One of my grandfathers shot rabbits for the pot while the other crammed his backseat with enough spare parts to build another car. Forget the touchy feely ads, that was how we used to deal with a depression. And good on them, because it at least gave them something to
bang on about for the next 50-odd years. But what will we be telling the grandkids when our turn comes round? What will our tales of woe be?
For starters, I'm guessing our desperate times solutions won't be half as chatworthy; jumping over the back fence with a gun to find some tucker these days only opens up a whole new set of problems and as for those old DIY skills, they went missing in action moons ago.
On the bright side, we can be at least reassured by the name of our particular mess. It's hard to get all window-jumpy about a "recession". If calling something a depression all but tells you how to feel, a recession has a touch of dainty wall cavity about it - not so much a threat to your living standards as a place to display Gran's picture plates.
And while I'm there, she's also a queer kind of crisis where everything seems to get cheaper. We used to have another name for when that happened: Boxing Day.
So, maybe it won't be that bad after all. And I don't think it's just me thinking like this. I wouldn't say I'm seeing much in the way of fretful chinstroking from people - well, apart from newsreaders.
Sure, there's still the instant stomach drop you feel when the boss is called away to a no-notice meeting, so maybe there is a vague sense of fatalistic stress, and I say fatalistic because there is nothing whatsoever any of us can do about it. Just don't go looking to the government for reassurance or an explanation, they're way too busy getting us wound up about Nazi boy racers.
And as for the old boys down the pub, the grizzles du jour are "our dismal Super 14 form" and "ooooh, isn't it hot at night?" I blame the lassitude on Winston's absence. This should have been his moment to get out the bell, put on the "See? I Told You The End is Nigh" sandwich board and rark it up on the news every night.
But no, we're Winstonless, so I'm thinking our best bet is this tacit agreement to keep ourselves distracted by the likes of P, Paris Hilton and the weather until everything blows over. Which is something I'm all for if it means skipping the whole Waltons-esque sandbowl, soup kitchens and overalls phase.
Still, if you're determined to enjoy some wailing, there's always the internet, the virtual whittlin' stick for our time. And if it's rich people's woes you're after, then dabagirls.wordpress.com is your one-stop compendium of collateral damage, where flossied-up jessies exchange bile over the shrinkage in their boyfriends' wallets. They began when two self-declared Daba (dating a banker) Girls realised they were both struggling with highly stressed FBFs (finance boyfriends): "We felt our relationships were being victimised by the economy and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Not knowing what else to do, we did what enraged yet articulate people have done since the beginning of time. We started a blog."
It didn't take long for other Daba Girls to join in - Exhibit A: "The sitter's hours are cut, both the family and my private credit cards are cut in half, and I'm switching from having my facials and massages in my earthy, yoga-and-wine serving downtown spa to a midtown been-in-business-forever place with ladies in cubbies wearing pink jackets and lots of makeup giving facials only...
It gets worse. I'll now be doing my Pilates with others, in class, on the mat instead of on the machines with my private instructor..." See? If there is a sign of imminent social collapse, it's group Pilates in threadbare tights.
We should throw them a Telethon or, at the very least, I hope all you suckers who signed on for mortgages you could never afford are feeling sick with guilt. But then I guess if the Daba Girls decide to try hooking up with someone in a profession in increasing demand, they could track down a business commentator - they're crazy popular right now. It's just a pity they weren't so bloody clever a year or so ago, unless of course they were behind the whole problem in the first place.
Still, they've got to be happy about one thing, they finally have proof that the trickle-down effect exists. Take Les Leventhal, a big bear of a yoga instructor to the stars who was doing fine from the $40-a-head he was charging people to pull up a mat in his crowded classes. Then the recession arrived and his rich punters began to realise that the downward dog worked just as well at home - it's the Pilates crisis in reverse really.
So our Les is now an online experience (lesleventhal.com), he's flogging off podcasts to lonely Daba Girls, each containing four whole classes for the same 40 bucks. It's lucky that clothes-wise he doesn't seem to require much more than a loin cloth. A poor man indeed, if flexible with it. At least he can peek into one of his neighbouring websites if he needs a reassuring cuddle. For every protest or final resort there's a recessionista or helpful psychologist.
Take Jennine Estes' relationship blog (estestherapy.com/relationshiptips) where she chirpily assures us that any money woes can be exorcised by $20 dates. Her suggestions range from putting some tacky tiki torches in your backyard and gazing into each other's red-rimmed eyes over a mug of chateau de cardboard to crackers like "avoid the uncomfortable cuddling in a movie theatre and have a movie night at home. Spread out your favourite snack items, such as cheese, crackers, veggies, etc." Veggies, etc? Wine in a box? Now those are tales you could save to impress the next generation. But even when the free advice is well-meaning, the bells of doom can still be heard in the distance.
Like the Psychology Today website; in among the hints and strategies there's a sense of hands being rubbed together because as they like to remind us, often, nothing gives relationships the bash like money. They see a circle of pain for all, stress will push you apart but poverty will lock you together. Lawyers aren't getting any cheaper and neither is alimony.
As one psychologist happily muses: "Another outcome that I expect to see is an increase in domestic violence complaints both real and phony. The real ones will be the result of heightened tension in the households and the phony ones will be the result of spouse so desperate to get the other out of the house that they will resort to anything including perjury..." Ooh, good times all round then.
So, what should we do? Just buy the T-shirt and hang on for the ride. There are all sorts on offer ranging from the "F*** The Recession - I'm Still Rich" for a mere $5275 ($1233 extra if you want it in black, although sadly you've missed the $8.60 American inauguration day discount) available from likecool.com, or the more basic but similarly expressed $127 "F*** The Recession" T-shirt featuring some bloke burning money, which can be found at sevennewyork.com.
Well, everyone's gotta make a living. Right?
Opinion by
One of my grandfathers shot rabbits for the pot while the other crammed his backseat with enough spare parts to build another car. Forget the touchy feely ads, that was how we used to deal with a depression. And good on them, because it at least gave them something to
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