More on Money & Commas

I’m back to beating this old dead horse—money and what the future might hold for us here as well as for everyone else in the world. In an article by Porter Stansbury, a noted economist, (The Crux, 12-26-2017), Stansbury warns readers about something he calls a Jubilee, the term for a legislative canceling all indebtedness, sort of a declaration of bankruptcy for everyone who has any kind of debt. He says that such a move would result in the markets crashing in a heap, the closing of banks and corporations, the devaluation of the dollar, and an insane increase in the value of gold and silver. What could cause such a move?

Stansbury says, “Do you ever feel—despite the supposed economic ‘recovery’ of recent years—that something in America is still not quite right? If so, you are not alone. After all, how can things be ‘OK’ when nearly half the men ages 18-34 now live with their parents—the highest level since the Great Depression? How can it be ‘normal’ when in one of America's richest cities (Seattle) there are now 400 unauthorized homeless camps under bridges and along freeway medians? How can it be a ‘recovery’ when 78% of the U.S. population now lives paycheck to paycheck, with essentially zero savings? . . . Why are so many Americans so angry? We've hit a serious tipping point in America. Our nation, as I'm sure you've noticed, has become a financial, cultural, and demographic pressure cooker. . . . While the rich are getting richer, everyone else is losing ground. The middle class—the most politically and economically stable part of our society—is disappearing. The foundation of the middle class in America was a long history of consistently rising wages. For millions of Americans, life got a little better, year after year, as the value of their wages increased and our economy grew into the world's largest. But this is no longer happening. Low income earners now make LESS in real terms than they did in 1980!” He goes on to say, “Get ready America, The Jubilee is coming. Very soon, millions of Americans will be calling for the government to ‘do something.’ Specifically, they'll be calling for a clean slate . . . to wipe out their debts and ‘reset’ the financial system. The crowds will cheer and march like never before. The violence will escalate. Our politicians will promise this reset of the financial system as a way to a ‘new and better prosperity.’ And while it might sound like good news to those who have gotten in over their head—what will really happen is a national nightmare. You see, this idea of erasing debts to reset the financial system is not new. In fact, in the Bible, it's referred to as a Jubilee.” Thanks for the warning, Mr. Stansbury. I’ll put it on my calendar.

            More on money, this time from me. One of the most unfair aspects of huge fortunes is the ability of the hyper wealthy to evade taxes with a horde of tax lawyers finding secret and to pass on their fortunes to heirs. Let’s say Jeff Bezos dies with $100 billion. He can’t take it with him and his heirs have no need for that much since they did nothing to earn it. Why should his old money live on and on when it could be used to pay off our national debt, rebuild our entire ailing infrastructure, and eliminate poverty? Why not have an inheritance tax that disallows such extravagance? Why not tax everyone with more than a billion dollars at a rate of 99%? Jeff Bezos’ heirs would still get one billion and the government would get the rest. The percentage scale could go down by one percent for each billion dollars to one billion, which wouldn’t be taxed at all. I think most of us could live quite well on a billion bucks. My numbers may be fuzzy but you get the drift. Does that sound too much like socialism? Okay, then call me a socialist and I’ll be able to live quite well with that also.

* * *

            Has anyone else noticed that on Facebook, almost no one ever uses commas to set off names of those they’re speaking to? It used to be called using commas for Direct Address. The same is too true in editorials and newspaper articles written by people who should know better. In one of my blogs, I ranted about this same thing but it bears repeating. Some commas really do matter and can save lives. Just look at “Let’s eat, Gramma” and “Let’s eat Gramma.” Poor Gramma, gone to a consumptive grave by her grandchildren, and all for the lack of a comma.

            

Show Boat

  “Another opening, another show . . .” And again I’m effusive about this treasure in the Valley—the Arizona Broadway Theatre. Last Tuesday we saw what they did with Show Boat, the Jerome Kern/Leonard Hammerstein chestnut from 1927. I remember seeing the film version in 1951, with Howard Keel, Catherine Grayson, and Ava Gardner. I decided to listen on YouTube to those versions of “Ol’ Man River” to see which was better. In 1927, Paul Robeson sang it; in the film, William Warfield sang it; and at ABT, Earl Hazell sang it. Mr. Hazell was much better than Robeson and about as good as, maybe even better than, Warfield. Talk about a voice like milk chocolate. He may not have been as low as a basso profondo but he was certainly deep, more a basso cantante with an upper register that was rich and effortless. When I saw the film version, it didn’t hit me then what a musical statement this show made about race relations, male dominance, and alcoholism. I learned that the various productions, depending on the times and audiences, have wrestled with a suitable way to refer to Blacks. In the opening lyrics to “Ol’ Man River,” it went from, “Niggers all work” to “Colored folk work,” to “Here we all work.” How curious. Today, we still find “nigger” offensive enough that it’s referred to as the “n-word.” How silly. I would think most Black males would be more offended by “Hey, boy” than by “nigger.”  Show Boat also addressed the miscegenation laws back in the day. Julie, who is trying to pass as white, is about to be arrested because she’s married to a white man. Before the sheriff gets there, her husband cuts her finger and then sucks some blood so that he could truthfully say he was a black man, having one or two drops of Negro blood in him. How strange that not that long ago, we had such a racist attitude toward Negros. The story may have been shallow and outdated, but the sets, costumes, choreography, and voices were all excellent, especially that of Earl Hazell as Joe, Brittany Santos as Magnolia, Lacy Sauter as Julie, and Jamie Parnell as Gaylord Ravenal. ABT just keeps getting better and better.

Wealth and Responsibility

       

           I never have understood how money works. I took a class in economics in college but I don’t remember any of what I may have learned. I know only that if I work, I earn money and then use it to trade for goods. That’s always seemed like a better system than the old barter bit of trading goods for goods. What I don’t understand is how the U.S. can borrow money to run the government and then have to pay interest on what was borrowed. Who loaned it to us and who’s getting the interest? What would happen if we just declared bankruptcy? What would be the consequences? I simple-mindedly shrug my shoulders at these monetary considerations. And, just what the hell is a bit coin?

          Another thing I’ve never understood: How does the stock market work? If we have extra cash, we can buy stock in various companies. Then, if those companies do well, our investment goes up, just like the way that individuals like Trump and the other Forbes 400 accumulate money, accumulate it to such an extent that it becomes ridiculous. Money makes money without ever having to work for it, and the more money that piles up, the more and more and more it makes. What about all of us who don’t have any extra cash to invest?

I just read an article that included some frightening statistics about accumulated wealth. According to Oxfam, the international organization focused on the alleviation of poverty, billionaires around the world last year increased their wealth by $762 billion, enough to end extreme world poverty seven times over. Also, 82% of the money generated last year went to the richest 1% of the global population. The poorest 50% got nothing. Only 42 people in the world have the same amount of wealth as the poorest 50% of the world. “Oxfam is calling on governments and international institutions to recognize the detrimental impact our current economic system is having on the world’s poor and work to develop more human economies that prioritize greater equality. Policies such as ensuring all workers receive a minimum ‘living’ wage, eliminating the gender pay gap, protecting the rights of women workers, and ensuring that the wealthy pay their fair share of tax would go far in achieving this goal. Oxfam estimates a global tax of 1.5 percent on billionaires’ wealth could pay for every child to go to school.”

This from the L.A. Times (Nov. 11, 2017): “To really comprehend just how insane the wealth concentration has become, consider Jeff Bezos, the head of Amazon. Worth about $90 billion (that amount since this was written has gone up another $15 billion), he recently was declared the richest man in the world. In October alone, his wealth jumped by $10 billion—or more than $13 million per hour.” This from The Guardian (Nov. 8, 2017): “In a report, the Billionaire Bonanza, the thinktank said Donald Trump’s tax change proposals would exacerbate existing wealth disparities as 80% of tax benefits would end up going to the wealthiest 1% of households.” Also, “The study found that the billionaires included in Forbes Magazine’s list of the 400 richest people in the U.S. were worth a combined $2.68 trillion, more than the gross domestic product (GDP) of the UK.” The entire United Kingdom! Yikes! And John Hoxie, another co-author of the thinktank report, said: “So much money concentrating in so few hands while so many people struggle is not just bad economics, it’s a moral crisis.”

          A moral crisis. Why does anyone need so much wealth? Is it simply a sign of power? Is it simply so that we can now own that mansion and that yacht and all those really expensive cars? And why does anyone need that much power or need that many toys? How much money does anyone need to lead a satisfying, fulfilled life? If your answer is $100 million, or even $1 billion, then why can’t Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and Jeff Bezos donate the rest of their fortunes to eradicating poverty not only in the U.S. but in the entire world? Why can’t those oil-wealthy potentates in the Middle East do the same?

            I don’t know. I’m just a money moron.

Information Age

I’m continually amazed by the information that’s available on-line. How did all of it get put there? How did Wikipedia manage to transfer all this past knowledge from all the books we used to have to dig around in? And how does it keep up with the deluge of new information that stacks up every day? If growth in technology and medicine is exponential, how can humans manage it all? I guess that’s where artificial intelligence comes in.

Back to my opening statement. During another night in which I only half slept and half wandered around in my mental palace, I heard an old song from my past, “At Last.” And I tried to pull up the lyrics but I could only hear, “At last, this never happened at last.” I could hear the music but only fragments of the lyrics. “What’s more, this never happened before, this is a once in a lifetime, this is the moment when suddenly . . .” and as it went into the bridge, “Mine to hold as I’m holding you now . . .” Something just didn’t make sense. When I got up this morning it was still there, like an unscratchable brain itch. So I searched on-line for what I thought was the title, “At Last,” which took me to YouTube, which seems to have versions of every song ever written. I found Etta James singing, “At last, my love has come along, my lonely days are over . . .” Yes, I knew that song. Only it wasn’t to the music I kept hearing. So I searched for: “What’s more, this never happened before,” and lo and behold, it took me to the old Nat King Cole song, “Again.” And it all came together. It wasn’t “At Last,” it was “Again.” “Again, this couldn't happen again, This is that once in a lifetime . . .”  Amazing.

I also half heard in my nighttime wanderings “Something Old, Something New.” But all I could hear was the first verse: “There's something old and something new, And something borrowed, something blue, Packed in her suitcase. I never thought that she would be a blushing bride, but golly gee! Just look in her suitcase!” Does that “golly gee” tell you how old and out of date this song is? It’s almost too old even for ancient me. Anyway, I searched for those opening lines and was rewarded with a Sinatra version on YouTube. The song was first recorded by him in 1946. Seventy-two years ago. Golly gee that’s a long time ago. I wonder who last used that expression. Those were much simpler times than the times today. Today we would more likely hear someone shout, “Holy Shit!” or “Whudda Fuck!”

I wonder when someone last said “Aw shucks.” I go on-line and find: Bashful said it in Disney’s Snow White in 1938; Thumper said it in Disney’s Bambi in 1942; and SpongBob SquarePants said it sometime after this show was introduced in 1999. That was probably the last time it was said.

Amazing what one can find on the Net. This is especially important for old fogies like me who can’t remember much of anything. If I see an actor on tv but I can’t think of his name but I remember a movie he made, I can go to IMDB, look up the film which lists the cast. Wham! There he is. Or maybe “Goldern! There he is!”

 The All Powerful Net will tell you anything you want or need to know. And a few things you don’t want to know or shouldn’t know, like how to counterfeit hundred dollar bills or how to build a homemade bomb.

Birthdays & Cats

Today is my wife’s 80^th birthday and Edgar Allen Poe’s 209^th. I wasn’t able to put eighty candles on a cake for her, but she forgave me, nor would I be able to put over two hundred candles on Poe’s cake, but I’m sure he doesn’t care. A hundred and sixty-nine years in the grave will take most of your cares away.

          Even though she didn’t want any cake or presents, I went to PetSmart and bought two more pieces of cat furniture and put them in her name, an S-shaped piece that sits on the living room floor and a triple-tiered piece that goes on the back patio with all the other pieces out there. She says it’s the best two presents she’s ever gotten. Our two cats are pretty much our lives now. They own the house and allow us to live with them as long as we feed them regularly and buy them toys and furniture. We lost our third cat Tuffy in a tragic accident four months ago. Tuffy, always the inquisitive one, climbed into the clothes washing machine when we weren’t looking, the door got shut, and we didn’t look for him nor could we hear him until it was too late. His air ran out and he suffocated. We assume it wasn’t a painful death, just a slow sleep when the oxygen ran out, but horribly tragic nonetheless. Tuffy and Charlie were always the best of friends with Tuffy’s brother Tiger the outsider. But now that Tuffy is gone, Charlie and Tiger are bonding. They actually seem to like each other. The two of them now have six different cat furnitures on the back patio, so many they can’t decide which to sit in or on.  But all have views of the backyard and they love to sit and watch the birds and bunnies that come along. They don’t so much care for the coyotes that occasionally amble through our yard. The coyotes will look at them and think, “Ummm, what a scrumptious meal you two would make!” And the boys look back and say “Yah! Yah! Yah! You can’t get us, so just go on your way and leave us alone!” And the coyotes do just that, continue on their way to find easier meals than Tiger and Charlie.

Religious Beliefs

I was born in and raised in Mobridge, a small prairie town in South Dakota. I’ve already extensively examined my memories of that town—the trees, birds, childhood games, carnivals, the Missouri River that flowed a few miles west and south of the town, the sports I was involved in, and the golf course on which I spent so many hours of my youth.

But what about religion. My memories of my religious background are hazy at best. I know my mother (not my father, who was never a church-goer) insisted on my going to the little Mobridge Episcopal Church with her. It was a small brown church just north of our house on Main and 7^th St. Rosalie’s father and grandfather built it around 1910, with a basement where I remember having to go for catechism lessons, or Bible school as we always called it. Oh, how I hated those required lessons in religion. Maybe it was my natural rebellion against such thought, or maybe it was simply my laziness.

I vaguely remember singing in the church choir, something my mother must have suggested, but I doubt that I did that for very long. I remember the sermons Father Clark would give in that pretentious voice he used to demonstrate his holiness, his sanctimoniousness, how boring they were. I also remember the communions when Father Clark would give kneelers a sip of grape juice posing as the blood of Christ and a fish food wafer posing as the flesh of Christ. Then he would sanctimoniously wipe the lip of the flagon and move on to the next kneeler. Back then we didn’t over-worry about passing germs. Or maybe everyone assumed that God wouldn’t allow any such passing of dangerous germs. I knelt when Father Clark indicated it was time for a shared prayer, but I did so only because it would have been too apparent to the other parishioners that I was a dissenter. I never looked down or closed my eyes when he led us in prayer. I never felt that I needed an intermediary between me and some higher being, some universal creator. 

I also remember when I was in my early teens that brief time when I was an altar boy. It had to be something my mother had forced on me. I certainly wouldn’t have done it on my own. Me, an altar boy. God must have looked down in some alarm seeing me there, lighting the candles, snuffing the candles, performing my other little altar boy duties.

The Episcopal congregation was tiny, with as few as only fifteen or twenty people on any given Sunday. I remember some of the regular families: the Travises (minus my father), the Morrises, the Todds, the Leshers, maybe the Nichols and Shermans. There must have been others but I don’t remember who.

I remember the distinct odors of that church, the scent of lilacs from the cupboard in which the choir robes were hung, the holiday aroma of pine needles. Did we ever have a nativity play for Christmas Eve? I simply don’t remember, but if we did I’m sure my mother would have insisted that I be one of the Wise Men.

I also remember when I had to go to Father Clark’s house for my confirmation lessons. I remember arguing loud and long with him about one or all of what he was trying to teach me. Despite my protests and denials, I was confirmed when I was fourteen, and God, again, was probably looking down in amazement.

After I left Mobridge for good (leaving Mobridge was never bad, always good), I never attended any church, never went to any services except for one or two funerals and one or two marriages, but those don’t really count. I never entered any church except for one or two times with Rosalie to the Methodist Church in Lakewood, N.Y. Both times, I was surprised that the walls didn’t come crashing down on me, the interloper. One or two times was more than enough. Why take a chance on crashing walls.

I’m not an atheist, one who denies the existence of God, but I’m certainly an agnostic, one who just doesn’t know. Agnostics are people who hedge their bets, just in case there really is a God. Playing it safe. That’s me.

Molly's Game, Harkins Theaters, & Joe Arpaio

We finally got back to our favorite Harkins Theater near the Arrowhead Mall to see Molly’s Game, the story of Molly Bloom and the really high-stakes poker games she ran in New York and Los Angeles. It was interesting to see how these high rollers played Texas Holdem, but it was really about seeing Jessica Chastain create the character of Molly Bloom. Molly sort of backs into her ownership of these poker games, but she’s so bright she makes them bigger and better than the other games in town, getting a selection of wealthy movie stars, sports figures, and businessmen, and, without realizing it, a few Russian mobsters. Her world comes tumbling down when she’s arrested by the FBI for her connection to the mob. She persuades Charlie Jaffey (Idris Elba) to defend her and the two (actually three if you count Jaffey’s oh so cute young daughter, who considers Molly as her role model) bond as they plan her defense. The story itself was fairly forgettable but Chastain as Molly Bloom was very memorable. She pretty much made the movie, and though she probably won’t win the Oscar for best actress, she’ll be close.

We also got to see what Dan Harkins has done to the Arrowhead theater and what he apparently is doing to all of his theaters in Arizona—going the same way the AMC theaters have gone, to the reclining leather seats, the reserved seating, and the wine and beer bar in the lobby. I wasn’t very happy about how long it now takes to get a ticket (those in front of you who have to pick the seats they want). I guess one should simply buy the tickets on-line and not have to wait in line. I think I’ll do that next time. As for the reclining seats, they may not be quite as comfortable as they’re made out to be. I found my legs going numb after an hour or so. I’ll see how it goes next time. Meanwhile, I may just go to the bar and get a big glass of wine to take into the show. Then I could really nap during boring stretches.

Now there are two birds of a feather who flock together.

Here’s a news item that makes my stomach churn. Joe Arpaio, Arizona’s bad-ass ex-sheriff, has decided he’ll run for the Republican nomination for the U.S. Senate to replace Jeff Flake. And what makes me really nauseous is that he might actually win. He’d be 86 years old, a Trump pardonee, a Trump chum, and just like we discovered with Donald Trump, there may just be enough really stupid people who would vote for him. Please, please, please, let there be a Democrat who could keep him out of the Senate. Gabby Giffords, even with your health issues, would you consider coming back as U.S. senator instead of representative? Much much better you than Nasty Joe.

Time's Up & Warren Buffet

From last Sunday, the Golden Globes were interesting, especially the way the attendees chose to show their support for the recent women’s movements against gender inequality and sexual harassment, “Time’s Up” and “Me Too.” Black was the protest color with most men in black tuxes and most women in black gowns. Most of the gowns were very elegant and classy, unlike too many of the gowns from past Globes and Oscars. Most noteworthy was the speech Oprah Winfrey gave when she accepted the Cecil B. DeMille award for lifetime achievement. She was slim again, she was beautiful, and she was eloquent when she spoke of the women’s movements. And there was speculation about her possibly running for president in 2020. I hope she does. I would certainly vote for her. I think most of the women and a lot of the men in the country would vote for her. She may be a billionaire like Trump, but she she’s a whole lot smarter than Trump. Anything to get that boob out of the White House. So, yes, Oprah, run, please run. The other thing that struck me about those in attendance: so many looked so much older than I want them to look. Kirk Douglas looked like a seriously deformed mummy and Barbra Streisand looked like she could be his daughter. How did so many of these actors and actresses get so much older than I remember them? Time flies, time flies. I wonder how the Oscars will go and how all these people will look.

In a Time Magazine interview (January 15, 2018), Warren Buffet spoke of the cryptocurrency craze and warned against investing in any of it. He also mentioned that in the last 25 years, the  total wealth of those on the Forbes 400 saw an increase in their fortunes go up 29 times, from $93 billion to $2.7 trillion—“while many millions of hardworking citizens remained stuck on an economic treadmill. During this period, the tsunami of wealth didn’t trickle down. It surged upward.” Twenty-nine times! That means that if I had a million bucks in the stock market in 1982, I would have twenty-nine million bucks today. That makes the recent tax bill a huge mistake, with most of the tax cuts going to the rich, while for most of us, those of us who are not on the Forbes 400 or are unable to have savings in the rising and rising stock market, losers. There will be, as Buffet suggests, no trickledown. Just a huge increase in the fortunes of the already wealthy. In that old song, “Ain’t We Got Fun,” we hear again, “The rich get rich and the poor get poorer. In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun.” No, Donald and all your billionaire buddies, we ain’t got fun.

Lost Love

In yesterday’s mail, I got my semi-annual South Dakotan magazine, the alumni news magazine put out by my alma mater, SUSD, State University of South Dakota. They’ve upped the ante from past publications, with heavy slick paper and vivid color. A lovely issue. I looked at some of the articles, but it’s been almost sixty years since I graduated and almost nothing about the campus or the staff is familiar to me anymore. The school I knew in the fifties is now considerably different. But, as I always do, I turned to the section with news about graduates from past decades. Nobody there I recognized from the 1950 to 1960 section. Then I went through the In Memoriam list of those who had died in the past year. And a name from my past popped up. Patricia (Prostrollo) Schultz, ’57 B.S.Ed. Sioux Falls, SD, Alphi Phi. I was stunned. I felt more sorrow than I should have. Her death shouldn’t have surprised me so much or made me so sad. She had to be, after all, in her eighties. But the sight of that name filled me with such sorrow and regret. Patricia Prostrollo was a woman whom I had loved enough that I had wanted to marry her. “But that was in a different country, and besides, the wench is dead.” (Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta) The wench is dead, the wench is dead, and my sorrow was as much for my loss as for her passing.

          My sorrow was all about the life I have that will probably soon end. Sorrow for all the things I wanted to do and never did. Sorrow for what might have been. Sorrow for the passing of a woman I had thought about off and on for my entire life.

          I met her in 1955, after I’d gone back to college, gone back to my affiliation with Phi Delta Theta. The Phi Delts had agreed to team up with the Alph Phi sorority for our entry in the annual Strollers’ show, a musical competition among eight or nine combinations of fraternities and sororities. Patty and I were named directors, I because of my time in New York writing songs, her because she could wrap almost anyone around a finger to get what she wanted and she apparently wanted to be the director. I remember the first night we met to discuss what we might do for our act. One of my frat brothers was a huge Harry Belafonte fan and convinced us to do a calypso-themed story about building a house. And that’s what we agreed on. But at the end of that first evening, beers in hands, I sat in a chair in the Phi Delt livingroom and Patty sat on my lap, her face so close to mine I could hardly breathe. Here she was, this tiny, raven-haired girl/woman who knew exactly how to play me like a salmon. And I was hooked from that moment and for all the time we spent together getting our musical show ready and for several months after that. We performed the calypso act and won second place. We were all excited and I was in love.

          We were together quite often for those next several months. But I was a freshman and she was a junior. I remember in the spring asking her to go to a college dance with me. She told me an old boyfriend from her hometown was going to be there and that she was obligated to go with him. But she had really wanted to be with me, she insisted. And kept insisting. The hook was still set and she was still able to reel me in whenever she wanted. But when the college year ended and she went back to Watertown, our relationship also ended. She graduated the following year and I never saw her again. But I always felt the sting of that loss.

          In the years I taught American Literature, whenever we had a unit on Fitzgerald, I had my classes read his short story, “Winter Dreams.” The main character, Judy Jones, was a seductress who could lead on several male suitors at the same time, always bringing any who strayed back into the fold of her charms. I always told my classes that I had known a Judy Jones back when I was in college and knew exactly what the young men felt when she would switch from one suitor to another. Patricia Prostrollo was my Judy Jones. And now the wench is dead and I feel such sorrow.

          I wrote a song about her right after I lost her in 1955. It’s a slightly get-even song, youthfully romantic and a bit too sentimental, but it still sums up what I felt those sixty-two years ago.