another economics lesson

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i actually agonized a little over this one--i mean, is it better to post something that's likely to bore most of my readers, or post nothing at all? and then i remembered i write this blog for my own amusement, which answered the question.

for what it's worth, the following is a modified excerpt from a recent (i.e., 20 minutes ago) email to my friend and frequent commenter noblesavage regarding his contempt for my beloved gold standard [and yeah, we actually back-and-forth about shit like this].

if you happen to be one of the few who not only read all the way to the end of this post but actually get it, then good for you.



there's only two kinds of money, rob: (1) money backed by a fixed, finite, rare and tangible commodity, such as gold or silver; and (2) fiat money (i.e., money which is backed by nothing other than its issuing government's dubious guarantee of value).

most governments start out with the former, and end up with the latter.

see, they start out with the former because they have no choice--they're new, and people are willing to accept their money only if it's backed by something real, like gold.

but there's a funny thing about governments, rob: once established, they always wants to grow, grow, grow--and growth takes more money.

problem is, a government only has two ways to get more real money: (1) taking it from its own citizens via taxation; and/or (2) taking it from other countries by force (i.e., war or colonization). of course, there's just so far any government can go with either one.

which is why, to feed their insatiable appetites for expansion, most governments eventually say fuck it, drop the gold standard and declare that their currency is worth whatever they say it's worth.

and my god, rob, once they've freed themselves from the annoying requirement of backing their currency with tangible assets like gold, amazing new vistas open--hell, now they can pretty much print as much money as they fucking want, and who's to stop them?

[of course, if you try this at home they'll throw you in jail for a thousand years, but for some reason when a government does it, it's ok--splain me that, will you, rob?]

and once a government finally takes this step, what inevitably happens next, as night follows day? why, inflation, of course--i.e., more money in circulation chasing the same amount of goods means that it'll take more money to buy said goods.

it happens slowly (hell, our overlords aren't stupid--if a cup of coffee went from a nickel to two dollars overnight it would freak people out, but somehow it's ok when it happens over fifty years).

until, as a consequence of this slow madness, something really bad happens, the government needs lots of money fast, and the printing presses shift into high gear.

then all of a sudden you find yourself needing a wheelbarrow of your once-stable currency to buy a loaf of bread.

* * * * *

what i've just described has happened to every fiat currency that's ever existed on the face of the earth, and as much as you don't want to believe it, it's now happening to ours. tell me, rob--why do you think we're somehow magically exempt from the laws of nature?

damn, i'd almost succeeded in blocking this one out

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[it was probably the back-and-forth with noblesavage in my previous post that prompted my subconscious to cough up this particular mental hairball tonight--and as always, alcohol helped.]


so i'm over at his place for, like, the third or fourth time. unusual in my world to see anybody more than twice, but he's just so goddam beautiful--skin taut, smooth and that perfect shade of rosy-brown, and his hair--no matter how many times i run my hands through it, it always settles back into model-quality tousled perfection.

and the sex? that's good, too--so good, in fact, that on that third, or fourth [whatever--trust me, there won't be a fifth] night, i make a sufficient mess of both him and myself that a mere towel-off ain't gonna do; we have to jump in the shower.

he gets out first, tosses me a towel and then i get out, glance up--and freeze in horror.

you know how you get used to your naked reflection in your own mirror at home, and learn to reflexively present yourself to your best advantage whenever you're in front of it so that you're always at least content with the way you look?

well lemme tell ya, all those self-serving delusions go out the window when you look up and suddenly find yourself in a strange, new fluorescent-lighted bathroom whose corner-mounted mirrors give you a totally new and unwelcome perspective on your advancing middle age.

since i try not to delude myself about shit, and as hard as it is to do, i stand there under the glow of the merciless blue-white light, turn left and right in front of these hostile, alien mirrors and absorb the blow of this unexpected new reality as best i can.

holy shit, it's happened--it's over; i'm fuckin' old.

after a few minutes, he calls out, "what are you doing in there?" i snap out of it, drop my towel, walk out to join him. he pulls me into his arms and i ask him, incredulously, "you really wanna put your arms around me?"

he laughs and pulls me closer.

[for what it's worth, this particular incident happened almost ten years ago; only thing that's really changed since then is, i make it a point to not look at myself in strange mirrors anymore--you'd probably do well to do the same.]

why? maybe just because i never post shit like this

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[the fonts are all messed up in this post--god, i hate blogger sometimes]

so i met my colleagues for dinner tonight in the break room as usual, and john showed up on this casual friday in a trendy striped T which looked so great on him that i was moved to say, "oh my god, you're so 'tommy kirk circa 1962'!" (a compliment he not only got, but was inordinately pleased by).

which established the topic for tonight's dinner conversation: who were your formative childhood crushes?

it was a subject i hadn't thought about for years, but once the question was asked, they came back to me almost instantly, each and every one.

and so, without further ado, allow me to present for your delectation, commentary and ridicule, the boys that made me squirmy way back before my balls had even dropped:

1. rick nelson


my first crush--i first became aware of him when i was maybe four or five, and would thereafter sit each week glued to the television, completely oblivious of ozzie, harriet and brother david, coming alive only when ricky graced the screen.

tell me--has a more beautiful, more talented boy ever fuckin' lived? (and don't even start with the zac efron, because i'll have to hurt you.)

2. billy gray


while he couldn't hold a candle to ricky, bud from father knows best still managed to give me that fluttery, squishy feeling in my four-year-old kishkas that i didn't understand but so looked forward to each and every week.

and, for that matter, so did

3. bobby diamond


premise of the show: lonely single rancher adopts troubled teenage boy--i mean, what's not to love?

4. tony dow

leave it to beaver was another of the favored shows of my youth (although mostly in reruns), and i didn't care if it was the young wally who turned up when the show came on each week


or the grown-up one

either way, i was mush.

5. don grady


what can i say--i loved me some robby.


ok, enough tv--let's move on to the big screen.

6. james macarthur


one of my beloved grandmother's all-time favorite movies was spencer's mountain, and as much as i loved henry fonda and maureen o'hara, and no matter how many times i sat through this movie with her, i could never tear my seven-year-old eyes away from the luscious clayboy long enough to appreciate them.

7. tommy kirk


i can't remember which disney movie i saw tommy in first, but it doesn't really matter--from that first frame of film, i knew we were destined to be together.


and last in our parade of objects of my youthful lust, but far from least,



yeah, so i was once in love with a cartoon character. eat me--i was seven.

* * * * *

so there you have it: the full panoply of my prepubescent obsessions. enjoy (or not).

whatever--to close this post we're gonna go full-circle, back to where it all began:



so, tell me--who were yours?

because i am nothing if not a giver

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i've rearranged the furniture a little--added a sidebar on the left in order to make it easier for my legions of readers to find everything i have to say on any given topic with one click.

please--don't all eleven of you thank me at once.

the whole torture thing

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People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

george orwell

as i sit here and watch the torture debate rage back and forth among people who have not the slightest clue as to what they're talking about, three questions seem to keep coming up:

1. what, exactly, constitutes torture;

2. under what circumstances, if any, is torture ever morally justified; and

3. is it ever even effective?

and if you think i'm even gonna try to answer these questions in this post, you're dead wrong, because when it comes to this subject, i have no idea what i'm talking about either--but unlike everybody else, i'm at least willing to admit it.

and that's my point: fuck the politicians, the public and the half-ass opinions they rode in on--effective, efficient intelligence-gathering is best left to the experts, and that's where this matter should've stayed.

see, every nation has two sides: (1) the high-minded face it puts forth to the world; and (2) the dark underside that actually gets shit done. and it's generally understood--by every nation but us, apparently--that that's the way it must be, and the less talked-about, the better.

am i saying i "condone" torture? no. what i'm saying is, as a soft, sheltered american civilian, i haven't clue one as to what it really takes to keep us safe in our beds each night--and neither do you. as such, i give about as much credibility to someone who says they'd never under any circumstances condone torture as i do to someone who makes the same claim about abortion. because, seriously, folks--it's a rough, tough world out there, and if you really think omelettes get made without breaking a few eggs, then you need to wake up and smell the coffee.

then, you might ask, am i saying our intelligence services should be allowed carte blanche in terms of how they operate? again, no--there should be oversight, but it should be managed discreetly and at the highest levels of government, and not be made a political football to be kicked about in the public arena as is being currently done.

having said all that--and putting aside for the moment the above three questions--i'll now give you my thoughts on this mess:

1. the bush administration was wrong. i believe the CIA was probably pushed into waterboarding those guys by a bush administration so desperate to tie al qaeda to iraq that they'd take any link they could get by any means, no matter how faulty it might turn out to be later. and i'll further bet the CIA knew at the time "garbage in, garbage out," but couldn't get anybody in power at the time to listen.

2. the obama administration is wrong. i further believe that a dangerously naive new president came into office believing his own campaign bullshit, and, ignoring the fundamental truths i outlined above, piously and mindlessly turned on his (and our) intelligence watchdogs--who, i'm gratified to see, then apparently bit him in the ass and clued him in as to what's really up (what makes me think this? simple: read this--oh, and while you're at it, this).

3. nancy pelosi is an idiot. i'd have respected her more (fine--detested her less) had she had the cojones to forego the craven ass-covering and just say, "yeah, i signed off on the waterboarding because i thought the safety of the country was at stake. judgment call--sue me."

bottom line: as we fall on our collective knees, wailing and rending our garments over laughably minor crap like abu ghraib, guantanamo and a little waterboarding in a futile plea to win the world's forgiveness--not understanding that such appeasement is always perceived, by enemies and friends alike, as weakness--i watch the middle east solidify in its hatred and contempt for the west, north korea starve its people in order to feed its million-man army, russia rattle its newly-sharpened sabers, israel prepare to decimate iran, and the taliban overrun nuclear-armed pakistan.

and me? i dunno whether to laugh, cry or move to australia.

happy day, ma

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love,

your baby

sober update: see? i'm not always a mean drunk.

roy, my joy boy

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i was 19, between high school and college, working as an assistant manager in a chain pizza restaurant in northwest houston [don't ask why--doesn't matter now].

four nights outta five, i ended up closing--miserable work, but i did it for almost a year--and usually at least two of those nights each week, roy was the one who closed with me.

lemme tell you about roy: 17-year-old part-timer--sweet kid, tight little body, smashed-up nose from too much football, loved me to death.

and every night we closed together--and i mean every fuckin' night--when we were done he'd challenge me to a rassle.

and i'd always say "ok," and we'd move the tables and chairs off the freshly-vacuumed carpet and go at it.

and i'm talkin' serious and sweaty all-out wrestling--i was bigger and stronger, but he was quicker and wirier. i was no athlete and had no idea what i was doing, but i went all-out anyway, and the chances of one of us pinning the other on any given night were pretty much 50/50.

either way, one of us would always end up on top, tense bodies grinding against each other, face-to-face, dripping sweat, and that's the way we would remain.

until i said--because it was always me--"that's it, roy--time to go."

at which point we'd release, get up, move the tables back, lock up and head out to my car.

and then i'd drive him home while he hummed along to whatever was on the radio, drop him off at his house and head home myself.

it was maybe fifteen years later i suddenly sat bolt-up from a deep sleep one night with the realization that, holy shit, i so coulda had him.