"The
earth tilts, bringing shorter, nippier, less humid days. Flakier pie
crusts. Bigger moons. Jogger-free beaches. Mums and asters. Boeuf
bourguignonne. Dartmouth/Princeton rugby. Killer Scrabble. John Keats.
Venice. Unfiltered cider..."
You still awake? Good. Then let me tell you about how I was recently beamed back to 1994.
This time of year mailboxes are packed with catalogs offering up
toys, clothing, and fruit baskets. My four-year-old loves to get the
mail and the first thing she does is hunt for "toy books." Then
she spends the next 20 minutes on the floor flipping pages going, "I want this...I want this...I want this..."
As I was sorting through the mail the other day I came across
something I haven't seen since the Counting Crows had a top 10 single: The J. Peterman catalog.
For those that have never seen the J. Peterman catalog (or seen Seinfeld),
the catalog is bound with heavy card stock and has no photographs (and
no people) in it. Instead, it's filled with hand-sketched pictures of
the clothes and accessories; flowery, over-blown language (see above);
and references to lots of shit that only rich, white people know
about.
If you're going to a F. Scott Fitzgerald-themed holiday party and
need Zelda's cloche hat ($198) or a Gatsby shirt ($85), this is the
place to do your shopping. Otherwise, grab your partner, pour a
couple of glasses of wine, and take turns reading the catalog aloud. You will laugh your asses off, guaranteed.
"See you at the Chincoteague Oyster Festival." /snort
