LA Unconfidential #7

L.A. Unconfidential #7 May 19, 2000 Sentient readers of this journal will recall the author’s recent struggles with the xenophobic tendencies of US financial institutions. The villainous, black-hearted, fat-cat Americans’ lack of trust in the banking infrastructure of banana republics had, of late, deprived our hapless protagonist of credit and forced him to go running to daddy. Well, dear reader, you will be relieved to know that intellectual superiority has won the day. Just as higher brain function has allowed our species to triumph over all manner of sensibility and dominate lesser beings of God’s creation, I had a brainwave that would put all credit problems behind me. Rather obvious, once it occurred to me, as all great insights are. I have been a Citibank customer for quite a quantity of years: transaction accounts, credit cards, even a mortgage paid with military discipline. Of course! Citibank is a global financial institution and, while it is just the sort of institution to oppress lesser peoples, it is also exactly the kind of behemoth that, sitting astride all continents, as it does, should work to my personal convenience. So on the phone I duly got. “Citibank, my old chum, my partner in prosperity, my business associate in all financial dealings lo these long years, we are again at one! Your Australian and American savants need but to exchange their secret handshake, pass a single dossier between them and, Hallelujah, a customer smote by oppressive corporate nationalism will have been saved by the standard-bearer…nay, the exalted creator of financial globalism! You have first-hand intimacy with my credit-worthiness! You, therefore, and you alone, are able, in this global village, to hold up my example of pecuniary fastidiousness as an example to the world! Lay low the false borders of small-minded old-world risk adjusters obsessed with arbitrary political boundaries! Power to the itinerant knowledge worker of the new economy and his portable liquidity! Stop the madness! Apply your divine knowledge of my solvency—knowledge gained by your altruistic bestowing of highly priced credit instruments upon me—and issue me with a MasterCard that I may continue to line your pockets with exorbitant fees!” “I’m sorry Mr. Spencer, but our international divisions don’t share that kind of information.” “Ah, Citibank, my liege, perhaps you’ve mistaken my fervor for senselessness. I ask only that your credit card department inform your credit card department that I am a credit card customer already, so that I may be a credit card customer some more!” “I’m sorry Mr. Spencer, but we don’t accept international credit reports.” “…um, not even your own internal reports?” “No, sir.” “…” That was pretty much where the conversation ended, unless you count the howling on my end of the line. “Global fanchise” my ass. You know, when I was still a consultant, I served a big bank for a while. I was never quite able to shake off the feeling that I was in the presence of pure evil. Next time you hear the corporate poop about international borders falling in favor of more sensible ways of doing business, remember that what they mean is the borders are falling for them, not for you. Which brings me to the fact that my butt hurts. Yesterday, I decided that I’d lived at the beach too damn long not to have taken my new bike for a spin. New place at the beach, new bike: What was I waiting for? Turns out that there’s a darn convenient bike path that runs right along the beach, too! Turns out, also, that very fit women in bikinis rollerblade on this path. Turns out you can get awful distracted. Turns out you can ride two hours to Santa Monica and hardly notice the time passing. Turns out that if you haven’t been on a bike in a few years, four hours in the saddle is a pretty rude way to start. I’ve been gingerly walking from soft cushion to soft cushion for a day and a half. The long ride did help clear my head, though. It was a long week at work. Nothing overly scary or weird, but the intensity doubled. It was decided that one job that takes more than sixty hours a week wasn’t enough; two would be a better number for me. It appears I’m now the acting Director of Marketing, too. The only impact I can see, other than complete lack of sleep, is that I’m going to have to stop referring to marketing people as “total f**king wankers”. It’s a pretty big lifestyle change for me. One final note: I’d like to thank those of you who shared with me your pleasure at discovering the mis-spelling in my opening paragraph on pedantry in the last Unconfidential. I’m sure you’ll have precocious children. And I hope they correct you in front of company.