PARTING SHOT DOES THE FUTURE BELONG TO THE BEAN COUNTERS?

When an institution that has lasted more than a century dies, you can bet that the coroners are going to disagree as to the causes of death. Fatal incompetence? An overdose of greed? Murder by competition?

The doctors may continue to poke around the corpse of the Dallas Times Herald, administering tests to determine just when the poison entered the bloodstream, when the heart started to die and when the message of doom finally reached the extremities. Good luck to them. But whatever the results of the autopsy, the immediate impact is disastrous. As symbol, as barometer, as portent, the closing of the Herald is a terrible blow, scary news even for the many who never picked up a copy of the paper. It’s a sign that the Dallas economy may be getting worse, not better. The bottom we thought we had hit may not be the bottom after all.

Do I hear a grim chuckle from some of you who have felt the knife of layoffs and cutbacks-maybe had to wield that knife yourselves? Thanks for the news, genius. Glad you finally smelled the coffee.

Truth is, it’s taken more than the closing of the Herald to make the scales drop from my eyes. Like many who were steeped in the liberal arts and humanities, I carry a poorly hidden disdain for the money-grubbing ways of our intensely commercial society. On one level I’m disgusted with the advertising that permeates every corner of our lives; consider only the Mobil Cotton Bowl and the Poulan Weed Eater Independence Bowl, and I rest my case. On a deeper level I feel threatened by a world in which bean counters and their ilk are in the saddle, a world in which economic wizards speak a strange language of stagflation and “double dip” recession and Laffer curves and boom-bust spirals and macrotheories. Not for nothing is economics called the dismal science. Its gurus come to the fore only when things are bad and getting worse.

Of course we all tend to fear what we don’t understand. Business is largely a foreign language to me because my paychecks have been drawn from some pretty unbusinesslike sources-music, teaching, journalism-in which bottom-line thinking gets clouded by all sorts of ethereal considerations. Thai’s one reason I wince when politicians stress their “bidness” experience, bashing opponents who have “never met a payroll.” I’ve never met one either.

My ideal world is one in which arts, ideas and aesthetics reign; word power over money power. Great Americans? Give me Jefferson and King, H.L. Mencken and Miles Davis and Ralph Nader. If pressed, I’ll admit that Rockefeller and Ford and Westinghouse made some contributions, sure, but after all (recite in condescending tone), they were just in it for the money. Let’s talk about Robert Frost and Edward Hopper.

Over the past few months, however, as the war faded away and the economy sickened, I’ve felt on a gut level the falseness and fantasy of pretending that we are ever free of the bottom line. We’re not. Whatever we do, somebody is paying the freight. And if it doesn’t get paid, doors close and lives change.

Of course, the failure of any drugstore or dress shop is a tragedy for someone. The death of a once-proud newspaper, however, is a larger, more visible loss, and seems to deprive us of a vital part of our local heritage. It’s as if White Rock Lake or Fair Park closed down. It’s one more sign that, increasingly, ours is a bottom-line world with a diminishing margin for error- and that means we liberal-artsy types had better get used to bean counters and freight payers calling the shots. The evidence is all around us:

●　In a recent speech in Dallas, U. S. Rep.Richard Gephardt bashed the administrationfor failing to support American business.”The president helped Kuwait when it wasunder attack from foreign powers.” he cried.”Doesn’t he know that EDS and GeneralDynamics and General Motors are at wartoo?” A year ago I would have dismissed thatline as standard partisan gasbagging. Thistime, Gephardt’s words gave me a chill. Isour future one of decline and stagnation? Ifelt a little guilty driving home in a Mazda.

●　Looking through old copies of DMagazine, I remember all the stories we’vedone about the uncertain health of downtown, the impending death of downtown, how to save downtown, etc. It’s been years since I bought anything at a downtown store, but doesn’t somebody shop there?

●　A new restaurant opens in my neighborhood, replacing one that failed last year. Mywife and I talk about it being a good sign andvow to eat there. We never make it. Less thantwo months later, the place is closed.

●　A man I like and respect tells me that ifD Magazine runs a certain story, rival citieswill seize on it as a sign of civic disarray. Hismessage is clear: Dallas is in trouble, and themedia ought to help market the city, not tearit down. We ran the story and the sky is stillup there, but his words stuck with me. Journalists are not Chamber of Commerce pitchmen. We’re trained to tell the truth we can findand let the chips fall. Are we supposed to remake our ethics during an economic slum?

●　A new issue of our magazine arrives. Asalways, I begin by ripping out the variousannoying cosmetic doodads and other gimcracks that lurk be-tween the pages and interrupt our brilliant words. From the lofty vantage point of the writer/critic, these are just a nuisance. Besides, a story should read good, not smell good. Then, in midrip, I wonder if there’s not something hypocritical in that response. If perfume makers aren’t paying the freight, someone else had better do it. or there will be no provocative words, no alleged humor.

As a city, as a country, we’re going to come through this. We’re going to catch Japan and get lean and mean and search for excellence and thrive on chaos and learn how to swim with the sharks.. And if all this relentless efficiency and economic patriotism grinds some of the ease and grace and fun out of life, well, we’ll probably all be the better for it. I hope.

In the meantime, there’s a new liquor store that’s opened up on my way home from work. I feel duty bound to buy my next six-pack there. Maybe I’ll salute the owner as I leave.