When my wife and I were on the hunt for our new home — in 2021, during the absolute peak of the ridiculous pandemic market because apparently we are both masochists — I had several stipulations. One of mine was the requirement our new place to have a finished basement.  

“Of course, have to have a man cave, right!?” all the real estate agents said while jabbing their elbows deep into my ribs and winking. After wincing in pain, because this was now the 408^th realtor who had jabbed my ribs in the past week, I shot them a closed-mouth, exasperated grin. In reality, I didn’t want a “man cave” as much as I wanted a bunker for the inevitable tornado season in Georgia, which now runs from approximately March through February. Or at least that’s how it seems to me with my near-debilitating tornado anxiety.  

Then again, having a space of my own within the house would be great. By this point my collection of 1/24 diecasts had swelled to well over a hundred, and I’m not the type of person, and my wife absolutely isn’t, to allow diecasts to be displayed in common areas of the home. That, and I have a young daughter who has a few diecasts of her own. Her favorite thing to do with them is smash them together as hard as is possible for a young girl to do — which is probably harder than even I, a full-grown man, could manage. So, it’s best we keep the diecasts I actually want to remain in one piece in their own particular place.  

Fortunately we found a home that ticked all of our boxes, including my most important requirement. Though the basement in our new home is much smaller than that of our previous home, it is the perfect tornado shelter/diecast display area I could hope to find. It’s mostly underground, windowless, has a full bathroom and the temperature is consistently several degrees cooler than the rest of the house, which is thoroughly appreciated given I can break a sweat by going through the mail. I don’t really like the term “man cave,” but damn is it an apropos way to describe my basement.  

It is now a shrine to my food/drink sponsored diecast collection, with several wall-mounted cases and a full, six-foot-tall trophy case turned display against another wall. You know, the kind of decorating you can only do when your spouse never spends any time in a particular room. Adjacent to these displays is a mini-fridge, which remains filled with the only two liquids I consistently drink aside from water; Red Bull and beer. And the latter really makes me appreciate all things diecast. 

Often, after having more than my fair share of “adult beverages,” I’ll peer across the rows and rows of my diecasts with exuberance, appreciating my collection and commenting on its contents. “Man, I still love that General Mills Bobby Labonte CoT scheme. That Ricky Bobby Wonder Bread custom was a disaster to paint, but it looks so damn good now, especially with its Fig Newtons decal across the windshield. There it is, the diecast that started it all, Ricky Stenhouse Jr.’s 2014 NOS scheme.” 

Beer is invariably a lubricant when I make custom diecasts, as well. Which likely explains why none of my customs are anywhere near perfect. But hey, I’ll take a flaw or two (or six) if it means I’m getting even more enjoyment out of making one.  

But beer and diecasting aren’t always happy mates. I was once taking apart a CoT to make a custom, and apparently threw away the rear wing in my boozy haze. At least I’m pretty sure I did. It’s been a year and I still haven’t found the damn thing despite my best efforts. I once decided to rearrange on of my display cases and knocked several diecasts to the floor after stumbling into the table I was using as a staging area during relocation. And like many of you, I presume, I’ve also spent more money on diecasts that I should have during a night of imbibing.  

At least I could chalk these issues up to a single night of reveling. Personally, my most embarrassing diecast/drinking dumb moment actually stretched out across several weeks.  

I typically get a bit more motivated, shall we say, to add to my collection when doing several sets of 12-ounch curls. This was the case when I was trying to track down a Pop-Secret No. 43 diecast I had seen someone post online a few days earlier. While sporting my beer goggles, I turned to various diecast sellers, eBay, Facebook diecast selling groups and general searches to try and track down this 1/24 I just had to have for my collection. But I couldn’t find even a kernel (ba-dum tiss) of a lead to buy one. A week later, with a collection of empty aluminum cans starting to cramp my desk, I was on the hunt for the Pop-Secret car again. Nothing. Nada. Bupkis.  

Hmm. Must be one that’s a bit hard to find for sale, I told myself. Maybe it had a limited run, or maybe there’s some story behind it that makes it desirable.  

A few weeks later, the whole chugging then internet searching scenario replayed itself again, and like my prior attempts, I couldn’t find one for sale. Which only made me want it even more. So a few weeks later I was at it again, chasing this apparent Holy Grail. Only this time, I was sober.  

I found one for sale in about three minutes.  

Turns out, the alcohol in my system was impacting my cognitive function, as it tends to do. As such, I was searching for John Andretti’s Pop-Secret 1/24 NASCAR diecast, unaware in my boozy stupor that John Andretti didn’t drive the car. It was Jeff Green. Just another instance underscoring the intoxicating effects of alcohol.  

So, have I learned my lesson, that perhaps it’s more advisable to not be intoxicated while doing diecast-related things? Not really.  

I certainly consume booze far less frequently than when this occurred, but it’s still a companion when I want a little extra motivation to enjoy my collection, or when I need to ensure I’m nice and relaxed, or that’s my excuse anyway, while fitting a tiny waterslide decal on a diecast.  

But perhaps you can take a lesson from all this. If you can’t seem to track down a diecast you’re after, wait until the next morning.