Things I can afford that the middle class cannot: rare books

Among the benefits of being me (and there are many) perhaps one of the nicest is my ability to purchase and enjoy rare books. Not that I expect the middle class to understand the enjoyment of thumbing through a first edition Dickens. And far be it from me to suggest that those simple fools could comprehend the subtleties of Tolstoy or the sardonic wit of Swift. After all, such intelligence and grace are surely lost on those who consider Patterson compelling literature.

Of course being a man of importance, rarely can I secret away the time to get lost in Middle Earth. And while the Walmartians of suburbia plug in their Walkmans to listen to the latest scourge to spill from the pedestrian mind of Grisham, I am able to enjoy my favorite tomes as read by my favorite actors. I wonder, have you ever heard the Iliad as interpreted by James Earl Jones? Or Huckleberry Finn dramatically read by Al Pacino? Of course you have not, because I, and I alone, commissioned them to read those masterpieces for my personal enjoyment. In fact, every book I own is accompanied by a dramatic reading by some of our time's most regarded thespians.

And that my friends - to quote my gardener - don't come cheap.

Things I can afford that the middle class cannot: wine collections

Many of you reading this will be surprised when I tell you that there are those we firmly believe that good wine comes in a box. Hilarious, I know. I'll give you a moment to wipe up the '74 Charles Krug Vintage Select Cabernet Sauvignon that you just spit all over your ascot. Good thing it only costs $88 a bottle.

For some the very idea of wine as an investment is laughable. Of course, such an opinion is to be expected from those who also find the idea of spending $15 on a bottle of white zinfandel to be an exercise in lavish spending. To them I say stick to your Boone's Farm (little more than flavored vinegar in my opinion).

Though it is no shock that the pallets of the middle class - dulled by years of Big Macs and Diet Cokes - cannot appreciate the subtle delicacies of such fine beverages. Lacking both the hedonic perception and vocabulary to identify and put into words the myriad of tastes trickling down their oversized gullets should come as no great shock. Such people view life in black and white, good and bad. They will never appreciate the spicy blackberry and robust personality of a fine syrah or the warm buttery embrace of a delicately balanced chardonnay.

After all, for these people their opinions are as confused as the wines they drink.

My primary wine collection (I have one at each residence) consists of over 20,000 bottles and is valued at over four million dollars. My cellar is 10,000 square feet and is done in the style of a subterranean Italian grotto - complete with a gourmet kitchen for the occasions when I decided to entertain in the tasting room. I have in my employ a personal sommelier by the name of Reg. The only Frenchman I have ever tolerated or respected, he works in concert with my chef to ensure that every meal is accompanied by the perfect wine. Not once has he erred in his job. As well he shouldn't at a salary of $150,000 per year - but a small price to pay for the joy his knowledge brings me.

The middle class you can keep their baseball cards and comic books; their Precious Moments dolls and Thomas Kincaid posters. For those objects worthy of collection are reserved for us, the men of privilege and power.

Reader Observations: I'm not real

Recently, some drunken idiot posted a comment proclaiming that I am not real. To that individual I say, rubbish. I am in fact very real, very rich, very handsome, very powerful and very intelligent.

And though I feel no obligation to prove to you my existence, I will do so. Why? Because shedding some light on my life will hopefully make that individual feel that much worse about their own.

Now if you'll excuse me...

I have more homes in my real estate portfolio than the number of double wides in the shoddy little trailer park in which you surely reside.

Not only do I own a fleet of vintage sail boats, I also posses a large collection of Mont Blanc pens. Do they use pens down at the auto parts store where you work? Or do they make you use pencils so you can erase all your mistakes?

My wife loves me because I am rich and powerful. Yours probably loves you because you make her feel good about herself. Though that doesn't change the fact that my wife is the definition of beauty and yours is fat.

Like you, I enjoy red meat. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're a vegetarian. After all, how else can one explain the pissy attitude and transparent envy? Now I know Walmart doesn't stock Kobe Beef, but the next time your scratch lotto tickets pay out I recommend you visit your local fine dining establishment (Outback doesn't count) and order yourself a nice steak.

If I'm not real, who is? I apologize for spewing such heady existential thought. I should have made sure you were wearing a helmet first. I'll simplify, I'm real because I say I am.

Enjoy your day, from what I hear Busch Light is always on sale.

Things I can afford that the middle class cannot

There is a common misconception that we wealthy are different from everyone else. Better maybe, but not necessarily different. As they say, we put our trousers on one leg at a time, just like average folks. And while we all know I am anything but average, occasionally I like to indulge in the most average of meals.

The hamburger. I like to refer to it as the people's meal. That time tested, most American of recipes. A perfect product composed from the very best our nation's breadbasket has to offer, the hamburger reminds us that the simple things in life can in fact be enjoyable.

Now, despite the fact that yes, I frequently dine on lobster tails and porterhouses there are times when a man needs a burger. And there is no better place to satiate that need than at the Wall Street Burger Shoppe.

From the spelling of the word shoppe, one immediately suspects they are in for a burger experience unlike any other. And the moment the delectable confluence of Kobe beef, black truffles, seared foie gras, aged Gruyere cheese and wild mushrooms, delivered in a warm brioche bun with hints of gold flecks hits your pallet you know that you've just experienced something special. You've experienced that which so few have: Heaven on a bun. Never has $175 tasted so delicious.

Yes, you read that correctly. $175. And it's worth every penny. Obviously, this is a burger designed not for the unrefined pallets of the masses, those Number 2 super-sized combo meal heathens. Such genius, such delicacy is not to be wasted on those who think Outback makes a great steak. No my friends, a $175 hamburger is not for the provincial, rather it is for those who appreciate the finer things in life. It is for we who view the gourmet as everyday and the extravagant as commonplace.

Thankfully it is priced beyond the reach of those who would never appreciate it for what it is: a ground patty for the Gods of the Gods.

Things that I can afford that the middle class cannot

A $500,000 custom designed home theater.

I think that sentence pretty much sums it up. To boast that I am able to screen Hollywood's latest offerings in my custom designed, state of the art, 30 seat home theater one week before they are released would be uncouth.

I always say that one must be sensitive to those less fortunate. After all, to make such comments in the presence of those who are forced to watch from the discomfort of their local cineplex would be rude.

Ross' Rules

Last week I received the following question which I have paraphrased below.

Mr. Ross,

How have you attained your enormous wealth?

Sincerely,

Mr. Charles B. W. III


I get this question all the time from eager young upstarts and IRS auditors. And while I've told the story thousands of times, the creation tale of G. Glen Ross, as I like to call it, is one I never tire of telling.

Like most children, my youth was one of hard work and intense education. Strict disciplinarians, my mother and father sent me away to an exclusive preparatory school at age four. Alone for the first time in my life, I threw myself into my studies and by age seven had mastered Latin. My gift for languages set me apart from the other students and the faculty took keen interest in my education. Over the course of the next few years I would add Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Russian and Old English to my repertoire. And while I enjoyed language, it was a simple book report that would change my life forever. For it was in fifth grade when I read the Wealth of Nations for the first time.

A love affair blossomed and I was consumed by economic theory and all her mysterious secrets. While the other boys we're playing lacrosse, I was studying the invisible hand and game theory. I looked at the world in terms of supply and demand and market forces. I started my first business at age eight and by eight and a half performed my first hostile takeover, forcibly usurping a candy distribution operation run by a small wiry boy by the name of Preston. Little did I know that the success of this action would form the backbone of my corporate ethos.

My college years took me to Yale and Harvard, where I studied my craft under some of the most influential minds of the 20th century. After serving as a Lieutenant in Korea, I joined a major accounting firm where I quickly ascended, becoming one of the youngest partner in the firm's history. Building on my successes, I then assumed a directorship at Phillip Morris, which I held through the company's heyday.

And while I made my mark in those positions, it wasn't until the 1970s and 80s that I found true success. Serving in various executive management positions within the defense, oil and banking industries, I was able to parlay my intelligence, personality, determination and impeccable timing into a fortune.

For some, that would have been enough. But, like a mother's love or a father's acceptance, enough didn't equal happiness. So I kept moving forward and upward and my portfolio and number of ex-wives grew larger and larger. I made millions upon millions in telcom, energy and a then little known phenomenon called the World Wide Web.

So, why am I still doing it? Because I don't have to. In fact I never had to. Work, as my friend above said, is for the middle class. They do it because they have to, not because they want to. I, on the other hand, come from wealth and privilege. I've never had to work a day in my life. But I do because I love to.

Why?

Because work is competition in its purest form and for those who thrive in its arena come the spoils of war. It is only then that man is able to know success. And that, my friends, is the key.

Things I can afford that the middle class cannot

As fuel and food prices continue to rise, there has been much made of the economic strain placed on the middle class. Apparently many are having to trim the fat, so to speak, from their budgets in order to afford these essential line items. Tragic, I know.

Obviously the Ross family doesn't have to worry about such trivial matters. Not only can I afford to fill up our fleet of luxury and performance automobiles with premium fuel, my exorbitant wealth allows me to fly my jet and pilot my boats with complete and total abandon. Have you ever filled up a Citation? Do you know how much diesel is required to run a 100' yacht? It cost me $37,000 just to take a cruise down the Intercostal. The amount I spend on fossil fuels each month is more that most middle-class Americans make in a year, or to put it in better perspective, more than 239 Kenyans will make in their lifetimes. $4.00 a gallon gas? Pocket change.

I can't imagine what it must be like to have to decide between filling up my 1998 Chrysler Caravan and buying the family name brand macaroni and cheese. Don't worry, yours truly isn't developing a new found sense of empathy, I can't imagine it because I've never been that poor. In all honesty I've never had to choose between anything, let alone commodities.

When you're in my tax bracket you can afford the finer things in life, groceries included. Mind you, I never go grocery shopping, but our chef only shops at the most exclusive gourmet boutiques. 93% of the country can't afford what we eat and most of the time we don't even finish. I'd say on any given night our housekeeper disposes of $50 to $100 worth of unfinished lobster tails, Kobe beef, truffles and other exorbitantly pricey imported foodstuffs.

The network talking heads can talk all they want about recession. I'm sure some of you would agree with their Chicken Little antics. However, you won't hear G. Glen subscribe to such nonsense. The fact of the matter is that the reason the middle class are in such dire straits is because the middle class cannot be trusted with money and are consumed by envy. Who wouldn't want to be me? What rational man wouldn't want to live like we wealthy do? I understand why they would feel that way. However, in their Quixotic quest to live like the other half they have maxed out their Sears cards and stretched themselves thinner than the hand spun silk negligee Mrs. Ross is so fond of.

The middle class has no one to blame but themselves, and if they could afford Quicken, I'd recommend they purchase it. That being said, perhaps riding their Wal*Mart bicycles to work and cutting back on the pot roasts will help these overweight gluttons lose a few dozen pounds. After all, you never see rich people competing on the Biggest Loser.

Ross' Rules: Let money be your scorekeeper

Question: Why do you do what you do?

a) Because your job makes you feel good about yourself.

b) You enjoy the responsibility your career affords.

c) You make an obscene amount of money.

If you answered "a" or "b" you're wrong. Warm fuzzies are for 10 year-old girls and guidance counselors. You want responsibility? Join the military.

If you answered "c," congratulations, you're a big boy who doesn't have his head up his ass.

Sure, there are those who argue that one's career should be guided by principle and passion, but we know such comments are nothing more than pathetic justifications spewed from the mouths of those desperately trying to validate their five-figure incomes. We know that wealth is the magic elixir that makes life bearable. We know that nothing tempers a sixteen hour workday like a fine steak from Morton's or sinking into the supple leather of a hand-stitched calfskin loafer. We know that failing relationships can be dealt with at Christmas and Birthday's and that stress and anger can be squashed between the floorboards and accelerators of our supercars and cigarette boats.

The middle class can have their idealism and balance and nine-to-five cross-stitch circle, save the pandas careers. They can have their familial relationships and their father-son ballgames and healthy lifestyles. But you know what? They'll still lose. Because wealth, my friends, is how winners are measured.