May 2000
by Barry Stagg
The generational endgame being played out in the stock markets of the supposedly civilized world is as predictable as it is contemptible. With post-war children reaching "freedom 55" status this year, it is no surprise that get- rich- quick hucksters have found willing partners among the virtual nihilist brigade.
The mutual fund stampede of the last decade is being overtaken by a growing sense of fiscal desperation as the boomers reckon with the clock. The musical anthems are no longer the triumphant bellows of "I'm Eighteen" (thank you Alice Cooper) but rather the whimsical concoction of "When I was 64" (past tense apologies to Sergeant Pepper et al).
These times are more in tune with the craftings of Samuel Beckett than Paul McCartney as the fluff and candy floss of overstuffed youth give way to the spectre of wealthy but inevitable incontinence. A chance at an undeserved killing on the topsy-turvy stock market is preferable to the aching reality of waiting for Godot. The plea might be as Beckett wrote in 1948:
"Let us not waste our time in idle discourse. Let us do something , while we have the chance. It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed.....Let us make the most of it before it is too late. Let us represent worthily for once the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us" . ( Waiting For Godot, Act 2)
Irish playwrights with eclectic sensibilities are not the only source of illumination for these times. Investment guru Warren Buffett has opined astutely that his avoidance of the grossly overbid technology stocks is simply because he cannot see how any one of these fledgling businesses has any competitive advantage over any other. There, I have done it, working Samuel Beckett and Warren Buffett into the same paragraph and upon the topic of the perceived manifestations of narcissism in the throes of a mid-life crisis.
Be the judge of how nasty and ugly this world may become in the next thirty years as the boomers, in denial of mortality, inflict their hysterical plans for virtual, if not actual immortality, upon the rest of us. First it will be financial planning and then it will be the voodoo science of cryogenics ( fast frozen yuppie) and finally (in both the banal and eschatological sense) will come religion. I dread the day when the boomers get religion in all their self-centred and earnest righteousness. We will be subjected to an endless babble of holier-than-thou prophecies expounding inevitably upon the ascendancy of an entire generation, RRIF's and all, into the far greater kingdom of eternal existence. Praise the prophets and pass the Gravol.
This may seem a stretch removed from the Downhomer's usual patrol around the bays and inlets of Newfoundland and diaspora. Then again the sensible Newfoundlander, at home or away, may have just the psychic antidote needed to withstand this expected onslaught of nauseous nonsense. There is a core of fatalistic intelligence that follows the ( dare I say) karma of a world citizen with Newfoundland blood. Perhaps the deep caution and tragic pessimism of the great Irishman, Beckett is present in more common doses in the ability of most sensible Newfoundlanders to detect blather and blarney, whether it comes from the lips of a bible-belt charlatan or a dime-a-dozen prophet of eternal life through the acquisition of airmiles points and video toys. Some might characterize it as a kind of excretory barometer. I do have faith in that bit of Newfoundland personal hardware.
One of the gauges of the canniness of Newfoundlanders, that gives me hope for the self-absorbed silliness ahead, is that many citizens of the province have come alive to the Alex Trebek tribute show that Brian Tobin passes off as his shallow version of worldly knowledge and sophistication. Far from being a prophet and avatar of New Age brilliance, Tobin is revealed as just the same old and shopworn emperor relieved of his soundstage clothing.