Being poor is okay, but …

But your new shoes are worn at the heels

and your suntan does rapidly peel

and your wise men don’t know how it feels

to be rich as a bitch. — With Apologies to Ian Anderson (Jethro Tull), “Thick As a Brick,” — 1972

 

The term “bitch” has no meaning relating to our beloved female species, nor dogs, nor female dogs. Rather in this case, in a parody of Jetho Tull’s melodic tune which means, I have no idea, the word is just a superlative. Rich as a bitch. That person is really rich. Be he a he or she a she or he a she or she a he. Nevertheless, they are rich. Really, really rich. Rich. As a bitch.

This parody was born of a Navy roommate, a Maniac named Dell. Yes, he was a Maniac, as in, from Maine. No Mainer. No Downeaster. Maniac. Before he left to return to Maine for good as far as I know, he gave me this cool bumper sticker. I still have it somewhere. It said: “Made in Maine. By Maniacs.”

When Dell and I hung out, in his little pickup or my little Corolla heading to the bars or to friends off the beach in Gulfport, we were both so poor we couldn’t pay attention. Like so many of my interesting co-workers, roommates, shipmates or just plain mates from the Navy, I never saw Dell after he left for home after his “separation.” As usual, I will give you more than you need or want to know. Those of us who signed up for four years in the Navy were “separated” when those four years were up. Most, or best I can recall, all, of us actually agreed to six years of service. Four years were active duty and two years could either be active reserve or inactive reserve. There were and still are variations, especially if you wanted to just go the active reservist track.

With the two wars going on these days since the last, forever, many active reservist and even a number of inactive reserves have been called up. When I served in the late 1970s, we were told it would take a world war before we would be recalled as inactives. I spent my two years inactive never giving a thought to being recalled. This included the beginning of my first year of college on the GI Bill. Oh sure, there were wars going on then as well as various military actions. Remember the U.S. hostages taken by Iranian radicals?

I wasn’t particularly worried about going back to the military, not that there was anything to worry about in the first place. I worked as a firefighter at the time, even though a number of my co-workers knew that would not protect you from going war. Our department had no civil service protection, so during the Vietnam War firefighters were subject to the draft. The lieutenant with whom I served the longest and several other firemen served in the National Guard rather than go to the infantry in Phuc Yu. Another lieutenant I served with ended up in the Marines in the not-at-all-demilitarized DMZ, still another was a clerk but that didn’t stop shelling and rockets from being permanent parts of his memory thus causing him forever to jump at loud noises. Not the best set of circumstances when those fire bells went off at night, but we all lived as best we could.

It was unthinkable that I should get called up in the inactive reserve from 1979-80 and I wasn’t. One really hot day, in the same kind of summer we are in now, I walked up to the mailbox and pulled out a big manilla envelope from the Navy. Inside was a nice, big, framable certificate that said I was “Honorably Discharged.” I was thanked for my service. I said: “You’re welcome.”

Okay, I’ve gone on here. That is so because I wanted to talk about a very important and extremely expensive portion of the U.S. Government, that being the military, of which very many of my relatives and friends and I was a part.

The military fed me, housed me, paid me, washed my uniforms more or less, gave me a haircut whether I needed it or not, gave me free health care, mostly kept me out of trouble and gave me a path toward becoming an adult, if I was so inclined to start walking down said path. But we weren’t paid very much. I remember selling my blood in between paydays. When I was on a ship, this being after Mississipppi, I would have to borrow some bucks from a shipboard loan shark. But hey, everybody has to make a living.

Beer could be purchased out of a machine in the barracks for 30 cents — if you liked Schlitz, Old Milwaukee and Olympia. I did, pretty much. But we weren’t getting rich, digging a ditch, as the old Army song said.

So my buddy Dell and I cruised down Broad Avenue off the Seabee Base in Gulfport, Miss., headed for the beach, down past where the Chimes lounge and John’s Laundromat and Bar gave the hard-core drinker like some of the old “lifers” a place to indulge at 7 o’clock in the morning. This was the old Navy, back in the 70s. People aren’t even supposed to drink in today’s Navy. I’m joking of course although not much. But as we headed toward the beach, or the bar, or Dell’s girlfriend’s trailer, we’d ride along, broke but yet happy, singing although skewing the lyrics from Jethro Tull.

“And your wisemen don’t know how it fe-he-he-he-he-he … heels

to be rich as a bitch.”

Warren Buffett, you may have heard of him, does know how it feels.

So I thought I’d just pass this along.