After I blogged about my suits a few weeks back, an associate sent this link about how some NBA players buy a new suit for every day on the road. I’m guessing they’re not stocking up on these Cyber Monday deals at Joseph A. Bank, either.

My suits are now at the tailor, so I’ll walk into Christmas at the Ol’ Scaia Place back home in Ohio looking even statelier!

“But Alan, you ruggedly handsome sensation!” you’re shouting at the computer. “All of this stateliness takes away from the Lord!”

To counteract the suit, I’ll still wear the same necktie. It’s a solid necktie. Because I look too doggone handsome and distinguished in all of my sweaters, I had to resort to wearing the tie to an ugly sweater party over the weekend.

Loyal Scaiaholics know how important the Lord and I consider whimsy.

Which, obviously, brings us to my car.

That article encourages us to drive an old car. My car is almost old enough to get its own license.

That wasn’t my initial plan, though.

I had a lady inside last weekend. I’m pretty sure it was the last car ever made that didn’t have electric door locks, so I’d unlock her door, then I’d scurry across to the driver’s side to try to unlock mine before she reached across [because I am a gentleman].

I bought the truck back in aught-four. To celebrate the paltry income when I got my first job, I decided to add a monthly car payment.

“F-150s keep their value better than other used cars,” I’m pretty sure I read in a magazine at the time, so I bought a brand new car. “I’ll just opt out of every option because I’m a gentleman and can open doors for ladies.”

When I got a better paying job, I’d upgrade the car. I assumed.

Even while I was working for the network, though, I still drove the beat-up old truck. I’ve test driven McLarens and Rolls Royces. And I still drive the same truck.

Now, the Toronto Raptors are backing me up. It is nice to not have a car payment!

Earlier this year, the battery cut out. Because I stumble out of the house for work in the middle of the night, it felt inappropriate to pound on the neighbors’ doors and ask for a jump, so AAA came out. The guy asked if I’d kept the lights on.

I said no, and when I popped the hood, he saw all the blue stuff around one of the terminals. He asked how old the battery was.

“Well, I’ve lived in DFW for ten years. I don’t remember having changed the battery since I’ve lived here…” I thought out loud.

He said that was a great life for the battery, so maybe I should just change it.

Maybe [maybe] that’s the lesson here, kids. If you take care of your cars, you want have to shell out money for a new one as often. Also, I’m pretty sure its still gentlemanly to open doors for women.

I can still take that truck on road trips, too.

Maybe when I head back to Oregon for the rodeo next year, I’ll drive instead of fly, so I can park next to my first boss’ old truck [which is also the same] at that radio station one morning. I just don’t enjoy road trips like I did in my 20s. But I’m not old.

Because I bought those suits, Joseph A. Bank is now bombarding me with emails about specials on sweaters. But none of them are hilarious.