The Great Disconnect

Down in de hood dhey don't get it what honky be doin' 
out in de wide lands where cream 'o de crop be acruin',
while out dhere where dhe green grass meet dhe smooth curb
dhey don't get it what dem po'boys be doin' to disturb
dhe status quo and de way t'ings are
cuz dhey don't get the gravy but only smell it from afar.
You know the state of the country it aint right;
I say you too tight;
You say me too loose.
You act like engine, make me de caboose?
You even got a clue, man?
We gotta make a new plan if we can;
R u hearin' me,
or r u fearin' me?
Shit! now h'yah come do po'. 
Even if I be friend, dey see me foe.

 
Peace and safety be upon them that work hard and do the drill
is what they say out in the wide lands filled with froth and frill,
while in the hood where the stoop step meet the street curb
hoods don't get what honkys skim out suburb.
Out here they're okay with the way things are;
they get the gravy; they drive the car.
They see the way things are as being all right,
and they're comfy being a little uptight.
They don't get loose,
aspiring to drive the engine, not ride caboose.
They have no clue, my friend,
preferring the same old plan, than to begin again.
They're not hearing dhem,
but they are fearing "them."
They say let the Po go--
let them search and seize the po'.
 
Now over in the Beltway everything is fine,
though talking heads strive to make events rhyme
by pontificating waltz in five-four times,
perpetually towing both Party lines,
keeping Libs on Left and Cons on Right:
maintaining constant Left-Right Fight.
Thou shalt not offend me! saith the Lib on the Entitled floor.
Thou shalt not tax me! saith the Con at Liberty's door.
Occupy, Occupy! rings out the Activist refrain.
Fortify, Fortify! cries the Reactionary in our never-ending game.
Don't destroy the middle class! and let them toke on grass!
You rob the middle class with tax! so Elites can sit on their ass!
Out! damned corporate ogres! the Left exhorts.
Oh quit your pouting! the 1% retorts, from their resorts.
Congress gets nothing done, because of you!
Government is the problem! Tippecanoe and TeaParty too.
 
Meanwhile all the masses come and go;
they twitter with glitter of the latest show.
 
Glass half-Full

Dat's a Millennial trap Rap

Oh the Fed treadeth so so lightly

tryin to state the state of things so politely

gotta keep them interest rate so low

but them cant get much lower than half-point from zero;

now it be knockin' hell outa euro,

propellin' Dollar to once and future hero.

To raise them rates would be classically correct

oh but then them traders might eject

their programs from gliding oh so perfect

along HFT tracks that them algorithms select.

Autie Jan cant withdraw the punchbowl;

uncle Ben had schooled her 'bout that donut hole.

As you go through life, investor, whatever be your goal

keep your eye on the Fednut, not on the whole.

Kick the can, baby, kick it down the road;

we don't want them bulls havin' to unload.

Keep 'em buying on the dips

with e-eyes fixed upon them blips,

Watch 'em risin', selling on the peaks

this trend could fly for weeks n weeks.

But hey! them near zero rates punish savers;

it aint like it used to be, with small-bank favors.

How them millenials gon' pay back them college loans

while Zirpy Fed hover in zero zones?

Meanwhile, 'though emerging nations buy them new cell phones

jihad jinx be out slashin' no-go zones,

which aint no climates for no new homes,

juxt red-line zones with bloods n bones.

What kinda world is that

for anything but talkin' skat?

And with no nest-egg savins in the bank,

wha you gon' do, drive a tank?

Maybe risk your small-caps in data high-risk market,

or spend it at all while at walmart parkin?

I say this secular stagnation

it juxt stultify my 'magination.

With nutt'n on balance sheets but diminishin' returnin's,

where I gon' stuff my hard-earned earnin's?

Wit dem central banks winkin'

and HFTs a-blinkin'

and all dem ole free-market opportunities shrinkin',

I think I feel them fabled long-tails slinkin'

which means I need a different way of thinkin'.

Pshaw! nuf, that ole magic growth it refuse to come

even 'though gas price be low as scum

While .gov employment indicators

morph to .gov-on-fumes manipulators,

central banks toss hot potato;

but feel to me like rot tomato

Gotta get them econ0my off QE methamphetamine,

get it back on track, American Dream!

Is that dream now juxt pie in the sky?

Just sayin, wtf, don't ask me why.

But hey! I be tryin' to discern these market dynamics

and hopin' there aint no market titanics.

Someone said it juxt a rigged game

for the 1%, you know dem with wealth and fame.

But I's gon' get in this game;

ask me again n' I'll tell u the same.

It the only game in town that I know of;

I know it still be there when them push come to shove.

And when them market collapses, like them big house of cards,

then I'll jump in the game; I'll scoop up them shards!

As them fluffed-up values deflate in them crashes,

it's then I'll buy in, as them fall on them assets!



Glass Chimera

The "class" thing

I am an American, a southerner, college-educated working fellow, married with three grown, and reasonably happy. I love my wife and I love my life. I am a follower of Jesus. Although I do a 40-hour gig as a maintenance guy for 92 apartments, I am not a member of the working "class."

All this talk these days, arising from the Democrats and sociologists and talking media heads, about "class" this and "class" that, the "working class," the "privileged" class, the so-called "disappearing middle class"--I wouldn't give you a nickel for all of it.

As far as I'm concerned, I am an individual, my own man, and beyond classification. God made me just the way I am, thank you, and I thank Him for that. So you can call me middle-class if you want to. You can classify me in the disappearing middle because my working wage is 2/3 of what I was bringing in at my peak, a dozen or so years ago when I was fifty years old. You can call me middle class, working class, dumb-ass, or whatever you wanna call me, you can call me ray, you can call me jay, or ray jay, or you can call me "hey" or "hey you," but ya doesn't have to call me anything at all.

The only identity that matters is what my wife, my grownup young-uns, loved ones and friends call me--Carey. And btw I'll soon be publishing the third novel, which is named Smoke. So put that in your literary pipe and smoke it.

This little class rant came up this morning because I have been hearing more and more about these designated class distinctions lately, ever since, oh, couple years ago when the Occupy thing started and they were out in the streets--I watched them for two days in Vancouver and Seattle--with their signs about the 1% and the 99% and all that redistributionist and income disparity hype.

Maybe I'm in the 99%, maybe I'm way down in the 50% or even below that. I don't care. If I had a chance to join the 1%, I would jump at it. This great country was built on upward mobility.

We used to call it the American Dream. I still do. I'm not subscribing to this neo-marxian class stuff. No thank you. It's just for political manipulation, and I am no political hack's lackey. Therefore am I not pleased to accept some sociologist's semi-permanent societal place assignment. Well, maybe "first class". I would settle for that, but I'm not buying the proletarian, nor the bourgeois label.

Speaking of "not buying". . .

This morning I began reading David Horowitz' excellent autobiography, Radical Son.

Here is a passage from page 39 that got my attention, then became, it seems, the impetus for the little bloggish rumination you are now reading. From Radical Son:

"At the time my parents moved into the (Sunnyside) Gardens in 1940, they could have purchased the house on Bliss Street for $4000--less than its original price. But as radicals, they had scorned the opportunity to own property and moved in as renters. Seven years later, the Gardens were acquired by new owners, who decided to sell of the individual units, including our house. A Sunnyside Tenants' Association was organized to resist the sales."

Why did David's parents not buy their house when they had the chance to do it? Weren't they Americans? Well not yet, apparently.

They were second generation Americans, from Russian immigrants, and they identified themselves as communists. I understand that angst; its where they came from, how they were brought up and so forth. They did not subscribe to the American dream, but to the Russian communist dream that they had brought with them, and then dragged it as excess baggage off the boat at Ellis Island.

Son David later learned, in the school of hard knocks, what it means to be an American, to be an opportunist for yourself and your family, instead of letting yourself be limited by an imposed class identity. If his parents had been willing to learn that lesson in 1940 when they bought their home in Sunnyside Gardens, maybe they would have acceded a little more successfully to the American Dream motivator. But hey, they were immigrants; what can you expect? It takes a generation or two off the boat to acquire a taste for this melting pot porridge. David Horowitz' life is testimony to that, and that is what his book is about.

Now I'm a southerner, and very different from all those immigrants and their Old World forebears who got off the boat at New York Harbor. (My wife, Pat, is however from an Irish family from New Jersey.) And although my life experience is very different from that of Mr. Horowitz, I sure enjoy reading a good book, which is btw, the key (reading and education) to overcoming all this classist entrapment that's going around now.

Try it some time, you'll learn a thing or two from reading a book, even if its on your Kindle.

Smoke