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.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
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.
Monday, June 6, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
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.
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.
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