Sometimes when writing something inflamatory, semi-fictional or out of character, I use a pseudonym. As that personna I wear a trenchcoat, crepe-soled shoes and a hat, carry a beat-up old Pentax and am seedy and disreputable enough to get into the kinds of situations I write about, unlike the real upstanding person I truly am.
A recent Mercedes-Benz print ad says "Some things are not what they seem." The picture is outside a club at night, with a line of clubbers being presided over by the typical security thug. There's a car across the street - probably a Mercedes, but it could be a Toyota or something. Little notes point to the folks in line and the thug, labeling them as "accountant by day," "nurse" (thug), and stuff like that. The ad doesn't set well with me.
Clubs are fantasy places. People are what they wear, how they dance, who they are with, and exactly who they say they are. Referencing reality by mentioning the dayjob is way not cool. The fact that you came from El Cajon in your mother's Oldsmobile has nothing whatever to do with who you are in the club. (Disclaimer: I like El Cajon. Used to live there. Some of my best friends are from El Cajon, etc. And Oldsmobiles are great cars - not just your father's car anymore, you know.) The flip side of this is that anyone with a truly cool job or car or whatever has to work real hard to bring it up in a club. And unless it's actually used to close the deal with some babe, it's regarded as seriously tacky to do so. Sorta like equal protection under the noise.
About a year ago I asked a Goth chick, all velvet and satin and cleavage and laces, what she did for a living. This girl, the stuff that dreams are made of, turned back into a pumpkin in front of me when I found she worked eight to five in a dreary service job. I was sorry I asked, as this delicious creature and all of her like became mearly human. And that's not who they are when in a club. They are what they wear, how they dance, and exactly who they appear to be.
And that's the way it should be.