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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
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 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.
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