6 October 2022
Tax Day Re-dux
This morning, I re-read my essay of April 2017, Tax Day. Although I’d composed this recollection of collected memories for the young adults of that year, attempting to find work during the early Trump recovery of the Great Recession, I found today many startling truths about myself that probably aren’t that startling. But I tend to ignore, or forego, aspects of my self while using my self to create.
Firstly, I was taken by the vulgar indecency of older adults toward me!
There I was, during the Carter malaise, working my fanny off, or at least trying to; and I was deeply resented by much older adults of that era, all with high-salaried jobs — because I wasn’t paying my fair share of taxes.
Talk about lowness among a better class of losers!
They all knew that I was a girl without a home, without a father, and claiming only a mother who used the Social Security child-dependent payments of this orphaned, but newly-adult, child for several weeks for her own petty-cash pilfering fund each month — until my fourth or fifth request for her to send the money to me. My rent was due!
The abhorrently awful but perversely sad truth about that facet of my life “back then” was that I was living in Washington, D.C., home seat of the Social Security Administration!
Do you see how I can completely miss the obvious, even necessary facts of life?
The viciously petty assaults on the citizenry of the USA by a phalanx of federal snoops and crooks have been News, Real News, as of late. And it saddens me enormously to see not only the thuggish and unconstitutional intimidation of decent, hard-working Americans by their own government; it appalls me to see the continued unconstitutional persecution of a patriotic man, a billionaire who served as one of the finest Presidents of these United States.
Truth is so hard for the criminals amongst us to hear.
The truths that I was stating during those hilarious job interviews in California of the late 1970s and early 1980s haven’t really changed. The liars have only become more craven, more corrupt, more clown-like, more desperate to squash the truth and the truth-sayers. It was my astute and quite flippant observations of their phoney-baloney pretender-to-the-throne-ness that garnered me so much hostility, even payback, among the Native Californians of the Jerry Brown I Era.
It’s almost impossible for me to discern, in the present moment, if I intended to insult the fakes with my up-front statements about their snooty sham and pontificating pretense of being something they were not. I probably did, however, most willingly express insult, as well as mockery of those imposters.
I, a native Northeasterner, seemed to take offense (and I still do) at anyone, but least of all, and most of all, at the uncultured Native Californian who feigns social graces and cultured politesse while, at the same time, shoves that phoniness in your face.
The very act of such rude obviousness is, in itself, barbaric.
I felt compelled by an innate sense of ethical equilibrium to make fun of the phonies and hoity-toity frauds. And I discovered they had very little sense of humor!
Oil and water, nails on the chalkboard (which really don’t bother me), bleach and ammonia (with me being the Clorox) — that’s how I fit into the California landscape.
Whiter whites! Purity! That’s how I envisioned my new life in the Golden State.
Brother, and sister, was I wrong!
The mildewy cesspool of rinky-dink governmental corruption in the Capital City, Sacramento (which wasn’t even a commonly-known proper name in the Northeast of my time there), it was junior-league at best, backwater-uppity at worst, and juvenile in mentality, but nonetheless potentially fatal for anyone who stumbled upon the punkish payola and the whack-job weirdness of it all.
California government is still junior-league, backwater-uppity, juvenile in mentality, and potentially fatal for anyone who stumbles upon the punkish payola and the whack-job weirdness of it all.
The big difference between then, forty years ago, and now is that the professional and parasitic Image-Makers have moved in on the tacky weirdo scene of taxpayer-paid shills — to concoct an utterly preposterous veneer of respectability and sorrowful (shed tears on cue) concern for the little working-class guy who’s been squashed like a bug under the feet of those Professional Political Hacks. The little working-class guy and gal were so sure they were among the politically protected human species, but, well, they got fooled again!
The empty government suits are odious idiots, with empty heads, robotically following the corporate orders handed to them. In California, the Corporation runs the fiscal show. The Clowns are the State Officers, wearing a variety of disguises, depending upon the theme-wardrobe of the photo-op of the day.
We’ve got a big-bucks urn of Silicon Valley largesse and Medicaid rakeoffs, all rolled-up with whatever gets siphoned off of the cuts of the porker pie that the Federal Government sends the welfare way of the state with the largest population in America.
I kinda long for the days when elected “officials” were city-slicker lunkheads who didn’t have to pretend to be cosmopolitan, dignified, august, honest, intelligent, virtuous and reputable. Perhaps the Voting with the Stars spectacle all started in 1992 with Barbara Boxer and her gaudy gold jewelry — and her strings of pearls. That string of pearls has become the requisite necklace for just about every female politician wishing to keep her real self under wraps while she pretends she is Barbara Billingsley of Leave it To Beaver.
Someone has got to take a meat cleaver to the June Cleaver-ing of, for starters, the Golden State hussies sent to the State House, and then, speed-hoisted cross-country to the big-house, Congress. The pearl-strewn harridans rant to the Woman Voters: “They want to take you back to the 1950s!!”
All the while farcically trying to channel the 1950s Woman of Worldliness and Sophistication.
The pearls are being abused!
I cleaned my pearls about a week ago. They’d been in storage for several years, and I’d not cleaned them — ever. I own several strands of the real things, but also non-cultured ones.
One cherished heirloom is paste, but it was estimated to be worth quite a lot of money; at least it was circa the year 2000. After a decade of keeping this article of largely sentimental value securely cached in a velvet pouch in my dresser drawer, I brought it into Duncan’s Jewelry in Roseville, California.
I’d “inherited” this necklace from Grandma Woerner. I use that verb in quotes because the object had been tossed into a cardboard box, along with other rejects that the greedy heirs didn’t want, such as bags of cotton balls, kitchen doilies and cross-stitches, a very tiny American Indian basket woven from pine needles, and a wristwatch with a silver band.
That silver wristwatch turned out to be valued in the mid-$300s, according to Mr. Duncan, but it was the string of pearls that so very much impressed him. He informed me of its maker, its era of manufacture, its exquisite design, its superb condition, how well it was strung, the terrific clasp. He then told me that this string of un-cultured pearls would fetch somewhere around $1,000.
I started to cry, and had to lower my head with embarrassment (mortification) over my sudden and intense display of emotion. He waited patiently until I was more composed, and I told him about the grotesquely insulting scenario in which I’d received those pearls. At which point I began to cry again!
Mr. Duncan assured me that I’d likely received the most valuable heirloom of all from a woman who genuinely knew and appreciated fashion jewelry, to the point where that pretend-necklace could outshine the real thing.
I keep Grandma’s pearl necklace in with the real things in my pearl jewelry box. It more than deserves that classification.
I cannot say the same for the frauds parading around with their strings of pearls, or for the craven cowardly CA governor, clutching his pearls whilst campaigning every day for deviancy and the degradation of decency.
I also cannot say where California goes from here, in terms of this Nanny State and its neglected, sick and abused citizenry. The “elected” officials all lust to slime-pool their way to mecca in Washington, D.C. Gavin feels left out, and he’s ticked off every day, every minute, every hour that he’s not the center of attention.
It’s a combustible bubble for any narcissist to inhabit, but especially for a guy who’s innately a go-for-broke gamester, one who’s high as a kite on his sense of power over the real citizens and the real businesses of a place mired in debt and decay. There are fewer and fewer and fewer of them each year in this state, even though the former residents, alive and dead, continue to vote, early, late, and often. These “leaders” and “officials” aren’t legitimately elected in the Golden State, haven’t been for years, and I think they know it.
The COVID-scheme was a gold-mine for the ballot harvesters, but that gig has run as dry as the fields here in late September. Why, even the dairy cows are fleeing California. For a cow-town like Sacramento, that’s a low blow, leaving behind only hoof-prints and manure, without any vacated apartment addresses!
This state has endured many a fierce drought before, without agriculture exiting the Sacramento-San Joaquin Valley. It’s not the drought driving the ranchers and their cows to greener pastures in other states; it’s the human bullshit that never ends: the regulations, the taxes, the pinhead corruption, and the crime, and the holier-than-thou dolts in charge of a state that’s become a sick joke.
I no longer mind the sad fact that California is the laughing-stock of the nation. I simply want people to laugh at this state for the really funny facts. There must be three or four of them still left that haven’t made the exodus east!
When I wrote THE DAWN during the years 2008-2011, I didn’t realize that I was not only writing about the Liberation of Occupied France: I was writing about the Liberation of California.
My only question is who, in the spirit of Général de Gaulle, has assumed l’État d’or, the Golden State? I’m really not into out-of-body experiences.