Why we'll win

I left The Loft in a bad mood last night, having endured as much of Gia Coppola's Palo Alto, an adaptation of short stories by James Franco, as I could stand. I've not read the stories, and so cannot comment on those. But my goodness, the movie was terrible.

I'd review it, but that would mean sitting through the film again — and actually finishing it this time. As Courtney Cox declared in my favorite sitcom, Friends, that would also require an additional person: The guy holding a gun to my head.

Fortunately, there's a bar at The Loft — you're even allowed to take drinks into the theater. How awesome is that? — so I stood out there and had another beer while I waited for the end, hoping beyond hope that my wife would soon give up too, and we could leave.

Alas, she had to see it through.

"Did it get any better," I asked, when she finally emerged.

"No, it got worse," was all she said.

Once outside, we were treated to that common spectacle in Portsmouth on a pleasant summer night — some morons seeing how loud they could rev their motorcycles while waiting on the light at the Congress Street/Maplewood Avenue intersection. After flying off amidst enough decibels to abort a healthy fetus, they belched their way out of downtown and — blissfully — out of our lives.  

Last night was a beautiful night; overcast and cool, my favorite kind of weather, especially in mid-July. On our way home there was a light breeze blowing, and the strong smell of salt in the air significantly improved my state of mind. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet, so we decided to drop by a friend's house to see if she was up for a night cap. 

Comfortably ensconced in her living room, beer and wine in hand, we discussed the film briefly — after I'd vented sufficiently, about the childishness of some motorcyclists and no shortage of Harley Davidson owners. 

"Don't they make them loud on purpose," my wife wondered aloud. "Are any other motorcycles that loud?"

"Well," I said, "one thing's for certain: If you buy a Harley, you're definitely buying a loud machine."

Before too long (I hope) the subject changed, as the flow of libation easily redirects the flow of conversation. We were soon talking about vacation and sick pay, each of us recounting the different jobs we've had over the course of our lives, and which ones have offered the best perks.

My wife thought that she had the best deal when working for William's Communications, once a very large employer in my hometown of Tulsa, Oklahoma. There she got eighteen days a year of "paid time off" that could be used however she wished, no questions asked. Before that, she said, it was a job at an insurance company just after college, where she started off with four weeks paid vacation each year.

In between, she'd worked for a small music store. Only after six months would she receive one week of vacation. I remember her crying when she got that job, and not from happiness.

Personally, I liked delivering pizzas, a long time ago. The money was fantastic — but it's hell on your vehicle, to be sure — and all the employees ate like kings while on the clock. Rubbing my tummy and remembering those amazing hot sandwiches, I recalled that we'd received quite a discount off the clock as well, thirty percent or something like that.

Our friend discussed the regime at her present place of employment, speaking quite highly of the company in general and its sick leave policy in particular. 

Funnily enough, after proudly declaring herself on the Left Wing of the Democratic Party, she said something rather out of character for such a person.

"The choices you get, on the open market," she said, "that's the best." 

I had to concur.

We encouraged her to expand on this sentiment, and were quite delighted to hear her talk extensively about the value of competition in creating good working environments — a point of view our Governor* expressed recently, though I doubt she understood the implication of her own remark— and the need for different companies to have the freedom to experiment with different options, in order to find the one that works best for them, and their employees.

I suggested sarcastically that perhaps we should have a vote on the one that works best, and impose that on all employers — an idea that our friend clearly did not support. 

Instead she expressed frustration that some people behave as if they have some claim to things like vacation pay, and sick leave, and "personal time" — as if they were owed them by right.

"Like they should just get those things, just because," she said, exasperated.

"To be honest, the more they say they deserve it, the more I want to take it away from them," she added, laughing.

We laughed too.

Have you ever noticed that the people you respect, and want to work with, are the productive members of society — not those who whine constantly about how others aren't doing enough for them?

They're contributors, not parasites.

Parasites are like Harley Davidson motorcycles: Loud and irritating, and beyond taking the rider where he wants to go, basically just a burden to others.

This is distinctly different from those who are literally incapable of taking care of themselves — the mentally incapacitated, or those so stricken by a physical handicap that they are rendered sedentary. Those people deserve our sympathy, and our charity.

When we lived in Virginia, there was a Safeway across the street from the boring, characterless apartment complex we called home for a while. A guy who worked there was wheelchair-bound, but I swear he was the hardest working person in the place. One day I sought out the manager, and told him so. "We hear that a lot," he said. Good for that guy! 

The older you get, the better you become at distinguishing the parasites from the producers. It's a symbol of maturity, of adulthood, to take care of yourself, and to plan ahead as best you can — for pleasures, and disasters. 

Ayn Rand said, "There is no substitute for personal dignity. There is no standard of personal dignity except independence." Those who demand that their employers take care of them are like serfs under a feudal lord — willing to toil mindlessly in exchange for protection. Not exactly a proud position to be in.

The hour grew late, and our friend eventually kicked us out. Walking on home, my wife and I wondered if our conversation might help her to connect the dots between those who would compel their employer to take care of them, and those who would depend on government — compelling taxpayers to take care of them. Both lack real dignity, the kind that comes with self-sufficiency and personal achievement.

Their contempt for individual effort can easily lead them into supporting a system where the mob's view of what is best is imposed on everyone — rather than leaving people free to work that stuff out amongst themselves. The independent person makes a mockery of the parasite's life, reminding him that, like a child, he cries out to be taken care of. But unlike a child, he is actually capable of looking after himself. He should be, at least.

The good news is, even über Lefties, like our friend, grow impatient with spoiled, dependent people. There's reason to be hopeful.

 
* "I'm optimistic that employers will continue providing coverage for family planning services because...it will help businesses attract high-quality employees." — Gov. Maggie Hassan