http://www.salon.com/2014/11/23/%E2%80%9Cthere%E2%80%99s_been_class_warfare_going_on_for_the_last_20_years_and_my_class_has_won_partner/
"85 richest billionaires on the planet, including the likes of Carlos Slim, Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg, have as much money as the 3.5 billion poorest people"
The gist of the editorial seems to be that this is a really bad thing. Little is said to defend that notion. I guess it's just one of those self evident truths. I guess we're supposed to get all upset. Does that sound healthy?
I want the facts! Oh, wait, I've got them. There are roughly 8 billion people. Subtract 85, and then subtract 3.5 billion, and there are 4.5 billion people in, I guess, the middle class. Is being middle class a bad thing? Are we complaining that everybody's not super rich?
I want everyone to be happy. Everyone. Here I am, little tiny me. What am I supposed to do about it?!
We live in a giant surging wave of humanity. Waves are rough, but you can at least try to surf them. If you nail it, it's a blast. If you blow it, you get slammed. If you don't do anything, well, what happens happens.
I got to know some poor middle class Brits. They're a laugh riot. It was really fun. But they're also, I have to say, kind of stupid. They're super aware of their privilege. If they've got a beef, they just stuff it right in your face. They march along, fully expecting everyone to just jump out of the way. (And we do.) Or (this happens a lot, too) we're supposed to (and why not?) go all moon eyed and tag along for the show. Good show! But, OK, all that privilege, and what do they do? They complain and complain! So, OK, money's tough, and health is a constant issue. It's rough. So I'd make suggestions. Try this exercise for the pain in your arm. Interesting? No. It's like I'm suddenly a suspicious person, like I'm attacking you. Or, hey, I'm getting some results in the stock market. It looks to me like, if you work at it, you can have zero money problems that way. Yes, you have to control the risk. Yes, it'll probably take some time. But I'm here. Let's work on it together.
Nah.
Then they're, like, our apartment is so miserable. Well, yeah, you've got this nasty, horrible throw on the sofa. Why not make just a little effort decorating. And then, I mean, just be content.
I mean, I've got it rough myself! My house is a disaster! And I'm incredibly poor. But it's my own damned fault. Anyone will tell you that, and they're right! If I'm going to get out of this hole, I just need to keep digging. And if I don't make it, it's not anybody else's fault. I mean, I get demanding sometimes. I say "I have a right to demand that you do this for me." Then they say "No, you don't." Then I say, yeah, you're right. On the other hand, sometimes they say "OK, I'll give it a shot." Then I say "Wow, thank you, that's really sweet." And I get fringe benefits. They're, like, "Come to my party." So, I have a nice time.
I got to know this other guy, who's totally, incredibly working class. He's kind of sweet, and really charming, but he's the most stuck up asshole you ever met! He thinks because he's working class he's some kind of holy angel. He thinks every stupid random idea he has is the epitome of reason. He thinks his style is just unbelievably awesome, and we should all drop absolutely everything and be just like him. And it's kind of true, his style is kind of awesome. Except when it's kind of nasty, which it also is.
He thinks he absolutely knows everything. He thinks he's a total genius. He is kind of a genius, in fact, quite a genius. But then again, what does he do? He makes hurtful comments, left, right, and everywhere in between. So, even though we all greatly admire him, no one (not just me, the village idiot, but actually the smart people on the block, too) wants anything to do with him. And he complains and complains. He's got a bunch of money in savings accounts. He's like, "I'm smart. No one is going to sucker me into losing my money in the stock market." Then he complains about how poor he is, that he can't spend a penny because he's going to run out of money. So I'm, like, look at the stock market with me.
Nah.
He's like, all admiration, because I'm sort of intellectual. But does he listen to anything I say? Certainly not. And, he's right. If I were so good, I'd be rich, and I'm not. But I'm not saying "I'll tell you what to do." I'm saying, let's work at it.
Nah.
There was this super sweet black guy living across the street for a while. He actually was an angel. But things were getting tougher and tougher for him. He didn't like me all that much, although he was really nice. I mean, I'm not very likable. But we were sort of a group of friends, so one day he's telling me about his problems. His wife was beating on him. It was bad. So I'm like, the answer is meditation. After that, he just stopped talking to me. It's not actually that he's dumb or anything. I'm dumb, that's why. I know stuff, but I don't know how to help. He eventually moved to Colorado, and now he can smoke all the pot he wants, and not get hassled. Among us, he's the winner.
The gang broke up. It's just me again, now. That's good.
Raking the lawn. Turning the compost. Trimming a branch here, another there, just barely making a dent. Sorting through my stuff, getting it a tiny bit more in order. Doing dishes, laundry, cooking a meal. At least it's something. Stumbling in the stock market, but I may get it sorted, one of these days. And, if I make a bunch of money, then what?
So, I write. I'm like, what the hell? What am I supposed to do? I'll write. I write, and then I'm not at all sure I want anyone to read it. After all, I will get trolled. Then I do it again.
I've gotten through all of this health stuff, cancers, heart attacks, headaches, pneumonia, major cat bite, mrsa infection, which doctors say is "untreatable", like a volcano erupting on my arm, wisdom teeth falling apart, impaired vision, obesity, stroke, poverty, mental illness. I got through all of those things without any help from doctors (except fifteen years of counseling), with just my own ideas about things, natural remedies, cooking, yoga (self taught), and meditations. People know this about me. Do they ask me how I did it? Nope. They shy away. "Don't listen to Tom. Go to the doctor." Then they get prescribed horrible medicines, that make them deathly ill, surgeries they'll never recover from. They even just die. Don't listen to Tom. Literally, I'm cursed. Nobody likes me, right? A big fuck you to all of you. Guess what, I've got my people. I'm cursed, and it's a good thing. Still, I want to get out of this hole. Nothing for it but to keep affirming, keep struggling through.
