By Vern Hansen
Anybody with a modicum of understanding knows the economy is in trouble, but nobody seems to know how to get it moving as long as Alan Greenspan refuses to drop interest rates any lower.
I think I know what's at the root of this slowdown.
It started with a family named Fairbrinks who lived next door to the Joneses in my part of town.
When the Joneses started sending their children to private school, so did the Fairbrinks. When they gave them music and ballet lessons, the Fairbrinks did, also.
The Joneses put in an underground lawn-sprinkler system. The Fairbrinks put in one, too. And bought a rubber-tired, four-bladed, gasoline-powered, single-seater, automatic grass-catching lawn mower.
The Joneses bought a power mower like the Fairbrinks', but a larger top-of-the-line model. Then they put in a lawn-croquet court and started having cocktail parties outdoors. That called for an electric ice crusher. Catered canapés and hors d'oeuvres. The whole enchilada.
The Fairbrinks countered by trading in their TV set for one with better color. And subscribed to cable television. Not to be outdone, so did the Joneses.
So did we all.
When the Joneses bought a new hi-fi set with tweeters, the Fairbrinks woofered right along behind them. Everybody followed.
Our area became heavy with trades-men. Such prosperity you never saw.
We looked for a new high in prosperity when the Joneses went out and bought a power launch. But the Fairbrinks moved away and a new family moved in. We expected things to go along much as they always had with the Joneses setting the pace. But nothing happened. The new family didn't seem to know how to play the game. The neighborhood started to worry about it. How would our money circulate, with this holdout in our midst?
We formed a committee and called on the new family. We tried to convince them that our economic survival was dependent on them. "You've created a crisis situation," we said.
"How so?" they asked.
"Well, it's traditional that the Joneses set the pace and the people next door try to keep up with them. Then all the other families in the neighborhood follow suit. The money moves around. Mutual-fund investing escalates. Prosperity flows. Everybody's happy."
"There isn't anything the Joneses next door have that we don't have," the new family said. True. When they moved in they brought two cars and a station wagon. A camper. A boat and trailer. Mini-bikes for the kids. Name it. They had it.
The explanation turned out to be so simple. Their name was Jones, too.
"When the Joneses live next door to the Joneses, who keeps up with whom?" they wanted to know.
Nobody could answer that. So, one by one, we started having garage sales.
That was something the Joneses didn't have. Until they caught on from our example. Now, it's all we can do to keep up with the way the Joneses are liquidating.
We're all selling out. Stripping ourselves. There's no familiar voice from the TV saying, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing." When the TV sets went, the TV dinners went, too.
No dinners? No water pick.
No underground lawn sprinkler system? No lawn.
No lawn? No power mower. No lawn croquet.
No lawn croquet? No outdoor cocktail parties.
No cocktail parties? No electric ice crusher.
Help us put a stop to it. How is your neighborhood fixed for a "Jones" family?
There's one too many in our part of town.
Vern Hansen is a Los Gatos resident.
This article appeared in the Los Gatos Weekly-Times, April 24, 1996.
©1996 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved