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?