I note, with not a small measure of melancholy, that the Connecticut home of the greatest of American authors (bar none) and gadflies (save one), Mark Twain, is tottering at the abyss of receivership. The very structure that Twain called "the loveliest home ever built" and the comforting nest where he was able to set aside his fierce demons, find the tranquility he so desired and write Huckleberry Finn and many of his "middle period" masterpieces, will possibly be forced to close its doors. The paltry (at least for its significance to the nation and its people) 68,000 visitors last year are, apparently, not sufficient to pay the debts and keep the cobwebs and creditors at bay. While I lament this item, tucked discreetly away, embarrassment that it is, in the New York/Region section of the June 3, 2008 New York Times, I hold out hope that some philanthropist (which is to say, some vain, publicity-hungry dot com billionaire - in brief, not your father’s Carnegie or Rockefeller) will move a few million from his "to be used to build a drug/party room pile" to the "let me appear to care about our artistic and national legacy and, possibly, avoid jail time pile". It has happened before and, I have no doubt, it will happen again. But, when rightfully examined, the story of Twain and his house have an urgent message for us, today.

Today, we live in what will, undoubtedly, be recalled by historians as The Gilded Age - Redux. We have surely devolved back to the late 19^th Century. The original Gilded Age (poetically enough, Twain, himself, coined the term), which gave us the phrase "conspicuous consumption", cannot hold a crystal Tiffany candelabra to our modern-day greed, avarice and incomprehensible immaturity. We would, surely, cause the preening peacocks of Broadway in that distant time to cringe with envy, pull their fedoras over their eyes and hurriedly skulk to the nearest dark alley at a mere glimpse of our own gaudiness, debauchery, egotism and hedonism. The "me first, last and always" mentality that has infected both young and old puts all preceding times of selfish egoism to shame.

The similarities of our Gilded age and the one a century removed are striking. Both then and now, political elections were close, wealth polarized the have’s and the have-nots, and mass immigration was a concern of all. Perhaps prophetically, the first Gilded Age was brought crashing down with the Panic of 1883 which was, in reality, a deep depression lasting four years. [Now, who was the joker who said history can teach us nothing or that it doesn’t have a sense of humor?]

Like our predecessors a hundred years ago, we enjoy our own new-age form of conspicuous consumption. We race about in pursuit of the frivolous fashion, the adrenalin rush of novelty and excitement and the "quick fix" for every problem, all the while losing sight of (and our tenuous grip on) ourselves, our families and our faith - the only things that, in the end, actually provide meaning to life. We may be bankrupt, fiscally and morally, but we damn well must have the latest flip phone (with unlimited text messaging and Internet access, of course), fuel-guzzling SUVs (with custom 18 inch gold spinning wheels and satellite radio), surgery-enhanced bodies and designer clothes (even if they are cheap Chinese knock-offs - who’s going to know?). The problem is not so much that we spend money that we don’t even have for things that we don’t really need. That is nothing new to America. The problem - the psychopathology, if you will - is why we are driven to the point of compulsion to possess these things at all.

Allow me to present a small personal example or the reigning mentality: I was recently to attend a 40 year reunion of some classmates. Not a fancy affair, mind you, just a dinner at a modest restaurant with some invited guests and plans for a few informal remarks. When I mentioned this occasion to a 20-ish co-worker, the immediate response - almost the first words out of her mouth - was: "You’re not going to drive your car there, are you?" After a momentary pause as I processed what, at least to my decayed hippocampus seemed a non sequitur, I eventually replied that, of course, I would be driving my car. Clueless, as I often am, I proceeded to step deeper into the bog by asking, pray tell, why wouldn’t I drive my car. Naive to the end, I thought this a reasonable question. I was quickly informed that, in essence (translating from "Valley-speak" into grammatical English), it would reflect badly on me if I showed up in an 8 year old car. That is, my old classmates would, evidently, consider me a failure at life and the world at large if I did. I was further advised to rent something newer and "more expensive, like a Jaguar" that would befit my station in life. Needless to say, I thanked the sage consultant for the imminent 21^st Century advice but, in the end, throwing caution (and all hope for the high opinion of my classmates) to the wind, I drove my degrading, demeaning and downright disgraceful relic to the reunion.

Since I intend to whip this particular behavior with the severity it deserves anon, here I will be brief. It is my decided opinion that a distinct majority of inmates of the asylum have escaped and are running loose among us. They can be identified from the dwindling ranks of the unmedicated by a behavioral sine qua non: namely, those afflicted no longer buy things, as in time immemorial, from want or a perceived need. Instead, these sad, impaired septics buy things for no other reason than to show others, mainly others similarly impaired, that they can buy them. Which is to say, Homo americanus (subspecies modernus) does not splurge on the "necessities" of life for personal need or gratification. The modern American, rather than "rent-to-buy", seeks to "buy-to-impress".

As hamsters on a wheel, we proceed apace. Driven by the whip, wielded by 5th Avenue hucksters, we are mesmerized by image after image of the things that promise true happiness and contentment: the cosmetics that will make us loved and desired, the cars that turn heads, the Viagra, Cialis and Levitra that will keep us up and the alcoholic beverages that will bring us down. These are the things we seek. These are the things we cannot live without.

Those so impaired have been so completely and utterly brainwashed that they know no other path. Their sense of self, crumbling under the weight of unsatisfying, dead-end jobs, expectations of wealth that exceed their gifts and a undying sense of imminent deliverance from their desperation, has long vanished. Whatever self-esteem - that glorious, Divine awareness that each soul is unique and worthy of respect and inner peace - has been squeezed out of them to the extent that the only worth they can appreciate is in the opinions reflected in the mirror of those around them.

And, so, we come full circle. Our dreams are the same as Twain had for his home in Hartford, Connecticut. Like the dreamers of today, he imagined that if only he had all the luxuries that money could buy, he would be happy. Instead, as the novelty of his opulent house wore off and its costs became evident, the calamities of the real world came crashing down on both he and his loved ones. He went bankrupt living outside even his means and was forced (by the threat of debtor’s prison) to travel the world, lecturing, to pay off his creditors. In 1896, his favorite daughter, Susy, died alone in their home while he was in England trying to dig his way out of debt. Forever after, he blamed God - and himself - for her death. When his wife died 8 years later and a second daughter, Jean, died the next year, Twain’s depression was complete; he was a bitter man the remainder of his days.

His home, now also in debt and threatened with bankruptcy, is - or at least should be - a parable for today’s society and our own brand of conspicuous consumption and waste. America’s greatest story-teller has unwittingly provided us a morality tale from his grave. If only we would listen to what it tells us.

But, as always, we won’t.