Bah, Humbug

Christmas time wears me out. Despite my best efforts to minimize stress, something always fucks things up and dashes my plans for a trouble-free December.

This year I made an even greater effort than last year to avoid the major shopping centers in my town and their horrific traffic jams. I ordered practically every gift online except for a few little stocking stuffers for the wife, which I am procuring at a small confectionery away from the pushing, shoving throngs. I was doing pretty well at this little game until this past Friday.

On Friday, my office had its annual holiday party, after which we closed early. Precious freedom! I was excited and overjoyed at the prospect of going home and wallowing about in front of my beautiful new 47-inch flat-panel TV my parents bought for me as an early Christmas present. However, my dear wife needed me to procure a few items to bring to a friend's party the next evening, and also rent a Redbox movie for that night. One little errand, I thought to myself. No biggie.

That's where the ass-fucking began. Redbox has a lovely reservation feature, with which you can reserve a DVD through their website and pick it up at the requested machine. Using this feature, I could see that the only machine containing our desired film was at a grocery store in the middle of a Christmas-shopping hellhole that gets so congested with traffic that they have to hire traffic control personnel. I intended to use a promotional coupon for 66% off, only to discover that such codes can't be used for online reservations. What the fuck good is it, then? Goddamn Redbox. Desperate for cheap Friday night entertainment, I reserved it anyway, for the full $1, at the undesirable location. It took me about 15 minutes to get through the ridiculous traffic and reach the grocery store when it should have taken 5 minutes. This is a store I seldom patronize due to its overwhelming size and illogical layout. Why in the fuck did they keep the pita chips on their own rack on the opposite end of the store from the snack isle? I went up and down every isle twice looking for Craisins, and of course every carton of eggs has at least one cracked egg because they hire retarded gorillas to stock the dairy case. After maybe 45 minutes in that god-forsaken pit of human misery, I finally found everything on the jumbled shopping list and got the fuck out of there. Halfway home, I realized I'd forgotten the goddamned movie! So I had to get my ass back there, taking a back route this time, which I should have done in the first place. This time I said fuck it, and parked in the reserved "customer with child" space, probably drawing dirty looks from goody-goodies, but at that point I didn't give a flying fuck. I finally made it home about 4:30. Oh, did I mention that the office party was held at an employee's house almost in the next town? So even though we were released at 2:15, it was 2:45 by the time I got home, and then it was right back out the door again. I lost an hour and 45 minutes of my precious afternoon off thanks to all the other assholes who can't plan ahead and do all their consumerism at the last minute.

Well, at least that was the low point of the weekend. We enjoyed our movie night on our fabulous new TV, and had a good time at our friend's party the next night. We went out Saturday to our favorite watering hole, where I kept my new kilt on that I had worn to the party. That certainly shined a light on the vast sinkhole of ignorance in this town. I kept hearing "omigod that guy's wearing a skirt" and even heard "maybe he's Muslim." Eh, whatever, I looked damn good. Sunday was glorious. We didn't leave the house or even get dressed, and sat around all day watching the entire Band of Brothers miniseries on our new TV.

Then came the call from Granny.

About 5 times now, Granny has called asking when we're coming for Christmas and whether we're coming to lunch. And 5 times the answer has been no, we're not coming on Christmas day, and no, we won't make it to lunch at the fucking Marriott. It's so frustrating because not only is she being her usual spoiled, impulsive, demanding self, but her deteriorating memory is also playing a part in the repeated phone calls. I think she truly can't remember what we've already told her. My wife finally told her last night that we don't like being pressured to come to Christmas lunch when we've already planned to hang around here most of the day. Granny got all pissy after that and hung up to go fume and pout because we weren't doing what the Grande Dame had commanded. I'm getting so goddamned sick of Granny's grandiose meal plans where poor Granddaddy has to get his tired self dressed and out in the cold when he'd probably rather have sandwiches at home. Plus she just doesn't understand that not everybody gets up at 6 in the goddamned morning like she does, and to get there at noon means means we'd have to be done with opening gifts, dressed, have our bags packed, and have the dog at the dogsitter's house by 10:30. We are absolutely not going to rush ourselves through Christmas morning just because Her Majesty wants everyone at the motherfucking Marriott at 12 sharp.

My dear father-in-law hasn't made it any less stressful. A couple of weeks ago, he was talking about taking us and my wife's brother on a trip somewhere nice, so we were calling and e-mailing back & forth trying to coordinate schedules. Eventually the grand plan fell apart, so he said just come over on Christmas day for hors d'oeuvres, when we already said we probably wouldn't be coming to town that day. But, that may be the only chance we get to see him before he has to jet off again to some other desolate outpost for his job, so my dream of a relaxing Christmas at home appears to be crumbling.

I am resolved to do things differently next year. I shall call for a rigid, unbending plan to stay put and not leave town all day Christmas day, if at all. Hopefully I'll have the funds to take us somewhere like a resort for a few days, avoid our families, and truly enjoy our time off.

The way we were

When I look back at my own childhood, I feel so bad for today's children. Below are a few things I enjoyed and took for granted as a child that today's children are denied.

Cartoons and other shows with no educational value
In the good ol' 1980s, children's entertainment remained largely unmolested by meddling lawmakers. Animated programs were nearly devoid of redeeming values or educational content, and their primary purpose was to sell toys, action figures, and advertisers' unhealthy products to impressionable youngsters. I didn't learn a goddamn thing while watching Thundercats, Bugs Bunny, You Can't Do That On Television, Garfield & Friends, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and as I got older, Animaniacs, Pinky & The Brain, and Batman: The Animated Series. I was simply entertained. Now practically every child-oriented TV show has to offer some sort of educational value. God forbid a child shut off his brain for a while and just relax with some wordplay, slapstick, and mild cartoon violence!

Educational shows that didn't suck shit through a straw
The preceding paragraph should not be construed to impugn all educational programming. Sesame Street was awesome, and at the time wasn't used as a substitute parent like it is now. Ditto for Mr. Rogers and that awesome Neighborhood of Make Believe. They engaged our imaginations without pandering. The trend of insipid, mindless pablum began with Barney the Douchebag Dinosaur. I can't bear to watch more than a minute of this thanks to the actors' exaggerated facial expressions and gestures. Then along came Blues Clues, with inane singalongs and terrible pacing. Dora the No Hablo Inglés Explorer didn't make things any better and subversively sought to fulfill the liberal agenda to make children more tolerant of non-English speakers under the guise of nurturing language skills.

Refined, processed snacks
Nothing was more abundant than sweet, sweet sugar. Sugary breakfast cereals, Kool-Aid, and Chips Ahoy were daily dietary staples for most of us. I eventually got around to eating a well-rounded diet as a result of merely being offered healthy foods but not being forced to eat them. Until then, I knew the joy of stuffing my face with sugar, and I'm perfectly fine today. Parents nowadays fear that if their precious offspring nibble so much as a single M&M, they'll never eat vegetables again and get diabetes or colon cancer at age 12.

Trick-or-treat
A recent discussion with my old school chum brought this to mind. In our day, we went out at dusk in cobbled-together costumes that included no more than $10 worth of accessories purchased solely for the costume. We got together with other children and someone's parents walked around with us as we went door-to-door, street by street, getting loads of tooth-rotting goodness from our neighbors. This is a dying custom these days. Parents are so paranoid about kidnappers and kids getting run over that they ditch the door-to-door custom altogether and take the little fatasses to some lame-ass event at a mall, community center, or church parking lot, in store-bought costumes that cost anywhere from $20-50. We earned our candy with our own footwork, hoofing it from house to house, taking in the fresh air on a crisp autumn night, interacting with neighbors, including the mildly creepy elderly people, and learned to cope with disappointment when handed crappy treats like raisins, apples, or pencils.

Toy guns
My brother and I used to play "Miami Vice" with our Uzi waterguns and pistols. They were solid black and didn't have those retarded orange plugs on them, and it was fine because people weren't so paranoid that they would think an 8-year-old would be toting a real submachine gun. Nowadays most parents think if their children so much as look at a gun, real or fake, they'll grow up to be serial killers. I guess today's busy parents can't be bothered to teach their children respect for human life, or basic gun safety for that matter.

Movies where the bad guy actually got killed
The last animated Disney film I can recall where the villain actually dies, at least implicitly, is The Lion King, in which Scar gets eaten alive. Think back—in The Little Mermaid, Ursula gets stabbed with a ship's bow. Oliver & Company—Sykes gets run over by a goddamn train. Great Mouse Detective—Ratigan falls down a fuckin' clock tower. Ever since Pocohontas, the bad guy receives some sort of punishment but doesn't actually die (the fate of Shadow Man in The Princess and the Frog is ambiguous—supposedly his soul is tormented forever in the afterlife).

Bicycles
I recently saw a commercial in which a pair of little girls pedal their pink Huffy bikes over to a friend's house for a sleepover. Such an image is just a portrayal of a fond memory. Do you know any child whose parents would allow her to get on a bike and ride off down the street? No way. Parents today think their children will be whisked away into a windowless van as soon as they leave the yard. The kids my wife nannies for don't even own bikes, or know how to ride. I rode my little red bike all up and down the street all by myself, and didn't wear stupid helmets or pads, either.

The front seat
Riding up front was a rare treat! The footwell was practically cavernous compared to the back seat, and the view through that big windshield damn near went on forever. You only got to ride up front when only one adult was in the car, and even then you had to take turns with siblings or friends. Oh, but not anymore. Legislation spurred on by whiny parents has outlawed the cherished privilege entirely and made it so you basically can't ride in the front seat until you're old enough to drive the fucking car yourself.

A world without social networking
When I was a pup, we talked with our friends face-to-face or on the home telephone. We didn't spend an hour or more every day writing e-mails, seeing who was doing what on Bookface, or maintaining mindless blogs that no one would ever read (*ahem*). The lack of social networking sites also meant we were free from the horrors of schoolyard taunts and gossip as soon as we were safe at home. Not anymore. Whatever schoolchildren these days say or do that's the least bit unacceptable to the arbiters of acceptability follows them home in the form of vitriolic messages on their social network pages and spiteful gossip spread through mass text messages.

Dreary Monday

It's Monday again. Time to drag my ass into the office after a weekend of relaxation, and 5 minutes early to boot, so I can be seated for the weekly staff meeting which almost always starts a minute early. It's kind of pretty outside right now - the sky is partly cloudy, casting an even glow on the trees which are at the peak of their autumn color. Unfortunately it will turn to rain this evening, just in time for the drive home in the black gloom of Standard Time. I really need to get my fat ass to the gym, but darkness, cold, and rain make me want to slip into my PJs and sink into the old yellow gingham easy chair under my warm, soft Avoca wool blanket.

I wish I were doing that right now. These autumn days, when the sunlight grows scarce and the chills blow in, all I want to do is hunker down at home and not go anywhere, especially not to the office. At least today I have a reprieve from the bug-in-a-bell jar feeling. My supervisor is on vacation right now, and boy do I love it when she's not here. Today, I know she won't be flitting back and forth, glancing at my screen every time she walks by my cube. I can take longer breaks without worrying about whether she's looking for me. Best of all, I can slip out 15 minutes early and no one notices. There's really no point to my being here the last 30 minutes of the workday anyway. Hell, most days when I leave early, the receptionist has already locked up and gone home. My supervisor goofs off, too - many times I've seen her shopping online or dicking around on Facebook. God, I just want to go home and spend the day watching TV or working on digitizing old family photos. Shit! I should have brought them to the office. With my supervisor out, nobody would see what I was doing.

Poor man's limousine

We had two fire alarms just this week at my office. I'm not sure whether either or both were genuine alarms or mere drills. In previous years, drills seem to have occurred only in bitter cold weather, which set me adrift in a cloud of wishful thinking. I began to long for a sort of poor man's limousine, a personal vehicle with a comfortable rear seating area and no body modifications.

Such a vehicle would be a quiet little refuge where I could take in a few precious moments of solitude during such forced evacuations, or just during a stolen moment in the course of the work day, where I would sit warm and comfortable, shielded from the elements and the inane banter of office drones. Drawing inspiration from luxurious "mobile office" affairs, my poor man's limo would appear from the outside to be an ordinary SUV such as a Ford Expedition, but the inside would boast a veritable mobile living room. I would remove the back seat and leave the factory third row bench, covering unsightly mounting holes with a carpet. I would construct a divider behind the driver's seat for that limo feel, but I probably wouldn't go so far as to include a motorized partition, opting for a curtain instead, as a throwback to the limousines of old. Ultra-dark tinted windows would be essential for privacy, and on an SUV, would be within the state's tint laws. Behind the divider would be a little cabinet, possibly with a mini fridge and assorted glassware. Of course I would install an LCD monitor (20 inches or so) and hook up a TV tuner for over-the-air broadcasts. I'd definitely equip it with mobile wi-fi and an iPad for casual web surfing, and also have a connector for the iPad so I could play videos on the big screen.

If I had additional funds, I would equip the car with twin sets of police scanners and CB radios—one set accessible when driving, the other accessible from the rear seating area. A remote starter would allow me to warm up the car on cold days, ensuring that it's toasty warm by the time I get inside. I would install a wireless printer/scanner/copier, plus an assortment of paper stocks and cutting tools, just in case I get the urge or need to create something while I'm out and about. One bonus feature, which all the executive mobile office limousines I've seen seem to lack, would be a single-cup coffee/hot beverage maker (think Keurig).

Oh, imagine a cold, blustery January morn, when the fire alarm shrieks and all the gastropods slither out of the building to freeze in the parking lot. Meanwhile, I would crank up the heater by remote control, climb in, and fire up the Keurig. Instead of a movie I would play a video of a crackling fireplace on the 20" screen, and ease back with a cup of hot coffee, haughtily observing the huddled masses from my warm little cocoon behind the dark tinted windows. Perhaps if I were feeling exceptionally generous I would invite a lucky co-worker to join me.

Free chairs came at quite a cost

This past weekend we made another trip to our beloved seaside retreat, not just for play, but also to retrieve a pair of easy chairs for our repainted living room. The grandparents had bought a pair of new recliners for the beach condo, so this weekend we went down there to pick up the old ones. The grandparents were down there as well, so we figured it would be a chance for some fun quality time.

Merciful God, what an ordeal! Granny, as you probably know, has a very impulsive nature, and also likes to make everything as complicated as possible. She brought enough food for an army, including a whole ham, 3 loaves of bread, a pumpkin pie, and various cheeses and snacks. That doesn't sound bad at first, but Saturday and Sunday morning she insisted on everyone having a big, complicated breakfast together involving eggs cooked to order. So we lost probably 2 hours each morning in all the preparation, consumption, and cleaning up. When we're down there by ourselves, we relax with some coffee for a while before eating simple cereal and fruit. We don't throw ourselves into cooking up a feast first thing when we get up.

The new chairs were supposed to be delivered in the morning, but after a few hours we called and they said it would be closer to 2PM. So we started to go across the street to get hot dogs for lunch, but just as we were leaving the building, the truck showed up. Then came the whole production of getting the chairs inside and getting the old ones loaded into our SUV.

And what of the new recliners? Bloody awful. They're stiff, have hard wooden arms, sit too high, don't lean back far enough, and are upholstered in bright red faux suede. When you think beach house, do you think red suede? Another impulsive Granny purchase. I love having the old easy chairs at home, but I'll definitely miss them on future trips to the beach.

Then Granny had everyone sit down at the table again for a big lunch, even though we had dinner reservations in 4 hours. I had planned on chilling out for a while that afternoon reading or napping, but Granny got cabin fever and had us drive her to some stupid furniture store just to look around for 10 minutes. She wound up impulse-buying a bunch of linen napkins when she probably already has a hundred similar ones at home.

Did I mention how long it takes to get Granny in and out of the car? She shuffles along using a walker, and Granddaddy has to back the car up to the door and help slooooowly hoist her in, then fold up the walker and load it in the back. Then it takes forever for her to ease herself out of the car.

We got back from that outing at 5 and my wife told Granny she'd take the first shower so she could have time to dry her hair. About 30 seconds after she'd turned the water off, Granny knocked and said "OK, can I get in there now?" Couldn't wait 5 goddamn minutes for her to dry off and brush her hair! So she had to gather up her hairbrush and makeup and scurry out dripping wet wearing only a towel. At 5:10. Over an hour before we had to leave for dinner. And I overheard Granny say to Granddaddy "why did she get the first shower?" ARRRRGH!

Dinner Saturday night was great, but we were so tired from the day's activities that we stayed in instead of going out bar-hopping. After another huge, time-consuming breakfast on Sunday, we launched into helping the grandparents get ready to leave. Granny decided to pack up a tea set and some other items at the condo to take back home with her, as if she doesn't already have a dozen fucking tea sets at home. We had to wipe down the dining table after all those grandiose family meals. Granddaddy decided it was a good time to vacuum the slats on the closet doors and the carpet in the hall, despite the fact that the fucking cleaning lady was coming the next day. Oh yes, the cleaning lady doesn't do laundry, so we had to wash our towels and sheets. Had we known that, we would have brought our own, but, oh wait, we had to sleep in the room with the twin beds, for which we do not own sheets, so we had to use Granny's twin sheets. Granny travels with a potty chair. And a big wooden box just for her jewelry. So all their crap and the additional crap Granny packed up took up two luggage carts.

They left at 1:30. Peace at last! We figured we'd grab some Mexican food for lunch, but as soon as we sat down, my wife got a message that she had to be at work at 7AM, so fuck it, we just packed up and left town. We had to leave at 2:30 anyway in order to be home before dark thanks to the return of Standard Time and its evil 6PM sunset.

That was a fuckload of trouble for a free pair of easy chairs and a free dinner at our favorite restaurant.

I don't care for shopping

As the year winds down and that annual frenzied orgy of consumption known as "Christmas Shopping" lies just 'round the bend, I bring to mind the pleasant memory of last year's low-stress holiday in which every gift I procured for loved ones was acquired over the internet, an intelligent and modern choice which delivered me from the bedlam of local shopping centers and their nightmarish driving & parking clusterfucks and allowed me to spend the early winter days in my warm abode, wallowing in my flannels, sipping mead and guffawing while foolish procrastinators scurried about in the cold outside world. I am compelled to contemplate everything I hate about shopping at physical places of business in person.

Unwashed throngs
People just get in the way. Everywhere I go to buy stuff, there are other shoppers. The majority of them do not meet my standards of acceptable outward appearance or behavior. People go shopping in dirty, disheveled, mismatched, or inappropriate clothing, and blunder about with no consideration of other shoppers who know where they're going or may be in a hurry.

Unwashed throngs' shrill offspring
Even worse than trashy shoppers are the children they bring along and refuse to supervise adequately, allowing them to run about without leashes, muzzles, or other restraints. Just last week I walked into a Target store and nearly came into contact with a pair of little boys giggling loudly while staging a sword fight with foam pirate cutlasses, thus committing two offenses at once: annoying me, and abusing merchandise.

Incompetence
So many times have I been stuck in the checkout line behind an idiot who can't read, and argues with the clerk about his coupon that was refused for being expired, or used for the wrong item, or only valid at another store, and acts like it's the clerk's fault. All the while I've got ice cream melting or I need to hurry home in time for a TV program, and this fucking twit won't budge on saving 20 cents on ketchup.

Malfunctioning inventory systems
I guarantee that on one out of every two trips to a Lowes home improvement store, the whole checkout line will be held up because an item won't scan properly or has no price sticker, so everything grinds to a halt while someone hauls ass to the exact spot in the whole fucking store where that item is stocked to get the price. Then half of those times, the customer will argue that that's the wrong price.

Check writers
There are still people who haven't yet emerged from the stone age of commerce and insist on hand-writing paper checks. All of them are women, and 99% of them are old enough to have purchased groceries with beaver pelts. They've all been issued debit cards by their banks, linked to their checking accounts, and yet they're bewildered by this magnetized piece of plastic and cling to their archaic little books of perforated slips. And they never, ever put pen to paper until every item has been rung up and bagged, choosing instead to engage in mindless chitchat with the clerk and taking even more time out of the lives of everyone waiting in line. Then they're surprised to be asked for identification, and fumble around in their purses among the Gold Bond lotion and petrified Freedent to dig it out. I hope there are magazines nearby if you get trapped behind one of these dinosaurs, because you're going to be there a while while the clerk gets the assistant manager to enter a secret code known only to assistant managers so that Prunella can take home her Fancy Feast to Boo-Boo.

Coin hoarders
Just as maddening and time-robbing as check writers are people who pay for a cartload of stuff with rolls of coins, which the clerk has to break open and count out one by one to make sure he doesn't come up short a nickel. No one ever told these bumbling assholes that coins can be changed for paper bills at banks and coin-counting machines.

Solicitors
Even before you enter the store, you risk being confronted by a charity worker soliciting donations or selling overpriced chocolate to support their high school band, all with the store's permission. Why the hell would I buy their shit when I'm already going into a store to spend my money on shit I actually need? However, I do support having public health workers stand outside Wal-Mart and hand out condoms to the shoppers buying Wonder Bread and Easy Mac for their 7 kids with food stamps. Even worse are the bums that sometimes walk among cars hitting people up for spare change while they're getting in or out of their cars. These cretins should be shot on sight.

Parking lots
Even when it's not a major holiday, parking lots piss me off. No matter what time of day or what day of the week, every store I go to has a crowded parking lot, and yet only 1 out of 4 handicapped spaces is occupied at any time. People seem to forget the moment they exit their own cars that there are other moving vehicles in a parking lot to look out for, and meander through the middle of the thoroughfare at a snail's pace or walk mere inches behind a car with its bright white reverse lights aglow. I have yet to encounter a shopping center with a thoughtfully designed parking lot; every lot has weird dead-ends in places where an exit should be but isn't, shrubs that dangerously obstruct the view of oncoming cars, and barriers around freestanding buildings such as restaurants that force you to drive a 270-degree circuit until you arrive at that building's own parking lot. God help you if you return to your vehicle to find a woman with small children getting into a car parked right next to yours, because you'll be hanging around for 5 minutes while she corrals her hyperactive spawn into the minivan or SUV and then straps them all into their complicated toddler seats. Even worse is when it's poor people stooping over to strap children into the back seat of a Ford Fiesta.

Traffic
No matter where you shop, you probably have to drive to get there and back. That means leaving your comfortable home and risking your life on the roads while precious minutes of your life tick away. Multiply that times a few thousand on peak shopping days and you lose hours of your life driving, hunting for a parking space, and walking to, inside, and from the store.

I say, fuck all that. These are all reasons why I buy shit online. Everything I could possibly want (that exists, anyway) can be purchased over the internet, in my cozy PJs, from the comfort of my recliner, and most of the time at a considerable savings over what I'd pay in a physical store. Shipping is often free, and sales taxes are damn near nonexistent. I've bought books, clothes, movies, electronics, and car parts at half retail, and paid nary a dime in sales taxes, and never had to set foot in a store full of trashy, slow people. With online commerce, I can maximize the time I spend in my cozy home and save a huge chunk of change at the same time. I may go so far as to start having my groceries delivered as well.

...and another one bites the dust

Well, I'm in an odd mood. This morning it was announced that we'd FINALLY be up for raises this year, after 2 years on a salary freeze. I know, woo-hoo, right? Then my hopes were brought back to earth after learning that the average projected salary raise this year would be in the neighborhood of 2%. If that were the case for me, I'd get enough extra per month for the two of us to go to a moderately-priced restaurant.

To make things even more disappointing, and to get around to the title of this entry, a veteran of the staff got the axe today. What the fuck? This was right after a cheerful announcement about what a great year we'd had. Just drives home the point that nothing's good enough. There's no loyalty here, no compassion or second chances. All they're interested in here is how much money you can make for them. Slip just a bit and make them almost miss a payment on the Mercedes and you're out on your ass.

So what should be a happy day has become another spike in the stress-o-meter. Every time this kind of shit gets pulled around here, it just adds to the teeth-grinding anxiety. When a staff member has been here over a decade and gets the boot, what does that say about my own job security? It says, keep your head down and look busy, fool! And pray for that lotto jackpot!

This serves as a stabbing reminder of how unpredictable and unreliable a hired position can be, and only fuels the flames of my desire to grab that brass ring, hit the jackpot, and bail the fuck out. What is the divine, cosmic reason behind why I have as of yet not had my greatest desire in life fulfilled, and have instead been left to tread water in this gray cubicle? Meanwhile, those who do win the lottery are always common, tasteless people in fly-over states who end up getting scammed out of all their winnings by scheming relatives and televangelists. The world just ain't fair, I tells ya.

Fuck you, WALL-E! I'm staying on the spaceship!

While taking a relaxing dump this morning (on company time, of course), I got to daydreaming about a world where every undesirable task under the sun is performed by robots, automatons, and other machines. Such was the case on the Noah's ark-like ship in the film WALL-E. Robots and machines cleaned, prepared meals, served drinks, and even built and maintained one another. The humans didn't have to do shit. They rode around in their awesome chairs with built-in TV screens, lounged by the pool, and essentially lived their whole lives on a cruise ship. I'll never quite figure out how they reproduced. So then along came that damned meddling WALL-E who made such a big deal about re-starting life on Earth. Well, fuck you, WALL-E! Why in the hell would anyone want to leave a spacecraft where every want and need is fulfilled, and start all over from nothing, subsistence-farming and sleeping on the ground?

Hell, despite Royal Caribbean's slipshod management, being on the Liberty of the Seas for a week was possibly the best week of my life. Meals were always available, liquor was plentiful, and everything I wanted was within walking distance. I honestly didn't ever want to get off the ship even when we were docked at various tropical locales. I guess that's why I'm so adamant about my country estate having all the features of a cruise ship—food 24/7, fitness facility, indoor pool, hot tubs, steam room, library, theater, billiard hall, disco, bowling alley—so that I wouldn't have to leave the property.

Also while on the toilet, I contemplated a future in which vehicles would drive themselves. Man has dreamt of such a marvel ever since the dawn of the automobile age, only I feel that we're getting close to a time when it would be practicable. Vehicles could navigate via precise GPS technology, knowing exactly where and when to turn, and would also stop, accelerate, and decelerate in response to one another's presence, made known by radio transmissions, damn near eliminating collisions except under hazardous weather conditions. Traffic jams caused by human error would be a thing of the past. Car owners could even travel in their own cars overnight and sleep. Before every trip, the car would calculate the needed fuel or electrical charge and inform the owner if more was needed to reach the final destination before disembarking. I'm not sure what would be done to protect errant pedestrians, however, who don't use designated crosswalks. Perhaps vehicles would be equipped with infra-red imaging that signals the vehicle to stop when a live presence is detected, simultaneously radioing to rearward vehicles to stop as well. Speed and maneuvering would be governed by a computer, rather than the whim of an impatient, angry, or impaired human operator, eliminating drunk drivers and road rage.

Dreary Monday

This is in no way an earth-shattering observation, but Mondays suck, and rainy Mondays suck Phil's ass.

I love my weekends, because most of them are lived the way I would live if I were retired: get up when I feel like it, eat a leisurely breakfast, and keep my jammies on while I watch an unhealthy amount of TV, leaving the house only for an occasional errand. I'm always a little depressed on Monday, because I have to leave my comfortable little nest after two days of frivolity and crank up the grindstone for another 5 days of drudgery. What really makes this particular Monday dreadful is the rain. When the sun hides behind a thick, wet blanket of gloom, it drains me of the will to do anything productive. Right now I want nothing more than to be at home in the living room with my wife and a movie. I did precisely this yesterday afternoon, and it was wonderful. We went out on a few errands in the gray drizzle, and as soon as we got home, I put on my PJs, made some hot tea, and started up Forgetting Sarah Marshall on FX while the rain fell softly outside. How I long to have the means to spend every rainy day in such a manner, only in my stately home in the country.

This past Saturday evening we went to a little get-together at our friend's home outside of town. She resides in her parents' house in a neighborhood that was all farmland not long ago. Instead of going straight to her house, we meandered around the neighborhood a bit. Lots were big, houses were big, and it was all very quiet and bucolic, stirring up the desire to build a large country house not too far removed from the city, which I wouldn't have any need or desire to leave for days at a time, having everything I need and want on the property. We would probably go to town once a week for a fine dinner or to the theater, but groceries would be delivered. I would even have tailors come to the house, rather than go out to a shop.

O! To live the life of the country gentleman! I would have my friends come out for long weekends of leisure and good times, where they would stay in comfortable rooms and arise to a breakfast buffet. We would spend the days loafing about, playing croquet, knocking golf balls around, swimming, and making idle conversation. And on damp days, I would take a stroll through the fields in my Barbour jacket and wellies, returning to find my afternoon tea on the veranda, where I would sit and watch the rain from my dry, comfortable chair.

If I Can Dream

I try to stay up-to-date with technological advances, since they seem to be rolling out at exponential speed these days. The more I read about what's just come out, the more I daydream about what's around the corner.

I've recently gotten interested in e-books, but I haven't purchased any. I managed to collect the complete Disney comic work of Carl Barks and Don Rosa in individual PDFs for free online. I still like the option of a hard copy, since I enjoy the experience of holding a book and also am not impressed by the e-readers currently on the market, but when I finally get an iPod Touch I'll start carrying around e-books, since I won't need a separate device to read them. Imagine sitting on the john and having your whole comics collection right there in your pocket! I hope that in the near future, when you buy a hard copy book, you'll receive a unique code to download the book for free in electronic format from the publisher's website. I don't know how they'll protect themselves against piracy, but I don't care either.

While on the subject of e-books, I, like everyone else, have far more printed books than I do e-books, and wish I could have them all in digital format. I dream of an affordable at-home device that can somehow scan an entire book in minutes into color images, which you would run through software to make a searchable PDF. Then, I could have every single book, magazine, comic book, and archived document I own in electronic format, which I would carry on a high-capacity iPod. Last December, Toshiba developed the technology for 128gb flash memory. This means that in the next few months, Apple will likely debut a 128gb iPod Touch. I'll jump on a 128-gig, but I can't honestly say that would be big enough to carry my entire media library right in my pocket. I wish for an iPod Touch with enough memory to hold every single audio track, movie, TV show, video clip, photo, e-book, and e-comic in my possession. Such a device would also have front and rear-facing cameras at least 10 megapixels, and HD video recorder, and be equipped with a battery that can play videos constantly for 16 hours on a single charge. I figure this dream machine would have to have a good 500GB of storage, and is probably 5-10 years away. There do exist devices not made by Apple with 500GB of space, but they have firmware reliability issues, and they're hard-drive based, not flash-based.

It seems that the internet is very gradually replacing cable and broadcast television. Most TV shows can be enjoyed online within days of their original broadcast (except those produced by HBO, who are a bunch of greedy bastards). I dream of a day when major networks simulcast all programming via streaming video, and paid cable TV service will become extinct. I'm already seriously considering getting a quality antenna and cutting off our expensive satellite service, watching cable network programs online.

VOIP has slowly been catching on as a cheaper alternative to cell phones. Skype seems to be the dominant favorite. I don't know if cellular carriers will ever go for this, but I dream of a day when we pay something like $30 or $40 a month for unlimited wireless internet, accessed with the aforementioned iPod, and no phone service and make our calls for free via VOIP. It's sort of already possible but not in the convenient, seamless fashion I dream of.

I also wish for my automobile to make the leap into the 21st century. I'm not sure if this already exists, but I want it equipped with a touchscreen in the dash, to which I could wirelessly connect an iPod or iPhone and use all its functions: phone, music, video, internet, apps, etc. With it I would receive the aforementioned streaming TV programming if I wanted to catch the news. I am aware of FloTV, but I don't want to pay for it. An external keyboard would rise out of the center armrest when needed. If I'm playing a movie and a call comes in, the movie would automatically pause and the caller ID would display in large letters, with answer and ignore buttons. The caller's voice would feed into the stereo speakers. The touchscreen would also function as a backup camera. In addition to the backup camera, however, my dream car would also have a video periscope—a weatherproof camera with night vision and 360-degree swivel controlled by a joystick—which would allow me to scope out traffic conditions in all directions. It would be one of those tiny cameras at the end of a tube, so it would look just like an antenna. I would actually have a separate GPS screen so that I wouldn't have to pause a movie to make sure I'm on the right track. I would also have a scanner & printer installed in the glove compartment, to which I could connect a laptop. Of course this would all be housed in a big black SUV with dark windows and badass accessories such as a brush bar and spotlights.

What else does the future of media and entertainment hold in store? We are already witnessing the slow death of the movie rental store. Perhaps movie theaters will go extinct, replaced by large-screen LCD or plasma TVs in the home on which you would view new releases streaming from the studio's website for a fee. In 10 or 15 years, perhaps Netflix will offer instant streaming of every American and English film and television episode ever released, so no waiting 1 or 2 days for a DVD copy of some obscure indy film. Book stores will fade away as older books become available electronically. Newspapers will also die off slowly, or possibly survive as subscription-based electronic news sources if they offer writers and stories good enough to pay for. As more and more books are digitized, physical libraries may disappear as well, replaced by servers full of electronic content, or perhaps the buildings will remain but their cases of books will be replaced by rows & rows of computer stations (half of them occupied by literate bums). I imagine copyrighted material will be in a read-only, non-downloadable format. This would definitely be convenient—no more college students schlepping to the library at midnight or grade-schoolers making their parents drive them to the library for a mindless school project. I also hope for all the old microfiches to be converted to PDFs. Imagine having access to the entire printed contents of the Library of Congress and the National Archives from your living room!

Political Pontification

I think this is the first time I've engaged in any thoughtful political commentary on this blog that wasn't fueled by a temporarily bitter emotional state. It seems Mr. Obama is attempting to preserve tax relief for "middle class" taxpayers, and in classic Democrat fashion, he plans to stick it to people who earn more than a certain amount—probably $200-$250K.

I've bitched and moaned repeatedly on this blog about rich people and income disparity. I'm constantly in a battle between emotion and rationale on the issue of the obligations of high earners to society. My emotions say $150,000 a year is enough for any one person to live a very comfortable lifestyle, and anyone seeking more than that is a greedy bastard. A company's profits should be distributed among employees who earn less than the $150K maximum, instead of being doled out as bonuses to those who already earn enough. Rationale and logic, however, hold that without the freedom to pursue as much income as possible, businesses wouldn't expand and we'd have worse unemployment problems. No one is going to bust his ass, take risks, and hire more people to build and expand a business if he can't earn more than $150,000 a year.

So, neither the presence nor absence of salary caps is good for society. What's to be done to make things fair for everyone?

My answer: replace the income tax with a national sales tax plus surtaxes on imported goods, as well as stiff taxes on employers who outsource services to foreign countries.

The national sales tax would consist of a few levels of tax rates based on the necessity of the good or service being taxed. For example, groceries, clothing priced less than $100 per item, cars priced less than $30,000, and medical services would be taxed at a lower rate than other not-so-necessary purchases, which would be taxed at a middle rate. A higher rate would be imposed on luxury goods such as expensive cars and jewelry, as well as alcohol, recreational drugs, and tobacco.

That's right, I said recreational drugs. While we're fixing the tax system, let's also do away with the pointless "war on drugs," which has done nothing but waste tax dollars and get people killed. Recreational drugs with little or no medicinal purpose would be taxed, regulated, and restricted to people over 18 years of age.

Imported goods for which there exists a sufficient range of American-made substitutes would be subjected to a surtax, and not just at the consumer level. American manufacturers would pay taxes on components imported from overseas.

Under the structured national sales tax, an individual's tax burden would be based on what he chooses to consume, not what he earns. A high earner could choose to pay thousands more on an $80,000 Mercedes, or he could choose to buy a modest Ford and pay less taxes.

But how would the government support itself, you might ask? We'd have to scale back government, duh! Ending the "war on drugs" would certainly save some serious cash, and taxes on recreational drugs would help fill the coffers. So would shutting down the I.R.S., since we'd no longer have an income tax. While we're at it, the U.S. Department of Education should be done away with, since education should be managed at the state level.

It's another day when time stands still

Some days my office becomes a mystical place where time enters a "no passing" zone. Today is one of those days, so I figured I'd update the ol' blog.

Yesterday afternoon was the afternoon from Hell. It seemed like everyone had waited until the last possible fucking minute to turn in revisions, when they'd had a week to do so. The two key people in charge of one ad decided to take fucking vacation days the two days before the ship date, and then the original ad idea got completely scrapped, requiring a completely new design, which I pulled out of my ass in about 30 minutes. Another person simply forgot to review an ad she commissioned, and I went through 3 revisions on that one. At the last minute The Boss wanted changes to an ad that had been approved 2 weeks ago, but I passed that one on to the freelancer. Like Hell I was going to touch that one again. My brain was fried by 5:30, so I got my fat ass to the gym and did some weights to relieve the tension.

We made another pilgrimage to beloved Wrightsville 2 weekends ago, but our full enjoyment of the weekend was impeded by worrying about the car. Its "check engine" light came on on the ride down, so we pulled into a shop and ran the OBD. Diagnosis: failing oxygen sensors. So we decided to leave early Sunday afternoon just in case the car broke down or something, but it made it home without trouble. I was quoted over $500 to replace the sensors, but thanks to the miracle of the internet, I found the parts for $170 and instructions on how to replace them myself, a fairly simple task consisting of unscrewing four bolts and unplugging the sensors. For 1.5 hours of work I saved well over $300. While waiting for the parts to arrive, I used my mother-in-law's smelly Corolla to get around, which reeked of tobacco and rotten vegetables, had a crust of silt and nicotine on the dashboard and console, and had. I spent 40 minutes vacuuming and getting the stench down from pungent to stale so that I wouldn't arrive at work smelling like I had been smoking a squash.

We finally picked out paint swatches this weekend. Soon our dream of a simulated beach house will become a reality. We picked a cool light blue for the living room and a very light cream for the dining room. We'll probably end up painting the dark wood TV cabinet a light ivory as well, since we can't afford to junk the whole thing and get a flat-panel unit. I would trade our dark recliners for my mother-in-law's sofa and give away our old nasty sleeper sofa, but I don't want to deal with the hassle of moving furniture and having to rent a truck.

I am so ready to retire. Sometimes a flicker of doubt runs through my mind, asking, "wouldn't you get bored doing nothing all day, every day?" That came up this weekend when we had nowhere to go and nothing planned, and sat around the house most of the weekend watching movies. I did start to feel a little bored and restless, but after yesterday's extended period of clock-watching followed by a panicked rush to get all that last-minute shit done, I no longer doubt that I would be much better off retired with millions in lottery winnings. I wouldn't get bored thanks to a custom-designed house which would offer a bounty of entertainments and diversions.

My lottery-winner house would be a miniature resort. Of course it would have the requisite indoor swimming pool for year-round aquatics. It would also have a well-equipped fitness center with ellipticals, treadmills, free weights, and of course Indian clubs, but would look much classier than your typical membership gym. Oriental rugs and potted palms would grace the room, and an elegant beverage bar would have bottled water and protein shakes at the ready. Wicker chairs with sweat-proof cushions would be there to receive my tired ass after a workout. I would install finely appointed changing rooms with showers for my guests, and I would also have a massage room.

A bowling alley would be a must. I'm not sure if it would be fully automated, or if I would have a servant in Punjabi costume roll the ball back and reset the pins. I'd also fit the entertainment wing of the house with a dance club, where we would dance the night away with our friends without overcrowding or being offended by the presence of trashy people. Down a dark hall near the restroom would be a locking chamber with a sturdy daybed, tissues, towels, lubricants, and a basket of prophylactics should drunken guests "get the urge." A British pub-style bar would adjoin the dance club for when the revelers want to take a break in a more quiet spot. Adjacent to the pub would be a spacious oak-paneled billiard room with at least two pool tables and furnished with cushy leather sofas. The entertainment wing would have a large terrace as well, for smoking, taking in the night air, and playing drunken games of cornhole, with plenty of lounge chairs in case guests need a place to pass out for the night. I would probably have various themed dining rooms as well, including French cafe, '50s diner, and opulent Victorian, surrounding a gourmet kitchen, which would be adjacent to a '50s style kitchen with restored vintage appliances. Wi-fi would be available throughout the house.

Most folks love a formal dinner, but I have a greater affinity for breakfasts consumed in splendid surroundings and served in a most elegant fashion. Each morning I would dine in one of many places around the mansion: the breakfast room, which would have large windows flooding the room with the morning sun; the terrace, on a clean white tablecloth with a pot of hot coffee at the ready; or the private balcony in the master suite.

Speaking of master suite, my wife and I would have our own dressing rooms, each with beautiful wooden racks and shelves laden with fine garments, huge mirrors, comfortable chairs, TV set with surround sound, radio, internet access, sound system, and a small beverage bar with a mini fridge and a single-cup coffee maker, should we happen to get thirsty while changing. Hers would have a large dressing table as well. The bathroom would offer a large jacuzzi tub and a huge shower, and a white marble double vanity with plenty of cabinets & drawers to stash our various toiletries out of sight, plus yet another mini fridge for keeping chilled water. The bed chamber would have its own fireplace and sitting area with beverage bar and coffee maker where we could have coffee or juice before breakfast, and of course a big TV with surround sound as well as wireless headphones. At night we would play ocean sounds to lull us to sleep. Adjacent to the bedroom would be a smaller bedroom in case one of us is sick and needs to sleep separately.

Each guest room would have a private bath, private balcony, big TV, and a laptop with wi-fi and printer. Down the hall there would be a sitting area with a fridge full of drinks and snacks for late-night munchies. On weekends when we have guests, I would have a servant head out early in the morning and pick up a copy of USA Today for each guest and quietly shove it under the door. Each nightstand would be stocked with prophylactics should drunken hook-ups occur between guests.

The library would be a spacious room housing all of our books, maps, records, and archives. Guests would sink into big leather chairs with a book or newspaper, or surf the web with the library's laptops. My study would be adjacent. Nearby would be a sort of work room with big tables where we would keep tools for whatever projects we devise. I would also have a small separate room dedicated to wrapping gifts.

No gentleman's house is complete without a theater. Mine would have the largest plasma screen available, surround sound, a vast library of movies & TV shows, and plush leather recliners with cupholders. The theater would have its own lobby just outside, with popcorn, drinks, beer, and snacks for my guests. The restroom would be equipped with its own monitor so that guests wouldn't miss anything. This same library of movies would be available on the server for viewing in the individual guest rooms.

Underneath the house would be a huge garage for my collection of automobiles. I'd try to keep it simple—a few vintage models, including a sedan from the '20s, '30s, '40s, and '50s, a Suburban, an Explorer, a Range Rover, a few black Crown Victorias, a large Mercedes sedan, and a light blue 1989 Volvo 740.

O, how I wish to retire on lottery winnings and live out my days in splendor!

Beach Bum

We spent four glorious days at Wrightsville Beach this past weekend, the longest we've had the luxury of staying. Despite capricious weather conditions, we enjoyed every moment and yearned to stay indefinitely.

We arrived about 10:30 Wednesday night. It rained most of Thursday, but we took that as an opportunity to loaf around in the cool, quiet condo and catch up with True Blood on HBO On Demand. Friday was sunny, so we sat outside all afternoon sweating our asses off in the sun. We consumed a sumptuous meal at 22 North, where you pretty much can't go wrong with the menu. We attempted to go out drinkin' but got bored and sleepy after one drink, giving up and going back at 11:30. Saturday was absolutely perfect—sunny, warm but not stiflingly hot or humid like the day before, with a gentle, cooling breeze, making it feel like May in the Caribbean. After watching Watchmen on HBO, we headed out for drinks shortly after midnight, and managed to have two rounds before getting pizza and going back to the condo, where we ate pizza in bed and watched Reality Bites until 3AM. Sunday morning brought rain, but it cleared up by the time we made our ritualistic pilgrimage to Dockside. We managed to get in a little more beach-sitting until it began to drizzle again, so we decided to get a head-start on packing up. Having gotten that out of the way, we had an early supper at Tower 7 and some Kohl's frozen custard, then mournfully departed at 7:30.

Oh, how we longed to stay there forever! Everything is so relaxed and life is lived at a slower pace down there. We amble along practically everywhere instead of jockeying for position with other motorists. Restaurants and retailers are within easy reach. We can drink til our livers fail and then stagger back to the condo, picking up the state's best pizza on the way. And we think not a moment about jobs or bills; we leave our troubles on the mainland.

One more major part of our beach experience, I have to admit, is the condo itself. The little 3-bedroom efficiency feels like a breath of fresh air—everything is clean, cool, quiet, and full of light. The living room glows in the morning as the ivory-colored walls radiate the rising sun. The huge floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with sunlight and bring in the sweeping vista of the sapphire sea. The air conditioner blows cold and strong, providing a cool refuge from the blistering Carolina summers. The soft white wall-to-wall carpet feels great on bare feet and dampens noise. The living room furniture is all lightly-colored—yellow chairs, teal sofa, natural wood bookcases—and littered with mementos of the sea. A model sailboat here, an old barometer there, a lamp from a PT-109, a complete set of Time-Life's The Seafarers series, all bring the ocean right into the room. A visitor instantly feels energized and at peace simultaneously as soon as he crosses the threshold.

So of course, this latest extended visit has resurrected my interest in simulating the beach look at our main residence, coinciding with an endowment of funds for my recent birthday from relatives. Ordinarily I would have gone out to Brooks Brothers or purchased other luxury items with the intention of impressing others, but I decided it's more important to make my home, where I spend half my waking hours, a peaceful refuge. I've already procured calm blue striped curtains for the entry hall and guest bedroom, and a natural white cotton slipcover for the drab old sofa is on the way. Painting some of the living room furniture white may be in the near future, and some light curtains are a certainty. We'll wait and see how the cactus-green walls look with the renovated furniture before we decide to repaint. I wish to freshen up the formal dining room as well, but can't really figure out how. New seat covers, maybe, and perhaps a casual tablecloth. The yellow walls could stand a change, being an odd transition between the cool gray & blue entry and the blue & white kitchen. I've got to get one of those antique wall barometers. I'll probably forgo the white plank paneling in the entry hall, since the new curtains seem to have helped tremendously. Perhaps after all this, we'll feel at least some of the same tranquility we do at our favorite place on Earth.

Raleigh Reveries

I have a special place in my hard heart for a few cherished places in old Raleigh. Some still stand but I haven't visited them in ages; others are gone with the cruel winds of change.

The Hard Wok Buffet is the first to come to mind. Out of business for a couple of years now, it operated in Pleasant Valley Promenade, a charming late-'80s suburban shopping center. Tucked away in the second level where you'd never know it was there (possibly leading to its demise), the Hard Wok offered a budget-priced, gut-busting, all-you-can-cram-in-your-cakehole array of greasy Asian cuisine, such as sesame chicken and egg rolls, mixed with even greasier American heart-cloggers, like pizza rolls and french fries. I would always start with 4 or 5 crabs Rangoon. A little-used salad bar sat at the back (like I'm gonna pay $6 and fill up on fucking iceberg lettuce and dressing), and a plentiful dessert area boasted sugary pastries and soft-serve ice cream, which I'd always visit at least twice after 3 or 4 plates of General Tso's, guaranteeing a copious bowel movement later in the day.

Brothers Pizza on Hillsborough Street was a Raleigh icon. Everyone was shocked and saddened when they closed their doors. Practically everyone my age had at least one birthday party there as a child. I would often dine there for lunch when I was a student at NCSU, taking advantage of their $5 salad & slice combo.

Fat Daddy's, near the aforementioned Pleasant Valley Promenade, still stands, I just miss it because I haven't been there in many, many years. My family used to go there once or twice a month in the '80s. I still remember smelling the waffle cones at the ice cream bar every time I entered. Someday I'll go again.

Don Murray's Barbecue bit the dust a few years back. They had a simple but satisfying all-you-can-eat Eastern N.C. BBQ buffet, complete with unlimited banana pudding. They will be sorely missed.

Moving away from eateries: my favorite spot on the NCSU campus was the Foreign Language Lab in the old laundry building. It was a room full of computers, each in its own little carroll and equipped with decent headphones intended for studying foreign language programs. The room was cool and comfortable, and few people knew of this lab's existence, making it a very quiet, uncrowded place to go for extended surfing sessions. a stark contrast to another lab in the same building where the suckers went. That one was always crowded, noisy, stuffy, and had uncomfortable chairs. I spent many hours in the language lab one semester when I skipped nearly every class in a certain course where the professor never took attendance, never gave tests, and lectured for an hour. I only showed up to hand in papers and deliver oral reports.

My second-favorite spot would have been the big lounge in Caldwell Hall. I would often hang out there when I had an hour between classes and either do homework for the next class or just read.

Pleasant Valley Promenade had a seven-screen movie theater in its golden age. I can only distinctly remember seeing two movies there: Dennis the Menace and The General's Daughter. I'm sure there were others. The same shopping center also used to have a Best Buy, where I said farewell to the pricier independent music stores and bought CDs for $4 or $5 less. There, I remember witnessing the gradual transition from VHS to DVD: around 1999 there was one row of shelves for DVDs and the rest was VHS; by 2002, it was practically all DVDs. The Dollar Tree was always a fun stop when I was out there. Also at Pleasant Valley was a Michael's Art Supply, which sadly moved out to Capital Fucking Boulevard. After Best Buy moved down to Crabtree, replacing Pier One Imports, and Hard Wok joined Chairman Mao at that Chinese buffet in the sky, I had no more reason to go to that hallowed center of commerce.

North American Video was, and continues to be, your classic independent video rental store. Surprisingly, it's still in business, even through the shitty economy and up against Redbox and Netflix. My old school chum and I would go there practically once a week. I still have my card from the '90s; wonder if it still works?

Third Place continues to thrive. It's the quintessential indie coffee shop, complete with hippie baristas and freaky emos taking up space on the couch. Back when my folks used to work in the area, we'd often meet there for coffee. I think the clientele of weirdos and the recurring fly problem eventually made us all lose interest, moving on to Hereghty's, a much classier coffee & pastry shop where well-bred gentle-folk refresh themselves at marble-topped tables.

I think I threw up in my mouth a little

Just moments ago I overheard co-workers of mine discussing a former co-worker of ours, one I never really liked while she was here and whose decision not to come back to work after giving birth thrilled me.

This person drove me crazy while she was working here. She would have me work on marketing materials without any clear idea in her head as to what she wanted exactly. I would come back with one idea after another and she would have a different, vaguely worded response each time, and eventually I got chastised by my superiors for having to go through so many drafts because that dumb cunt couldn't communicate or even formulate in her own blonde brain what the fuck she wanted. Work got a lot easier after she left.

Anyone could tell just by looking at her that she wasn't long for the workaday world, and was bred to be the iconic lazy suburban mom. She had a rich husband, of course; I'm fairly certain he was a physician or surgeon or in some other medical occupation that pays a ludicrously inflated salary. She went the traditional route of working a white-collar job for a little while until fulfilling her life's ambition of getting knocked up, then quit her job after squeezing a little raison d'etre out of her twat and sitting on her ass for a couple months afterward collecting maternity leave paychecks while a nanny did the real work. So my co-workers' most recent discussion amongst themselves brought up details that didn't surprise me in the least. It seems she has achieved the highest honor for a lazy, spoiled suburban mom by becoming president of the local Junior League, a social club for the female scumbags of the privileged class. Women who have rich husbands to support their offspring and other little hobbies join the Junior League so that they can put on sundresses and straw hats, drink wine together, and cluck about how damned terrific their children and dogs are while pretending to perform charitable work so that they can feel good about themselves. These same creatures will drive their $60,000 cars to an antiques shop and try to get the shopkeeper to take half off, I guess so that they can save their husbands' money for more wine. I about wanted to vomit and start throwing things when they were talking about her two children and her Labs—a breed of dog which is cute and dumb and therefore popular with mindless rich people.

I do not deny that my contempt for these cretins is partly fueled by envy. I've published time and again that I want nothing more than to retire and do whatever the fuck I feel like every day. I think what really bothers about them me is their lack of usefulness to society combined with their parasitic nature. While I desire to be endowed with a lifetime supply of money for which no single person had to work very hard, their goal in life is to reproduce and hang out with friends who have also reproduced, which requires no specialized skill or education and any moron with functional genitals can do, while parasitically deriving their sustenance from host animals (their husbands) without returning anything except possibly bland missionary-style intercourse a couple times a month or whenever they are given jewelry. While I simply wish to quit working and live off of lottery winnings and interest, they go beyond forgivable indolence and make another person work to support them, which is why we can only conclude that Junior League bitches are evil.

Why aren't I retired yet?

Well, it's another dull day in the ol' cubicle. Work is steadily trickling in but not at a fast enough rate to warrant diligent concentration. I'm feeling the usual depression that follows a really fun long weekend, like a junkie coming down from his high. Damnation, I want to retire!

This weekend we attended the Highland Games. My in-laws purchased a patron package which gave us a VIP parking spot on the grounds and access to the sponsors' hospitality tent which boasted free sodas, snacks, and a commanding view of the games. We were also guests at the sponsors' reception Friday evening, where we were lavished with free booze and a bigass spread of heavy hors d'oeuvres, and entertained by pipes & drums and a grand array of gentlemen garbed in kilts and Prince Charlie jackets. Such is the manner in which this gentle-man should always be treated; without the preferential parking, we would have been subjected to the squalor of the park-and-ride buses and forced to mingle with the unwashed huddled masses.

We were also bestowed by my generous in-laws with two nights at a cozy motel a mere 5-minute walk from the main drag, which offered great little eateries. We chose a pub with an authentic British pub atmosphere and reasonably priced, delicious pub fare.

The entire weekend was mostly enjoyable. The meadow was suffocatingly crowded most of Saturday, but we did catch some good musical performances, including Albannach, who play stirring pipes & drums in a primitive, tribal manner. The drive to & from the grounds offered splendid scenery. We dined on fried, unhealthy lunches such as fish & chips, burgers, and some less-than-stellar haggis. There was no booze of any kind to be found, a flagrant contradiction to the British Isles' proud, long-standing tradition of alcoholism. I downed 3 pints at the pub to make up for the deprivation.

My only complaints about the games revolve around the remoteness of the location, the parking situation, and the amount of driving required. The nearest town is a good 15 minute drive away through low-speed roads, and those who did not procure the expensive VIP spots had to park miles away and wait for a bus. It would be far, far more convenient to hold the games someplace like the state fairgrounds, which handles the massive traffic of the State Fair year after year. Considering the event has been held in the same spot for decades, I doubt a change of venue is likely. Nevertheless, provided we're not living in abject poverty in a year's time, we'll likely return next July.

I love my weekends. I'm so fucking sick of the daily grind—get up, go to work, lose 8 hours of my life, go home, fix supper, kill some brain cells with beer & TV, go to bed, repeat. Little weekend excursions like the above are about the only thing that keep me from burning the goddamn office down. Such diversions are harder to come by with money getting tighter and everything getting more expensive as time goes by. I'm going to be so fucking pissed if they don't start doling out raises this fall. I'm still in my 20s and I dread the prospect of doing this same shit for another 40 years or so. How do people do it? How did my dad go to that same office 5 days a week for 20 years? I really shouldn't complain; at least I'm employed and drawing a steady, if paltry, income in this still-shitty economy. At the same time, I know there is a better way to live; I've seen it. There are a fortunate few who don't go to pointless jobs every day and do whatever the fuck they feel like on any given day. As Tom said in Office Space, "There are people in this world who don't have to put up with all this shit." That film is the anthem of those of us who grew up having all our needs fulfilled by someone else, never had to hold down a summer or after-school job, lived in nice houses in safe neighborhoods, never saw anyone really bust his ass—I don't recall my dad ever working more than 40 hours a week—to provide for it all, and are now left wondering, as we enter the workforce, where our share is, and why asshats like Lumbergh put in the same effort we do (or less) and drive Porsches to work. Or why a certain someone drives his Lexus here only 2 or 3 days a week and returns to his mansion, then goes to France for 2 weeks. We jumped through the academic hoops with the promise of great rewards for our efforts, and then we wound up with shitty little cubicle jobs making half as much as Bubba the heat & air guy who went to community college for 2 years. I'm more and more inclined to support the notion of salary caps. There's no good reason why anyone should be paid more than $100,000 a year when someone like me survives on a third of that.

To make the world even more inequitable, I've played the lottery fairly regularly for the last 3 or 4 years and have yet to win any major prize, let alone the jackpot, while others buy an occasional ticket on a whim and strike it rich. And the winner is always some trashy, uneducated plebe in Indiana who's going to lose it all to con-artists and mooching relatives. Where's the justice? I'm far more deserving of vast riches than the people who usually win, since I would put it to better use by living fabulously.

Vintage luxury is still luxury, dammit

I was contemplating my inevitable acquisition of a certain late '80s model Mercedes 560 SEL. Currently in the possession of my wife's grandparents, sooner or later it will go to me either by bequest when they pass on or deed of gift when they can no longer drive. It's been meticulously maintained, garage-kept, and is in nearly new condition. Its original MSRP was about $72,000, the equivalent of $119,000 in 2009. Think about that a moment—back in 1989 or 1990, to be seen driving one of those would have made quite the impression. It was probably purchased after endless nagging by Granny, the real-world equivalent of Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced BOO-KAY!).

Thanks to the sad reality of depreciation, today the car is probably worth around $6,000, fueling the public's perception of old luxury cars as a poor man's ride. The masses have no appreciation for historical context; in 1989, that car was top-of-the-line. It may not have an in-dash GPS system or a rear view camera, but damned if it ain't still a smooth, luxurious ride.

It upsets me that we have this widespread negative sentiment toward older luxury vehicles. Thanks to marketing firms' well-honed aptitude for manipulating the feeble mind of the average American, the general population has been brainwashed into believing that old=inferior. An old luxury car is still a luxury car! I shouldn't be too surprised, I suppose, given that we treat elderly people in this country the same way we treat old cars. Toss 'em on the heap when they're no longer new and exciting. It's time we start giving old luxury cars the same respect and admiration they got when they were being touted as the hot item of the year by those same marketing sleazebags.

Random babble

It's a very, very, very slow day in the ol' cubicle. There's not a whole hell of a lot going on today, and as I type, I am fighting off sleep even after consuming a diet cola. So I figure today is as good a day as any to write down thoughts as they come to me.

I like summer a great deal, but I hate the effect of the heat on co-workers' choices in footwear. I work with a lot of females and practically all of them break out the flip-flops as soon as the temps rise above 65, so all I hear all summer above the hum of the printers is slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-SLAP-SLAP-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. However, the advantage to hearing footsteps all day is at least I have advance notice of when someone's about to walk past my cube, and I can switch to an important-looking window. Two of my co-workers, however, make absolutely no noise when they walk, and it doesn't help things that one of them is the Boss. It's fuckin' freaky how silently he glides along like a ghost. I'll suddenly hear him say "hi" to someone and think, "where the fuck did he come from?"

I really wish they hadn't started locking the unused office upstairs. That was a great place to just go hang out for a few minutes—cool, dark, quiet, and empty.

OK, I just got back from having some cake in the break room. That was a nice little diversion. Now back to the blog.

I love the look and feel of the famous Louis Vuitton Monogram pattern. Whenever I see someone carrying a LV handbag, I have to admit the immediate impression it gives is "luxury" and "wealth," but right after that comes the assumption that it's a counterfeit. Seriously, every single time I see a woman displaying her LV purse, I think "ooh, pretty," and then "oh, fake," and I feel a little sorry for her that she's not achieving the desired impression with her little status symbol. Even if everything else about her screams money, I still assume the bag is a knockoff. Out of boredom I looked for LV for sale on craigslist. One item for sale was one of those gaudy multi-colored monogram pattern purses, but in the photo, it was being "modeled" by a light brown hand with long press-on nails, attached to a meaty arm with an ugly tattoo on the inside wrist. The description read, "selling cause i really dont have no use for as to i carry a diaper bag now thanks." Classy, ma'am, classy. Is the diaper bag Burberry plaid?

One time I was in a grocery store and saw a pair of really, really put together young ladies, about 22 years old, festooned with costly-looking jewelry, fashionable designer clothing, and toting Louis Vuitton purses, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Talk about trying way too hard! If they had been any fuller of themselves, they would have been classified as black holes. I also quickly felt very sorry for any man who had the misfortune of dating and/or marrying them.

I can't stand Ke$ha. She is a sloppy drunk whore slut and sets a terrible example for young women. She represents the worst an otherwise smart and attractive woman can do to herself, namely, dress like a skank and sound like intoxicated Valley Girl trying to imitate a gangsta' bitch. She's an icon of everything wrong with white girls age 18-25: self-absorbed, alcoholic, shallow, promiscuous, and generally tacky and tasteless.

Justin Bieber is an annoying androgenous douche. He looks like a white trash 12 year old girl with a bad haircut, and yet teenage girls all cream their jeans every time they see him. Plus the little shit probably earns more money taking a dump than I do in a year. I wish to slap him.

I went to Wrightsville Beach again this past weekend. The highlight of the trip was witnessing a drunk asshole get in a fistfight with a bouncer at Jerry Allen's and subsequently get tasered by the W.B. police. I found out that the mysterious cheering that woke us up at 2:30AM Memorial Day weekend was due to a streaker—a naked man running down Lumina Avenue—who also got tasered. We got in a good bit of beach-sitting time on Saturday, but storms and dangerous lightning kept us off the beach Sunday. However, I was most content just to sit and watch the storm from the comfort of the air-conditioned condo, and stare in bewilderment at the idiots still on the beach who were letting their children splash around in the water while lightning bolts shot across the sky even after the beach patrol told them repeatedly to vacate for their own safety.

I must confess something: Second to winning the lottery jackpot and retiring, I'd like to win a million-dollar prize, buy new cars for me and my wife, get a few Brooks Brothers suits and other costly garments, and just flaunt that shit around the office, but keep the source of the money a mystery. Imagine my co-workers' consternation and resentment when the guy half their age rolls up in a Benz wearing a $1200 suit, checks the time on a $2,000 watch, and takes notes in meetings with a $300 pen.

I've been getting more and more discontented with my neighborhood. I see more and more children roaming around, which is bothersome enough, but most of them appear to be of questionable to outright trashy pedigrees, which makes me fearful if we have a child of our own while still living in our current house. I can't have any children of mine associating with the white trash brats who always ride their damn bikes in the cul-de-sac and talk loudly while walking their dogs behind our patio fence. Until our situation miraculously improves, all I can do is create within my home's interior a refuge from the trashiness outside. I do what I can to make the interior reflect our own superior breeding, with fine furnishings and artwork in abundance, creating the environment of a proper gentleman's house in the city, where I reside while conducting business between leisure trips to our house on the coast.

I shall conclude today's entry with the sentiment that goes through my mind countless times every day: Fuck work. Mother-fuck work. I fucking hate working for a living. I hate having to drag my ass to this fucking office and piss away 40 hours of my life every week in exchange for an insulting salary while the Boss comes to the office 2 days a week in his Lexus. Every day I dream of the day my ship comes in, when I can clear out my cubicle and tell them I'm out. As for the customary two weeks notice—the folks they laid off the last two years didn't get one fucking day's notice, so I fully intend on returning the courtesy.

Downtown is a shit-hole

"Downtown where?" you might ask.

Does it matter where? Invariably, the downtown district of any city of considerable size is a traffic-congested, crime-infested nightmare. The inspiration for this entry comes from reading of a college kid who was leaving a party in a particularly seedy part of town and got the shit beat out of him when he encountered a gang of 10 or so hoodlums without provocation, probably just because he was a tall, skinny white kid and they were 10 violent black kids. What shook me was that I once attended an event at that same location and would have been walking those streets at the same time of night. The incident received little media coverage because the city doesn't want bad publicity to put a dent in downtown business revenue.

I've harbored negative sentiments toward downtown since at least my teenage years, reluctantly agreeing to attend social activities in such places on infrequent occasions. After this incident, I will be much more likely to refuse to attend further gatherings in downtown areas. Fortunately, this coincides with a consensus view among my circle of friends in Raleigh to begin frequenting the Village Draft House, rather than a certain pub downtown. The Draft House is in the middle of Cameron Village, Raleigh's first suburban shopping center, a shining example of an upmarket commercial area offering plentiful parking and very little of the criminal element. The only area to avoid is the area surrounding the public library, where bums are known to congregate on their way to and from the free public restroom, and the bus stops, where creepy people wait for the rolling bad neighborhood known as the CAT bus (City Kitty). When I visit the Draft House, I know I will be able to park in the lot right in front of the restaurant and stand very little chance of being offended by the presence of thugs and homeless people.

The last time I visited the downtown pub, I had to drive around in circles until finding a parking spot on a dimly lit street in Raleigh's City Market. Walking back to the car at 12:30AM was a very unnerving experience, for the street was completely vacant. I could have been assaulted by hoodlums or accosted by street people. A gentleman such as myself, raised in a quiet suburban neighborhood, should never be subjected to walking more than 100 feet to my vehicle.

As time goes by, I lose more and more of what shred of faith I ever had in the possibility of "revitalizing" downtown. Downtown will never be what it used to be. Let's take a look at the general history of your average downtown area: it was once the center of all commercial and governmental activity in the city. Department stores, hardware stores, pharmacies, restaurants, hotels, medical offices, legal practices, grocers, even farm supply stores were all downtown. Downtown was alive with activity and drew folk from all walks of life. The affordability of the private automobile made it possible for middle class folk to move from apartments to neighborhoods full of houses with big, useless lawns on the outskirts of the city. As these neighborhoods grew in size, residents tired of having to drive downtown for their shopping needs. The suburban shopping center filled the need for conveniently located shopping, and provided vast parking lots to accommodate all those cars. The suburbs were clean, green, and full of well-to-do middle class folk and had none of downtown's seedier elements and residents, drawing more people away from downtown. Downtown businesses shuttered and moved to the suburbs. All that was left behind were poor people and government offices; the area essentially shut down at 5PM.

Nowadays there is a continuing effort to "revitalize" downtown areas. Wistful white people full of dreams and liberal guilt try with all their might to restore the old way of life to downtown. They think they can accomplish this by opening businesses that stay open late into the night, but the major problem with their approach is the kind of businesses they establish: hoity-toity venues that offer $12 martinis, expensive, undersized meals, and overpriced frou-frou accessories & home decor. Don't forget the little coffee shops that strive to achieve that damned "funky" look with worn-out furniture and beat-up books, attracting college students who pour their energy into constructing a wardrobe that exudes poverty and disregard for personal grooming while shelling out $4 for a god-damned cup of burnt, stale coffee and then lingering on the sagging couch for 2 hours. The idea is to attract people with money to burn, which "revitalizers" think will somehow curb crime, but such people do not and will not live in the area. They drive in from their quiet little suburbs full of other rich people to be seen spending their money on a $15 plate of tapas, and clog the streets and parking spaces with their expensive cars. The same people have too much to drink and endanger everyone on the roads as they swerve back to the suburbs.

Worse still is the trend of resurrecting or re-purposing disused commercial spaces. These buildings are always on the most derelict and crime-ridden streets (cheap rent!) and offer no parking whatsoever save the precious few spots along the curb, which quickly get snapped up, forcing patrons to take their lives into their own hands as they walk the 2 or 3 blocks through the scariest streets, hoping they don't get mugged, raped, or assaulted. And once you arrive at your chosen eating spot, you have to wait an eternity for service. I once went to a pizza place that opened up downtown. After parking in a dark lot 2 blocks away, I waited an hour to be seated, 20 minutes for a fucking waitress to ask me what I wanted to drink, and another 40 minutes for my fucking pizza, all in an extremely noisy room with no sound-dampening materials—just concrete floors and bare brick walls (but think how "funky" that was! So urban and hip!). When I walked out the door, a scary street person was begging for spare change. The walk back to the lot at 9:30PM had me on edge, constantly looking out for thugs in the shadows. I have not returned to that restaurant, nor will I ever.

My other major point of contention for patronizing downtown venues is the driving situation. Traffic congestion is maddening in any downtown area at night. People are circle around hoping to luck out on a curbside spot, or back up traffic for several blocks waiting for another car to vacate a spot. After a fruitless search, many are forced to park in a parking deck where rapists can come and go freely, and often have to pay several dollars for the privilege. The alternative is to get a valet at one of the swanky places to park your car, but once it's out of your sight, who the fuck knows where he's gone with it. Speed limits are an agonizing 20 or 25 MPH, many streets are one-way, and every other traffic light is always red. Then, as the wee hours approach, vulturous policemen begin looking for the slightest signs of intoxication as an excuse to stop and harass motorists. God help you if your wheels are out of alignment. DUI checkpoints are periodically set up at downtown intersections, where cops "randomly" stop motorists and hassle them if they're under 30 or don't resemble white, upstanding republicans.

From now on, for me, it's suburban strip malls all the way, not just for nightlife, but for everything. If the destination doesn't adjoin a dedicated parking lot, I'm not interested. Thankfully, my wife is getting more and more on board with the anti-downtown sentiment. We both agreed that we had no interest in attending a series of music performances in a park downtown to which our friends invited us. A public park? Where any hobo can wander in and offend our delicate senses with his foul odors and tattered rags? Um, no thanks. The bar my wife and I frequent the most is in the middle of a 1960s shopping center barely 2 miles from our house, a straight shot down a road that sees infrequent police patrols late at night. Late in the evening, after the other shops have closed up, parking is very plentiful, convenient, and well-lit, and the bouncers, cabbies, smokers forced outside, and hot dog vendors are all there to keep an eye on things. It's too far from downtown for scary street people, and gangbangers don't hang around because the nightspots in the surrounding area attract either pretentious douchebags or regular neighborhood folks. I do long for a situation like in the neighborhood where I grew up, where there was a little family restaurant that became a lively watering hole at night. It was in a perfect location—it was on a fairly well-used street, but the route to get there from my house was entirely comprised of little residential streets where the cops never go.

Downtown can dry up and blow away, for all I care. It is of no use to me.

Just when you thought I couldn't get more pretentious

I figured this was as good a time as any to pen another entry. I'm running Adobe Aftereffects right now and the god-damned pinwheel starts spinning every time I make a small change.

Lately I've become fascinated by ultra-exclusive credit cards. No, I'm not going to get one. Friends who read this blog know how I feel about the consumer credit system. Nonetheless, I can understand the mystical allure of certain high-end pieces of plastic.

The most exclusive card appears to be the American Express Centurion card. Currently it is an invitation-only program, and even if you do get invited, it comes with a $5,000 membership fee, and then you have to spend $250,000 a year with the card. Needless to say, only a very tiny percentage of the American public are members. Amex further enhanced the perception of superiority by designing the card with metallic silver print on a black background, and went even further by printing it on a thin piece of titanium. A plastic version exists as well, because the titanium one has proven problematic with some card readers. Visa horned in on the scene by offering the "Black Card," and tried to present it as a fabulous exclusive card on par with the Centurion. The difference was, any flunky earning at least $15,000 a year who could pony up a $495 annual fee could get a Black Card. So much for exclusivity.

So, being a pretentious prick and an obsessive artist, I immediately looked into the possibility of making a "replica" Centurion card. I created a photoshop template and will soon turn it into a plastic card to display in my wallet. I haven't hit upon any methods of replicating raised numbers without expensive equipment, but it's not like I'm going to pull it out and try to use it.

I did find out about a method of changing the appearance of a genuine credit card. It involves printing a new image on a sheet of iron-on decal paper and affixing with 3M spray mount and a warm (not hot) iron. I'm considering redecorating my boring debit card with a bullshit title like "Visa Onyx" or something else impressive-looking. It would still function normally, but look far more awesome.

A wallet full of "replica" credit cards on display. All I need now is a Mercedes key fob for the keys to my 12-year-old Ford and my $90,000 house.

Glorious Wrightsville, how I missed thee!

Summer has officially begun. My bride and I made our triumphant return to the shores of the Atlantic this past holiday weekend for two and a half days of relaxation, merry-making, and intoxication.

The experience was quite a bit more pleasant than that of past excursions which I have described over the short history of this web-log. Overall, Dame Fortune seemed to be favoring us this weekend. Granny provided $300 for gas and food. Weather forecasts were calling for showers Saturday, but nary a drop fell the entire extended weekend until we were on the highway bound for home. We had cloudless skies Sunday and Monday with balmy breezes. The beach was relatively uncrowded, and the only major annoyance was a gaggle of guffawing teenagers on Monday who, for whatever reason, walked everywhere arm-in-arm, and had not been taught about inside voices. We were able to sit at a table on our trips to Trolley Stop and Kohl's, rather than on a bench or the ground. Traffic was a bitch, especially on the return trip from Dockside, when the drawbridge had to be raised, but we lucked out on a parking spot on Lumina Avenue (we needed to stop at Robert's Market) with 52 minutes still on the meter.

Friday evening's traffic was heavy, but I think we missed far worse conditions by leaving at 4:30. Having prepared all luggage and bagged groceries the day before, we managed to jam everything into the 4runner in 10 minutes. We dined on delicious Smithfield's eastern N.C. barbecue on the way, a BBQ restaurant chain which has frustratingly not yet expanded operations into the central part of the state. After unpacking, it was time to begin our favorite beach activity: drinking! Thanks to not having eaten anything for 4 hours, I quickly became intoxicated from two 24-oz PBRs and spent part of the night trying not to vomit.

Saturday began with a leisurely breakfast on the balcony, followed by preparations for a day of sunning. We dined at Trolley Stop, then it was off to the beach. We came inside around 7:00 and grilled chicken & potatoes for supper. We got too relaxed watching installments of "America: The Story of Us" on the History Channel, and turned in early, but our stomachs got to rumbling, so I walked down to Vito's and got a whole pizza, which we devoured in bed while watching Tropic Thunder on HBO, so the swears were left intact.

Following our own tradition, we had lunch Sunday at Dockside, arriving at exactly 11:45 as always in order to get a table on the deck. We poked around briefly at Redix, just because I always like to go there, and—huzzah!—they were selling the stamped Wrightsville Beach license plates again.

I should explain. For as long as I can remember, those who summer at Wrightsville Beach have proudly displayed a plate on the front bumper bearing the official emblem of the town (a jumping marlin and a small fishing boat) with the words WRIGHTSVILLE BEACH N.C. in green block letters. Such has become a status symbol, a signal to others that the bearer is a person of quality who frequents a quaint seaside retreat, and a member of an exclusive little club of regular visitors and property owners. Further enhancing its exclusivity, it is not available for purchase online to my knowledge; one must travel to Wrightsville Beach to acquire this coveted accessory in person. All last summer, the only available versions were printed, not embossed, possibly for economical reasons. The embossed version is the one I see on so many beach house owners' vehicles, faded and dented from so many years of exposure to sun, salt air, and road debris. This weekend, the embossed plates were once more available, so I pounced on the opportunity and purchased one for each of our vehicles. I may attempt to weather and distress them artificially if I can figure out how, to make up for three lost years.

More beach-sitting ensued, followed by a fabulous dinner at South Beach. We've been there before, but for first-timers reading this for travel advice, be advised that it is pricey, averaging $20 for entrées. Portions aren't large, but what you do get is of extremely high quality, and everything on the menu is outstanding. We had a couple drinks at King Neptune's, but the place wasn't getting very lively, so we moseyed down to Lagerheads. We were entertained briefly at King Neptune's by an inebriated fellow trying to pick up women half his age with corny pickup lines. "Do you like chicken? (holds out elbow) Here, grab a wing!" Only with his accent it almost sounded like wang. We only stayed until 12:30; my bride was getting sleepy-drunk, I was sweating profusely, and we both had to pee. We stayed up a little longer chatting on the balcony back at the condo. Around 2:30AM I awoke to a loud cheer coming from the bars, like a stadium full of fans witnessing a home run. I never got an explanation for it. Boobies, maybe?

The line at Trolley Stop was too long on Monday, so we ate at Kohl's instead, then crammed in a few more precious hours of beach time before the depressing task of packing up and heading home. We got home about 10:30, having missed the bulk of the return traffic.

As I indicated above, the crowd at Wrightsville was of slightly higher calibre than I encountered during my visits last year. The sleazy skater teens, tattooed, toothless white trash, and loudmouth ghetto scum were in thinner numbers, and classic preppy types were more noticeable. I was comforted by the site of young and old men alike clad in light-colored or madras shorts, pastel polo shirts, and loafers or boat shoes with no socks, either hatless or sporting headwear proclaiming their academic affiliation, in a decades-old tradition of fashion that never changes, true to the preppy way of life. There is a disheartening prevalence of UNC gear, but this artistic NCSU grad has to concede that Carolina Blue just looks better at a seaside location than Wolfpack Red. Despite my lifelong disregard for short pants, after wearing my one pair more frequently this past weekend, I may start wearing them again, but only when appropriate, like a well-heeled preppy.

O Wrightsville! Beloved Wrightsville! Summer retreat for fine, upstanding families of the Old North State. The place I should have been going my entire childhood (or possibly Nag's Head or Morehead). Every time I visit, I make up for the classic N.C. beach experience I missed out on growing up. The sprawling wasteland of Myrtle Beach simply does not compare to the beautiful houses and unpretentious restaurants that still look almost the same as they did when my classmates dined in them 15 years ago—seriously, I can identify Dockside in my yearbooks. At Wrightsville, we feel relaxed and at peace, tossing our worries and cares over the causeway bridge, and I reconnect with the glorious 1990s. Yes, I had to bring that up yet again. When I walk around the town or just the condo, I feel like I've stepped into a parallel universe where the carefree '90s live on. It helped with the delusion to listen to my '90s playlists on my iPod. Perhaps a vintage Discman is in the near future?