Being as I am inclined to reckless extravagance and perhaps as a result not having made a financial success of myself in the past ¾ of a century, I am reluctant to touch upon the decorous subject of understanding money.

The admission of prodigality is all the more shameful and cautionary because I enjoyed what might be considered a fortuity. My father inherited an estate from his father and I am inclined to believe his ancestors did as well. My immediate family never suffered financial deprivation. I have degrees from two accredited universities and the Law Society of Upper Canada. Yet in spite of having abused these advantages and notwithstanding my wayward behaviour I derived intelligence from my meritless pursuit.

In brief I have concluded that money is a deceit. This is no empirical discovery. Never did I indulge the custom of weighing my money. I hadn’t enough to warrant the privilege.  Instead I learned early in my career that the banks had lots; and, that they were pleased to share it with me. When I wasn’t putting their money into a grand piano or a complicated wristwatch (or a myriad of other custom built or handwoven furnishings and brilliant accessories) I invested in real estate.  I had 25-acres in the country; a downtown condominium; two houses and an office building with rental units.  All this on the back of the banks.  Indeed I contemporaneously drew upon every chartered bank in Canada to sustain the portfolio.

It was lucky for me that I properly and regularly maintained what I owned. I did that for over forty years. Maintaining real estate is not a given. There are many who seek to do otherwise (though often without beneficial outcome). So, if this were true and knowing as we all do that prices only go up, wherein lies the deceit? The deceit is not what money gives; it’s what it doesn’t give. The enemy is the one you don’t see.

Here I am afraid the narrative lapses into the philosophic.  But first permit me to clarify that philosophy is not idle speculation or a wistful pronouncement. It is the love of knowledge.

Philosophy c. 1300, philosophie, “knowledge, learning, scholarship, scholarly works, body of knowledge,” from Old French filosofie “philosophy, knowledge” (12c., Modern French philosophie) and directly from Latin philosophia, from Greek philosophia “love of knowledge, pursuit of wisdom; systematic investigation,” from philo- “loving” + sophia “knowledge, wisdom,” from sophis “wise, learned;” a word of unknown origin [Beekes]. With many spelling variants in Middle English (filozofie, phelosophie, etc.).

Thus while you may first have imagined I was about to offer some fanciful theory of money management, instead my purpose is far more direct. By way of example, if you fashion owning a diamond ring, I question not only its utility (as though such a project has any foundation) but also whether you contemplated the option of a Moissanite stone? And while you may laughingly snap your fingers at such an inauthentic alternative, I beg to ask who will know or care?

I assert this model because one of the richest men I know wears a Timex. He told me he isn’t constrained to submerge his arm over the side of the boat into the water when fishing. I am confident you’ll agree that escaping the peril of damaging his Rolex is supportable.  Not to mention the distance from vulgarity and other jingoistic approach.

If you haven’t the ambition of a “Kansas City faggot” (that’s Mel Brooks’ term), the accommodation is worth the savings. Having acquainted myself with both the magpie brilliance of Rolex, Cartier and Breitling as well as the plain reliability of a Bulova, I can attest that the only lingering issue of the two aside from the price is the debate whether to insure or not. And don’t be mistaken, insurance is an issue. If you play in the clouds you’d better watch your step!

The material world is the problem. Once having acquired the stuff, it becomes an unending absorption about where to store it.  The late Hughie Whitten once told me, “The first thing you do with a new car is beat it with a baseball bat then drive it through a barbed wire fence!”  To punctuate this insight he prophetically announced, “All you need is a clean windshield and a full tank of gas!”  Hughie died at 19 years of age in a car accident one snowy Saturday night where the roundabout is now located on the edge of town.

And lest you think having had a shiny new car or gold watch would have made any difference whatsoever, I further beg to differ.  It isn’t about getting all you can out of life before it’s too late.  Just the contrary.  The elevation of life is not measured by its consumption. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t austerity I am promoting.  Rather it is the recognition that gratification doesn’t require the transport of anything other than what little baggage we need to carry.  And be assured that if you wait too long and spend too much time pursuing it, the baggage will only become heavier and heavier.  Don’t fool yourself to imagine that if you carry enough to comfort yourself in old age you will succeed to overcome all disadvantage.  Sufficient it is to store a nest for the winter.  But the drag show is not imperative. The expense of surplusage will soon outweigh any cosmetic advantage.