Miller Monday – Champagne wishes, Caviar dreams, and a Chevy Nova up on blocks in the front yard
I have a secret. Many of you may know that I was raised in a nice affluent area of the Peoples Republic of Southern California. I attended quality schools. I wore nice clothes. I never went without. But the truth is, I aint no purebred. I’ve spent the majority of my life runnin’ from my roots, but I’m tired of runnin’.
My mother was born in Idaho and my father was born in the Valley of the Dirt People. You see, no matter how you slice it I am almost 100% white trash. I thought for the longest time that being white trash has no genetic component. I thought that every man chooses his destiny. I was such a moron.
I would cringe when my roommates would get all charged up for a night of good eatin’ at the Chuck-a-Rama. My spine would tingle in disgust when my father would wear his Teva sandals in public. I would laugh and point at the guy wearing the Garth Brooks T-shirt in high school, just like the rest of you. But I have always known that deep down inside I am a no good piece of white trash.
Don’t get me wrong, I still hate buffet style eating. I hate Garth Brooks and would rather chop off my right arm than wear Teva sandals. Most of my white trash genes are buried, and buried deep, thank goodness. Most people, in fact, feel that I have very refined taste. I certainly don’t look or dress white trash. However, thanks to my parents I have adopted a certain element of trashiness that I cannot kill. I love 80’s butt rock. You name it, from Poison to Bon Jovi to Winger. I love ‘em all. Lemare reminded me of a time in college while playing tennis (an extremely un-white trash thing to do) we took a breather to play air guitar with our rackets and sing everything from Warrant to Def Lepard (an extremely white trash thing to do). I’m sorry if I just outed you there Lemare.
To compound my problem, my wife is also from the Valley of the Dirt people. I thought I could change her from Macaroni and Cheese to Filet Mignon. What a fool I was. I will never forget the day when we were driving past an RV dealership and she confessed that she had always secretly dreamed of owning a motor home and driving around the country. I almost broke down and cried. That statement was nearly the death of me. I now know that I never wanted the Filet in the first place. My inner genetic child was crying out for corn dogs and tater tots.
Every night I look into my baby’s eyes and I wonder how his white trashiness will be made manifest. Will he own a gun rack? Will he be a NASCAR junkie? Will he eat at McDonalds much like Jeanie Irving (sorry if I outed you there Jean)? Will he adore Nicholas Cage? Although I always swore against it, I brought another 100% white trash soul into the world. It’s my prayer that he marries some high brow woman from the city to begin to dilute the white trash portion of the Miller gene pool.
This may be my confession, but there is no doubt that there is a little bit of white trash in each and every one of us. And you know what? There is some logic in the white trash mantra. When all you aspire for in life is a pickup truck and tribal tattoo, in all likelihood you will one day achieve your wildest dreams.
Entry filed under: Miller Monday.