Municipal Misgivings: The Flip Off of the Tip-Off

Every summer my family and I went to watch the hometown parade: Shriners circling on mini motorcycles, marching bands, horses with braided tails, always a cartwheel or two from local cheerleaders, the neighbor in a clown costume they only wore once a year.  But, inevitably, the parade ALWAYS began with the cavalcade of emergency vehicles.

Every firetruck, ambulance, and even a few County Sheriff rovers would make their way down the street, wailing their sirens and honking their horns.  Come to think of it, it's rather advantageous no one ever had an emergency occur during parade hours.  ‘Twould be an awful pity to know your house burned down because the firetruck was double parked between the sequined swan, the foam cowboy, and the Man-of-the-Year convertible.  Chalk up the charms of simple suburbia!

Anyway, I always found this great civic fun and not the least bit problematic until I heard a chorus of sirens outside my window and got EXCITED.  "The parade's about to start!!!  I've got to get down there and secure a front row seat!!"  That was my first thought.  Not "oh, no!  Someone's in serious trouble!!  Make sure the pathway is clear!!"  The sound was stirring and enticing!  Not repellent, like it should be!

I have been conditioned since childhood to associate the sound of multiple sirens with cheering and festive parading rather than with their intended use: EMERGENCY NOTIFICATION. 

"Come closer, little one," the sirens sing to me, "and taste of my salt-water taffy."  For years they've lured me in--inching ever closer to their tear-proof tires--when they should have been teaching me to steer clear.  Thank heavens I wasn't driving in front of them; I probably would have rolled down my window and waved rather than pulling off to the side and letting them pass.

Perhaps it's spite at having been mislead, but I just imagined how ironic it would be for a firetruck to catch on fire.

Magical Fruit: The Fiscal Swell on a Hill of Beans

Lately I've been contemplating over the propriety of asking people how much money they make.  

I'm not a fan of the question being taboo.  I'm really not a fan of ANY question being silenced.  How else are we to learn and make informed decisions? 

But, the thing I find interesting about this subject is I've never met a blue-collar, entry-level,  or minimum wage worker who didn't mind discussing how underpaid they are.  Those who mind/avoid/fear the subject are those who know they're getting paid more than they're worth.  Those paid disproportionately well to their peers.  Those who face Madame Guillotine! 

Methinks, perchance the aristocracy be the driving force behind  mums-ing the whole topic in the first place.  Curtailing talk about money altogether eludes harsh feelings of fairness and jealousy that can accompany.  Therefore, *poof* pay no attention to the [money] behind the curtain.

Now, some may say you shouldn't need to know how much others make because money shouldn't influence your professional decisions anyway.  Careers should be based on passions; find out what makes you happy, pursue it, and the fulfillment will make up for the difference in cash flow.

But, who is feeding us this idea?  Where does it originate?  

It is an idea specially formulated in closed-door offices on top levels of really tall buildings that is filtered down through the system until we shop it out of some bargain bin at the crossroads of Want and Necessity.  

That's, right!  The people admonishing us to pursue passion rather than money are those who HAVE money.  Think I'm kidding?  

How much money is floating around Hollywood?  Yet, how many Hollywood films feature money as the villain?  How many hold money, those who have it, and those chasing it as soulless?  How many theme integrity with staying true to one's dreams?  

When a protagonist is just about to get everything they ever wanted--the big job, the hidden treasure, the record deal--they will forsake extravagance and choose love, family, or the simple life every time.

"Titanic," for instance, was less about a ship sinking and more about status, riches, and jewels (all of which were hated and ended up at the bottom of an ocean).  One of the highest grossing films of all time certainly did not portray money in a very positive light.  Interesting, wouldn't you say?  

It's profiteering propaganda!  They're throwing us off the scent!  It's a red herring so they can keep all the money for themselves!  Hollywood has turned passion pursuing into global currency so marketable they might as well be selling beans.

Baker: This is the sum total.

Wife: Beans??  (She catches an idea) BEANS!!  OH, we MUSTN'T give up our beans!  ...Well...if you feel we must.  Beans will bring you food, son.  And, these are no ordinary beans!  These beans carry magic.

Jack: What kind of magic?

Baker: Magic that defies description.

Wife: I'd say they're worth a pound each at the very least.

Jack sells his cow for beans.  And, that's how easily retirement funds are dealt away.  That's how easily money is made, not earned; based on pure precious belief, we gladly exchange passion for beans.    

You don't even have to ask; I'll tell you how much I make.  

For a post like this one, I usually bill at the rate of $0 per hour.  I charge much less for friends and family though.

That means today alone I've made tens of nothings of dollars.  According to Quicken, I thereby will be retreating myself (an optimist would see this as a form of repetative treating!) to lunching with the imaginative and frugal Lost Boys of Never Land.

Nutty Knobs

In my anthropologically-infused, Freudian dream last night I may have imagined honey-roasted peanuts were breasts lopped off of African fertility figurines which had been whittled from the peanut plant and discovered in the sugary sands of the coast.

This made them more rare, exotic, and expensive.  

...yet, surprisingly still affordable.

Country Cookin' in a Dutch Oven

This is how my mind works:

I was cooking dinner the other night.  I went to the cupboard.  There were two pans there.  The first was rough and cut up.  It was blackened with years of grease and heat.  The other was a pristine, shiny silver.  

Brand new items--like a freshly fallen snow--are so beautiful in their purity I often have difficulty using them.  I want to preserve them that way for as long as possible, even if it means more work or going out of my way.  Then, I have to buckle down and consciously remind myself these items are there to be used; there’s no point having them otherwise.  A pan made for baking does no good left in the cupboard.  

The old pan looks as though it can’t sustain.  I’m afraid my meal will become a blackened, stuck-on mess if I use it.  It’s probably time to retire.  

I think about all this old pan has seen.  How it’s been thrown into the fire, washed, greased up, and thrown back in again.  How much it’s been asked to withstand, how many different meals and uses it’s been asked to accommodate.  Each scratch a scar, each grease stain a memory.  

It too could look shiny and new had it been left in the preservation of the cupboard its whole life.  But, would it have lived?  Would it have filled its intended purpose?  Blackened, withered, and barely withstanding, at least it has fulfilled its destiny.  

Withstanding.  This country.  What of the destiny of this country?  

Are we on the verge?  History and nature both teach no empire can last forever.  Eventually, what rises will fall and must be rebuilt.  Is it time for the American phoenix to be reborn from its ashes?  

We have been thrown into the fire again and again.  We have greased our way through trying times.  We have accommodated more than we thought we could, adding additional ingredients and new recipes to our repertoire each passing year.  We are stained, and withered, and scored, but with good cause, as it was our intended purpose.  But, have we reached a point of uselessness--is it time to be thrown out--or are we sagely savory?  

Has the time come to start over?  Have we become so sticky that it’s time to retire and renew?  Have we accommodated so much we’re burgeoning at the seams?  If we yell anymore are we going to explode?  Is it time to bring in the new pan?  A new plan?  New Deal?  Something silvery to catch all the tasty drippings and baste the bottom of the next 250 years?

Food for thought.

Then...*DING*  Nope!  Actual food!  Never mind.  Nom, nom, nom.