Friday, March 4, 2016

No Place For A Man Of Means

Sometimes I would lie awake in bed worrying about the body on my '32 Ford coupe rusting. I always gave away old Levis when holes appeared in the knee. 

Now, young attorneys with too much disposable income pay the custom shop at Fender an extra three or four grand to bang around a telecaster before they take it home. Prissy designers place the love seat  right behind the crack in the marble floor, in front of the crumbling plaster wall, for the catalog photographer.

Those lawyers that I mentioned spend extra cash for Levis that have already been distressed and come with holes conveniently worn in the knees. They don't want to appear inauthentic while they pick out southern rock on their telecasters in their media rooms.

Getting old ain't so tough. I feel downright fashionable in my distressed state.

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