I finally made the great leap into the 21st century and got a smartphone. Not just any smartphone, but the most coveted of smarphones, the iPhone. I adore this little device that puts the whole freakin' world in my hands.
It's not the dream device I've described before, capable of storing my entire media library, but it will do for now. The PDF reader is painfully slow when loading large picture books, such as the 1902 Sears Roebuck catalog, but at least I'm able to read my favorite comics any time I wish. My main complaint is Apple's stranglehold on the app market and censorious nature toward submitted apps. Most recently, bending to pressure from loudmouth Congressmen, Apple yanked several apps from the market that allowed users to post the whereabouts of DUI checkpoints. WTF Apple? Did too many people get MADD at you? At least they still have trapster, which will have to serve as a back-door DUI reporting app. Get a "live police" alert late at night and just assume it's a checkpoint.
Speaking of apps, of course after getting my sexy new iPhone I immediately went shopping for sexy apps to make my life easy and sexy and awesome. I added apps to my arsenal such as conversion calculators, bar code scanners, trapster, a police scanner, local and national news apps, Wikipedia, IMDB.com, Redbox, and of course the TMZ app.
As of May of this year, only about 35% of adults have a smartphone, so for now I feel that I have a keen advantage over the other 65% due to my instantaneous access to damn near any kind of information I desire. Trapster tells me where the pigs are hiding. Breaking news is within instant reach, instead of having to go to a computer or channel surf. Wikipedia and IMDB are there for me to satisfy intellectual or pop-cultural curiosity. Redbox gives me a jump on the suckers waiting in line at the machine. The Papa John's app lets me order 'za when I'm still 15 minutes from home, so it will show up at my door, without having to talk on the phone to a brain-dead teenage clerk. I can shop on amazon.com anywhere the mood strikes me. I can be that dick-bag who goes into a store and scans the bar codes to find better prices online. With the help of the Fast Customer app, I no longer have to go through an endless string of recordings before getting to a live customer service rep. Let the huddled masses who don't have smartphones waste precious minutes of their lives doing the touch-tone shell game. My local supermarket even has an app that lets me order deli sandwiches in advance, so I don't have to wait in line at the counter. Were I bidding ferociously on something on eBay, I could place my winning bid anywhere. I have instant access to youtube's wealth of mindless crap. I can stay up-to-date with celebrity gossip on the john at work while the other 65% of the population pooping at work remain completely cut off from civilization. Oh, how iLove my iPhone!
Friday, September 9, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
'Tis naught but a refreshing lemonade, constable!
The Man is clamping down at my beloved seaside retreat. While the ban on alcohol on the beach has been on the books for years, this is the third consecutive summer I've experienced the authorities enforcing it strictly. There was a time when they only hassled youngsters, leaving adults alone to drink responsibly, but these days they shake down anyone with what's obviously booze, and sometimes even question people who are drinking from plastic cups. What is a high-functioning alcoholic to do in the face of such tee-totaling tyranny?
While purchasing provisions for an upcoming beach trip, I spotted 6-packs of Minute Maid light lemonade in half-liter bottles. For years now, my wife and I have favored what we call "Jack Sparrow Lemonade" — lemonade mixed with lemon-lime soda and vodka or light rum. One could simply put this in a plastic sports bottle and drink it on the beach, but ever since a zealous beach ranger asked our friend what was in her plastic cup (it was empty), I began to fear that using any kind of reusable beverage container would invite unwanted attention. So there, in the supermarket, the solution hit me like I was on a date with Chris Brown — mix the Minute Maid with booze and put it back in the bottle! This is actually a time-honored solution to the no-drinking-in-public problem, practiced by many of my high school classmates, who would sit in class sipping all manner of spirits from innocent-looking soda bottles. Apparently Everdew was a popular cocktail, consisting of Everclear and Mountain Dew. Employing this strategy, the freedom-loving drunk no longer must live in fear of the roving patrols of buzzkillers and their citation books. To all others on the beach, he will be just another law-abiding tourist.
Jack Sparrow Lemonade was fine for a while, but I eventually grew tired of the same drink. A friend informed me of an interesting liquor: Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, a vodka nearly identical to sweet iced tea, in flavor and appearance. My friend instructed me to mix one part Firefly with four parts store-bought lemon-flavored tea, also available in half-liter bottles. The resulting concoction tastes almost just like plain old sweet tea, and smells just like it to boot, but got me fucked up considerably better than the Jack Sparrow Lemonade. I had found a new favorite beach cocktail: delicious, easy to make, and, to any passing lawmen, identical to a nice, refreshing Lipton iced tea.
Hopefully someone who was as naive as I was in high school will stumble across this entry and pick up a few tips about how to expand his drinking horizons beyond the legal confines. Maybe you're going to an event whose uptight coordinators want to keep "family-friendly." Maybe, like me, your favorite vacation spot has outlawed alcohol. Hell, maybe you'd like to get a head-start on forgetting about your job on the drive home from work. Whatever your reason, cheers!
Jack Sparrow Lemonade was fine for a while, but I eventually grew tired of the same drink. A friend informed me of an interesting liquor: Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, a vodka nearly identical to sweet iced tea, in flavor and appearance. My friend instructed me to mix one part Firefly with four parts store-bought lemon-flavored tea, also available in half-liter bottles. The resulting concoction tastes almost just like plain old sweet tea, and smells just like it to boot, but got me fucked up considerably better than the Jack Sparrow Lemonade. I had found a new favorite beach cocktail: delicious, easy to make, and, to any passing lawmen, identical to a nice, refreshing Lipton iced tea.
Hopefully someone who was as naive as I was in high school will stumble across this entry and pick up a few tips about how to expand his drinking horizons beyond the legal confines. Maybe you're going to an event whose uptight coordinators want to keep "family-friendly." Maybe, like me, your favorite vacation spot has outlawed alcohol. Hell, maybe you'd like to get a head-start on forgetting about your job on the drive home from work. Whatever your reason, cheers!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
I mock your label with my label!
Pursuant to my latest obsession with stocking my wardrobe with L.L. Bean, for an upcoming trip to the beach, I ordered two t-shirts emblazoned with "L.L. BEAN" across the chest in athletic block lettering, so that all who pass by on the strand will know to which mail-order clothier I pledge my allegiance.
I don't even feel silly about wearing such a large logo, either. While 12-inch-wide "HOLLISTER" logos cry out "Behold my discretionary income!", wearing a large L.L. Bean label makes a mockery of that trend. Bean's label tells the label-whores that I spend half as much money as they do for goods of comparable or superior quality, leaving me with enough left over for entertainment and dining out someplace other than Taco Hell.
Ah, someday, my closet will be replete with L.L. Bean to serve my everyday needs — at work, going to movies, puttering about the house, recreating at the park, outdoor activities, shopping, sleeping, and casually socializing with friends or family. I'm afraid there will have to be anomalies, however. For instance, Bean doesn't offer a full-length wool overcoat for winter, and a parka doesn't quite cut it when you want to look smart in cold weather, so I'll have to hang onto my Chaps Ralph Lauren overcoat from Kohl's. Yes, I went to a Kohl's a couple of times. I don't know why that makes me feel dirty, it just does. My Brooks Brothers polo shirts are all in perfect working order, so they'll see continued regular use; ditto for their sweaters and corduroy trousers. It would be plain foolish for me to replace my $400 Barbour jacket with Bean's field coat; do I really want to look that middle-class instead of being easily mistaken for a member of the Peerage?
I don't even feel silly about wearing such a large logo, either. While 12-inch-wide "HOLLISTER" logos cry out "Behold my discretionary income!", wearing a large L.L. Bean label makes a mockery of that trend. Bean's label tells the label-whores that I spend half as much money as they do for goods of comparable or superior quality, leaving me with enough left over for entertainment and dining out someplace other than Taco Hell.
Ah, someday, my closet will be replete with L.L. Bean to serve my everyday needs — at work, going to movies, puttering about the house, recreating at the park, outdoor activities, shopping, sleeping, and casually socializing with friends or family. I'm afraid there will have to be anomalies, however. For instance, Bean doesn't offer a full-length wool overcoat for winter, and a parka doesn't quite cut it when you want to look smart in cold weather, so I'll have to hang onto my Chaps Ralph Lauren overcoat from Kohl's. Yes, I went to a Kohl's a couple of times. I don't know why that makes me feel dirty, it just does. My Brooks Brothers polo shirts are all in perfect working order, so they'll see continued regular use; ditto for their sweaters and corduroy trousers. It would be plain foolish for me to replace my $400 Barbour jacket with Bean's field coat; do I really want to look that middle-class instead of being easily mistaken for a member of the Peerage?
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Independence Day Summary; Obsessive Branding Disorder
When I come back from a three-day holiday weekend, I find it best to ease back slowly into the daily grind by doing maybe one work-related project in the morning, interrupting myself repeatedly to check e-mail and news-like fluff, and then in the afternoon after lunch, post a blog entry about my activities over the extended weekend.
Many people make grand plans designed to make the most of their time off during a holiday weekend; for July 4, hordes of sun-worshipers descend upon the beaches and take up every square inch of sand. Others are more content to stay home and have people over for grilled animal parts. Still others attend parades or other public spectacles, and go out into the hot, sticky July evening to watch sparkly things go boom in the night sky.
I feel that my wife and I made a very wise choice this year to keep to our own damn selves the whole weekend. On Saturday we just sat around watching movies on the idiot box into the late afternoon. I got to see Terminal, which I'd never seen, as well as Rock Star with Mark Wahlberg, plus one I'd never heard of, Necessary Roughness, starring Scott Bakula. We ventured out into public and took in X-Men First Class at the cinema, using a discounted Fandango voucher to get seats for an evening show for less than the price of a matinee. After the show we went to our favorite watering hole, only to find it nearly deserted. The outdoor patio was slightly more lively, but had a fairly crappy "band" playing, which consisted of a guitarist and a keyboard player. We left after one drink, grabbing some burgers on the way home. On Sunday we went on a shopping spree of sorts, the boring kind where you buy shit you actually need. We used an online coupon to get some barbecue pork, ribs, and sides for half-price. On Monday we were invited to a get-together in our friend's parents' neighborhood, but it's a 30-minute drive and it was just too damned hot anyway, so we stayed home, watched even more TV, and ate leftover BBQ. So unlike last year, where we wore ourselves out hosting a cookout and everyone left much earlier than expected, this year we stayed in our comfortable, air-conditioned home with a fridge full of food and drinks and watched an unhealthy amount of TV. I can't imagine a more perfect Independence Day weekend.
Also over the weekend, I did a little online clothes shopping, bringing me to a discussion of a bizarre tendency I've had for a long time, which is to have everything of a particular category come from the same brand. For example, long ago, I had this obsession with the Pinaud brand of men's grooming products, and insisted on their brand of shaving cream, talc, and aftershave. Similarly, for a little while, I wanted products that bore the Royal Warrant, and purchased groceries such as Weetabix cereal and Twinings tea, and even went as far as to procure a Barbour waxed cotton jacket. Later on I turned to collecting Brooks Brothers garments, and built up a respectable array of jackets, dress shirts, sweaters, polo shirts, chinos, and corduroy trousers. Right now I have a habit of insisting on Target's private label for health, grooming, and household products whenever available, just so the labels will all look good together; I wish there were an Up And Up version of deodorant and hair gel. Most recently, out of necessity, I'm having to mess up my Brooks Brothers collection by adding L.L. Bean to the mix. As much as I've praised Brooks Brothers in the past, recently I've been disappointed by the way the fabric in their chino trousers tends to fray and tear over time. Some research online turned up that most retail stores refuse to refund or replace unsatisfactory purchases more than two years old, despite the brand's "unconditional" guarantee. So, I have returned to L.L. Bean, a supplier of quality trousers that I've known since childhood but haven't patronized in a long time. After many years of wearing other brands, I'm returning to an old trusted favorite with a no-questions-asked, lifetime guarantee on all of its merchandise. I started with ordering three pairs of chinos, which I love, and this weekend I went a little nuts and ordered a pair of jeans, a safari-style shirt for rustic travel destinations, a couple of striped rugby shirts, and a lightweight, extra-long rain coat (which Brooks Brothers doesn't make, anyway).
L.L. Bean is a perennial favorite among the "preppy" set, whose outward appearance I strive to emulate. It appeals to them because it's an established outfitter they've known all their lives and offers a great value through well-made items backed by a lifetime guarantee at lower prices than other brands such as Brooks Brothers and Orvis, and it's especially popular among preppy parents who want to instill their children with the preppy fashion sense, but don't want to spend a great deal on things they'll outgrow in a year. What preppy person didn't own at least one article of clothing or footwear from L.L. Bean as a child? Seems like at least a third of my classmates had a monogrammed L.L. Bean book bag. It's comfortable, familiar, timeless, and affordable but not dirt-cheap—the foundation of the preppy aesthetic.
As much as I've maligned some of Brooks Brothers' product line, I continue to stand behind their polo shirts. The ones I own are excellently tailored, constructed of lightweight, cool cotton piqué, perfect for hot summer days or layering under a sweater, and retain their color wash after wash, and I expect them to provide me at least a decade of reliable use. I also continue to be pleased with the sweaters and casual shirts I've bought from them, which look practically brand-new after 3-4 years of ownership. My blazer has held up very well, and there are no signs of wear and tear on the corduroys I wear so often in colder months. They do have rugby shirts, but I gave up on waiting for them to introduce basic red & navy and blue & navy stripes, and just got a couple from L.L. Bean instead.
Adding L.L. Bean to the mix presents me with some problems. While it would satisfy my obsessive compulsion to have everything in my wardrobe come from one brand by replacing all the sweaters, polos, corduroys, and sport shirts from Brooks Brothers with L.L. Bean, I cannot justify the financial cost of such an undertaking, nor can I justify the cost of buying new pants every two years just because they're from Brooks Brothers. Plus, were I to replace my Brooks Brothers polo shirts with L.L. Bean, I'd lose that smug sense of superiority I get from showing off that little Golden Fleece logo, giving others the impression that I can easily afford $60 polo shirts (never mind that they can be found gently used on eBay for a fraction of retail). And how can you beat that "oooh!" reaction people undoubtedly have in their heads when they spot the Golden Fleece buttons on my Brooks Brothers blazer? And truly well-heeled individuals will recognize and respect that icon of WASP-ness, the Barbour jacket. Hardly anyone can tell the difference between Brooks Brothers chinos and L.L. Bean chinos without yanking them down and looking at the inside label, anyway, so I'll just have to let people assume that if the shirt is Brooks Brothers, the pants must be, as well. I really do wish I could just be normal and have a dozen different brands all mingling together in my closet like I did in high school, when I had Abercrombie & Fitch, Nautica, Joseph A. Bank, Chaps by Ralph Lauren, Izod, Alexander Julian, L.L. Bean, and Old Navy all living together in harmony. Well, maybe that's the silver lining: by throwing L.L. Bean into the ring, perhaps I'll get a '90s nostalgia thrill out of it.
Many people make grand plans designed to make the most of their time off during a holiday weekend; for July 4, hordes of sun-worshipers descend upon the beaches and take up every square inch of sand. Others are more content to stay home and have people over for grilled animal parts. Still others attend parades or other public spectacles, and go out into the hot, sticky July evening to watch sparkly things go boom in the night sky.
I feel that my wife and I made a very wise choice this year to keep to our own damn selves the whole weekend. On Saturday we just sat around watching movies on the idiot box into the late afternoon. I got to see Terminal, which I'd never seen, as well as Rock Star with Mark Wahlberg, plus one I'd never heard of, Necessary Roughness, starring Scott Bakula. We ventured out into public and took in X-Men First Class at the cinema, using a discounted Fandango voucher to get seats for an evening show for less than the price of a matinee. After the show we went to our favorite watering hole, only to find it nearly deserted. The outdoor patio was slightly more lively, but had a fairly crappy "band" playing, which consisted of a guitarist and a keyboard player. We left after one drink, grabbing some burgers on the way home. On Sunday we went on a shopping spree of sorts, the boring kind where you buy shit you actually need. We used an online coupon to get some barbecue pork, ribs, and sides for half-price. On Monday we were invited to a get-together in our friend's parents' neighborhood, but it's a 30-minute drive and it was just too damned hot anyway, so we stayed home, watched even more TV, and ate leftover BBQ. So unlike last year, where we wore ourselves out hosting a cookout and everyone left much earlier than expected, this year we stayed in our comfortable, air-conditioned home with a fridge full of food and drinks and watched an unhealthy amount of TV. I can't imagine a more perfect Independence Day weekend.
Also over the weekend, I did a little online clothes shopping, bringing me to a discussion of a bizarre tendency I've had for a long time, which is to have everything of a particular category come from the same brand. For example, long ago, I had this obsession with the Pinaud brand of men's grooming products, and insisted on their brand of shaving cream, talc, and aftershave. Similarly, for a little while, I wanted products that bore the Royal Warrant, and purchased groceries such as Weetabix cereal and Twinings tea, and even went as far as to procure a Barbour waxed cotton jacket. Later on I turned to collecting Brooks Brothers garments, and built up a respectable array of jackets, dress shirts, sweaters, polo shirts, chinos, and corduroy trousers. Right now I have a habit of insisting on Target's private label for health, grooming, and household products whenever available, just so the labels will all look good together; I wish there were an Up And Up version of deodorant and hair gel. Most recently, out of necessity, I'm having to mess up my Brooks Brothers collection by adding L.L. Bean to the mix. As much as I've praised Brooks Brothers in the past, recently I've been disappointed by the way the fabric in their chino trousers tends to fray and tear over time. Some research online turned up that most retail stores refuse to refund or replace unsatisfactory purchases more than two years old, despite the brand's "unconditional" guarantee. So, I have returned to L.L. Bean, a supplier of quality trousers that I've known since childhood but haven't patronized in a long time. After many years of wearing other brands, I'm returning to an old trusted favorite with a no-questions-asked, lifetime guarantee on all of its merchandise. I started with ordering three pairs of chinos, which I love, and this weekend I went a little nuts and ordered a pair of jeans, a safari-style shirt for rustic travel destinations, a couple of striped rugby shirts, and a lightweight, extra-long rain coat (which Brooks Brothers doesn't make, anyway).
L.L. Bean is a perennial favorite among the "preppy" set, whose outward appearance I strive to emulate. It appeals to them because it's an established outfitter they've known all their lives and offers a great value through well-made items backed by a lifetime guarantee at lower prices than other brands such as Brooks Brothers and Orvis, and it's especially popular among preppy parents who want to instill their children with the preppy fashion sense, but don't want to spend a great deal on things they'll outgrow in a year. What preppy person didn't own at least one article of clothing or footwear from L.L. Bean as a child? Seems like at least a third of my classmates had a monogrammed L.L. Bean book bag. It's comfortable, familiar, timeless, and affordable but not dirt-cheap—the foundation of the preppy aesthetic.
As much as I've maligned some of Brooks Brothers' product line, I continue to stand behind their polo shirts. The ones I own are excellently tailored, constructed of lightweight, cool cotton piqué, perfect for hot summer days or layering under a sweater, and retain their color wash after wash, and I expect them to provide me at least a decade of reliable use. I also continue to be pleased with the sweaters and casual shirts I've bought from them, which look practically brand-new after 3-4 years of ownership. My blazer has held up very well, and there are no signs of wear and tear on the corduroys I wear so often in colder months. They do have rugby shirts, but I gave up on waiting for them to introduce basic red & navy and blue & navy stripes, and just got a couple from L.L. Bean instead.
Adding L.L. Bean to the mix presents me with some problems. While it would satisfy my obsessive compulsion to have everything in my wardrobe come from one brand by replacing all the sweaters, polos, corduroys, and sport shirts from Brooks Brothers with L.L. Bean, I cannot justify the financial cost of such an undertaking, nor can I justify the cost of buying new pants every two years just because they're from Brooks Brothers. Plus, were I to replace my Brooks Brothers polo shirts with L.L. Bean, I'd lose that smug sense of superiority I get from showing off that little Golden Fleece logo, giving others the impression that I can easily afford $60 polo shirts (never mind that they can be found gently used on eBay for a fraction of retail). And how can you beat that "oooh!" reaction people undoubtedly have in their heads when they spot the Golden Fleece buttons on my Brooks Brothers blazer? And truly well-heeled individuals will recognize and respect that icon of WASP-ness, the Barbour jacket. Hardly anyone can tell the difference between Brooks Brothers chinos and L.L. Bean chinos without yanking them down and looking at the inside label, anyway, so I'll just have to let people assume that if the shirt is Brooks Brothers, the pants must be, as well. I really do wish I could just be normal and have a dozen different brands all mingling together in my closet like I did in high school, when I had Abercrombie & Fitch, Nautica, Joseph A. Bank, Chaps by Ralph Lauren, Izod, Alexander Julian, L.L. Bean, and Old Navy all living together in harmony. Well, maybe that's the silver lining: by throwing L.L. Bean into the ring, perhaps I'll get a '90s nostalgia thrill out of it.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
My Day vs. Your Day
While scouring the parking lot of the local country club for lost Kruger Rands, which the club's golf enthusiasts use as ball markers, I made the acquaintance of one Mr. Turlington P. Barleycorn, who owns a respected publishing house. As I was well-dressed and did not appear to be colored or Jewish from a distance, rather than call on club security to neutralize me with a net and cattle prod, he deigned to speak to me directly to inquire about my activities. Upon hearing my explanation that I am a humble blog-master researching the living standards of the city's powerful elite, so amused was he that he decided it would be quite corking to go slumming as a blog-writer for a day. I present to you Mr. Barleycorn's magnum opus.
My Fabulous Day Compared to Your Miserable Day
by special guest author Turlington P. Barleycorn
As you, the typical blog-reader, sit down in your stained corduroy La-Z-Boy after trading another eight or nine hours of your finite existence for a handful of magic beans, you may ponder over an aluminum can of watery mixed-grain lager in between installments of Access Hollywood and TMZ about what daily life is like for the few privileged members of the elite. What did they do all day while I was watching my youth slip away?
6:15 a.m.
You: mumbling swear-words at your cell phone's alarm clock function, wanting desperately to roll over between your Wal-Mart bedsheets for a few more moments of unconsciousness.
Me: Sound asleep, wrapped up in 600-thread-count sheets, which are changed daily by my undocumented housekeeper. My bedroom's 50-inch flat panel TV is still aglow from when I fell asleep with the TV on after catching up with some stuff I'd DVR'ed during my three-week trip to Europe.
6:45 a.m.
You: groggily shoveling cereal and skim milk into your pie-hole and slurping instant coffee from a plastic screw-top mug.
Me: Still sound asleep, chump! I don't get up before 9 unless the house is on fire and Lupe can't put it out herself.
7:45 a.m.
You: getting another day closer to a coronary from the stress of coping with morning rush hour traffic as you drive your clattering, malodorous shit-box that may not pass inspection next week to your workplace, chugging the rest of your terrible imitation coffee beverage to give you a boost of energy so you can get through that god-awful, pointless staff meeting without nodding off. Eventually you park on the treeless asphalt slab under the roasting sun, ensuring you arrive at your desk with sweat stains on your Costco polo shirt.
Me: Not conscious before 9, remember?
9:10 a.m.
You: finally out of the time-wasting staff meeting, sorting through your inbox to see what you can put off until later this week, in hopes that you'll win the lottery tonight and not have to do it.
Me: Sipping a cup of gourmet coffee, freshly ground from beans which were consumed and shat out whole by endangered Andean titmice and harvested bean-by-bean by descendants of Atahualpa, in my dressing room while I throw on an outfit and shoes that cost more than your shit-box is worth.
9:40 a.m.
You: working on some boring task you really don't want to do, putting in just enough effort to keep you from getting fired.
Me: leisurely eating the eggs benedict that Lupe laid out on the table outside by the pool while I skim the Wall Street Journal on my iPad in search of new opportunities to exploit for my own financial gain. Yes, I have a lot, but you know, I'd give it all up for just a little more.
10:15 a.m.
You: hitting the vending machine for a Diet Coke to help you stay awake until lunch, since your boss is too cheap to provide free coffee. I can see it his way, though; the money he didn't spend on bulk coffee can go toward a set of cufflinks carved from panda teeth.
Me: marveling at the lack of traffic one finds on the roads at this hour as I cruise my Mercedes-Benz S600 into my reserved parking space, right by the office door, under the only tree in the parking lot, rigged with bird-repellent chemicals to keep birds from crapping on my clearcoat.
11:00 a.m.
You: doing all you can to keep from screaming at assholes who keep bugging you for things they originally told you they didn't need for another week.
Me: trying not to get too worked up about the fact that my best salesman just had a death in the family, which is going to put a dent in his sales figures this month.
12:30 p.m.
You: watching like a starved vulture as your bowl of canned ravioli turns 'round and 'round in the break room microwave.
Me: seated in the resplendent "casual" dining room at my country club with a few friends, having a Bloody Mary made with vodka distilled from the tears of Russian orphans while we wait for our $12 sandwiches to arrive.
1:15 p.m.
You: rubbing one out in the handicapped stall while thinking about the receptionist you have no chance with, hoping no one else comes in right when you shoot your load.
Me: Enjoying a cigar rolled on a 16-year-old Cuban virgin's thighs after shagging the waitress in the cloak room after she got visibly turned on at the sight of my Centurion card. If she tries to blackmail me later, no biggie—the Senator is my squash partner and knows how to make someone disappear.
3:15 p.m.
You: fighting off sleep for all you're worth, which is kind of a stupid expression since you're not worth anything to begin with.
Me: swerving back into the parking lot, still a little buzzed from the after-lunch cocktails. I'm running a little behind for my meeting with that little shit whose dead mom might end up costing several monthly payments on my son's Range Rover. I'll break even by claiming the Rover as a business vehicle and writing off its depreciation.
4:45 p.m.
You: staring at the little clock on your computer screen and swearing it's ticking backwards. Already getting hungry, and with no more change for the vending machine, it'll still be an hour before you're home.
Me: Boy, what a long day! I'm heading out so I can beat the traffic. Got to call Lupe and tell her I want lobster tails for dinner instead of broiled wild salmon.
5:45 p.m.
You: finally home after another long, tiring day of being exploited, you collapse in your La-Z-Boy to ponder dinner, and realize you haven't gone grocery shopping. Too damned tired to deal with it, you drive to the nearest Taco Bell instead and get whatever's on their 89-cent deal this week.
Me: Sitting in my oak-paneled study with my iPad, in my favorite chair covered with the hides of the wildebeests I shot on safari a few years back, sipping a little Dewar's Signature on the rocks to unwind after my 3-hour work day while Lupe gets supper ready.
6:45 p.m.
You: already returning your gordita to the earth from whence it came, swearing it's even hotter coming out than it was going in. You'd get your digestive problems checked out, but the boss downgraded the health plan this year so he could afford his aging trophy wife's plastic surgeon.
Me: Bunny is awfully late getting home from her tennis lesson. She must really enjoy it, though; she's always glowing when she comes home, and says the guy is a real pro.
7:45 p.m.
You: yakking on the phone with one of your fellow middle-class dullards, making plans to go to a filthy movie house or bar this weekend, with TMZ on mute.
Me: calling my personal American Express concierge to arrange my next three-week vacation. I'm worn out from all these 15-hour work weeks. Better check the fridge to make sure Lupe didn't smuggle home any leftovers to her kids; my purebred French bulldog adores lobster.
9:30 p.m.
You: slipping in and out of consciousness while some mindless reality show drones on, your anus still burning from its last expulsion of seasoned ground animal parts.
Me: scheming over the phone with my golf buddy Skip Choadsworth to spread false rumors that each other's company is facing bankruptcy so that we can buy more shares when the prices fall. Then when we report record earnings thanks to some creative bookkeeping and the prices go back up, someone's going to have a bigger boat in the slip at his beach house this summer.
11:30 p.m.
You: back between the Wal-Mart bedsheets again, dozing off after spanking it one more time while thinking about Janine at the front desk (at your office, not from Ghostbusters).
Me: Hitting the fridge for some of that leftover lobster. Not like I need to be in bed; I don't plan to get up until 9 anyway. Seeing how it's early yet, I grab a bottle of Moet & Chandon from the wine fridge and slip into the hot tub out back to ruminate on what a fine day it's been.
My Fabulous Day Compared to Your Miserable Day
by special guest author Turlington P. Barleycorn
As you, the typical blog-reader, sit down in your stained corduroy La-Z-Boy after trading another eight or nine hours of your finite existence for a handful of magic beans, you may ponder over an aluminum can of watery mixed-grain lager in between installments of Access Hollywood and TMZ about what daily life is like for the few privileged members of the elite. What did they do all day while I was watching my youth slip away?
6:15 a.m.
You: mumbling swear-words at your cell phone's alarm clock function, wanting desperately to roll over between your Wal-Mart bedsheets for a few more moments of unconsciousness.
Me: Sound asleep, wrapped up in 600-thread-count sheets, which are changed daily by my undocumented housekeeper. My bedroom's 50-inch flat panel TV is still aglow from when I fell asleep with the TV on after catching up with some stuff I'd DVR'ed during my three-week trip to Europe.
6:45 a.m.
You: groggily shoveling cereal and skim milk into your pie-hole and slurping instant coffee from a plastic screw-top mug.
Me: Still sound asleep, chump! I don't get up before 9 unless the house is on fire and Lupe can't put it out herself.
7:45 a.m.
You: getting another day closer to a coronary from the stress of coping with morning rush hour traffic as you drive your clattering, malodorous shit-box that may not pass inspection next week to your workplace, chugging the rest of your terrible imitation coffee beverage to give you a boost of energy so you can get through that god-awful, pointless staff meeting without nodding off. Eventually you park on the treeless asphalt slab under the roasting sun, ensuring you arrive at your desk with sweat stains on your Costco polo shirt.
Me: Not conscious before 9, remember?
9:10 a.m.
You: finally out of the time-wasting staff meeting, sorting through your inbox to see what you can put off until later this week, in hopes that you'll win the lottery tonight and not have to do it.
Me: Sipping a cup of gourmet coffee, freshly ground from beans which were consumed and shat out whole by endangered Andean titmice and harvested bean-by-bean by descendants of Atahualpa, in my dressing room while I throw on an outfit and shoes that cost more than your shit-box is worth.
9:40 a.m.
You: working on some boring task you really don't want to do, putting in just enough effort to keep you from getting fired.
Me: leisurely eating the eggs benedict that Lupe laid out on the table outside by the pool while I skim the Wall Street Journal on my iPad in search of new opportunities to exploit for my own financial gain. Yes, I have a lot, but you know, I'd give it all up for just a little more.
10:15 a.m.
You: hitting the vending machine for a Diet Coke to help you stay awake until lunch, since your boss is too cheap to provide free coffee. I can see it his way, though; the money he didn't spend on bulk coffee can go toward a set of cufflinks carved from panda teeth.
Me: marveling at the lack of traffic one finds on the roads at this hour as I cruise my Mercedes-Benz S600 into my reserved parking space, right by the office door, under the only tree in the parking lot, rigged with bird-repellent chemicals to keep birds from crapping on my clearcoat.
11:00 a.m.
You: doing all you can to keep from screaming at assholes who keep bugging you for things they originally told you they didn't need for another week.
Me: trying not to get too worked up about the fact that my best salesman just had a death in the family, which is going to put a dent in his sales figures this month.
12:30 p.m.
You: watching like a starved vulture as your bowl of canned ravioli turns 'round and 'round in the break room microwave.
Me: seated in the resplendent "casual" dining room at my country club with a few friends, having a Bloody Mary made with vodka distilled from the tears of Russian orphans while we wait for our $12 sandwiches to arrive.
1:15 p.m.
You: rubbing one out in the handicapped stall while thinking about the receptionist you have no chance with, hoping no one else comes in right when you shoot your load.
Me: Enjoying a cigar rolled on a 16-year-old Cuban virgin's thighs after shagging the waitress in the cloak room after she got visibly turned on at the sight of my Centurion card. If she tries to blackmail me later, no biggie—the Senator is my squash partner and knows how to make someone disappear.
3:15 p.m.
You: fighting off sleep for all you're worth, which is kind of a stupid expression since you're not worth anything to begin with.
Me: swerving back into the parking lot, still a little buzzed from the after-lunch cocktails. I'm running a little behind for my meeting with that little shit whose dead mom might end up costing several monthly payments on my son's Range Rover. I'll break even by claiming the Rover as a business vehicle and writing off its depreciation.
4:45 p.m.
You: staring at the little clock on your computer screen and swearing it's ticking backwards. Already getting hungry, and with no more change for the vending machine, it'll still be an hour before you're home.
Me: Boy, what a long day! I'm heading out so I can beat the traffic. Got to call Lupe and tell her I want lobster tails for dinner instead of broiled wild salmon.
5:45 p.m.
You: finally home after another long, tiring day of being exploited, you collapse in your La-Z-Boy to ponder dinner, and realize you haven't gone grocery shopping. Too damned tired to deal with it, you drive to the nearest Taco Bell instead and get whatever's on their 89-cent deal this week.
Me: Sitting in my oak-paneled study with my iPad, in my favorite chair covered with the hides of the wildebeests I shot on safari a few years back, sipping a little Dewar's Signature on the rocks to unwind after my 3-hour work day while Lupe gets supper ready.
6:45 p.m.
You: already returning your gordita to the earth from whence it came, swearing it's even hotter coming out than it was going in. You'd get your digestive problems checked out, but the boss downgraded the health plan this year so he could afford his aging trophy wife's plastic surgeon.
Me: Bunny is awfully late getting home from her tennis lesson. She must really enjoy it, though; she's always glowing when she comes home, and says the guy is a real pro.
7:45 p.m.
You: yakking on the phone with one of your fellow middle-class dullards, making plans to go to a filthy movie house or bar this weekend, with TMZ on mute.
Me: calling my personal American Express concierge to arrange my next three-week vacation. I'm worn out from all these 15-hour work weeks. Better check the fridge to make sure Lupe didn't smuggle home any leftovers to her kids; my purebred French bulldog adores lobster.
9:30 p.m.
You: slipping in and out of consciousness while some mindless reality show drones on, your anus still burning from its last expulsion of seasoned ground animal parts.
Me: scheming over the phone with my golf buddy Skip Choadsworth to spread false rumors that each other's company is facing bankruptcy so that we can buy more shares when the prices fall. Then when we report record earnings thanks to some creative bookkeeping and the prices go back up, someone's going to have a bigger boat in the slip at his beach house this summer.
11:30 p.m.
You: back between the Wal-Mart bedsheets again, dozing off after spanking it one more time while thinking about Janine at the front desk (at your office, not from Ghostbusters).
Me: Hitting the fridge for some of that leftover lobster. Not like I need to be in bed; I don't plan to get up until 9 anyway. Seeing how it's early yet, I grab a bottle of Moet & Chandon from the wine fridge and slip into the hot tub out back to ruminate on what a fine day it's been.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The wannabe-VIP goes out on the town
One little perk at my cubicle farm that distracts me now and then from the insulting salary is the occasional free concert or theater tickets The Boss tosses at our feet like partially gnawed spare ribs. He has season tickets at various venues so that he can be seen attending cultural events, and when he can't use them himself or give them to his rich douchebag friends, he offers them up to his underpaid peons in a random giveaway. A while back, I won a pair of tickets for a comedy at the theater downtown. We figured we'd make a "date night" out of it, since we rarely do much to unwind after 40 hours of making our employers' lives easier other than drop by a dive bar down the street where The Boss wouldn't risk soiling his polished loafers. We put on our finery, my wife in her fake but convincing diamond earrings & bracelet, and I in the Brooks Brothers blazer from my trousseau, and took a taxi downtown. Hoping to economize slightly, we picked a restaurant that offered affordable cuisine, and although the interior was a little spartan and shabby, the food was dee-lish. From the wine at dinner and more wine in the lobby before the show, we had a nice buzz going, enhancing our enjoyment of the play. During intermission, my wife introduced me to a certain elected official whom she has known since childhood. Such a brush with greatness! Basking in the radiant glory of a genuine VIP's power and influence, I was thankful I had dressed my best and groomed myself well (and not consumed too much wine), and during our brief exchange I threw in a little comment about how I thought one of the actors reminded me of Nathan Lane, making me sound worldly and cultured. Part of being a VIP, real or fake, is sounding worldly and cultured, you know. After the show, since we were all dressed up, we walked to a nearby cigar lounge that caters to the upscale douchebag crowd with $12 martinis and a menu of fine cigars. Arriving in our finest, we were given the utmost courtesy and ushered to an open table with a commanding view of the street. When asked if I wanted to start a tab, I'm sure the waitress spotted my bullshit VIP card (see Fake it 'cause you'll never make it) and possibly even the fake Black Card sticking out of the frontmost credit card slot. She probably wondered why I pulled out a humble bank-issued debit card instead. Perhaps I was with my mistress and, not wishing my whereabouts to be revealed on my Amex statement, shrewdly used a debit card from a secret bank account instead! Maybe I made an impression, maybe not; all I know is, the manager himself brought me my cigar, and our waitress was very attentive. Swaddled neck-to-ankle in Brooks Brothers, my hand still redolent with the pheromone transfer from a high official's handshake, I sank into my armchair with a pint of Guiness, wallowing in my own smug sense of faux superiority while sucking on a smoldering roll of carcinogenic bliss. For a little while, this tired cubicle-jockey was getting the VIP treatment, all thanks to some clever props and looking the part.
Monday, June 6, 2011
White Trash Chic
There exists a large portion of the population whose discretionary income is inversely proportional to their level of good taste. Yes, reader, there are people out there who earn decent, sometimes affluent livings, and rather than live elegantly, they choose to spend their money on ugly home furnishings and even uglier decor. I've seen it, folks, sometimes in pictures, sometimes in person with my own delicate eyes. We call this tasteless decorating style White Trash Chic, and I present to you my how-to guide to getting the look just right.
You must first be able to foot the bill for your crimes against good taste. One way is simply to earn a high income through a job which doesn't require a great deal of education and study, but is one that few people are willing to do, and not considered prestigious by high society, making it more in demand and therefore commanding a high salary and good benefits. Such occupations include truck driver, general contractor, heat & air repairman, UPS deliveryman, and plumber. At most they require a couple of years at a community college and some apprenticeship. The other way is to work a lower-paying job but live in a rural area with lower costs of living. Low mortgage payments, or renting a house for as much as one would pay for a city apartment half the size, allows for more discretionary income.
Whatever the job situation, once a you find a home, you must furnish it. Well-made, gracefully-styled antique furniture can be found at auctions and consignment shops quite affordably, but this is simply too much bother for white trash, who wouldn't know Chippendale from Chips Ahoy and think Mission style is what you do in bed when your common-law wife passes out after chugging a case of Natural Light. Instead, you can get in your Silverado and head to a mid-range furniture store to pick out overstuffed recliners and sofas, usually covered with corduroy in hideous hues of denim blue or forest green, and matching endtables and coffee tables whose design, if any, is a misguided amalgam of bastardizations of imitations of well-known styles. Sometimes the selection of tacky furniture is too overwhelming, so you may find it easier to choose Wal-Mart or Sam's Club as your exclusive supplier of laminated particle board. Whatever the style or construction, white trash almost exclusively opt for a "natural oak" laminate, which somehow brings to mind rustic cabins, though I personally fail to see the rustic charm in orange-tinted faux woodgrain. Not every trashy person buys all-new furniture, however, and it's perfectly acceptable to take castoffs from other trashy people that come with fabric already torn, stained, and cigarette-burned, busted springs, and cushions with lovingly crafted ass grooves so you won't have to wait as long for your living room to attain that "lived-in" look, and your guests won't worry so much if they spill their coffee from your set of Dale Earnhardt mugs.
Once the house is filled with shiny new laminated particle board and nauseating green corduroy, it's time to decorate those bare walls with some fine art. Some white trash pitifully attempt to be classy by purchasing "real paintings." Technically, they are indeed hand-painted, not by one hand, but rather an assembly line of multiple Indonesian hands assigned to painting one particular element or color over and over, cranking out hundreds of nearly-identical "real paintings" at slave wages, to be mounted in poorly-made frames. These paintings are usually garishly-colored, poorly-composed scenes of provincial Italian villages or bowls of flowers or fruit. You may feel that such "real paintings" are a waste of money that could be better spent on chrome valve covers, so framed "prints"—posters printed on a 4-color press on flimsy paper, placed under glass in a flimsy frame in a "natural oak" stain to match the furniture—are a good substitute. Preferred subject matter typically includes scripture or prayers embellished with religious iconography; reproductions of paintings of Civil War officers or scenes; imagery related to military service or firefighting; illustrations of dogs, horses, wolves, and bald eagles; photo collages of classic muscle cars; and portraits of NASCAR celebrities superimposed over their respective racing cars with facsimile autographs. Tin signs are also great for covering those annoying blank spaces. White trash folks typically go for signage depicting vintage gasoline/petroleum company logos and old advertisements for Ford, Chevrolet, and John Deere tractors. Stamped street signs with messages such as "John Deere Parking Only" are perfectly sized for filling in the empty space above a doorway where that 8x10 portrait of Jesus won't quite fit. White trash sometimes pick up Confederate battleflags at local flea markets or gun & knife shows to use as colorful accent pieces, often embellished with a portrait of Hank Williams, Jr. or emblazoned with the message "The South Will Rise Again," in hopes that someday they will indeed rise again from their corduroy La-Z-Boys.
Paintings and posters (ahem, "prints") aren't quite enough, though. A home just isn't a white trash home without a few appropriate objets d'art. Megastores just off the highway, such as the J.R. Outlet on I-40 in North Carolina, serve as one-stop shops for all your white trash decorating needs. Painted resin figurines are highly popular among white trash, in a wide range of subjects, such as hunting dogs, firefighters, Confederate officers, bald eagles swaddled in American flags, and humorous caricatures of elderly people. Snow globes containing the same figures offer a little variety. Countless mail-order catalogs also offer a wealth of tasteless crap with which white trash can adorn every laminated surface. Especially popular among the mail-order schlock are commemorative plates. These are the size, shape, and composition of dinner plates, but are not intended for serving food; rather, they are meant to be hung on the wall in order to admire their depictions of Civil War officers, George W. Bush, NASCAR personalities, and memorials to the 9/11 attacks. Mail order services and flea markets also provide Japanese swords (made in Pakistan) to hang on the wall. Such accessories often become props in hilarious home movies in which the owner attempts to use them and injures himself. But how can you beat a wall accessory that comes straight from nature? Trashy people love to find beautiful animals, shoot them, and mount their heads on the wall. And by law, every white trash home must have a singing Billy Bass on the living room wall.
While not technically a furnishing or decorative object, the focal point of a white trash living room is always the television. Now you may be harboring some unfounded stereotypes, envisioning an ancient TV-disguised-as-furniture from the late '70s. Far from it, reader; white trash actually dedicate a large portion of their discretionary income to keeping up with entertainment technology. Upon entering a white trash living room, a visitor immediately envies the 55-inch flat-panel TV and Dolby surround sound that make it feel like Larry the Cable Guy is right there in the room. The home computer is rarely more than two years old, and always runs Windows, never, ever Macintosh or Linux. The computer is only used for porn, forwarding chain e-mails, burning mix CDs to play in the Camaro, porn, viewing videos of people lighting each other on fire for fun, ordering commemorative plates online, and porn. Once it gets choked up with viruses from opening too many UPS delivery notice spam mails (for fear that they missed the attempted delivery of Reba seasons 1–6 on Blu-Ray), it's off to Wal-Mart for a new computer, and the old one gets used for target practice out back.
So now that you have your ugly furniture, tasteless "art prints," and complete collection of "Legends in Gray" commemorative plates on the wall, what's missing? A wallpaper border, of course! No white trash home is complete without long strips of wallpaper about 6-8 inches wide which run along the top or middle of a wall, printed with repeating patterns of flowers, grape vines, or classic cars. These are a must for any true white trash home because it's just so much easier than painting or installing moldings.
The gaudiness doesn't stop at the front door, however. You want to display your exquisite tastes to everyone who passes by your house! How do you do that? Yard art, duh! Entire businesses exist solely to fill this need. On lonely stretches of back roads, you'll occasionally find retailers where you can walk through rows and rows of molded concrete and choose from replicas of Greek statues, religious figures, fanciful gnomes, miniature lighthouses, life-size animals, and hilarious urinating children. They come in natural concrete (think about that descriptor for a moment), but you can paint them yourself in full color. That front lawn of yours was so somber before you got the pissing cherub to lighten the mood, and that hand-painted white tail buck is so realistic, people will open fire in your front yard! The miniature lighthouse that really lights up will be your beacon home after a night of pounding back the Natural Lights, just don't plow your Camaro into it.
You must first be able to foot the bill for your crimes against good taste. One way is simply to earn a high income through a job which doesn't require a great deal of education and study, but is one that few people are willing to do, and not considered prestigious by high society, making it more in demand and therefore commanding a high salary and good benefits. Such occupations include truck driver, general contractor, heat & air repairman, UPS deliveryman, and plumber. At most they require a couple of years at a community college and some apprenticeship. The other way is to work a lower-paying job but live in a rural area with lower costs of living. Low mortgage payments, or renting a house for as much as one would pay for a city apartment half the size, allows for more discretionary income.
Whatever the job situation, once a you find a home, you must furnish it. Well-made, gracefully-styled antique furniture can be found at auctions and consignment shops quite affordably, but this is simply too much bother for white trash, who wouldn't know Chippendale from Chips Ahoy and think Mission style is what you do in bed when your common-law wife passes out after chugging a case of Natural Light. Instead, you can get in your Silverado and head to a mid-range furniture store to pick out overstuffed recliners and sofas, usually covered with corduroy in hideous hues of denim blue or forest green, and matching endtables and coffee tables whose design, if any, is a misguided amalgam of bastardizations of imitations of well-known styles. Sometimes the selection of tacky furniture is too overwhelming, so you may find it easier to choose Wal-Mart or Sam's Club as your exclusive supplier of laminated particle board. Whatever the style or construction, white trash almost exclusively opt for a "natural oak" laminate, which somehow brings to mind rustic cabins, though I personally fail to see the rustic charm in orange-tinted faux woodgrain. Not every trashy person buys all-new furniture, however, and it's perfectly acceptable to take castoffs from other trashy people that come with fabric already torn, stained, and cigarette-burned, busted springs, and cushions with lovingly crafted ass grooves so you won't have to wait as long for your living room to attain that "lived-in" look, and your guests won't worry so much if they spill their coffee from your set of Dale Earnhardt mugs.
Once the house is filled with shiny new laminated particle board and nauseating green corduroy, it's time to decorate those bare walls with some fine art. Some white trash pitifully attempt to be classy by purchasing "real paintings." Technically, they are indeed hand-painted, not by one hand, but rather an assembly line of multiple Indonesian hands assigned to painting one particular element or color over and over, cranking out hundreds of nearly-identical "real paintings" at slave wages, to be mounted in poorly-made frames. These paintings are usually garishly-colored, poorly-composed scenes of provincial Italian villages or bowls of flowers or fruit. You may feel that such "real paintings" are a waste of money that could be better spent on chrome valve covers, so framed "prints"—posters printed on a 4-color press on flimsy paper, placed under glass in a flimsy frame in a "natural oak" stain to match the furniture—are a good substitute. Preferred subject matter typically includes scripture or prayers embellished with religious iconography; reproductions of paintings of Civil War officers or scenes; imagery related to military service or firefighting; illustrations of dogs, horses, wolves, and bald eagles; photo collages of classic muscle cars; and portraits of NASCAR celebrities superimposed over their respective racing cars with facsimile autographs. Tin signs are also great for covering those annoying blank spaces. White trash folks typically go for signage depicting vintage gasoline/petroleum company logos and old advertisements for Ford, Chevrolet, and John Deere tractors. Stamped street signs with messages such as "John Deere Parking Only" are perfectly sized for filling in the empty space above a doorway where that 8x10 portrait of Jesus won't quite fit. White trash sometimes pick up Confederate battleflags at local flea markets or gun & knife shows to use as colorful accent pieces, often embellished with a portrait of Hank Williams, Jr. or emblazoned with the message "The South Will Rise Again," in hopes that someday they will indeed rise again from their corduroy La-Z-Boys.
Paintings and posters (ahem, "prints") aren't quite enough, though. A home just isn't a white trash home without a few appropriate objets d'art. Megastores just off the highway, such as the J.R. Outlet on I-40 in North Carolina, serve as one-stop shops for all your white trash decorating needs. Painted resin figurines are highly popular among white trash, in a wide range of subjects, such as hunting dogs, firefighters, Confederate officers, bald eagles swaddled in American flags, and humorous caricatures of elderly people. Snow globes containing the same figures offer a little variety. Countless mail-order catalogs also offer a wealth of tasteless crap with which white trash can adorn every laminated surface. Especially popular among the mail-order schlock are commemorative plates. These are the size, shape, and composition of dinner plates, but are not intended for serving food; rather, they are meant to be hung on the wall in order to admire their depictions of Civil War officers, George W. Bush, NASCAR personalities, and memorials to the 9/11 attacks. Mail order services and flea markets also provide Japanese swords (made in Pakistan) to hang on the wall. Such accessories often become props in hilarious home movies in which the owner attempts to use them and injures himself. But how can you beat a wall accessory that comes straight from nature? Trashy people love to find beautiful animals, shoot them, and mount their heads on the wall. And by law, every white trash home must have a singing Billy Bass on the living room wall.
While not technically a furnishing or decorative object, the focal point of a white trash living room is always the television. Now you may be harboring some unfounded stereotypes, envisioning an ancient TV-disguised-as-furniture from the late '70s. Far from it, reader; white trash actually dedicate a large portion of their discretionary income to keeping up with entertainment technology. Upon entering a white trash living room, a visitor immediately envies the 55-inch flat-panel TV and Dolby surround sound that make it feel like Larry the Cable Guy is right there in the room. The home computer is rarely more than two years old, and always runs Windows, never, ever Macintosh or Linux. The computer is only used for porn, forwarding chain e-mails, burning mix CDs to play in the Camaro, porn, viewing videos of people lighting each other on fire for fun, ordering commemorative plates online, and porn. Once it gets choked up with viruses from opening too many UPS delivery notice spam mails (for fear that they missed the attempted delivery of Reba seasons 1–6 on Blu-Ray), it's off to Wal-Mart for a new computer, and the old one gets used for target practice out back.
So now that you have your ugly furniture, tasteless "art prints," and complete collection of "Legends in Gray" commemorative plates on the wall, what's missing? A wallpaper border, of course! No white trash home is complete without long strips of wallpaper about 6-8 inches wide which run along the top or middle of a wall, printed with repeating patterns of flowers, grape vines, or classic cars. These are a must for any true white trash home because it's just so much easier than painting or installing moldings.
The gaudiness doesn't stop at the front door, however. You want to display your exquisite tastes to everyone who passes by your house! How do you do that? Yard art, duh! Entire businesses exist solely to fill this need. On lonely stretches of back roads, you'll occasionally find retailers where you can walk through rows and rows of molded concrete and choose from replicas of Greek statues, religious figures, fanciful gnomes, miniature lighthouses, life-size animals, and hilarious urinating children. They come in natural concrete (think about that descriptor for a moment), but you can paint them yourself in full color. That front lawn of yours was so somber before you got the pissing cherub to lighten the mood, and that hand-painted white tail buck is so realistic, people will open fire in your front yard! The miniature lighthouse that really lights up will be your beacon home after a night of pounding back the Natural Lights, just don't plow your Camaro into it.
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