I don't know if anyone is even bothering to check this blog for updates anymore. Quite honestly, I haven't had a lot to write about.
I'll start with an update on the whole car situation. I decided to hang onto my Crown Victoria. Reason prevailed over emotion in this decision; it makes little financial sense to unload a perfectly fine automobile just because I want something else. So, to make the best of what I have, I am in the slow process of "mercurizing" my Crown Vic. So far I have procured, but not yet installed, a rear reflector panel and tail lights from a 2009 Mercury Grand Marquis via fleabay. The last part I need is a rear bumper cover, painted Silver Frost, which is surprisingly difficult to find at an affordable price. My plan to go to the local scrap yard last weekend was thwarted by adverse weather. I may end up having to spring for a custom-painted replacement part for over $300. I plan on keeping the Ford emblem, if only to avoid being stopped by a feeble-minded lawman who believes the Grand Marquis in front of him has a stolen license plate from a Crown Vic.
Just today I received the Grand Marquis tail lights I had ordered, but to my dismay found that they will require some modification, since they're made for 2 bulbs and my '98 model uses 4. Cutting 2 extra holes is far easier than rewiring, and I'm hoping I can accomplish this with tools I already own and not have to shell out 40 bucks for a Dremel tool.
I have succeeded in installing a new grille which bears a passing resemblance to a Lincoln Town Car, with its vertical chrome slats. It definitely does not have the "oh shit is that a cop?" factor of which I had grown so weary. For the time being, I have enhanced the rear end with some inexpensive chrome molding, tastefully placed around the reverse lights. The Wrightsville Beach sticker and Scottish royal standard decal signal to others that I am a gentle-man with a noble pedigree who summers in a respectable locale, and not one to be confused with undesirable individuals who bring disrepute to the vehicle.
I continue to pine away for the '90s. I recently added several playlists to my iPod, one for each of the years 1991-1999. Each list includes songs that were popular or at least new that year. So now I can pick a particular year. Do I want to go back to 1996? How about 1999? Of course if I wanted a truly authentic experience I'd go back to using CDs in my car. Someday I'd like to convert an old '90s cell phone into a bluetooth receiver. I've seen examples of similar projects online. How grand it would be to pick up a clunky old handset and hear a friend's voice!
This Thanksgiving week my wife and I will travel to her godmother's home in Virginia. I long to live her life. An heiress who has toiled not a day in her life, she spends her days driving her fine automobiles from one home to another and worries not a moment about grocery prices, medical bills, job security, or even what time she has to get up the next morning. That's what I want out of life: not so much wealth and privilege, but to be able not to worry about the future and to live on no one's terms but my own. I'd be fine living in my little townhouse for the rest of my life if I didn't have to leave it except when I wanted to. Fate did not deal me such a winning hand; I am, at least for now, doomed to stare at a computer screen all day and make money for someone else, in a world that doesn't recognize the true value of what people like me do. Oh well, at least that week I get to drive her Lexus.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
I hate stuck-up suburban moms so much
The inspiration from this post came from the atrocious parking job I witnessed as it occurred in Cameron Village yesterday. I was standing outside enjoying some complimentary frozen custard when a huge black Lexus SUV crept into a parking spot with a blatant disregard for the painted guidelines, leaving its rear passenger side corner hanging about a foot over the line. Now it doesn't bother me when an automobile is a bit crooked, which is only human, but when a portion of a vehicle protrudes beyond the painted boundary into the neighboring space, my blood begins to boil in response to the total lack of spatial ability and complete disregard for other motorists who wish to park or have already parked in adjoining spaces. And as if I weren't irritated enough already by this abomination, I then observed the offender exit the vehicle. It was a classic rich Raleigh mom with her hell-spawn in tow.
I despise these loathsome creatures so very much.
Believe me, I know the species well. This animal attends college with the goal of sinking her claws into a pre-med or pre-law student (after multiple drunken one-night-stands in her sorority house, of course), and as soon as he starts earning a six-digit salary, she quits whatever dead-end retail job she has, brow-beats him into buying a huge house, and then completes her life's ambition by popping out 2 or 3 children who essentially amount to expensive house pets, as they do nothing to contribute to the household (Lupe takes care of cleaning and Manuel does the yard work) while consuming the father's resources.
So on this particular Sunday, after implementing the weekly brainwashing known as "Sunday School," she changed into her atrocious "mom shorts" from Talbot's (the kind that reach her knees and do nothing to flatter what's left of her figure after 3 pregnancies), neatened up her $100 haircut, smeared on some makeup to disguise the premature aging resulting from her disregard for medical experts' cautions against prolonged sun exposure, threw on the jewelry her overworked, undersexed husband gave her in hopes of receiving a blowjob, and paraded her wretched little accessories in public to take up space and finger the merchandise in the shops, her ultimate goal for the afternoon being to broadcast nonverbally to the world that she has a rich husband who pays all her living expenses and bought her a $60,000 car in which she shuttles the snotty little monsters from one pointless activity to another, where they are socialized from birth with other over-privileged children while she makes mindless chatter with the other equally insipid mothers about how damn terrific it is to have a rich husband who foots the bill for their little hobby, all in an effort to keep herself busy enough that she doesn't hit the bottle out of boredom. Interestingly enough, the provider of resources was not in sight. Perhaps she'd mercifully left him alone for an hour to masturbate or just enjoy the peaceful absence of his shrill issue while drifting into a reverie about how his life would have been different if he hadn't called back that sorostitute he nailed after that mixer, who was now out shopping for a $600 stroller at Beanie & Cecil Kids.
I despise these loathsome creatures so very much.
Believe me, I know the species well. This animal attends college with the goal of sinking her claws into a pre-med or pre-law student (after multiple drunken one-night-stands in her sorority house, of course), and as soon as he starts earning a six-digit salary, she quits whatever dead-end retail job she has, brow-beats him into buying a huge house, and then completes her life's ambition by popping out 2 or 3 children who essentially amount to expensive house pets, as they do nothing to contribute to the household (Lupe takes care of cleaning and Manuel does the yard work) while consuming the father's resources.
So on this particular Sunday, after implementing the weekly brainwashing known as "Sunday School," she changed into her atrocious "mom shorts" from Talbot's (the kind that reach her knees and do nothing to flatter what's left of her figure after 3 pregnancies), neatened up her $100 haircut, smeared on some makeup to disguise the premature aging resulting from her disregard for medical experts' cautions against prolonged sun exposure, threw on the jewelry her overworked, undersexed husband gave her in hopes of receiving a blowjob, and paraded her wretched little accessories in public to take up space and finger the merchandise in the shops, her ultimate goal for the afternoon being to broadcast nonverbally to the world that she has a rich husband who pays all her living expenses and bought her a $60,000 car in which she shuttles the snotty little monsters from one pointless activity to another, where they are socialized from birth with other over-privileged children while she makes mindless chatter with the other equally insipid mothers about how damn terrific it is to have a rich husband who foots the bill for their little hobby, all in an effort to keep herself busy enough that she doesn't hit the bottle out of boredom. Interestingly enough, the provider of resources was not in sight. Perhaps she'd mercifully left him alone for an hour to masturbate or just enjoy the peaceful absence of his shrill issue while drifting into a reverie about how his life would have been different if he hadn't called back that sorostitute he nailed after that mixer, who was now out shopping for a $600 stroller at Beanie & Cecil Kids.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
In Praise of Averageness
There was a very long time during which I held a contempt for people who appeared average and nondescript. People who wore boring clothes, shopped in boring malls, drove boring automobiles, and were overall instantly forgettable filled me with disgust. I used to want to shout at them that life is too short to be boring. As an act of defiance, I wore all manner of unusual garb, purchased an unusual vehicle, listened to unusual music, and in general made every effort to stand out as a unique individual who was too good for whatever pleased the masses. What was I afraid of, or trying to accomplish, by sticking out like a sore thumb? Sometimes it felt good to rattle people's cages with outlandish attire and an ex-cop car. Maybe I was afraid I would become stupid by succumbing to the lure of the mainstream, or that my creativity and individuality would be stifled by looking like everyone else.
My personal aesthetic is taking a turn in completely the opposite direction. I've taken to wearing very traditional, classic items, such as polo shirts, slacks in muted earth tones, and button-front shirts, while clinging to my youth with a college baseball cap. Shirts and trousers by Brooks Brothers, fine wrist watches by Cyma and Baume & Mercier, nice but not exorbitantly priced footwear such as classic Sperry boat shoes, and other hallmarks of the well-to-do "preppy" set have made their way into my everyday wardrobe. Perhaps it's a means of connecting with something I was denied in my formative years. Growing up in a family with exquisite taste but limited financial means meant that while I attended the same schools as the preppy set, I didn't participate in the same extracurricular activities. The glamorous preppies would spend several weeks at Camp Seagull (the very definition of the preppy summer camp), then finished their summers at family vacation homes in quaint seaside locales such as Wrightsville and Morehead City, returning with their coveted souvenir t-shirts from Dockside, Sanitary Fish Market, and Salty Dog. I, on the other hand, went to a secluded house at Myrtle Beach, the Las Vegas of the Southeast, and went to a sweaty camp on an artificial lake in a hicktown up the highway from Raleigh.
Like I've posted before, I made the wrong choice in an auto-mobile last year, as it draws too much unwanted attention from authorities. I'm still looking for the ideal vehicle for me. I've expanded from just 4runners into the possibility of a Toyota Avalon or Camry, a 1990s Lexus LS sedan, or a Ford Explorer. It's a difficult choice. Logic would steer me toward a sedan that's economical on gas, but another part of me loves the high ride and privacy windows of an SUV. I kind of want a black 2003 Explorer ('02s had shitty transmissions) with spotlights and a push bar for an aggressive off-road look. A '90s SUV would fill me with '90s nostalgia every time I get behind the wheel and crank up the Barenaked Ladies hits. Unfortunately, '90s gas prices will likely never return. Whatever car I purchase must complement my new blend-in-with-the-scenery aesthetic, the goal being to look decent and respectable but forgettable.
I'm coming to understand the advantage of modes of dress and outward appearance that blend in with the scenery. There's a measure of comfort and safety to be found in camouflaging oneself. No one looks twice, makes comments, or suspects malice. As soon as they see you, they've forgotten you. In a way, I feel empowered by my anonymity, for if I ever had criminal intentions, from shoplifting to carrying a concealed weapon, I wouldn't draw the slightest suspicion. The only looks of contempt come from the emo-types who hang around outside Barnes & Noble despising so-called "conformists" while they wait for their moms to pick them up in their minivans. No matter, the respect of a person who gets no respect himself is meaningless to me.
My personal aesthetic is taking a turn in completely the opposite direction. I've taken to wearing very traditional, classic items, such as polo shirts, slacks in muted earth tones, and button-front shirts, while clinging to my youth with a college baseball cap. Shirts and trousers by Brooks Brothers, fine wrist watches by Cyma and Baume & Mercier, nice but not exorbitantly priced footwear such as classic Sperry boat shoes, and other hallmarks of the well-to-do "preppy" set have made their way into my everyday wardrobe. Perhaps it's a means of connecting with something I was denied in my formative years. Growing up in a family with exquisite taste but limited financial means meant that while I attended the same schools as the preppy set, I didn't participate in the same extracurricular activities. The glamorous preppies would spend several weeks at Camp Seagull (the very definition of the preppy summer camp), then finished their summers at family vacation homes in quaint seaside locales such as Wrightsville and Morehead City, returning with their coveted souvenir t-shirts from Dockside, Sanitary Fish Market, and Salty Dog. I, on the other hand, went to a secluded house at Myrtle Beach, the Las Vegas of the Southeast, and went to a sweaty camp on an artificial lake in a hicktown up the highway from Raleigh.
Like I've posted before, I made the wrong choice in an auto-mobile last year, as it draws too much unwanted attention from authorities. I'm still looking for the ideal vehicle for me. I've expanded from just 4runners into the possibility of a Toyota Avalon or Camry, a 1990s Lexus LS sedan, or a Ford Explorer. It's a difficult choice. Logic would steer me toward a sedan that's economical on gas, but another part of me loves the high ride and privacy windows of an SUV. I kind of want a black 2003 Explorer ('02s had shitty transmissions) with spotlights and a push bar for an aggressive off-road look. A '90s SUV would fill me with '90s nostalgia every time I get behind the wheel and crank up the Barenaked Ladies hits. Unfortunately, '90s gas prices will likely never return. Whatever car I purchase must complement my new blend-in-with-the-scenery aesthetic, the goal being to look decent and respectable but forgettable.
I'm coming to understand the advantage of modes of dress and outward appearance that blend in with the scenery. There's a measure of comfort and safety to be found in camouflaging oneself. No one looks twice, makes comments, or suspects malice. As soon as they see you, they've forgotten you. In a way, I feel empowered by my anonymity, for if I ever had criminal intentions, from shoplifting to carrying a concealed weapon, I wouldn't draw the slightest suspicion. The only looks of contempt come from the emo-types who hang around outside Barnes & Noble despising so-called "conformists" while they wait for their moms to pick them up in their minivans. No matter, the respect of a person who gets no respect himself is meaningless to me.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The world I knew is slowly disappearing
My elementary school was torn down this summer.
In its place will be erected a monstrosity of an institution, designed to house thousands of youngsters, many of whom are the offspring of transplanted yankees, invading my beloved Raleigh and spreading their demon seed. It will bear the same name, but it will never be the same school.
I have so many cherished memories of that place. Mind you, the old building wasn't much to look at, either, a shining example of bland 1950s suburban school architecture, but it had character. I made great friends there, one of whom I'm still in constant touch with 20 years later. I had excellent teachers who actually gave a shit about teaching, far different from their modern-day counterparts, who count down the days until retirement while receiving a weekly pittance to act as babysitters.
Every October, the school hosted the Fall Festival, a Halloween-themed event with games and activities. One of the trailers was converted into a haunted house, where I got scared shitless by a chainsaw-wielding zombie surgeon. The girl I had a crush on grew up to be kind of a bitch.
I remember getting dropped off right outside the trailer where my 5th grade class was—in those days the school wasn't all paranoid about security and didn't force the parents to drop their children off in one area. My 4th grade class was in a trailer as well, as the city was just beginning to feel the strain of overcrowding. It was a quaint little box, clad in corrugated metal, with a wooden access ramp. I remember one day when a freak sleet storm hit, and my friend was sliding down the ramp over and over. My 4th grade teacher was awesome. She would read aloud and do a voice for each character. She held trivia games where the class was divided into two teams. She brought in a drama coach now and then for a fun diversion. 4th grade was the best, and I got to be a 9-year-old during a time when kickass cartoon shows were in abundance and no none knew just how terrible for you sugary drinks and cereals were.
I dislike change. Change means that what I know and is familiar is going away, never to come back.
A couple months ago I drove past my old grade-school chum's house where he had lived from about 1983 until his parents sold the place last year. I had spent countless thousands of hours of my childhood and adolescence hanging out there on lazy Saturdays. The place was comfortably furnished with plush chairs and a bigass leather sofa I loved to stretch out on while watching TV. In high school and into our college years, our routine was for me to show up around 12:30 on Saturday, bum around town, go to movies, rent movies with titillating nude scenes, go to bookstores, and come back for a great supper his mom and dad had fixed. Then we'd chill out with more TV and new & exciting websites, and I'd finally drive home at midnight.
The formerly well-manicured grass is now knee-high. The house is dark, with not a stick of furniture. The cat doesn't traipse about the yard anymore. The green metal outdoor chairs are gone. The driveway sits empty. A huge chunk of my childhood has vanished.
My wife is not immune from this epidemic, either. Every house she lived in as a child has either been demolished or altered to the point of being unrecognizable. The private school she attended has been built up so much that it no longer even closely resembles what it used to look like.
Other shit that has changed around Raleigh which I dislike:
1. The redesigned Cameron Village. Removing the upper parking deck above Bailey's really fucked up my sense of direction around there for a while. And just what was so bad about the blue & white bubble domes? At least you could read the signage clearly from the street, since it was all white type set on blue, illuminated from behind. Now it's a bewildering hodgepodge of every typeface and color imaginable. Some may call it charming, I call it a fucking typographic nightmare.
2. Rite-Aid taking over Eckerd's. It was enough of a shock when Eckerd's bought out nearly all the Kerr Drug stores in the area, now this? The Rite-Aid at Cameron Village feels like a wasteland compared to the former Eckerd's. They put in glaring linoleum tile floors where sound-dampening carpet once lay. The layout of the checkout counters was rearranged, and there are far fewer displays and aisles of merchandise to excite the senses.
3. The complete ass-fucking of Hillsborough Street. Seriously, people? Traffic circles? 25mph speed limit? Fuckin'-A, man, they're ruining a quaint, historic street. Part of its character is its seedy, run-down, college-town atmosphere. Parking always sucked around there, and I don't see this project making it any better. Traffic moved just fine without a bunch of damned traffic circles. We had traffic lights and that was good enough.
4. The vanishing of Brothers Pizza. It was a venerated Hillsborough Street institution for 40-odd years. Everyone my age had at least one birthday party there as a child. The wood-paneled walls were festooned with NCSU athletic memorabilia, and they always had the city's best sweet iced tea. At least I took my wife there once, so she got to see it before it disappeared. I like the new restaurant, Melvin's, that took its place, but it's yet another part of my childhood dead and gone.
5. Teardowns and McMansions. It's a disease that spread to my parents' neighborhood a few years ago. Charming 1940s and '50s houses were deemed not big enough for soulless, gotta-have-it-all yuppies who swooped in, razed them, and erected 10,000-square-foot monstrosities that block out the sun. Well, I guess little Dylan does need a 16x20-ft playroom, and of course you can't live without a closet bigger than my bedroom. And the gourmet kitchen the size of a concert hall with 8-burner Viking stove, two convection ovens, and Subzero fridge is a must for all those home-cooked meals your alcoholic wife will never make.
One thing I actually like about modern-day Raleigh is the new North Hills mall. Sure, I'll always have a special place for the old indoor dinosaur it replaced, but I'll concede that its time on this earth had passed. The new one kicks ass. The re-opening of Fayetteville Street to automobile traffic also has my approval. The pedestrian mall was one of Raleigh's greatest blunders.
Population growth around here is getting out of control. Too many god-damned people are invading and nesting in the Old North State. Can't we just turn them away at the border like California did to the Okies? Why can't I just wave a magic wand and freeze Raleigh in the year 1999? Seriously, folks, it can't really get much better than it was before 2001. Even my wife expressed a longing for the Clinton years. I heavily disliked Bubba back then, but comparing him with his successors, I'd re-elect him tomorrow.
In its place will be erected a monstrosity of an institution, designed to house thousands of youngsters, many of whom are the offspring of transplanted yankees, invading my beloved Raleigh and spreading their demon seed. It will bear the same name, but it will never be the same school.
I have so many cherished memories of that place. Mind you, the old building wasn't much to look at, either, a shining example of bland 1950s suburban school architecture, but it had character. I made great friends there, one of whom I'm still in constant touch with 20 years later. I had excellent teachers who actually gave a shit about teaching, far different from their modern-day counterparts, who count down the days until retirement while receiving a weekly pittance to act as babysitters.
Every October, the school hosted the Fall Festival, a Halloween-themed event with games and activities. One of the trailers was converted into a haunted house, where I got scared shitless by a chainsaw-wielding zombie surgeon. The girl I had a crush on grew up to be kind of a bitch.
I remember getting dropped off right outside the trailer where my 5th grade class was—in those days the school wasn't all paranoid about security and didn't force the parents to drop their children off in one area. My 4th grade class was in a trailer as well, as the city was just beginning to feel the strain of overcrowding. It was a quaint little box, clad in corrugated metal, with a wooden access ramp. I remember one day when a freak sleet storm hit, and my friend was sliding down the ramp over and over. My 4th grade teacher was awesome. She would read aloud and do a voice for each character. She held trivia games where the class was divided into two teams. She brought in a drama coach now and then for a fun diversion. 4th grade was the best, and I got to be a 9-year-old during a time when kickass cartoon shows were in abundance and no none knew just how terrible for you sugary drinks and cereals were.
I dislike change. Change means that what I know and is familiar is going away, never to come back.
A couple months ago I drove past my old grade-school chum's house where he had lived from about 1983 until his parents sold the place last year. I had spent countless thousands of hours of my childhood and adolescence hanging out there on lazy Saturdays. The place was comfortably furnished with plush chairs and a bigass leather sofa I loved to stretch out on while watching TV. In high school and into our college years, our routine was for me to show up around 12:30 on Saturday, bum around town, go to movies, rent movies with titillating nude scenes, go to bookstores, and come back for a great supper his mom and dad had fixed. Then we'd chill out with more TV and new & exciting websites, and I'd finally drive home at midnight.
The formerly well-manicured grass is now knee-high. The house is dark, with not a stick of furniture. The cat doesn't traipse about the yard anymore. The green metal outdoor chairs are gone. The driveway sits empty. A huge chunk of my childhood has vanished.
My wife is not immune from this epidemic, either. Every house she lived in as a child has either been demolished or altered to the point of being unrecognizable. The private school she attended has been built up so much that it no longer even closely resembles what it used to look like.
Other shit that has changed around Raleigh which I dislike:
1. The redesigned Cameron Village. Removing the upper parking deck above Bailey's really fucked up my sense of direction around there for a while. And just what was so bad about the blue & white bubble domes? At least you could read the signage clearly from the street, since it was all white type set on blue, illuminated from behind. Now it's a bewildering hodgepodge of every typeface and color imaginable. Some may call it charming, I call it a fucking typographic nightmare.
2. Rite-Aid taking over Eckerd's. It was enough of a shock when Eckerd's bought out nearly all the Kerr Drug stores in the area, now this? The Rite-Aid at Cameron Village feels like a wasteland compared to the former Eckerd's. They put in glaring linoleum tile floors where sound-dampening carpet once lay. The layout of the checkout counters was rearranged, and there are far fewer displays and aisles of merchandise to excite the senses.
3. The complete ass-fucking of Hillsborough Street. Seriously, people? Traffic circles? 25mph speed limit? Fuckin'-A, man, they're ruining a quaint, historic street. Part of its character is its seedy, run-down, college-town atmosphere. Parking always sucked around there, and I don't see this project making it any better. Traffic moved just fine without a bunch of damned traffic circles. We had traffic lights and that was good enough.
4. The vanishing of Brothers Pizza. It was a venerated Hillsborough Street institution for 40-odd years. Everyone my age had at least one birthday party there as a child. The wood-paneled walls were festooned with NCSU athletic memorabilia, and they always had the city's best sweet iced tea. At least I took my wife there once, so she got to see it before it disappeared. I like the new restaurant, Melvin's, that took its place, but it's yet another part of my childhood dead and gone.
5. Teardowns and McMansions. It's a disease that spread to my parents' neighborhood a few years ago. Charming 1940s and '50s houses were deemed not big enough for soulless, gotta-have-it-all yuppies who swooped in, razed them, and erected 10,000-square-foot monstrosities that block out the sun. Well, I guess little Dylan does need a 16x20-ft playroom, and of course you can't live without a closet bigger than my bedroom. And the gourmet kitchen the size of a concert hall with 8-burner Viking stove, two convection ovens, and Subzero fridge is a must for all those home-cooked meals your alcoholic wife will never make.
One thing I actually like about modern-day Raleigh is the new North Hills mall. Sure, I'll always have a special place for the old indoor dinosaur it replaced, but I'll concede that its time on this earth had passed. The new one kicks ass. The re-opening of Fayetteville Street to automobile traffic also has my approval. The pedestrian mall was one of Raleigh's greatest blunders.
Population growth around here is getting out of control. Too many god-damned people are invading and nesting in the Old North State. Can't we just turn them away at the border like California did to the Okies? Why can't I just wave a magic wand and freeze Raleigh in the year 1999? Seriously, folks, it can't really get much better than it was before 2001. Even my wife expressed a longing for the Clinton years. I heavily disliked Bubba back then, but comparing him with his successors, I'd re-elect him tomorrow.
Friday, July 31, 2009
I am a Moxie virgin no more
I was at a Fresh Market store yesterday and while perusing the various glass-bottled beverages in the refrigerated case, I came across something I never thought I'd see outside of New England: brown glass bottles of Moxie. Talk about a holy shit moment!
Moxie has been sold as a soft drink since 1884, and before that, like many soft drinks, it was sold as a medicine. It remains popular around Maine. I always thought I'd have to order it online to try it. I've always wanted to try it, so that I may enjoy a very obscure bit of American culinary history. It's definitely unlike any other carbonated beverage I've had. It basically tastes like root beer but with an additional medicinal taste, which most likely comes from the "gentian root extract" found on the label. It tempers sweetness with a little bitterness. I can't say I would drink this very often, but I recommend that everyone try it just once, if only for the experience of it.
Moxie has been sold as a soft drink since 1884, and before that, like many soft drinks, it was sold as a medicine. It remains popular around Maine. I always thought I'd have to order it online to try it. I've always wanted to try it, so that I may enjoy a very obscure bit of American culinary history. It's definitely unlike any other carbonated beverage I've had. It basically tastes like root beer but with an additional medicinal taste, which most likely comes from the "gentian root extract" found on the label. It tempers sweetness with a little bitterness. I can't say I would drink this very often, but I recommend that everyone try it just once, if only for the experience of it.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Grail Diarrhea
I'm trying to figure out an efficient way to mass-produce my hand-drawn version of the Grail Diary from Last Crusade, in hopes of selling them on ebay as an affordable alternative to the prop-quality ones that go for hundreds of dollars, which are aged by hand and bound in leather one at a time. Even if I printed scans of the book onto aged-looking parchment paper, binding a book by hand is a pain in the ass and wouldn't make the selling price worth the effort. I looked at lulu.com but for some reason the wankers don't offer the 4.25 x 6.87 size in full color (which I would need for simulating aged-looking pages).
I'm heading back to Wrightsville tomorrow. This time we'll be more frugal and only eat out twice for lunch. It was a big help last time I was there when I found $42 on the ground while waiting in line for the Trolley Stop. Being an honest man, my first thought was to ask if anyone had dropped it, but my common sense kicked in and reminded me that a dishonest person would answer yes, even if he was not the rightful claimant. There were teenagers in the line, after all. Anyway, the money paid for our lunch and allowed us to indulge in iced-cream. I will consider it a gift from above, as if God were saying, "go forth and haveth fun."
In other news, I think I'll hold off on a car purchase. That 4runner is a great deal, but I can't really justify spending 3 grand on a car when the one I have is perfectly fine mechanically. My only reason for buying it is an emotional one, in that I want to attract less attention to myself and enjoy the nostalgic feeling of a '90s car that I might have actually driven back then (I wouldn't have had a Crown Vic). Plus the car dates from earlier in the decade, giving me greater choice in assigning a particular year to my flight of fancy on a given day. Hindsight is always 20/20; if I hadn't been so obsessed with having an authoritative-looking vehicle and had been thinking like a sane person, I would have purchased something less noticeable and better suited to my personality (and age). But, if I hadn't bought the Vic, to this day I would be longing for one, not understanding the value of looking respectable while blending in. I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger... I think what I'll do is get the money ready, and next time I get to Raleigh, I'll look at the car if it's still for sale, which I'll interpret as a divine sign that I should at least seriously consider buying it. Sure, I'd be out 3 grand, but I'd feel a huge sense of relief that the pigs won't be after me to pin a bullshit impersonation charge on me. Plus I wouldn't have to have all those silly stickers on the back. Just throw in a Surge bottle, put on some Barenaked Ladies, and zoom off into '90s fantasy land.
I'm heading back to Wrightsville tomorrow. This time we'll be more frugal and only eat out twice for lunch. It was a big help last time I was there when I found $42 on the ground while waiting in line for the Trolley Stop. Being an honest man, my first thought was to ask if anyone had dropped it, but my common sense kicked in and reminded me that a dishonest person would answer yes, even if he was not the rightful claimant. There were teenagers in the line, after all. Anyway, the money paid for our lunch and allowed us to indulge in iced-cream. I will consider it a gift from above, as if God were saying, "go forth and haveth fun."
In other news, I think I'll hold off on a car purchase. That 4runner is a great deal, but I can't really justify spending 3 grand on a car when the one I have is perfectly fine mechanically. My only reason for buying it is an emotional one, in that I want to attract less attention to myself and enjoy the nostalgic feeling of a '90s car that I might have actually driven back then (I wouldn't have had a Crown Vic). Plus the car dates from earlier in the decade, giving me greater choice in assigning a particular year to my flight of fancy on a given day. Hindsight is always 20/20; if I hadn't been so obsessed with having an authoritative-looking vehicle and had been thinking like a sane person, I would have purchased something less noticeable and better suited to my personality (and age). But, if I hadn't bought the Vic, to this day I would be longing for one, not understanding the value of looking respectable while blending in. I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger... I think what I'll do is get the money ready, and next time I get to Raleigh, I'll look at the car if it's still for sale, which I'll interpret as a divine sign that I should at least seriously consider buying it. Sure, I'd be out 3 grand, but I'd feel a huge sense of relief that the pigs won't be after me to pin a bullshit impersonation charge on me. Plus I wouldn't have to have all those silly stickers on the back. Just throw in a Surge bottle, put on some Barenaked Ladies, and zoom off into '90s fantasy land.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Narrowing it down
I believe I'll go with another 4runner, 3rd generation (1996-2002). My wife drives a 4runner and it's been practically trouble-free. For a little while there I was leaning toward a 2002 or 2003 Ford Explorer, but research turned up too much risk of major shit going wrong. My father-in-law's '02 had its transmission replaced after 65,000 miles, at a cost of $3500. He claims the '03 had an improved tranny, but other reviews indicate that that year is iffy as well.
4runners, on the other hand, have very little criticism other than fuel economy, which I don't really mind since I don't drive very many miles a week anyway, and I don't give a shit about carbon footprints and all that hippie Al Gore crap.
I've found an ideal candidate, asking $3900, a good price for a '96, but it's in Raleigh, and I already have plans to go to the beach this weekend. Between haggling and trading in my Vic, I may be able to get it for 3 grand. There's a risk that it'll be snapped up before I can get there to look at it. It's in great shape except for a tear on the driver seat, but I can just cover it with a towel until I can do something about it. Interior has tan leather interior with woodgrain trim, exterior is forest green (which nearly matches my Barbour jacket). The disadvantage over the Explorer is that the radio sits lower in the console, so if I wanted to put in a DVD player, the screen would be too low for me to enjoy a movie on long drives.
The other major drawback is that, as a Japanese car, I would never be able to make it look like an "official" vehicle. No amount of antennas or lights would fool anyone into thinking it was a guvmint car-uh. I can't really explain my obsession with having an official-looking car. I have this ridiculous vision of gaining access to an otherwise restricted area or thoroughfare just by having a black American SUV with big antennas and wearing a white shirt & necktie, or parking illegally without getting ticketed or towed. I gradually found that doing such with the Vic was too much of an attention-getter from civilians and cops alike. If I were to park it illegally, with my luck a cop would show up and hang around until I returned, then give me the works about being an impersonator and all that. With a plain Ford SUV, I'd probably just be ticketed. In my fleeting moments of sanity, I know that such a need will never arise. It's time to grow the fuck up and get real, but it sure is difficult.
I have concluded that I'm an SUV man. I prefer the higher ride, commanding presence, and the ability legally to have the back windows as dark as I want them. I love tinted windows. They make any car look better and keep out both sweltering sunlight and prying eyes. An additional benefit with this car is that it generally flies under the po-po's radar. It looks too big and heavy to be speeding, and bears no resemblance to a drug dealer or gangbanger hooptie.
Oh, to have an attractive 1996-vintage vehicle, from those halcyon mid-to-late-'90s. I would have adored this vehicle when I was in high school. I'd probably put in another replica inspection sticker, possibly even my old high school parking permit, and of course some Surge bottles. Why did N.C. have to switch to those damned eyesore red-digit license plates? The blue-digit ones had been around since the early '80s. If I get this '96 4runner, I'd be stuck with red-digit plates, a blatant anachronism.
4runners, on the other hand, have very little criticism other than fuel economy, which I don't really mind since I don't drive very many miles a week anyway, and I don't give a shit about carbon footprints and all that hippie Al Gore crap.
I've found an ideal candidate, asking $3900, a good price for a '96, but it's in Raleigh, and I already have plans to go to the beach this weekend. Between haggling and trading in my Vic, I may be able to get it for 3 grand. There's a risk that it'll be snapped up before I can get there to look at it. It's in great shape except for a tear on the driver seat, but I can just cover it with a towel until I can do something about it. Interior has tan leather interior with woodgrain trim, exterior is forest green (which nearly matches my Barbour jacket). The disadvantage over the Explorer is that the radio sits lower in the console, so if I wanted to put in a DVD player, the screen would be too low for me to enjoy a movie on long drives.
The other major drawback is that, as a Japanese car, I would never be able to make it look like an "official" vehicle. No amount of antennas or lights would fool anyone into thinking it was a guvmint car-uh. I can't really explain my obsession with having an official-looking car. I have this ridiculous vision of gaining access to an otherwise restricted area or thoroughfare just by having a black American SUV with big antennas and wearing a white shirt & necktie, or parking illegally without getting ticketed or towed. I gradually found that doing such with the Vic was too much of an attention-getter from civilians and cops alike. If I were to park it illegally, with my luck a cop would show up and hang around until I returned, then give me the works about being an impersonator and all that. With a plain Ford SUV, I'd probably just be ticketed. In my fleeting moments of sanity, I know that such a need will never arise. It's time to grow the fuck up and get real, but it sure is difficult.
I have concluded that I'm an SUV man. I prefer the higher ride, commanding presence, and the ability legally to have the back windows as dark as I want them. I love tinted windows. They make any car look better and keep out both sweltering sunlight and prying eyes. An additional benefit with this car is that it generally flies under the po-po's radar. It looks too big and heavy to be speeding, and bears no resemblance to a drug dealer or gangbanger hooptie.
Oh, to have an attractive 1996-vintage vehicle, from those halcyon mid-to-late-'90s. I would have adored this vehicle when I was in high school. I'd probably put in another replica inspection sticker, possibly even my old high school parking permit, and of course some Surge bottles. Why did N.C. have to switch to those damned eyesore red-digit license plates? The blue-digit ones had been around since the early '80s. If I get this '96 4runner, I'd be stuck with red-digit plates, a blatant anachronism.
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