When the chill of November has set in, on the fourth Thursday of the month, the great unwashed put on their Faded Glory sweatshirts, travel to one another's hovels, quaff aperitifs of Natural Light, gather around a "natural oak" laminated particle board table with drunk and/or judgmental relatives while their ill-behaved children sit around a wobbly card table, and consume a large meal of overdone turkey, gravy from a jar, jellied cranberry-flavored goop still in the shape of the tin can from whence it came, instant mashed potatoes, Kraft Easy Mac, and bread-like products that had just that morning been nothing more than cardboard tubes of bleached glop. Perhaps one member of the fambuhly is spending the evening in the emergency room after a disaster involving a turkey fryer or attempting to ignite his own flatulence.
My Thanksgiving holiday, however, was spent the way every preppy person would dream of. This year, my bride and I shunned the usual exhausting rounds of visits with relatives near and far, and instead high-tailed it to our beloved Wrightsville Beach, where my mother-in-law would join us. Our sensible SUV, with its Wrightsville Beach plate and my bride's initials in nautical semaphore, was loaded down with luggage, groceries in canvas tote bags, and about 10 bottles of various wines (her mother would be supplying the liquor). Traffic was heavy but we were only delayed about 15 minutes. We slowed down as we crossed the causeway to admire the boats gathered on the channel at sunset. After unloading all of our crap and the obscene amount of food her mother brought, we had some cocktails and then went to 22 North for a late supper. On Thanksgiving day, her mother rose at 7AM to prepare the turkey, which had spent the previous day and night in a cooler of brine, and then went on to slice squash and cook sweet potatoes for casseroles. Meanwhile I stayed out of the way and enjoyed some Bloodies while watching the Macy's parade on the circa 1991 Magnavox. With the condo being such a '90s time capsule, I found myself in a '90s mood that day, so I put on my faded jeans, t-shirt, and 1997 vintage Abercrombie & Fitch plaid shirt while watching a marathon of Thanksgiving-themed episodes of Friends on TBS, getting up now and then to help a bit or go enjoy the view of the ocean from the balcony. Thanksgiving dinner was a feast of roasted turkey, squash casserole, sweet potato casserole loaded with whiskey, cornbread dressing, homemade giblet gravy, spiced green beans with dried cranberries and slivered almonds, and a homemade cranberry & orange sauce, all of course served on heirloom china with sterling flatware, paired with a lovely Beaujolais. Our attempt at a homemade pie yielded less-than-pleasing results, so we finished with a storebought sweet potato pie and whiskey-spiked eggnog. As any proper preppy would do, I changed out of my casual knocking-around clothes into something more suitable for dinner. Ordinarily I would wear a blazer, but being at the beach, I opted for a smart blue checked shirt, khaki chinos, and my sailboat motif belt.
The next day was a day of leisure; my mother-in-law went out for a long walk while we sat around relaxing. The weather was chilly but we nonetheless enjoyed the fresh air on the balcony, wrapped up in our L.L. Bean fleece jackets and 20-year-old cotton blankets. I finished the volume about clipper ships from the Time-Life series The Seafarers. That evening I put on my wool duffel coat, striped rugby shirt, canvas chinos, and canvas deck shoes, and we three walked nearly a mile to the public park for the lighting of the town's Christmas tree. We dined at King Neptune's, which continues to delight us with its reasonably priced menu, and my bride and I stayed for drinks at the adjoining pirate bar and then made our way across the street at 22 North.
On Saturday we made the walk again to the park for a craft fair. I dressed in canvas chinos and a rugby shirt again, with my lighter-weight Wind Challenger fleece jacket from Bean's. While perusing the various booths, I came across a brand-spankin'-new line of clothing for the preppy beach enthusiast called Coastal Pride. Until now, I hadn't come across a line of beachy preppy gear that really suits me, but I think this one is just what I've been looking for. Southern Tide, Vineyard Vines, Southern Proper, Southern Marsh, and High Cotton are all well and good, but Coastal Pride stands apart due to its being headquartered in North Carolina, and unlike the other brands, focuses solely on the preppy beach lifestyle. I purchased a khaki hat bearing the brand's simple, understated anchor logo, and plan to order a few more things soon. Right now they only have hats, t-shirts, sunglasses straps, and car decals, but I look forward to the brand's expansion into polo shirts next year.
That evening came the highlight of the weekend: the annual flotilla! We had a round of drinks in the condo and hors d'oeuvres such as Alouette spread with baguette slices and cold oysters with saltines before heading up to the top floor with a bottle of George Martel and three Solo cups (preppies appreciate irony, too) to brave the 40-degree nighttime chill and watch the 20-odd boats make their way up and down the channel, showing off their spectacular lighting decorations. The finale was the fireworks extravaganza, which rivaled the 4th of July display at the nation's capitol.
Sunday was another day of leisure, capped off with a lovely steak dinner at the condo. After my mother-in-law's departure on Monday, we caught a matinee of Skyfall and then stopped by Redix on the way back. My mission at Redix was to procure a nautical flag motif belt for my father-in-law (by Leather Man of Essex, Connecticut, of course). I found just the one, but I could not resist purchasing for myself a belt bearing a repeating Wrightsville Beach logo, made exclusively by Leather Man for the Redix store. Even as I type, I am wearing it with pride. In the future I plan to expand my collection of motif belts.
I'm the kind of person who appreciates the occasional chilly, overcast day at the beach, so on such a Tuesday, I took a nice walk by myself down the beach all the way to Mercer's Pier, wearing my navy fleece jacket over a chunky off-white cotton sweater with my new Coastal Pride hat and my Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Under the pier, I just stood quietly, watching the tide roll in and break against the concrete supports, breathing in the cold salt air, releasing what little stress I
may have still had. There were no throngs of tourists or screaming children splashing around, or police vehicles rumbling by; in fact, I saw barely a dozen people the whole time I was outside. Standing there under the pier, the sun hidden behind a pale gray blanket of clouds, the only sounds being the crashing waves, the wind, the gulls, and the seawater rushing in and out between the pylons, I found the most unexpected little slice of serenity. It was so heartbreaking to have to pack up and leave Wednesday, returning today to my cubicle and business as usual.
O, what a marvelous week in preppy heaven! Flotillas and sunsets, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, silver and china, dressing for dinner, champagne, oysters, craft fairs, and shopping! Deck shoes and duffel coats, chunky sweaters and motif belts, Wayfarers and Topsiders! I am near tears as I write this, for I have just learned the sad news that my bride's grandparents, with their health declining, plan to put the condo up for sale in an effort to leave a mostly liquid estate. This news saddens me, for I had hoped that we would somehow be able to keep it in the family, but short of winning the lottery and buying it from them, that may not happen. Perhaps we could convince them at least to put the furnishings in storage until such time that we could procure our own beach house. The dream is to be able to purchase an identical unit in the same building on another floor and recreate the old unit precisely, going so far as to have the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathrooms replicated, rendering a close duplicate of the original, maintaining it as a monument to the bygone days of the 1990s and as a sort of memorial to her grandparents. If we return for Christmas, I must make an effort to document the placement of every last thing. Should the Fates dash that dream, Plan B would be to purchase a modest beach house elsewhere at WB and fill it with the old condo's furnishings.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Fall is here! Why am I so sweaty?
Ah, autumn. The time of year when we venture out in our jackets and sweaters to take in the cool, crisp air as the leaves in colors as bright as the sun crunch under our every step.
Ah, autumn in North Carolina, where we venture out in polo shirts and still break a sweat in the middle of the afternoon in late September.
Remember my wistful, rose-colored post about transitioning to the fall wardrobe? The official start of autumn came to pass this past Saturday, and yet I'm sitting here wearing a polo shirt with slightly damp armpits. Autumn weather in the Piedmont is as unpredictable as Blair Warner's waistline. On Monday morning I came to work wearing a polar fleece jacket, and today I'm sweating in a polo shirt. I had to make some adjustments to the strict wardrobe transition strategy I mapped out in my last post to accommodate my native state's relatively warm, sticky Septembers. The seersucker shirts are off-limits, but the polo shirts turned out to be necessary; I compromised by putting away the lighter, brighter shirts and kept the warmer-toned shirts out for autumn. While the nautical motif belts went away for the season, I decided that the striped web belts are acceptable for year-round use, particularly if one is spending time at the beach in the off-season. My leather flip-flops will remain in storage until the next time I stay in a hotel with a pool, but I'm wearing my canvas boat shoes as I type; I determined these to be a year-round item, as well, as long as they're not summer white. I can imagine myself looking quite handsome this winter wearing wool socks with the blue canvas shoes and my navy wool duffel coat; should I spend some time at my beloved Wrightsville in the winter months, I shall wear just that, along with a heavy cotton or ragg wool sweater.
I've at least had a tantalizing taste of autumn weather here and there. As I said, we've had a few chilly mornings here, calling for the Barbour jacket to come back into service after languishing for 4 or 5 months on a hanger. My wool fedoras have seen daylight again, as well. This past weekend I visited family and in-laws, resplendent in one of my new checked shirts from my preferred clothier and outfitter, L.L. Bean. Made of soft twill, it looks relaxed but still polished, perfect for weekends in the city as well as visits to country houses, pairing just as smartly with a tweed sportcoat as with a navy blazer. Upon my return home that evening, it was cool enough that I could layer my soft flannel tartan shirt over a waffle knit shirt before settling in to catch up with the DVR. I am excited to try out my newly-acquired pair of 16" Maine Hunting Shoes from L.L. Bean next time I take the dog for a stroll in my town's big wooded park, but first I really should procure some sort of canvas or twill trousers suitable for knocking around outdoors. Cotton chinos won't do, and denim dungarees are reserved for wear around the house (when not entertaining guests) and potentially dirty or dusty manual labor. I have had a few opportunities to show off my rugby shirts on informal occasions such as afternoons at the cinema or grocery runs, as well as around the office as a more relaxed alternative to my oxford cloth shirts. I'm anxious for it to get chilly enough to use my chunky cotton sweaters and even my wool duffel coat. As soon as I get paid this week, I'm going on yet another little L.L. Bean shopping spree, this time for more shoes and some proper pants for those walks at the country park.
I am, for the first time in years, looking forward to fall. In years past I would dread the waning daylight and the cold mornings, but this year my overall attitude is much more positive. I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that I'll be driving home every day at dusk in my dear old 4runner instead of that damned sedan I had for 3 years, plus I'm sticking with my daily fish oil supplement, which has done wonders for my mood and outlook. I also take a slower route home through a charming neighborhood similar to the one where I spent my childhood, instead of zipping through the hurly-burly of the main drag. Upon my arrival at home after work, unless I plan on lifting weights, I prepare a cocktail at the bookcase bar and change into a pair of comfy jeans and a soft waffle-knit shirt to keep out the evening chill. I'm so ready for those long evenings nestled in my cozy living room, from which I'll briefly emerge now and then just to fill my lungs with cool air and take in the aroma of dry leaves and wood smoke wafting on the night breeze.
Ah, autumn in North Carolina, where we venture out in polo shirts and still break a sweat in the middle of the afternoon in late September.
Remember my wistful, rose-colored post about transitioning to the fall wardrobe? The official start of autumn came to pass this past Saturday, and yet I'm sitting here wearing a polo shirt with slightly damp armpits. Autumn weather in the Piedmont is as unpredictable as Blair Warner's waistline. On Monday morning I came to work wearing a polar fleece jacket, and today I'm sweating in a polo shirt. I had to make some adjustments to the strict wardrobe transition strategy I mapped out in my last post to accommodate my native state's relatively warm, sticky Septembers. The seersucker shirts are off-limits, but the polo shirts turned out to be necessary; I compromised by putting away the lighter, brighter shirts and kept the warmer-toned shirts out for autumn. While the nautical motif belts went away for the season, I decided that the striped web belts are acceptable for year-round use, particularly if one is spending time at the beach in the off-season. My leather flip-flops will remain in storage until the next time I stay in a hotel with a pool, but I'm wearing my canvas boat shoes as I type; I determined these to be a year-round item, as well, as long as they're not summer white. I can imagine myself looking quite handsome this winter wearing wool socks with the blue canvas shoes and my navy wool duffel coat; should I spend some time at my beloved Wrightsville in the winter months, I shall wear just that, along with a heavy cotton or ragg wool sweater.
I've at least had a tantalizing taste of autumn weather here and there. As I said, we've had a few chilly mornings here, calling for the Barbour jacket to come back into service after languishing for 4 or 5 months on a hanger. My wool fedoras have seen daylight again, as well. This past weekend I visited family and in-laws, resplendent in one of my new checked shirts from my preferred clothier and outfitter, L.L. Bean. Made of soft twill, it looks relaxed but still polished, perfect for weekends in the city as well as visits to country houses, pairing just as smartly with a tweed sportcoat as with a navy blazer. Upon my return home that evening, it was cool enough that I could layer my soft flannel tartan shirt over a waffle knit shirt before settling in to catch up with the DVR. I am excited to try out my newly-acquired pair of 16" Maine Hunting Shoes from L.L. Bean next time I take the dog for a stroll in my town's big wooded park, but first I really should procure some sort of canvas or twill trousers suitable for knocking around outdoors. Cotton chinos won't do, and denim dungarees are reserved for wear around the house (when not entertaining guests) and potentially dirty or dusty manual labor. I have had a few opportunities to show off my rugby shirts on informal occasions such as afternoons at the cinema or grocery runs, as well as around the office as a more relaxed alternative to my oxford cloth shirts. I'm anxious for it to get chilly enough to use my chunky cotton sweaters and even my wool duffel coat. As soon as I get paid this week, I'm going on yet another little L.L. Bean shopping spree, this time for more shoes and some proper pants for those walks at the country park.
I am, for the first time in years, looking forward to fall. In years past I would dread the waning daylight and the cold mornings, but this year my overall attitude is much more positive. I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that I'll be driving home every day at dusk in my dear old 4runner instead of that damned sedan I had for 3 years, plus I'm sticking with my daily fish oil supplement, which has done wonders for my mood and outlook. I also take a slower route home through a charming neighborhood similar to the one where I spent my childhood, instead of zipping through the hurly-burly of the main drag. Upon my arrival at home after work, unless I plan on lifting weights, I prepare a cocktail at the bookcase bar and change into a pair of comfy jeans and a soft waffle-knit shirt to keep out the evening chill. I'm so ready for those long evenings nestled in my cozy living room, from which I'll briefly emerge now and then just to fill my lungs with cool air and take in the aroma of dry leaves and wood smoke wafting on the night breeze.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
The seasonal preppy transition
"For it's a long, long while
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
—from September Song by Maxwell Anderson
I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.
The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.
It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.
The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).
Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.
I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.
So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
—from September Song by Maxwell Anderson
I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.
The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.
It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.
The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).
Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.
I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.
So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.
Friday, June 15, 2012
What's my age again?
Getting old blows. I've watched my older brother wrinkle and sag, largely due to the stress of his ongoing divorce. I've watched my grandparents-in-law gradually deteriorate. The ravages of sun damage are even beginning to take their toll on my wife's beautiful skin. Although we're all programmed to get old, sooner or later, thanks to those god-damned genetic time-bombs known as telomeres, I'm working now on being in the "later" category.
Considering how much I wasted a good deal of what should have been my most vital years (ages 15-25) being a good student, not getting into trouble, and not getting laid, my demented psyche has determined that I can recapture my lost youth by maintaining the appearance of a late-20-something. During some downtime in my cubicle, I did a great deal of research on the inter-webs all about aging: why skin sags, how cells slow down their regeneration, free radical damage, blah-blah-blah. I tried my best to filter out the old wives' tales, pseudoscience, shaky anecdotal evidence, and sales pitches thinly disguised as success stories written by snake-oil hucksters, and base my anti-aging approach on well-researched and time-tested techniques.
My approach begins with nutrition. When researching what keeps skin young and firm, I read all about the makeup and regeneration of collagen and elastin. Since collagen is comprised of proteins synthesized in the body from lysine and proline, using vitamin C as a catalyst, I knew I needed to get enough protein and also plenty of vitamin C, so I've begun eating either protein supplements or lean animal protein such as fish or chicken every day, as well as taking a vitamin C supplement. Vitamin A is also important for regenerating skin tissue, so I take a supplement every other day (care must be taken not to overdose on carotenoids). Coenzyme Q-10 (CoQ10) also promotes collagen and elastin production, so I take a CoQ10 supplement every day. As the body ages, it begins to produce more collagenase than collagen, which breaks the peptide bonds in collagen; certain phytochemicals such as anthocyanins and catechins, found in dark berries and green tea, are known to inhibit collagenase production, so I make sure to consume some form of dark berry fruit every day, as well as a cup of hot green tea. Copper has been linked to wrinkle repair, so I take a daily men's multivitamin containing copper. Part of skin's healthy appearance is owed to an abundance of moisture, so I make an effort to consume generous quantities of water every day (which also gives me plenty of chances to get up from my desk during the work day). I'm not stopping at looking young; I'm also going for a young, energetic, healthy overall feeling. I'm attempting to eat a healthier diet in order to protect my heart and the rest of my body. I abstain from refined sugar, which is just plain toxic, and consume oatmeal nearly every morning for its poop-enducing fiber and artery-unclogging beta-glucans. I try to keep saturated fats to a minimum so I don't pack on unnecessary pounds. As suggested by my shrink, I even started taking fish oil supplements. I've also begun exercising fairly regularly (my wife's recent knee injury has made it more difficult for me to get motivated to work out).
Further preventive measures involve daily skin maintenance. I settled on using a moisturizer containing retinol twice a day, as its usefulness in protecting the skin is well-documented. I also use a mild exfoliating skin cleanser twice a day, to remove some of my dead skin cells and bring new skin to the surface. For good measure, I'll top it off with a smearing of emu oil, a biological moisturizer that seals off the skin.
While I can't reasonably expect all this effort to make me look 25 forever, I think I can at least expect to look 5-10 years younger at any time, and also feel even younger than that on the inside. I have to say, for the past couple of weeks, I really have felt less depressed, more content with my life, and even more energetic and less exhausted in the mornings. My stupid knees still make noise despite my constant intake of glucosamine & chondroitin.
For me, part of feeling young is revisiting the things I enjoyed when I was younger. I recently sort of rediscovered CDs. Remember how douchey vinyl enthusiast geeks proliferated as CDs took over as the primary storage form of music? I find myself becoming a CD enthusiast in the age of touch-screen MP3 players. Now I'm no musical Luddite; I carry my entire music library in my pocket on my iPhone. But lately, I rediscovered the pleasures of the tactile experience of pulling a CD out of its shiny jewel case decorated with album art, sliding it into a CD player, and listening to it hiss as it spun around getting up to the proper speed. Last week, I even paid a visit to a used CD store to pick up a few classic albums from the '90s, to help me get into that youthful spirit. I picked up Blink 182's Enema of the State (containing a popular track which inspired the title of this blog entry), Green Day's Dookie, and Matchbox Twenty's Yourself or Someone Like You. I slide them into the factory CD player on my 2001 Toyota and I'm transported to that glorious time, the turn of the 21st century, and suddenly I'm 20 years old again. Recently, I even tracked down the same model CD player I had installed in my first car. The dream is that one day I'll have a duplicate of my '89 Volvo sedan in which to install it. Play it again, Kenwood.
Considering how much I wasted a good deal of what should have been my most vital years (ages 15-25) being a good student, not getting into trouble, and not getting laid, my demented psyche has determined that I can recapture my lost youth by maintaining the appearance of a late-20-something. During some downtime in my cubicle, I did a great deal of research on the inter-webs all about aging: why skin sags, how cells slow down their regeneration, free radical damage, blah-blah-blah. I tried my best to filter out the old wives' tales, pseudoscience, shaky anecdotal evidence, and sales pitches thinly disguised as success stories written by snake-oil hucksters, and base my anti-aging approach on well-researched and time-tested techniques.
My approach begins with nutrition. When researching what keeps skin young and firm, I read all about the makeup and regeneration of collagen and elastin. Since collagen is comprised of proteins synthesized in the body from lysine and proline, using vitamin C as a catalyst, I knew I needed to get enough protein and also plenty of vitamin C, so I've begun eating either protein supplements or lean animal protein such as fish or chicken every day, as well as taking a vitamin C supplement. Vitamin A is also important for regenerating skin tissue, so I take a supplement every other day (care must be taken not to overdose on carotenoids). Coenzyme Q-10 (CoQ10) also promotes collagen and elastin production, so I take a CoQ10 supplement every day. As the body ages, it begins to produce more collagenase than collagen, which breaks the peptide bonds in collagen; certain phytochemicals such as anthocyanins and catechins, found in dark berries and green tea, are known to inhibit collagenase production, so I make sure to consume some form of dark berry fruit every day, as well as a cup of hot green tea. Copper has been linked to wrinkle repair, so I take a daily men's multivitamin containing copper. Part of skin's healthy appearance is owed to an abundance of moisture, so I make an effort to consume generous quantities of water every day (which also gives me plenty of chances to get up from my desk during the work day). I'm not stopping at looking young; I'm also going for a young, energetic, healthy overall feeling. I'm attempting to eat a healthier diet in order to protect my heart and the rest of my body. I abstain from refined sugar, which is just plain toxic, and consume oatmeal nearly every morning for its poop-enducing fiber and artery-unclogging beta-glucans. I try to keep saturated fats to a minimum so I don't pack on unnecessary pounds. As suggested by my shrink, I even started taking fish oil supplements. I've also begun exercising fairly regularly (my wife's recent knee injury has made it more difficult for me to get motivated to work out).
Further preventive measures involve daily skin maintenance. I settled on using a moisturizer containing retinol twice a day, as its usefulness in protecting the skin is well-documented. I also use a mild exfoliating skin cleanser twice a day, to remove some of my dead skin cells and bring new skin to the surface. For good measure, I'll top it off with a smearing of emu oil, a biological moisturizer that seals off the skin.
While I can't reasonably expect all this effort to make me look 25 forever, I think I can at least expect to look 5-10 years younger at any time, and also feel even younger than that on the inside. I have to say, for the past couple of weeks, I really have felt less depressed, more content with my life, and even more energetic and less exhausted in the mornings. My stupid knees still make noise despite my constant intake of glucosamine & chondroitin.
For me, part of feeling young is revisiting the things I enjoyed when I was younger. I recently sort of rediscovered CDs. Remember how douchey vinyl enthusiast geeks proliferated as CDs took over as the primary storage form of music? I find myself becoming a CD enthusiast in the age of touch-screen MP3 players. Now I'm no musical Luddite; I carry my entire music library in my pocket on my iPhone. But lately, I rediscovered the pleasures of the tactile experience of pulling a CD out of its shiny jewel case decorated with album art, sliding it into a CD player, and listening to it hiss as it spun around getting up to the proper speed. Last week, I even paid a visit to a used CD store to pick up a few classic albums from the '90s, to help me get into that youthful spirit. I picked up Blink 182's Enema of the State (containing a popular track which inspired the title of this blog entry), Green Day's Dookie, and Matchbox Twenty's Yourself or Someone Like You. I slide them into the factory CD player on my 2001 Toyota and I'm transported to that glorious time, the turn of the 21st century, and suddenly I'm 20 years old again. Recently, I even tracked down the same model CD player I had installed in my first car. The dream is that one day I'll have a duplicate of my '89 Volvo sedan in which to install it. Play it again, Kenwood.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
A-WASPing we will go
Once more, it has been far too long since my last entry. I've been quite busy in the ol' cubicle recently. Seems like everyone around here needs something and needs it fast. I've been putting in full 7-and-a-half-hour days the last couple of weeks! I'm about to drop!
I'll start with an update on a recent, fortuitous turn of events: the acquisition of a new used car, and the permanent removal from my sight of the bane of my existence, the Crown Victoria. One day in late March, my bride received a call from her grandparents, saying they wanted to buy her a car. Just like that. This was completely unexpected -- we hadn't asked for a car or even dropped hints. That very weekend, we went to Carmax and found our ideal ride -- a late-model Toyota Highlander. While it wasn't the preppy Volvo XC-90 SUV that I had hoped for for my bride, it was still a major upgrade from the aging 4runner, which I was delighted to have for my primary vehicle once again. I hung onto the Crown Vic for a little while, not sure what do do with it, and when the registration renewal finally came due, I decided just to see what Carmax would give me for it. I received an insulting offer, but took the money and ran, glad, in the end, to be rid of that albatross once and for all. No longer do I stand out in traffic like a chimp on a unicycle. I move along completely unnoticed, in a vehicle perfectly suited for my persona: the douchey preppy.
Speaking of preppies, you may recall a series of writings on this silly blog all about preppies and what makes them tick, if they tick at all. Further research into the subculture compels me to make a certain distinction, albeit a blurry, murky distinction with few clear boundaries, between preppies and a similar culture within their culture, identified by an acronym summing up its proud, mildly inbred roots: White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, or WASPs.
A culture within a culture, WASPs bear many similarities to preppies, such as affluence and an interest in refinement and good manners, yet there are a few characteristics that set them apart. I'll do my best to clarify some of these distinctions.
Religion. By virtue of the P in WASP, WASPs are protestant, but it doesn't quite stop there. While all preppies are affiliated with Christian denominations that reject papal authority, WASPs are exclusively Anglican or Episcopalian. Baptists tend to be too preachy and fundamentalist for the WASPy disinclination toward controversy, and their contempt for alcohol and dancing conflicts with WASPs' love of drunkenly gyrating to beach music at weddings. Methodists, meanwhile, are so bland and repressed that they bore WASPs to tears. WASPs don't take their faith terribly seriously, mainly using their churches as a social center where they can keep up with acquaintances they never see elsewhere, show off their expensive blazers, get together for dinners where wine flows freely, and make sure their children make lifelong friends with other WASP children, beginning in their church's private preschool.
Education. Most preppies encourage their children to excel in academics, but know to stop pressuring them if they just don't show a natural aptitude in certain subjects, knowing they can at least get into UNC-Pembroke after high school. WASPs, meanwhile, have zero tolerance for anything short of outstanding when it comes to grades and GPAs. Now, with advanced placement courses so commonplace, even a 4.0 GPA is regarded by some WASPs as coasting.
Athletics. Preppies and WASPs value athletic prowess equally, but preppies enjoy a little more variety than stodgy WASPs. Preppies and WASPs alike partake of golf, tennis, soccer, skiing, lacrosse, and swimming, but a WASP would be highly unlikely to share a preppy's interest in baseball or bowling. There's a little overlap regarding basketball; while preppies like both to play and watch, WASPs will watch their alma mater but only play if they are freakishly tall and have a good shot at joining the team at their parents' college. Basically if it's not European, doesn't require expensive equipment, or is too popular among the middle class, WASPs aren't interested.
Tradition. Both preppies and WASPs revere the practices of their forbears, but preppies feel more comfortable with taking a little creative license when it comes to how they carry on these traditions. A preppy would take cheeky pleasure in, say, stringing up Corona beer bottle lights on the Christmas tree in the family room, as long as nearly all other decorations are strictly traditional. A WASP would find no humor in deviating from the way it's always been done.
Englishness. Preppies are largely of English descent, but feel no shame if their bloodlines are muddled with ancestors from Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Scandinavia, and France, and even dabble in traditions from cultures with which they have no affiliation. Preppies view Cinco de Mayo as a great excuse to chug margaritas, and those of Scottish descent love to put on a kilt and get together with other grown men in skirts. I know I will rattle a few WASPy cages this fall when I attend a friend's wedding dressed in Scottish formal attire instead of a bland dinner jacket. WASPs, on the other hand, will positively shit a brick if something isn't done exactly as the monarch of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would do it.
Transportation. Buying cars new or nearly new and keeping them going for at least a decade is a trait held in common by preppies and WASPs, but the choice of vehicle makes a difference in distinguishing the preppy from the WASP. Preppies will pore over Consumer Reports, looking for the model that stands the best chance of still being in good shape ten years from now without needing constant maintenance and repairs. This is why you rarely see a preppy driving an American sedan, but so many will drive Ford and Chevy SUVs. Like everyone else, some preppies can't get over their need to be seen as successful, and while the nation of origin makes little difference to them, many will opt for the more expensive badges such as Lexus, Infiniti, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Acura, when a Toyota or Honda would have been just as reliable. For WASPs, on the other hand, it's Europe or bust. Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Land Rover/Range Rover, and Volvo are the chariots of choice for the WASP. American is out of the question, and while Japanese is not terribly popular, either, some WASPs grudgingly accept Lexus as on-par with Mercedes-Benz, but you'll never see a WASP tootling about in a Camry.
I'll start with an update on a recent, fortuitous turn of events: the acquisition of a new used car, and the permanent removal from my sight of the bane of my existence, the Crown Victoria. One day in late March, my bride received a call from her grandparents, saying they wanted to buy her a car. Just like that. This was completely unexpected -- we hadn't asked for a car or even dropped hints. That very weekend, we went to Carmax and found our ideal ride -- a late-model Toyota Highlander. While it wasn't the preppy Volvo XC-90 SUV that I had hoped for for my bride, it was still a major upgrade from the aging 4runner, which I was delighted to have for my primary vehicle once again. I hung onto the Crown Vic for a little while, not sure what do do with it, and when the registration renewal finally came due, I decided just to see what Carmax would give me for it. I received an insulting offer, but took the money and ran, glad, in the end, to be rid of that albatross once and for all. No longer do I stand out in traffic like a chimp on a unicycle. I move along completely unnoticed, in a vehicle perfectly suited for my persona: the douchey preppy.
Speaking of preppies, you may recall a series of writings on this silly blog all about preppies and what makes them tick, if they tick at all. Further research into the subculture compels me to make a certain distinction, albeit a blurry, murky distinction with few clear boundaries, between preppies and a similar culture within their culture, identified by an acronym summing up its proud, mildly inbred roots: White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, or WASPs.
A culture within a culture, WASPs bear many similarities to preppies, such as affluence and an interest in refinement and good manners, yet there are a few characteristics that set them apart. I'll do my best to clarify some of these distinctions.
Religion. By virtue of the P in WASP, WASPs are protestant, but it doesn't quite stop there. While all preppies are affiliated with Christian denominations that reject papal authority, WASPs are exclusively Anglican or Episcopalian. Baptists tend to be too preachy and fundamentalist for the WASPy disinclination toward controversy, and their contempt for alcohol and dancing conflicts with WASPs' love of drunkenly gyrating to beach music at weddings. Methodists, meanwhile, are so bland and repressed that they bore WASPs to tears. WASPs don't take their faith terribly seriously, mainly using their churches as a social center where they can keep up with acquaintances they never see elsewhere, show off their expensive blazers, get together for dinners where wine flows freely, and make sure their children make lifelong friends with other WASP children, beginning in their church's private preschool.
Education. Most preppies encourage their children to excel in academics, but know to stop pressuring them if they just don't show a natural aptitude in certain subjects, knowing they can at least get into UNC-Pembroke after high school. WASPs, meanwhile, have zero tolerance for anything short of outstanding when it comes to grades and GPAs. Now, with advanced placement courses so commonplace, even a 4.0 GPA is regarded by some WASPs as coasting.
Athletics. Preppies and WASPs value athletic prowess equally, but preppies enjoy a little more variety than stodgy WASPs. Preppies and WASPs alike partake of golf, tennis, soccer, skiing, lacrosse, and swimming, but a WASP would be highly unlikely to share a preppy's interest in baseball or bowling. There's a little overlap regarding basketball; while preppies like both to play and watch, WASPs will watch their alma mater but only play if they are freakishly tall and have a good shot at joining the team at their parents' college. Basically if it's not European, doesn't require expensive equipment, or is too popular among the middle class, WASPs aren't interested.
Tradition. Both preppies and WASPs revere the practices of their forbears, but preppies feel more comfortable with taking a little creative license when it comes to how they carry on these traditions. A preppy would take cheeky pleasure in, say, stringing up Corona beer bottle lights on the Christmas tree in the family room, as long as nearly all other decorations are strictly traditional. A WASP would find no humor in deviating from the way it's always been done.
Englishness. Preppies are largely of English descent, but feel no shame if their bloodlines are muddled with ancestors from Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Scandinavia, and France, and even dabble in traditions from cultures with which they have no affiliation. Preppies view Cinco de Mayo as a great excuse to chug margaritas, and those of Scottish descent love to put on a kilt and get together with other grown men in skirts. I know I will rattle a few WASPy cages this fall when I attend a friend's wedding dressed in Scottish formal attire instead of a bland dinner jacket. WASPs, on the other hand, will positively shit a brick if something isn't done exactly as the monarch of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland would do it.
Transportation. Buying cars new or nearly new and keeping them going for at least a decade is a trait held in common by preppies and WASPs, but the choice of vehicle makes a difference in distinguishing the preppy from the WASP. Preppies will pore over Consumer Reports, looking for the model that stands the best chance of still being in good shape ten years from now without needing constant maintenance and repairs. This is why you rarely see a preppy driving an American sedan, but so many will drive Ford and Chevy SUVs. Like everyone else, some preppies can't get over their need to be seen as successful, and while the nation of origin makes little difference to them, many will opt for the more expensive badges such as Lexus, Infiniti, BMW, Mercedes-Benz, and Acura, when a Toyota or Honda would have been just as reliable. For WASPs, on the other hand, it's Europe or bust. Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Land Rover/Range Rover, and Volvo are the chariots of choice for the WASP. American is out of the question, and while Japanese is not terribly popular, either, some WASPs grudgingly accept Lexus as on-par with Mercedes-Benz, but you'll never see a WASP tootling about in a Camry.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Belly up to the Bookcase; Retro Kitchen
To some, a home is merely a structure where you sleep, shower, shit, and shave. To me, it's a refuge, a space where you can hide away from the worries of the world, and the nest should be feathered with as many little luxuries and comforts as one can afford. As far back as I can remember, I always thought a hallmark of home luxury was the home beverage bar. I never lived in a home that had one; at most, we had a table with a few bottles of liquor, mixers, and glasses. I remember visiting the homes of people who had something more built-in, sometimes with running water and/or a mini fridge, and thought how marvelous it would be to have something like that in my own home one day.
I attempted a beverage bar of sorts when I still lived with my parents. Having taken over my elder brother's bedroom as my own office, I had an entire closet at my disposal. I obtained a plywood board about 18 inches deep, covered it with matte black shelf liner, and installed it as a counter surface using shelf brackets. The already-present upper shelf was a good place to mount a stemware rack and hooks for beer mugs. From the downstairs utility room I unearthed my sister's old dorm fridge, which went under the counter. I wanted a mirrored backdrop of some sort, and settled on a $5 12"x48" mirror from Wal-Mart. It was crude and makeshift, and didn't even have any alcoholic beverages, since I hadn't yet discovered the pleasures of imbibing the devil's brew, but damn it, I had a bar! I stored soft drinks in the fridge and served them in stemware to friends. Eventually I grew tired of it, since I honestly wasn't really using it much, and dismantled it in favor of storing my archives.
So not too long ago, I studied an underutilized built-in bookcase in my present living room and decided it would be an ideal spot for serving spirituous beverages to guests, or just making myself a cocktail after another shift in the cubicle. Different ideas swirled around in my head, but I knew that ultimately it needed to function as a one-stop beverage service station. Running water was out of the question since my humble home rests atop a concrete slab foundation, but I could still lend a touch of luxury to my living room with shelves laden with liquor, mixers, and glistening glassware. Every truly fine home bar I've seen has a mirrored backing to bounce back the light from the room and make the glassware sparkle. My first sad attempt at replicating this effect on a budget was to purchase mirrored tiles from that cesspool of human misery known as Wal-Mart and affix them to the back of the bookcase with mounting tape. Right out of the box they gave me problems, as they had been hacked up by simple-minded Indonesian child laborers who had no respect for 90-degree angles, leading to unsightly gaps between the tiles where they didn't perfectly align. I pressed ahead anyway, procuring new shelves cut an inch shallower to accommodate the mirrors and painting them gloss white myself. With everything in place, I stocked the shelves with martini glasses, 6 crystal rocks glasses that I had procured at an Eckerd's in 1998 for $5, our liquor collection, an ice bucket, and a couple bottles of club soda and tonic water. It wasn't long before the cheap mounting tape behind the even cheaper tiles started to give out, and tiles would slowly slide at a glacial pace down the wall, forming interesting geometric patterns. One day I'd had enough of looking at this embarrassing spectacle, and on an impulse I Googled "36 48 mirror." And Lo! The angel of the Google appeared and said "fear not, for I bring tidings of affordable hardware. For available to us this day in the store of Lowes is a mirror, which is $41.99." The next day I purchased my beautiful 36" x 48" solid mirror, scraped off the retarded old Wal-Mart tiles, and mounted it in place. The following week I went out to look for anything that could be of use in making the bar more splendiferous. I purchased some sturdy but attractive rocks glasses, shot glasses, little glass bowls for garnishes such as olives and cherries, toothpicks, and salt & pepper shakers. Then it was off to the food-jobber for cute little cans of tomato juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and soft drinks, as well as the little glass bottles of tonic water, club soda, and ginger ale, and for a final irresistible flourish, Coca-Cola and Diet Coke in glass bottles. The bookcase bar is absolutely resplendent! Every evening I look forward to coming home and whipping up a cocktail or martini in my living room before a session of mind-rotting celebrity gossip shows.
Not too long ago, I received in the mail a catalog from Crate & Barrel. While lazily leafing through pages of clean lines and uncluttered settings, I came across a photo showcasing various food storage options, all within the interior of a refrigerator. Foods and juices were kept in sparkling glass containers and jugs, without garish product labels or slick, shiny, soulless plastic to offend the eye. This is how food used to be kept in cold closets of yesteryear—leftovers stored in sturdy lidded glass dishes, their patterns of ridges diffusing light into a rippled pattern of color; milk kept in glass bottles without labels cluttered up with government-mandated information that no one reads; juices in ribbed glass jugs, showing off their vibrant oranges and reds; and meats and cheeses wrapped in translucent wax paper or crisp brown butcher paper, waiting to offer a pleasant tactile experience as the consumer unfolds the crinkly paper instead of unzipping a slick plastic bag damp with condensation. The photo brought to mind the kitchen fridge in the kid's house in Empire of the Sun. Whenever I watch it I like to pause the DVD and examine the contents: glass bottles of milk, fresh fruit not in plastic bags, and wedges of cheese on plates with glass domes. Housewives in the '30s and '40s really had something when it came to cold food storage. Maybe they would have given their high heels to have zip-top plastic bags and plastic milk jugs, but I'm ready to give up the bland sterility of Rubbermaid containers and tiresome twist-tie bread bags for something with a little more style and substance. I shall gradually convert my refrigerator's interior into a trip down kitchen memory lane. My first step forward has been to go to the source of my inspiration, Crate & Barrel, and view their food storage options. Huzzah! Their lidded glass containers were on super-sale! I have an assortment on order as I type. I also plan on repackaging things such as cheeses and deli meats in wax paper and brown kraft paper. I've long been a fan of the retro appeal of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and know fully well the pleasure of unwrapping a treat instead of sliding it out of a sterile plastic sack. I read one tip online that bread can be wrapped in wax paper and then in a flour sack towel, so tonight I'll see about getting some flour sack towels at a dollar store and trying it out. At worst I'll be out a couple dollars and half a loaf of bread. Also at C&B I found some white porcelain egg storage trays as a beautiful alternative to crunchy, squeaky styrofoam egg crates. I was also happy to find a ceramic lidded jar, which, being fully light-tight, should prove an elegant container for my whey protein powder (a light-sensitive product). In the future, I'll purchase some lidded glass jars for breakfast cereal and oatmeal, and glass jugs for milk and juice.
I attempted a beverage bar of sorts when I still lived with my parents. Having taken over my elder brother's bedroom as my own office, I had an entire closet at my disposal. I obtained a plywood board about 18 inches deep, covered it with matte black shelf liner, and installed it as a counter surface using shelf brackets. The already-present upper shelf was a good place to mount a stemware rack and hooks for beer mugs. From the downstairs utility room I unearthed my sister's old dorm fridge, which went under the counter. I wanted a mirrored backdrop of some sort, and settled on a $5 12"x48" mirror from Wal-Mart. It was crude and makeshift, and didn't even have any alcoholic beverages, since I hadn't yet discovered the pleasures of imbibing the devil's brew, but damn it, I had a bar! I stored soft drinks in the fridge and served them in stemware to friends. Eventually I grew tired of it, since I honestly wasn't really using it much, and dismantled it in favor of storing my archives.
So not too long ago, I studied an underutilized built-in bookcase in my present living room and decided it would be an ideal spot for serving spirituous beverages to guests, or just making myself a cocktail after another shift in the cubicle. Different ideas swirled around in my head, but I knew that ultimately it needed to function as a one-stop beverage service station. Running water was out of the question since my humble home rests atop a concrete slab foundation, but I could still lend a touch of luxury to my living room with shelves laden with liquor, mixers, and glistening glassware. Every truly fine home bar I've seen has a mirrored backing to bounce back the light from the room and make the glassware sparkle. My first sad attempt at replicating this effect on a budget was to purchase mirrored tiles from that cesspool of human misery known as Wal-Mart and affix them to the back of the bookcase with mounting tape. Right out of the box they gave me problems, as they had been hacked up by simple-minded Indonesian child laborers who had no respect for 90-degree angles, leading to unsightly gaps between the tiles where they didn't perfectly align. I pressed ahead anyway, procuring new shelves cut an inch shallower to accommodate the mirrors and painting them gloss white myself. With everything in place, I stocked the shelves with martini glasses, 6 crystal rocks glasses that I had procured at an Eckerd's in 1998 for $5, our liquor collection, an ice bucket, and a couple bottles of club soda and tonic water. It wasn't long before the cheap mounting tape behind the even cheaper tiles started to give out, and tiles would slowly slide at a glacial pace down the wall, forming interesting geometric patterns. One day I'd had enough of looking at this embarrassing spectacle, and on an impulse I Googled "36 48 mirror." And Lo! The angel of the Google appeared and said "fear not, for I bring tidings of affordable hardware. For available to us this day in the store of Lowes is a mirror, which is $41.99." The next day I purchased my beautiful 36" x 48" solid mirror, scraped off the retarded old Wal-Mart tiles, and mounted it in place. The following week I went out to look for anything that could be of use in making the bar more splendiferous. I purchased some sturdy but attractive rocks glasses, shot glasses, little glass bowls for garnishes such as olives and cherries, toothpicks, and salt & pepper shakers. Then it was off to the food-jobber for cute little cans of tomato juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and soft drinks, as well as the little glass bottles of tonic water, club soda, and ginger ale, and for a final irresistible flourish, Coca-Cola and Diet Coke in glass bottles. The bookcase bar is absolutely resplendent! Every evening I look forward to coming home and whipping up a cocktail or martini in my living room before a session of mind-rotting celebrity gossip shows.
Not too long ago, I received in the mail a catalog from Crate & Barrel. While lazily leafing through pages of clean lines and uncluttered settings, I came across a photo showcasing various food storage options, all within the interior of a refrigerator. Foods and juices were kept in sparkling glass containers and jugs, without garish product labels or slick, shiny, soulless plastic to offend the eye. This is how food used to be kept in cold closets of yesteryear—leftovers stored in sturdy lidded glass dishes, their patterns of ridges diffusing light into a rippled pattern of color; milk kept in glass bottles without labels cluttered up with government-mandated information that no one reads; juices in ribbed glass jugs, showing off their vibrant oranges and reds; and meats and cheeses wrapped in translucent wax paper or crisp brown butcher paper, waiting to offer a pleasant tactile experience as the consumer unfolds the crinkly paper instead of unzipping a slick plastic bag damp with condensation. The photo brought to mind the kitchen fridge in the kid's house in Empire of the Sun. Whenever I watch it I like to pause the DVD and examine the contents: glass bottles of milk, fresh fruit not in plastic bags, and wedges of cheese on plates with glass domes. Housewives in the '30s and '40s really had something when it came to cold food storage. Maybe they would have given their high heels to have zip-top plastic bags and plastic milk jugs, but I'm ready to give up the bland sterility of Rubbermaid containers and tiresome twist-tie bread bags for something with a little more style and substance. I shall gradually convert my refrigerator's interior into a trip down kitchen memory lane. My first step forward has been to go to the source of my inspiration, Crate & Barrel, and view their food storage options. Huzzah! Their lidded glass containers were on super-sale! I have an assortment on order as I type. I also plan on repackaging things such as cheeses and deli meats in wax paper and brown kraft paper. I've long been a fan of the retro appeal of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and know fully well the pleasure of unwrapping a treat instead of sliding it out of a sterile plastic sack. I read one tip online that bread can be wrapped in wax paper and then in a flour sack towel, so tonight I'll see about getting some flour sack towels at a dollar store and trying it out. At worst I'll be out a couple dollars and half a loaf of bread. Also at C&B I found some white porcelain egg storage trays as a beautiful alternative to crunchy, squeaky styrofoam egg crates. I was also happy to find a ceramic lidded jar, which, being fully light-tight, should prove an elegant container for my whey protein powder (a light-sensitive product). In the future, I'll purchase some lidded glass jars for breakfast cereal and oatmeal, and glass jugs for milk and juice.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The L.L. Bean orgy is winding down
True to my word, I have been amassing an impressive collection of casual toggery from respected outfitter L.L. Bean, but it's time to rein in the orgy of spending. Making an effort to shift away from stodgy old man to youthful-yet-timeless, I purchased items such as long-sleeve t-shirts to be worn under regular t-shirts, chunky rib-knit cotton sweaters, waffle-knit cotton layering shirts, plain-front chino trousers that avoid the impression of old-man front-butt, bright striped polo shirts, and washed jeans cut to fit more flatteringly than my other ones. My duffel coat is a fabulous addition to my winter outerwear; warm, good-looking, and long enough to cover my bum without getting bunched up in the car. I also gathered a few "preppy" staples such as cotton web belts (one in khaki with a blue stripe, the other in blue with a repeating pattern of sailboats), and a pair of their classic Bean Boots, which have already been quite handy in our recent wet weather. I went a little overboard with a few unnecessary accessories, such as a fleece jacket that I couldn't pass up at 20% off, as well as a steel sports bottle, a red plaid scarf that looks perfect with the navy blue duffel coat, a pair of swim trunks (an upgrade from my Old Navy ones), a nice canvas shoulder bag (man purse), two soft-sided coolers (in different sizes), and even a distressed wooden chess set as a decorative piece. It actually looks really great on our huge coffee table, and helps give off that impression of being at a family beach house. The shoulder bag will be useful for outdoor activities such as the Highland Games or beach-sitting. The big soft cooler will be great for the beach, as it has a padded shoulder strap, so it should be much easier to carry than the rigid plastic Coleman.
So far this season I've only worn one of my fedoras once, when fully dressed in coat & tie for lunch at my in-laws' country club. The rest of the time I've been quite content with my faded L.L. Bean baseball cap. For the past several years, I've been known for my fedoras, wearing them almost exclusively when the weather turned cold, but honestly, they just don't look right with the duffel coat, and the faded cap looks so much more youthful anyway. In homage to a trend among my high school classmates back in the good old '90s, so I've been wearing my t-shirts from Dockside and Sanitary Restaurant over long-sleeve t-shirts. I've also taken a shine to wearing thick flannel shirts over the waffle-knit shirts for an outdoorsy look. I think maybe, finally, I've hit on a fashion sense that works for me. Coming into the office one day last week, wearing my new faded jeans with a wide belt and a slightly douchey front-tuck, I noticed the new girl's eyes quickly glance at my junk while flashing a wide smile as she said hi. Success! I am youthful and attractive! While I'm happily married and not interested in any sort of fling, it's still nice to get that kind of attention from the ladies.
The after-Christmas orgy of consumption has to come to a close, however. I burned through my annual bonus on the clothes and a few other things, and now that the big ugly bill from the hospital has arrived, it's back to austerity for a good long while, but at least I'll be well-dressed while I'm eating my beans & rice at home on Saturday nights.
So far this season I've only worn one of my fedoras once, when fully dressed in coat & tie for lunch at my in-laws' country club. The rest of the time I've been quite content with my faded L.L. Bean baseball cap. For the past several years, I've been known for my fedoras, wearing them almost exclusively when the weather turned cold, but honestly, they just don't look right with the duffel coat, and the faded cap looks so much more youthful anyway. In homage to a trend among my high school classmates back in the good old '90s, so I've been wearing my t-shirts from Dockside and Sanitary Restaurant over long-sleeve t-shirts. I've also taken a shine to wearing thick flannel shirts over the waffle-knit shirts for an outdoorsy look. I think maybe, finally, I've hit on a fashion sense that works for me. Coming into the office one day last week, wearing my new faded jeans with a wide belt and a slightly douchey front-tuck, I noticed the new girl's eyes quickly glance at my junk while flashing a wide smile as she said hi. Success! I am youthful and attractive! While I'm happily married and not interested in any sort of fling, it's still nice to get that kind of attention from the ladies.
The after-Christmas orgy of consumption has to come to a close, however. I burned through my annual bonus on the clothes and a few other things, and now that the big ugly bill from the hospital has arrived, it's back to austerity for a good long while, but at least I'll be well-dressed while I'm eating my beans & rice at home on Saturday nights.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)