“There is a rot at the heart of our democracy, rooted in a nagging mystery that has yet to be unraveled. It gnaws at people, occupies their thoughts, leaves them searching for answers in the chill of the night. Americans want to know why no high-ranking Wall Street executive has gone to jail for the conduct that precipitated the financial crisis.
The oddest thing about the predominance of the question is that everyone already assumes they know the answer. They believe that too many politicians, regulators, and law enforcement officials, bought off with campaign contributions or the promise of a future job, simply allowed banker miscreants to annihilate the law in pursuit of profit.”
David Dayen
I will preface my comment with one of my favorite old jokes. It’s a bar joke, of course.
So, Joe is enjoying a frosty one with the boys after work. Most all of the guys are talking shop or of women or sports. Most of the conversations are of a jocular nature, especially after a few beers. Joe is enjoying himself after it’s Friday and he is off work with his elbows propped on the bar while standing and his foot is on the brass rail fastened to the bar just off of the floor. Bill, a guy known to be somewhat of a jerk (isn’t there always one?) butts into a conversation Joe is having with another co-worker and says to Joe, “Joe, I’ll bet ya a sawbuck you’ll not take a swig from that spittoon”. Joe replies that he has no intention of doing such a vile thing and that Bill should go to a place noted for fire and brimstone. Bill persists. “I’ll bet ya a double sawbuck…”, a sizable wager for that day and age. Joe replies in the negative, but another worker chimes in with: “I’ll take some of that.”, another replies that he’ll up the ante to another $ twenty on top. Now the chatter and cajoling ratchets up significantly with more attention of the men, more voices and more offers for increased wagers. Joe persists that there is not enough money to make him want to do such a thing. Joe is chagrined but stands his ground amid the increasing banter and coercion. The offers increase, the amount is of $200. Joe is disgusted, but he peers at the shiny spittoon near his foot and ponders the dark murky fluid content and shutters at the vile scum that seems to float atop the surface. Now the elbowing and encouragement continues: “It just a sip, Joe, just one little sip for $320!”. That is the equivalent to a months wages for Joe. Joe is faltering, Joe has a wife and kids, there are needs. Bill is grinning and flashing the notes in Joe’s face. There is a hush as Joe reaches down and then a quiet murmur of apprehension. As Joe raises the cuspidor, the conversations went silent the juke had been stopped all eyes were on Joe.
The polished brass lip meets Joe’s. He raises the spittoon to allow the smallest sip. Total dead silent, all eyes and open mouthed gawks. Joe continues to raise the vessel. Glug, glug, glug, and empties the contents. Quietly, he sets the container down and looks at the faces of disgust. Someone blurts out: “Joe, it was only s’pposed ta be a sip, just a sip…” Bill grins and hands the money to Joe as he says: “Gosh Joe, just a sip, I didn’t say the whole thing…’
Joe replies: “Well, once’t I got started, it all just come out in one long string.”
Disgusting, I know, but history is like that, where do you start? History isn’t the right word…, I might try something simple like truth of knowledge, even that is problematic.
What I knew as a telephone was this black thing that either sat on the table with a cord or two and a dial. Sometimes I would see one on a wall. My grandparents one one side didn’t have one at all, and the other ones had one that stood up like a weird candlestick and had no dial. Point is, the library was far away, with not so many books. To go read or spend time at the library was kind of a chore, nut not impossible. So many question, so few answers. Lies were ever present and reinforced in the schools. Something was rotten in Denmark, it was just laborious to wade through those waters. Then there was the internet.
More questions, more information, but more thought and … it never ends.
I think it is like a cruel disease sometimes, It doesn’t seem to matter where you start, even if it is just a sip. I think I was born with a red pill shoved up my ass and another in my throat.
And then one day I found TBP, it warms the cockles of me heart and is a palliative to me soul.
(as an aside, Stucky’s article tore me up, big time. I could not begin to comment to that. My heritage is quite different, funny how some things parallel, though)
Grog