The Raven

Sunday, November 10, 2002

Oh Yes, You Did

England: "I just didn't deserve this," says notorious car thief Harry McCartan. Well, technically, he isn't a thief, but a "joyrider," who will nick your wheels and trash your car just for the sheer fun of it. Oh, his complaint? Well, seems that some locals got tired of him stealing and wrecking their vehicles, so they crucified him.

In the early hours of last Saturday morning McCartan was found nailed to wooden posts in a lane behind the Seymour Hill estate. Two rusty six-inch nails were driven though his hands and he had been beaten about the legs and face.

This is understandable, since British justice is often quite lenient where we Americans would apply a firm hand. Ever watch one of those "World's Most Insane Police Car-Chases" programs? The clips from Britain always have an announcer who gives you the during and after...

"These joyriders have stolen a Jaguar and are running it at speeds of up to 160 kilometers an hour. Notice how they sideswiped that rubbish bin—what a callous disregard for property and human life. This driver was eventually charged with 'haphazard motoring' and received three points on his driver's record."

We applaud the Seymour Hill residents who found a way to impress McCartan with the gravity of his crimes.

12:27:03 PM

Too-Good to Be True

Remember Madelyne Toogood? Well, the Irish Travellin' child-beater is back in jail on new charges.

Authorities say Madelyne Toogood, 26, gave a false address and name when applying for a Michigan driver's license and state identification card in May. A conviction could carry up to five years in jail.

Hm. Now why, we wonder, was she trying to obtain false ID? At the time of her arrest she was free on a $7,000 bond for the battery charges, and she's facing a store theft rap, too. Methinks she suffers from an allergy to work—a common ailment, but she's seeking the wrong treatment. Instead, she should be trying to con her way into a disability check, which is all nice and legal.

The Ruling Class

The English have always been fascinated with their society's class structure, and man, do they ever love to talk about it. Their government has just released data from a study that shows signs of class divisions in toddlers. Education minister David Miliband says:

We continue to have one of the greatest class divides in education in the industrialised world, with a socio-economic attainment gap evident in children as young as 22 months.

They put together a quick 'n' easy IQ test with tasks like block-stacking and crayon scribbling, and discovered that the children's scores directly correlated with their parents' income levels. Hardly a shock. Egbert Brandon Ipswitch III gets a pony and toys from FAO Schwartz, while Johnnie Dustbin gets a dead rat, a piece of coal and some space on the basement floor. But all this got me thinking about class in America, and how we determine that. Which brings us to our next story.

The Burden of Wealth

Before you read further, be warned that if you don't have an intense dislike for Chilean author Isabel Allende, you will after reading this article. You see, Isabel is passionate. She is Latin. She does not think, she feels. And she feels with her heart.

Isabel did not understand America and after her lecture tours she always returned to Caracas with a sense of profound relief. But then in 1987, she divorced her husband, and they "needed to have some space." We peons achieve this by going into the backyard for awhile. Isabel chose to accept "a book tour of Europe and the United States." This would keep her busy.

Ending her whirlwind tour in San Francisco, she is smitten with the wealthy Bay Area attorney William Gordon ("the last heterosexual bachelor in San Francisco"). Did he court her?

To make a long story short, let's say that Willie tried to escape, but he was no match for me. I tackled him, threw him face down on the floor and forced him to love me in return. We married against his will and that is the reason why I ended up living in Marin County.

Poor Isabel, lost in America and struggling to understand our ways. She discovers that life in Marin County is a challenge.

At the beginning, I felt as if I were a total alien. Marin County was too safe, too clean, too pretty, too affluent, too white for me. It looked like the Côte d'Azur without tourists.

Yes, we know it can be difficult. So pretty, so clean. And nothing to do but shop! Yet: "I am a person of rough edges, it took me a while to feel comfortable in paradise." We are going to spare you the rest, but the article chronicles her list of burgeoning friendships, all of which involve the locals recognizing her as "that famous Latin American author," showering her with gifts of merchandise, and clamoring for her company. Her most salient observation about life in America's upper stratum is that unlike Third World people who struggle to find moments of joy amidst life's tedium, the idle riche fully expect happiness to be experienced all day long, every day, week after week. Somehow, she manages:

I am proud to say, I have adapted so well that now I expect to be happy and entertained like my fellow Marinites. If it doesn't happen, there is always counselling and Prozac.

It isn't that she revels in her material opulence—most Americans do—but that she takes pride in it. We leave her now, as she distresses her new home with acid and sledgehammers to give it a rich patina of age, and hope that she escapes the curse of ennui.

9:38:32 AM