Kicking the Big Bank’s Butt or Vengeance is Mine Sayeth the Bored

In which the Elegant Bastard announces that he has defeated the biggest of the Big Banks and that he will never ever ever set it free!

Like most of us, I have very few legitimate claims to fame, but there are two. First, I am the only person of my acquaintance who has never eaten at McDonalds. I have no particular fear of falling arches; I suffer from no nightmarish vision of what it might be that makes the special sauce “special”. The insistence that the patties are “all beef” has never awakened my suspicions regarding possible alternatives. As for sesame seeds, I have a “live and let live” attitude towards them. It’s just that I have never been 1) hungry and 2) near a McDonalds simultaneously. Such is the role of coincidence in history.

Of greater note is the fact that I have one of the world’s largest financial corporations in my grasp, unable to escape. Nor shall I set it free.

It all began with fresh peas.

Nothing adds to a salad like a handful of tiny glistening raw green peas. Nature decreed that they should come in pods, an irritating obstacle for those of us needing to pea frequently. But Toronto being the city of all things that it is, a few select emporia are able to provide peas already freed at about the same price as gold already refined or diamonds already cut. I grabbed two small plastic containers and strolled to the cash register.

 “$18.98 please.”

Just as there are stores where one does not shriek, moan piteously, faint or in anyway protest prices, so too are there neighbourhoods where the cost of podded peas is designed to keep away the rabble. I was standing in the former and surrounded by the latter. I therefore chose to behave and pay, especially as my late afternoon pea-drool was well advanced.

I took out my wallet and discovered there a new “chip enhanced” credit card, delivered – unsolicited  – by a bank of national repute. The bank had recently discovered that I was “valued”, “meritorious”, “sophisticated” and “deserving”. I had agreed..

(In an effort to avoid causing even more stress in the currently uneasy banking world, I will name neither the institution nor the real name of the card. We will simply call it “Passport.”)

Anyway, I had it, I used it and the peas were mine.

I promptly forgot about the transaction – that is until Significant Other casually tossed a bill-containing envelope over the top of the New York Times as I held it in front of me one quiet Sunday morning. With it came the words, “I assume this must be yours?”

My peas had come home.

Each of us has a list of bills to pay. Passport was on neither, and Sunday being Sunday, the letter slipped between unread sections of the paper and was soon recycled and forgotten.

Passport soon proved itself to be persistent. The next month – and the next – yet another envelope would arrive and each would in its turn go the way of the first. Finally a longer letter arrived. Allow me to summarize it here:

Dear Unworthy Person We Once Loved Well,

We are shocked, indeed appalled, at your cruelty in attempting to deny Passport its modest stipend, hard earned and enormously deserved for our entirely altruistic efforts to inject at least a modicum of ease into your silly little life. Were we not your friend? Did we not select you and gather you to our bosom without question and without needing to be summoned? Know now that we are immensely irked, even hurt, and are forced to raise our level of interest in you higher and to calculate said interest on an hourly basis.

As well, be it known by all that in recognition of your outstanding credit rating, your demonstrated willingness to spread your wealth and your notable resemblance to Kelsey Grammar, we are raising your credit limit by an additional twelve thousand dollars. Go in Peace and Buy!

Passport

(Or words to that effect.)

Muttering various blasphemies I added Passport to the phone-banking list, tapped the required keys as directed by the bank’s sexy-voiced computer – does a male voice answer when a woman dials? – paid the bill and once again forgot the whole affair.

Passport did not.

Once again – and again – the little envelopes arrived, but they seemed to slip through the mail slot almost apologetically. Finally opening one, I discovered I had overpaid the bill by one dollar and thirty seven cents.

This prompted me to scan the pages of tiny print that accompany credit card statements. By the end I knew how to pay a bill in times of plague or postal interruption, how to pay if deceased, how to pay by phone or computer or carrier pigeon, how to pay interest only and how to pay until Doomsday should I ever decide to go for immortality. Yet nowhere was there mention of how to get them to pay me!

Monthly the ritual repeated itself. A year went by and I noticed I had begun to look forward to Passport’s regular evidence that it remembered me, that I had not been a one charge affair. On occasion they would celebrate our lengthening relationship by increasing yet again my never-since-used credit limit. Thinking that it was time to let them down gently, I phoned – and encountered yet another silkily sultry computer-generated femme fatale who offered me her buttons to push. However, Significant Other pointed out that I already had more than enough women in my life so I hung up.

It took a friend with no romantic inclinations to point out that Passport was bound by law to send these statements while an outstanding amount outstood, and that given the cost of envelopes, postage, data-retrieval, paper, printing and more, it was likely costing it about two dollars a month to keep inviting itself into my life. This meant it had now spent close to forty dollars telling me that it owed me $1.37. I smiled. “Seduce your way out of this!” I muttered, and an evil darkness settled itself (attractively) into the lines of my face.

It has since been another year. Passport continues in its servitude, and although I could with infinite ease release it from its bondage, I choose to toy. Should they ever just decide to send a cheque, I will immediately make another modest over-payment. (I’ve decided I will send them $6.66.)

Why?

To tighten the rule and the grip of irony? To allow the darker regions of my soul some time to play? To give my monthly one-fingered salute to a giant and corpulent corporate entity? To exercise my will for the hell of it? All of the above?

I’ve no idea. But let us ask ourselves the value of finding a cheap yet elegant way of turning clumsy and insidious marketing strategies upside down? What is the worth of demonstrating the power of The One (us!) to make the giant (them) dance the silly dance or walk the silly walk? Passport knows the answer well.

It’s priceless!

Those with a few more minutes to spare and who are curious as to why the Kardashian brand continues to spill over the supermarket counter may find the answer here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-27 A warning to the squeamish: Here there be zombies!

 

 

 

Closely Watched Bums

In which the Elegant Bastard discovers that even on a crowded bus, Life’s Lessons can be Learned!

The number of synonyms available for any particular body part varies in direct proportion to the amount of interest that particular part arouses. Butts, therefore, have acquired an enormously long list of names, especially when you compare them to the much overlooked fingers, arms and esophagi.

But not all synonyms for the gluteus maximus are equal. “Asses”, for example, get kicked. “Backsides” are smacked or simply sat upon. “Buttocks” are of interest only to medical professionals. (Come on, when did you ever hear someone wishing to get a feel of that “buttock”!)  And no one has had a “derriere” since 1982.

Bums, however, are beautiful – round and cheekily perfect globes that can fire the spirit of Columbus in us all. Let them dance and the watchful mind stops; let them rest and it’s the mind’s turn to dance. If, as the poem tells us, Cortez really did stand silent upon a peak in Darien, doubtless his eagle eyes had spotted a New World Bum close by. Robert Frost tells the world to take the “road less travelled by.” I am sure he wanted to write “Bum”.

Have you noticed, Dear Reader, the similarities between digressions and obsessions? No? Consider it.

So when two of the nation’s twenty-somethings boarded the same crowded bus as I and came to stand a short meter from where my eyes were scanning the New York Times – and then turned their backs – I immediately confronted Plato’s fundamental error. He tells us – with a certain degree of smugness – that the “Perfect Forms” exist so far away that mere imperfect human beings (like us) may never see them. Well, Plato old boy, that might be true of Perfect Truth and Perfect Beauty, but not of Perfect Bums. A pair of them, each tightly Levi’d, had arranged themselves so close to me that Diana Ross’s old lyrical commandment to “Reach out and touch somebody’s hand” was in danger of being instantly rewritten.

I did not drool. No, I tell you that I did not drool. My interest was not at all lascivious. I am simply a lover of art in public places and felt it would be almost disloyal to that cause to turn my eyes away. Besides, they were clearly Canadian Bums and I am Canadian.

So, apparently, were most of my fellow travelers, for I noticed many of them were intent on being as patriotic as was possible given the limits imposed by good manners and various unimaginative laws.

Still, one fellow did seem unmoved. Youngish, a little chubby and unhealthily pale, he sat rigidly behind me, muttering strange words, his head bowed and his hands firmly grasping a slim black rectangle. I could not say he was fondling the device for thumbs have little fondling ability. But whatever thumbs can do, his did, and they did it with the same devotion my eyes were giving my two nearby icons.

He, however, did not see them. Instead he appeared to be calling up app after app, each to be toyed with briefly and then banished, another then taking its place. And as he browsed, his legs vibrated up and down. One of his knees seemed imperfect for it clicked as it quivered. The Bums could have been on Mars for all that he would know. As if to make up for his slight, I turned my attention back to them.

Their presence was innocent. Nothing about their owners’ poses or behavior suggested that they intended to arouse interest, comment or anything else. They were simply there, a momentary gift bestowed on all of us by an exuberant Nature so very clearly pleased with herself. “Behold!” she cried to us, and we all obediently beheld, all of us but clicking boy who was checking out the time of day in world capitals.

Eventually the couple moved to the rear doors and disembarked across from a shopping mall. The traffic light was green for them – how could it not be? – and this gave us all one last chance to watch them ripple across the sun dappled avenue before our bus rumbled into motion and took us away into shaded suburban streets. As we picked up speed, I turned my attention back to the Times and its attempts to keep me informed about who was killing whom wherever.

But I caught one last glimpse of the head behind me, bent low over his black box. He had apparently located a GPS app and was now busily trying to discover where he was.

As a devotee of a political grouping called The Mushy Middle, the Elegant Bastard despairs when his own city is in the grips of any form of political extremism. Those also suffering under the rule of moronic mayors might enjoy this explanation of whose fault it really is: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-1B