Bragging Rites

In the 70s, Pinochle was a popular pastime with adults. Parents would congregate at one home or another. Children would be sequestered in a back room with the TV running, while the booze was poured. Wine for the women, beer for the men. That is, until the Wild Turkey escaped.

I always liked going to a place where the toys were better. I never had a Lite Brite. My Barbie didn't have a Dream House. Her Corvette was secondhand. She dated my brother's GI Joe rather than Ken. We didn't have a pool or trampoline (for fear of a broken arm or neck) or even a Slip 'n Slide (which would likely lead to paralysis). My parents were painfully cheap when it came to our toys. After all, they had to pay for the upkeep on theirs: The Boat.

We might not have had a palatial floor plan in one of the tracts -- we lived on the older side of town -- and though our Cadillac was pre-owned, it looked good towing the jet boat. We may not have vacationed in the Bahamas or Hawaii, but we had a boat, and that was some cache when the boasting began a few drinks into the card game.

Bragging was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, being too much of a braggart qualified you as an egotistical ass. That was worse that being poor, unemployed or on the sauce. But you still needed to list your achievements and acquisitions to your social circle so a current ranking could be determined.

I was the oldest of the kids in the clique, and would soon grow bored with the young ones. I would make my way out to where the action was. Sometimes it was to get something to drink or eat, or to read on the sofa, out of sight but within earshot. Taking my time with whatever task brought me out there. Listening to the grown-ups talk, it reminded me of the playground at school. Is that where we got it from, or did it just stay with them from their days at primary school? Was it a rite of passage or a ritual of suburban life?

The competition continued from the playground through junior high and high school. But, once I left the planned community, it almost ceased completely. We were just too busy doing to list what we had done. Every once in a while, a boaster would pop up in the crowd which was a pleasant reminder of how tedious all that bragging was. Later, the listing of achievements and acquisitions was replaced by the more socially acceptable way of downplaying of them.

"Show, don't tell," was how my screenwriting teacher described good storytelling. Show, don't tell. Is that what all those oversized engagement rings are about? The Prada bags and bleached teeth and Botox and designer SUVs? A generation later, is that what we are doing when we pull up to a friend's house and bring the right bottle of wine to a party (for the hosts to savor later), or have our own catered to perfection?

Pinochle parties are long gone. We have to be sensible when we gather these days so no one gets sued. The Wild Turkey is caged and the children are drugged into a respectable way of being. But, if you still feel the need to be ranked, the right label will say it all for you. Show, and you won't have to say anything more.

So Very Beige

I can't say that I was really a fan of Versace's fashion. The loudness of some of the prints and use of oversized gold caused flashbacks of bad 80s fashion, which I grew up with and often donned. But the most genius thing to ever come from Gianni was his description of Armani, in which he declared, "He's so very beige."

So very beige. That is life in a planned community, where CC&Rs dictate which shades of sand and tan you can paint your home. Sticking out is a sin. A cause for lawsuits or fines, or social exile. It's all about fitting in to one of four floor plans. A modern caste system. Square footage and pool size determines family worth. Pity the child whose parents could only afford a jacuzzi.

Back then, money couldn't buy a kid's popularity. It helped, though. Girls didn't want to be too mean. They might want to borrow your clothes. It was paramount to have the right name on your ass, the correct animal over one's breast, the cooler brand of topsiders or hightops, an array of legwarmers that would take you through the week. Guys were either collar up or collar down. And, as long as one of your friends had a car, you were not a complete paraiah.

This, of course, was before Prada and Coach and Louis Vuitton ruled the quad and overpriced German autos lined the student parking lot. This was when 501s were chic, how you wore them told where you landed on the food chain, and the right kind of hairspray added to you social standing. It was bad then, but much worse there now.

I try to avoid that town as much as possible, but certain family duties force me out there from time to time. I still see big hair and long nails wandering the streets when I visit. But nothing amazes me more than the shades of beige still lining the roads and peppering the hillsides like a plague of pox. It grows and grows like a sand-colored cancer. And it feels as malignant.