Is it just me, or have you noticed how many people are paying for their groceries with credit cards? Nah, not debit cards because you don’t have to sign receipts for those–but credit cards! Wouldn’t one think that cash should be used for the necessities of life, and when one must buy the necessities on credit that the end is nigh? Even in my impoverished state, I pay for food, gas and so on with cash. Is the whole country (or a lot of it) headed toward bankruptcy? Or is it that no one cares? I watched a newscast when gas prices in California were inching toward $3.50 a gallon. The people on the street interviewed sort of shrugged their shoulders. One even said: “I guess I’ll worry when I tap out all my credit cards.” Ah, credit cards–don’t leave home without them!

I spent considerable time going through Poor Richard’s Almanack looking for an appropriate saying about this phenomenon of ours, but I quit when I stubled on this time-honored one from 1735:

Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy wealthy and wise.

Except now it would more likely be: Early to bed and early to rise gives a man more time to run up debt on his credit cards.

Sad but true.

How many are there like me? I grew up with baseball as my national pastime, but as of late baseball has became the “past-its-time” game. This I attribute squarely to the efforts of one Bud Selig, he of the owners’ coalition that wrested control of the sport from an independent commissioner and, in the name of the almighty buck, took it down back alleys laced with steroids, cheating, padded statistics and records that do not reflect human achievement but artificial inflation (of muscles, bats, maybe balls, and even ballparks themselves). Oh, what a grand sight when a steroid-ridden monster hits one “yard” (out of the park to you uninitiated).

Now, we have the sorry spectacle of a freezing-cold World (when was it ever global?) Series that ended on the eve of All Hallow’s eve. This is baseball? What happened to the sun?

At any rate, one would hope that the doltish ex-used-car-salesman Mr. Selig could at least pronounce the Series MVP’s name correctly, but he muffed that too, calling the winner “Mr. Eck-steen,” when we all know the warrior’s (and he is a warrior) is David Eckstein.

RIP, National Pastime.

When I worked for a union–yes, the same place that vows to protect workers’ rights but which laid me and others off the first chance the new president got to flex his muscles (what’s the diff here with the corporate world?)–to shop at Wal*Mart was to create the most heinous sin, equal to and potentially worse than voting for a Republican (which I always did as well).

I bought into the crap about how poorly Wal*Mart treated its employees (low wages and benefits), but at my age (and I’m well short of Medicare qualifying) Wal-*Mart is one of the few places that might actually hire me. Not that I’ve applied there. I’m still selling stock and raiding retirement plans to survive.

However, the real beauty of Wal*Mart as an American institution is that, as corporations and unions (in my case) lay people off and outsource jobs right and left, this global chain affords an opportunity for the Average Laid-Off or Underemployed Joe to buy the necessities of life at reasonable prices. I went there just yesterday to pick up my particular brand of disposable razors. Drug store price: nearly $13, Wal*Mart’s: less than $10.

Union a-holes be damned, in a declining civilization/empire such as ours, Wal*Mart is one of the few institutions that still functions for the working stiffs of the world. What say ye, Poor Richard? Isn’t a penny saved a penny earned? How about a buck saved?

You’ve heard of schools for scoundrels, at least in the movies. In truth, such training-launching pads exist in virtually every neighborhood. One learns how to be a scoundrel by the proper, or improper, associations with others while growing up. But what about BS?

My ex-girlfriend in Toronto, who is once again switching jobs in the retail industry rather than deal with conniving, nonworking, two-bit BSers who pass themselves off as managers, suggests I open a School for BS so we ordinary Janes and Joes can get ahead. But that’s it–BS is such an exclusive domain that most of us have a revulsion to plying it for financial gain (personal or sexual favors, yes).

However, those who master BS invariably get ahead in this world–and usually stay there. You know, “If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” That sort of thing. The problem is, I doubt such BSing can be taught. We all know how to fib from time to time, but to make a living out of it requires a certain sort who doesn’t care or realize that what he or she is saying and doing is utter BS.

Can oblivion to oneself be taught? That is the question. Otherwise, BS cannot be taught.

In short, I guess I’ll go on being broke and rejected rather than figure out how to become unconcsious of myself and my sayings and doings. Is there honor in this? Only if you think it’s honorable to die penniless, and therein lies the rub.

Don’t revel too much, you commuters relying on gas-guzzling vehicles. It comes as no surprise that the Bush-House of Saud connection is holding true this election year. As we’ve seen, gas prices have been plummeting. However, a little-noticed news report out of Riyadh last Friday noted that said House of Saud would cut petroleum production by 1.2 million barrels beginning Nov. 1. That means the pain won’t be felt until after the Nov. 7 election day. Convenient, isn’t it? Or rather, what a coincidence!

It’s a strange world we live in. Back in the 1980s, when most of us had indemnity insurance policies with $100 and $200 yearly deductibles, health care was convenient and affordable. I went through a typical runaround, however, with eye doctors’ debating whether I had glaucoma. After three specialists and tons of tests, they concluded I didn’t have the disease, just eyeballs that look like I do.

Enter the 2000s and a generous PPO plan at work. Along with the plan and free choice, I chose a new primary care physician, who recommended an opthamologist visit. I went, and this 80something fretted over and over about how my eyeballs looked. Off I went for five in-depth, expensive tests. The results came back as four no evidences of glaucoma and one saying I might have it in the left eye. Armed with this one test (actually one-half), the old coot peered again into my eyes and this time was able to define, without a doubt, the type of glaucoma I had. I’ve been on two sets of eyedrops everyday since.

Enter my unemployment and my low-paying HMO plan that I can barely afford. Enter also a new eye doctor. This time (after a careful examination of my insurance policy), the doctor concluded that my eyeballs just looked like they had glaucoma but really didn’t. Money does talk, does it?

I wonder how Ben and his alterego Poor Richard would handle the enormity of the problem of cheating in our society. (Ask your school-age or college kids the source of their latest essay.) I got stung myself today as, at 7 a.m. no less, my phone rang to verify a purchase of a new laptop on my American Express card. Fortunately, the phisher who obtained my identity had the stupidity to ask for this laptop to be shipped to his name and address in Wichita, Kansas. I’ve already notified the Wichita police and canceled my card.

I should’ve known this was happening, as two days ago when I tried to sign up for Netflix, the message came back that my e-mail address was already taken. I tried logging in with every password I’ve ever used and couldn’t get in. So I knew for certain that I hadn’t signed up in some drunken Irish stupor.

If I find a Poor Richard saying about identity theft, you, dear reader, will be the first to know.

Meanwhile, anybody live in Wichita? I’ve got a little mission for you.