Financing the Future

The friday after Thanksgiving in the United States is historically the biggest shopping day of the year, and 2003 was no exception. At Walmart alone, shoppers spent $1.5 billion on that weekend—a staggering sum, even by Pentagon standards. I would bet that the lion’s share of those purchases went on credit cards. I would also put money on the fact that most of those items, bought at not-to-be-undersold prices, will end up costing said consumers far more than sticker price by the time many months—if not years—of finance charges factor into the mix. Does “financing the future for a quick fix today” sound familiar?

The faster money moves, the healthier the economy. Revenue from sales and income taxes helps the government, and profits benefit the producers, sellers, and employees. However, it takes the release of money to move it from the consumer to the constantly revolving system of manufacturers, wholesalers, distributors, vendors, and advertisers,—all of whom must render a certain amount unto their local, and not-so-local, Caesar.

The key word is “release.” That means “out of your pocket.” That means deducting an amount from your bank account, your net worth. Or most likely, in the case of zero net worth, it means deducting a greater amount from your future. Buy now, pay later. That’s what most of those Walmart shoppers did on that glutinous weekend last November. But the reality of “later” rarely enters into the decision to hand a stranger standing behind a cash register the power to extend your indebtedness far into the future with 46.75 square centimeters of plastic. What ever happened to saving for something you want?

People used to “put something aside for a rainy day,” have a fund for an emergency, or simply stash a few bucks in a cookie jar for someone’s next birthday present. No longer. We use the plastic. I don’t know many people who even have a savings account. And what happened to saying, “No, I can’t afford it this month”—or at all?

This country used to be proud of its “made in America” ethic, but that’s all gone now. We want the jobs but we also want the cheap goods. We don’t care where that computer, car, or shirt came from. On that Thanksgiving weekend, one woman was seriously trampled in the melee to pour dollars by the bucket load into the coffers of other countries and into corporations with offshore addresses. We aggressively patronize an entity such as Walmart, driven by our zeal to save a buck, yet we bemoan the reduction of our wages, benefits, jobs, and civil services. We wonder why the local hardware store closed down, or why our schools are so underfunded. We curse the ubiquitous pothole that we never fail to hit. But hey, Joe Consumer just scored a PC for $500-and-change, whose parts were made of inferior materials in a nameless land by peasants working for a bowl of rice.

The Bush tax cuts were to stimulate the economy, and that they did for a short blip on the economic radar screen. America experienced a quick sugar rush at Walmart, but is now suffering a financial insulin crash. By spending that “free” $200 or so, our Joe Consumer bought a few more video games, or six-packs of beer, or maybe even a night on the town with the wife. Chances are J.C. spent more than the windfall, so he is not better off than before, he is worse. He either has less in his bank account or is in greater debt. And the tax cuts will bankrupt the future of his children, for the money will not be there. In fiscal year 2000 the U.S. had a federal budget surplus of $230 billion, the largest in history, and we now face the potential of a $7.5 trillion deficit by the time this Administration is finished with us.

Let’s stop the madness, or at least slow it down. We, the People, have the ultimate power. We can bring corporations to their knees by simply curbing our spending spree. The only reason they are so huge is that they have our money. Do we really need that latest Nintendo game, the new-model car, or eight more pairs of shoes? Would that money serve us better in a savings account, acting as a cushion for the next time we are really wanting? We still need to spend to maintain a thriving economy, but let’s stop trampling our future out of existence by being a bit more responsible in our decisions to relinquish our hard-earned cash. In the same way America embraces and supports obesity by increasing the stock of MacDonalds, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, and Jack-in-the-Box, we also wildly and enthusiastically promote our own indentured slavery with our signatures on the credit slips that we sign almost every day of our in-arrears existence.

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The small print: the author wishes to admit that he drives a Japanese car, reads the poetry of Borges in Spanish, enjoys wines of many countries, and has a strong penchant for foreign films. He has never set foot in Walmart.

© 2004 Stuart Vail

Reflections of Truth

It was 9:00 a.m. The bay was at high tide, and very calm—almost glassy. I was at a little guest cottage across Puget Sound from Seattle. With my elbows resting on the railing of the deck, I was enjoying the peacefulness of the bay with a morning cup of coffee. Suddenly, out of the North, a flock of geese noisily flew right past me. They were only about a foot above the water, and their reflections in the nearly-perfect mirror below made it seem as if there were twice as many geese. As they roared by I immediately focused on those reflections, whose wings were beating in counterpoint to the real wings above. Then they were gone.

It happened so fast. In a split second I had chosen to experience the flock from its reflection. Once committed, I had to stay with it. After the squawks of the geese had faded I was left with an inverted vision of the birds: strange creatures beating their wings upward. My experience was merely a reflection of reality, an inverted and not entirely true representation of what had transpired. But that was what I knew.

We are faced daily with such distortions and constantly have to interpret what we think we saw or heard. Films based on “true facts” offer their interpretations of reality, often becoming “untrue facts.” For improved ratings the murderess is upgraded to being young, blond, and sexy, when in fact the real culprit originally might have been a frumpy, middle-aged housewife. The screen version concocts a handsome lover, fast cars, and gratuitous sex. Don’t bore the public with just the facts; remember: Ratings!

This kind of distorted perspective happens quite often. Nightly news shows—competing against at least four other stations, all showing the same reports of rape, drive-by shootings, and governmental gerrymandering (did I mention “rape”?)—will enhance their versions of events to make them more sensational, streamlined, and salable. The version of reality that is presented to the public is “brought to you by” the quest-for-ratings-influenced station manager. Had we taken the time to read a more fact-oriented newspaper instead of being entertained by the “Reader’s Digest” condensed TV version, replete with commercials, perhaps we would have a more accurate concept of what is really happening in the world.

Some people will tend to listen to others “in the know” before forming their own understanding of reality. Sometimes their opinions are based on those of the last person with whom they just spoke, only to be changed with the next. A mere glance at the tabloid headline at the market leaves us with the “knowledge” that Madonna is pregnant with an alien’s baby (further reading deep inside the issue would reveal that the “alien” was her Brit husband). Rumors take on the form of Truth. Even in the face of Truth, rumors can hold forth as the Gospel because they have settled too comfortably in the mind of their host. Parasites can be hard to dislodge.

To persuade a certain senator to vote on a particular bill, his own interests have to be served, perhaps in votes for his bill which has a hidden rider that will fund an airstrip near his house and new asphalt for his district’s county roads. Distractions everywhere. Reality is disguised by the twisted reflections that are provided to us.

We go through life making daily choices of what to believe and which versions of reality we will embrace. Sometimes the choice is the wrong one, but we don’t necessarily know that. We cling to that speeding vision, and when it is gone it is all we know. We know it as the Truth, and proceed to parrot that Truth, right or wrong, to those around us.

We need to be able to see the geese for what they are. We need to see past the distracting reflections of Truth and discern what is real and what is not. One day the water may not be glassy. There will be no reflection—clear, or even blurry—to distract us from the real thing. And when Truth comes right up to stare us in the face, we may be unable to recognize it for what it really is.

© 2001 Stuart Vail

Hummers and Cigars

It used to be that when I drove through the streets of Santa Monica or Beverly Hills, every so often I would spot the unmistakable sight of Arnold Schwarzeneggar in his brand-new Humvee. His razor-sharp jaw with cigar centrally planted and his monstrous, George Bush-sanctioned, all-terrain Desert Storm vehicle (that perfectly reflected his own gargantuan physique) cut quite an impressive 86.5-inch swath through the lesser four-wheeled products that littered the streets: the rabble from the assembly lines of Ford, GM, Nissan, Toyota, BMW, and Mercedes Benz. Even Rolls Royces, Lamborghinis, and Ferraris, who normally held court on the blacktop lanes of Hollywoodland suddenly seemed like mere gnats in the wake of the Austrian’s 3.4-ton vehicular macht. Nothing less than the mightiest herculean tank of our United States Army could raise an eyebrow of Arnold’s “Hasta la vista, Baby” countenance. Anything more would cave-in the streets of L.A.

Yes, it used to be that I could spot Arnold a mile away. It also used to be that if I avoided Arnold I would rarely encounter the stench of those foul cigars. Now-a-days those with a spare eighty-thousand dollars and the need to bolster one’s ego by sucking on what amounts to the back end of a Havana bus, thus emulating Mr. Terminator, can drive around in their own war machine and impress everyone they pass. Or do they? Whenever I see one such display I cannot help but think that there goes another idiot with a lemming mentality, another fool who has easily parted with his money. He is driving and smoking nothing more than status.

The Hummer is not a pleasant ride. Sporting such features as a 40% side-slope capacity and a central wheel inflation system, its civilian use is only good for driving down into the Grand Canyon or if one wants to commute to work through backyards, store fronts, and the La Brea Tar Pits. I can’t imagine dating in such a vehicle, either (a stiletto-healed blonde in a tight dress trying to manuever that first step is funny enough). The two front seats are separated by the immense back-half of the engine block, a design feature I’m sure the Army did not put in to discourage the driver from getting too friendly with the person reading the map.

Had Arnold influenced the world by driving a souped-up laundry truck instead of a Hummer, perhaps our concept of chic/macho modes of transportation would be entirely different. Had he smoked a pipe rather than a cigar, I’ll bet that everyone else would have followed suit. Have you ever smoked a cigar? It’s bad enough during the act; however, the next morning the mouth surely must taste as though one had licked the men’s room floor at a bikers’ bar. Imagine having to kiss a woman who is polluting the air with the essence of a smoldering manure fire, and who has decided that she is now someone just because she has a phallic, albeit soggy, cigar butt jammed in her maw.

I once saw two young couples emerge from a limousine outside of Shiatzi, Arnold’s cigar-friendly restaurant in Santa Monica, California. Each male immediately reached into his tuxedo breast pocket for what was left of a mangled, half-smoked cigar, and proceeded to light up. Equipped with their new status-symbols—not to mention their dates—they were then ready to enter the restaurant. I wondered if cigars were required, and if I arrived sans stogie would the restaurant provide me with the requisite appendage. Humans as lemmings: once Arnold was seen in public with a Cuban, the wannabees and the already-theres suddenly stampeded to jump off that same cliff.

Here we are desperately trying to fit in with the rest of the world. As a teenager, I simply had to have a pair of blue corduroy bell-bottoms, just like everyone else. Years ago, my son had to shave the sides of his head, leaving a bowl-shaped clump of hair on top. I saw a TV program about men whose cars represented to them their importance and stature as human beings. One such poor soul had a Clenet, a custom, rolled-fender job which he would park in front of a ritzy Beverly Hills restaurant, in view of everyone inside. He would tip the valet to keep the car where it was and then make his self-important entrance to sit at the bar and gloat with his drink. About every forty-five minutes there had been enough turn-over in the clientele to render him anonymous, so he would go out to his car to make a call on his mobile phone (never mind that there was a telephone right there in the bar), immediately reestablishing himself as the owner of the exquisite vehicle and elevating him once again to being someone. He would continue that procedure for the rest of the evening. During the interview he acknowledged that without the car he was a nobody; with it he felt all-powerful. He must have been related to the aspiring actor I once met who, though very poor, was saving his money to buy an expensive pair of Porsche sunglasses so that he could gain some respect at Hollywood parties. I assured him that for that kind of respect I would rather save my money and stay home.

Donald Trump and his family once had to fly first-class on a commercial airliner because his own private jet was “in the shop.” His then-wife Marla Maples reported that for the entire trip he was livid that he had to fly as a commoner with the rank-and-file. Imagine him stranded in his Bentley in the middle of the Mojave Desert: given the choice of accepting a ride to safety in an old Dodge Dart or sweating it out with his last sip of Perrier, his previous behavior would venture me to guess that Messieur Trump would choose the latter. I once saw an enormously over-weight woman wearing a skin-tight T-shirt with the name Yves Saint Laurent in huge colorful letters printed across the front. She looked ridiculous, but in her eyes the designer label “qualified” the situation. Remember the gangsta rap influence on kids wearing their underwear on the outside? How about the fast-changing lapel and tie widths, or the ever-fluctuating hem lines? If eight-inch cuffs were hip today I guarantee that they would be outmoded two weeks hence. The public stampedes the clothing boutiques, clamoring to buy the latest froo-froos from the fashion runways of Paris, only to discard them tomorrow and be spoon-fed the next new “look.” Lemmings, all.

Where do we go from here? If Arnold decides to trade-in his wheels for the new Volkswagen Beetle, used-car lots won’t be able to give Hummers away. The world awaits his next move. Imagine him realizing the dangers of smoking, and declaring a movement for a tobacco-free planet: R. J. Reynolds would fold tomorrow. We saw an example of the power of celebrity when Oprah publicly disdained beef. If Arnold had joined her cause, the cattle barons of Texas would now be overcrowding the unemployment lines. Imagine his deciding to learn Spanish: Mexico, Spain, and most of Central and South America would be the tourism capitals of the world, Los Angeles gardeners would find themselves very de rigeur, and there would be a global taste for paella, sangria, and bull fighting—not to mention speaking with a Castilian lisp.

What worries me is Mr. Schwarzeneggar appearing in public one day extolling the virtues of, say, eating stir-fried killer bees and jumping off bridges headfirst. Come to think of it, there are a couple of benefits to that scenario: idiots will quickly be removed from further contributing to the already-contaminated gene pool, and the earth would be rid of the stinging insect in a very short time.

© 2001 Stuart Vail