The American Myth

Once upon a time there was a land of plenty and it was called America.

For more than a century, America held its brilliant torch high and boldly announced to the world: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me…”, never believing that many of its very own could work hard and become just that: tired, poor, homeless and tempest-tossed.

On its maiden voyage to America in 1912, the RMS Titanic hit an iceberg. The grand ship’s SOS distress signal swiftly surrendered to the sea along with 68% of her passengers. This tragedy sadly pales in comparison to today’s economic Titanic which has collided head-on with the massive iceberg effects of deregulation, and is swiftly sinking – nose down and props up in stink bug position.

America’s economic ship began to visibly take on water as deregulation seeped throughout the energy and utility sectors, and we got our first real glimpse of the end with the Enron fiasco in 2001. As the systematic deregulation of our financial systems surged forth, monopolies steadily squeezed out healthy competition and the notion of self-regulation proved to be oxymoronic.

Many of the economy passengers on board America’s modern-day Titanic have already been tossed overboard and feel abandoned, with new ones joining them under water every day. They appear to have little choice but to desperately cling to the side of the sinking ship.

With this changing of the tide have come the waves of opportunistic bottom feeders, rising to the surface, intent to prey upon those desperately holding on in order to benefit financially from their misfortune by offering the empty promise of a life raft…for a non-refundable, no guarantees, paid-up-front-and-in-advance fee, of course.

The overwhelming eruption of various niche scams designed solely to take advantage of our current economic SOS - restructuring, modification, workout, and employment recruiting services that expect payment of substantial up-front fees and premeditatively provide little but hollow promises - reveals an unsettling lack of social cohesiveness or sense of community, let alone any rudimentary compassion for the suffering of another.

Some might simply dismiss this as just another face, or extension, of the very greed that created the crisis to begin with.

In the rear view mirror we can plainly see how Black Tuesday on October 29, 1929 ushered in a decade long Great Depression which bred a survival psychosis of holocaustic proportions that permeated core belief systems at a cellular level for the next 3 generations.

Should history prove itself an accurate gauge, it would stand to reason that the emotional repercussions of today’s Great Depression will likewise deeply influence the core belief systems of generations to come. The immediate effects of the now emerging survival psychology will undoubtedly result in the loss of an entire generation of 30 to 40-something investors who’ll no longer trust the broken system, let alone choose to invest in it.

While this lost generation of investors may cautiously elect to opt out of what used to be considered the American dream, they’re still indisputably left carrying the bulk of today’s economic collapse and financial crisis on their backs.

What do you believe is worth investing in today?

For more ways to think rich, see our ‘In The Rear View Mirror’ December 28, 2008 posting “Why Bernie Made Off With 2008".

The Devil’s in the Details (DS)

We had a dream……and in that dream we saw Bernie (see definition below) stretched out on his bunk after suiting up in the standard issue baggy brown uniform of his new Metropolitan Correctional Center home. His arms were folded beneath his head as he stared blankly at the empty mattress resting on the bunk above him, barely two feet from his face. He was waiting for the cell doors to release for the Center's pre-dawn breakfast call, and the start of a new day on the inside.

Unquestionably Bernie’s current situation was a far cry indeed from the $7 million Upper East Side penthouse apartment he’d been accustomed to. Lifestyle adjustments needed to be made, especially since his new home work detail assigned him to Biffy Patrol.

In our dream we could see confusion ripple across Bernie’s face when the prison Custodial Super slapped a large rolling mop bucket and toilet brush into his hands. Without expression, Bernie walked into the janitor’s closet to collect whatever else he thought he might need to properly clean something he’d never cleaned before in his life.

Bernie was clearly ignorant to the world of cleaning products, and before anyone would even suspect what he was unwittingly capable of that day in the janitor’s closet, he’d whipped up a chlorine bleach-ammonia cleaning concoction which rapidly created a noxious gas that overpowered and expeditiously knocked him to the floor, thus ending his life here on Earth.

Bernie briefly lay unconscious before the ethereal lights began to flicker as his life force separated from the 70 year old body with finality. Out of no where appeared Charles Ponzi, Bernie’s personal escort and Angel of Death, with outstretched hand.

Ponzi ushered Bernie through a misty elevator door and pressed the button going “down”. Bernie would now be answering to a new overlord, the Prince of Darkness, in a personal hell of his own creation. Mr. D (as the Prince liked to be called) had a friendly chat with Bernie as they walked down a deep corridor lined with doors on both sides. Every door they passed was numbered “666”.

When Mr. D finally stopped at the door numbered “666” belonging to Bernie, he opened it and extended his arm in a welcoming gesture of entry. Bernie’s mind swirled with déjà vu’ as he found himself walking right back into the very 7-1/2’ x 8’ janitor’s closet he’d just died in. His new work detail would keep him busy for an eternity, for he was to count out $65 billion dollars, one penny at a time.

And then we woke up and realized that the IRS has collected tax revenue for decades from Bernie’s investor clients based upon illusionary gains reported for investments they never even had. We suspect hell will need to freeze over before the IRS gives any of that revenue back.

But what we really want to know is which one of Bernie’s little helpers will be the next to follow his lead?

For more on Bernie’s life behind bars, see our ‘Dream Sequence’ February 2, 2009 posting “Camp Fed Takes The Triple".

Barbie, BFF

It was our understanding that one major economic motivation for paying bailout mega-bucks to rescue the Big Banks was so they could turn around and lend that money back to us. Recent experience has shown this plan to be highly flawed however, because the Big 3 have flatly refused to finance our replacement car, credit report dispute notwithstanding.

Luckily our old friend Barbie preferred driving the Jeep and generously offered us her classic pink corvette convertible to drive as long as we liked. Nostalgia ensued when she handed us the fuzzy pink key chain.

Over the last half century, we’ve together witnessed our “Beaver Cleaver” society morph into a “Z Generation”, and although many of us oftentimes feel left behind, our friend Barbie has admirably kept pace without missing a beat.

Fresh out of Willow, Wisconsin, she burst onto the public scene in the late 1950’s. She was already ahead of her time and everybody wanted what she had. To achieve the iconic status she did typically subjects one to perverse microscopic scrutiny and interminable pea-green-with-envy attacks. Barbie was no exception.

She purchased her Malibu Dream House in 1962 and led the charge for equal rights when she found her voice in 1968. We cheered her on as she blazed trails through the 1970’s as a PanAm Stewardess, an Astronaut, and even an Olympic Skier. Barbie showed us there was no limit to what we could do when she deftly mixed her many formidable careers with rock star partying, silver lame’ and platform spiked heels through the heady disco days of the 1980’s. The 1990’s then saw her serving our country in every branch of the military, doing the rodeo circuit as Western Barbie, and traveling the country on her Biker Barbie Harley.

Regrettably Father Time spares no one and to fully embrace life’s natural cycles can be difficult at best, so it’s no surprise that at 50, she secretly knows herself as Menopausal Barbie, while the media proceeds to sneeringly refer to her as Cougar Barbie. Frankly, those new tattoos she just had to get the other day did nothing to favorably replace the snipy Cougar reference with a more fashionable Inked Barbie.

The corvette’s engine purred like a kitten when we turned the key but was promptly drowned out when an old cassette tape stuck in the tape deck began to regurgitate the screaming voice of Tyra Banks out of every loud speaker: “Body Image! Body Image! Body Image!”. Tyra’s tyrannical loop about girls growing up too fast in today’s culture with unrealistic ‘perfect’ body expectations has merit to be sure, yet it seems a little late for her to be preaching from that altar - especially since Tyra made her fortune long ago with a Victoria's Secret soft porn body image she can no longer maintain. Clearly Father Time knows everybody’s address.

Pulling away from Barbie’s Dream House, we couldn’t help but sadly glance in the rear view mirror at the large “For Sale” sign posted on her front lawn. Even with all of her work experience (seems her curriculum vitae never included Wall Street Banker Barbie), Barbie managed to end up with an Option ARM mortgage and was forced to sell her dream house in a down market or lose it to the bank in foreclosure.

Relocating to West Virginia was definitely out of the question. The Barbie Ban Bill was just passed and a restraining order had been placed upon her measurements. She’s Outlaw Barbie now.

The end of an era is upon us.

The feminine form has historically proven to be a direct reflection of cultural priorities throughout the generations, and somehow Barbie shockingly became emblematic of what was considered perfect female form for nigh 4 generations, albeit unrealistic and unattainable.

Perhaps it’s time for our old friend to embrace her age with dignity and bow out gracefully. When Barbie's image finally becomes passe’, who will boldly step into her high heeled shoes?

Learn to play Big 3 monopoly in our ‘In The Rear View Mirror’ January 13, 2009 posting "What Comes in 3’s?"

Big Brother Goes Hard.…Drive, That Is.

We knew the bill would be a whopper when The Big BOPR (see definition below) finally did the math and prepared to pass the collection basket. The White House reckoning from above will now require every taxpayer to toss more than $12,000 into that collection basket when it’s passed down the aisle.

Forwarding the final bill to X-P “W” (see definition below) in Crawford, TX was certainly a tempting dream sequence; however, we’ve been slapped hard with the reality that personal accountability by those in positions of power has heretofore been virtually non-existent. So instead of sending X-P “W” an invoice, we’ve elected to send him a thank you note for plunging a final thrust straight into the heart of the Old Guard.

Seems X-P didn’t stay on the ranch for long anyway. He and Laura decided to call Dallas home, and the media made sure everyone knew they’d purchased a humble estate in the well-heeled suburb of Preston Hollow. Understandably George felt it important to be close to Laura’s alma mater where his think tank and presidential library are to be housed.

A few simple keystrokes on whitepages.com gave us instant access to (what used to be considered) highly personal information cross-linked within the public internet domain, and made finding George and Laura’s new home mailing address and phone number effortless. The ease with which we successfully obtained the Bush’s information was both gratifying and alarming at the same time.

There are two sides to every coin, and when the pendulum swings to the extreme in one direction, it’ll always swing back to the opposite extreme before ultimately finding its balance.

The Old Guard’s excessively secretive ways are being steadily replaced with the public’s demand for transparency in all things, even at the expense of dignity and self-respect. The popular trend toward voyeurisitic fascination, and even obsession, with the private life business of others is indisputable when considering the innumerable reality TV shows dominating network programming on a daily basis throughout the world.

A look in the rear view mirror showed us Steve Martin screaming “the phone book’s here!” in the movie “The Jerk”. It was a reminder of when everyone’s phone number was automatically listed in the large white pages telephone book and if someone wanted their phone number unlisted, it was. Full stop.

Today's Peeping-Tom movement toward complete private sector transparency (some would call that an oxymoron) basically puts every man, woman and child under 24/7 surveillance and makes it essentially impossible to preserve any modicum of personal privacy. We can't help but wonder how much we really need to know about each other’s private lives and what would constitute crossing the line of just too much information in current society.

As our personal and private data flows freely across the world wide web under the guise of freedom of information, social networking websites and the techno pros within large data repositories for identity theft are systematically archiving and cultivating that flow for future use.

The paranoia expressed in previous decades revolving around the watchful eyes of Big Brother rings hollow as we now find society simply handing it all over willingly, without hesitation or limitation. Do we really have control over our identities and private lives anymore?

For another way to pass the buck, see our ‘Dream Sequence’ November 30, 2008 posting "World Forwards Final Bill to ‘W’ in Crawford, TX".

Catching a Few Xe’s

It wasn’t until the final hours of Era X-P “W” (see definition below) that we really began to notice the unquestionable symptoms of Bush Flu (see definition below) in those who’d once been considered immune.

We bled dollars as the legislative powers intravenously administered the large cash infusions these untouchables demanded to staunch further dehydration of their formerly fluid bank accounts. And just because we paid for the medical attention they'd felt entitled to receive apparently didn’t mean they believed us mutually entitled to an accounting of how our blood money was spent.

With the recent changing of the Old Guard comes the abrupt realization that economic survival is now demanding that everyone change with it as well, and one look in the rear view mirror at the many faces of Madonna can show us the way. A master of cyclical reinvention and repackaging, Madonna has successfully managed to keep that “Queen of Pop” crown firmly placed upon her head with no end in sight to her reign.

It comes as no surprise then that Cheney’s Iraqi goon squad formerly known as Blackwater has officially changed its name to “Xe” (pronounced “Z”, oh duh). Word on the street is that Erik Prince had consulted with rock ‘n roll Hall of Famer and artist formerly known as Prince before coming up with the new name.

Like many of the old courtiers who so smoothly distanced themselves from the debris of a bygone regime, Blackwater-now-Xe recognized its economic survival demanded they quickly follow Madonna’s lead. Of course, the bear paw logo synonymous with what used to be called Blackwater would go the way of the old name and be immediately replaced with a flaming rapier’s 3-stroke swish reminiscent of Zorro’s “Z”.

Xe didn’t waste one precious 'new name' moment before announcing itself the global one-stop shopping source for world class services in the fields of security, stability, aviation, training and logistics. While they would never publicly admit to their friendly affiliation with ex-VP Cheney, they’ve secretly agreed to give him complimentary target practice since he’ll only have secret service protection until 2019.

Along with the departure of the cash flow once provided by the old regime went Blackwater’s former image and old loyalties. Most of us know that mercenary loyalties will always follow the gold, regardless of where their training facilities are located. So who will be the highest bidder now?

For more Xe-pansion, see our ‘Dream Sequence’ December 7, 2008 posting "Who’s Talking Like a Pirate Now?"

Camp Fed Takes the Triple (DS)

We had a dream……and in that dream we observed a small herd of wild deer grazing on the dewy morning grasses of Morgantown’s “Camp Fed” minimum security prison peacefully located amid West Virginia’s rolling Blue Ridge Mountains. The deer startled and quickly fled as a hotel-type shuttle van approached the compound with its latest inductees.

It was difficult to identify the three newbies as they emerged from the shuttle van looking like a fraternity trifecta in matching cardigan sweaters because the bright morning sun caused them to instinctively block their faces with arms and hands against the glare. When they turned to enter the facility, we could then see Camp Fed’s three new inmates were I-ROB, Bernie, and Blago (see definitions below).

Our dream flowed on as the threesome processed through formal registration, got secured with new electronic monitoring ankle bracelets, and exchanged their cardigans for the prison’s standard issue khaki uniforms. Their next stop was the media room for inmate orientation.

The privileged trio were shown a specially prepared 15-minute video starring Martha Stewart on how to make the most of their lives on the inside. She reminded them that while Camp Fed may be no Camp Cupcake, it was still a Camp No Dough. They would have to earn their 12 to 40 cents/hour working a full 7-1/2 hour day. Martha further encouraged them by quoting the famous words of Nelson Mandela that “many, many good people have gone to prison”. The video concluded with Martha’s dangled promise to personally host a catered “if you aren’t indicted, you aren’t invited” party at her Westchester County estate upon their release.

We were surprised by how well the trinity adjusted to their new lifestyles.

I-ROB found the Lord and was saved. He renounced his materialistic ways and took a solemn vow of poverty. His intensity was now focused toward brokering the best deal he could with the Almighty in his new position as prison savior of souls (SOS) liaison. Interesting though, even with all that, there was still no forthcoming mea culpa.

BERNIE was thrilled to see his dorm room required no redecorating. Things were in perfect balance with black drab, sterile white and shades of gray. He spent his 7-1/2 hour work days teaching the other inmates how they too could build a pyramid that would put Giza to shame. It's all about the “KISS”....

BLAGO spent his working days calling every publisher he could find with a toll free number looking to sell his story to the highest bidder. He just knew his biography, “One Day a Peacock, the Next Day a Feather Duster”, would reveal the true man behind the myth. When Blago wasn’t pimping his book, he was busy negotiating with the “Morgantown Madam” to get a covert call girl operation off the ground because, well, he knew people who'd pay and wasn’t about to let that go to waste. It's important to take full advantage of every opportunity while it's hot. Some would call that making lemonade out of lemons.

And then we woke up wondering if three really was a crowd. Or was it more of a triangular way to cover their backsides which we suspect came in handy when one of them had the misfortune of dropping his bar of soap in the showers?

For another way to say “Toro! Toro!”, see our ‘In The Rear View Mirror’ January 26, 2009 posting "Taking The Bull By The Horns".

Taking the Bull By the Horns

As the world forlornly entered the "Year of the Bull", the United States inaugurated a new Bull-Ox President in The Big BOPR (see definition below), and it seems the masses have conceded a new plan for steering the old ox cart is destined to enter in with it.

The global balance sheets of today are diametrically opposed to those of the inflated bully days. Devastation abounds and few escaped. Even the big Bull that’d been driving Merrill Lynch got yoked before it finally got lynched.

To look in the rear view mirror is to see how Wall Street eminence and psychopathology are surprisingly interrelated. Any stellar personality profile for the successful Wall Street tycoon apparently must include core character traits consistent with those of a true psychopath - unbridled narcissism, strong sense of entitlement, firm sense of impunity, and lack of remorse, to name a few.

When comparing some commonly observed character traits of Wall Street’s two most recent celebrity headliners, I-ROB and Bernie (see definitions below), we noticed some interesting parallels:

I-ROB
Personality: Cold, icy, emotionally detached, lacking in people skills, some level of charisma

Office Décor: Warm and cozy. Paid $1.22 million to make his office feel more like home.

BERNIE
Personality: Affable, congenial, charismatic, some level of aloofness

Office Décor: Cold, icy, stark, color schemes limited to black, white, and shades of gray. This theme was prevalent throughout his offices in NYC, London and even his private jet.

True to psychopathic form, both of these big boys have systematically implemented comprehensive impression management regimens resulting in carefully cultivated public personas, yet at the same time they're unable to control their varying levels of OCD and control freak attributes.

Our unofficial clinical assessment has classified them overall as a hybrid fusion of LAB-Rat and Moldy Old White Bread (see definitions below).

We got word that X-P “W” didn’t hesitate to forward his moving van up to I-ROB once he was settled back on the ranch. If they could get him out of the White House in 5 hours flat, they could certainly get I-ROB out of his newly renovated, homey little office posthaste. It sure felt good to give back to one of his loyal supporters. Unfortunately a Special Air Mission 28000 free helicopter ride was off limits and not offered with the get-out-of-town-fast benefits package.

The autopsy of 2008 will likely be under way for many decades to come, and undoubtedly traditional business standards and mores will be deeply probed and questioned under the coming post-mortem examination.

As for I-ROB, we won’t hold our breath waiting for his 'mea culpa'. As for his comfy $1.22 million office, it looks like he learned the hard way that you never, ever have an office better than your boss. But what we really want to know is who gets his $1,405 waste basket?

For more about showing the Old Guard the back door, see our ‘In The Rear View Mirror’ November 7, 2008 posting "White House Tenant Served 60-Day Notice to Vacate".

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Good Night

With our own sound of music, we finally sing our ‘adieu grande’ to the old regime. Along with its passing - and we’re even a little sad to say this - goes our “W” Headliner Series in which every story headline ceremoniously began in the letter “W”.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night.....

Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye!

For exit, stage right “W”-style, see our ‘Dream Sequence’ January 6, 2009 posting "What Happened To My Other Half?"