I hate Mondays. I know it's a tired, worn-out sentiment, but still so very true. I hate being jerked back into reality after two days of doing whatever I want, and getting my ass here 5 minutes early so I won't miss the pointless weekly staff meeting. Meanwhile, the Boss is away on a luxurious three-week vacation in Italy. How nice that he can afford to do that! Because he saves so much money by paying us insultingly small salaries. Greedy reptile. Anyway, this past weekend we watched several redbox rentals, ate a lot of pizza, and I took some time to catalog my music library more carefully. My goal is to have the year of release (or composition, in the case of classical pieces) for every song, and when possible, the year, month, and day of release. That way, I can arrange my library in chronological order, and even make year-by-year playlists arranged in order of release, permitting a musical journey through time. My other goal is to digitize every single worthwhile track in my CD collection. I've had iTunes for about 7 years, and I still haven't done this. Now that I'm keeping my iTunes library in a 1TB external drive instead of my aging laptop's pitiful 80GB hard drive, there's no excuse for not having my entire sound library in electronic format. Once this is accomplished, I'll be able to clear out a little bit of precious storage space in the upstairs closet and make a few bucks selling some of my CDs to Edward McKay.
I am keeping some of my classic '90s albums, though, in hopes that I may someday resurrect the '90s room. It never did really pan out in its first incarnation, what with having to multi-function as a home office, storage room, and library. Someday, though, I'd like to have a guest room decorated like a late '90s dorm room. It would have twin beds, sturdy laminated furniture, maybe an ugly sofa, crude humor posters, mini fridge, vintage microwave, '90s computer, an old CRT TV set and VCR, and a Playstation or N64. I even saved some '90s VHS movies from the trash, and more titles can be found cheap on eBay.
I also spent some time last week during a very slow week at the office tracking down digitized forms of books and comics I already own in printed form. A few weeks ago I downloaded a torrent containing the entire run of Calvin & Hobbes, in chronological order with publication dates on every page and Sunday strips in full color. I managed to find a few Uncle Scrooge stories by Romano Scarpa, an Italian artist active in the '50s, as well as some stories from the daily Mickey Mouse comic strip of the '30s which I have in attractive softcover volumes. I also came across an index of downloadable Preacher comics. Gray's Anatomy (the classic medical text, not the estrogen-soaked TV series that just won't die) was easy to find in PDF format, but my best find was the entire Book of Kells, a medieval Irish manuscript full of beautifully illuminated pages. It was surprisingly difficult to find for free, and I'll be damned if I was going to pay $50 for a public domain book on CD-ROM.
Now my latest interest is to get a good video capture device so that I can convert my old VHS tapes to MPEG-4 files. I've got some odds and ends recorded from TV many years ago, as well as a few movies that never went to DVD, such as Ducktales: Treasure of the Lost Lamp and Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown, the only Peanuts movie that didn't put me to sleep or make me feel like taking ’shrooms. Maybe I'll even digitize my bootleg VHS copy of Disney's darkest shame (no pun intended), Song of the South.
What's been keeping me from accomplishing all this archival work? My dreary day job, that's what! There's not much time to do all this while I'm watching the irreplaceable hours of my life tick away in a little gray cubicle and praying harder than ever before for a windfall. I do feel that it's getting close, though. I have a feeling that God will come through and knows how badly I want, nay, need, to get out of the daily grind and live my life the way I've always wanted. I don't even demand a luxurious lifestyle with expensive cars, private jets, yachts, and multiple mansions. All I ask for is an elegant city house, a beach retreat, and a few vehicles for various purposes, and the funds to maintain it all without working. He's coming through with it by the end of the month.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
The Universe failed, but God will provide
May 1 came and went, and the Universe failed to provide the car I desire and need. However, my faith that an all-powerful God will come through for me still survives thanks to what can only be portents of things to come, in the form of multiple Sequoia sightings over the weekend.
This past weekend, my wife and I journeyed to Raleigh to visit friends and family. On Sunday, May 1, I was feeling down at first after learning that, yet again, I hadn't won a substantial lottery prize, but on the drive back from lunch to my parents' house, I spotted a silver Sequoia along Glenwood Avenue, gleaming in the sun in all its elegant splendor. It dawned on me that since I was testing the power of the Universe against the power of God, God had prevented me from getting my paws on the coveted S.U.V. so that there would be no confusion as to who was in charge, and to drive home the point that positive thinking and laws of attraction are horse shit. Now is the time for Him to come through and deliver me from the banal world of the Ford sedan. I'll concede that one late-model Sequoia sighting can be ruled out as mere coincidence, but when I went to gas up for the drive home that afternoon, a beautiful black model ambled past me in the parking lot, just the kind I want. I spotted two more with my eagle-eye in the opposite lanes along the interstate on my way back home. Surely this can't be a coincidence. Four '08+ models in one day? With their yearly manufacturing output decreasing each year due to the feeble economy and soaring fuel prices, the '08+ models aren't exactly to be found around every corner. God is working on it, and by May 31 He will have one sitting outside my door with my name on the title.
This past weekend, my wife and I journeyed to Raleigh to visit friends and family. On Sunday, May 1, I was feeling down at first after learning that, yet again, I hadn't won a substantial lottery prize, but on the drive back from lunch to my parents' house, I spotted a silver Sequoia along Glenwood Avenue, gleaming in the sun in all its elegant splendor. It dawned on me that since I was testing the power of the Universe against the power of God, God had prevented me from getting my paws on the coveted S.U.V. so that there would be no confusion as to who was in charge, and to drive home the point that positive thinking and laws of attraction are horse shit. Now is the time for Him to come through and deliver me from the banal world of the Ford sedan. I'll concede that one late-model Sequoia sighting can be ruled out as mere coincidence, but when I went to gas up for the drive home that afternoon, a beautiful black model ambled past me in the parking lot, just the kind I want. I spotted two more with my eagle-eye in the opposite lanes along the interstate on my way back home. Surely this can't be a coincidence. Four '08+ models in one day? With their yearly manufacturing output decreasing each year due to the feeble economy and soaring fuel prices, the '08+ models aren't exactly to be found around every corner. God is working on it, and by May 31 He will have one sitting outside my door with my name on the title.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Approaching the deadline
May 1 is less than a week away. In case you've forgotten, or haven't kept up regularly with every inane posting on this blog, May 1 is the deadline I set for the Universe to get me a vehicular upgrade. I've tried very hard to keep up the positive thinking in order to attract what I want. Maybe the Universe was waiting for me to make a firm decision on the type of vehicle I want, since for a little while there I was flip-flopping between a Ford Expedition EL and a Toyota Sequoia, and even considered a late-model Grand Marquis. My mind is made up, now, and I will go with a black Sequoia. It's made better and holds value better, plus it's better suited for the classy but incognito look I try to maintain (see my entry, In Praise of Averageness). I really want a 2008 or newer model, with the latest body style, but I'm getting to where I'll settle for an older one if it lets me ditch the Ford. It's gotta be black, though, even if I find a good deal and have to have it painted. I've decided I want the second row captain's chairs with the console, so that rear passengers can travel in greater comfort. Yes, Universe, I am ready for my Sequoia! Show me the money!
I realized something this afternoon which I consider a profound observation. I was lounging on the couch at home, enjoying an extended lunch break since my boss left before I did, and glanced at a collage of photos on the living room wall. They were all of fun times and happy memories my wife and I shared together or with friends and relatives, taking during birthday parties, vacations, weekend jaunts, and family gatherings. That's when I realized something I'd never really noticed before: in all the homes I've visited, among all the personal photos adorning walls and tabletops, I can't recall a single framed photo that was shot in someone's workplace. The moments in time we all choose to capture on a 4 by 6-inch sheet of glossy paper and display under glass have absolutely nothing to do with what we do to scrape out a living 40 hours a week. That's how little we wish to be reminded of the hours we don't get to spend doing what makes us happy, with the people we love. Sure, we may have fun at work, joking around with colleagues and maybe even doing projects we find somewhat interesting, but we still don't really want to be there. We do it for the money, so that we can pay to have dinner or drinks with the people in those pictures on the living room wall. A change of vehicle would definitely make me more content with my world, but it won't make me completely happy. No, that can only be accomplished with a ticket out of the daily grind. I'm so ready to quit this fucking dead-end job so unworthy of being immortalized in photographs, and live every day like it were a Saturday. I love my weekends. Even this past holiday weekend when I was sitting through an endless round of Stabat Mater during a 2-hour Good Friday church service, I thought to myself, at least I'm not at work. It's the best job I could ask for, as far as jobs go, except for the shitty pay, but I'm absolutely ready to drop the fucking plow in the field without any hesitation. No two weeks notice, no wrapping up projects. As soon as that lotto jackpot is in my bank account, I'm packing up my scant few belongings in my cubicle, leaving my keycard on my desk, and walking out the back door without speaking a word to anyone. Fuck this place, man. I am not spending another fine summer rotting away in this office when I should be lounging at the beach or gorging at the buffet on a cruise ship. If God exists, He will provide me with the means to ditch the rat race by the end of May of this year.
I realized something this afternoon which I consider a profound observation. I was lounging on the couch at home, enjoying an extended lunch break since my boss left before I did, and glanced at a collage of photos on the living room wall. They were all of fun times and happy memories my wife and I shared together or with friends and relatives, taking during birthday parties, vacations, weekend jaunts, and family gatherings. That's when I realized something I'd never really noticed before: in all the homes I've visited, among all the personal photos adorning walls and tabletops, I can't recall a single framed photo that was shot in someone's workplace. The moments in time we all choose to capture on a 4 by 6-inch sheet of glossy paper and display under glass have absolutely nothing to do with what we do to scrape out a living 40 hours a week. That's how little we wish to be reminded of the hours we don't get to spend doing what makes us happy, with the people we love. Sure, we may have fun at work, joking around with colleagues and maybe even doing projects we find somewhat interesting, but we still don't really want to be there. We do it for the money, so that we can pay to have dinner or drinks with the people in those pictures on the living room wall. A change of vehicle would definitely make me more content with my world, but it won't make me completely happy. No, that can only be accomplished with a ticket out of the daily grind. I'm so ready to quit this fucking dead-end job so unworthy of being immortalized in photographs, and live every day like it were a Saturday. I love my weekends. Even this past holiday weekend when I was sitting through an endless round of Stabat Mater during a 2-hour Good Friday church service, I thought to myself, at least I'm not at work. It's the best job I could ask for, as far as jobs go, except for the shitty pay, but I'm absolutely ready to drop the fucking plow in the field without any hesitation. No two weeks notice, no wrapping up projects. As soon as that lotto jackpot is in my bank account, I'm packing up my scant few belongings in my cubicle, leaving my keycard on my desk, and walking out the back door without speaking a word to anyone. Fuck this place, man. I am not spending another fine summer rotting away in this office when I should be lounging at the beach or gorging at the buffet on a cruise ship. If God exists, He will provide me with the means to ditch the rat race by the end of May of this year.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Yep, I still want to retire
I spent last week living the life of a 30-year-old retiree. We escaped the toil and drudgery of our McJobs for a week and got away from it all at our beloved seaside condominium. O, what a glorious week! For seven days there were no alarms to wake up with, no co-workers dropping in asking me to perform some last-minute miracle, no insipid 8-year-olds backtalking my wife, and no wasting hours of my life in a cubicle. It was exactly the way I would live if I had the means to retire and live at the beach: relaxing, slow-paced, easy, and on no one's terms but my own. It was essentially the same as being on a cruise ship, eating, drinking, and amusing ourselves all the time, except we prepared most meals ourselves. Here's the day-by-day account:
Saturday: Arrived at the condo about 3:30 with the 4runner overflowing with a week's worth of luggage and provisions. Dined on take-out pizza. I was pleased to find a new unprotected wi-fi signal to leech off of that was much stronger than the one two floors up that I had used on previous visits.
Sunday: Spent the day reading and watching TV. Dinner was homemade chicken chili.
Monday: Made it out onto the beach, where it was so windy we had to wear coats and long pants. We managed to sit out there for a few hours until we couldn't feel our own hands anymore. Dinner was leftover chili.
Tuesday: Rained some in the morning but it blew over by lunchtime. Finally finished Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons, which I had started reading last June and hadn't picked up since October. We ate lunch at the Mexican joint on the corner and had dessert at the frozen custard place, then went for a nice leisurely walk up the main drag all the way to the pier, where the peckers charge a dollar to walk out onto the pier. Dinner was grilled pork tenderloin.
Wednesday: Couples massage at the big shopping center on the mainland, followed by a visit to the Barnes & Noble and a snack from Wendy's. Dinner and drinks at our favorite restaurant.
Thursday: More beach-sitting. Much warmer than Monday. Dinner was leftover pork and entertainment was the American Idol results show.
Friday: Still more beach-sitting. Cool enough to wear long pants and long-sleeve shirt, but not bitterly cold like Monday. Dinner was at the seafood place across the street, where I had mouthgasmic Low Country Mac 'n' Cheese. Got pretty tipsy at our favorite place up the street on 3 rounds of rum & Coke before retiring at midnight.
Saturday: Got up at 9, packed up and left. Stopped in Raleigh for lunch with the in-laws, then visited Granny for a bit. It all proved a very nice way to break up the 3.5-hour drive back home. Went to a friend's little birthday/housewarming party that night.
Sunday: Spent the morning and afternoon watching the first 7 installments of The Kennedys on Reelz, the miniseries that the family bullied The History Channel out of showing. The day was much too short. Supper was Papa John's, one last hurrah before returning to our banal day-to-day lives.
We had a heapin' helpin' of television last week, taking advantage of our access to HBO and Showtime. We watched the premiere of The Borgias, a 15-minute preview of Game of Thrones, plus several movies we'd never pay to see in a theater, such as Just Wright, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, MacGruber, and an old favorite, Pootie Tang. I even had a 6-hour 1990s nostalgia orgy consisting of SNL in the '90s and VH1's top 40 one-hit wonders of the 1990s.
This week-long respite also helped me refine my skills in packing light. I thought I had packed the bare essentials for 7 days' journey, but I wound up not even wearing three shirts, one pair of pants, and a sweater I had packed. I found the most useful and versatile article of clothing to be my stone-colored safari shirt, which I wear very infrequently in the city. Being a collared, button-front shirt, it's quite smart-looking and appropriate for the finer dining establishments at the beach, but its slightly shorter tail allows for it to be worn untucked for an easy-going, I'm-on-vacation look. The chest pockets are handy for carrying a small camera and a mobile phone. My replica WWII army officer's summer cotton shirt was OK for cooler days on the beach, but I favor the safari shirt for its slimmer tailoring. I think I've finally hit on what makes for a good one-size-fits-most travel wardrobe, and plan to acquire a couple more safari shirts and a couple pairs of cargo pants. I may go so far as to get a safari-style jacket, probably a replica of a WWII UK army officer's summer cotton uniform coat. I hope to have all these things in time for our return to the highland games this summer.
On this last trip I finally screwed up the courage to wear my pith helmet on the beach on that windy Monday. It did shield my delicate pate from the sun, but stronger gusts threatened to knock it from its perch. I'm afraid that the most sensible, least troublesome headgear for the beach is the lowly baseball cap, which also best serves the traveler who is interested in packing light. This time around I brought too damn many hats, including the pith helmet, a straw wide-brimmed number, my brown felt fedora, and my green tweed driving cap. In the future I'll just pack a baseball cap. I'll have to find or design one that fits in with my vintage-inspired wardrobe. Perhaps I'll have one imprinted with the logo of some long-defunct 1920s airline.
The only thing at home I really missed was my library, which fueled my desire for a high-capacity iPod on which I could store every book, or at least my favorite books, in digital format. As of right now, the process of digitization is slow and tedious, and I just don't have the free time for it. I have so many books I'd want on an iPod; I don't know how I would ever have the time to digitize them all. I've been working on scanning Our Dumb Century, and even that seems to take an hour for every 30 pages. At least I found a digital copy of my book about WWII U.S. Army uniforms.
The one disappointing part of the trip was the vigilance of the beach ranger patrol. I felt even more uneasy than last summer as his Dodge pickup slowly rolled up and down the strand, his suspicious eye on the lookout for alcoholic beverages, which are prohibited on the beach. In years past it wasn't enforced if you made a half-assed effort to keep it out of sight, but ever since last year when he stopped and asked our friend what she had in her cup (which was empty), I feel like I can't even sip a margarita out of a plastic screwtop bottle anymore. I did come across a method of disguising a beer can by wrapping it in a cut-up soft drink can, and came up with the idea of sipping our concoctions from styrofoam take-out cups, which seems to be the sneakiest and most effective strategy.
As you can see, I spent my vacation days just the way I would if I could only get a huge cash infusion and quit my shitty day job. The fact that I'm typing this in my little gray cubicle indicates that I have not yet won the lottery jackpot I am entitled to. I had hoped God or the Universe would provide this during my vacation so that I would be in a quiet, relaxing place where I could plan for the future. Strike one against my faith in any sort of higher power. I still expect that by May 1 of this year, I will, at the very least, have the '08 or newer Toyota Sequoia I pine for, in black, preferably with tan leather seats and second row captain's chairs with the nice center console, and money left over to outfit it with rear headrest monitors and a TV tuner. I'm still sticking to my ultimatum to God, to provide that jackpot or similar retirement fund by the end of May this year. It may sound blasphemous, but I've been waiting and praying long enough. I've been hanging on for about five fucking years now. The time to retire is NOW! I've already cleared out personal items from my cubicle and removed any sensitive personal stuff from my computer. I'm ready to leave that resignation note and get the fuck out of here the morning after the next drawing. May 29, the day after the last lottery drawing before Memorial Day and the start of the summer vacation season, will be the day I either confirm or abandon my belief in God or any other higher power.
Saturday: Arrived at the condo about 3:30 with the 4runner overflowing with a week's worth of luggage and provisions. Dined on take-out pizza. I was pleased to find a new unprotected wi-fi signal to leech off of that was much stronger than the one two floors up that I had used on previous visits.
Sunday: Spent the day reading and watching TV. Dinner was homemade chicken chili.
Monday: Made it out onto the beach, where it was so windy we had to wear coats and long pants. We managed to sit out there for a few hours until we couldn't feel our own hands anymore. Dinner was leftover chili.
Tuesday: Rained some in the morning but it blew over by lunchtime. Finally finished Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons, which I had started reading last June and hadn't picked up since October. We ate lunch at the Mexican joint on the corner and had dessert at the frozen custard place, then went for a nice leisurely walk up the main drag all the way to the pier, where the peckers charge a dollar to walk out onto the pier. Dinner was grilled pork tenderloin.
Wednesday: Couples massage at the big shopping center on the mainland, followed by a visit to the Barnes & Noble and a snack from Wendy's. Dinner and drinks at our favorite restaurant.
Thursday: More beach-sitting. Much warmer than Monday. Dinner was leftover pork and entertainment was the American Idol results show.
Friday: Still more beach-sitting. Cool enough to wear long pants and long-sleeve shirt, but not bitterly cold like Monday. Dinner was at the seafood place across the street, where I had mouthgasmic Low Country Mac 'n' Cheese. Got pretty tipsy at our favorite place up the street on 3 rounds of rum & Coke before retiring at midnight.
Saturday: Got up at 9, packed up and left. Stopped in Raleigh for lunch with the in-laws, then visited Granny for a bit. It all proved a very nice way to break up the 3.5-hour drive back home. Went to a friend's little birthday/housewarming party that night.
Sunday: Spent the morning and afternoon watching the first 7 installments of The Kennedys on Reelz, the miniseries that the family bullied The History Channel out of showing. The day was much too short. Supper was Papa John's, one last hurrah before returning to our banal day-to-day lives.
We had a heapin' helpin' of television last week, taking advantage of our access to HBO and Showtime. We watched the premiere of The Borgias, a 15-minute preview of Game of Thrones, plus several movies we'd never pay to see in a theater, such as Just Wright, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, MacGruber, and an old favorite, Pootie Tang. I even had a 6-hour 1990s nostalgia orgy consisting of SNL in the '90s and VH1's top 40 one-hit wonders of the 1990s.
This week-long respite also helped me refine my skills in packing light. I thought I had packed the bare essentials for 7 days' journey, but I wound up not even wearing three shirts, one pair of pants, and a sweater I had packed. I found the most useful and versatile article of clothing to be my stone-colored safari shirt, which I wear very infrequently in the city. Being a collared, button-front shirt, it's quite smart-looking and appropriate for the finer dining establishments at the beach, but its slightly shorter tail allows for it to be worn untucked for an easy-going, I'm-on-vacation look. The chest pockets are handy for carrying a small camera and a mobile phone. My replica WWII army officer's summer cotton shirt was OK for cooler days on the beach, but I favor the safari shirt for its slimmer tailoring. I think I've finally hit on what makes for a good one-size-fits-most travel wardrobe, and plan to acquire a couple more safari shirts and a couple pairs of cargo pants. I may go so far as to get a safari-style jacket, probably a replica of a WWII UK army officer's summer cotton uniform coat. I hope to have all these things in time for our return to the highland games this summer.
On this last trip I finally screwed up the courage to wear my pith helmet on the beach on that windy Monday. It did shield my delicate pate from the sun, but stronger gusts threatened to knock it from its perch. I'm afraid that the most sensible, least troublesome headgear for the beach is the lowly baseball cap, which also best serves the traveler who is interested in packing light. This time around I brought too damn many hats, including the pith helmet, a straw wide-brimmed number, my brown felt fedora, and my green tweed driving cap. In the future I'll just pack a baseball cap. I'll have to find or design one that fits in with my vintage-inspired wardrobe. Perhaps I'll have one imprinted with the logo of some long-defunct 1920s airline.
The only thing at home I really missed was my library, which fueled my desire for a high-capacity iPod on which I could store every book, or at least my favorite books, in digital format. As of right now, the process of digitization is slow and tedious, and I just don't have the free time for it. I have so many books I'd want on an iPod; I don't know how I would ever have the time to digitize them all. I've been working on scanning Our Dumb Century, and even that seems to take an hour for every 30 pages. At least I found a digital copy of my book about WWII U.S. Army uniforms.
The one disappointing part of the trip was the vigilance of the beach ranger patrol. I felt even more uneasy than last summer as his Dodge pickup slowly rolled up and down the strand, his suspicious eye on the lookout for alcoholic beverages, which are prohibited on the beach. In years past it wasn't enforced if you made a half-assed effort to keep it out of sight, but ever since last year when he stopped and asked our friend what she had in her cup (which was empty), I feel like I can't even sip a margarita out of a plastic screwtop bottle anymore. I did come across a method of disguising a beer can by wrapping it in a cut-up soft drink can, and came up with the idea of sipping our concoctions from styrofoam take-out cups, which seems to be the sneakiest and most effective strategy.
As you can see, I spent my vacation days just the way I would if I could only get a huge cash infusion and quit my shitty day job. The fact that I'm typing this in my little gray cubicle indicates that I have not yet won the lottery jackpot I am entitled to. I had hoped God or the Universe would provide this during my vacation so that I would be in a quiet, relaxing place where I could plan for the future. Strike one against my faith in any sort of higher power. I still expect that by May 1 of this year, I will, at the very least, have the '08 or newer Toyota Sequoia I pine for, in black, preferably with tan leather seats and second row captain's chairs with the nice center console, and money left over to outfit it with rear headrest monitors and a TV tuner. I'm still sticking to my ultimatum to God, to provide that jackpot or similar retirement fund by the end of May this year. It may sound blasphemous, but I've been waiting and praying long enough. I've been hanging on for about five fucking years now. The time to retire is NOW! I've already cleared out personal items from my cubicle and removed any sensitive personal stuff from my computer. I'm ready to leave that resignation note and get the fuck out of here the morning after the next drawing. May 29, the day after the last lottery drawing before Memorial Day and the start of the summer vacation season, will be the day I either confirm or abandon my belief in God or any other higher power.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Canvas, Cast Iron, and Kerosene: When Roughing It Was Rough
Lately I've revived my old interests in the aesthetics of the 1910s through 1930s. It began with dusting off the fedoras and going a little more retro with my outfit choices. Right now I'm wearing cotton twill slacks, a striped button-front shirt, and saddle oxfords, plus my brown fedora when outdoors, all which, conceivably, could have been found on a young man in the '20s or '30s. For a few weeks now, my wife and I have been fostering a young Cocker Spaniel until we can find a more suitable home for it. We got into a habit of taking her to the local park on weekends, and I would put on somewhat vintage-looking outfits, including my replica World War II cotton khaki uniform shirt, my Levis 501 dungarees, which I was happy to learn are very similar to those made 80 years ago, except for the red tab, and a military-style canvas shoulder bag. My next major purchase may be a replica of a World War I British army officer's musette bag and an M1910 canteen for future dog-walking expeditions. Our forays into civilized wilderness, combined with a vintage-inspired wardrobe and accessories, sparked a revived interest in something I'd contemplated long, long ago: camping out in an early 20th century fashion.
"Roughing it" has gotten soft these past few decades, in my opinion. Modern-day campers sleep in feather-weight tents made of slick nylon that pop up in seconds, wear unattractive clothing, keep fresh meats and dairy products in cold-storage boxes or small refrigerators powered by their vehicle's battery, and prepare freeze-dried gourmet meals stored in neat little foil packets just by adding water and heating on a shiny folding propane stove. Many campgrounds even offer electricity outlets, running water, and full restroom and shower facilities. This is what people call "roughing it?"
There was a time when truly hardy folks left what was then the modern hustle and bustle of city life, with its clattering trolley cars, talking picture shows, and jabbering radio programs, and headed out into the forest primeval for a weekend of getting back to basics. The Model A would be packed with nonperishable food, cast-iron pots, tin plates & cups, jugs of water, and maybe a banjo or ukulele for entertainment. The campers would arrive looking like overgrown boy scouts, men and women alike decked out in woolen breeches or possibly denim waist overalls, knee-high boots or ankle boots & puttees, sturdy shirts, and large felt hats. An assortment of canvas sheets and wooden poles became a tent, and a batch of chopped wood formed a campfire. Canned beans and salt-pork went into an iron pot for a hearty supper, and after the sun went down and the dishes were washed, everyone gathered around and sang along to the twanging banjo while passing around a flask of smuggled hooch. Perhaps if one of the campers was skilled in electronics, the group would tune in to Amos 'n' Andy on a radio hooked up to the Ford's electrical system. Upon retiring for the night, they would perhaps read a bit in their tents by the light of a kerosene lantern or perhaps an early flashlight. Come the morning, a shower was unnecessary; change your underdrawers if you feel the need. Time to return last night's supper to the earth? No restrooms here. Go dig a latrine behind a tree, like the bears in those Charmin commercials.
How grand 'twould be to arrive in my cavalry breeches and Montana peak hat, set up a canvas tent, light up a wood fire, and dump canned goods wrapped in replica 1920s labels into a cast-iron pot! I already wasted a good part of my Monday morning in the cubicle re-creating a period Campfire marshmallow label for a metal tin, and even found some high-resolution scans of vintage food packaging. Perhaps someday when I am exceedingly wealthy, I'll be unpacking everything from a fully restored Model T.
"Roughing it" has gotten soft these past few decades, in my opinion. Modern-day campers sleep in feather-weight tents made of slick nylon that pop up in seconds, wear unattractive clothing, keep fresh meats and dairy products in cold-storage boxes or small refrigerators powered by their vehicle's battery, and prepare freeze-dried gourmet meals stored in neat little foil packets just by adding water and heating on a shiny folding propane stove. Many campgrounds even offer electricity outlets, running water, and full restroom and shower facilities. This is what people call "roughing it?"
There was a time when truly hardy folks left what was then the modern hustle and bustle of city life, with its clattering trolley cars, talking picture shows, and jabbering radio programs, and headed out into the forest primeval for a weekend of getting back to basics. The Model A would be packed with nonperishable food, cast-iron pots, tin plates & cups, jugs of water, and maybe a banjo or ukulele for entertainment. The campers would arrive looking like overgrown boy scouts, men and women alike decked out in woolen breeches or possibly denim waist overalls, knee-high boots or ankle boots & puttees, sturdy shirts, and large felt hats. An assortment of canvas sheets and wooden poles became a tent, and a batch of chopped wood formed a campfire. Canned beans and salt-pork went into an iron pot for a hearty supper, and after the sun went down and the dishes were washed, everyone gathered around and sang along to the twanging banjo while passing around a flask of smuggled hooch. Perhaps if one of the campers was skilled in electronics, the group would tune in to Amos 'n' Andy on a radio hooked up to the Ford's electrical system. Upon retiring for the night, they would perhaps read a bit in their tents by the light of a kerosene lantern or perhaps an early flashlight. Come the morning, a shower was unnecessary; change your underdrawers if you feel the need. Time to return last night's supper to the earth? No restrooms here. Go dig a latrine behind a tree, like the bears in those Charmin commercials.
How grand 'twould be to arrive in my cavalry breeches and Montana peak hat, set up a canvas tent, light up a wood fire, and dump canned goods wrapped in replica 1920s labels into a cast-iron pot! I already wasted a good part of my Monday morning in the cubicle re-creating a period Campfire marshmallow label for a metal tin, and even found some high-resolution scans of vintage food packaging. Perhaps someday when I am exceedingly wealthy, I'll be unpacking everything from a fully restored Model T.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Why am I still here?
So I'm still in my cubicle, toiling away, watching the clock, waiting for another day of drudgery to come to a close. The countdown to May 1 continues at a snail's pace. There has been a slight change of plans: while I am holding God and the Universe to the May 1 deadline for the much smaller task of providing an acceptable vehicle to replace my Ford, I gave them an extension to the Wednesday before Memorial Day weekend to make me a lottery winner. So Thursday, May 26 (when I find out Wednesday's Powerball results), could be the last morning I believe in any sort of god. I have decided that if a just god exists, He will not allow me to spend one more summer in this shit-hole office.
I've already got my exit strategy planned out. I would prefer to win a Friday or Saturday night drawing, so that the following day, I could come to the empty office, pack up my few personal belongings, and leave a snarky note in my cubicle, something to the effect of "I won the lottery! I'm outta here." I try not to keep personal items in my cubicle so that my exit will be quicker.
The perfect time for this to happen would be when I start my week's vacation at the beach this Spring. It would be right after I get paid, and my wife and I would be at our favorite place, away from it all, and free to think and plan. Plus with a newly-deposited paycheck, we could splurge on eating out and such during our vacation without worrying about paying the month's bills. Ahem! Are you taking a hint, God/Universe?
I've been wondering lately whether a huge cash infusion would change my hatred for the rich. If I had all my basic desires fulfilled, including retirement at age 30, an elegant primary residence, a fine but sensible automobile for each of us plus a spare, and a house at the beach, with millions in the bank earning a comfortable passive income, would I still resent rich people? In my current state of affairs, I abhor the rich. It's not only unfair, but just plain wrong, that there are people who "earn" millions of dollars a year while their underlings, without whose labor they would not prosper, receive pitiful salaries in the $20-$30K range, so that the top brass can acquire more shit no person needs: boats, private aircraft, extra cars, third & fourth homes, $2,000 suits, $600 shoes, and diamond-studded collars for their purebred canines. Some rich people justify their excessive income by citing the long hours they work, like 60 or 80 hours a week. So if one guy works 80 hours a week and receives $500,000 a year, why does another guy lower on the totem pole working 40 hours get $28,000? Are those extra 20-40 hours somehow worth 10 or 20 times as much as the first 40? The rich are driven by shameless, unbridled greed, and can't stop at just getting enough. For the rich, there's no such thing as enough. They want more, more, more, and don't give a shit about employees struggling to make ends meet. "Hmm, Bob does have 3 kids and a sick wife, but man, that 53-foot motor-sailor would be so awesome on my 2-week vacation." In order to delude themselves into thinking they're "giving back," they attend charity events with other rich people at which obscene amounts of money are spent on food and entertainment instead of going directly to the charity's beneficiaries, then take their "contribution" as a tax deduction while the gummint makes up the difference by sticking it to middle class clock-punchers. The abysmal earnings gap in this country just sickens me. While people do deserve some reward for taking greater risks and serving in leadership capacities, just how much more reward do they deserve than the people who come in every day and spend 8 hours of their lives making money for someone else?
I personally am sick of trading a third of my waking hours for a bad joke of a paycheck, and yet I'm pretty much stuck. Freelancing doesn't offer health insurance, which my wife needs and doesn't get through her employer and would be too costly to buy on our own. It's also too unreliable; you never know when you'll get your next paying gig, or whether the one you're working will pay up on time. My line of work doesn't command a huge hourly rate, anyway, thanks to the low value society seems to place on what I do, even though not many people can do it well. So here I sit, fuming about the privileged few who don't have to worry about weekly specials, coupons, and the price of gasoline, while desperately yearning to join their ranks. As soon as that happens, however, I will of course reverse my opinion and do all I can to keep the huddled masses' filthy hands off my cash.
Speaking of a third of my waking hours, I thought about it and realized I actually have less than 8 hours of truly free leisure time on weekdays. Think about it: I drive to work and back, and spend about 45 minutes getting ready to leave for work. I do have an hour for lunch, but I don't consider that leisure time since it severely limits what I can do in the span of 60 minutes. Don't forget evening meal preparation & consumption, about 45 minutes. Showering & drying off takes an additional 20 minutes. I don't go to sleep the instant I get in bed, so in order to get 8 hours and get up at 7:30, I have to be in bed around 11:00. So really it's more like 3 1/2 to 4 hours of time to do whatever the hell I want. What kind of ripoff is that? Work days should be reduced to 5 or 6 hours to make up for the time lost in daily self-maintenance activities. Cooking, eating, bathing, dressing, grooming, and driving to & from work are not leisure activities in my book.
I've already got my exit strategy planned out. I would prefer to win a Friday or Saturday night drawing, so that the following day, I could come to the empty office, pack up my few personal belongings, and leave a snarky note in my cubicle, something to the effect of "I won the lottery! I'm outta here." I try not to keep personal items in my cubicle so that my exit will be quicker.
The perfect time for this to happen would be when I start my week's vacation at the beach this Spring. It would be right after I get paid, and my wife and I would be at our favorite place, away from it all, and free to think and plan. Plus with a newly-deposited paycheck, we could splurge on eating out and such during our vacation without worrying about paying the month's bills. Ahem! Are you taking a hint, God/Universe?
I've been wondering lately whether a huge cash infusion would change my hatred for the rich. If I had all my basic desires fulfilled, including retirement at age 30, an elegant primary residence, a fine but sensible automobile for each of us plus a spare, and a house at the beach, with millions in the bank earning a comfortable passive income, would I still resent rich people? In my current state of affairs, I abhor the rich. It's not only unfair, but just plain wrong, that there are people who "earn" millions of dollars a year while their underlings, without whose labor they would not prosper, receive pitiful salaries in the $20-$30K range, so that the top brass can acquire more shit no person needs: boats, private aircraft, extra cars, third & fourth homes, $2,000 suits, $600 shoes, and diamond-studded collars for their purebred canines. Some rich people justify their excessive income by citing the long hours they work, like 60 or 80 hours a week. So if one guy works 80 hours a week and receives $500,000 a year, why does another guy lower on the totem pole working 40 hours get $28,000? Are those extra 20-40 hours somehow worth 10 or 20 times as much as the first 40? The rich are driven by shameless, unbridled greed, and can't stop at just getting enough. For the rich, there's no such thing as enough. They want more, more, more, and don't give a shit about employees struggling to make ends meet. "Hmm, Bob does have 3 kids and a sick wife, but man, that 53-foot motor-sailor would be so awesome on my 2-week vacation." In order to delude themselves into thinking they're "giving back," they attend charity events with other rich people at which obscene amounts of money are spent on food and entertainment instead of going directly to the charity's beneficiaries, then take their "contribution" as a tax deduction while the gummint makes up the difference by sticking it to middle class clock-punchers. The abysmal earnings gap in this country just sickens me. While people do deserve some reward for taking greater risks and serving in leadership capacities, just how much more reward do they deserve than the people who come in every day and spend 8 hours of their lives making money for someone else?
I personally am sick of trading a third of my waking hours for a bad joke of a paycheck, and yet I'm pretty much stuck. Freelancing doesn't offer health insurance, which my wife needs and doesn't get through her employer and would be too costly to buy on our own. It's also too unreliable; you never know when you'll get your next paying gig, or whether the one you're working will pay up on time. My line of work doesn't command a huge hourly rate, anyway, thanks to the low value society seems to place on what I do, even though not many people can do it well. So here I sit, fuming about the privileged few who don't have to worry about weekly specials, coupons, and the price of gasoline, while desperately yearning to join their ranks. As soon as that happens, however, I will of course reverse my opinion and do all I can to keep the huddled masses' filthy hands off my cash.
Speaking of a third of my waking hours, I thought about it and realized I actually have less than 8 hours of truly free leisure time on weekdays. Think about it: I drive to work and back, and spend about 45 minutes getting ready to leave for work. I do have an hour for lunch, but I don't consider that leisure time since it severely limits what I can do in the span of 60 minutes. Don't forget evening meal preparation & consumption, about 45 minutes. Showering & drying off takes an additional 20 minutes. I don't go to sleep the instant I get in bed, so in order to get 8 hours and get up at 7:30, I have to be in bed around 11:00. So really it's more like 3 1/2 to 4 hours of time to do whatever the hell I want. What kind of ripoff is that? Work days should be reduced to 5 or 6 hours to make up for the time lost in daily self-maintenance activities. Cooking, eating, bathing, dressing, grooming, and driving to & from work are not leisure activities in my book.
Friday, February 18, 2011
I've got a good feeling about this
Yesterday morning, on my short drive to the cubicle gulag, I spotted not one, but two, black '08+ Toyota Sequoias on the road. I saw a white one in the parking lot, and two more older ones on the way home that evening. Today a white one passed by on my way to lunch, and on my way back, a green one drove right up behind me before changing lanes. This must be a sign of good things to come, from God or some superior force, as if to say, "we're working on it. It's coming soon." I have a good feeling, dear reader, that constantly visualizing the car in my possession is moving everything into alignment, and will result in the Universe fulfilling my burning desire for this automobile. Just yesterday I was thinking to myself, "I'm going to have that Sequoia very, very soon. Within a matter of weeks, or perhaps just days, it will be right outside my front door." As long as it's mine by May, in time for beach season, I'll be ecstatic, but of course the sooner, the better, especially considering that we seem to be in for an early Spring and beach season may come early this year.
I'm done with the Vic. It's been a very solid, dependable ride, but I'm just done with sedans in general. I no longer even want a Lincoln Town Car. SUVs offer so much more - more cargo space, commanding views, legal dark windows for privacy, easy loading & unloading of groceries, and that all-important rough & ready, imposing appearance. This summer I'll be pulling up to the loading dock at our beach condo in a new (or nearly-new), shiny, black, chrome-trimmed beast, the front end proudly displaying that badge of membership, the Wrightsville Beach souvenir license plate.
I'm done with the Vic. It's been a very solid, dependable ride, but I'm just done with sedans in general. I no longer even want a Lincoln Town Car. SUVs offer so much more - more cargo space, commanding views, legal dark windows for privacy, easy loading & unloading of groceries, and that all-important rough & ready, imposing appearance. This summer I'll be pulling up to the loading dock at our beach condo in a new (or nearly-new), shiny, black, chrome-trimmed beast, the front end proudly displaying that badge of membership, the Wrightsville Beach souvenir license plate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)