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.