerful sucks. Especially when you're dashing back & forth between the car and your toolbox upstairs because you keep needing shit. Fuck, I forgot the electrical tape! Where the fuck did I put the Velcro? Anyway, I purchased a cheap but decent LCD screen on ebay, plus an AV cable for my iPod. I'm putting the screen where the stereo was (right below the windshield), and removed the ashtray down below, where I'm putting the stereo. I couldn't get hold of a universal mounting bracket right away, so for now the stereo is resting on my old mobile laptop mount. Still, I'll be able to play movies on long trips. I opted not to install a DVD player because messing with DVDs would be too much of a hassle. My iPod has scores of TV shows and movies already on it. Under the stereo I'll mount my little CB radio, mostly to have an extra gadget that looks cool. The final result should look very neat and tidy, with very little visible wiring. As much as I love the '90s, I can't help but love today's technology. Ten years ago, who would have dreamed that we'd be able to carry around a full library of music, TV, and movies in a device no bigger than a deck of cards, and play them on a screen in the dashboard?

I wish I had tonight to finish up, but I'm going to a concert. I foolishly entered an office raffle for free tickets and won. It's a performer that my wife and I don't dislike but neither of us is fanatical about. The weather is not an encouraging factor either. I would have given them up but I've done that twice before due to scheduling conflicts and it would annoy the person who doles out the tickets, so I'm stuck. I can't blow it off or pass along the tickets to a friend because there's a possibility that word will get back to the office and piss off the other people who entered the raffle. At least we get access to the VIP lounge where there will be free food of a very unhealthy variety (I believe slider burgers are among the offerings). At this point I'd really rather go home, finish up the stuff in my car, and get in my PJs and watch TV while the rain hammers down outside.

Additional ramblings that didn't fit in with the post about the internet

I long for an enclosed, attached, heated & air-conditioned garage. I haven't lived in a house with a garage since 1987, and that one was not attached to the house. Before that, the most we had was an open-air carport. Most of the time my parents parked their cars in the driveway anyway, and used the garage for storage.

Reader, if you have an attached, enclosed garage (that you actually use for parking your daily driver), be grateful. When I come home with a carload of groceries or other items, I must park outside my front door, no matter how foul the weather, and brave the elements as I transport the bounty into the house, my delicate gentle-manly body abused by the repeated transitions from cold to warm, hot to cool, or wet to dry and back again. A gentle-man such as myself should be exposed to unfavorable conditions as little as possible. In my previous post I mentioned the convenience of online grocery shopping, preventing me from having to exit my vehicle and be affronted by commoners. The unavoidable unpleasantness of exiting the vehicle outside my house, however, is most unsatisfactory. Many times my eyes and ears are offended by the presence of neighbors' children out of doors. Why are they not toiling in coal mines or tennis-shoe factories, or scrubbing their parents' floors?

How grand it would be to go about procuring provisions in the following manner: Enter my garage, which is kept at a comfortable temperature year-round, without exiting my house, enter my vehicle, open the garage door by remote control, set out into whatever foulness Mother Nature is shitting out, have the groceries set in my trunk as usual, and upon my return, park in the garage, which has returned to its desired temperature, and move the groceries directly into the kitchen, all while completely warm and dry.

I despise the transition to Standard Time. I absolutely loathe the onset of darkness at 5:45 in the afternoon. It's nearly dark by the time I get to my gym after work. If I can, I do my grocerying on weekend afternoons, going without necessities if I must. Clocks should be set an hour forward in October, keeping sunset at bay until 7:30, then back again in the spring. The time shift and seasonal change makes me desire the enclosed garage that much more. Those who start their days early may bitch and whine about getting out of bed in darkness, but I would prefer to get my starlit commute out of the way at the beginning of the day after a refreshing night's sleep and an energizing breakfast, rather than have to endure it after a day of labor with a tired brain and a grumbling stomach. I don't mind driving in the dark if I know daylight is just over the horizon, but knowing that it's just going to get darker as I journey home is a disconcerting thought. I feel that maintaining DST year-round, or even my proposed resetting an hour forward in the fall, would be a boon to all citizens. The economy would get a boost from consumers willing to shop in the evening hours when daylight still lingers. Fewer cases of seasonal affective disorder would arise. Fewer automobile accidents would occur in the evening rush hour with daylight still present. And we'd all be just plain happier with a little extra sunshine in our lives.

Life before the internet really sucked ass when you think about it

I thought about something profound today: Children born within the last 15 years or so have no concept of life without the internet or mobile phones. I am among the last generation of people who remember a time before these miracles.

I did school projects entirely based on books and printed articles, schlepping to the library in the cold and rain instead of holing up in my cozy house.

If I wanted to know something about a local business, I looked them up in a heavy phone book and called them to ask directly.

Single songs could only be purchased if they were popular at the moment, and required a trip to the music store (Record Bar!), where $3 (in early '90s dollars) had to be plunked down for a cassette with a track on the other side that may or may not suck. CD singles were a shocking $6. If I may digress a bit, remember how CD changers were the ultimate automobile add-on in the late '90s? Wow, 6 CDs! That's like 70 songs in your car! Fuck that shit, man, I got nearly 1800 songs and hundreds of TV shows on my ipod.

My dad was the last guy who would ever have skin mags, so decent beatoff material had to be gleaned from R-rated movies from the independent video store, or mature audience comics. How many times did I spank it to Danger Girl?

Ordering things by mail required either a phone call to a live operator, or sending a check through the mail and waiting 2 or 3 weeks to get your order. Finding some hard-to-find item required numerous phone calls to area shops and dealing with clueless clerks.

Burning questions couldn't be answered instantly, like what actor played the guy in that movie, or who sang that one hit wonder.

Getting a photo or document to someone required time and postage.

If I missed a TV show, I'd have to wait until summer reruns and hope it wasn't being rebroadcast on a week that I was at the beach (where we had no TV).

If I wanted a weather forecast, I had to wait through 15 minutes of local news first.

If I wanted to know what friends were up to, I had to call them on the landline phone and hope they were home to answer.

If I had been dropped off somewhere and needed a ride, I had to use a dirty pay phone, sometimes outdoors. At least those were in greater abundance back then.

If I were meeting someone somewhere, and he was running late, I was left in the dark about it. Or he'd have to call where I was and ask for me, making me move my ass to the phone.

Shopping for stuff used to require a trip to a store, where I had to park, deal with pushy clerks and annoying shoppers, all with the possibility that I wouldn't find exactly what I wanted. Now I can peruse dozens of merchants' wares and compare prices without leaving my house. It's gotten to where I can get some things I want cheaper online, including shipping, than in a store. Anything that keeps me from having to navigate the endless aisles of Wal-Mart and stand in line behind some morbidly obese trailer rat and her four mulattoes is OK by me. Though I would miss the entertainment of watching her slap them around. I've even taken advantage of online grocery shopping, where I just pull up to a pickup lane and they bring out the groceries to my lazy ass. Such does require a trip outside the house, though, and they sometimes make substitutions that I don't want.

As the winter gloom, with its short, cold days and long, dark nights, approaches, I feel increasingly appreciative of all the internet does that allows me not to have to stray from my warm house out into the unforgiving elements.

Sorry for the long absence

I don't know if anyone is even bothering to check this blog for updates anymore. Quite honestly, I haven't had a lot to write about.

I'll start with an update on the whole car situation. I decided to hang onto my Crown Victoria. Reason prevailed over emotion in this decision; it makes little financial sense to unload a perfectly fine automobile just because I want something else. So, to make the best of what I have, I am in the slow process of "mercurizing" my Crown Vic. So far I have procured, but not yet installed, a rear reflector panel and tail lights from a 2009 Mercury Grand Marquis via fleabay. The last part I need is a rear bumper cover, painted Silver Frost, which is surprisingly difficult to find at an affordable price. My plan to go to the local scrap yard last weekend was thwarted by adverse weather. I may end up having to spring for a custom-painted replacement part for over $300. I plan on keeping the Ford emblem, if only to avoid being stopped by a feeble-minded lawman who believes the Grand Marquis in front of him has a stolen license plate from a Crown Vic.

Just today I received the Grand Marquis tail lights I had ordered, but to my dismay found that they will require some modification, since they're made for 2 bulbs and my '98 model uses 4. Cutting 2 extra holes is far easier than rewiring, and I'm hoping I can accomplish this with tools I already own and not have to shell out 40 bucks for a Dremel tool.

I have succeeded in installing a new grille which bears a passing resemblance to a Lincoln Town Car, with its vertical chrome slats. It definitely does not have the "oh shit is that a cop?" factor of which I had grown so weary. For the time being, I have enhanced the rear end with some inexpensive chrome molding, tastefully placed around the reverse lights. The Wrightsville Beach sticker and Scottish royal standard decal signal to others that I am a gentle-man with a noble pedigree who summers in a respectable locale, and not one to be confused with undesirable individuals who bring disrepute to the vehicle.

I continue to pine away for the '90s. I recently added several playlists to my iPod, one for each of the years 1991-1999. Each list includes songs that were popular or at least new that year. So now I can pick a particular year. Do I want to go back to 1996? How about 1999? Of course if I wanted a truly authentic experience I'd go back to using CDs in my car. Someday I'd like to convert an old '90s cell phone into a bluetooth receiver. I've seen examples of similar projects online. How grand it would be to pick up a clunky old handset and hear a friend's voice!

This Thanksgiving week my wife and I will travel to her godmother's home in Virginia. I long to live her life. An heiress who has toiled not a day in her life, she spends her days driving her fine automobiles from one home to another and worries not a moment about grocery prices, medical bills, job security, or even what time she has to get up the next morning. That's what I want out of life: not so much wealth and privilege, but to be able not to worry about the future and to live on no one's terms but my own. I'd be fine living in my little townhouse for the rest of my life if I didn't have to leave it except when I wanted to. Fate did not deal me such a winning hand; I am, at least for now, doomed to stare at a computer screen all day and make money for someone else, in a world that doesn't recognize the true value of what people like me do. Oh well, at least that week I get to drive her Lexus.

I hate stuck-up suburban moms so much

The inspiration from this post came from the atrocious parking job I witnessed as it occurred in Cameron Village yesterday. I was standing outside enjoying some complimentary frozen custard when a huge black Lexus SUV crept into a parking spot with a blatant disregard for the painted guidelines, leaving its rear passenger side corner hanging about a foot over the line. Now it doesn't bother me when an automobile is a bit crooked, which is only human, but when a portion of a vehicle protrudes beyond the painted boundary into the neighboring space, my blood begins to boil in response to the total lack of spatial ability and complete disregard for other motorists who wish to park or have already parked in adjoining spaces. And as if I weren't irritated enough already by this abomination, I then observed the offender exit the vehicle. It was a classic rich Raleigh mom with her hell-spawn in tow.

I despise these loathsome creatures so very much.

Believe me, I know the species well. This animal attends college with the goal of sinking her claws into a pre-med or pre-law student (after multiple drunken one-night-stands in her sorority house, of course), and as soon as he starts earning a six-digit salary, she quits whatever dead-end retail job she has, brow-beats him into buying a huge house, and then completes her life's ambition by popping out 2 or 3 children who essentially amount to expensive house pets, as they do nothing to contribute to the household (Lupe takes care of cleaning and Manuel does the yard work) while consuming the father's resources.

So on this particular Sunday, after implementing the weekly brainwashing known as "Sunday School," she changed into her atrocious "mom shorts" from Talbot's (the kind that reach her knees and do nothing to flatter what's left of her figure after 3 pregnancies), neatened up her $100 haircut, smeared on some makeup to disguise the premature aging resulting from her disregard for medical experts' cautions against prolonged sun exposure, threw on the jewelry her overworked, undersexed husband gave her in hopes of receiving a blowjob, and paraded her wretched little accessories in public to take up space and finger the merchandise in the shops, her ultimate goal for the afternoon being to broadcast nonverbally to the world that she has a rich husband who pays all her living expenses and bought her a $60,000 car in which she shuttles the snotty little monsters from one pointless activity to another, where they are socialized from birth with other over-privileged children while she makes mindless chatter with the other equally insipid mothers about how damn terrific it is to have a rich husband who foots the bill for their little hobby, all in an effort to keep herself busy enough that she doesn't hit the bottle out of boredom. Interestingly enough, the provider of resources was not in sight. Perhaps she'd mercifully left him alone for an hour to masturbate or just enjoy the peaceful absence of his shrill issue while drifting into a reverie about how his life would have been different if he hadn't called back that sorostitute he nailed after that mixer, who was now out shopping for a $600 stroller at Beanie & Cecil Kids.

In Praise of Averageness

There was a very long time during which I held a contempt for people who appeared average and nondescript. People who wore boring clothes, shopped in boring malls, drove boring automobiles, and were overall instantly forgettable filled me with disgust. I used to want to shout at them that life is too short to be boring. As an act of defiance, I wore all manner of unusual garb, purchased an unusual vehicle, listened to unusual music, and in general made every effort to stand out as a unique individual who was too good for whatever pleased the masses. What was I afraid of, or trying to accomplish, by sticking out like a sore thumb? Sometimes it felt good to rattle people's cages with outlandish attire and an ex-cop car. Maybe I was afraid I would become stupid by succumbing to the lure of the mainstream, or that my creativity and individuality would be stifled by looking like everyone else.

My personal aesthetic is taking a turn in completely the opposite direction. I've taken to wearing very traditional, classic items, such as polo shirts, slacks in muted earth tones, and button-front shirts, while clinging to my youth with a college baseball cap. Shirts and trousers by Brooks Brothers, fine wrist watches by Cyma and Baume & Mercier, nice but not exorbitantly priced footwear such as classic Sperry boat shoes, and other hallmarks of the well-to-do "preppy" set have made their way into my everyday wardrobe. Perhaps it's a means of connecting with something I was denied in my formative years. Growing up in a family with exquisite taste but limited financial means meant that while I attended the same schools as the preppy set, I didn't participate in the same extracurricular activities. The glamorous preppies would spend several weeks at Camp Seagull (the very definition of the preppy summer camp), then finished their summers at family vacation homes in quaint seaside locales such as Wrightsville and Morehead City, returning with their coveted souvenir t-shirts from Dockside, Sanitary Fish Market, and Salty Dog. I, on the other hand, went to a secluded house at Myrtle Beach, the Las Vegas of the Southeast, and went to a sweaty camp on an artificial lake in a hicktown up the highway from Raleigh.

Like I've posted before, I made the wrong choice in an auto-mobile last year, as it draws too much unwanted attention from authorities. I'm still looking for the ideal vehicle for me. I've expanded from just 4runners into the possibility of a Toyota Avalon or Camry, a 1990s Lexus LS sedan, or a Ford Explorer. It's a difficult choice. Logic would steer me toward a sedan that's economical on gas, but another part of me loves the high ride and privacy windows of an SUV. I kind of want a black 2003 Explorer ('02s had shitty transmissions) with spotlights and a push bar for an aggressive off-road look. A '90s SUV would fill me with '90s nostalgia every time I get behind the wheel and crank up the Barenaked Ladies hits. Unfortunately, '90s gas prices will likely never return. Whatever car I purchase must complement my new blend-in-with-the-scenery aesthetic, the goal being to look decent and respectable but forgettable.

I'm coming to understand the advantage of modes of dress and outward appearance that blend in with the scenery. There's a measure of comfort and safety to be found in camouflaging oneself. No one looks twice, makes comments, or suspects malice. As soon as they see you, they've forgotten you. In a way, I feel empowered by my anonymity, for if I ever had criminal intentions, from shoplifting to carrying a concealed weapon, I wouldn't draw the slightest suspicion. The only looks of contempt come from the emo-types who hang around outside Barnes & Noble despising so-called "conformists" while they wait for their moms to pick them up in their minivans. No matter, the respect of a person who gets no respect himself is meaningless to me.

The world I knew is slowly disappearing

My elementary school was torn down this summer.

In its place will be erected a monstrosity of an institution, designed to house thousands of youngsters, many of whom are the offspring of transplanted yankees, invading my beloved Raleigh and spreading their demon seed. It will bear the same name, but it will never be the same school.

I have so many cherished memories of that place. Mind you, the old building wasn't much to look at, either, a shining example of bland 1950s suburban school architecture, but it had character. I made great friends there, one of whom I'm still in constant touch with 20 years later. I had excellent teachers who actually gave a shit about teaching, far different from their modern-day counterparts, who count down the days until retirement while receiving a weekly pittance to act as babysitters.

Every October, the school hosted the Fall Festival, a Halloween-themed event with games and activities. One of the trailers was converted into a haunted house, where I got scared shitless by a chainsaw-wielding zombie surgeon. The girl I had a crush on grew up to be kind of a bitch.

I remember getting dropped off right outside the trailer where my 5th grade class was—in those days the school wasn't all paranoid about security and didn't force the parents to drop their children off in one area. My 4th grade class was in a trailer as well, as the city was just beginning to feel the strain of overcrowding. It was a quaint little box, clad in corrugated metal, with a wooden access ramp. I remember one day when a freak sleet storm hit, and my friend was sliding down the ramp over and over. My 4th grade teacher was awesome. She would read aloud and do a voice for each character. She held trivia games where the class was divided into two teams. She brought in a drama coach now and then for a fun diversion. 4th grade was the best, and I got to be a 9-year-old during a time when kickass cartoon shows were in abundance and no none knew just how terrible for you sugary drinks and cereals were.

I dislike change. Change means that what I know and is familiar is going away, never to come back.

A couple months ago I drove past my old grade-school chum's house where he had lived from about 1983 until his parents sold the place last year. I had spent countless thousands of hours of my childhood and adolescence hanging out there on lazy Saturdays. The place was comfortably furnished with plush chairs and a bigass leather sofa I loved to stretch out on while watching TV. In high school and into our college years, our routine was for me to show up around 12:30 on Saturday, bum around town, go to movies, rent movies with titillating nude scenes, go to bookstores, and come back for a great supper his mom and dad had fixed. Then we'd chill out with more TV and new & exciting websites, and I'd finally drive home at midnight.

The formerly well-manicured grass is now knee-high. The house is dark, with not a stick of furniture. The cat doesn't traipse about the yard anymore. The green metal outdoor chairs are gone. The driveway sits empty. A huge chunk of my childhood has vanished.

My wife is not immune from this epidemic, either. Every house she lived in as a child has either been demolished or altered to the point of being unrecognizable. The private school she attended has been built up so much that it no longer even closely resembles what it used to look like.

Other shit that has changed around Raleigh which I dislike:
1. The redesigned Cameron Village. Removing the upper parking deck above Bailey's really fucked up my sense of direction around there for a while. And just what was so bad about the blue & white bubble domes? At least you could read the signage clearly from the street, since it was all white type set on blue, illuminated from behind. Now it's a bewildering hodgepodge of every typeface and color imaginable. Some may call it charming, I call it a fucking typographic nightmare.

2. Rite-Aid taking over Eckerd's. It was enough of a shock when Eckerd's bought out nearly all the Kerr Drug stores in the area, now this? The Rite-Aid at Cameron Village feels like a wasteland compared to the former Eckerd's. They put in glaring linoleum tile floors where sound-dampening carpet once lay. The layout of the checkout counters was rearranged, and there are far fewer displays and aisles of merchandise to excite the senses.

3. The complete ass-fucking of Hillsborough Street. Seriously, people? Traffic circles? 25mph speed limit? Fuckin'-A, man, they're ruining a quaint, historic street. Part of its character is its seedy, run-down, college-town atmosphere. Parking always sucked around there, and I don't see this project making it any better. Traffic moved just fine without a bunch of damned traffic circles. We had traffic lights and that was good enough.

4. The vanishing of Brothers Pizza. It was a venerated Hillsborough Street institution for 40-odd years. Everyone my age had at least one birthday party there as a child. The wood-paneled walls were festooned with NCSU athletic memorabilia, and they always had the city's best sweet iced tea. At least I took my wife there once, so she got to see it before it disappeared. I like the new restaurant, Melvin's, that took its place, but it's yet another part of my childhood dead and gone.

5. Teardowns and McMansions. It's a disease that spread to my parents' neighborhood a few years ago. Charming 1940s and '50s houses were deemed not big enough for soulless, gotta-have-it-all yuppies who swooped in, razed them, and erected 10,000-square-foot monstrosities that block out the sun. Well, I guess little Dylan does need a 16x20-ft playroom, and of course you can't live without a closet bigger than my bedroom. And the gourmet kitchen the size of a concert hall with 8-burner Viking stove, two convection ovens, and Subzero fridge is a must for all those home-cooked meals your alcoholic wife will never make.

One thing I actually like about modern-day Raleigh is the new North Hills mall. Sure, I'll always have a special place for the old indoor dinosaur it replaced, but I'll concede that its time on this earth had passed. The new one kicks ass. The re-opening of Fayetteville Street to automobile traffic also has my approval. The pedestrian mall was one of Raleigh's greatest blunders.

Population growth around here is getting out of control. Too many god-damned people are invading and nesting in the Old North State. Can't we just turn them away at the border like California did to the Okies? Why can't I just wave a magic wand and freeze Raleigh in the year 1999? Seriously, folks, it can't really get much better than it was before 2001. Even my wife expressed a longing for the Clinton years. I heavily disliked Bubba back then, but comparing him with his successors, I'd re-elect him tomorrow.

I am a Moxie virgin no more

I was at a Fresh Market store yesterday and while perusing the various glass-bottled beverages in the refrigerated case, I came across something I never thought I'd see outside of New England: brown glass bottles of Moxie. Talk about a holy shit moment!

Moxie has been sold as a soft drink since 1884, and before that, like many soft drinks, it was sold as a medicine. It remains popular around Maine. I always thought I'd have to order it online to try it. I've always wanted to try it, so that I may enjoy a very obscure bit of American culinary history. It's definitely unlike any other carbonated beverage I've had. It basically tastes like root beer but with an additional medicinal taste, which most likely comes from the "gentian root extract" found on the label. It tempers sweetness with a little bitterness. I can't say I would drink this very often, but I recommend that everyone try it just once, if only for the experience of it.

Grail Diarrhea

I'm trying to figure out an efficient way to mass-produce my hand-drawn version of the Grail Diary from Last Crusade, in hopes of selling them on ebay as an affordable alternative to the prop-quality ones that go for hundreds of dollars, which are aged by hand and bound in leather one at a time. Even if I printed scans of the book onto aged-looking parchment paper, binding a book by hand is a pain in the ass and wouldn't make the selling price worth the effort. I looked at lulu.com but for some reason the wankers don't offer the 4.25 x 6.87 size in full color (which I would need for simulating aged-looking pages).

I'm heading back to Wrightsville tomorrow. This time we'll be more frugal and only eat out twice for lunch. It was a big help last time I was there when I found $42 on the ground while waiting in line for the Trolley Stop. Being an honest man, my first thought was to ask if anyone had dropped it, but my common sense kicked in and reminded me that a dishonest person would answer yes, even if he was not the rightful claimant. There were teenagers in the line, after all. Anyway, the money paid for our lunch and allowed us to indulge in iced-cream. I will consider it a gift from above, as if God were saying, "go forth and haveth fun."

In other news, I think I'll hold off on a car purchase. That 4runner is a great deal, but I can't really justify spending 3 grand on a car when the one I have is perfectly fine mechanically. My only reason for buying it is an emotional one, in that I want to attract less attention to myself and enjoy the nostalgic feeling of a '90s car that I might have actually driven back then (I wouldn't have had a Crown Vic). Plus the car dates from earlier in the decade, giving me greater choice in assigning a particular year to my flight of fancy on a given day. Hindsight is always 20/20; if I hadn't been so obsessed with having an authoritative-looking vehicle and had been thinking like a sane person, I would have purchased something less noticeable and better suited to my personality (and age). But, if I hadn't bought the Vic, to this day I would be longing for one, not understanding the value of looking respectable while blending in. I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger... I think what I'll do is get the money ready, and next time I get to Raleigh, I'll look at the car if it's still for sale, which I'll interpret as a divine sign that I should at least seriously consider buying it. Sure, I'd be out 3 grand, but I'd feel a huge sense of relief that the pigs won't be after me to pin a bullshit impersonation charge on me. Plus I wouldn't have to have all those silly stickers on the back. Just throw in a Surge bottle, put on some Barenaked Ladies, and zoom off into '90s fantasy land.

Narrowing it down

I believe I'll go with another 4runner, 3rd generation (1996-2002). My wife drives a 4runner and it's been practically trouble-free. For a little while there I was leaning toward a 2002 or 2003 Ford Explorer, but research turned up too much risk of major shit going wrong. My father-in-law's '02 had its transmission replaced after 65,000 miles, at a cost of $3500. He claims the '03 had an improved tranny, but other reviews indicate that that year is iffy as well.
4runners, on the other hand, have very little criticism other than fuel economy, which I don't really mind since I don't drive very many miles a week anyway, and I don't give a shit about carbon footprints and all that hippie Al Gore crap.

I've found an ideal candidate, asking $3900, a good price for a '96, but it's in Raleigh, and I already have plans to go to the beach this weekend. Between haggling and trading in my Vic, I may be able to get it for 3 grand. There's a risk that it'll be snapped up before I can get there to look at it. It's in great shape except for a tear on the driver seat, but I can just cover it with a towel until I can do something about it. Interior has tan leather interior with woodgrain trim, exterior is forest green (which nearly matches my Barbour jacket). The disadvantage over the Explorer is that the radio sits lower in the console, so if I wanted to put in a DVD player, the screen would be too low for me to enjoy a movie on long drives.

The other major drawback is that, as a Japanese car, I would never be able to make it look like an "official" vehicle. No amount of antennas or lights would fool anyone into thinking it was a guvmint car-uh. I can't really explain my obsession with having an official-looking car. I have this ridiculous vision of gaining access to an otherwise restricted area or thoroughfare just by having a black American SUV with big antennas and wearing a white shirt & necktie, or parking illegally without getting ticketed or towed. I gradually found that doing such with the Vic was too much of an attention-getter from civilians and cops alike. If I were to park it illegally, with my luck a cop would show up and hang around until I returned, then give me the works about being an impersonator and all that. With a plain Ford SUV, I'd probably just be ticketed. In my fleeting moments of sanity, I know that such a need will never arise. It's time to grow the fuck up and get real, but it sure is difficult.

I have concluded that I'm an SUV man. I prefer the higher ride, commanding presence, and the ability legally to have the back windows as dark as I want them. I love tinted windows. They make any car look better and keep out both sweltering sunlight and prying eyes. An additional benefit with this car is that it generally flies under the po-po's radar. It looks too big and heavy to be speeding, and bears no resemblance to a drug dealer or gangbanger hooptie.

Oh, to have an attractive 1996-vintage vehicle, from those halcyon mid-to-late-'90s. I would have adored this vehicle when I was in high school. I'd probably put in another replica inspection sticker, possibly even my old high school parking permit, and of course some Surge bottles. Why did N.C. have to switch to those damned eyesore red-digit license plates? The blue-digit ones had been around since the early '80s. If I get this '96 4runner, I'd be stuck with red-digit plates, a blatant anachronism.

Maybe it's time to dump the Vic

Fuckin' cops freak me out.

I was leaving my neighborhood, driving my crown vic, to return to work after my lunch break and stopped at a stop sign, waited for traffic to clear, then turned right. An unmarked cop car turned onto my street from the main road, and as I drove up the road I saw him turn around in a driveway and come back the way he came. I ducked into the McDonalds parking lot on the corner and hung out there for a couple minutes, then pulled out again. I kept an eye on my rearview mirror, and the same car, or at least an identical one, was on the road a thousand or so feet behind me. While he was still a good distance back, I pulled into a gas station and sat in the parking lot for a couple more minutes. I didn't see him again after that and made it to my destination unmolested.

Interestingly enough, another Vic identical to mine drove past him up the main road, only this one had a big handicapped parking tag in the dash. So the cop probably dismissed the geezer and decided to go after me, the guy under 60 driving a Crown Victoria.

Was he after me? I don't know. Maybe he was, but lost interest when he saw the colorful stickers on the Vic's rear end and decided it wasn't a cop impersonator. It sucks that I can't drive this very respectable, gentlemanly vehicle without the constant fear that some trigger-happy Barney is going to blow a fuse in his primitive brain whenever he sees a guy who can't yet join AARP driving a Vic. At the time I was wearing a conservative suit, white shirt, and necktie; what about that stirred his suspicion? Or did I pick the wrong day to break out the gray fedora? I'm getting pretty damned tired of always looking over my shoulder for the po-po. It's gotten to where I insist that when my wife & I go out at night, we take her SUV.

It looks like I have only a few options here. The most expensive is to buy another car and attempt to cut my loss by selling the Vic. I'm apprehensive about putting it up for sale to the public, since the kind of folk who are interested in old cop cars are largely an unsavory sort, and I don't know if I'd like them coming to my neighborhood and test-driving it. I could use it as a trade-in at a dealership, but one usually loses out on that deal. Plus I don't really care for dealerships. Another option is to keep driving it, but put more decals and civilian shit on it in hopes that a cop will ignore it. I might go so far as to make a fake handicapped placard to display while driving and get some big geezer sunglasses. One more option is to replace the Vic's trademark eggcrate grille with an aftermarket piece that resembles a Mercury or Lincoln, and maybe even swap in a Grand Marquis rear fascia & taillights. Ugh, I don't know. I love that car for its no-nonsense, heavy-duty reliability, but it's getting to be too stressful just trying to make it to my office without John Law on my ass.

Another Wrightsville Trip

We went back to Wrightsville this past weekend. We're trying to use the place more often to send the message to Granny that it's important to us, and perhaps get her to re-plan her estate so that we inherit the condo, preferably in some manner that avoids estate taxes, which our glorious socialist leader will likely increase during his regime. Anyway, this weekend we didn't encounter quite as many transgressions by filthy huddled masses, but there was a most annoying feeling of overcrowding, particularly when we opted to have lunch at the Trolley Stop. While long lines have been customary, we were not accustomed to being without a table at which to eat. Hordes of dead-eyed teenagers were occupying the outdoor tables, but in very uneven distribution. One table was occupied by six lowlifes munching on individual bags of potato chips, while another was occupied by one cunt-hole sipping a drink, holding the table for herself while her friend purchased comestibles inside. So we had to plop our asses on a bench in the hot July sun and eat without a table upon which to rest our lunch. And of course as soon as we were firmly encamped, a table freed up. My wife says it wasn't this crowded a few years ago.

There weren't quite as many trashy-looking people down there this weekend. Two eyesores who stand out in my memory are a pair of gangly teenagers who were hanging around outside the Trolley Stop, wearing their idiotic plaid garments that are somewhere between trousers and shorts, slung low on their bony waists, with shirtless, precancerous torsos decorated with silly tattoos whose placement seemed to be random at best. Both cretins were sporting the wispy beginnings of what they wish were Van Dyke beards, and their empty heads were topped with those clownish skater baseball caps. You know the kind: muted colors, bizarre patterns, bill perfectly flat, and turned out of alignment with the body's axis. I wanted so badly to bash them with a 4-cell Maglite and tell them to go back to Carolina Beach.

We're fairly sure that on Friday night we were being picked up by swingers. At Lagerheads, when I came outside with our drinks, a couple in their 40s were talking to my wife. The female had approached her and said she looked like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. OK, so she looks like a high-priced hooker? Anyway, they were obviously a bit intoxicated and were making out way too much for a 40-something couple. They didn't actually talk about swinging or invite us anywhere. It was just a vibe we got from them, and something weird about the way they were looking at us. For whatever reason, they wandered off, thank god. Maybe they were looking for a 3-way with a stranger and lost interest when I showed up, I dunno.

The rest of the evening was fun. We moved on to Neptune's and I proceeded to get drunk on Fat Tire, a delicious local brew similar to Boddington's. We stumbled back to the condo around 1AM with a pizza from Vito's and chomped down 3/4 of it before going to bed. This was after having eaten a McDonald's angus burger and large fries on the ride down. Needless to say, the chocolate stork visited me repeatedly the next day.

On a completely unrelated topic, I find myself growing bored with my Crown Vic. I feel like it attracts too much attention, being a former cop car and all. I've put stickers on it, but while they diminish the lawman look, they also make the car look trashy. If I had a few grand lying around, I'd probably buy a used Explorer. I'd prefer a black one, since black cars look badass, and tint the windows heavily. I've wanted to repaint my Vic black, but it costs too damned much. After driving both sedans and SUVs, I've come to prefer SUVs. We take ours on all our long trips nowadays. The high ride helps us see more of the road ahead, and the dark windows keep the car cool in the summer heat. Plus there's that whole '90s nostalgia that goes along with SUVs. I remember the rich kids at my high school getting new Jeep Cherokees for their birthdays. One little shit got a brand-new Land Rover Discovery for his 16th. A late '90s Cherokee or Explorer would be a thrill to drive, just for the '90s nostalgia. I could deck it out in period style like I did with my Vic, with a '90s inspection sticker, period CDs, and my old Motorola Tele-TAC. Remember Frank Black's bright red Jeep Cherokee on Millennium? So beautifully '90s. Looks like it belongs on my high school's parking lot in 1998.

I recall a newspaper article from around 1997 called "Big is Back" or something like that. The main photo featured a man looking at new Ford Expeditions on a dealer's lot. The article talked about big SUVs, cigars, and other extravagances that were becoming hugely popular in the boom times of the late '90s. I dunno, if I can find a bargain-priced '90s Explorer that gets about the same fuel economy as my Vic, and then get some money for the Vic, I'd about break even. I'd hate to lose the Vic, though. It'd be a good spare vehicle, and if the need to impersonate a government agent ever arises, it would be a convincing prop. Ugh, you see why I need lotto money? If not the jackpot, at least a few grand to satisfy my vehicular desires. With about 10 grand, I could buy a used Explorer and have enough left over to paint the Vic black.

Roadside Diner Mystery Solved

On US Route 70 between Greensboro and Burlington, just east of the intersection with Rock Creek Dairy Road near Gibsonville, there's a little red train car on the side of the road. It's definitely seen better days, but looks sound enough to use as a storage shed. I've passed this structure a few times during my travels, and just had to know its story, and the part it played in the life of what was once a primary east-west automobile route. You can view it on google maps with street view. Coordinates: 36.064364,-79.611869

Thanks to Guilford County's online GIS, I pulled up the name and mailing address of the property's owner. The property record indicated that the rail car was built in 1929. I mailed the owner a letter inquiring as to the history of the rail car: was it a diner? When was it in operation? What was the name of it?

Weeks went by without a reply, and I'd almost forgotten I'd sent the letter. Today, I received the self-addressed, stamped envelope I had included, with a hand-written letter inside. The owner was most helpful in filling me in on the rail car's history. She said it was indeed a diner, called the Midway Diner, as it was about midway between Greensboro and Burlington. She and her husband acquired the property in 1956 and continued to operate the diner under the name Halfway Inn. They served basic roadside fare—sandwiches, soup, coffee, sodas, and such. The diner eventually closed around 1972 when it became too costly to keep the building up to code.

The Midway Diner. Think for a moment about the legions of motorists it served during its four decades in operation. Picture the tired traveler who, after jostling along US-70 (still NC-10 on his complimentary road map from the Shell station back in Durham) in his old Chevy headed from Raleigh to Greensboro, saw this beacon of civilization shining brightly in the roadside wilderness, and stopped to stretch his legs and recharge with a bowl of vegetable soup and a homemade grilled cheese sandwich. Perhaps after supper he dropped a dime on a cup of hot, fresh coffee and a slice of pie and hung around to catch FDR's fireside chat or get a few chuckles from Amos 'n' Andy on the Zenith. You don't get that kind of roadside experience much anymore. Nowadays you roll up to a Sheetz, chomp down a gristle burger slapped together by a flunky who speaks about 5 words of English, and fork over the cash to a glazed-over teenager who's so lost in thought over his next shroom party that he can barely get "thankyouhaveaniceday" out of his mouth. I do like their shakes, though.

The McDuck Mansion drove me crazy!

I was a die-hard Ducktales fan. I about shat a brick when it premiered back in '87 in the form of a prime time feature-length movie, Treasure of the Golden Suns. From that night, I was hooked, and watched it religiously, as first-run episodes and syndicated reruns on the Disney Afternoon. At this same time in my life, I had a great interest in architecture, and would often design floor plans of elaborate residences. So it was only natural for me to want a set of floor plans for Uncle Scrooge's mansion as depicted on Ducktales.

I'm afraid the artists and directors working on the series weren't very concerned with maintaining continuity, and severely underestimated the ability of academically gifted 7–10 year olds to notice inconsistencies in set designs from one episode to another. That damned mansion never made any sense, and laying out its floor plan was impossible. Doors that would have led outside weren't shown on outdoor shots. Rooms would change positions, too—the nephews' room would face the front yard in one episode, and the back yard in another. Sometimes Scrooge's library had a huge window, and other times it was windowless. And for whatever reason, Scrooge's study was on the ground floor, but seemed to be accessible only by descending a flight of stairs from an upstairs hall. I even wrote a letter to Ducktales Magazine asking for a set of floor plans, but received no response. I don't think they ever had any to start with. To think a 9-year-old had a better understanding of the importance of continuity in making a program more believable than a bunch of adults.

While I'm on the topic of impossible TV structures, the set designers for the TGIF programs were also smoking something other than harmless tobacco. The exterior shot of the Winslows' house on Family Matters, for example, showed the front door on the viewer's left and a bay window on the right, but the interior set reversed this arrangement, and the stairwell had an octagonal window which doesn't appear anywhere on the exterior shot. D.J. and Stephanie's room on Full House would have been hanging off the side of the house. And anyone ascending the kitchen stairs on Boy Meets World would have wound up in the tree in the back yard. ATTN TGIF: WTF?

At least those responsible for continuity on The Simpsons eventually got their shit together. In the first 2 seasons, the living room and dining room would frequently switch positions, and the staircase would go from one side of the foyer to the other. Sometimes there were rounded windows on the front of the house, sometimes there were bay windows. After 20 seasons we can nail down a layout of the house at 742 Evergreen Terrace (even the house number wasn't consistent for a few seasons), though viewers remain perplexed by the "door of mystery" at the end of the foyer. Sometimes it's a closet, other times it's the door to the basement.

Something I'd like to do with lottery winnings would be to construct an accurate real-life interpretation of the Simpsons' house. I realize this was already attempted years ago for a sweepstakes prize, but the dimensions were all confucktified due to the size of the lot, forcing a bay window to straddle the foyer and dining room. I would make it true to the show, with all the furniture custom-made and painted in garish colors. The kitchen would be stocked with food items bearing labels such as Mama Discounta's pizza, Uncle Jim's Country Fillin', Ham Ahoy, Krusty Flakes, Duff Beer, Buzz Cola, and Lard Lad Donuts. The general public would not have access to such a place, but I would definitely invite friends to stay in the Simpsons' house.

More random musings about why the late '90s were so damned awesome

Here are a few treasured memories from the late 1990s, in no particular order:

Being in college. While I didn't care for the stress of academic responsibilities, I did enjoy the much more flexible schedule. I could have a class in the morning, come back to my dorm for a couple hours for a leisurely lunch and some TV, attend 2 more classes, and be done for the day at 3:30. No cooking or cleaning. I miss playing Goldeneye on my suitemates' Nintendo 64 for hours on end. I never was very much into video games, but that one was addictive. I loved ordering pizza at midnight and watching "Unhappily Ever After" reruns with my suitemate. And I damn sure miss having 4 weeks off over Christmas and nearly 4 months off for summer. Only one of the 8 summer breaks during my college career did I actually hold down a job, where my co-worker and I goofed off and avoided real work as much as possible. The other summers were spent fucking around, watching TV, going to movies in the middle of a weekday, reading, drawing, creating, and doing basically what I'd do if I won the lottery and weren't chained to a day job, except it would be done in my own house and not living with my parents.

The extreme sports fad. I'm the last guy to participate in them, but the scene was cool to observe. Loud, up-tempo music, energetic graphics, and shameless product placement (Surge, anyone?).

The heyday of gimmicky chain restaurants. TGIFridays, Bennigans, O'Charley's, Chili's, Applebee's, etcetera were in full swing back then. The booming economy allowed the average Joe to eat out more often than nowadays, and chain restaurants sprang up all over the sprawling suburban wastelands across our republic to stuff his gut with deep-fried jalapenos, fried cheese, and potato skins. They're still around, but not in as strong numbers as 10 years ago. Apparently Bennigans has gone the way of the dodo. It's saddening. My friends and I used to go to gimmicky restaurants just for the experience of it, to soak in a bit of Generica.

Late '90s pop music. It was mostly mindless pablum and frat-tastic beats, with a smattering of meaningful stuff. Early Eminem, Limp Bizkit, Offspring, Britney Spears, Christina Whore-alera, and such, all reflected the blissful stupor of the late '90s. People were generally happy, the president was getting BJs left and right, and we celebrated with stupid, upbeat music.

Movies of 1999, some good, some so-so, some I got to see for free because a friend worked at a theater: Go, Never Been Kissed, The Mummy, Election, Star Wars Episode 1, Austin Powers, The General's Daughter, South Park, American Pie, The Blair Witch Project, Dick, The Sixth Sense, Fight Club, Dogma, Sleepy Hollow, Deuce Bigalow, The Green Mile, and The Talented Mr. Ripley. Analyze This, Big Daddy, Bowfinger, Mickey Blue Eyes, and Teaching Mrs. Tingle. I can proudly proclaim that I never saw Wild Wild West, not even on TV.

Automobile styling. I feel like it reached a peak sometime between 1998-2003. Most cars today are just plain ugly compared to their '90s predecessors (with the exception of the Chrysler 300). My '01 Toyota 4runner is much more elegantly styled than those that came a long in the mid-2000s. Ditto for Ford Explorers and Chevy Suburbans & Tahoes. I was overjoyed when Jeep Wranglers went back to circular headlights around 1998 from those stupid rectangular ones. Lines were streamed and curved, chrome was sparingly but elegantly employed. Today's cars seem to be going for more angular treatments, but not in a flattering manner, especially on the hideous hybrids one sees nowadays. A Prius looks like something Optimus Prime left in the john.

Kids' WB. Yes, I was legally an adult when this was on, but the cartoons were so much more awesome than the horseshit you find on children's programming nowadays. Batman: The Animated Series, Animaniacs, Pinky & The Brain, Tiny Toons, Sylvester & Tweety Mysteries, and Histeria were all great things to come back to the dorm and watch after classes.

Cartoons for grown-ups: King of the Hill, The Simpsons, Family Guy, The PJs, and Dilbert. I loved Dilbert. While I hadn't yet had the pleasure of toiling in a cubicle farm, I could nonetheless appreciate how well it must have spoken to those who spent a third of their weekdays languishing in gray cubes staring at computer monitors, as I do today. I guess some things don't change.

Dot-com startups. They were cropping up all over the place. Pets.com. Drugstore.com. Monster.com. Some survived, some died in the dust. But it was all so exciting! You never knew what cockamamie dot-com business was coming next. And every startup was seen as foolproof for investors. Never mind that most of them didn't have any strategy or business model and borrowed more money than they could ever pay back. It was the internet! It was a goldmine! Their offices were staffed by hip youngsters sporting soul patches and douchey orange-lensed eyewear, and had their own espresso machines! I long for those glorious days of the dot-com bubble. A company would come out of nowhere, announce an IPO, and Zoom! Its stock would shoot from a few bucks to over $100 a share the first day. Everyone got rich, at least on paper. The sky was the limit. The dot-com bubble burst in the spring of 2000, which is where I mark the beginning of the end of the glory days of the turn of the 21st century. Things were still OK overall. It remained OK after red-state mouthbreathers and crooked Floridian authorities got Dubya into the presidency. We were still naive; we didn't know yet that he'd become the worst president since Andrew Johnson and his vice-prez was actually Satan with a heart condition. For a time, he was just a goofy monkey-man with a speech impediment. 9/11/2001 is where I mark the end of my generation's gilded age. Everything went to shit from there. The USA-PATRIOT act pissed all over our civil liberties, Alan Jackson wrote that gay song, Ashcroft wrote an even gayer song and sang it in public, everyone got all serious, and the economy tanked, and never again got anywhere near the runaway levels of the late '90s.

Why can't they just stay at Carolina Beach?

I have returned from a weekend at our condo at the beach. Overall it was a relaxing, refreshing respite, but the experience was marred by the presence of unkempt, raucous peasants, and the realization that the genteel, gracious Wrightsville Beach my wife knew as a child is slowly being consumed by white trash.

A few years ago, the nearest public access lay a few blocks away from our condo, thereby containing the unwashed masses to a distant section of the beach, leaving the area in front of the condo practically the exclusive domain of residents. Then there came a time when the city government bullied the condo into allowing a public access walkway to cut through its property, permitting the filthy throngs of cretins to slither their way in from their dumbbell tenements and infest our beachfront. As an additional affront to the condo residents, we must use the same footpath to access the beach as the peasants use. So once we residents get onto the beach, we must then walk a good 100 feet or so to the left or right to find a spot of sand that hasn't yet been claimed by Elmus and his common-law wife Joleen, sporting her multiple sagging tattoos, with their many hell-spawn who shriek, scamper about, and throw sand at each other. Then the guffawing teenagers show up and play some idiotic game of throwing a tennis ball and then fighting over it. Not long after we've found a relatively peaceful plot, along comes a boisterous group of Weight Watchers dropouts who communicate back & forth from beach to water by screaming. As if that weren't enough, a nearby cracker with voice modulation disorder starts yakking with them about his marvelous folding beach chair. "YEAH MAN, THIS PAHRT FOWLDS DAYUWN, AND THERE'S A POCKET FER YOUR SAYLPHOWN!" The way they screeched about how miraculous Bubba's chair was, you'd think they'd found a bucket of Popeye's chicken buried in the sand.

To make things worse, the shitty economy has forced unit owners to cut their rental rates and be less choosy about whom they allow to rent their units, so now practically anyone who can scrape up a couple grand can stay at our condo and befoul the pool area with their unappealing presence. And it's highly likely that they're calling up their buddies to drop by for a swim.

My wife has been coming to this beach and staying at this condo for nearly 20 years. As recently as 10 years ago, she says, it was a much different environment. Respectable families owned or rented homes and condos, and all knew each other, creating a close-knit community in which people comported themselves with dignity and class out of respect for one another. Teenagers and college kids would sometimes come down unchaperoned, but they were the same people who had been vacationing there since childhood and didn't misbehave too terribly because they didn't want to lose the respect of their parents' friends who were staying nearby. Compare that to the incident this past Friday night when some drunken fratboys got into a fight over a slice of pizza that caused the police to show up. Yes, I said they were fighting over a fucking slice of pizza.

At least on Saturday evening we had a break from the trashiness outside, spending a couple of hours in another unit with my wife's parents and some of their friends, all well-bred, quality people who carry on the old, genteel way of life, enjoying pleasant conversation over wine and fine hors d'oeuvre. There was once a time when this sort of thing happened in most every house. Now it's fratboys and other lowlifes throwing back Natural Light and passing the bong around. I wistfully yearn for a return to the gentler days when one could stroll down Lumina Avenue without his eyes being soiled by the sight of scruffy rednecks and teenagers who should be turning tricks in Bangkok. Carolina Beach and Myrtle Beach are reserved for these types.

No Celine Dion music will be played.

Someday, in the not-too-distant future, I believe I'd like to host a Titanic-themed dinner party.

This isn't a new idea. People have been hosting this sort of affair at least since the 1997 blockbuster premiered, probably longer. While none of us would have wanted to endure the events of April 14, 1912, we nonetheless are captivated by the grace and opulence of the Edwardian period. I often think this country, and perhaps the world in general, reached a peak of civilization just before World War I blew everything to shit. It was kind of downhill from there—the federal reserve, national income tax, two world wars, a global economic depression coupled with draining social programs that still drag us down today, a holocaust, nukes, pointless anti-communism campaigns on the other side of the world, hippies, John Denver, a war on drugs, a war on terror, unaffordable health care, and a debt-based economy teetering on the edge of collapse. Who wouldn't want to return to that golden era of peace, prosperity, child labor, and cheap, plentiful, expendable Irishmen? I'd have settled for a transatlantic cruise aboard the Olympic so that I wouldn't have drowned or possibly been seated in a lifeboat with passengers from third class.

I've done a bit of research into the culinary delights offered aboard the R.M.S. Titanic, specifically in first class. I found images online of original menus that survived the sinking, which featured items few people these days have ever heard of, or would even want to try. Want some corned ox tongue for lunch? Grilled mutton kidneys & bacon? Roast squab (a.k.a. pigeon)? Don't forget the brawn!

I must take a moment to expand upon brawn. It's basically head cheese, a dish prepared by stuffing a hog's head full of mixed organ meats and other flavorings, boiling it into a stock, and letting it cool into a congealed mass ready for slicing. Yummers!

A great deal of gourmet, non-repulsive fare was offered as well. Items such as filet mignons cooked in butter, meat-stuffed summer squash, roast duckling, cold asparagus vinaigrette, and sauteed chicken Lyonnaise were consumed by bloated aristocrats in the resplendent dining saloon, served on delicate china and picked apart with fine silverware.

I have a rather elegant dining room, so creating a believable Edwardian atmosphere would not be a difficult task. Recordings of a string quartet could be played on my laptop (in another room out of sight). I'd love some potted palms, but the real ones never survive, and the fake ones cost upwards of $200 or more. If money were no object, I would purchase a full set of replica first class china, but this is also quite costly. A single dinner plate runs about $60, and when the hell would I use it afterward? I can get by with my Castleton. I've created templates for dinner menus, almost exactly as the originals appeared, which would be laid at each place at the table. Gentlemen would be encouraged to attend in white tie, but I don't have friends who would be willing or able to pay for a rental, so suits & ties may have to suffice. Should Dame Fortune endow me with Powerball winnings, perhaps the real deal could be arranged: authentic replica china, period costume rentals for all guests, caterers and serving staff in white jackets, all in a dining room decorated in the same manner as the saloon aboard the Titanic.

And, like the title of this post says, no caterwauling by that French-Canadian banshee will be heard.

Label Whore

Sorry it's been a while since my last post. I thought I'd update you on my latest fascination: vintage product labels. It's only natural that, as a graphic artist, I would be drawn to labels in general. My love of long-ago eras draws me to labels from everyday products of past decades. Using my expertise with major design programs and knowledge of typographic history, I am able to create replicas of labels from such mundane things as Hershey bar wrappers, Oxydol detergent boxes, old coffee tin labels, and the like. If you're interested, you can view Hershey wrappers through the ages at www.hersheyarchives.org (click on Exhibits). Flickr is also an excellent resource once you hit upon a good photo stream.

I have a distinct memory of being on the USS North Carolina when I was a child and being fascinated with the commissary. Replicas of World War II-era candy, drinks, and such were on the shelves behind the counter, including a Hershey wrapper which was noticeably different from those being made at the time of my visit. I loved the time-warp feeling it created. To me, old labels add a valuable touch of authenticity to any attempt at connecting with a period in history. Typographic elements & treatments, as well as approaches to layout and illustrative styles, are all intertwined with the general course of history. Ever been to a Cracker Barrel store off the interstate? While the environment is overall artificial, the company's designers nonetheless have made a commendable effort at bringing back the feeling of the old general store of 80 or 90 years ago. They sell candies and beverages in specially designed packaging that echoes the graphic styles of the 1920s, '30s, and '40s, displayed on warm wooden shelves and in soulful glass jars. The labels may not be precise replicas, and in most cases are only loosely based on or inspired by early designs or even amalgamations of elements appropriated from different sources, but the overall feeling of the packaging designs of the times is there. No shocking hexachrome inks or hyperactive typographic treatments are in sight. The labels are colorful and engaging, but allow the shopper to amble along at a leisurely pace, his eye unmolested by garish fluorescents and screaming type. The labels reflect a slower, quieter way of life. So, I now seek to surround myself with authentic-as-possible replicas of ordinary goods.

As you already are fully aware, my greatest desire in life is to have the financial means to do only what I wish, and be freed of the time-draining burden of my 9-to-5 grind. If I may share something with you, I've long dreamt of using some of that time and money to build a historically accurate 1920s convenience store on my estate, filled with merchandise in period packaging. Such a thing would probably be built on the side of an unpaved portion of my driving track, nestled in a wooded area of my acreage. Outside the store I would erect restored or replica gas pumps, pull up in my fully-restored vintage auto, step out in my natty three-piece suit and fedora, and pop in for a Moon Pie wrapped in printed wax paper and an RC Cola in a 80-year-old glass bottle. An old Philco on the shelf by the counter would be playing big bands or old-time country music softly, while a hired actor in oily overalls would be sitting and reading the Saturday Evening Post. I'd pay for my items with antique coins, and sit on a rocker outside while the radio plays on. Ever read anything by Jack Finney? I often wish I could find a portal like he found in The Third Level. I wouldn't stay there, but I'd definitely visit often. This little country store on my private dirt road would probably be as close as I can get.

Crotch-rot wedding

So I had a taste of what it's like to direct a wedding this weekend. Friends of ours were getting hitched this past Saturday and we volunteered to coordinate things. Oy, what a sweaty ordeal.

The rehearsal began at 4:30 Friday, which took 3 run-throughs. My duties began at 2:30 Saturday, consisting mostly of hauling my sweaty ass back & forth between the chapel and the reception hall on a muggy May afternoon in dungarees and a thick cotton twill shirt. At one point I had to drive to a pharmacy to get a can of hairspray for the bride. I changed into my year-round, all-purpose gray suit around 4:00, but continued to run around doing this and that, like getting the band members set up and helping the florists, who were 30 minutes behind schedule and brought half-wilted flowers, all while wearing a 12-year-old pair of wingtips that were not designed for extensive footwork. Thank god I brought along a pair of walkie-talkie radios so that my wife and I could communicate. By the time the ceremony began, my shirt was soaked, my crotch was all sweaty in those damned wool & polyester pants, my collar was two-toned, and my coat pockets were bulging uncomfortably with radio, cell phone, sunglasses, camera, and keys. We wound up fucking up the order in which the wedding party entered the chapel, but I think the minister and the music guy managed to cover it up. The awkward moment came after the minister introduced the new couple. The music guy was supposed to play a song right at that moment, but fumbled with the controls and left the couple standing around for about 30 seconds, staring at pews full of people who had finished their applause and were wondering why the hell they were just standing there.

Our duties weren't over yet, as we had to coordinate getting the wedding party properly introduced at the reception, so I had to run back & forth between the photo shoot and the reception hall to update the band as to when they were coming in, while my wife had to track down the security guard to lock up the room where the bride's stuff was being stored. We also had to go fetch the flowers that the bumbling florists had left in the chapel and put them on the tables. At least we managed to chomp down some of the yummy wedding food, like ham biscuits, veggies & dip, crab dip, cheese platter, and these awesome roast beef & cream cheese pinwheels. By the time the whole thing was over, my feet were killing me, my wife's feet had their own share of blisters, and my crotch was raw from my sweaty, blubbery thighs slapping together all damn day. We slept until about 11:30 the next day. Thank god we had Memorial Day off, to make up for the lost Saturday.

I am excited about this coming weekend, as we have been invited to go to my father-in-law's rental house on the coast. As many of my readers are aware, coastal towns in North Carolina have a style all of their own, with simple houses built for ocean breezes and friendly streets that invite a gentle-man to don his straw hat and go for a leisurely stroll, rather than cram into an automobile and zoom through a suburban wasteland, to restaurants offering all manner of fresh seafood. We'll also have access to a local country club, where we can indulge for a weekend in the lifestyle of the "other half." We also plan on making more frequent trips to Wrightsville this year, in an effort to squeeze more enjoyment out of our family's condo, which they are threatening to sell. We hope that our increased usage of the place will convince them that the condo is still an appreciated asset and not a dead weight to be cut loose.

I kind of wish the place we're going had a place for horseback riding. I'm anxious to try out Mr. Shitesworth's 1930s cavalry officer's uniform for its intended purpose.

The '90s Room

At last, photos of my '90s room as it looks so far:




Sorry about the glare on the "I want to believe" poster. You can see the items I mentioned in earlier posts: the old computer, the '90s vintage TV set, one of my vintage A&F shirts, a replica Surge bottle on the desk, a cordless phone handset, and the big CD player.

While I wait for the boss to leave...

I thought I'd talk about my lunch hour strategy. My friends all know how much I loathe being at work all day. I try to be here as little as possible, taking frequent bathroom breaks and such. So one trick to reduce the minutes of my life wasted here is to wait until my boss leaves for lunch before I leave. We don't clock in & out so there's no way for my superiors to know exactly when I've left for lunch. So after the boss leaves, I allow a few minutes for the boss to go to the bathroom or come back for something, then I sneak out through a back door on the other side of the building where I park every day. This way I can enjoy an extra 20-30 minutes off, adding up to a good 1.5-2.5 hours not working per week.

Until just a couple of weeks ago, I had been eating lunch on my lunch break. What a waste of valuable goofing-off time! Preparing and eating lunch takes a good 20 minutes out of the afternoon, time that could be better spent catching up with stuff on the DVR, further adorning my '90s room, or playing with Mr. Shitesworth's costumes. So I've started packing my lunch and eating it at my desk. This makes me look good (working through lunch) and frees up more time to fart around at home. Three cheers for time-theft!

On a completely unrelated topic, I've been feeding my '90s obsession with TV commercials from 1998-99, widely available on YouTube. One particular gem was a 9-minute compilation of every commercial that ran during the series premiere of Family Guy, which aired January 31, 1999. See the video here. I watched this live, waiting up late after the Super Bowl in my dorm room, on my little 13" Symphonic. Of course the broadcast I saw didn't have spots for the local Chicago news or the Illinois lottery, but the rest is so strong in my memory, as if they ran last year. 1-800-collect commercials with Ed O'Neil and Damon Wayans. Poor Bitterman, they picked on him so. The early "Drivers Wanted" Volkswagen commercials. "Do you Yahoo?" And awesome teasers for X-Files: Full Disclosure. Plus the long-forgotten Fox station ID pieces. My god, what a time to be alive. I have downloaded this video via www.keepvid.com to preserve it forever, lest the ogres in the Fox legal department force its removal.

Hope you enjoy it. While you're on YouTube, look around for other great '90s commercials like the Got Milk? campaign ("Aawon Buhw!"), other 1-800-collect spots with Eva Savelot and Max Jerome, P.I., the Volkswagen "Da Da Da" commercial, and of course anything Surge-related. Feed the rush! Sometime soon I'll post photos of my '90s room.

Just a little update

This past weekend, I rescued the old Compaq computer I mentioned in an earlier post from my parents' house. Everything was there: computer, big heavy monitor, keyboard, and mouse. I'll have to research how to clean old nasty finger gunk off the mouse & keyboard. The contraption is now set up in my study. I also finally got around to putting up the "I want to believe" poster. The room now has a much more authentic late '90s feeling. Soon I'll move the old TV (encased in black plastic, not the silver stuff that became all the rage around 2000) and JVC CD player into the corner. I may locate some period posters to give the room more of a feeling of a student apartment circa 1998-99. I also brought back a few miscellaneous small items, such as a TI-81 graphing calculator, assorted 3.5" computer disks, and my 1997 vintage Advantix camera. Hmm, I just realized I need to dig out my autographed photo of Bill Clinton and hang that up.

To clarify my madness, I'm not re-living the '90s as they happened; rather, I'm constructing an alternate '90s reality for myself, in which I have female companionship, I'm not grossly obese, nor do I wear glasses, and I live on my own. Whether I have a job is ambiguous, since, while I like the income, I miss the more flexible schedule I had as a college student. So maybe I'm in school and have a part-time job. On my '90s days, I resurrect the same fashion sense and taste in music I had back then, which serve as memory-jogging cues for a greater feeling of authenticity. As I have stated before, I don't do the '90s thing every day. For one thing, I don't wish to grow bored with it. Also, I don't wish to lose touch completely with reality. Are you starting to understand why I chose my blog's title?

In other news, my esteemed associate and guest writer Mr. Shitesworth received his replica M1931 riding boots and World War II riding breeches yesterday, and is most pleased with his order. A drawback to the boots is that they resemble wrestling boots, but perhaps some stirrup straps will take care of that. He reports that the boots are also a pain in the ass to put on, as they must be laced up and tightened much like a corset. Anyone who wears Chuck Taylor high-tops can relate to that, by multiplying the trouble taken in lacing them up by 4. Still, he looks quite striking in his riding ensemble, pairing the aforementioned items with a stone-white safari shirt, replica 1912 cavalry officer's belt, and brown fedora. I think he looks somewhat like a rejected costume design for Indiana Jones.

NC-10: The forgotten main street of North Carolina

Whenever I take a long journey by car, the route sometimes takes me off the tiresome interstate and onto more picturesque stretches of back roads. But what we call back roads today were once major transportation arteries. Before the interstate highway system, travelers didn't whiz by at 75mph staring at an endless ribbon of asphalt. They saw the main streets of big cities and small towns, farms, pastures, and woodlands. Now and then, it's nice to return to those times by exploring the back roads of North Carolina. The old highway NC-10 holds a particular fascination for me.

A bit of history is necessary here. Around 1921 or so, it was deemed necessary to assign numbers to automobile trails that previously bore proper names. The major routes that covered long paths east to west or north to south were assigned two-digit numbers ending in zero. The number 10 was given to part of the Great Central Highway, running from the mountains to the coast of North Carolina. The number was later dropped entirely from this route and reassigned elsewhere.

I frequently travel between Raleigh and Greensboro, so I'm most familiar with this piece of old NC-10. With help from a wonderful website, http://members.cox.net/ncroads/index.html, I've pieced together the original route the best I can. Follow along a Google or Yahoo satellite map as you read how a traveler would have reached Raleigh coming from Greensboro at least as early as 1921:

Follow Wendover Avenue near US-220 (Battleground Avenue). The alignment in this area changed at some point after the 1930s, so it's not possible to drive the exact original routing. Follow along on US-70 (Burlington Road). My best guess is that Old Burlington Road is where the highway originally ran, but today this hits a dead end, so you'll have to take the current alignment of US-70. Stay on US-70 through Sedalia. West of Sedalia, turn left onto NC-100. Follow it through Gibsonville. Continue on Haggard Avenue through Elon. Follow Haggard Avenue/NC-100 all the way to NC-87 and turn right. Note: the 90-degree turn probably wasn't there in 1921, so for a moment you won't be on the exact original route. Follow NC-87 into Graham, but instead of turning left to stay on NC-87, stay straight onto Elm Street and follow it as it curves left and crosses NC-54, becoming NC-49. Take NC-49 to rejoin US-70 at Haw River and turn right. Continue through Efland and Mebane and into Hillsborough, but at Hillsborough, I'm not sure whether NC-10 took a right on Hill Ave. and a left on King Street to reach today's NC-86, or a right on Revere Road (US-70A) to NC-86. Either way, follow NC-86 south past I-85, then turn left onto Old NC-10. This is a truly forgotten piece of the old highway, as US-70, which replaced the NC-10 numbering in 1927, changed routing in 1930 to bypass this area. Parts of this stretch are frozen in time in a way, taking you all the way back to the earliest days of automobiling. Even before the road was numbered, bouncy rattleboxes would putter down this same path on their way to visit far-flung relatives, attend to important business in the Capital, or perhaps attend services for loved ones who had perished in the Great War. Stay on this road as it runs into Hillsborough Road, and stay on Hillsborough Road. Yet again, the 90-degree turn wasn't there 88 years ago, but if you look at it on a satellite image, you can still see the original path that cuts through someone's front yard. When you get into Durham, turn right onto 9th Street and left on Main Street. Follow it through downtown. Turn right on Alston Ave., then left on Angier Ave. This will take you through some seedy parts, so keep your wits about you and don't go after dark. The abandoned shell of a beautiful 1920s gas station can be seen on your left when you cross Guthrie Avenue. People use it as a bus stop nowadays. Eventually you'll turn right onto Miami Blvd. Follow it past I-40 as it becomes NC-54, but where it forks right, follow the right fork onto Church Street/Old Raleigh-Durham Road/Hillsboro Road into Morrisville. Turn left on Oak Street, then right onto NC-54. Take NC-54 all the way into Cary. Be on the lookout for Durham Road, a right fork just after Academy Street. Take Durham Road and make a hard left onto Chatham Street. This becomes Hillsborough Street past I-40. Follow the signs to stay on Hillsborough Street as it takes you under the old Seaboard Air Line bridge, one of my favorite sights in Raleigh. Hillsborough Street goes all the way to the State Capitol building.

The observant viewer, when following the route on a map, will notice that old NC-10 followed the railroad rather closely. This was true for many major highways across the U.S. and enriches the sense of history that can be felt on these roads. Their ancestry extends beyond their roadbed, rooted in railroads whose paths were blazed as early as the mid-19th century. Supply trains bringing much-needed provisions and equipment to Confederate troops may have rolled by some of these roads 147 years ago.

The trip down NC-10 between Greensboro and Raleigh takes a good 3 hours! Imagine taking this route 90 years ago, bouncing around in a rattling contraption with no radio and no cell phone, with only your passengers or your imagination to entertain you. Compare that to today's route via I-40, which takes no more than 1.5 hours. The old scenic route helps you feel more of a connection to what people had to go through just to get from the Gate City to the Capital, and shows you sights you'd never see on the interstate: historic buildings, open lands, forested roads, ancient railroad bridges, and the remains of a vanished world where tired travelers in their linen suits and straw boater hats would stop at a little cafe literally on the side of the road for a hot lunch, then get a full tank and some air in their belted tires from a full-service station down the street before rattling off into the wilderness of the automobile trail.