I think this is the first time I've engaged in any thoughtful political commentary on this blog that wasn't fueled by a temporarily bitter emotional state. It seems Mr. Obama is attempting to preserve tax relief for "middle class" taxpayers, and in classic Democrat fashion, he plans to stick it to people who earn more than a certain amount—probably $200-$250K.
I've bitched and moaned repeatedly on this blog about rich people and income disparity. I'm constantly in a battle between emotion and rationale on the issue of the obligations of high earners to society. My emotions say $150,000 a year is enough for any one person to live a very comfortable lifestyle, and anyone seeking more than that is a greedy bastard. A company's profits should be distributed among employees who earn less than the $150K maximum, instead of being doled out as bonuses to those who already earn enough. Rationale and logic, however, hold that without the freedom to pursue as much income as possible, businesses wouldn't expand and we'd have worse unemployment problems. No one is going to bust his ass, take risks, and hire more people to build and expand a business if he can't earn more than $150,000 a year.
So, neither the presence nor absence of salary caps is good for society. What's to be done to make things fair for everyone?
My answer: replace the income tax with a national sales tax plus surtaxes on imported goods, as well as stiff taxes on employers who outsource services to foreign countries.
The national sales tax would consist of a few levels of tax rates based on the necessity of the good or service being taxed. For example, groceries, clothing priced less than $100 per item, cars priced less than $30,000, and medical services would be taxed at a lower rate than other not-so-necessary purchases, which would be taxed at a middle rate. A higher rate would be imposed on luxury goods such as expensive cars and jewelry, as well as alcohol, recreational drugs, and tobacco.
That's right, I said recreational drugs. While we're fixing the tax system, let's also do away with the pointless "war on drugs," which has done nothing but waste tax dollars and get people killed. Recreational drugs with little or no medicinal purpose would be taxed, regulated, and restricted to people over 18 years of age.
Imported goods for which there exists a sufficient range of American-made substitutes would be subjected to a surtax, and not just at the consumer level. American manufacturers would pay taxes on components imported from overseas.
Under the structured national sales tax, an individual's tax burden would be based on what he chooses to consume, not what he earns. A high earner could choose to pay thousands more on an $80,000 Mercedes, or he could choose to buy a modest Ford and pay less taxes.
But how would the government support itself, you might ask? We'd have to scale back government, duh! Ending the "war on drugs" would certainly save some serious cash, and taxes on recreational drugs would help fill the coffers. So would shutting down the I.R.S., since we'd no longer have an income tax. While we're at it, the U.S. Department of Education should be done away with, since education should be managed at the state level.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
It's another day when time stands still
Some days my office becomes a mystical place where time enters a "no passing" zone. Today is one of those days, so I figured I'd update the ol' blog.
Yesterday afternoon was the afternoon from Hell. It seemed like everyone had waited until the last possible fucking minute to turn in revisions, when they'd had a week to do so. The two key people in charge of one ad decided to take fucking vacation days the two days before the ship date, and then the original ad idea got completely scrapped, requiring a completely new design, which I pulled out of my ass in about 30 minutes. Another person simply forgot to review an ad she commissioned, and I went through 3 revisions on that one. At the last minute The Boss wanted changes to an ad that had been approved 2 weeks ago, but I passed that one on to the freelancer. Like Hell I was going to touch that one again. My brain was fried by 5:30, so I got my fat ass to the gym and did some weights to relieve the tension.
We made another pilgrimage to beloved Wrightsville 2 weekends ago, but our full enjoyment of the weekend was impeded by worrying about the car. Its "check engine" light came on on the ride down, so we pulled into a shop and ran the OBD. Diagnosis: failing oxygen sensors. So we decided to leave early Sunday afternoon just in case the car broke down or something, but it made it home without trouble. I was quoted over $500 to replace the sensors, but thanks to the miracle of the internet, I found the parts for $170 and instructions on how to replace them myself, a fairly simple task consisting of unscrewing four bolts and unplugging the sensors. For 1.5 hours of work I saved well over $300. While waiting for the parts to arrive, I used my mother-in-law's smelly Corolla to get around, which reeked of tobacco and rotten vegetables, had a crust of silt and nicotine on the dashboard and console, and had. I spent 40 minutes vacuuming and getting the stench down from pungent to stale so that I wouldn't arrive at work smelling like I had been smoking a squash.
We finally picked out paint swatches this weekend. Soon our dream of a simulated beach house will become a reality. We picked a cool light blue for the living room and a very light cream for the dining room. We'll probably end up painting the dark wood TV cabinet a light ivory as well, since we can't afford to junk the whole thing and get a flat-panel unit. I would trade our dark recliners for my mother-in-law's sofa and give away our old nasty sleeper sofa, but I don't want to deal with the hassle of moving furniture and having to rent a truck.
I am so ready to retire. Sometimes a flicker of doubt runs through my mind, asking, "wouldn't you get bored doing nothing all day, every day?" That came up this weekend when we had nowhere to go and nothing planned, and sat around the house most of the weekend watching movies. I did start to feel a little bored and restless, but after yesterday's extended period of clock-watching followed by a panicked rush to get all that last-minute shit done, I no longer doubt that I would be much better off retired with millions in lottery winnings. I wouldn't get bored thanks to a custom-designed house which would offer a bounty of entertainments and diversions.
My lottery-winner house would be a miniature resort. Of course it would have the requisite indoor swimming pool for year-round aquatics. It would also have a well-equipped fitness center with ellipticals, treadmills, free weights, and of course Indian clubs, but would look much classier than your typical membership gym. Oriental rugs and potted palms would grace the room, and an elegant beverage bar would have bottled water and protein shakes at the ready. Wicker chairs with sweat-proof cushions would be there to receive my tired ass after a workout. I would install finely appointed changing rooms with showers for my guests, and I would also have a massage room.
A bowling alley would be a must. I'm not sure if it would be fully automated, or if I would have a servant in Punjabi costume roll the ball back and reset the pins. I'd also fit the entertainment wing of the house with a dance club, where we would dance the night away with our friends without overcrowding or being offended by the presence of trashy people. Down a dark hall near the restroom would be a locking chamber with a sturdy daybed, tissues, towels, lubricants, and a basket of prophylactics should drunken guests "get the urge." A British pub-style bar would adjoin the dance club for when the revelers want to take a break in a more quiet spot. Adjacent to the pub would be a spacious oak-paneled billiard room with at least two pool tables and furnished with cushy leather sofas. The entertainment wing would have a large terrace as well, for smoking, taking in the night air, and playing drunken games of cornhole, with plenty of lounge chairs in case guests need a place to pass out for the night. I would probably have various themed dining rooms as well, including French cafe, '50s diner, and opulent Victorian, surrounding a gourmet kitchen, which would be adjacent to a '50s style kitchen with restored vintage appliances. Wi-fi would be available throughout the house.
Most folks love a formal dinner, but I have a greater affinity for breakfasts consumed in splendid surroundings and served in a most elegant fashion. Each morning I would dine in one of many places around the mansion: the breakfast room, which would have large windows flooding the room with the morning sun; the terrace, on a clean white tablecloth with a pot of hot coffee at the ready; or the private balcony in the master suite.
Speaking of master suite, my wife and I would have our own dressing rooms, each with beautiful wooden racks and shelves laden with fine garments, huge mirrors, comfortable chairs, TV set with surround sound, radio, internet access, sound system, and a small beverage bar with a mini fridge and a single-cup coffee maker, should we happen to get thirsty while changing. Hers would have a large dressing table as well. The bathroom would offer a large jacuzzi tub and a huge shower, and a white marble double vanity with plenty of cabinets & drawers to stash our various toiletries out of sight, plus yet another mini fridge for keeping chilled water. The bed chamber would have its own fireplace and sitting area with beverage bar and coffee maker where we could have coffee or juice before breakfast, and of course a big TV with surround sound as well as wireless headphones. At night we would play ocean sounds to lull us to sleep. Adjacent to the bedroom would be a smaller bedroom in case one of us is sick and needs to sleep separately.
Each guest room would have a private bath, private balcony, big TV, and a laptop with wi-fi and printer. Down the hall there would be a sitting area with a fridge full of drinks and snacks for late-night munchies. On weekends when we have guests, I would have a servant head out early in the morning and pick up a copy of USA Today for each guest and quietly shove it under the door. Each nightstand would be stocked with prophylactics should drunken hook-ups occur between guests.
The library would be a spacious room housing all of our books, maps, records, and archives. Guests would sink into big leather chairs with a book or newspaper, or surf the web with the library's laptops. My study would be adjacent. Nearby would be a sort of work room with big tables where we would keep tools for whatever projects we devise. I would also have a small separate room dedicated to wrapping gifts.
No gentleman's house is complete without a theater. Mine would have the largest plasma screen available, surround sound, a vast library of movies & TV shows, and plush leather recliners with cupholders. The theater would have its own lobby just outside, with popcorn, drinks, beer, and snacks for my guests. The restroom would be equipped with its own monitor so that guests wouldn't miss anything. This same library of movies would be available on the server for viewing in the individual guest rooms.
Underneath the house would be a huge garage for my collection of automobiles. I'd try to keep it simple—a few vintage models, including a sedan from the '20s, '30s, '40s, and '50s, a Suburban, an Explorer, a Range Rover, a few black Crown Victorias, a large Mercedes sedan, and a light blue 1989 Volvo 740.
O, how I wish to retire on lottery winnings and live out my days in splendor!
Yesterday afternoon was the afternoon from Hell. It seemed like everyone had waited until the last possible fucking minute to turn in revisions, when they'd had a week to do so. The two key people in charge of one ad decided to take fucking vacation days the two days before the ship date, and then the original ad idea got completely scrapped, requiring a completely new design, which I pulled out of my ass in about 30 minutes. Another person simply forgot to review an ad she commissioned, and I went through 3 revisions on that one. At the last minute The Boss wanted changes to an ad that had been approved 2 weeks ago, but I passed that one on to the freelancer. Like Hell I was going to touch that one again. My brain was fried by 5:30, so I got my fat ass to the gym and did some weights to relieve the tension.
We made another pilgrimage to beloved Wrightsville 2 weekends ago, but our full enjoyment of the weekend was impeded by worrying about the car. Its "check engine" light came on on the ride down, so we pulled into a shop and ran the OBD. Diagnosis: failing oxygen sensors. So we decided to leave early Sunday afternoon just in case the car broke down or something, but it made it home without trouble. I was quoted over $500 to replace the sensors, but thanks to the miracle of the internet, I found the parts for $170 and instructions on how to replace them myself, a fairly simple task consisting of unscrewing four bolts and unplugging the sensors. For 1.5 hours of work I saved well over $300. While waiting for the parts to arrive, I used my mother-in-law's smelly Corolla to get around, which reeked of tobacco and rotten vegetables, had a crust of silt and nicotine on the dashboard and console, and had. I spent 40 minutes vacuuming and getting the stench down from pungent to stale so that I wouldn't arrive at work smelling like I had been smoking a squash.
We finally picked out paint swatches this weekend. Soon our dream of a simulated beach house will become a reality. We picked a cool light blue for the living room and a very light cream for the dining room. We'll probably end up painting the dark wood TV cabinet a light ivory as well, since we can't afford to junk the whole thing and get a flat-panel unit. I would trade our dark recliners for my mother-in-law's sofa and give away our old nasty sleeper sofa, but I don't want to deal with the hassle of moving furniture and having to rent a truck.
I am so ready to retire. Sometimes a flicker of doubt runs through my mind, asking, "wouldn't you get bored doing nothing all day, every day?" That came up this weekend when we had nowhere to go and nothing planned, and sat around the house most of the weekend watching movies. I did start to feel a little bored and restless, but after yesterday's extended period of clock-watching followed by a panicked rush to get all that last-minute shit done, I no longer doubt that I would be much better off retired with millions in lottery winnings. I wouldn't get bored thanks to a custom-designed house which would offer a bounty of entertainments and diversions.
My lottery-winner house would be a miniature resort. Of course it would have the requisite indoor swimming pool for year-round aquatics. It would also have a well-equipped fitness center with ellipticals, treadmills, free weights, and of course Indian clubs, but would look much classier than your typical membership gym. Oriental rugs and potted palms would grace the room, and an elegant beverage bar would have bottled water and protein shakes at the ready. Wicker chairs with sweat-proof cushions would be there to receive my tired ass after a workout. I would install finely appointed changing rooms with showers for my guests, and I would also have a massage room.
A bowling alley would be a must. I'm not sure if it would be fully automated, or if I would have a servant in Punjabi costume roll the ball back and reset the pins. I'd also fit the entertainment wing of the house with a dance club, where we would dance the night away with our friends without overcrowding or being offended by the presence of trashy people. Down a dark hall near the restroom would be a locking chamber with a sturdy daybed, tissues, towels, lubricants, and a basket of prophylactics should drunken guests "get the urge." A British pub-style bar would adjoin the dance club for when the revelers want to take a break in a more quiet spot. Adjacent to the pub would be a spacious oak-paneled billiard room with at least two pool tables and furnished with cushy leather sofas. The entertainment wing would have a large terrace as well, for smoking, taking in the night air, and playing drunken games of cornhole, with plenty of lounge chairs in case guests need a place to pass out for the night. I would probably have various themed dining rooms as well, including French cafe, '50s diner, and opulent Victorian, surrounding a gourmet kitchen, which would be adjacent to a '50s style kitchen with restored vintage appliances. Wi-fi would be available throughout the house.
Most folks love a formal dinner, but I have a greater affinity for breakfasts consumed in splendid surroundings and served in a most elegant fashion. Each morning I would dine in one of many places around the mansion: the breakfast room, which would have large windows flooding the room with the morning sun; the terrace, on a clean white tablecloth with a pot of hot coffee at the ready; or the private balcony in the master suite.
Speaking of master suite, my wife and I would have our own dressing rooms, each with beautiful wooden racks and shelves laden with fine garments, huge mirrors, comfortable chairs, TV set with surround sound, radio, internet access, sound system, and a small beverage bar with a mini fridge and a single-cup coffee maker, should we happen to get thirsty while changing. Hers would have a large dressing table as well. The bathroom would offer a large jacuzzi tub and a huge shower, and a white marble double vanity with plenty of cabinets & drawers to stash our various toiletries out of sight, plus yet another mini fridge for keeping chilled water. The bed chamber would have its own fireplace and sitting area with beverage bar and coffee maker where we could have coffee or juice before breakfast, and of course a big TV with surround sound as well as wireless headphones. At night we would play ocean sounds to lull us to sleep. Adjacent to the bedroom would be a smaller bedroom in case one of us is sick and needs to sleep separately.
Each guest room would have a private bath, private balcony, big TV, and a laptop with wi-fi and printer. Down the hall there would be a sitting area with a fridge full of drinks and snacks for late-night munchies. On weekends when we have guests, I would have a servant head out early in the morning and pick up a copy of USA Today for each guest and quietly shove it under the door. Each nightstand would be stocked with prophylactics should drunken hook-ups occur between guests.
The library would be a spacious room housing all of our books, maps, records, and archives. Guests would sink into big leather chairs with a book or newspaper, or surf the web with the library's laptops. My study would be adjacent. Nearby would be a sort of work room with big tables where we would keep tools for whatever projects we devise. I would also have a small separate room dedicated to wrapping gifts.
No gentleman's house is complete without a theater. Mine would have the largest plasma screen available, surround sound, a vast library of movies & TV shows, and plush leather recliners with cupholders. The theater would have its own lobby just outside, with popcorn, drinks, beer, and snacks for my guests. The restroom would be equipped with its own monitor so that guests wouldn't miss anything. This same library of movies would be available on the server for viewing in the individual guest rooms.
Underneath the house would be a huge garage for my collection of automobiles. I'd try to keep it simple—a few vintage models, including a sedan from the '20s, '30s, '40s, and '50s, a Suburban, an Explorer, a Range Rover, a few black Crown Victorias, a large Mercedes sedan, and a light blue 1989 Volvo 740.
O, how I wish to retire on lottery winnings and live out my days in splendor!
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Beach Bum
We spent four glorious days at Wrightsville Beach this past weekend, the longest we've had the luxury of staying. Despite capricious weather conditions, we enjoyed every moment and yearned to stay indefinitely.
We arrived about 10:30 Wednesday night. It rained most of Thursday, but we took that as an opportunity to loaf around in the cool, quiet condo and catch up with True Blood on HBO On Demand. Friday was sunny, so we sat outside all afternoon sweating our asses off in the sun. We consumed a sumptuous meal at 22 North, where you pretty much can't go wrong with the menu. We attempted to go out drinkin' but got bored and sleepy after one drink, giving up and going back at 11:30. Saturday was absolutely perfect—sunny, warm but not stiflingly hot or humid like the day before, with a gentle, cooling breeze, making it feel like May in the Caribbean. After watching Watchmen on HBO, we headed out for drinks shortly after midnight, and managed to have two rounds before getting pizza and going back to the condo, where we ate pizza in bed and watched Reality Bites until 3AM. Sunday morning brought rain, but it cleared up by the time we made our ritualistic pilgrimage to Dockside. We managed to get in a little more beach-sitting until it began to drizzle again, so we decided to get a head-start on packing up. Having gotten that out of the way, we had an early supper at Tower 7 and some Kohl's frozen custard, then mournfully departed at 7:30.
Oh, how we longed to stay there forever! Everything is so relaxed and life is lived at a slower pace down there. We amble along practically everywhere instead of jockeying for position with other motorists. Restaurants and retailers are within easy reach. We can drink til our livers fail and then stagger back to the condo, picking up the state's best pizza on the way. And we think not a moment about jobs or bills; we leave our troubles on the mainland.
One more major part of our beach experience, I have to admit, is the condo itself. The little 3-bedroom efficiency feels like a breath of fresh air—everything is clean, cool, quiet, and full of light. The living room glows in the morning as the ivory-colored walls radiate the rising sun. The huge floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with sunlight and bring in the sweeping vista of the sapphire sea. The air conditioner blows cold and strong, providing a cool refuge from the blistering Carolina summers. The soft white wall-to-wall carpet feels great on bare feet and dampens noise. The living room furniture is all lightly-colored—yellow chairs, teal sofa, natural wood bookcases—and littered with mementos of the sea. A model sailboat here, an old barometer there, a lamp from a PT-109, a complete set of Time-Life's The Seafarers series, all bring the ocean right into the room. A visitor instantly feels energized and at peace simultaneously as soon as he crosses the threshold.
So of course, this latest extended visit has resurrected my interest in simulating the beach look at our main residence, coinciding with an endowment of funds for my recent birthday from relatives. Ordinarily I would have gone out to Brooks Brothers or purchased other luxury items with the intention of impressing others, but I decided it's more important to make my home, where I spend half my waking hours, a peaceful refuge. I've already procured calm blue striped curtains for the entry hall and guest bedroom, and a natural white cotton slipcover for the drab old sofa is on the way. Painting some of the living room furniture white may be in the near future, and some light curtains are a certainty. We'll wait and see how the cactus-green walls look with the renovated furniture before we decide to repaint. I wish to freshen up the formal dining room as well, but can't really figure out how. New seat covers, maybe, and perhaps a casual tablecloth. The yellow walls could stand a change, being an odd transition between the cool gray & blue entry and the blue & white kitchen. I've got to get one of those antique wall barometers. I'll probably forgo the white plank paneling in the entry hall, since the new curtains seem to have helped tremendously. Perhaps after all this, we'll feel at least some of the same tranquility we do at our favorite place on Earth.
We arrived about 10:30 Wednesday night. It rained most of Thursday, but we took that as an opportunity to loaf around in the cool, quiet condo and catch up with True Blood on HBO On Demand. Friday was sunny, so we sat outside all afternoon sweating our asses off in the sun. We consumed a sumptuous meal at 22 North, where you pretty much can't go wrong with the menu. We attempted to go out drinkin' but got bored and sleepy after one drink, giving up and going back at 11:30. Saturday was absolutely perfect—sunny, warm but not stiflingly hot or humid like the day before, with a gentle, cooling breeze, making it feel like May in the Caribbean. After watching Watchmen on HBO, we headed out for drinks shortly after midnight, and managed to have two rounds before getting pizza and going back to the condo, where we ate pizza in bed and watched Reality Bites until 3AM. Sunday morning brought rain, but it cleared up by the time we made our ritualistic pilgrimage to Dockside. We managed to get in a little more beach-sitting until it began to drizzle again, so we decided to get a head-start on packing up. Having gotten that out of the way, we had an early supper at Tower 7 and some Kohl's frozen custard, then mournfully departed at 7:30.
Oh, how we longed to stay there forever! Everything is so relaxed and life is lived at a slower pace down there. We amble along practically everywhere instead of jockeying for position with other motorists. Restaurants and retailers are within easy reach. We can drink til our livers fail and then stagger back to the condo, picking up the state's best pizza on the way. And we think not a moment about jobs or bills; we leave our troubles on the mainland.
One more major part of our beach experience, I have to admit, is the condo itself. The little 3-bedroom efficiency feels like a breath of fresh air—everything is clean, cool, quiet, and full of light. The living room glows in the morning as the ivory-colored walls radiate the rising sun. The huge floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with sunlight and bring in the sweeping vista of the sapphire sea. The air conditioner blows cold and strong, providing a cool refuge from the blistering Carolina summers. The soft white wall-to-wall carpet feels great on bare feet and dampens noise. The living room furniture is all lightly-colored—yellow chairs, teal sofa, natural wood bookcases—and littered with mementos of the sea. A model sailboat here, an old barometer there, a lamp from a PT-109, a complete set of Time-Life's The Seafarers series, all bring the ocean right into the room. A visitor instantly feels energized and at peace simultaneously as soon as he crosses the threshold.
So of course, this latest extended visit has resurrected my interest in simulating the beach look at our main residence, coinciding with an endowment of funds for my recent birthday from relatives. Ordinarily I would have gone out to Brooks Brothers or purchased other luxury items with the intention of impressing others, but I decided it's more important to make my home, where I spend half my waking hours, a peaceful refuge. I've already procured calm blue striped curtains for the entry hall and guest bedroom, and a natural white cotton slipcover for the drab old sofa is on the way. Painting some of the living room furniture white may be in the near future, and some light curtains are a certainty. We'll wait and see how the cactus-green walls look with the renovated furniture before we decide to repaint. I wish to freshen up the formal dining room as well, but can't really figure out how. New seat covers, maybe, and perhaps a casual tablecloth. The yellow walls could stand a change, being an odd transition between the cool gray & blue entry and the blue & white kitchen. I've got to get one of those antique wall barometers. I'll probably forgo the white plank paneling in the entry hall, since the new curtains seem to have helped tremendously. Perhaps after all this, we'll feel at least some of the same tranquility we do at our favorite place on Earth.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Raleigh Reveries
I have a special place in my hard heart for a few cherished places in old Raleigh. Some still stand but I haven't visited them in ages; others are gone with the cruel winds of change.
The Hard Wok Buffet is the first to come to mind. Out of business for a couple of years now, it operated in Pleasant Valley Promenade, a charming late-'80s suburban shopping center. Tucked away in the second level where you'd never know it was there (possibly leading to its demise), the Hard Wok offered a budget-priced, gut-busting, all-you-can-cram-in-your-cakehole array of greasy Asian cuisine, such as sesame chicken and egg rolls, mixed with even greasier American heart-cloggers, like pizza rolls and french fries. I would always start with 4 or 5 crabs Rangoon. A little-used salad bar sat at the back (like I'm gonna pay $6 and fill up on fucking iceberg lettuce and dressing), and a plentiful dessert area boasted sugary pastries and soft-serve ice cream, which I'd always visit at least twice after 3 or 4 plates of General Tso's, guaranteeing a copious bowel movement later in the day.
Brothers Pizza on Hillsborough Street was a Raleigh icon. Everyone was shocked and saddened when they closed their doors. Practically everyone my age had at least one birthday party there as a child. I would often dine there for lunch when I was a student at NCSU, taking advantage of their $5 salad & slice combo.
Fat Daddy's, near the aforementioned Pleasant Valley Promenade, still stands, I just miss it because I haven't been there in many, many years. My family used to go there once or twice a month in the '80s. I still remember smelling the waffle cones at the ice cream bar every time I entered. Someday I'll go again.
Don Murray's Barbecue bit the dust a few years back. They had a simple but satisfying all-you-can-eat Eastern N.C. BBQ buffet, complete with unlimited banana pudding. They will be sorely missed.
Moving away from eateries: my favorite spot on the NCSU campus was the Foreign Language Lab in the old laundry building. It was a room full of computers, each in its own little carroll and equipped with decent headphones intended for studying foreign language programs. The room was cool and comfortable, and few people knew of this lab's existence, making it a very quiet, uncrowded place to go for extended surfing sessions. a stark contrast to another lab in the same building where the suckers went. That one was always crowded, noisy, stuffy, and had uncomfortable chairs. I spent many hours in the language lab one semester when I skipped nearly every class in a certain course where the professor never took attendance, never gave tests, and lectured for an hour. I only showed up to hand in papers and deliver oral reports.
My second-favorite spot would have been the big lounge in Caldwell Hall. I would often hang out there when I had an hour between classes and either do homework for the next class or just read.
Pleasant Valley Promenade had a seven-screen movie theater in its golden age. I can only distinctly remember seeing two movies there: Dennis the Menace and The General's Daughter. I'm sure there were others. The same shopping center also used to have a Best Buy, where I said farewell to the pricier independent music stores and bought CDs for $4 or $5 less. There, I remember witnessing the gradual transition from VHS to DVD: around 1999 there was one row of shelves for DVDs and the rest was VHS; by 2002, it was practically all DVDs. The Dollar Tree was always a fun stop when I was out there. Also at Pleasant Valley was a Michael's Art Supply, which sadly moved out to Capital Fucking Boulevard. After Best Buy moved down to Crabtree, replacing Pier One Imports, and Hard Wok joined Chairman Mao at that Chinese buffet in the sky, I had no more reason to go to that hallowed center of commerce.
North American Video was, and continues to be, your classic independent video rental store. Surprisingly, it's still in business, even through the shitty economy and up against Redbox and Netflix. My old school chum and I would go there practically once a week. I still have my card from the '90s; wonder if it still works?
Third Place continues to thrive. It's the quintessential indie coffee shop, complete with hippie baristas and freaky emos taking up space on the couch. Back when my folks used to work in the area, we'd often meet there for coffee. I think the clientele of weirdos and the recurring fly problem eventually made us all lose interest, moving on to Hereghty's, a much classier coffee & pastry shop where well-bred gentle-folk refresh themselves at marble-topped tables.
The Hard Wok Buffet is the first to come to mind. Out of business for a couple of years now, it operated in Pleasant Valley Promenade, a charming late-'80s suburban shopping center. Tucked away in the second level where you'd never know it was there (possibly leading to its demise), the Hard Wok offered a budget-priced, gut-busting, all-you-can-cram-in-your-cakehole array of greasy Asian cuisine, such as sesame chicken and egg rolls, mixed with even greasier American heart-cloggers, like pizza rolls and french fries. I would always start with 4 or 5 crabs Rangoon. A little-used salad bar sat at the back (like I'm gonna pay $6 and fill up on fucking iceberg lettuce and dressing), and a plentiful dessert area boasted sugary pastries and soft-serve ice cream, which I'd always visit at least twice after 3 or 4 plates of General Tso's, guaranteeing a copious bowel movement later in the day.
Brothers Pizza on Hillsborough Street was a Raleigh icon. Everyone was shocked and saddened when they closed their doors. Practically everyone my age had at least one birthday party there as a child. I would often dine there for lunch when I was a student at NCSU, taking advantage of their $5 salad & slice combo.
Fat Daddy's, near the aforementioned Pleasant Valley Promenade, still stands, I just miss it because I haven't been there in many, many years. My family used to go there once or twice a month in the '80s. I still remember smelling the waffle cones at the ice cream bar every time I entered. Someday I'll go again.
Don Murray's Barbecue bit the dust a few years back. They had a simple but satisfying all-you-can-eat Eastern N.C. BBQ buffet, complete with unlimited banana pudding. They will be sorely missed.
Moving away from eateries: my favorite spot on the NCSU campus was the Foreign Language Lab in the old laundry building. It was a room full of computers, each in its own little carroll and equipped with decent headphones intended for studying foreign language programs. The room was cool and comfortable, and few people knew of this lab's existence, making it a very quiet, uncrowded place to go for extended surfing sessions. a stark contrast to another lab in the same building where the suckers went. That one was always crowded, noisy, stuffy, and had uncomfortable chairs. I spent many hours in the language lab one semester when I skipped nearly every class in a certain course where the professor never took attendance, never gave tests, and lectured for an hour. I only showed up to hand in papers and deliver oral reports.
My second-favorite spot would have been the big lounge in Caldwell Hall. I would often hang out there when I had an hour between classes and either do homework for the next class or just read.
Pleasant Valley Promenade had a seven-screen movie theater in its golden age. I can only distinctly remember seeing two movies there: Dennis the Menace and The General's Daughter. I'm sure there were others. The same shopping center also used to have a Best Buy, where I said farewell to the pricier independent music stores and bought CDs for $4 or $5 less. There, I remember witnessing the gradual transition from VHS to DVD: around 1999 there was one row of shelves for DVDs and the rest was VHS; by 2002, it was practically all DVDs. The Dollar Tree was always a fun stop when I was out there. Also at Pleasant Valley was a Michael's Art Supply, which sadly moved out to Capital Fucking Boulevard. After Best Buy moved down to Crabtree, replacing Pier One Imports, and Hard Wok joined Chairman Mao at that Chinese buffet in the sky, I had no more reason to go to that hallowed center of commerce.
North American Video was, and continues to be, your classic independent video rental store. Surprisingly, it's still in business, even through the shitty economy and up against Redbox and Netflix. My old school chum and I would go there practically once a week. I still have my card from the '90s; wonder if it still works?
Third Place continues to thrive. It's the quintessential indie coffee shop, complete with hippie baristas and freaky emos taking up space on the couch. Back when my folks used to work in the area, we'd often meet there for coffee. I think the clientele of weirdos and the recurring fly problem eventually made us all lose interest, moving on to Hereghty's, a much classier coffee & pastry shop where well-bred gentle-folk refresh themselves at marble-topped tables.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I think I threw up in my mouth a little
Just moments ago I overheard co-workers of mine discussing a former co-worker of ours, one I never really liked while she was here and whose decision not to come back to work after giving birth thrilled me.
This person drove me crazy while she was working here. She would have me work on marketing materials without any clear idea in her head as to what she wanted exactly. I would come back with one idea after another and she would have a different, vaguely worded response each time, and eventually I got chastised by my superiors for having to go through so many drafts because that dumb cunt couldn't communicate or even formulate in her own blonde brain what the fuck she wanted. Work got a lot easier after she left.
Anyone could tell just by looking at her that she wasn't long for the workaday world, and was bred to be the iconic lazy suburban mom. She had a rich husband, of course; I'm fairly certain he was a physician or surgeon or in some other medical occupation that pays a ludicrously inflated salary. She went the traditional route of working a white-collar job for a little while until fulfilling her life's ambition of getting knocked up, then quit her job after squeezing a little raison d'etre out of her twat and sitting on her ass for a couple months afterward collecting maternity leave paychecks while a nanny did the real work. So my co-workers' most recent discussion amongst themselves brought up details that didn't surprise me in the least. It seems she has achieved the highest honor for a lazy, spoiled suburban mom by becoming president of the local Junior League, a social club for the female scumbags of the privileged class. Women who have rich husbands to support their offspring and other little hobbies join the Junior League so that they can put on sundresses and straw hats, drink wine together, and cluck about how damned terrific their children and dogs are while pretending to perform charitable work so that they can feel good about themselves. These same creatures will drive their $60,000 cars to an antiques shop and try to get the shopkeeper to take half off, I guess so that they can save their husbands' money for more wine. I about wanted to vomit and start throwing things when they were talking about her two children and her Labs—a breed of dog which is cute and dumb and therefore popular with mindless rich people.
I do not deny that my contempt for these cretins is partly fueled by envy. I've published time and again that I want nothing more than to retire and do whatever the fuck I feel like every day. I think what really bothers about them me is their lack of usefulness to society combined with their parasitic nature. While I desire to be endowed with a lifetime supply of money for which no single person had to work very hard, their goal in life is to reproduce and hang out with friends who have also reproduced, which requires no specialized skill or education and any moron with functional genitals can do, while parasitically deriving their sustenance from host animals (their husbands) without returning anything except possibly bland missionary-style intercourse a couple times a month or whenever they are given jewelry. While I simply wish to quit working and live off of lottery winnings and interest, they go beyond forgivable indolence and make another person work to support them, which is why we can only conclude that Junior League bitches are evil.
This person drove me crazy while she was working here. She would have me work on marketing materials without any clear idea in her head as to what she wanted exactly. I would come back with one idea after another and she would have a different, vaguely worded response each time, and eventually I got chastised by my superiors for having to go through so many drafts because that dumb cunt couldn't communicate or even formulate in her own blonde brain what the fuck she wanted. Work got a lot easier after she left.
Anyone could tell just by looking at her that she wasn't long for the workaday world, and was bred to be the iconic lazy suburban mom. She had a rich husband, of course; I'm fairly certain he was a physician or surgeon or in some other medical occupation that pays a ludicrously inflated salary. She went the traditional route of working a white-collar job for a little while until fulfilling her life's ambition of getting knocked up, then quit her job after squeezing a little raison d'etre out of her twat and sitting on her ass for a couple months afterward collecting maternity leave paychecks while a nanny did the real work. So my co-workers' most recent discussion amongst themselves brought up details that didn't surprise me in the least. It seems she has achieved the highest honor for a lazy, spoiled suburban mom by becoming president of the local Junior League, a social club for the female scumbags of the privileged class. Women who have rich husbands to support their offspring and other little hobbies join the Junior League so that they can put on sundresses and straw hats, drink wine together, and cluck about how damned terrific their children and dogs are while pretending to perform charitable work so that they can feel good about themselves. These same creatures will drive their $60,000 cars to an antiques shop and try to get the shopkeeper to take half off, I guess so that they can save their husbands' money for more wine. I about wanted to vomit and start throwing things when they were talking about her two children and her Labs—a breed of dog which is cute and dumb and therefore popular with mindless rich people.
I do not deny that my contempt for these cretins is partly fueled by envy. I've published time and again that I want nothing more than to retire and do whatever the fuck I feel like every day. I think what really bothers about them me is their lack of usefulness to society combined with their parasitic nature. While I desire to be endowed with a lifetime supply of money for which no single person had to work very hard, their goal in life is to reproduce and hang out with friends who have also reproduced, which requires no specialized skill or education and any moron with functional genitals can do, while parasitically deriving their sustenance from host animals (their husbands) without returning anything except possibly bland missionary-style intercourse a couple times a month or whenever they are given jewelry. While I simply wish to quit working and live off of lottery winnings and interest, they go beyond forgivable indolence and make another person work to support them, which is why we can only conclude that Junior League bitches are evil.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Why aren't I retired yet?
Well, it's another dull day in the ol' cubicle. Work is steadily trickling in but not at a fast enough rate to warrant diligent concentration. I'm feeling the usual depression that follows a really fun long weekend, like a junkie coming down from his high. Damnation, I want to retire!
This weekend we attended the Highland Games. My in-laws purchased a patron package which gave us a VIP parking spot on the grounds and access to the sponsors' hospitality tent which boasted free sodas, snacks, and a commanding view of the games. We were also guests at the sponsors' reception Friday evening, where we were lavished with free booze and a bigass spread of heavy hors d'oeuvres, and entertained by pipes & drums and a grand array of gentlemen garbed in kilts and Prince Charlie jackets. Such is the manner in which this gentle-man should always be treated; without the preferential parking, we would have been subjected to the squalor of the park-and-ride buses and forced to mingle with the unwashed huddled masses.
We were also bestowed by my generous in-laws with two nights at a cozy motel a mere 5-minute walk from the main drag, which offered great little eateries. We chose a pub with an authentic British pub atmosphere and reasonably priced, delicious pub fare.
The entire weekend was mostly enjoyable. The meadow was suffocatingly crowded most of Saturday, but we did catch some good musical performances, including Albannach, who play stirring pipes & drums in a primitive, tribal manner. The drive to & from the grounds offered splendid scenery. We dined on fried, unhealthy lunches such as fish & chips, burgers, and some less-than-stellar haggis. There was no booze of any kind to be found, a flagrant contradiction to the British Isles' proud, long-standing tradition of alcoholism. I downed 3 pints at the pub to make up for the deprivation.
My only complaints about the games revolve around the remoteness of the location, the parking situation, and the amount of driving required. The nearest town is a good 15 minute drive away through low-speed roads, and those who did not procure the expensive VIP spots had to park miles away and wait for a bus. It would be far, far more convenient to hold the games someplace like the state fairgrounds, which handles the massive traffic of the State Fair year after year. Considering the event has been held in the same spot for decades, I doubt a change of venue is likely. Nevertheless, provided we're not living in abject poverty in a year's time, we'll likely return next July.
I love my weekends. I'm so fucking sick of the daily grind—get up, go to work, lose 8 hours of my life, go home, fix supper, kill some brain cells with beer & TV, go to bed, repeat. Little weekend excursions like the above are about the only thing that keep me from burning the goddamn office down. Such diversions are harder to come by with money getting tighter and everything getting more expensive as time goes by. I'm going to be so fucking pissed if they don't start doling out raises this fall. I'm still in my 20s and I dread the prospect of doing this same shit for another 40 years or so. How do people do it? How did my dad go to that same office 5 days a week for 20 years? I really shouldn't complain; at least I'm employed and drawing a steady, if paltry, income in this still-shitty economy. At the same time, I know there is a better way to live; I've seen it. There are a fortunate few who don't go to pointless jobs every day and do whatever the fuck they feel like on any given day. As Tom said in Office Space, "There are people in this world who don't have to put up with all this shit." That film is the anthem of those of us who grew up having all our needs fulfilled by someone else, never had to hold down a summer or after-school job, lived in nice houses in safe neighborhoods, never saw anyone really bust his ass—I don't recall my dad ever working more than 40 hours a week—to provide for it all, and are now left wondering, as we enter the workforce, where our share is, and why asshats like Lumbergh put in the same effort we do (or less) and drive Porsches to work. Or why a certain someone drives his Lexus here only 2 or 3 days a week and returns to his mansion, then goes to France for 2 weeks. We jumped through the academic hoops with the promise of great rewards for our efforts, and then we wound up with shitty little cubicle jobs making half as much as Bubba the heat & air guy who went to community college for 2 years. I'm more and more inclined to support the notion of salary caps. There's no good reason why anyone should be paid more than $100,000 a year when someone like me survives on a third of that.
To make the world even more inequitable, I've played the lottery fairly regularly for the last 3 or 4 years and have yet to win any major prize, let alone the jackpot, while others buy an occasional ticket on a whim and strike it rich. And the winner is always some trashy, uneducated plebe in Indiana who's going to lose it all to con-artists and mooching relatives. Where's the justice? I'm far more deserving of vast riches than the people who usually win, since I would put it to better use by living fabulously.
This weekend we attended the Highland Games. My in-laws purchased a patron package which gave us a VIP parking spot on the grounds and access to the sponsors' hospitality tent which boasted free sodas, snacks, and a commanding view of the games. We were also guests at the sponsors' reception Friday evening, where we were lavished with free booze and a bigass spread of heavy hors d'oeuvres, and entertained by pipes & drums and a grand array of gentlemen garbed in kilts and Prince Charlie jackets. Such is the manner in which this gentle-man should always be treated; without the preferential parking, we would have been subjected to the squalor of the park-and-ride buses and forced to mingle with the unwashed huddled masses.
We were also bestowed by my generous in-laws with two nights at a cozy motel a mere 5-minute walk from the main drag, which offered great little eateries. We chose a pub with an authentic British pub atmosphere and reasonably priced, delicious pub fare.
The entire weekend was mostly enjoyable. The meadow was suffocatingly crowded most of Saturday, but we did catch some good musical performances, including Albannach, who play stirring pipes & drums in a primitive, tribal manner. The drive to & from the grounds offered splendid scenery. We dined on fried, unhealthy lunches such as fish & chips, burgers, and some less-than-stellar haggis. There was no booze of any kind to be found, a flagrant contradiction to the British Isles' proud, long-standing tradition of alcoholism. I downed 3 pints at the pub to make up for the deprivation.
My only complaints about the games revolve around the remoteness of the location, the parking situation, and the amount of driving required. The nearest town is a good 15 minute drive away through low-speed roads, and those who did not procure the expensive VIP spots had to park miles away and wait for a bus. It would be far, far more convenient to hold the games someplace like the state fairgrounds, which handles the massive traffic of the State Fair year after year. Considering the event has been held in the same spot for decades, I doubt a change of venue is likely. Nevertheless, provided we're not living in abject poverty in a year's time, we'll likely return next July.
I love my weekends. I'm so fucking sick of the daily grind—get up, go to work, lose 8 hours of my life, go home, fix supper, kill some brain cells with beer & TV, go to bed, repeat. Little weekend excursions like the above are about the only thing that keep me from burning the goddamn office down. Such diversions are harder to come by with money getting tighter and everything getting more expensive as time goes by. I'm going to be so fucking pissed if they don't start doling out raises this fall. I'm still in my 20s and I dread the prospect of doing this same shit for another 40 years or so. How do people do it? How did my dad go to that same office 5 days a week for 20 years? I really shouldn't complain; at least I'm employed and drawing a steady, if paltry, income in this still-shitty economy. At the same time, I know there is a better way to live; I've seen it. There are a fortunate few who don't go to pointless jobs every day and do whatever the fuck they feel like on any given day. As Tom said in Office Space, "There are people in this world who don't have to put up with all this shit." That film is the anthem of those of us who grew up having all our needs fulfilled by someone else, never had to hold down a summer or after-school job, lived in nice houses in safe neighborhoods, never saw anyone really bust his ass—I don't recall my dad ever working more than 40 hours a week—to provide for it all, and are now left wondering, as we enter the workforce, where our share is, and why asshats like Lumbergh put in the same effort we do (or less) and drive Porsches to work. Or why a certain someone drives his Lexus here only 2 or 3 days a week and returns to his mansion, then goes to France for 2 weeks. We jumped through the academic hoops with the promise of great rewards for our efforts, and then we wound up with shitty little cubicle jobs making half as much as Bubba the heat & air guy who went to community college for 2 years. I'm more and more inclined to support the notion of salary caps. There's no good reason why anyone should be paid more than $100,000 a year when someone like me survives on a third of that.
To make the world even more inequitable, I've played the lottery fairly regularly for the last 3 or 4 years and have yet to win any major prize, let alone the jackpot, while others buy an occasional ticket on a whim and strike it rich. And the winner is always some trashy, uneducated plebe in Indiana who's going to lose it all to con-artists and mooching relatives. Where's the justice? I'm far more deserving of vast riches than the people who usually win, since I would put it to better use by living fabulously.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Vintage luxury is still luxury, dammit
I was contemplating my inevitable acquisition of a certain late '80s model Mercedes 560 SEL. Currently in the possession of my wife's grandparents, sooner or later it will go to me either by bequest when they pass on or deed of gift when they can no longer drive. It's been meticulously maintained, garage-kept, and is in nearly new condition. Its original MSRP was about $72,000, the equivalent of $119,000 in 2009. Think about that a moment—back in 1989 or 1990, to be seen driving one of those would have made quite the impression. It was probably purchased after endless nagging by Granny, the real-world equivalent of Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced BOO-KAY!).
Thanks to the sad reality of depreciation, today the car is probably worth around $6,000, fueling the public's perception of old luxury cars as a poor man's ride. The masses have no appreciation for historical context; in 1989, that car was top-of-the-line. It may not have an in-dash GPS system or a rear view camera, but damned if it ain't still a smooth, luxurious ride.
It upsets me that we have this widespread negative sentiment toward older luxury vehicles. Thanks to marketing firms' well-honed aptitude for manipulating the feeble mind of the average American, the general population has been brainwashed into believing that old=inferior. An old luxury car is still a luxury car! I shouldn't be too surprised, I suppose, given that we treat elderly people in this country the same way we treat old cars. Toss 'em on the heap when they're no longer new and exciting. It's time we start giving old luxury cars the same respect and admiration they got when they were being touted as the hot item of the year by those same marketing sleazebags.
Thanks to the sad reality of depreciation, today the car is probably worth around $6,000, fueling the public's perception of old luxury cars as a poor man's ride. The masses have no appreciation for historical context; in 1989, that car was top-of-the-line. It may not have an in-dash GPS system or a rear view camera, but damned if it ain't still a smooth, luxurious ride.
It upsets me that we have this widespread negative sentiment toward older luxury vehicles. Thanks to marketing firms' well-honed aptitude for manipulating the feeble mind of the average American, the general population has been brainwashed into believing that old=inferior. An old luxury car is still a luxury car! I shouldn't be too surprised, I suppose, given that we treat elderly people in this country the same way we treat old cars. Toss 'em on the heap when they're no longer new and exciting. It's time we start giving old luxury cars the same respect and admiration they got when they were being touted as the hot item of the year by those same marketing sleazebags.
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