Yes, Money Isn't Everything, But It Is Something

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Publication: Philadelphia Daily News
Date: 1984-05-02
Author: Edward John Huclax
Page: 43
Language: English

One recent Saturday, it suddenly occurred to me that I'm not going to be a millionaire. The whole vision came while I was watching an episode of Dr. Who. In this specific chapter, Morbias, the most malevolent intellect in the universe, was running amuck, attempting to kill everyone in the immediate vicinity, including the evil genius who created him. However, every Dr. Who groupie knows that a Time Lord, if he's worth his molecular structure, is almost impervious to any form of evil which inhabits the galaxy. Oh, to be a Time Lord, now that Reagan is in office.

Since the Cadillac Club took over the federal government, more people are becoming millionaires than ever. For some, the experience is almost intoxicating in its simplicity. The corporate tax structure is right, the big militant unions are neutralized, there are plenty of fat military contacts and oh, thank you Lord for the reduction in personal income taxes.

With all these advantages, you'd think a young dynamic person with a decent education, a smart wife, a loyal dog and an unbridled interest in almost everything, would be out hustling a dollar on a Saturday afternoon. Well, it ain't necessarily so. Strange voices tell me that life cannot be measured by the CDs one holds or by the value of one's T bills.

For me, life can be measured by the number of Dr. Who episodes under my belt, whether the 12-year-old Datsun started this morning, and will they build that Taco Bell close enough to my house to allow easy access for late-night snacks.

Perhaps, my problem is that I am motivated toward objectives which bear no commercial fruit. If my business acumen involved a bountiful citrus orchard, the Med Flies would have me for lunch. Once one comes to terms with this personal reality, it is possible to enjoy the less tangible experiences often hidden just beneath a fat stock portfolio.

A while back, a fairly well-to-do friend died of leukemia. He had spent a considerable amount of his time and fortune trying to keep himself alive. He had, as American standards go, the best medical treatment money could buy. A man in the same hospital room with him was enduring the effects of terminal lung cancer, his financial situation bad enough to require Medicare subsidy. His roommate died four days later. Their opposite financial histories meant very little in the final outcome.

Money would really mean something if it could ultimately save your life, but it does not contain that quality. Of course, it could be argued that the rich can live better than the poor by gaining immediate access to those things which make life more comfortable. And I am all for that! There is always something a person can use when he doesn't have all he needs. However, I am dubious about the nature of those people who leap ahead one dimension and consider money some kind of eternal commodity. In this case, money has an artificial life of its own, sort of like Morbias. At this altitude, money is no longer used to provide physical comfort. Instead, it is applied to generate more money. When this chain reaction takes hold, the result is a form of financial cell division, breeding a race of aliens whose politics and morality are sometimes as coldly calculating as those Dr. Who battles each Saturday afternoon.

Be that as it may, it is time to reevaluate my priorities, and bring them more into line with the American way of life. This might mean getting a job nights and weekends to help fatten the coffers.

I am told that there are often risks to being an overachiever and a rising young go-getter — ulcers, colitis, headaches, hypertension, and hundreds of hours away from home. On second thought, the hell with it. Being out every night means missing the Uncle Floyd Show, and there is a limit to the sacrifices one should be expected to make in the quest for the American Dream.

Edward John Huclax's column appears on Wednesdays.

Yes, Money Isn't Everything, But It Is Something

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