Warren Buffett, the Anti-Millionaire.

            Most Boomers remember The Millionaire, a TV show from the golden era of black and white and small screens that fed our dreams of riches without sweat. A stranger would show up at your door, a little florid in his suit and tie, and tell you that he was a representative of John Beresford Tipton, WASP names still held power then, and you were to be the recipient of a cashiers check for One Million Dollars. The story would then unfold as the working stiff figured out what to do with this windfall.

            Warren Buffett is the renegade son of Mr. Tipton, rich beyond the dreams of Croesus, but looking to find a government patsy to dole out the wealth that will assuage his soul. The idea that he would go from house to house is just so beneath him, better he get The President to do it. “Barry, may I call you Barry? If only I and my plutocratic buddies could give more, I mean really more, could we ease your burden?”

            And so The President travels the length and breath of the land, from sea to shining sea, wearing out his marching boot leather like Adlai Stevenson did before him (Another name from the time of the fading WASP ascendency). As he berates and batters us in the vain hope that we’ll EAT THE RICH in an Abbie Hoffman type version of a Roman orgy, and yet we still lay here, like a bunch of lolling Chris Christies, waiting, hoping, praying for his return to Chicago, a city that deserves him.

            Warren still waits, the idea that he could raise his salary, as if he got a salary, to the level of his secretary and therefore pay an amount that would make him happy always seems to escape him. I expect more op-ed pieces over the next year, but should they amount to more than moral preening---- well, I’m not holding my breath. JimG33