Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

The sub-header to this book could very well be: "All Work & no Play makes Jack a Dull Boy". Basically, Tom Stanley's scholarly treatise on American wealth comes down to this mind-ripping, continent-blasting conclusion: Millionaires, you see: 1) Save more than they spend; 2) Don't spend anything. That's it. Page after page, chart after chart, graph after graph, anecdote piling up on anecdote, all of it boiling down to the same conclusion: don't spend more than you save. Clip coupons. Hang on to your wife `til Death you do Part. Buy a rambler for 80 grand, and cling to it like a rat clutching a Big Mac in a hurricane. To wit: if you're a good little Bob Cratchit, and burrow down in your suburban Dacha, drive the Civic, eat Top Ramen, and take your vacations at the State Museum of Knitting & the Fine Arts, you'll die loaded!Sound like fun? Didn't think so. Look: you've got one life, and after death all bets are off. Sure, you could be hauled up by the angels to Paradise, or it could just be one plate of linguini too many, a nasty flatline and one vast inky void of non-consciousness. Either way, you're looking at one single trip on this not-so-flat Earth, so you might as well live large. It's true, now: you can haul in major bank in whatever profession you choose: eremetic horror-writer, Wall Street tycoon, Railroad baron, small-town librarian, legal eagle defender of the Criminally Insane, whatever. And you can always outspend it. That is the source of endless tragedy and Dickensian woe throughout the ages, without a doubt. But there pitfalls at the other extreme. Listen: I live next door to one of these McMillionaires. The guy is this enfeebled little wizened gnome of a critter, used to be a bank Vice President and got bought out because he was a dingus. Total skinflint. Miser. Goes on his own hunting trips and brings back venison, deer meat, which he forces his family of---jesus, I think 12---to eat for months. Lives in a shacky little rambler, buys used Crown Vics from the local police department and bargain basement prices. The guy, no doubt, is high net worth. But he's also a loser. This is a guy who didn't want to cough up a few hundred bucks to help build a joint fence between our properties---so there's a fence, even a fence that abuts his property---but beyond my house and demesne, he elected not to build a fence. Instead, he got a plastic Jersey Barricade (orange and white) and went with that. Is that any way to live? Is that really what it means to be a `millionaire'? I think not. Half the glory of the Age of Great American Consumption is buying stuff you don't need, but want. Desire. Demand. What else is work for? Find a way to creative bliss, work at something you're good at, that you have a real passion for, and the money will follow. But for the Love of God, it's only Money: spend it! What is money for, if not to indulge yourself? Sure, get a pace---plan to the end---set a budget. But how many of you want to be that newspaper column on page A3, the 95 year old dowager pauper who begged for alms on the streetcorner, ate catfood out of a tin, and scrounged for quarters by the bus stop, then was found rigid and cold in the urine-stiff sheets of her dirty bed, sprawled atop a fortune estimated at 20 million bucks? Sound like a plan? I think not. Money may not buy happiness, but it sure as hell can get you a Rolls-Royce Phantom. "Millionaire Next Door" might have it right in its sociology---and for what it is, Stanley's thesis is meticulously researched, mustered like a well-trained army, and capable of marshalling its teeming forest of facts like a well-drilled martinet---but it's off the map when it comes down to the point of the whole thing: if you've got it, flaunt it. "Millionaire Next Door" isn't a bad book: it's scholarly, and plods along its own hand-me-down lodestar towards its prophesied conclusion (be cheap! Die loaded!), and perhaps some folks will be astounded to discover there are some real richies down the block who in another day would have been called skinflints. But as a map to your stars, this one is a little cramped, cribbed, dank, and stinks of mothballs. I think I'll take first class---scratch that, how much did you say that Learjet was going for, again? JSG