Embarking upon a new fashion sense with the new year

I apologize, reader, that I have neglected my bloggery for nearly two months. I'll pick up where I left off and summarize the mundane events of my existence over the last few weeks.

I'm still driving Daddy's car. He's basically letting me use it as long as I like, which is a load off, given the financial strain we'll likely be under for a while while we pay off my wife's surgery. Yes, my bride finally had to go in for a diagnostic procedure, where they found the likely cause of her abdominal pains and we hope fixed the problem. Thanks to my shitty insurance through my employer, we'll be facing bills to the tune of several thousand dollars, which we'll have to pay off in monthly installments for years to come. So much for my plans to get my wife a nice Volvo or something.

Thanksgiving was much more relaxing this time around. Instead of cooking all day for 7 people, or bunking down in a residence with 8 relatives and 3 dogs, we checked into a nice Marriott for 3 nights and made our various family visits during the day, then retired to our quiet hotel room and took a dip in the hot tub downstairs, waking up to a sumptuous breakfast buffet each morning. We considered it a last hurrah before the upcoming surgery consumed our lives. During the week before the procedure, I became possessed by the spirit of Howard Hughes (or maybe Howie Mandel, who's still alive), growing paranoid over bringing home infectious organisms that could jeopardize my wife's health and delay the procedure (which she already had to reschedule because the first week of December wasn't convenient for her self-centered employer), so I washed my hands every chance I got and used sanitizer in between hand washings. And yet, I still caught a cold! So I had to avoid kissing my wife and took to wiping down doorknobs with disinfecting wipes. I guess the paranoia paid off because all went according to schedule. The silver lining to the dark cloud of surgery was that, with the surgery taking place on the 22nd, we had a solid excuse not to travel and visit family on Christmas day or the following days, and instead we spent the holiday and my remaining vacation days sitting around in our cozy house, eating sweets, sipping hot chocolate, watching movies, and viewing the entire first season of Bones (a gift for my wife). Coming back to work today was such a drag.

I did not allow my body to atrophy completely, however. I have resolved to exercise at least a little bit every day, from now on, health and schedule permitting. After finally undertaking the task of cleaning out the upstairs library, I made a little headway towards my goal of setting up the room as a dual-purpose library and gentleman's gym. Keeping the heavy tasseled draperies and oriental rug, I added a fake potted palm from downstairs and the twin standing fans from the master bedroom. My rudimentary set of weights -- consisting of only a pair of 35-pound and a pair of 20-pound dumbbells -- sits on a pair of end tables side-by-side, and the stability ball and Bosu sit in the corner. For extra old-time strongman appeal, I downloaded a $4 collection of piano rags to play while exercising.

A generous gift from my wife will ensure that my workout won't be completely mired in the 19th century. On Christmas morning, I was bestowed with a brand-new Xbox 360 Kinect with a Zumba game and a game inspired by The Biggest Loser. If it works out for us, we'll cancel our gym membership and save $50 a month. I hope to purchase additional used dumbbells for a little more variety -- and resistance -- in my exercises. I would go out and get some tonight, but I'm afraid I already spent all my Christmas money on my lingering L.L. Bean habit. I really hope this particular "look" I'm going for sticks, and it's not just another stupid phase in my lifelong journey to find my ideal fashion sense. While I was going "preppy" back in the summer, I overdid it and took it too far in the conservative direction, at one point going to the beach bars wearing polo shirts neatly tucked into belted khakis, making my wife feel like she was out with her father. Now that I'm halfway into my 32nd year, and no doubt coinciding with my desire to relive my college days, I'm developing an obsession with looking, feeling, and staying young, and if I've learned anything on that long road lined with castoff garments, it's that one's clothing choice can make a great impact on one's perceived age, so now I wish to bring to mind a smartly-dressed college student. Not quite frat-tastic, not quite Junior Republican, just somewhere in the middle that says casual, youthful, and effortlessly put-together. The first great leap I made in this direction was acquiring 3 pairs of dungarees, or "blue jeans," as today's youth calls them, and wearing them daily. The outermost layer of my winter wardrobe shall be a classic duffel coat with toggle closure, long the choice of the ivy-leaguer who wants a long coat but wants it to be a bit more cavalier than the Crombie while looking more put-together than a simple fleece coat. Other layering garments shall include rib-knit cotton sweaters, worn with t-shirts underneath, not a stodgy collared shirt, as if I just rolled out of bed and threw one on before heading to PSY-101, waffle-knit crewneck shirts for variety, sometimes worn underneath thick, soft chamois shirts, and plain white long-sleeve t-shirts worn under contrasting short-sleeve t-shirts or polo shirts. I'll still don the brightly-colored rugby shirts for '80s throwback appeal, and I'll keep my oxford shirts in the mix, interspersed with my weathered canvas shirts, all worn untucked, of course. I also purchased a pair of L.L. Bean's gumshoes, not just for urban downpours (could have used them last week when I had to make a grocery run in pouring rain), but also for strolls on the beach in early Spring when it's still a little too nippy for bare feet. By dialing back the conservative vibe and shaking it up a bit with colors, patterns, and textures, I hope to look as if I woke up next to a naked sorostitute with no recollection of how she got there, and plan to head to the beach or the mountains as soon as I get through my morning exam in Rocks for Jocks, blowing off my afternoon "cake" class so I can get there while it's still daylight. I now feel smugly superior when I cross paths with a suit-clad stooge in my office building who, despite probably earning far more money than I do, has no choice but to wear that itchy gabardine cocoon with a silk noose around his neck. While I covet his salary, he no doubt covets my youthful freedom. If I could only afford a car for my wife, I could reclaim the 4runner, the perfect car for the preppy, outdoorsy college douche.

A Return to Normalcy

The automobile is more than just a means of getting to work and back, or at least it should be. For me, for quite a long time, that's all my personal vehicle was, because, quite honestly, I became scared to drive it more than absolutely necessary. Nothing is mechanically wrong with my Crown Victoria; it's perfectly safe to drive and capable of going hundreds of miles with no trouble. What's wrong with it is the message it sends to other motorists and, of greater concern, law enforcement officers. The unfortunate fact of life regarding large sedans, Crown Victorias in particular, is that they are popular among essentially two types of people: the elderly, and criminals. So, if a cop sees anything other than a white-haired mass of shriveled flesh at the wheel of a big sedan, he immediately assumes the driver is up to no good. Younger white guys like me driving Crown Vics are assumed to be police impersonators. In the years since that traumatic incident when I was actually detained under such suspicion, I have tried hard to buck the stereotype, making every effort to appear average and harmless while asserting my right to drive whatever car I want without harassment. I've gotten sick of it, reader. I'm caving in. I'm ditching the Vic.

My decision results from an escalating trend of unwanted attention from those armed, undereducated mouth-breathers comprising the police and sheriff's departments. I became more and more nervous and tense just driving the two miles to work and back as they would give me long stares or attempt to follow me. The past few weeks reached a boiling point, of sorts. One afternoon, a police car tried to turn around and follow me, but couldn't get back into traffic from the driveway. A similar event went down just last week. A police car drove by in the oncoming lane, whipped into a parking lot to come back for me, but got delayed by a slow driver exiting the parking lot, so I had just enough time to pull into a strip mall. I got out and watched from a position of concealment as the officer doubled back, waited in an empty lot across the street, then gave up and left. The day before, I saw one coming up the road to my rear, so I ducked into a McDonald's parking lot before he could get close enough to follow me. By the end of last week, my nerves were so shot that I couldn't even drive home for lunch. I explained the whole situation to my dad, who was very understanding and even let me borrow his spare car for a few weeks while I shop around for something else.

I really feel no sadness over the matter. I mostly feel relief. Today, driving my dad's car, a nondescript Volvo sedan, I finally felt "normal" again, for the first time in ages. My heart wasn't pounding, and I wasn't constantly looking in the mirror and sweeping the road and driveways ahead for cop cars. I no longer dread the drive to and from work, darting down back roads in hopes of avoiding the po-po. Seriously, my anxiety got so bad last week that I spent an hour studying the satellite map looking for back roads and usable commercial parking lots, anything to avoid the main roads. No more of that; I can take the direct route again, in a sensible but forgettable Volvo, without fear of persecution.

In a way, it felt like the '90s again, probably because I was associating my dad's Volvo with my dearly departed 1989 Volvo sedan, which I drove all over town and beyond from 1996–2003. I may have to make a '90s CD for tomorrow's commute to enhance the mood. Oh, how I miss Old Blue. It took me to high school every morning, down to Cameron Village with its blue & white plastic awnings, up to the Barnes & Noble at Crabtree Mall on weekends, out to Pleasant Valley for trips to Best Buy, and to the Mission Valley Cinema countless times. Sure, it had a leaky sunroof and hesitated to accelerate, but it was the embodiment of the freedom one has during the early driving years and the college years. I think, deep down, everyone wants his first car back. If I had the money for a spare car, I'd snap up an identical model as soon as one turned up for sale and stick on an NCSU decal and a replica annual inspection sticker.

For now, though, I'll have to settle for my '90s room for Jack Finney-esque time-travel. Progress is stalled out a bit due to cash-strappedness, but I'm coming up with ideas here and there for what to do as funds become available. I think I'll get a vintage poster promoting Blink 182's Enema of the State. Since it's supposed to be an apartment bedroom, I can get away with not having a mini-fridge or microwave, but I still need a computer desk to show off my 1996 Compaq. I'd love an old 500-series HP printer, too, and I need to hit up Edward McKay to look for period textbooks. For best effect — and I don't know if I can convince my wife to agree to this — I need to repaint the room off-white. What college apartment has walls in any color other than off-white or possibly light gray?

So far, the room does have a nice effect despite its lack of thorough authenticity. Last night, I plugged my iPhone into the vintage TV's AV input and played a 12-minute compilation of TV commercials from Fox primetime, dated October, 1999. I swear my mind really did drift back and forth in time as these commercials, many of which I'd nearly memorized from repeated exposure and then forgotten, played as background noise while I folded laundry. For brief flashes here and there, it really was the autumn of '99.

Lovely little delusions

Sometimes reality is just too much to deal with. My life isn't particularly difficult or challenging; rather, it stays stuck in the same place, going nowhere fast. I'm not drowning in debt, facing unemployment, or worrying about getting my next meal; instead, I'm doing the same shit I've been doing for the past 4 years, in the same cubicle, in the same city, and until recently, for the same pay. Yes, reader, I did finally receive a real raise. By "real raise," I mean a 7% increase in purchasing power after adjusting for inflation. Last year's raise brought my purchasing power, in 2010 dollars, back up to exactly where it was when I started in 2007. So after 4 years here, I'm basically grossing just shy of an additional $200 a month more before taxes.

This reality, while enviable to some, often becomes unbearable for me. Due to the standards set by my upper-middle-class upbringing, I feel that by now my life should have amounted to a lot more — more money, bigger house, and one or two children that I could afford to raise. I look at what my father had when he was my age — a charming house in Raleigh's premiere inside-the-beltline neighborhood, two little children, and a nice job that paid for it all and then some. Now that I'm that age, what do I have? An entry-level job with no hope for advancement, a townhouse in a questionable neighborhood, a Ford P.O.S. going on 13 years old, and no hope of ever being able to give my wife the children she wants and the upbringing I want for them. The depressing effect abates slightly when I step back and realize that most people my age are in similar, or equally unappealing, situations. Most of the friends my wife keeps up with are single and working mindless jobs, only one friend of mine is married, and those acquaintances of my wife's who are married with children seem tired and miserable. My own brother is aging like a U.S. President. The American dream appears to have crumbled; jobs are too undependable to make buying a home attractive, banks have tightened up the mortgage market, making homes too hard to get for those who want them, and education and healthcare costs have made child-rearing affordable only for those with six-figure salaries.

Here's where the woulda-coulda-shouldas take root. I could be in a much more favorable situation, even in this shitty economy. I could have chosen a more lucrative career, if only I had the forethought to understand how important it would be later on. When I chose my current career, I figured the money wasn't too important as long as I could earn a comfortable living. I didn't foresee a wife or a house. If only I had a crystal ball and knew who I was going to marry and where she was going to school; I could have chosen a career in law or medicine and met her back in the glorious late 1990s, giving me a few extra years with her in my life and avoiding wasting so many years on two degrees that would never pay big returns. By now, I could be a hotshot lawyer or a young doctor, saving up for a house in the old-money neighborhood, maybe with a kid on the way, whom I'd send to the most exclusive private school in town. If I had a kid right now, he'd grow up in a crowded townhouse and go to god-awful public schools with unrefined middle-class children, either taking the cheesewagon home or getting picked up in his mom's decade-old Toyota.

To cope with my yearning to change the past, present, and future, I turn to little delusions to distract me from the banality of my real life and the unobtainability of the standard of living I grew up with. While going through my routine this morning, I thought to myself, it's October, 1999. I'm at my apartment near the ECU campus with my girlfriend who stays over every night. I'm getting up to go to my pre-med classes. Later on, we'll meet up for lunch on campus, and be back at the apartment about 3:30 and take a little nap or have a little afternoon delight. Then we'll work on homework, have some Ramen noodles or Lean Cuisines for dinner, and have a few beers while we watch Time of Your Life and Ally McBeal.

Yes, now and then I wish I were back in college, in the late '90s when the economy was rock-solid and jobs were hanging from trees. At least back in college, you had something to look forward to. Nothing was forever, and yet the real world still seemed forever away. Every semester offered something new and different, with all-new classes, classmates, and professors, but you still had the comfort of knowing where you were going and what you were doing every day, all with a goal to strive for in the form of a degree and a job or a spot at a professional school. Loathe one of your classes this semester? Well, just tough it out and it'll be over in a few months. Is it cold and rainy outside? Rather stay in your cozy apartment instead of go to class? Blow it off, dude, you get 3 unexcused absences per class, per semester, and there's no supervisor to call with a lame excuse in a fake scratchy voice. Bills? What the hell are those? Those go to Mom and Dad's house. Your only money concern is catching Lean Cuisines on sale so you'll have more for half-price pitchers.

Last week I went on a staff retreat, where I carried my stuff in my old backpack I'd used in high school and college. When I got home that evening, I swear I had a time-travel experience like something out of a Jack Finney novel. Years and years of muscle memory, fallow for so many additional years, snapped back into service instantly as I came in the door, raised my right hand to my shoulder, slid my thumb under the strap, twirled the pack around 180 degrees, and lowered it to the floor, all in one smooth motion as I'd done thousands of times before, and for that quick second of time, my brain thought it was about 3:30 in the afternoon. For that brief flash, I was still in college. I didn't have overdue bills waiting in the mail, I didn't have to make dinner, I hadn't driven home in a piece of shit, and the whole afternoon lay ahead of me to goof off. My God, it was wonderful.

I want so badly to go back and do it all again, only this time, do it right. Pick pre-med or pre-law right out of the gate so I'd be earning six figures by the age of 30, go to school far away enough that I can't go home every weekend, have a few random sex partners before I meet my future wife then and there instead of years later, and get out and fucking live the college life instead of hole up in my dorm/apartment watching TV and getting fat. Hence, I am beginning to cook up plans once again for a "'90s room." A few years back I posted photos of my first, pitiful attempt. If I really want that authentic college-in-the-'90s atmosphere, I have to do better and go for the '90s college apartment bedroom look. I have already moved the old TV, VCR, and CD changer into the guest room and even dug up my autographed photo of Bill Clinton. I need to procure some immature posters, such as the old "Beers of the World" poster, John Belushi as Bluto in his COLLEGE sweatshirt, maybe Kenny McCormick on the toilet, and some sort of scantily-clad nubile female, be it a generic unknown or a '90s celebrity such as Carmen Electra or Jenny McCarthy. I'd also need some empty beer and liquor bottles on display, and even lay out some everyday objects such as my vintage bottle of "Woods" by Abercrombie & Fitch and a Surge bottle. A couple of vintage Playboy or Penthouse issues would be a nice touch. I'd need a cheap desk as well to display my vintage Compaq desktop computer. While this is very different from what my dorm room actually looked like, I am living a fantasy, here, in which my very personality would have been different. I would not have been an overweight dork who shied away from women and was scared to death of getting drunk. I would have been a sort of genius douchebag, who was highly intelligent and secretly liked the X-Files, but still got laid regularly and binge-drank every weekend. I'd go in there, turn on Third Eye Blind or Matchbox Twenty, and drift away into '90s collegiate bliss.

iLove my iPhone

I finally made the great leap into the 21st century and got a smartphone. Not just any smartphone, but the most coveted of smarphones, the iPhone. I adore this little device that puts the whole freakin' world in my hands.

It's not the dream device I've described before, capable of storing my entire media library, but it will do for now. The PDF reader is painfully slow when loading large picture books, such as the 1902 Sears Roebuck catalog, but at least I'm able to read my favorite comics any time I wish. My main complaint is Apple's stranglehold on the app market and censorious nature toward submitted apps. Most recently, bending to pressure from loudmouth Congressmen, Apple yanked several apps from the market that allowed users to post the whereabouts of DUI checkpoints. WTF Apple? Did too many people get MADD at you? At least they still have trapster, which will have to serve as a back-door DUI reporting app. Get a "live police" alert late at night and just assume it's a checkpoint.

Speaking of apps, of course after getting my sexy new iPhone I immediately went shopping for sexy apps to make my life easy and sexy and awesome. I added apps to my arsenal such as conversion calculators, bar code scanners, trapster, a police scanner, local and national news apps, Wikipedia, IMDB.com, Redbox, and of course the TMZ app.

As of May of this year, only about 35% of adults have a smartphone, so for now I feel that I have a keen advantage over the other 65% due to my instantaneous access to damn near any kind of information I desire. Trapster tells me where the pigs are hiding. Breaking news is within instant reach, instead of having to go to a computer or channel surf. Wikipedia and IMDB are there for me to satisfy intellectual or pop-cultural curiosity. Redbox gives me a jump on the suckers waiting in line at the machine. The Papa John's app lets me order 'za when I'm still 15 minutes from home, so it will show up at my door, without having to talk on the phone to a brain-dead teenage clerk. I can shop on amazon.com anywhere the mood strikes me. I can be that dick-bag who goes into a store and scans the bar codes to find better prices online. With the help of the Fast Customer app, I no longer have to go through an endless string of recordings before getting to a live customer service rep. Let the huddled masses who don't have smartphones waste precious minutes of their lives doing the touch-tone shell game. My local supermarket even has an app that lets me order deli sandwiches in advance, so I don't have to wait in line at the counter. Were I bidding ferociously on something on eBay, I could place my winning bid anywhere. I have instant access to youtube's wealth of mindless crap. I can stay up-to-date with celebrity gossip on the john at work while the other 65% of the population pooping at work remain completely cut off from civilization. Oh, how iLove my iPhone!

'Tis naught but a refreshing lemonade, constable!

The Man is clamping down at my beloved seaside retreat. While the ban on alcohol on the beach has been on the books for years, this is the third consecutive summer I've experienced the authorities enforcing it strictly. There was a time when they only hassled youngsters, leaving adults alone to drink responsibly, but these days they shake down anyone with what's obviously booze, and sometimes even question people who are drinking from plastic cups. What is a high-functioning alcoholic to do in the face of such tee-totaling tyranny?

While purchasing provisions for an upcoming beach trip, I spotted 6-packs of Minute Maid light lemonade in half-liter bottles. For years now, my wife and I have favored what we call "Jack Sparrow Lemonade" — lemonade mixed with lemon-lime soda and vodka or light rum. One could simply put this in a plastic sports bottle and drink it on the beach, but ever since a zealous beach ranger asked our friend what was in her plastic cup (it was empty), I began to fear that using any kind of reusable beverage container would invite unwanted attention. So there, in the supermarket, the solution hit me like I was on a date with Chris Brown — mix the Minute Maid with booze and put it back in the bottle! This is actually a time-honored solution to the no-drinking-in-public problem, practiced by many of my high school classmates, who would sit in class sipping all manner of spirits from innocent-looking soda bottles. Apparently Everdew was a popular cocktail, consisting of Everclear and Mountain Dew. Employing this strategy, the freedom-loving drunk no longer must live in fear of the roving patrols of buzzkillers and their citation books. To all others on the beach, he will be just another law-abiding tourist.

Jack Sparrow Lemonade was fine for a while, but I eventually grew tired of the same drink. A friend informed me of an interesting liquor: Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, a vodka nearly identical to sweet iced tea, in flavor and appearance. My friend instructed me to mix one part Firefly with four parts store-bought lemon-flavored tea, also available in half-liter bottles. The resulting concoction tastes almost just like plain old sweet tea, and smells just like it to boot, but got me fucked up considerably better than the Jack Sparrow Lemonade. I had found a new favorite beach cocktail: delicious, easy to make, and, to any passing lawmen, identical to a nice, refreshing Lipton iced tea.

Hopefully someone who was as naive as I was in high school will stumble across this entry and pick up a few tips about how to expand his drinking horizons beyond the legal confines. Maybe you're going to an event whose uptight coordinators want to keep "family-friendly." Maybe, like me, your favorite vacation spot has outlawed alcohol. Hell, maybe you'd like to get a head-start on forgetting about your job on the drive home from work. Whatever your reason, cheers!

I mock your label with my label!

Pursuant to my latest obsession with stocking my wardrobe with L.L. Bean, for an upcoming trip to the beach, I ordered two t-shirts emblazoned with "L.L. BEAN" across the chest in athletic block lettering, so that all who pass by on the strand will know to which mail-order clothier I pledge my allegiance.

I don't even feel silly about wearing such a large logo, either. While 12-inch-wide "HOLLISTER" logos cry out "Behold my discretionary income!", wearing a large L.L. Bean label makes a mockery of that trend. Bean's label tells the label-whores that I spend half as much money as they do for goods of comparable or superior quality, leaving me with enough left over for entertainment and dining out someplace other than Taco Hell.

Ah, someday, my closet will be replete with L.L. Bean to serve my everyday needs — at work, going to movies, puttering about the house, recreating at the park, outdoor activities, shopping, sleeping, and casually socializing with friends or family. I'm afraid there will have to be anomalies, however. For instance, Bean doesn't offer a full-length wool overcoat for winter, and a parka doesn't quite cut it when you want to look smart in cold weather, so I'll have to hang onto my Chaps Ralph Lauren overcoat from Kohl's. Yes, I went to a Kohl's a couple of times. I don't know why that makes me feel dirty, it just does. My Brooks Brothers polo shirts are all in perfect working order, so they'll see continued regular use; ditto for their sweaters and corduroy trousers. It would be plain foolish for me to replace my $400 Barbour jacket with Bean's field coat; do I really want to look that middle-class instead of being easily mistaken for a member of the Peerage?

Independence Day Summary; Obsessive Branding Disorder

When I come back from a three-day holiday weekend, I find it best to ease back slowly into the daily grind by doing maybe one work-related project in the morning, interrupting myself repeatedly to check e-mail and news-like fluff, and then in the afternoon after lunch, post a blog entry about my activities over the extended weekend.

Many people make grand plans designed to make the most of their time off during a holiday weekend; for July 4, hordes of sun-worshipers descend upon the beaches and take up every square inch of sand. Others are more content to stay home and have people over for grilled animal parts. Still others attend parades or other public spectacles, and go out into the hot, sticky July evening to watch sparkly things go boom in the night sky.

I feel that my wife and I made a very wise choice this year to keep to our own damn selves the whole weekend. On Saturday we just sat around watching movies on the idiot box into the late afternoon. I got to see Terminal, which I'd never seen, as well as Rock Star with Mark Wahlberg, plus one I'd never heard of, Necessary Roughness, starring Scott Bakula. We ventured out into public and took in X-Men First Class at the cinema, using a discounted Fandango voucher to get seats for an evening show for less than the price of a matinee. After the show we went to our favorite watering hole, only to find it nearly deserted. The outdoor patio was slightly more lively, but had a fairly crappy "band" playing, which consisted of a guitarist and a keyboard player. We left after one drink, grabbing some burgers on the way home. On Sunday we went on a shopping spree of sorts, the boring kind where you buy shit you actually need. We used an online coupon to get some barbecue pork, ribs, and sides for half-price. On Monday we were invited to a get-together in our friend's parents' neighborhood, but it's a 30-minute drive and it was just too damned hot anyway, so we stayed home, watched even more TV, and ate leftover BBQ. So unlike last year, where we wore ourselves out hosting a cookout and everyone left much earlier than expected, this year we stayed in our comfortable, air-conditioned home with a fridge full of food and drinks and watched an unhealthy amount of TV. I can't imagine a more perfect Independence Day weekend.

Also over the weekend, I did a little online clothes shopping, bringing me to a discussion of a bizarre tendency I've had for a long time, which is to have everything of a particular category come from the same brand. For example, long ago, I had this obsession with the Pinaud brand of men's grooming products, and insisted on their brand of shaving cream, talc, and aftershave. Similarly, for a little while, I wanted products that bore the Royal Warrant, and purchased groceries such as Weetabix cereal and Twinings tea, and even went as far as to procure a Barbour waxed cotton jacket. Later on I turned to collecting Brooks Brothers garments, and built up a respectable array of jackets, dress shirts, sweaters, polo shirts, chinos, and corduroy trousers. Right now I have a habit of insisting on Target's private label for health, grooming, and household products whenever available, just so the labels will all look good together; I wish there were an Up And Up version of deodorant and hair gel. Most recently, out of necessity, I'm having to mess up my Brooks Brothers collection by adding L.L. Bean to the mix. As much as I've praised Brooks Brothers in the past, recently I've been disappointed by the way the fabric in their chino trousers tends to fray and tear over time. Some research online turned up that most retail stores refuse to refund or replace unsatisfactory purchases more than two years old, despite the brand's "unconditional" guarantee. So, I have returned to L.L. Bean, a supplier of quality trousers that I've known since childhood but haven't patronized in a long time. After many years of wearing other brands, I'm returning to an old trusted favorite with a no-questions-asked, lifetime guarantee on all of its merchandise. I started with ordering three pairs of chinos, which I love, and this weekend I went a little nuts and ordered a pair of jeans, a safari-style shirt for rustic travel destinations, a couple of striped rugby shirts, and a lightweight, extra-long rain coat (which Brooks Brothers doesn't make, anyway).

L.L. Bean is a perennial favorite among the "preppy" set, whose outward appearance I strive to emulate. It appeals to them because it's an established outfitter they've known all their lives and offers a great value through well-made items backed by a lifetime guarantee at lower prices than other brands such as Brooks Brothers and Orvis, and it's especially popular among preppy parents who want to instill their children with the preppy fashion sense, but don't want to spend a great deal on things they'll outgrow in a year. What preppy person didn't own at least one article of clothing or footwear from L.L. Bean as a child? Seems like at least a third of my classmates had a monogrammed L.L. Bean book bag. It's comfortable, familiar, timeless, and affordable but not dirt-cheap—the foundation of the preppy aesthetic.

As much as I've maligned some of Brooks Brothers' product line, I continue to stand behind their polo shirts. The ones I own are excellently tailored, constructed of lightweight, cool cotton piqué, perfect for hot summer days or layering under a sweater, and retain their color wash after wash, and I expect them to provide me at least a decade of reliable use. I also continue to be pleased with the sweaters and casual shirts I've bought from them, which look practically brand-new after 3-4 years of ownership. My blazer has held up very well, and there are no signs of wear and tear on the corduroys I wear so often in colder months. They do have rugby shirts, but I gave up on waiting for them to introduce basic red & navy and blue & navy stripes, and just got a couple from L.L. Bean instead.

Adding L.L. Bean to the mix presents me with some problems. While it would satisfy my obsessive compulsion to have everything in my wardrobe come from one brand by replacing all the sweaters, polos, corduroys, and sport shirts from Brooks Brothers with L.L. Bean, I cannot justify the financial cost of such an undertaking, nor can I justify the cost of buying new pants every two years just because they're from Brooks Brothers. Plus, were I to replace my Brooks Brothers polo shirts with L.L. Bean, I'd lose that smug sense of superiority I get from showing off that little Golden Fleece logo, giving others the impression that I can easily afford $60 polo shirts (never mind that they can be found gently used on eBay for a fraction of retail). And how can you beat that "oooh!" reaction people undoubtedly have in their heads when they spot the Golden Fleece buttons on my Brooks Brothers blazer? And truly well-heeled individuals will recognize and respect that icon of WASP-ness, the Barbour jacket. Hardly anyone can tell the difference between Brooks Brothers chinos and L.L. Bean chinos without yanking them down and looking at the inside label, anyway, so I'll just have to let people assume that if the shirt is Brooks Brothers, the pants must be, as well. I really do wish I could just be normal and have a dozen different brands all mingling together in my closet like I did in high school, when I had Abercrombie & Fitch, Nautica, Joseph A. Bank, Chaps by Ralph Lauren, Izod, Alexander Julian, L.L. Bean, and Old Navy all living together in harmony. Well, maybe that's the silver lining: by throwing L.L. Bean into the ring, perhaps I'll get a '90s nostalgia thrill out of it.

My Day vs. Your Day

While scouring the parking lot of the local country club for lost Kruger Rands, which the club's golf enthusiasts use as ball markers, I made the acquaintance of one Mr. Turlington P. Barleycorn, who owns a respected publishing house. As I was well-dressed and did not appear to be colored or Jewish from a distance, rather than call on club security to neutralize me with a net and cattle prod, he deigned to speak to me directly to inquire about my activities. Upon hearing my explanation that I am a humble blog-master researching the living standards of the city's powerful elite, so amused was he that he decided it would be quite corking to go slumming as a blog-writer for a day. I present to you Mr. Barleycorn's magnum opus.

My Fabulous Day Compared to Your Miserable Day
by special guest author Turlington P. Barleycorn
As you, the typical blog-reader, sit down in your stained corduroy La-Z-Boy after trading another eight or nine hours of your finite existence for a handful of magic beans, you may ponder over an aluminum can of watery mixed-grain lager in between installments of Access Hollywood and TMZ about what daily life is like for the few privileged members of the elite. What did they do all day while I was watching my youth slip away?

6:15 a.m.
You: mumbling swear-words at your cell phone's alarm clock function, wanting desperately to roll over between your Wal-Mart bedsheets for a few more moments of unconsciousness.
Me: Sound asleep, wrapped up in 600-thread-count sheets, which are changed daily by my undocumented housekeeper. My bedroom's 50-inch flat panel TV is still aglow from when I fell asleep with the TV on after catching up with some stuff I'd DVR'ed during my three-week trip to Europe.

6:45 a.m.
You: groggily shoveling cereal and skim milk into your pie-hole and slurping instant coffee from a plastic screw-top mug.
Me: Still sound asleep, chump! I don't get up before 9 unless the house is on fire and Lupe can't put it out herself.

7:45 a.m.
You: getting another day closer to a coronary from the stress of coping with morning rush hour traffic as you drive your clattering, malodorous shit-box that may not pass inspection next week to your workplace, chugging the rest of your terrible imitation coffee beverage to give you a boost of energy so you can get through that god-awful, pointless staff meeting without nodding off. Eventually you park on the treeless asphalt slab under the roasting sun, ensuring you arrive at your desk with sweat stains on your Costco polo shirt.
Me: Not conscious before 9, remember?

9:10 a.m.
You: finally out of the time-wasting staff meeting, sorting through your inbox to see what you can put off until later this week, in hopes that you'll win the lottery tonight and not have to do it.
Me: Sipping a cup of gourmet coffee, freshly ground from beans which were consumed and shat out whole by endangered Andean titmice and harvested bean-by-bean by descendants of Atahualpa, in my dressing room while I throw on an outfit and shoes that cost more than your shit-box is worth.

9:40 a.m.
You: working on some boring task you really don't want to do, putting in just enough effort to keep you from getting fired.
Me: leisurely eating the eggs benedict that Lupe laid out on the table outside by the pool while I skim the Wall Street Journal on my iPad in search of new opportunities to exploit for my own financial gain. Yes, I have a lot, but you know, I'd give it all up for just a little more.

10:15 a.m.
You: hitting the vending machine for a Diet Coke to help you stay awake until lunch, since your boss is too cheap to provide free coffee. I can see it his way, though; the money he didn't spend on bulk coffee can go toward a set of cufflinks carved from panda teeth.
Me: marveling at the lack of traffic one finds on the roads at this hour as I cruise my Mercedes-Benz S600 into my reserved parking space, right by the office door, under the only tree in the parking lot, rigged with bird-repellent chemicals to keep birds from crapping on my clearcoat.

11:00 a.m.
You: doing all you can to keep from screaming at assholes who keep bugging you for things they originally told you they didn't need for another week.
Me: trying not to get too worked up about the fact that my best salesman just had a death in the family, which is going to put a dent in his sales figures this month.

12:30 p.m.
You: watching like a starved vulture as your bowl of canned ravioli turns 'round and 'round in the break room microwave.
Me: seated in the resplendent "casual" dining room at my country club with a few friends, having a Bloody Mary made with vodka distilled from the tears of Russian orphans while we wait for our $12 sandwiches to arrive.

1:15 p.m.
You: rubbing one out in the handicapped stall while thinking about the receptionist you have no chance with, hoping no one else comes in right when you shoot your load.
Me: Enjoying a cigar rolled on a 16-year-old Cuban virgin's thighs after shagging the waitress in the cloak room after she got visibly turned on at the sight of my Centurion card. If she tries to blackmail me later, no biggie—the Senator is my squash partner and knows how to make someone disappear.

3:15 p.m.
You: fighting off sleep for all you're worth, which is kind of a stupid expression since you're not worth anything to begin with.
Me: swerving back into the parking lot, still a little buzzed from the after-lunch cocktails. I'm running a little behind for my meeting with that little shit whose dead mom might end up costing several monthly payments on my son's Range Rover. I'll break even by claiming the Rover as a business vehicle and writing off its depreciation.

4:45 p.m.
You: staring at the little clock on your computer screen and swearing it's ticking backwards. Already getting hungry, and with no more change for the vending machine, it'll still be an hour before you're home.
Me: Boy, what a long day! I'm heading out so I can beat the traffic. Got to call Lupe and tell her I want lobster tails for dinner instead of broiled wild salmon.

5:45 p.m.
You: finally home after another long, tiring day of being exploited, you collapse in your La-Z-Boy to ponder dinner, and realize you haven't gone grocery shopping. Too damned tired to deal with it, you drive to the nearest Taco Bell instead and get whatever's on their 89-cent deal this week.
Me: Sitting in my oak-paneled study with my iPad, in my favorite chair covered with the hides of the wildebeests I shot on safari a few years back, sipping a little Dewar's Signature on the rocks to unwind after my 3-hour work day while Lupe gets supper ready.

6:45 p.m.
You: already returning your gordita to the earth from whence it came, swearing it's even hotter coming out than it was going in. You'd get your digestive problems checked out, but the boss downgraded the health plan this year so he could afford his aging trophy wife's plastic surgeon.
Me: Bunny is awfully late getting home from her tennis lesson. She must really enjoy it, though; she's always glowing when she comes home, and says the guy is a real pro.

7:45 p.m.
You: yakking on the phone with one of your fellow middle-class dullards, making plans to go to a filthy movie house or bar this weekend, with TMZ on mute.
Me: calling my personal American Express concierge to arrange my next three-week vacation. I'm worn out from all these 15-hour work weeks. Better check the fridge to make sure Lupe didn't smuggle home any leftovers to her kids; my purebred French bulldog adores lobster.

9:30 p.m.
You: slipping in and out of consciousness while some mindless reality show drones on, your anus still burning from its last expulsion of seasoned ground animal parts.
Me: scheming over the phone with my golf buddy Skip Choadsworth to spread false rumors that each other's company is facing bankruptcy so that we can buy more shares when the prices fall. Then when we report record earnings thanks to some creative bookkeeping and the prices go back up, someone's going to have a bigger boat in the slip at his beach house this summer.

11:30 p.m.
You: back between the Wal-Mart bedsheets again, dozing off after spanking it one more time while thinking about Janine at the front desk (at your office, not from Ghostbusters).
Me: Hitting the fridge for some of that leftover lobster. Not like I need to be in bed; I don't plan to get up until 9 anyway. Seeing how it's early yet, I grab a bottle of Moet & Chandon from the wine fridge and slip into the hot tub out back to ruminate on what a fine day it's been.

The wannabe-VIP goes out on the town

One little perk at my cubicle farm that distracts me now and then from the insulting salary is the occasional free concert or theater tickets The Boss tosses at our feet like partially gnawed spare ribs. He has season tickets at various venues so that he can be seen attending cultural events, and when he can't use them himself or give them to his rich douchebag friends, he offers them up to his underpaid peons in a random giveaway. A while back, I won a pair of tickets for a comedy at the theater downtown. We figured we'd make a "date night" out of it, since we rarely do much to unwind after 40 hours of making our employers' lives easier other than drop by a dive bar down the street where The Boss wouldn't risk soiling his polished loafers. We put on our finery, my wife in her fake but convincing diamond earrings & bracelet, and I in the Brooks Brothers blazer from my trousseau, and took a taxi downtown. Hoping to economize slightly, we picked a restaurant that offered affordable cuisine, and although the interior was a little spartan and shabby, the food was dee-lish. From the wine at dinner and more wine in the lobby before the show, we had a nice buzz going, enhancing our enjoyment of the play. During intermission, my wife introduced me to a certain elected official whom she has known since childhood. Such a brush with greatness! Basking in the radiant glory of a genuine VIP's power and influence, I was thankful I had dressed my best and groomed myself well (and not consumed too much wine), and during our brief exchange I threw in a little comment about how I thought one of the actors reminded me of Nathan Lane, making me sound worldly and cultured. Part of being a VIP, real or fake, is sounding worldly and cultured, you know. After the show, since we were all dressed up, we walked to a nearby cigar lounge that caters to the upscale douchebag crowd with $12 martinis and a menu of fine cigars. Arriving in our finest, we were given the utmost courtesy and ushered to an open table with a commanding view of the street. When asked if I wanted to start a tab, I'm sure the waitress spotted my bullshit VIP card (see Fake it 'cause you'll never make it) and possibly even the fake Black Card sticking out of the frontmost credit card slot. She probably wondered why I pulled out a humble bank-issued debit card instead. Perhaps I was with my mistress and, not wishing my whereabouts to be revealed on my Amex statement, shrewdly used a debit card from a secret bank account instead! Maybe I made an impression, maybe not; all I know is, the manager himself brought me my cigar, and our waitress was very attentive. Swaddled neck-to-ankle in Brooks Brothers, my hand still redolent with the pheromone transfer from a high official's handshake, I sank into my armchair with a pint of Guiness, wallowing in my own smug sense of faux superiority while sucking on a smoldering roll of carcinogenic bliss. For a little while, this tired cubicle-jockey was getting the VIP treatment, all thanks to some clever props and looking the part.

White Trash Chic

There exists a large portion of the population whose discretionary income is inversely proportional to their level of good taste. Yes, reader, there are people out there who earn decent, sometimes affluent livings, and rather than live elegantly, they choose to spend their money on ugly home furnishings and even uglier decor. I've seen it, folks, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in person with my own delicate eyes. We call this tasteless decorating style White Trash Chic, and I present to you my how-to guide to getting the look just right.

You must first be able to foot the bill for your crimes against good taste. One way is simply to earn a high income through a job which doesn't require a great deal of education and study, but is one that few people are willing to do, and not considered prestigious by high society, making it more in demand and therefore commanding a high salary and good benefits. Such occupations include truck driver, general contractor, heat & air repairman, UPS deliveryman, and plumber. At most they require a couple of years at a community college and some apprenticeship. The other way is to work a lower-paying job but live in a rural area with lower costs of living. Low mortgage payments, or renting a house for as much as one would pay for a city apartment half the size, allows for more discretionary income.

Whatever the job situation, once a you find a home, you must furnish it. Well-made, gracefully-styled antique furniture can be found at auctions and consignment shops quite affordably, but this is simply too much bother for white trash, who wouldn't know Chippendale from Chips Ahoy and think Mission style is what you do in bed when your common-law wife passes out after chugging a case of Natural Light. Instead, you can get in your Silverado and head to a mid-range furniture store to pick out overstuffed recliners and sofas, usually covered with corduroy in hideous hues of denim blue or forest green, and matching endtables and coffee tables whose design, if any, is a misguided amalgam of bastardizations of imitations of well-known styles. Sometimes the selection of tacky furniture is too overwhelming, so you may find it easier to choose Wal-Mart or Sam's Club as your exclusive supplier of laminated particle board. Whatever the style or construction, white trash almost exclusively opt for a "natural oak" laminate, which somehow brings to mind rustic cabins, though I personally fail to see the rustic charm in orange-tinted faux woodgrain. Not every trashy person buys all-new furniture, however, and it's perfectly acceptable to take castoffs from other trashy people that come with fabric already torn, stained, and cigarette-burned, busted springs, and cushions with lovingly crafted ass grooves so you won't have to wait as long for your living room to attain that "lived-in" look, and your guests won't worry so much if they spill their coffee from your set of Dale Earnhardt mugs.

Once the house is filled with shiny new laminated particle board and nauseating green corduroy, it's time to decorate those bare walls with some fine art. Some white trash pitifully attempt to be classy by purchasing "real paintings." Technically, they are indeed hand-painted, not by one hand, but rather an assembly line of multiple Indonesian hands assigned to painting one particular element or color over and over, cranking out hundreds of nearly-identical "real paintings" at slave wages, to be mounted in poorly-made frames. These paintings are usually garishly-colored, poorly-composed scenes of provincial Italian villages or bowls of flowers or fruit. You may feel that such "real paintings" are a waste of money that could be better spent on chrome valve covers, so framed "prints"—posters printed on a 4-color press on flimsy paper, placed under glass in a flimsy frame in a "natural oak" stain to match the furniture—are a good substitute. Preferred subject matter typically includes scripture or prayers embellished with religious iconography; reproductions of paintings of Civil War officers or scenes; imagery related to military service or firefighting; illustrations of dogs, horses, wolves, and bald eagles; photo collages of classic muscle cars; and portraits of NASCAR celebrities superimposed over their respective racing cars with facsimile autographs. Tin signs are also great for covering those annoying blank spaces. White trash folks typically go for signage depicting vintage gasoline/petroleum company logos and old advertisements for Ford, Chevrolet, and John Deere tractors. Stamped street signs with messages such as "John Deere Parking Only" are perfectly sized for filling in the empty space above a doorway where that 8x10 portrait of Jesus won't quite fit. White trash sometimes pick up Confederate battleflags at local flea markets or gun & knife shows to use as colorful accent pieces, often embellished with a portrait of Hank Williams, Jr. or emblazoned with the message "The South Will Rise Again," in hopes that someday they will indeed rise again from their corduroy La-Z-Boys.

Paintings and posters (ahem, "prints") aren't quite enough, though. A home just isn't a white trash home without a few appropriate objets d'art. Megastores just off the highway, such as the J.R. Outlet on I-40 in North Carolina, serve as one-stop shops for all your white trash decorating needs. Painted resin figurines are highly popular among white trash, in a wide range of subjects, such as hunting dogs, firefighters, Confederate officers, bald eagles swaddled in American flags, and humorous caricatures of elderly people. Snow globes containing the same figures offer a little variety. Countless mail-order catalogs also offer a wealth of tasteless crap with which white trash can adorn every laminated surface. Especially popular among the mail-order schlock are commemorative plates. These are the size, shape, and composition of dinner plates, but are not intended for serving food; rather, they are meant to be hung on the wall in order to admire their depictions of Civil War officers, George W. Bush, NASCAR personalities, and memorials to the 9/11 attacks. Mail order services and flea markets also provide Japanese swords (made in Pakistan) to hang on the wall. Such accessories often become props in hilarious home movies in which the owner attempts to use them and injures himself. But how can you beat a wall accessory that comes straight from nature? Trashy people love to find beautiful animals, shoot them, and mount their heads on the wall. And by law, every white trash home must have a singing Billy Bass on the living room wall.

While not technically a furnishing or decorative object, the focal point of a white trash living room is always the television. Now you may be harboring some unfounded stereotypes, envisioning an ancient TV-disguised-as-furniture from the late '70s. Far from it, reader; white trash actually dedicate a large portion of their discretionary income to keeping up with entertainment technology. Upon entering a white trash living room, a visitor immediately envies the 55-inch flat-panel TV and Dolby surround sound that make it feel like Larry the Cable Guy is right there in the room. The home computer is rarely more than two years old, and always runs Windows, never, ever Macintosh or Linux. The computer is only used for porn, forwarding chain e-mails, burning mix CDs to play in the Camaro, porn, viewing videos of people lighting each other on fire for fun, ordering commemorative plates online, and porn. Once it gets choked up with viruses from opening too many UPS delivery notice spam mails (for fear that they missed the attempted delivery of Reba seasons 1–6 on Blu-Ray), it's off to Wal-Mart for a new computer, and the old one gets used for target practice out back.

So now that you have your ugly furniture, tasteless "art prints," and complete collection of "Legends in Gray" commemorative plates on the wall, what's missing? A wallpaper border, of course! No white trash home is complete without long strips of wallpaper about 6-8 inches wide which run along the top or middle of a wall, printed with repeating patterns of flowers, grape vines, or classic cars. These are a must for any true white trash home because it's just so much easier than painting or installing moldings.

The gaudiness doesn't stop at the front door, however. You want to display your exquisite tastes to everyone who passes by your house! How do you do that? Yard art, duh! Entire businesses exist solely to fill this need. On lonely stretches of back roads, you'll occasionally find retailers where you can walk through rows and rows of molded concrete and choose from replicas of Greek statues, religious figures, fanciful gnomes, miniature lighthouses, life-size animals, and hilarious urinating children. They come in natural concrete (think about that descriptor for a moment), but you can paint them yourself in full color. That front lawn of yours was so somber before you got the pissing cherub to lighten the mood, and that hand-painted white tail buck is so realistic, people will open fire in your front yard! The miniature lighthouse that really lights up will be your beacon home after a night of pounding back the Natural Lights, just don't plow your Camaro into it.

Fake it 'cause you'll never make it

Thanks to the gift of A.D.D., I'm on yet another weird jag. It kind of started when I was admiring my knockoff Amex Centurion Card (a.k.a. "Black Card"), and got to thinking, I should display some sort of impressive ID in my wallet's ID window to reinforce my faux elite status. I wasn't going to put some government agency ID in there; that would bring up too many unwanted questions and possible legal trouble. Plus, how would a government stooge get a Centurion card? No, I decided it was better to have something vague and mysterious to enhance the illusion of exclusivity. So, I created a "VIP All Access" card. All it says is exactly that, with my photo, name, membership date, ID number, and bar code. No organization or agency is mentioned, adding to its mystique, as if it's so exclusive that its very origin is a secret. The big bold letters "VIP" are visible from a few feet away every time I open my wallet, no doubt rousing bystanders' curiosities. "Is he a diplomat?" they may ask themselves. "Or maybe a Congressman? Does he instantly get a table at the busiest restaurants? Does he scan that bar code to get into to a secret night club? Does he get into the private lounges at every airport in the world? Is he exempt from parking tickets? Does he get BJs from strippers?" I relish the intrigue it must create in people's minds.

The idea snowballed from there into scheming up a wallet full of important-looking ID cards to boost the impression of elite status. With supplies from Arcadia ID, you, too, can start getting creative about inflating the importance of certain credentials. An impressive and easy-to-get credential is the title of Ordained Minister, which I've held since last year, available for free from the Universal Life Church. Once you get your certificate, you can make yourself a photo ID card attesting to your standing. They offer their own paper ID cards, but they don't have your photo and they look cheap. For a small donation, they'll also recognize a title you choose for yourself (Bishop and Rabbi are good ones), and if you want to take it further, they also offer Doctorate degrees in various fields. Then pick up a clerical shirt on eBay and wear it proudly with a dark suit. There are nature preserves in Scotland that will grant you the title of Laird if you buy a square foot of their protected lands, and various other honorary titles of nobility can be had for a price. If you really want to waste some money, get yourself diplomatic status with the Conch Republic. If you have a Flickr account, you can call yourself a photographer and create a dandy little Press/Media ID card. Ditto for business review sites like yelp.com, where you can post a few reviews and call yourself a "contributor" on your homemade ID card. Ever made a home movie or put something on YouTube? Make up an ID card declaring yourself an independent film director. Hell, if I only posted some newsworthy crap on this blog now and then, I could call myself an independent journalist and add yet another press ID card to my collection. Wouldn't it sound impressive to say you're a member of the Smithsonian Institution? Well, anyone who subscribes to their magazine is considered a member. They issue paper membership cards, but why not make a pretty plastic one with your photo? If you do sign up, try actually reading the magazine and get yourself some damn culture. Why not just make up an important- or mystical-sounding fraternity comprised of you and a friend or two? Check to make sure it doesn't already exist, conjure up a coat of arms or pay a starving artist on fiverr.com 5 bucks to make you one, and make some IDs documenting your membership in the Ancient Order of the Rosy Palm.

Fine garments support the illusion of elite status nicely. Never mind that I've had them for years, or received many of them as gifts, or that some of them came used from eBay. I've gotten Brooks Brothers polo shirts gently used for $15. No one has to know my $500 Brooks Brothers sportcoat cost $28. As a good friend of mine once said, "Fabulosity is made out of bullshit."

I experimented with making a hang-tag for my car's rear view mirror, reading "VIP All Access Permit," but its first incarnation just looked retarded, probably because it was in the windshield of a dented 13-year-old Ford with a wheel cover missing. *Sigh* That's the one big prop I lack, and can't afford—the right vehicle. A wannabe-VIP doesn't necessarily have to have a new or expensive car to look important and respectable, but he does need the right kind. A newer model of a respected make, preferably black or silver, in an elegant body style (hatchbacks are verboten!), would be quite sufficient. A Lincoln Town Car, a Toyota Avalon, even a Chevy Suburban, all have a certain something. Avoid the Chrysler 300 and Kia Amanti, which shamelessly imitate high-end makes. However, one need not acquire a brand new car to project an aura of Old Money elitism. Keep in mind that Old Money types buy expensive cars and keep them running for 10, 15, 20 years, or longer, so the older you are, the better advantage you have. You could have gotten that '97 Mercedes convertible for your sweet 16 and kept it all these years. Look for something that once cost a lot of money, like an '80s model Mercedes sedan or a '90s model Lexus LX sedan, and educate yourself about maintenance. Have it repainted either black or silver if you can afford it. Note: this strategy only flies if you're white; minorities do not pass for Old Money and will be shooed out of the country club parking lot. If changing your ride is simply out of reach, you could settle for being seen with a key fob bearing the logo of your dream car. Just be sure to cover up the Daewoo logo on your car keys.

As far as what to do to your car's outward appearance, it depends on what brand of importance you're projecting. If you want to look influential, the VIP mirror tag would be a nice touch. A small, rectangular American or state flag sticker on the rear windshield can lead people to assume you're an important official, just avoid big or wavy flags. An extra antenna on the trunk lid (or hood if an SUV) looks important, too, just don't put one on a Grand Marquis, which looks too similar to a police car. If you're trying to make your car look like "Old Money," there are several options: a windshield sticker from a prestigious university; your initials in nautical semaphore flags on the driver's door or front bumper; an oval bumper sticker from a local vacation spot where rich people go; a sticker from a local church where rich people go; a sticker with the logo of a yacht club; or a sticker with a Caduceus or scales of justice. Spelling out your surname in capital Old English letters is not recommended.

Ultimately, this horseshit is really only good for wowing total strangers, getting into restricted areas or events (who's going to tell a minister he's not allowed in the hospital after visiting hours?), or impressing random women who will fuck you because you have a Black Card (tell them your Ferrari is in the shop and the old Mercedes helps you keep a low profile). If you're meeting new people you'll likely see again, your smokescreen will evaporate once they start asking about your time at Harvard or your journalistic endeavors at the New Yorker (comprised of a letter to the editor that got published). You won't make influential friends with all this folderol, so your options are (A) keep your poseur's car and your wallet full of bullshit out of sight, or (B) be honest about your humble life, and if asked about your props later on, just tell them you get a kick out of bullshitting strangers. People with a good sense of humor will probably only respect you even more for your social-engineering shenanigans.

Posting to pass the time on a dull Monday

I hate Mondays. I know it's a tired, worn-out sentiment, but still so very true. I hate being jerked back into reality after two days of doing whatever I want, and getting my ass here 5 minutes early so I won't miss the pointless weekly staff meeting. Meanwhile, the Boss is away on a luxurious three-week vacation in Italy. How nice that he can afford to do that! Because he saves so much money by paying us insultingly small salaries. Greedy reptile. Anyway, this past weekend we watched several redbox rentals, ate a lot of pizza, and I took some time to catalog my music library more carefully. My goal is to have the year of release (or composition, in the case of classical pieces) for every song, and when possible, the year, month, and day of release. That way, I can arrange my library in chronological order, and even make year-by-year playlists arranged in order of release, permitting a musical journey through time. My other goal is to digitize every single worthwhile track in my CD collection. I've had iTunes for about 7 years, and I still haven't done this. Now that I'm keeping my iTunes library in a 1TB external drive instead of my aging laptop's pitiful 80GB hard drive, there's no excuse for not having my entire sound library in electronic format. Once this is accomplished, I'll be able to clear out a little bit of precious storage space in the upstairs closet and make a few bucks selling some of my CDs to Edward McKay.

I am keeping some of my classic '90s albums, though, in hopes that I may someday resurrect the '90s room. It never did really pan out in its first incarnation, what with having to multi-function as a home office, storage room, and library. Someday, though, I'd like to have a guest room decorated like a late '90s dorm room. It would have twin beds, sturdy laminated furniture, maybe an ugly sofa, crude humor posters, mini fridge, vintage microwave, '90s computer, an old CRT TV set and VCR, and a Playstation or N64. I even saved some '90s VHS movies from the trash, and more titles can be found cheap on eBay.

I also spent some time last week during a very slow week at the office tracking down digitized forms of books and comics I already own in printed form. A few weeks ago I downloaded a torrent containing the entire run of Calvin & Hobbes, in chronological order with publication dates on every page and Sunday strips in full color. I managed to find a few Uncle Scrooge stories by Romano Scarpa, an Italian artist active in the '50s, as well as some stories from the daily Mickey Mouse comic strip of the '30s which I have in attractive softcover volumes. I also came across an index of downloadable Preacher comics. Gray's Anatomy (the classic medical text, not the estrogen-soaked TV series that just won't die) was easy to find in PDF format, but my best find was the entire Book of Kells, a medieval Irish manuscript full of beautifully illuminated pages. It was surprisingly difficult to find for free, and I'll be damned if I was going to pay $50 for a public domain book on CD-ROM.

Now my latest interest is to get a good video capture device so that I can convert my old VHS tapes to MPEG-4 files. I've got some odds and ends recorded from TV many years ago, as well as a few movies that never went to DVD, such as Ducktales: Treasure of the Lost Lamp and Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown, the only Peanuts movie that didn't put me to sleep or make me feel like taking ’shrooms. Maybe I'll even digitize my bootleg VHS copy of Disney's darkest shame (no pun intended), Song of the South.

What's been keeping me from accomplishing all this archival work? My dreary day job, that's what! There's not much time to do all this while I'm watching the irreplaceable hours of my life tick away in a little gray cubicle and praying harder than ever before for a windfall. I do feel that it's getting close, though. I have a feeling that God will come through and knows how badly I want, nay, need, to get out of the daily grind and live my life the way I've always wanted. I don't even demand a luxurious lifestyle with expensive cars, private jets, yachts, and multiple mansions. All I ask for is an elegant city house, a beach retreat, and a few vehicles for various purposes, and the funds to maintain it all without working. He's coming through with it by the end of the month.

The Universe failed, but God will provide

May 1 came and went, and the Universe failed to provide the car I desire and need. However, my faith that an all-powerful God will come through for me still survives thanks to what can only be portents of things to come, in the form of multiple Sequoia sightings over the weekend.

This past weekend, my wife and I journeyed to Raleigh to visit friends and family. On Sunday, May 1, I was feeling down at first after learning that, yet again, I hadn't won a substantial lottery prize, but on the drive back from lunch to my parents' house, I spotted a silver Sequoia along Glenwood Avenue, gleaming in the sun in all its elegant splendor. It dawned on me that since I was testing the power of the Universe against the power of God, God had prevented me from getting my paws on the coveted S.U.V. so that there would be no confusion as to who was in charge, and to drive home the point that positive thinking and laws of attraction are horse shit. Now is the time for Him to come through and deliver me from the banal world of the Ford sedan. I'll concede that one late-model Sequoia sighting can be ruled out as mere coincidence, but when I went to gas up for the drive home that afternoon, a beautiful black model ambled past me in the parking lot, just the kind I want. I spotted two more with my eagle-eye in the opposite lanes along the interstate on my way back home. Surely this can't be a coincidence. Four '08+ models in one day? With their yearly manufacturing output decreasing each year due to the feeble economy and soaring fuel prices, the '08+ models aren't exactly to be found around every corner. God is working on it, and by May 31 He will have one sitting outside my door with my name on the title.

Approaching the deadline

May 1 is less than a week away. In case you've forgotten, or haven't kept up regularly with every inane posting on this blog, May 1 is the deadline I set for the Universe to get me a vehicular upgrade. I've tried very hard to keep up the positive thinking in order to attract what I want. Maybe the Universe was waiting for me to make a firm decision on the type of vehicle I want, since for a little while there I was flip-flopping between a Ford Expedition EL and a Toyota Sequoia, and even considered a late-model Grand Marquis. My mind is made up, now, and I will go with a black Sequoia. It's made better and holds value better, plus it's better suited for the classy but incognito look I try to maintain (see my entry, In Praise of Averageness). I really want a 2008 or newer model, with the latest body style, but I'm getting to where I'll settle for an older one if it lets me ditch the Ford. It's gotta be black, though, even if I find a good deal and have to have it painted. I've decided I want the second row captain's chairs with the console, so that rear passengers can travel in greater comfort. Yes, Universe, I am ready for my Sequoia! Show me the money!

I realized something this afternoon which I consider a profound observation. I was lounging on the couch at home, enjoying an extended lunch break since my boss left before I did, and glanced at a collage of photos on the living room wall. They were all of fun times and happy memories my wife and I shared together or with friends and relatives, taking during birthday parties, vacations, weekend jaunts, and family gatherings. That's when I realized something I'd never really noticed before: in all the homes I've visited, among all the personal photos adorning walls and tabletops, I can't recall a single framed photo that was shot in someone's workplace. The moments in time we all choose to capture on a 4 by 6-inch sheet of glossy paper and display under glass have absolutely nothing to do with what we do to scrape out a living 40 hours a week. That's how little we wish to be reminded of the hours we don't get to spend doing what makes us happy, with the people we love. Sure, we may have fun at work, joking around with colleagues and maybe even doing projects we find somewhat interesting, but we still don't really want to be there. We do it for the money, so that we can pay to have dinner or drinks with the people in those pictures on the living room wall. A change of vehicle would definitely make me more content with my world, but it won't make me completely happy. No, that can only be accomplished with a ticket out of the daily grind. I'm so ready to quit this fucking dead-end job so unworthy of being immortalized in photographs, and live every day like it were a Saturday. I love my weekends. Even this past holiday weekend when I was sitting through an endless round of Stabat Mater during a 2-hour Good Friday church service, I thought to myself, at least I'm not at work. It's the best job I could ask for, as far as jobs go, except for the shitty pay, but I'm absolutely ready to drop the fucking plow in the field without any hesitation. No two weeks notice, no wrapping up projects. As soon as that lotto jackpot is in my bank account, I'm packing up my scant few belongings in my cubicle, leaving my keycard on my desk, and walking out the back door without speaking a word to anyone. Fuck this place, man. I am not spending another fine summer rotting away in this office when I should be lounging at the beach or gorging at the buffet on a cruise ship. If God exists, He will provide me with the means to ditch the rat race by the end of May of this year.

Yep, I still want to retire

I spent last week living the life of a 30-year-old retiree. We escaped the toil and drudgery of our McJobs for a week and got away from it all at our beloved seaside condominium. O, what a glorious week! For seven days there were no alarms to wake up with, no co-workers dropping in asking me to perform some last-minute miracle, no insipid 8-year-olds backtalking my wife, and no wasting hours of my life in a cubicle. It was exactly the way I would live if I had the means to retire and live at the beach: relaxing, slow-paced, easy, and on no one's terms but my own. It was essentially the same as being on a cruise ship, eating, drinking, and amusing ourselves all the time, except we prepared most meals ourselves. Here's the day-by-day account:

Saturday: Arrived at the condo about 3:30 with the 4runner overflowing with a week's worth of luggage and provisions. Dined on take-out pizza. I was pleased to find a new unprotected wi-fi signal to leech off of that was much stronger than the one two floors up that I had used on previous visits.
Sunday: Spent the day reading and watching TV. Dinner was homemade chicken chili.
Monday: Made it out onto the beach, where it was so windy we had to wear coats and long pants. We managed to sit out there for a few hours until we couldn't feel our own hands anymore. Dinner was leftover chili.
Tuesday: Rained some in the morning but it blew over by lunchtime. Finally finished Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons, which I had started reading last June and hadn't picked up since October. We ate lunch at the Mexican joint on the corner and had dessert at the frozen custard place, then went for a nice leisurely walk up the main drag all the way to the pier, where the peckers charge a dollar to walk out onto the pier. Dinner was grilled pork tenderloin.
Wednesday: Couples massage at the big shopping center on the mainland, followed by a visit to the Barnes & Noble and a snack from Wendy's. Dinner and drinks at our favorite restaurant.
Thursday: More beach-sitting. Much warmer than Monday. Dinner was leftover pork and entertainment was the American Idol results show.
Friday: Still more beach-sitting. Cool enough to wear long pants and long-sleeve shirt, but not bitterly cold like Monday. Dinner was at the seafood place across the street, where I had mouthgasmic Low Country Mac 'n' Cheese. Got pretty tipsy at our favorite place up the street on 3 rounds of rum & Coke before retiring at midnight.
Saturday: Got up at 9, packed up and left. Stopped in Raleigh for lunch with the in-laws, then visited Granny for a bit. It all proved a very nice way to break up the 3.5-hour drive back home. Went to a friend's little birthday/housewarming party that night.
Sunday: Spent the morning and afternoon watching the first 7 installments of The Kennedys on Reelz, the miniseries that the family bullied The History Channel out of showing. The day was much too short. Supper was Papa John's, one last hurrah before returning to our banal day-to-day lives.

We had a heapin' helpin' of television last week, taking advantage of our access to HBO and Showtime. We watched the premiere of The Borgias, a 15-minute preview of Game of Thrones, plus several movies we'd never pay to see in a theater, such as Just Wright, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, MacGruber, and an old favorite, Pootie Tang. I even had a 6-hour 1990s nostalgia orgy consisting of SNL in the '90s and VH1's top 40 one-hit wonders of the 1990s.

This week-long respite also helped me refine my skills in packing light. I thought I had packed the bare essentials for 7 days' journey, but I wound up not even wearing three shirts, one pair of pants, and a sweater I had packed. I found the most useful and versatile article of clothing to be my stone-colored safari shirt, which I wear very infrequently in the city. Being a collared, button-front shirt, it's quite smart-looking and appropriate for the finer dining establishments at the beach, but its slightly shorter tail allows for it to be worn untucked for an easy-going, I'm-on-vacation look. The chest pockets are handy for carrying a small camera and a mobile phone. My replica WWII army officer's summer cotton shirt was OK for cooler days on the beach, but I favor the safari shirt for its slimmer tailoring. I think I've finally hit on what makes for a good one-size-fits-most travel wardrobe, and plan to acquire a couple more safari shirts and a couple pairs of cargo pants. I may go so far as to get a safari-style jacket, probably a replica of a WWII UK army officer's summer cotton uniform coat. I hope to have all these things in time for our return to the highland games this summer.

On this last trip I finally screwed up the courage to wear my pith helmet on the beach on that windy Monday. It did shield my delicate pate from the sun, but stronger gusts threatened to knock it from its perch. I'm afraid that the most sensible, least troublesome headgear for the beach is the lowly baseball cap, which also best serves the traveler who is interested in packing light. This time around I brought too damn many hats, including the pith helmet, a straw wide-brimmed number, my brown felt fedora, and my green tweed driving cap. In the future I'll just pack a baseball cap. I'll have to find or design one that fits in with my vintage-inspired wardrobe. Perhaps I'll have one imprinted with the logo of some long-defunct 1920s airline.

The only thing at home I really missed was my library, which fueled my desire for a high-capacity iPod on which I could store every book, or at least my favorite books, in digital format. As of right now, the process of digitization is slow and tedious, and I just don't have the free time for it. I have so many books I'd want on an iPod; I don't know how I would ever have the time to digitize them all. I've been working on scanning Our Dumb Century, and even that seems to take an hour for every 30 pages. At least I found a digital copy of my book about WWII U.S. Army uniforms.

The one disappointing part of the trip was the vigilance of the beach ranger patrol. I felt even more uneasy than last summer as his Dodge pickup slowly rolled up and down the strand, his suspicious eye on the lookout for alcoholic beverages, which are prohibited on the beach. In years past it wasn't enforced if you made a half-assed effort to keep it out of sight, but ever since last year when he stopped and asked our friend what she had in her cup (which was empty), I feel like I can't even sip a margarita out of a plastic screwtop bottle anymore. I did come across a method of disguising a beer can by wrapping it in a cut-up soft drink can, and came up with the idea of sipping our concoctions from styrofoam take-out cups, which seems to be the sneakiest and most effective strategy.

As you can see, I spent my vacation days just the way I would if I could only get a huge cash infusion and quit my shitty day job. The fact that I'm typing this in my little gray cubicle indicates that I have not yet won the lottery jackpot I am entitled to. I had hoped God or the Universe would provide this during my vacation so that I would be in a quiet, relaxing place where I could plan for the future. Strike one against my faith in any sort of higher power. I still expect that by May 1 of this year, I will, at the very least, have the '08 or newer Toyota Sequoia I pine for, in black, preferably with tan leather seats and second row captain's chairs with the nice center console, and money left over to outfit it with rear headrest monitors and a TV tuner. I'm still sticking to my ultimatum to God, to provide that jackpot or similar retirement fund by the end of May this year. It may sound blasphemous, but I've been waiting and praying long enough. I've been hanging on for about five fucking years now. The time to retire is NOW! I've already cleared out personal items from my cubicle and removed any sensitive personal stuff from my computer. I'm ready to leave that resignation note and get the fuck out of here the morning after the next drawing. May 29, the day after the last lottery drawing before Memorial Day and the start of the summer vacation season, will be the day I either confirm or abandon my belief in God or any other higher power.

Canvas, Cast Iron, and Kerosene: When Roughing It Was Rough

Lately I've revived my old interests in the aesthetics of the 1910s through 1930s. It began with dusting off the fedoras and going a little more retro with my outfit choices. Right now I'm wearing cotton twill slacks, a striped button-front shirt, and saddle oxfords, plus my brown fedora when outdoors, all which, conceivably, could have been found on a young man in the '20s or '30s. For a few weeks now, my wife and I have been fostering a young Cocker Spaniel until we can find a more suitable home for it. We got into a habit of taking her to the local park on weekends, and I would put on somewhat vintage-looking outfits, including my replica World War II cotton khaki uniform shirt, my Levis 501 dungarees, which I was happy to learn are very similar to those made 80 years ago, except for the red tab, and a military-style canvas shoulder bag. My next major purchase may be a replica of a World War I British army officer's musette bag and an M1910 canteen for future dog-walking expeditions. Our forays into civilized wilderness, combined with a vintage-inspired wardrobe and accessories, sparked a revived interest in something I'd contemplated long, long ago: camping out in an early 20th century fashion.

"Roughing it" has gotten soft these past few decades, in my opinion. Modern-day campers sleep in feather-weight tents made of slick nylon that pop up in seconds, wear unattractive clothing, keep fresh meats and dairy products in cold-storage boxes or small refrigerators powered by their vehicle's battery, and prepare freeze-dried gourmet meals stored in neat little foil packets just by adding water and heating on a shiny folding propane stove. Many campgrounds even offer electricity outlets, running water, and full restroom and shower facilities. This is what people call "roughing it?"

There was a time when truly hardy folks left what was then the modern hustle and bustle of city life, with its clattering trolley cars, talking picture shows, and jabbering radio programs, and headed out into the forest primeval for a weekend of getting back to basics. The Model A would be packed with nonperishable food, cast-iron pots, tin plates & cups, jugs of water, and maybe a banjo or ukulele for entertainment. The campers would arrive looking like overgrown boy scouts, men and women alike decked out in woolen breeches or possibly denim waist overalls, knee-high boots or ankle boots & puttees, sturdy shirts, and large felt hats. An assortment of canvas sheets and wooden poles became a tent, and a batch of chopped wood formed a campfire. Canned beans and salt-pork went into an iron pot for a hearty supper, and after the sun went down and the dishes were washed, everyone gathered around and sang along to the twanging banjo while passing around a flask of smuggled hooch. Perhaps if one of the campers was skilled in electronics, the group would tune in to Amos 'n' Andy on a radio hooked up to the Ford's electrical system. Upon retiring for the night, they would perhaps read a bit in their tents by the light of a kerosene lantern or perhaps an early flashlight. Come the morning, a shower was unnecessary; change your underdrawers if you feel the need. Time to return last night's supper to the earth? No restrooms here. Go dig a latrine behind a tree, like the bears in those Charmin commercials.

How grand 'twould be to arrive in my cavalry breeches and Montana peak hat, set up a canvas tent, light up a wood fire, and dump canned goods wrapped in replica 1920s labels into a cast-iron pot! I already wasted a good part of my Monday morning in the cubicle re-creating a period Campfire marshmallow label for a metal tin, and even found some high-resolution scans of vintage food packaging. Perhaps someday when I am exceedingly wealthy, I'll be unpacking everything from a fully restored Model T.

Why am I still here?

So I'm still in my cubicle, toiling away, watching the clock, waiting for another day of drudgery to come to a close. The countdown to May 1 continues at a snail's pace. There has been a slight change of plans: while I am holding God and the Universe to the May 1 deadline for the much smaller task of providing an acceptable vehicle to replace my Ford, I gave them an extension to the Wednesday before Memorial Day weekend to make me a lottery winner. So Thursday, May 26 (when I find out Wednesday's Powerball results), could be the last morning I believe in any sort of god. I have decided that if a just god exists, He will not allow me to spend one more summer in this shit-hole office.

I've already got my exit strategy planned out. I would prefer to win a Friday or Saturday night drawing, so that the following day, I could come to the empty office, pack up my few personal belongings, and leave a snarky note in my cubicle, something to the effect of "I won the lottery! I'm outta here." I try not to keep personal items in my cubicle so that my exit will be quicker.

The perfect time for this to happen would be when I start my week's vacation at the beach this Spring. It would be right after I get paid, and my wife and I would be at our favorite place, away from it all, and free to think and plan. Plus with a newly-deposited paycheck, we could splurge on eating out and such during our vacation without worrying about paying the month's bills. Ahem! Are you taking a hint, God/Universe?

I've been wondering lately whether a huge cash infusion would change my hatred for the rich. If I had all my basic desires fulfilled, including retirement at age 30, an elegant primary residence, a fine but sensible automobile for each of us plus a spare, and a house at the beach, with millions in the bank earning a comfortable passive income, would I still resent rich people? In my current state of affairs, I abhor the rich. It's not only unfair, but just plain wrong, that there are people who "earn" millions of dollars a year while their underlings, without whose labor they would not prosper, receive pitiful salaries in the $20-$30K range, so that the top brass can acquire more shit no person needs: boats, private aircraft, extra cars, third & fourth homes, $2,000 suits, $600 shoes, and diamond-studded collars for their purebred canines. Some rich people justify their excessive income by citing the long hours they work, like 60 or 80 hours a week. So if one guy works 80 hours a week and receives $500,000 a year, why does another guy lower on the totem pole working 40 hours get $28,000? Are those extra 20-40 hours somehow worth 10 or 20 times as much as the first 40? The rich are driven by shameless, unbridled greed, and can't stop at just getting enough. For the rich, there's no such thing as enough. They want more, more, more, and don't give a shit about employees struggling to make ends meet. "Hmm, Bob does have 3 kids and a sick wife, but man, that 53-foot motor-sailor would be so awesome on my 2-week vacation." In order to delude themselves into thinking they're "giving back," they attend charity events with other rich people at which obscene amounts of money are spent on food and entertainment instead of going directly to the charity's beneficiaries, then take their "contribution" as a tax deduction while the gummint makes up the difference by sticking it to middle class clock-punchers. The abysmal earnings gap in this country just sickens me. While people do deserve some reward for taking greater risks and serving in leadership capacities, just how much more reward do they deserve than the people who come in every day and spend 8 hours of their lives making money for someone else?

I personally am sick of trading a third of my waking hours for a bad joke of a paycheck, and yet I'm pretty much stuck. Freelancing doesn't offer health insurance, which my wife needs and doesn't get through her employer and would be too costly to buy on our own. It's also too unreliable; you never know when you'll get your next paying gig, or whether the one you're working will pay up on time. My line of work doesn't command a huge hourly rate, anyway, thanks to the low value society seems to place on what I do, even though not many people can do it well. So here I sit, fuming about the privileged few who don't have to worry about weekly specials, coupons, and the price of gasoline, while desperately yearning to join their ranks. As soon as that happens, however, I will of course reverse my opinion and do all I can to keep the huddled masses' filthy hands off my cash.

Speaking of a third of my waking hours, I thought about it and realized I actually have less than 8 hours of truly free leisure time on weekdays. Think about it: I drive to work and back, and spend about 45 minutes getting ready to leave for work. I do have an hour for lunch, but I don't consider that leisure time since it severely limits what I can do in the span of 60 minutes. Don't forget evening meal preparation & consumption, about 45 minutes. Showering & drying off takes an additional 20 minutes. I don't go to sleep the instant I get in bed, so in order to get 8 hours and get up at 7:30, I have to be in bed around 11:00. So really it's more like 3 1/2 to 4 hours of time to do whatever the hell I want. What kind of ripoff is that? Work days should be reduced to 5 or 6 hours to make up for the time lost in daily self-maintenance activities. Cooking, eating, bathing, dressing, grooming, and driving to & from work are not leisure activities in my book.

I've got a good feeling about this

Yesterday morning, on my short drive to the cubicle gulag, I spotted not one, but two, black '08+ Toyota Sequoias on the road. I saw a white one in the parking lot, and two more older ones on the way home that evening. Today a white one passed by on my way to lunch, and on my way back, a green one drove right up behind me before changing lanes. This must be a sign of good things to come, from God or some superior force, as if to say, "we're working on it. It's coming soon." I have a good feeling, dear reader, that constantly visualizing the car in my possession is moving everything into alignment, and will result in the Universe fulfilling my burning desire for this automobile. Just yesterday I was thinking to myself, "I'm going to have that Sequoia very, very soon. Within a matter of weeks, or perhaps just days, it will be right outside my front door." As long as it's mine by May, in time for beach season, I'll be ecstatic, but of course the sooner, the better, especially considering that we seem to be in for an early Spring and beach season may come early this year.

I'm done with the Vic. It's been a very solid, dependable ride, but I'm just done with sedans in general. I no longer even want a Lincoln Town Car. SUVs offer so much more - more cargo space, commanding views, legal dark windows for privacy, easy loading & unloading of groceries, and that all-important rough & ready, imposing appearance. This summer I'll be pulling up to the loading dock at our beach condo in a new (or nearly-new), shiny, black, chrome-trimmed beast, the front end proudly displaying that badge of membership, the Wrightsville Beach souvenir license plate.

Recent Happenings, and the Quest for the Sequoia

So it's been quite a while since my last entry. Honestly, I didn't have a whole lot to write about. In late January I took ill with awful chest congestion followed by three weeks of being unable to speak. I finally regained full use of my voice a few days ago.

My old school chum had a birthday gathering at his apartment, followed by an attempt at going out on the town. We were nearly deafened at a newly-opened night club and really creeped out by its sleazy clientele. The really shitty thing about this place is that while it had plenty of sofas to sit on, people who had paid god knows how much had reserved them for their own exclusive use. The sofas were all empty except for piles of coats & purses. So after maybe 20 minutes we headed down the street to a pub that should have been much more relaxed; however, thanks to a hockey game in town that same day, the pub was overcrowded, forcing us to sit at a table outside in the cold, with a malfunctioning propane heater and no table service. We finally gave up on the nightlife and headed home at midnight, allowing us to get up at a reasonable hour Sunday morning and finally watch the copy of Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps we had rented. It was OK, but not nearly as thrilling as Wall Street.

Earlier that Saturday I had a much more pleasant experience. My wife and I met my parents and her grandparents, plus my sister and her beau, at a nice restaurant for lunch to celebrate Granny's and my mom's birthdays. Afterward, my folks took us across the street to an upscale gentleman's clothing studio to look at the items on sale. I came away with a very fine purple velvet sportcoat, two beautiful striped shirts suitable for both the office and night-clubbing, and a pair of green corduroy dungarees. I always love to add exquisite items to my collection of gentle-manly garments. Earlier that morning, my wife got the urge to find a pair of denim dungarees for me, as the only pair I owned had paint stains and holes. We fell in love with the Levi's 501 jeans at Brooks Brothers - quite costly, but made entirely in the U.S. of A. of superior materials. Another excellent addition to my wardrobe.

Oh, how I love fine clothing! I don't know what it is - I just feel better and more confident when I wear garments constructed of high-quality fabric. Perhaps it's the subtle message it sends to the rest of the world - here is a man who cares enough to spend good money on good materials, and deserves my respect and admiration. Plus it's kind of like having a collection - you start with the basic items, then branch out from there with variations and accessories. Lately I've been trying to arrange my closet to be not only neater but also showcase my collection better. I moved my Brooks Brothers polo shirts out of the chest of drawers and onto a shelf in a neat stack, forming a column of golden fleece logos. I hope to add a few more soon, in a wide array of colors. I'm trying to figure out a way to display my sweaters without leaving them vulnerable to moths.

In other news, I've decided it's high time I acquire a motor vehicle that complements my gentle-manly appearance. Yes, reader, I have grown dissatisfied with the Crown Victoria. I've tried all sorts of modifications to try to make it more gentle-manly, but I can no longer delude myself into thinking it's something grander than an old highway patrol car. It's dented, it's dated, it's missing a wheel cover, and I still feel like a target for the local authorities, who seem to think it's their exclusive privilege to drive that model. After much consideration and mind-changing, I have set my lofty sights on the 2008-2011 Toyota Sequoia, and it must be black. For now, it's mainly a dream; even a 2008 model would run about $32,000, and I'd never be able to make the monthly payments on that, let alone buy it outright. I keep a photo of one pinned to my cubicle wall, with a Wrightsville Beach souvenir plate photoshopped onto the front bumper. I think there is something to that whole "positive thinking" approach to getting what you want; if you constantly visualize yourself having what you want, I think there's a chance it will come true. Back when I was job-searching, I printed an I.O.U. from the Universe, stating that I would have a job paying at least $30K. That summer, I landed the job I have now. Did I do it on my own? Did the Universe do it for me? I don't know, but I'm willing to see if it will work again. I created a "certificate of future vehicle title" with my name on it, a target date of May 1, 2011, and the future vehicle a black 2008-2011 Toyota Sequoia.

The Sequoia will be the perfect choice - it's big, powerful, and imposing, yet elegant and well-proportioned. Toyota is an excellent manufacturer, so it won't need a lot of troublesome maintenance. Best of all, it's respectable, and would go unnoticed on the highway by lawmen. I'll install a DVD player capable of playing movies off my ipod, and install headrest screens for rear passengers. I'll also equip it with a CB radio and digital trunking scanner, hidden in the cavernous armrest.

I deserve this, damn it. I am owed something fabulous for all the shit I've put up with in life. I've played the lottery for 4 years without winning any substantial prize, and I'm stuck in a dead-end job with a mediocre salary that will never foot the bill for the things I desire. While I deserve to be retired at the age of 30 with a lifetime supply of cash, at the very least I am owed a more respectable form of transportation. I've been a fairly religious person my whole life, asking God regularly for help in dealing with life's obstacles and setbacks, and also thanking God for everything I am blessed with. Over the last few years I've grown increasingly disappointed with God's failure to come through with what I desperately want, which is a ticket out of the rat race. Maybe that's too big to ask, but a change of vehicles is far more reasonable. So, blasphemous as it may be, I've issued an ultimatum: if I don't get the car I want by the first of May (in time for beach season), I'll become an atheist. Seriously, one little car, and a modest Toyota at that, is not that much to ask for. It's not just for my own vanity, but for my overall psychological well-being and general self-esteem as well. I'll feel so much better about myself and life in general if I'm driving something that's not an old cop car and doesn't make me feel like I must constantly monitor the rearview mirror for the po-po. 2 1/2 months is plenty of time for God or the Universe to cook up some way to get me that Sequoia: a major lottery prize or jackpot, wife's grandparents kicking off and leaving us a small fortune, wife's rich godmother offering me a new car out of the blue, finding a bag of cash in a parking lot, finding something at a flea market worth $40,000, my parents selling something at auction for a million dollars and offering me a new car, something. Stay tuned to see what I believe in, if anything.