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.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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.
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.
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