PART THREE

I took another turn at the issues as best I could.

“You know, I’m not comfortable with blaming others when times get tough. I’m well aware there is truth to the line, Reverbo didn’t apply himself enough. But damnit, Ross, they stole from us. They sold us out and swiped our future. Working Americans have a legitimate beef this time. Jobs were allowed to swim away, wages tanked, and the cost of decent education and medical care went through the roof. Living on credit was the only way to keep up. Then the contrived real estate bubble went pop, and we had to cover that. Four hundred people now control half the wealth in the United States, and our piece of the pie looks like a crumb.”

“And that is basically what I predicted would happen nineteen years ago!” said the magical magnate. “Things turned out just like the chorus from an old honkabilly number by the Farmer Boys from 1957. Those howlers could have been singing about policies that wouldn’t afflict the country for fifty years.” He sang the following line in an excellent Bakersfield-styled imitation: ”There was a flash, a crash and some thunder, take a look now at what you done to me.”

“Or more accurately, to us,” I added. “How the hell are the baby boomers going to make it back now? Does this make any sense, RP?”

Ross nodded and squinted into the sun glinting off the bay, his nose and thoughts deep in his rockeroo and the Farmer Boys’ tangy tune. “How is any working or middle-class citizen going to make it back?” he said. “This was a deliberate design. The government has allowed an aristocracy to literally buy political power at your expense, and there is no We The People in this model. They control the money, the message, and the elections, and their plan is simple: a new feudalism. Sacrifice you to protect them, and they will do anything to keep it that way. The Republicans have been happy to help. What’s new is that far too many Democrats are for sale now, too. Make no mistake about it–we’ve elevated money and wealth to the highest motivating component in our political system, and this has sabotaged the democratic process with the thoroughness of a coup d’etat. What that leaves, Reverbo, is a government that does not listen to you anymore. By the way, that song I attempted was co-written by Buck Owens. I’ll bet you didn’t know Buck’s real first name.”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” I said. “Alvis. I would imagine everyone knows your first name is Henry, right?”

Accepting his disapproving look, I took a long sip of my drink and stared at our beautiful curved blue world. “You know,” I continued, “most of us aren’t born into the accident of privilege or power, and I also know that perseverance can trump talent. I mean, how else do you explain Richard Nixon, Brittany Spears, David Hasselhoff, and Paris Hilton? What do you do with a Jim Belushi, a Sarah Palin? Just having money doesn’t explain these people. Did I mention Nixon?”

I wanted a wrap-up for now and this was it. “It wasn’t that long ago when the middle class was enjoying the wide-track life on one salary, remember? Is it really like George Carlin said: ‘They’ll get it all, sooner or later, because they own this fucking place. It’s a big club and you ain’t in it. You and I are not in the big club.‘ The fundamental ideas of the United States are going down the tubes.”

“It’s just sad,” agreed Ross. “We have become an oligarchy, and the class at the top and their corporate friends successfully lobby against any legal, trade, or tax barriers to ditching the country. They feel no obligation to the American workers who enabled their success, and their stooges in government cultivate and recruit bus loads of well-chumped fools who keep voting them in. And the thing is, the wealthy and powerful never have enough, but keep telling you that if you just take care of them, y’all will be millionaires one day, too. While you’re waiting for that ship, they’ve sailed to the Cayman Islands.”

We sat in silence for a spell and then Perot, his cocktail finished, stood up and stretched. “Now Larry, I know you’re probably thinking, well Ross, how am I going to cut through this and land one right in the wheelhouse? There seems to be only two possible realities: that opportunities exist even in these dark times, or you may already be retired, my friend, no matter how much we look. The answer is, you have to think outside the tetrahedron. Let’s get our heads together, set the neuron activators to income generation, and see what turns up. But first, how about lunch? Put on some Johnny Tyler and the Riders of the Rio Grande, bring this airship down to the water, and we’ll catch us some dejeuner.”

In the ideas of sacred geometry, the tetrahedron–and it’s geometric iterations–is considered the fundamental repeating mathematical shape in the universe. And he wants to think outside it? This fizzy financier must be vibrating at a frequency beyond anyone I know. Though never having met Claudia Cardinale, I can’t say that for sure. It was theorized by some physicists, including the legendary Richard Feynman at Cal Tech, that the torso of the astro-arrayed Italian actress contained the elementary numerical equivalent of the sought-after Golden Ratio. Suffice to say that in HRP I was in the presence of a heavy hitter.

The Silver Pelican descended over a calm stretch of the Miles River near the Hooper Strait Lighthouse, and we broke out the rods and reels. Ross tied on some old EDS-logoed blinking flash drives for lures, and in tandem with some experimental proprietary-coated hydro goggles, turned out to be a pretty fair angler. I mixed a couple of more rockeroos, and Perot returned to the topic of music as we waited for some action.

“You remember we were talking about the Farmer Boys and Buck Owens,” said Ross, “but here’s a fact you may not know that might come in handy some day: The great Tammy Wynette was married five times. And I’ll bet you don’t know her first husband’s name.” He had me and he knew it. “It was Euple. Euple Byrd,” he said. “You can almost imagine how it went on their wedding day. Feel free to come up with your own ideas for the parts, but this is how I picture it: for the Justice of the Peace–the JOTP? It’s John Goodman all the way. For Tammy, let’s see–Scarlett Johansson? No, maybe too alluring for the role. How about Holly Hunter? And for Euple, a sweaty M. Emmet Walsh or Harry Dean Stanton. Here’s the scene:”

JOTP:     (nods) Miss Wynette. (then turns to her fiance) And you must be…

Euple:     Euple.

JOTP:     Well, Euple, you don’t know this, but Miss Wynette is going to marry five times. You are the first of four more husbands. (Turns back to Tammy) That’s how it’s gonna go, right?

Tammy:  I’m afraid so.

JOTP:     Now, Euple, there’s something else that might affect your decision today. You don’t know this either, but within no more than a year or so, the both of you will be sucking on rhinocerous tranquilizers just to brush your teeth in the morning. But I can tell you this. For as long as it lasts, you will be driving down the road in some fine automobiles. You still want to go ahead with it?

Euple:     (looks at Tammy, then, somewhat dazzled, back to the JOTP)  Yes sir.

JOTP:     All right then, repeat after me. I, Euple Byrd…

We were both laughing so hard, we almost spilled our rockeroos. ”Called the First lady of Country Music,” said Perot. “Only 55 when she died. It’s just sad. Hey, feels like I got a bite!”

In short business we had landed two plump rockfish. While Ross scaled and filleted them, I prepared my signature Tampico salsa (onions, tomatoes, mangoes, serrano chiles, mushrooms and lime), and we grilled up a trophy mid-afternoon repast which I hoped would energize the exceptional executive’s brain cells. I was correct. After lunch, I took the Pelican back up to about 2000 feet, assembled the easels, clipboards, sunscreen, artists supplies, and cocktail tray, set the iMac on voice activated audio capture, and prepared for a Perot-inator mind meld. Remember the t is silent. I wasn’t disappointed.

Next: Uncle Dave has a pesky rash, and Ross unveils some fantastic options.

Reverbo                                                                                                                                                                           Critic-At-Large

It is with pride that I present the first of a serialized account of my recent adventures in the electrifying 21st Century Amusement Park. No, I don’t mean the ride in the Large Hadron Collider (although that final twenty-minute acceleration in the super proton synchrotron to the peak seven teraelectronvolts is worth every penny). With Labor Day right around the corner, it’s the rusty merry-go-round in the World of Employmentland. Or Non-Employmentland, as is the case for many of us. Some events have been invented for ease of understanding and to keep the narrative at a bubbly and high-spirited pace; others I left to burn with the unquenchable taste of truth. It is from these contrasts that create those magical moments for this Op-Ed columnist and imagery that resonates with familiar tones in his readership.

PART ONE

I had just set the controls of my personal airship, the Silver Pelican, on auto-glide over the Chesapeake Bay in preparation for another grueling session in front of the iMac, in my continuing, though heretofore unsuccessful quest to find a paying job. The internets, of course, are the preferred application procedure for almost every potential employer, putting as many obstacles between the applicant and hiring manager as possible. Meet or talk to a real person? In your dreams.

After pouring myself another mango and tonic (a variation on a Rum Rockeroo; more on this later), I loaded the Futami self-confusing artificial intelligence employment database software into the Mac’s hyper drive, punched up The Who Sell Out on the PA system, and began to waste another afternoon pretending I share Corporate America’s absurd notion that an $8.50/hr. job has as many qualifications and responsibilities as the vice president of the company. Hey–you’re advertising for a grocery clerk. Doesn’t matter though; they believe it. Sick thing is, it may. They just compensate it like it was 1910 instead of 2010.

We’re rolling back the wages and benefits for you!

I recently spoke with a career counselor who told me to re-do my entire documentation–resume, cover letters, all of it. She said at my age, seeing as how I’m looking at that “career change thing” (a nice way of saying that I’m really in the soup), I should chuck anything that doesn’t relate to the race-to-the-bottom jobs for which I’m applying. Unfortunately, I saw her point: they’re looking for young drones who will work for nothing, and expect less. Intelligent, creative types, especially those of us nearing retirement, are now applying against people less than half our age, not to mention half-way across the world, for entry-level jobs. We are little more than walking advertisements for Goody’s Headache Powder for HR Departments. I took out almost everything sophisticated relative to thirty year’s experience and replaced it with meaningless fluff like “team player,” and “takes initiative,” as if I was sixteen years old. My resume, my life, and my achievements, for what they’re worth, are now reduced to one page.

At least when I was sixteen, you could just walk into a place, actually meet the manager, and after briefly looking you over, they’d say something like, “Can you start on Monday?”

Near the top of my newly revised curriculum vitae, under my name and address, is a header for “OBJECTIVE.” After saving my latest high score on “Galaxy Girl” (part of an impressive video game collection on the Silver Pelican’s raid array), I decided to be honest with everybody right off the bat (they’ll figure it out quickly enough anyway), re-opened my resume and wrote “Apply range of abilities toward expanded career path.” Sounds credible, right? My career counselor liked it, but still felt it a bit dicey. She suggested adding something eye-catching like “Sales Associate” or “Customer Service Rep” after that. Has it really boiled down to this: at this moment in history, in the once-greatest country in the industrialized world, if you’re middle-aged and unemployed and don’t have a resume that confuses people with Albert Einstein, or don’t know him personally, you are basically hosed?

“Hey Mr. Buzzwell, check it out: another garden-variety middle-ager trying to get a lousy job here at USA, Inc. One more middle-class Dad who played life fair and square; close to retirement, and then we wiped out his job and half his IRA at the worst possible time. Now he’s just trying to find something to stay afloat.” “Sucks to be him, all right,” says Buzzwell. “Toss his paperwork out with the rest and tell him the usual– too many applications…wasn’t among the best qualified..all that crap. On second thought, don’t reply at all. Just ignore him. And then run and get me a triple-shot caramel machiatto cappucino with extra soy milk foam and cinnamon sprinkles. And make it a big one, will ya?”

The mass media touts the mature worker as a real asset to the employment ranks. Wise, stable, experienced, dependable, clocked in on time for thirty years, responsible, knows the drill. The truth is we’re annoying. We expect something fair for our efforts, and just a little protection for our jobs and our savings. The 98% of us who every day scrape off more imitation leather from the Chinese shoes offered at Lou’s Loafer Lounge still vaguely remember something about our once-enviable quality of life. What we are is expendable. And they’re trying to finish us off.

It’s a real self-esteem killer when you discover that even though you’ve had a good job for thirty years you evidently don’t even have what it takes to work at the box store. In the past year I’ve filled out applications at my friendly Bag ‘n’ Load, my neighborhood Bloat ‘n’ Go, the various marts – Wart Mart, Drain Mart and Cringe Mart, the Buy-Too-Much, and even our local Food Parts store. I recall one of them had a remarkably comprehensive application for a position that could have been competently filled by an common budgerigar.

In fact, get this: Julian, my pet budgie, applied at the Wag ‘n’ Bag, the big pet warehouse down the street as a part-time customer service associate and was actually scheduled for damn interview! These mecenaries parlayed a sweet tax deal with the county with the usual bogus promise of bringing more jobs and of course wiped out all the neighborhood mom and pop pet shops: Bob’s Budgie Barn, Cap’n Burl’s Bow-Wow Bunkhouse, Fish! Fish! Fish!, Patty’s Possum Palace, Cousin Carl’s Kitty Kat Korral – all gone.

Hell, those bastards at the Wag ‘n’ Bag never even called me back! I was so pissed I didn’t speak to Julian for a week, and that’s a big sacrifice for me, as I have more insightful political discussions with that plumed pundit  than with many human acquaintances. The only reason he didn’t take the job was because after meeting the pimply-faced department supervisor, an insufferable cockatiel named Boogie, it turned out they were really looking more for a cage cleaning associate than the toy demonstrator the ad had led Julian to believe. When you’re being paid in seeds, you can only tolerate so much.

At any rate, mighty slim pick’ins if you’re an unemployed human over forty. Over fifty? Are you crazy? Pushing sixty? We’ve always had age discrimination in this country but this feels deliberate. How could anyone survive on these wages in Cheesedale, let alone Manhattan?

I want to go up to some radiantly insipid hiring manager at a food store and ask him with a straight face if maybe some additional credits or classes at the community college would help. I know I’m skilled with vegetables and I’m strong on fruit juices–always have been– but all right, there are other areas in which I can no doubt improve, things like canned goods arranging and cereal box deployment. But does my future manager really think that’s what’s holding me back from getting a foot in the door in the exciting and competitive world of retail grocery clerking at this point?

I suppose I should take the Republicans’ advice and just unload one of my Aston Martins or sell off about twenty thousand shares of Goldman Sachs and be back on the links in no time. Or maybe move back in with my 80-year-old mom. How about move in with Newt Gingrich’s or Mitch McConnell’s mom instead? Certified, anti-american lunatic John Boehner wants to raise the retirement age to 70. Hey John, take a break from your golf game and have a look around at the conditions you and your corporate profiteers have created. America is just a worker’s paradise, isn’t it? Had we all not taken “early retirement” at 55, we’d just be drowning in good paying jobs at seventy.

Damn, I should have stuck around, and I can’t wait to tell my kids about Congressman Boehner’s fantastic job creation plan. Can you imagine the enthusiasm tingling through all the young people, minorities, middle-agers, and the rest of the deferentially-described “discouraged” workers (whose real unemployment figures are calculated at depression-level rates of over 20%), as this torrent of payroll checks cascades over their heads? Why not raise the age to draw Social Security to 80! And throw Medicare into the Wall Street casino while you’re at it, too. It’s just socialism for losers anyway, and Reverbo The Human Boy and 90% of the rest of his peers will be pushing up bindweed before they even see their first check. Let’s repeal the entire liberal agenda and privatize the whole damn thing. If you ain’t rich, you can’t afford it.  Corporatocracy at it’s most efficient. It will be jobs-o-rama here in no time. The conservatives can see it now: 100% employment finally realized in the USA under their watch. Welcome to Drain-Mart. Too bad we don’t pay you enough to buy anything we sell here.

They are trying to finish us off. I know I said that already but I like the way it sounds and I really believe it. It almost doesn’t matter that hardly anyone with an IQ above 12 takes these implausible ideas seriously, as long as the mass media keeps jamming microphones into the mouths of avaricious schemers who are actively promoting these destructive models.

Well, as long as my lighter-than-air account was still open at Harry’s Helium Hideaway, I was good for another week of cruising for income generating opportunities on board the Silver Pelican. I had just noticed an opening for a floor mat rotator at an airship salvage yard, when the weirdest damned noise suddenly came from somewhere aft of the aft ballast tanks. I can only describe it like a whooshing sound, as if the rear cargo hatch had sprung open. My investigation revealed the most surprising and delightful source of the audio phenomenon imaginable. Emerging from a luminous cloud of sparkles and beams, and attired in the latest in leisure blimp-wear, was none other than Ross Perot!

I stood there, stunned. He does look good in pastels; it seemed the appropriate response. The peculiar but prophetic 1992 United States presidential candidate shortly broke the silence. “Now Larry, you’re probably thinkin’…well, Ross, what are you doing here? What’s the deal on this? Well, the answer is on these charts I’ve prepared,” he said, taking out a handful of tables and graphs from an overstuffed briefcase. “Fix me one of them Rum Rockeroos that your drinkin’ and let’s set these up in your command pod, Larry. You and I are going to fire a bulls eye right into the whole job jugular vein. By the way, I. Love. This. Blimp. How come I don’t have about six of these?”

I thought of saying, “Ross, you could probably buy sixty of them,” but all I could think of while staring at this incredible vision, whose existence on my ship was unclear by all accounts, was, “Why is he calling me Larry?”

Next: Ross and Reverbo load an IGBB (Inter-Galactic Ballistic Bazooka) into the Pelican’s forward launch tube and blast 30 years of economic madness a new blow hole.

Reverbo                                                                                                                                                                 Critic-At-Large