The Art Of Collecting

I first discovered that my friend Nell had a tendency for collecting over one of those light-hearted “when we were young” conversations about Beanie Babies. Somebody posed the question, “Oh what was the one that was supposed to be valuable?” to which Nell, with unnecessary vigour screamed, “CELEBRATION BEAR 2000”. Which was why it was with scepticism and dismay that I met her recent announcement that she has successfully completed her United States’ Mint 50 Quarters collection.

Being English in America is in many ways a bit like being a collectible. After it is discovered (usually by the giveaway accent) that you are different, ways are often found by which you can be acquired. This is by no means a complaint on my part, as “playing the English card” has become something that myself and my fellow English companions do on a regular basis in order that we can attend various events, or just have a bit-of-whatever-your-drinking/smoking-thanks-bye. It was through these means that Chris and I were invited to a Christmas party by my roommate, “I mean, I don’t know many people going, and I think that its going to be a small thing, but I told them all you were English.” Thus, invite secured, we enjoyed a lovely evening of ham, games, wine and cross-cultural conversation. It was also through being English that I met Julianne, whose family very kindly allowed us to stay in their amazing beach house north of San Diego, a place that can only be described as the O.C. The beach was teeming with Botox-infused moms adorned in velour tracksuits and enormous visors, worn presumably to stop their lips from melting. Plastic surgery it seems, is a dangerous game, as we found out from a friend of Julianne’s who over an In-N-Out told us about his own mother’s face-lift-gone-wrong. Apparently, washing your freshly stripped face in unfiltered water results in hideous near-permanent scarring that can take two years to heal. “Oh yeah” he added, “We’re suing that surgeon for shit”.

After criticising Nell so heavily, it is with some shame that I admit that I too, have succumbed to the lure of those shiny silver quarters. Only yesterday, while at the BART, an emaciated looking woman approached me begging for money. I reached into my pocket, only to notice the quarter I was about to give her was Wyoming. I hurriedly replaced it, smiled apologetically and walked away. Now if it had been an Arizona, it would have been a different matter. I mean, those things are two a penny. Ironically.