The Punk Rock Alphabet: (Take V) Our Three Biggest Asks For 2024

We Didn't See These Things
Under Our Tree In 2023:

But Hope Springs Eternal,
And Still...We Want More:

Here Is ALL We're
Asking For, In 2024:

<"Now Renting..."/The Reckoner>

 

<Decent (Affordable) Housing,

That Doesn't Force Us To:>

                    A)  Empty Our Wallets 

         W/Rampant Abandon.

         B) Flee Our Abodes Every Five Years,

         Because The Speculators
         Wanna Jack Up The Dow Jones.

         C) Give Up Our Firstborn

         (Not To Mention Those
          Who Have Yet To Be Born).

<"Don't Miss This One..."/The Reckoner>

<Enough Of Rampant Greedflation
That Forces Us To...>

      A) Crack Open Every Last Piggbyank

        That's Still Hidden Under The Bed.

            B) Dry Up Our Bank Accounts
        ("What Accounts?", We Ask).

        C) Eat Ramen Noodles, 3X A Day,
        For Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner.

        Because We Have To Feed

        The Property Barons First (Remember)?

"Just Another Number..."/The Reckoner>

<Fire All Those Fake Insurers

That Force Us To...>

                             A) Cancel Every Last Subscription
             To Whatever Resurrections

             May Still Beckon.

            B) Delay That Bucket List Item
            We've Been Contemplating
            For The Umpteenth Time.

            C) Extinguish Whatever Hopes
            We May Still Entertain
            For An End To The Status Quo
            That Dogs Our Daydreams.

<"It's About Time..."/The Reckoner>

<Get Ready For A Reckoning,
& Avoid Running Into
Those Same Old, Same Old

Unforced Errors...>

    A)Because...Maturity Shouldn't Mean...
    Rehashing The Mistakes Of The Past*.

     B) Because...We're Sick 'n' Tired...
     Of The Same Old Broken Record,

     Playing Over & Over & Over, In Our Heads.

     C) Because...We're Weary Of Hearing...
     Why We Still Have To Wait...
     For What The Austeritycrats 

     Say...We Still Can't Have.

And Remember: 

Talk - Action = Zero (DOA)

<Here's Looking At 2024:>

The Reckoner & The Squawker

(*Thanks to Jello Biafra, for making this observation on all our behalf!)

Punk Rock Poetry Corner: Bill & Ted's (Not So Excellent) Adjunct Adventure

 

<Movie poster: Wikipedia.com>

Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure

Ran aground: Hit the speed bump

    of social inequity...

The mushroom cloud of student debt,

Service McJobs for subzero wages,

    (Future Self asks):

"How's it going, Bill 'n' Ted Esquire?"

<Bill>
"Not so good, dudes.

We're either temps.
Or adjuncts!"

 
<Future Self>
"Whoa, dudes, no way!"

<Ted>
"Way! No health insurance,

No retirement, no vaaa-caaayyy days...

    Nothin'! And we can get cut loose.
    Any time."

                <Future Self>

            "Don't say anything to Wayne.

            He still thinks he'll get

            To be a rock star.

        And the hair net's only temporary."

<Bill>
It wasn't this way,

Of course, for all us

wiseass slacker kids,

& the big screen dreams

we spent

so much time & money

chasin' around:

<Ted>

Life back then

Felt like

Some kind of crazy quilt

All-nighter @ Empire Records,

& anything felt possible.

<Bill>

You could bash till dawn,

Show up in whatever condition

you'd somehow

gotten yourself into,

<Ted>
& nobody bothered

to look at you sideways,

Give you the onceover,

& you always

had enough left over,

<Future Self>

For the next beer,

For the next Big Gulp,

The next stash,

The next smoke,

The next show,

The next big date...

Whatever. Nowadays?

Don't even bother. 

<"Boomer Retirement Card,"
Take I/The Reckoner>

<Ted>

The hair net & hair clip

Remain on somebody or other's

accessories list

...Along w/the uniform:
Red apron, blue apron, green apron,

Take your pick!

<Bill>
The friendly

Neighborhood record store's

long gone.

Those Wyld Stallynz

Never got 

A moment to roam.

<Ted>

The rock star dreams

Wound up permanently frozen,

on hold: 

<Future Self>

But remember, sucker, 

Nobody promised you

...That life would ever get better.

<Bill>

So bounces the last IOU

From the Boomers,

Who shuffled the cards

<Ted>

& marked up the deck 

of this particular

cardboard cutout empire.

<The Reckoner>

<"Boomer Retirement Card,"
Take II/The Reckoner>

Links To Go
(Read The Headline, Go Figure):
Older Americans Won The Pandemic:
https://finance.yahoo.com/news/older-boomers-won-pandemic-becoming-165242402.html

Life's Little Injustices (Take XXI): Hey, Mr. Monopoly (Your Five-Star Review Isn't Forthcoming)

 

<"Thumbs Down!"/The Reckoner>

Blogs are better than therapy. I've no trouble reaching that conclusion lately, as the problems at our complex multiply. Regular readers may recall the mother and daughter duo I profiled in my last entry of this series (see link below), which focused on who'd washed up on these crumbling shores, after the owner of the house they'd been renting suddenly decided to sell it.

As I recounted, they weren't thrilled about stepping down a notch, to a place like ours, but vowed to make the best of it. Last week, The Squawker and I ran into Mom Sixtysomething (as we'll now call her), in mid-junk mail persual.

We'd barely exchanged pleasantries, when she rolled her eyes, and said, "Boy, we can't wait to get out of here."

"Hm, couldn't imagine why," I responded, with a smile. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"We were promised a one-bedroom when we moved in here." Mom Sixtysomething's face squinched into a frown. "But that's not where we ended up."

"So what happened?" Squawker asked. "Was it something they did?"

"You could say that," Mom Sixtysomething sighed. "The manager claimed that she couldn't show the apartment, because it was still occupied. But I've read the lease, and it's not an issue. There's no language against seeing the unit, whether anybody's in there, or isn't."

"Well, wouldn't be the first bait and switch that happened to anybody," I offered. "What did you end up doing?"

"A studio," Mom Sixtysomething said. "The circuit breaker's so old, the air conditioning and the heater often run at the same time. The flashing around the window has crumbled, so the wind and the rain blow through it. We've been flooded a couple times, too." Her face hardened beyond mere exasperation. "Our lease is up in July. We can't wait to get out of here!"

"Trust me, nobody will hold against it you," I assure her. "Especially when they hear where you lived last."

"Well, that was the thing," Mom Sixtysomething sighed. "We were renting a motel room for almost a week, while we waited on that one-bedroom. When we found out it wasn't going to be available, we bit the bullet, and moved in."

I allow myself the luxury of another smile. "I take it, you're not leaving a five-star review, whenever you do go?"

"They'll be lucky if it's one star!" Mom snaps back.

We dissolve into peals of raucous laughter that bounce off the ceiling. With that, we adjourn the discussion, and head back to our separate existences.

The review I'm referencing is a prominent feature of our so-called resident portal, where you pay that exortionate rent (now that management stopped taking checks and/or money orders, about four years ago). As soon as you log in, the pop-up slaps you visually upside the head:

"Leave Us A

Review On Google!"

A quick glance at Google shows that 51 people have done just that, yielding 3.5 stars on a five-star scale. As I've written here before, that's a decent mark, though not exceptional, an impression that only strengthens when I read the more niggling verdicts.

I'm surprised that our complex's rating is that high, given the increasing MIA status of our maintenance team; the ever-spiraling rents; the increasingly grubby appearance of hallways and stairwells, that no longer get regular attention; and the erratic performance of fixtures like the baseboard heaters, whose giant knobs would elicit a familiar groan from anyone who struggled with them during the "Cosby Show" era.

So will it discourage anybody from renting here? Maybe yes, maybe no. The thumbs down notice that scares off more discerning renters may not matter so much during economic downturns, when the dismissed and the desperate have to check their pickiness at the door.

And, of course, we've all heard that old saying, "The only thing worse than bad publicity is no publicity at all," right? As the above conversation shows, Mom and her offspring had to hold their nose, and sign their lease, the because they had to figure an alternative, fast. Motels are expensive, right?

There's a reason why John Lydon once said, in dismissing his former cohorts' post-Sex Pistols ventures, like "Silly Thing": "If you notice a drop in quality, that's neither here nor there."

I just ran into another refugee from our complex, a nice twentysomething couple, whom I'd talk to in passing. They were checking out the dairy options, with their five-month-old son, when I asked how their new apartment was working out. They both expressed satisfaction, especially since their new abode is costing them $200 less in rent per month.

"I can't blame you, because I'm looking at some changes myself," I tell them. "The maintenance department is quieter than the cemetery."

"Yeah, well, we moved in with broken blinds," Mrs. Twentysomething offers. "And that's how we're leaving it. And that was the least of it."

Naturally, I want to dig a little deeper, drill down more, but they have to go, and get their son fed, before he gets restless. "No worries," I tell them. "I get it. Hope we get another chance to talk more next time."

I'm not a betting man, but this much I know. I doubt they'll leave a review, but even if they do, it sure as hell won't be a five-star one, let alone three. That's why we have blinker lights at busy intersections, after all. So we don't get blind-sided. Or T-boned by another car. --The Reckoner

<"Thumbs Down!" (Take II)/The Reckoner>

Links To Go (The Girl Can't Yelp It):
Ars Technica: One Apartment Complex's Rule:
You Write A Bad Review, We Fine You $10K:
https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2015/03/one-apartment-complexs-rule-you-write-a-bad-review-we-fine-you-10k/

Ramen Noodle Nation: Life's Little Injustices (Take XX):
"We Moved Out, Because We Had No Choice":
https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2023/07/lifes-little-injustices-take-xx-we.html

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Six): I Just Went Out Grocery Shopping (And Boy, Is My Wallet Aching)

 

<I shot this photo in 2013, and all the others

on this page -- and all I got

was this lousy grocery bill

that eats my bank account!
Photos: The Reckoner/The Squawker>

<i.>

Real life lately feels like one endless royal scam, and there sure as hell aren't any lack of them. One sign hit me watching TV late at night, as I always do, while I'm putting in that intellectual sweatshop labor to, well, mimic some semblance of paying the bills, right?

Anyway, some company or other is hard pitching four or five products, such as a pair of shades that sharply reduces the glare, while you're driving in bad weather conditions. Sounds like a winner, right? Every home should have one, and all that. 

But each commercial ends with the same tagline: "Due to supply chain shortages and logistics issues, this will be your last chance to get Sharpie Shades at Price X. And remember, we have a strict limit of one per household." But you know what'll really happen, right? They'll roll out a brand new ad ("Back from Supply Chain Siberia!"), only you'll end up forking over 20-30% more than you did last time.

Why? Because that's what all these bastards are doing. Nearly two years after the sticker shock first rattled our wallets, the rampant greedflation that's causing so many of us to feel like there's a giant screw sticking through our spines shows little sign of letting up.

Sure, a few commodities have finally fallen back down to Earth, notably eggs -- which soared from $2.69 per carton here at Matthew's, to a whopping $5.99, even $6.99 -- and green onions, which peaked around $1.99 per two-item bundle, to a mere $1.49.

Yeah, I know, you don't have to tell me. With price dops this piddling, start building the yacht, right? And if you believe that, I've got some prime Florida swampland that you can help me drain.

And we all know something funny's going on, when the traditional workarounds you relied on to beat those high prices don't work anymore. Take cooking oil, one of many examples I could quote. At Matthew's, a 12-ounce bottle of the standard artery-clogging Wesson costs almost as much ($3.99) as the "good stuff," the olive oil that we like to use ($5.99). 

What's more, a lot of the mid-sized bottles, containers, and packages have either disappeared, or gotten scaled back. You're stuck buying the smaller version of a product -- which you'll be replacing, before long -- or the mammoth version that will lay waste to your budget. 

You either buy the 30-ounce mayo jar for $5.99, or its pint-sized counterpart for $4.19. Heads you lose, tails you lose. With prices like these, you can't fully stock a fridge anymore. It's reached the point where The Squawker and I are eating out more -- twice a week, sometimes three -- because it costs less than all those greedflated ingredients you'd have to buy, to make those dishes at home. How screwed up is that? 

<Take II, As Above: No other comments necessary.>

<ii>

Not surprisingly, trips to the grocery store feel like going to the dentist. Or the tax preparer. Or the doctor, who hands you those cloudy-looking X-rays, and then drops the estimate of how long you have to live. It's a traumatic trip out, however you care to slice it.

Every list that you cobble together makes your gut knot with tension. Every weekly ad you browse feels like some kind of crazy Cold War exercise, of matching wits with an unblinking, unsmiling, trench-coated adversary. Every item that you can't afford, or end up putting back, is another reminder of, "This is not the place for you." 

Except last week, that is, when Squawker and I trekked out to Murrow's Frugal Acres, where the prices are slightly lower, and the portions come slightly bigger. I even dropped an extra 30 bucks into the bank account, so we'd have slightly more room to maneuver.

But guess what? As smart and smooth as that moved seemed, it felt like tossing pebbles at a tank. We were hoping to hold the line at $80, but sure enough, the cash register ticked mercilessly northwards -- $100, $110, $120, $130. "Here we go again," I muttered, under my breath. "Time for that same old sideways ballet." 

I started handing the bags to The Squawker, as we began trying to figure what we could live without. Ka-ching! Out goes the bag of chicken patties. Ka-ching! Out goes that $6.50 block of cheese. Ka-ching! Forget about most of the vegetables, too.

Or so it seems, until a graying, towering, heavyset man in the next aisle -- who's watching us closely -- hands the cashier a $20 bill, saying, "Here. I'll cover it for them, if it's not too much trouble."

The cashier jerks a thumb towards the goodies piled up near her register -- the chicken patties, block of cheese, and all. "Do you still want this stuff, or are we putting it back?"

Before any of us can answer, the stranger peels off another $20 bill. "I'll cover the difference, too, if it comes down to that." 

The cashier takes the bill, and now, we begin scooping all the rejected food items back into the bags. His good deed done, the stranger shuffles off, just as The Squawker and I get through our thank yous. He's probably tired, I figure, or he has some other stop to make. Who knows?

On one hand, it feels great that somebody you've never met is willing to stand up, and do something like that. Not everybody is stuck in the same selfish grind of mindless materialism, which is easy enough to assume, on good days, and bad.

On the other hand, this episode serves up yet another reminder of how out of whack our society has spun. Because there are only so many good-natured strangers, and so many twenties to peel off into needy fingers, which is why it doesn't happen so often.

This is the myth that the Great Depression soundly busted, that if enough folks looked after their neighbor, all that pesky economic deprivation would simply take the appropriate hint, and disappear. But guess what? The big, bad world can always dish out far more suffering than any charitable act, or enterprise, can ever hope to absorb, especially when the same bad actors remain in charge of it. 

Of course, this isn't the first time we've found ourselves here -- as Bruce Springsteen suggested in his 1980 classic, "Held Up Without A Gun." The song touches on high gas prices, the major worry of the time ("Looked at my tank it was reading low"), music biz shenanigans ("Man with a cigar says, 'Sign here, son'"), and the jaw-dropping indifference of a society that unleashes them:

Now it's a sin and it oughta be a crime

You know it happens, buddy, all the time

Trying to make a living, trying to have a little fun

Look out

Held up without a gun

Held up without a gun

Held up without a gun

Held up without a gun

Clocking in at a mere 66 seconds (!), it's not hard to see why Boss diehards consider this song -- which he tucked away on the B-side of his smash hit, "Hungry Heart" -- Bruce's attempt at channeling the Ramones, or something like it. Either way, it works for me, and what's more, he still plays it live, now and again.

Like so many underground classics, those lyrics feel as relevant today, as they did at the time -- maybe even more. Which is probably why they say, "History doesn't repeat itself, it also rhymes."

On that cheery note, I'll see you at the dollar bin. And oh, yeah, one more thing. Happy hunting. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before The Dollar Bin Becomes The Fiver Bin):

Bruce Springsteen: Held Up Without A Gun:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxBhIeTARBE

Robert Reich: The Hidden Link Between Corporate Greed And Inflation:
https://www.facebook.com/RBReich/videos/the-hidden-link-between-corporate-greed-and-inflation/757841191863574/

The Guardian: This Isn't Wage-Price Inflation, It's Greedflation:
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/apr/19/wage-price-inflation-greedflation-pay-cost-of-living

<"Timely Reminder"/The Reckoner>