I Pine, You Pine, We All Pine for Sub-Prime

But those days are long gone, left rotting and festering in the past like so much road kill. It's done and dusted, our national bacchanalia devoted to the attainment of that which we cannot afford.

So my question is: why must I suffer for the sins of the fathers? Why must I beg for alms as Wells Fargo peers nervously through their one-way security mirror, poised to press the panic button at a moment's notice? Where's MY Horatio Alger booty that I was promised in the womb? I am baffled and stunned, but mostly just disappointed in myself for not jumping on the bandwagon while the getting was good.

After all, crack addicts, trailer park denizens and delusional would-be celebrities from all walks of life have had their day in the sun. They've stood in the flimsy shadow of affluence and walked the halls of pressboard mansions. Sure, many a proud home owner was forced to forfeit the spoils when it became clear that the Wallmart cashier's salary was not sufficient to pay the mortgage. And many, with greater math skills than mine, were baffled when the repo man emerged from the humid depths of Hell to reclaim a lost soul. We children of the American Dream--much like dogs--live only in the glorious moment, the moment when Santa Claus bestows a fantastic gift but fails to include batteries for the coveted toy.

At this very moment I'm trying to get my hands on my own celebrity crib. It's modest by Malibu standards, and furthermore situated on a sparsely populated patch of forgotten territory deep in the wilds of Ohio. You'd think Wells Fargo would want to encourage growth in a wasteland such as this. In fact, they are surprisingly timid. The great and entrepreneurial spirit of risk and generosity is gone when I need it most. The high stakes gamblers once employed by lending institutions across the nation have been replaced by officious, shrew-like bureaucrats.

Now I'm not naive. I know that folks like to be assured of a sure thing--like getting their loan money back in due time. But shouldn't the safeguards these lenders use have some meaning? I mean here on planet Earth. Not in the sterile and hermetically sealed halls of the money plant. Is it really true that 20% down, a whopping good salary, money in the bank and a good credit score are not enough for these folks? It is. They must probe more deeply into the anal recesses of one's history, to satisfy their sick need for reassurance. It just makes me want to collect welfare and live in a double wide trailer when I am asked to justify personal banking deposits in the miniscule amount of $100.00. How is that relevant? If it's my tooth fairy money, or the proceeds from a mafia subsidiary, what business is it of theirs?

Additionally, the perky automatron in charge of my application was most interested in a long forgotten American Express account that I had closed out some time in 1992. What, if any, meaningful information could I possibly provide in this matter?

And then there's my poor, beleaguered alien spouse. He's old school, since he's from the old country. He pays cash on demand, does not amass debt, and contributes regularly to his savings account. He therefore has a zero credit rating, which, in the eyes of the interest grubbing creditors, is a far greater crime than HAVING debt and NOT paying your bills. It's a bewildering system, and one I'm hard pressed to explain to my confused immigrant spouse.

Alas, there's not a lot I can do other than don my sequined unitard and jump through the fiery hoops put before me.

Ohio, you are calling, but I cannot yet come to you. And so we wait.