The deep pain of the cable bill has now been replaced by the family cell phone bill. "Harry," my wife said "you figure it out." As I sought distraction anywhere, the TV screen above me showed the quintessential vision of fiscal order and calm -- Alan Greenspan.
As I tried to discern roaming charges from a forest of text messaging detail, I marveled at the elegant simplicity of the Federal Reserve chairman. Here I sit, buried in the minutia of a wireless wasteland while Greenspan goes to Congress, with nothing more than a small leather briefcase and a Spartan blue suit. Money guys and gals, presidents to day-traders hang on his every word.
And oh, what a show. First, what's in that briefcase? A tuna sandwich and a not-so-ripe banana packed by wife Andrea Mitchell? Maybe. He sits there barely moving, maybe a finger drumming on the felt green table. If he were a pool shark his nickname would be Alan the Ice.
And then I get it. The camera pans the congressional committee and then re-focuses on Greenspan. Compared to those mokes he looks like the only guy who actually did his homework in high school. Economics is like the bungled basement plumbing job of the Three Stooges. Raise interest rates -- water spurts out here. Short the dollar -- add another pipe. The yen, the yaun -- there's water all over the floor. Greenspan's got it down cold, though he looks like he's in control.
I wonder though, what he does with the cell phone bill.
By Harry Smith