Rich Man

Back in the early aughts, I once held in my trembling hand a paper check from the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation for 1.5  million dollars. Yup, $1,500,000, "One Million Five Hundred Thousand and 00/00," as it was written on the check. It came by U.S. Post in a Number 10 envelope with a first class stamp, they didnt even bother to send it by registered mail. As I held that insubstantial slip of paper, I realized it represented more money than I would earn in my entire life.

When I worked at OSF, Paul Allen came through the Development Office every few years. I was never introduced and rarely laid eyes on him, but I got to meet his dog. My friend Sharon stepped in as a last-minute replacement dog sitter while Allen attended a play. I don't remember what kind of dog it was, but I do remember it wore a Burberry collar.

Allen wasn't a "modest" billionaire. He didn't give all his money to high-minded causes like Gates and he didn't live in a suburban home like Buffet.  He bought sports teams, arenas, a freaking space ship. He gave billions to an oddly eclectic array of arts and science organizations. He built an entire museum dedicated to Jimi Hendrix.  He once took his 400 foot yacht cruising in Russia and gave his guests Faberge eggs as parting gifts. (This according to Peter Thomas, who had a nose for those kinds of details.) I guess what I'm trying to say is, the guy knew how to spend money. He was not trying to take it with him.

Good on him, says I. It was his money, who am I to tell him how to spend it? He didn't inherit his wealth, he didn't steal it or conjure it out of some hedge fund. He made his money the old fashioned way, by building and selling a good product. He built something extraordinary and people lined up to buy it. We didn't even know what it was and we sure didn't think we needed it, but now we can't live without it. And that, my friends, is the American dream.

And yet, there is something about that much wealth concentrated in one man's hands that makes me queasy.  Sure, Paul Allen built an outstanding product; so what?  Are products our greatest good, our highest value? Are they the metric by which we measure a woman or a man? By some accounts, Allen's product wasnt even the best of its kind, but he marketed it brilliantly while ruthlessly monopolizing an emerging industry. In return, capitalism honored him with its highest accolade: lots and lots of money. I'm not assigning blame to Allen. The man didn't create our system of predatory capitalism, he just played the game particularly well.

And so it goes. Good night sweet Prince. May your passing mark the end of an era.