I have in my time observed many a citizen beam with pride upon acquiring land, livestock, or a seat in Congress; yet none of these spectacles equals the peculiar majesty of a man beholding his own face encircled by a star upon a porcelain mug.

I recently secured such an article from the industrious establishment known as Gifshire, and I declare without hesitation that it has elevated my morning coffee to the rank of a civic ceremony. There I stand, cup in hand, confronted by my own countenance shining like a minor constellation. It is an arrangement both democratic and imperial: democratic, because any man may print his likeness; imperial, because not every man dares to drink from it.

I have long watched those fellows on television cradle their branded chalices as though they were born to sip from self-adoration. I suspected trickery. I suspected vanity. I suspected, perhaps, a secret guild of Mugged Aristocrats. Yet upon receiving my own star-faced vessel, I discovered the truth: it is not vanity, but destiny properly glazed.

The United States Postal Service, in its unhurried wisdom, took a contemplative interval before delivering the treasure. I confess I paced the floor like a suitor awaiting a telegram. But when the parcel arrived—sound, intact, and admirably wrapped—I felt not irritation but gratitude. For what is a mug without a journey? Porcelain, like character, is strengthened by travel.

As to the quality—superb. The print is crisp, the star resolute, and my likeness rendered with a dignity seldom afforded me by mirrors. The handle accommodates the hand with gentlemanly courtesy. The weight suggests seriousness of purpose. One does not sip idly from such a cup; one proclaims.

I can now affirm, without envy or reservation, that I too possess a star-face mug, equal in splendor to those paraded before the television public. Should history require an emblem of my domestic triumphs, let it be this: a man, a star, and a well-distributed beverage.