2008 was the year that saw Paris and Britney’s names fall (somewhat) from headlines. In that sense, it was one to be thankful for. The populace had other good reasons to be thankful—or regretful—but no matter what side of the divide people were on, change occupied the public discourse. For some 53 percent of the population it was and is all about hope. For the other 47 percent, change evolved into laying blame without being certain whom to point at. No matter, change came in the form of a lion at the dining-room table alternately looking at its empty plate and the cook at the stove while trying to decide just how hungry it is. Change was the measuring tape of the past 11 months, but it’s not mine. Mine is the mind-boggling numbers 2008 produced.
Samantha Ronson and Lindsay Lohan.
In January, the number of most concern was the price of gas at the pump, already inching toward $4 per gallon. By the end of the first quarter drivers were paying $4.28 per gallon, and Standard-Chevron announced quarterly profits of 25 or 30 megadillion (a figure with so many zeros my computer froze up when I typed it). Doomsayers prognosticated levels above $5 per gallon. By July gas-price paranoia set in. Sales of motor scooters and bicycles soared, the average yuppie parked his Hummer in the driveway with a “for sale” sign on the windshield, and media attention shifted from talk of Britney’s weight (212 pounds or thereabout) and Lindsay Lohan’s drinking (2 gallons of alcohol per binge or thereabout) to alternative energy. Solutions bandied about to solve the crisis included forced carpooling (not likely) and legislation requiring drivers to use sails atop vehicles three days a week (probable).
Hillary Clinton, under the flag, at Green Valley High.
In March, 2052 years after a handful of Roman senators tossed a welcoming party for Julius Caesar on the steps of the Senate (a Roman version of “change”), I celebrated a birthday; well, not really, because it’s one number I try to forget. In 2008 the media made forgetting it easy. By the ides of March we’d been bombarded by approximately 200,000 minute/hours of campaign ads and nine times that in campaign news coverage on CNBC alone. Bush reached a record low in public-confidence polls when 84 percent of college students didn’t know he was president. Congress scored even worse when a poll revealed a mere 2 percent of university graduates could name one of their representatives (however, all knew Britney’s latest dress size). Fifty percent of Americans polled agreed Hillary shouldn’t have changed her hairdo, 71 percent approved of Obama’s haircut, 12 percent ignored McCain’s and 99 percent wished Donald Trump would shave his head and vanish.
Sarah Palin poses with supporters during a rally in Henderson.
By July the media welcomed a fresh target, and pollsters reshaped questions to fit the new addition to the campaign. In August, 66 percent of Americans concurred that Sarah Palin’s hairdo was no worse than Hillary’s, but 99 percent of the men strongly agreed she looked better in a skirt and 77.2 percent were thankful Hillary wore trousers and shaved twice a day. With the exception of Camille Paglia, 100 percent of the feminists in academia agreed that Palin should seek work as a scullery maid.
The doomsayers who ranted about rising fuel prices had also predicted a housing bubble. By January my house, worth $315,000 in mid-2005, fell to a market value of $200,000. By July its net worth was reduced to roughly 14 centavos. I remained among the fortunate, because being employed, I could manage a mortgage payment in a city that led the nation in the rate of housing foreclosures. By October the figures in Las Vegas were roughly 101 foreclosures for every nine households, and the default rate was going up.
As late as April I wasn’t concerned about my financial well-being; after all, I had a 403b (I have no idea what that 403 stands for [why not a 408. And what about the “b”?]). Though the account had suffered a 10 percent decline the previous year, it seemed healthy enough that I might be able to retire by the year 2043 if I went on a fish-and-fresh-fruit diet. By October I tossed out any idea of retiring until sometime in the 23rd century, probably 2272 (bring on the fish and fruit).
Still, I was employed and thankful, kind of. For the second time in six years the governor, the regents and the Legislature decided that since I’d spent all those years—8.5 of them—getting undergraduate and graduate degrees, I could forego receiving merit pay. This seems the standard reward for working full-time and going to school full-time for 8.5 years, then working full-time outside of academia and teaching college as an adjunct for five more. The 2.5 percent is delayed until January, or maybe not. The state now faces additional deficits, the numbers ranging around an additional $1,300,000,000 over the next year. What better way to fix the minus column than to hold back a $12-a-month (or thereabout) raise? Better still, cut my salary by 5-10 percent so I can join those who defaulted on their mortgages?
Of course, the state’s numbers are a pittance compared to the freewheeling feds, now $11 trillion in debt, a chunk of which is owed to China. The Chinese are looking to collect the debt. Their government sent a delegation to Washington to place a lien on the Pentagon. The plan fell through when the feng-shui master who walked the halls determined that Rumsfeld’s tenure as Secretary of Defense had so damaged the spirit of the building that 10 jade dragons, 100 feet tall each, would not suffice to drive off the demons. For the time being the Pentagon is still ours.
The feds weren’t content operating with a $11 trillion deficit. In October the mortgage fiasco hit Wall Street like a water balloon the size of Jupiter. The Decider and the Do-Nothing Congress determined the best way to save the drowning economy was by casting the financial industry a life raft containing $700 billion. Thus far the net result is that banking CEOs received golden parachutes of $100 million (or thereabout), and my 403b sank in value to 12 centavos (or thereabout), and I figured out that the “b” stands for “it b gone.” Now the auto industry got a $17 billion bailout, Citi Group needs $300 billion, and President-elect Obama and his smiling (except for Larry Summers) disciples are designing a future $700 billion bailout package for someone. My inkling is none of this money is headed my way, or yours.
Still, the numbers don’t add up to doom. At the end of November two welcomed events occurred. Word came that the screenplay I wrote based on my novella Snake Boy was optioned, and the numbers, if all goes well, are satisfactory. Of course, the windfall bracket I’ll be taxed on by the time the check arrives will be around 85 percent, and I understand the government won’t allow me to average the income over the 35 years I’ve been writing for 1 centavo per page. Still, if lucky, I may come out around $8.31 ahead. The other hopeful event was my pulling into a gas station where I filled my tank for $1.89 per gallon. It was like going to sleep in 2008 and waking up in 2004, when Starbucks coffee cost $1.40. Hell, gas may sink below $1.70. If so, the Hummers will return to the roads in herds, and Standard-Chevron will join its corporate brethren in begging for alms. In the interim, the savings on gas is like getting a .002 percent raise, if you don’t factor in the future tax debt for funding the development of a wind sail designed—at a cost of $10 billion—to propel automobiles.
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