When money was plentiful and easy to make, man did I have the material desires. I wanted an upscale apartment overlooking a crowded pool, featuring maidens in bikinis which would occasionally come undone leading to an awkward/purposeful, “Oops!” from the woman, but only after a slo-mo spin to make sure everyone noticed; almost like a soft porn company made a synchronized swimming video. That was the “dream”. I didn’t want a family life; no birthday parties at Chuck E Cheese. I wanted excitement.
Now I live in a motel (most days anyway). The motel has a pool and I’m sure I don’t want to see it; even surer I don’t want to see any of my neighbors lose bikini tops. As I’ve said before, few things are certain in life, but one of them is that there will never, EVER be a pictorial titled The Girls Of Motel 6. For ladies, you can rest assured GQ won’t ever do a Spring Fashions shoot there either. Remember as a kid when you’d swim at a friend’s house and maybe step on a pebble or other tiny object in the pool? It wouldn’t really freak you out but you’d want to know what it was, just out of curiosity. At a transient motel, stepping on anything in the pool will most likely require a tetanus shot at the minimum. Oh, and take the “object” with you. The emergency room will surely wish to test it and contact the Centers For Disease Control.
And I used to have an H2 as a second car (damn what a materialistic prick I was). I only used it for going to upscale bars and boy did it draw attention. Now? I drive a bashed-in Camry which is five years older than the Hummer. Hummer was a great name for a car/mastedon by the way, for it was both a vehicle AND the goal of driving said vehicle. I’m really surprised there was never a Ford Fuck Your Brains Out (HUGE pickup truck), or Chevy Anal (sporty with great gas mileage) offered as Hummer alternatives.
Somewhere around the mid-90’s I also became a clothes guy. Previously Levi’s were my preferred jean. Once I started making a little dough, it became upscale shit. Again, it was only to impress the ladies. “Don’t like my receding hairline? Well, how about what’s packaged in these True Religions, baby?” And the tighter the better. I’d skip dinner if I was going out that evening, just to squeeze into my tightest pair. I’d swear more than once I heard in a very high voice, “No Rick, nooooo! Please, noooo!” It was my zipper crying out for mercy. There were times I’d walk around like the fucking Tin Woodsman, all stiff legged. I’m sure the both-legs-in-splints look wasn’t sexy at all. If I could’ve had someone hold my jeans out while I was getting dressed, I would have jumped off the bed like a someone from pro wrestling coming off the top rope. And whatever position my nutsack ended in, that’s where the fuck those choking bad boys stayed until they were let loose, like Grizzly Adams freeing a wolf caught in a trap right before the gnawing commenced. Splash on way too much Drakkar Noir (Google it), and “look out ladies, Rick was in play”.
Jesus what a pathetic time that was. Wrong priorities, wrong method of approaching life. By the way, when my income started waning and I had put on a little weight, I switched back to the jeans at Target. Of course as I lost some 25 lbs. recently, the Target jeans no longer fit, and I couldn’t afford new ones, so I dug some of the designer shit out of storage. They finally fit; no squeezing, no ball strangulation, just nice comfort for a change. So I’ve come full goddamn circle. The cut of the jeans may or may not be in style (I don’t read any type of men’s fashion magazine) but they fit nicely, probably they way the designers originally intended.
So yes, priorities change. Perhaps some of you will look back, wistfully for a bygone era, or maybe in amazement at your ignorance of how fast life can pass, and change. Where once I desired a swanky apartment, a nice ride, designer clothes, now I only want a safe place where I can close my eyes, a reliable car where I can take people from destination to destination, and a chance to make people smile with my words.