Light on his Feet, *on his Shoes

Letter to the Bank #41

Dear Mr. Bullrider,

What, for goodness sake, is going on? What is all this business about helping homeowners (all of a sudden) by reducing the principle on their mortgages? It sounds too good to be true which, naturally, it is. You canny beast you! You’ve done it again! You've found yet another way to make a profit out of other people's pain! This time it is gift wrapped. I read the following in the NYT today:

Steven and Marisela Alva say they do not know who helped them with their mortgage. All they know is that they feel blessed.
Last December, the couple got a letter saying that a firm had purchased the mortgage on their home in Pico Rivera, Calif., from Chase Home Finance for less than its original value. “We want to share this discount with you,” the letter said.
“I couldn’t believe it,” said Mr. Alva, a 62-year-old janitor and father of three. “I kept thinking to myself, ‘Something is wrong, something is wrong. This sounds too good.’ ”

Now let me get this straight—you persuade homeowners to refinance, they do indeed end up having lower mortgages, and the government and, eventually the taxpayer, will end up paying the bill—right? This is all part of your belated realization that people do not like you very much. You are finally beginning to notice the rage out there. But, with a stroke of your pen you can calm the storm and reap a healthy profit. You win winners in your win win garb win yet again!

I read an amazing thing: Even as the CEO of Goldblock Box, or is it Goldbody Shine, sneered at the idea of going on the talk shows to polish up their image, he also offered, I can hardly believe this, an apology! Finally the Remorseful Banker Incarnate! This just in: His name is Blankfein, and the bank he works for is Goldman Sachs. My search for a remorseful banker has finally yielded results and as such I must name names. I admit to generally refraining from mentioning either those of of banks or bankers. I’m no populist, no wielder of pitchforks or clubs. I’m just trying to get my mind around all of this. I’m just trying to find the human being behind the profit motive, the heart behind the gold fob watch. It ain’t easy!

To quote: “We participated in things that were clearly wrong and have reason to regret....We apologize.”

My only problem with this apology is I cannot find the regret...anywhere! What is there to regret? they are reaping larger profits than ever before and certainly NEVER give money away. If they appear to do so it is only a mirage, smoke and mirrors. They fund large Art exhibits for the price of attaching their name to it. Banking, selling mortgages, getting rich, chasing money for money’s sake, seeking power...may all be very sexy but it doesn’t smack of taste or profundity, or altruism in any way and so these are the things they must have, attempt to buy and can never truly own.

The saddest part of all this is that the anger aimed at these fat cats (in forty letters to you I haven’t used this expression until now!) will always be muted by our need for them to fund, aid and abet our habits, our all to addictive habits like obsessive consumerism and the insistent wish to vote for a government not entirely in the pockets of the banks and corporations. I'd love to think, for once, the banks are actually reaching out to those who have lost their shirts during this whole mess. Sadly I don't believe it is so.

I feel like a spelunker caught in a massive ball of steel wire at the bottom of an old mine shaft.

Yours sincerely though clearly lost,

Kristian Witherkay

Letter to the Bank #40

Dear BB,

This is how I will be referring to you from now on. Addressing you as BM could be somehow misconstrued as an insult and the last thing I wish to do is drive you away. You are so much more than my financial advisor or bank manager, more than just a suit. You are my guru, my therapist, my inspiration, my life. You are occasionally dim but you are always full of optimism. Nothing gets you down not even a lousy economy. You are the shade in my light and it is to you, chief executive officer of the Mine’s Eye Bank, that I turn whenever my world stops doing so for however brief a moment. Seeing as your bank exists only in the realms of my imagination it is one I can certainly relate to if not trust. Only you can fully appreciate the fact that my letters do not simply address matters of personal finance but take on the ever more important issue of a lack thereof. I take on the trenchant concerns of one who lacks what might be termed any real personal finances to speak of. Considering everything I earn, and all that I serve as guardian to—be it my art books or the seeds of my loins—in the end belong to the Brotherhood of Bouncy Bankers.

You own me and I, unfortunately, owe you.

Despite this painful, though by no means recent, revelation my letters will remain, as always, packed with wit and satirical asides. In my efforts to get to you I find myself tripping over syntax and sentence construction assaying to employ every trick in my toolbox. Getting to you is what this is all about and this is why:
As a family man approaching his post middle years shouldn’t I be bounding out of bed of a morning full of vim and vigor, shouldn’t I be singing a little ditty as I brush my crooked teeth? Instead I ache. I roll over rubbing my stiff neck. I gulp down a glass of stale water to assuage my parched throat. Why is it parched? Because I do not have the time to get to a water fountain, a cooler or even the Red Bar (and the Red Bar requires money). My body aches because I do not find the time to do the stretches recommended by my physical therapist to help me with my back that is chronically uncomfortable which causes disrupted sleep and thus a tendency to flop somewhat inertly out of bed of a morning. No time. No money. I’m a visionary trapped in a dualistic universe. This also causes chronic pain, low level, perpetual discomfort.

On an entirely different note why is it that those who fail to make a ton of money are considered the greatest criminals of all? If you rob a convenience store you go down for a good five to ten I’ll bet. A white collar criminal, on the other hand, caught bilking the average Josephine of her meager income by persuading her to make financial decisions she is not equipped to handle, usually waltzes away with all blame placed squarely on the little old lady’s stooped little shoulders. She should have known better. As to the matter of bonuses—I’ll do the decent thing and skip lightly away leaving that whisper in your ear. I know eventually you will do the right thing. But my admiration for yoy knows no bounds. Despite these issues that continue to undermine your good name you remain undaunted. Your good cheer, your bounce is ever an inspiration.

Most sincerely,

K. W.

Frank Rich Op Ed Nov 7th 2009

"Americans don’t hate rich people, but they do despise those who behave as if the rules don’t apply to them."

For more read his brilliant column in the New York Times most Sundays.