a call to arms

I'm riding in a bajaj, a three-wheeled jitney that's the size and shape of a roller-coaster car, and about as safe. The bajaj is a worst-of-both-worlds transportation device, combining the maneuverability and speed of a tricycle with the horsepower of a lawnmower, and is steered by a single-column handlebar that appears to have been stolen from an old SEGA Hang-On arcade cabinet. The driver speaks only Swahili, which makes communication difficult. I'm slowly learning this language, but it's tough, as my Western-trained tongue fumbles over its endless strings of staccato consonants, and the language-processing center of my brain has no framework for its byzantine grammatical structure. (Western languages have, at most, three genders for nouns. Swahili has sixteen.)

Our method of communication thus extends to a handful of English language words ("Left? Right? Straight?") and a mutual fondness for reading aloud from billboards and advertising. As we're on the peninsula, most of these messages are targeted toward a wealthier audience of expatriates, sometimes subtly, sometimes not so much. There's Ndovu beer, Tanzania Brewery Ltd.'s nod to upper-mid-market aspirations (think Budweiser Select.) There's the Tanzanian Cigarette Company Ltd., whose lifestyle-promoting products helpfully include both "Sportsman" and "Portsman." There's the Dar Peninsula Duty-Free center, which the sign in front informs us is "FOR DIPLOMATS ONLY." And there, in front of us, is a black 4x4 Toyota, with a tire cover advertising AIG, the disgraced American purveyor of structured financial products.

"AIG, huh?" I say to the driver, wondering why anyone would promote these infamous jerks. "You know what AIG stands for?"

"What?"

"Assholes in Greenwich."

It's a joke that predates the financial crisis by decades, and I'm hardly expecting it to translate, but I can see I've touched some sort of nerve as my driver swings around wildly, nearly taking our bajaj on an off-road detour, and fixes me with an angry glare. Africans almost never swear, and I see that I've offended, so I quickly mumble a pole sana, the Swahili catchall apology. But I've missed the point.

"Yes, AIG!" he says, and then again with emphasis. "AIG! Very good." And then he points to the transparent sticker emblazoned on the windshield of his vehicle, with text in fire engine red, reading "MAN U OLD TRAFFOD" (sic).

Oh. Right. Of course.




So, the company that brought you the mortgage crisis, the company that brought you the CDS death spiral, the company that nearly brought you the very end of capitalism, and that then tried to justify a cool half billion in bonus payouts, also brings you the world's most renowned and valuable sports team. Its logo becomes the symbol of global soccer, to be celebrated and misinterpreted, like some cargo-cult icon. Yes, the front of a Manchester United jersey is some of the most coveted advertising real estate in the world, and who owns it?

*beat*

Why, we do! (By we, of course, I mean we the American taxpayers, with a thousand pole sanas to my international readership.) But we do own it, don't we? For didn't we bail these assholes out, to the tune of 85 billion dollars in TARP money? And didn't we re-up for another 40 billion bucks worth of TARP slush, just one month later? And in so doing, didn't we, the American taxpayers, receive an 80% equity stake in exercisable warrants, and so become the proud majority stakeholders of several trillion notional dollars worth of toxic sludge? Yes, we did!

For just as every storm cloud has its silver lining, and just as every collateralized debt obligation has its ultimate workout price, and just as every vacant Sun Belt home has its tear-down salvage value, so does this crisis, the worst in a century, have its little, unexpected nugget of glee.

And what shall we do with this blank slate?



A subtle, well-designed reminder of your favorite football club's state-corporate sponsors, perhaps?



A nod to our triumphant and practically flawless political system?



Or our nation's chief cultural export?



Or the old corporate switcheroo?



Or perhaps a reminder of our traditional values, our bedrock, really, the can-do spirit of grit and determination and work ethic that made America great?



The choice, ultimately, is our own, and if we hold our politicians accountable for just one thing, please, God, let it be this. I await your suggestions and submissions.