•December 2, 2020•
By Jim Baumann
NP Guest Writer

You’ve polished off all of the vintage wine in the house.
With nowhere to go and no one to see, your vintage fire engine red 1965 Mustang sits idle (not idling, mind you) in your garage.
You sit on your vintage, low-slung, tweed chesterfield and spin some vintage vinyl on your vintage Thorens turntable, pop some vintage Jujubes — risking those vintage fillings in your molars — and wonder where your vintage lifestyle is leading you.
“Vintage,” through overuse and overreach, has lost most of its meaning.
You’ll pardon me if this column is disjointed and lacks cohesion. It was written largely during a dream, which is where a drawerful of floppy disks and thumb drives of scuttled novels end up because, well, dreams always seem to get interrupted before they can end.

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