Classy Lee How to be classy and stay classy


Class Up Sharing

Safety should always be job one no matter what the situation. Unfortunately, one is not necessarily always prepared with the needed equipment. Should you find yourself in a hospitable environment, others may be willing to loan you the tools or gear that you need. Should you find yourself in a Classy environment, others may put their own personal touches on said equipment.

For example: Let's say you find yourself on a construction site. Let's say this particular site has colleagues working overhead and a hard hat is a must. Let's say your dumb-ass left yours at home. What do you do? Home is an hour away. Can't make the drive just for that. But, you have work to do. Quite the little quizibuck you have created. Thankfully, you can always count on the kindness of others. Even more so, you can count on the Classiness of others. Below you will find a picture of the inside of a borrowed hard hat. The owner I can only assume suffers from the illiteracy problem that plagues our great nation. And, he/she has never completed a preschool or kindergarten program given the lack of stickers, finger-paints, or any other form of marking to allow others to know the true owner of said chapeau. However, our hero has clearly been to at least one seminar or blog that details 'How to Stay Classy'. This is evident by the short curly object clinging to the inside that to my personal dismay appears to be a pubic hair. There will never be enough shampoo...


Classy Marketing

The secret to any successful film is the merchandising behind it. Selling shirts, mugs, toys, video games, etc. will net millions of dollars to the shrewd business person.

Even in the case of a low-grossing film, the Classy entrepreneur can still pull in record profits if (A) you know your audience and (B) are willing to compromise any morals you may have to sell the same item to children, adult males, and perverse authors of observationally humorous blogs.

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Grilled Classiness

Over the centuries, many great countries have provided important contributions to the culinary world. The grand ole USA is no exception. While imitated and duplicated a plethora of times with many finer ingredients, there is just no substitute for cheap white bread, butter, and Kraft processed American style cheese food product. AKA - The Grilled Cheese.

Even the most snobby of food critics cannot deny the subtle complexities of this succulent fare.

More important than the simplicity of said delicacy is the simplicity of preparation. Any man woman or child can handle the assembly. In fact, I am sure I need not post the instructions as all Classy Lee readers have it down by now.

However, as with most things (and people) there are exceptions. Below you will find the step-by-step instructions for making the exact opposite of what is detailed above. No, this is not "High Class" Grilled cheese composed of aged Vermont cheddar, apple smoked bacon, ripe Roma tomatoes, on a canvas of warm multi-grain Artisan bread. While that does have its place and is wonderful experience, it is still not the Classic fore-mentioned treat. Instead, I give you the instructions for the "Classy" abomination that destroyed the last stitch of faith I had in American craftsmanship.

1. The bread - Wheat. Not real wheat. Rather, the bastardized version that NASCAR fans refer to as wheat. Basically Wonder bread with some grit and brown coloring added. "Hillbilly" is an exceptional choice here.

2. Crock margarine. Brand is irrelevant. Just be sure to let it sit in a warm room for 6 hours prior to use.

3. Cheese - Be sure it has no name brand. Not store brand. That is still too good. Look on the very bottom shelf. Most major grocers carry a brand devoid of flavor and nutrition that simply says "cheese product". Matter of fact, I don't think cash can be used to purchase it. Only WIC coupons will be accepted should you wish to procure it.

Now, assemble the ingredients in the standard fashion taking care to use 2 pieces of cheese and margarine on both sides of the bread.

Apply to heat. Preferably a low heat so it takes 15 minutes to brown 1 side of the sandwich but not enough heat to permeate the bread and melt the cheese.

I cannot stress enough the importance of the last step. For had the cheese melted, I would have had difficulty peeling the two slices apart from each other to remove the long, thick black hair that was sandwiched in the middle of the sandwich.
You mother fucker. You stole my innocence. I know who you are and you will pay dearly. So so dearly...

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Class Up Your Ride

As a country of consumers, most of us are aware of the large costs associated with "pimping one's ride". The amount of necessary revenue needed for dubs (rims to the layperson), paint and detailing alone can swallow up the weekly fry-cook's salary in only one shopping trip to your local automotive parts retailer.

Now for the truly Classy artist, a little ingenuity goes a long way.  A thousand and how many uses?

"Can't fix it, "duc" it. Can't "duc" it, fuck it".

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Classy Bike Ride

I prefer to ride my bike in order to stay in shape. Living in the suburbs of the Motor City presents some difficulties for this since the road infrastructure was never designed to accommodate bicycles safely on major roads (thanks auto companies for years of lobbying). I have to carefully plan my routes in order to stay on what I would consider safe roads for cycling. Some auto owners fail to realize the issues cyclists face and think that the roads only belong to cars. It is OK. I understand. People need a safe haven to drive distracted while texting on their new iPhones with a bad signal. Is this not what America is all about?

During a recent bike ride I was traveling down a 25 MPH street heading up to a stop light. I was behind two cars. Another car pulls up behind me shortly after I stop and honks the horn. I look back to see who it was and realize that the person was honking at me. Maybe my bright orange shirt was making me too visible for that driver to handle. As the light turns green and traffic starts moving, the driver pulls up next to me and yells, "You're not a car." Before I could reply with, "You're not a car either," the guy drove away.

Maybe he was upset that I was accelerating as fast as his PT Cruiser on my bike (no offense Grundle).

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Redneck Camping Trip Part 2

I woke up on the first morning to the sounds and exhaust smells of golf carts while sweating bullets in a tent nearing the 90 degree mark. Our one tree was not big enough to provide shade so I had direct sunlight on the tent from the moment the sun raised above the double-wide manufactured home on the horizon. I walked over to the restrooms which were conveniently located next to our campsite in order to take care of business when I realized that I could have been more sanitary by just pissing in my tent. This old wooden dilapidation of a restroom smelled worse than some of the outhouses I have used while backpacking in parks in the middle of nowhere. The urinal was clogged and filled to the brim, probably because someone took a shit in there. Flies were everywhere having a field day. I loathed the thought of having to use these facilities for other types of business, since the stalls probably carried diseases that would even make Classy Lee sick. I was awake before everyone else this morning, so I sat around the campfire quietly and listened to the sounds of nature the expressway. The drunk guy in the trailer next to us woke up early to go to the party store to get his case of Natural Light. He would continue to do this every morning that we were there. He also wore the same clothes. We did not hear a peep from him the entire weekend, probably because he was blackout-drunk.

I took a walk around the campground to see what the rest of the place looked like, and I was shocked to see that we actually had a good campsite compared to others. The rest of the campsites were full of abandoned trailers, some with broken windows that looked to have been the result of gunfire. The electrical system that provided power to the trailers was quite elaborate. The center of the power grid contained an old slanting wooden pole with high voltage wires tangled up in knots. It was OK though, because hanging branches from dying trees were keeping the wires taught throughout the campground. The showers looked like they have not been cleaned in years, and the water smelled like rotten eggs. I took a shower in that place once the evening rolled around and ended up smelling worse. I had no choice however since it was extremely hot and humid the entire weekend, and there was no way I was going to go in the nearby man-made pond. I would have rather swam in the Detroit River than went in to that pond.

Once nighttime rolled around all of the rednecks came out of the woodwork and decided that our campsite was the place to hangout even though they were not invited. Even past midnight there were young kids still awake trying to get in on the drinking games that were being played, while boasting about how much their older family members can drink. Those kids have great role models, and I am sure they are going to grow up to be model citizens. I kept my senses on full alert for anyone trying to start shit with us or steal anything, not because I have a hard time trusting drunk strangers, but because I have a hard time trusting drunk strangers.

The rest of the weekend was more of the same. One morning we all woke up to a nice smelly treat, as the toilets from the bathroom were overflowing and flooding the road that was next to our campsite. Yes, shit-smelling gray water was pooling up very close to our tents. We were lucky that our campsite was slightly uphill, or we would have woken up in a pool of shit-water. The drunk owner eventually came by and fixed it with a coat hanger. He looked a little pissed off, probably because his drinking time was interrupted. On our last day there we ended up starting a game of volleyball to get a little exercise. The camp's volleyball court had a busted net and tall sharp grass, but we made it work. Some of the locals came by to join in on the game. There was one lady that joined us who looked to have had too many Bud Lights and sunburns in her day. Her little dog was following her around, and when it walked on to the court as we were playing, she picked it up and threw it about six feet. All of us wanted to do very horrible and well-justified things to her in retaliation, but we kept our cool. Those rednecks probably had shotguns. I also think that some of those people were skinheads, which made a certain camper quite nervous given his ethnicity. The old guy with the moonshine was very cool however.

Overall, it looked like the campground was built in the 1970's and then left alone to rot. The owner has obviously no reason to keep the place up since only the locals hang out there. He's also probably too drunk all day to realize that his campground is a cesspool. At this point I am really sick of writing about this camping experience because it makes me sick just thinking about it. I will never camp in Ohio ever again.

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Redneck Camping Trip Part 1

My Classy friends and I decided to spend this year's national holiday camping in the most boring state in the Union - Ohio. Americans typically spend Memorial Day weekend forgetting what the purpose of Memorial Day weekend is, drinking and eating to one's heart's content, and not getting Deliverance'd by local rednecks and skinheads. The latter usually makes or breaks one's weekend and we were lucky enough to almost experience this. We arrived to the campground fairly late in the evening due to some delays in our trip, but the camp manager was kind enough to keep his office open and wait for us. It turned out his office was actually an old shack that resembled a general store from the 50's, and the nice camp manager was actually a geriatric drunk who looked like a McCain voter and was probably packing a shotgun behind the counter. After we paid up for our campsites for the weekend the manager told us he would escort us to our campsite. We had to follow him in our cars as he went 5 MPH through the campground on his golf cart. He found us a nice set of campsites that would suit us well for the weekend. It included a large field, a small tree (for shade of course), the sounds of the nearby freeway, and all of the 2-stroke golf cart motor exhaust we could handle. As an added bonus, we got put next to a trailer circa 1970's that was occupied by some drunk. The drunks (see a pattern developing?) that rode around on golf carts all over the place made us really strategize where we wanted to keep our tents in case of a highly-likely drunk golf cart driving accident in our campsites. I found a good spot behind the water spigot. In case someone was driving toward my tent they would at least make a watery mess before running me over in my sleep. We went back to the office after setting up camp to get some firewood. The old guy running camp gave us some at a rather reasonable price (Ohio exchange rate - they still use Confederate money right?). He determined how much wood one needed by very slowly stacking each piece of wood in to one's arms while rambling on about nonsense (probably hating on minorities) as one's arms start shaking and discs start herniating from the weight. Now we just had to figure out how to dry the wood since it was dripping wet. If we wanted ice for our coolers we would have to buy frozen milk jugs of water and break it up ourselves. We opted for going in to town and buying ice not made from pond water.

The first night was quite interesting. After we setup camp all of the rednecks from nearby sites started congregating  to our site within seconds after we cracked open the first beer. I felt a little pretentious drinking Stella Artois (in a glass bottle no less) as everyone else drank their Natural Light and Milwaukee's Beast (recession). It turns out many of these people actually lived in town and have been coming to this campground each weekend for years. There is the first red flag of this trip. I was starting to realize that this was not a typical campground. People bring their trailers in to live there, not visit. This was a local's hangout. We were the out-of-state visitors from the North with good beer and clean clothes. I was starting to get a funny feeling about these people. The next day would paint a larger picture of what the rest of the weekend was going to be like.

Stay tuned for part two.


Classy Art

Art comes in many forms. It is sometimes difficult to gain the artist's perspective. Fortunately, criticism also comes in many forms. Despite the 2 professions always being at odds, they do share a symbiotic relationship that is indispensable for the third party viewer to gain said insight.

In the following example, you can see how the two have related to each other in an effort to help the purveyor of the work. In this case yours truly. The artist (known here as the "Urinal Muralist") has arranged a timeless piece known as "Solitary on Chrome". For weeks this dramatic work sat only noticed by a few of the local patrons of the 4th floor museum.

Eventually, a local critic took notice and composed a retrospective of his interpretation of the piece. Having done so the rest of us finally were able to get a sense of the creator's ability to express his most inner feelings and an interpretative of what he wanted to instill in the rest of us.

To you both I offer thanks on behalf of those of us sans artistic talent or insight. After all, nothing is more Classy than art.

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Classy Ride


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Happy St. Pats Day from Sourdough Joe