ain't called currency for nuthin'

Today I was paying for my tray-o-spinach at my favorite restaurant, Fresh Choice, when the cashier handed me a tiny, silver-colored coin in change. One glance at the woman portrayed on the face of the strange coin, and I was ready to tell the cashier where she could stuff her Canadian seven-cent piece.

But something held my tongue. Perhaps it was that the offending disc was a smidge too heavy to be made of Alcan aluminum. I flipped it over, squinted, and — lo and behold — the backside carried the unmistakable imprint of the U-S-of-A. With an appropriately ironic expression on my face, I pocketed the geld and made a mental note to blog about the fiscal chaos unleashed with the recent willy-nilly experimentation of the U.S. Mint and Bureau of Engraving.

You see, I grew up in the golden age of cultural retrenchment known as The Reagan Era. Throughout my wonder years, there was but one President (the Gipper), one Prime Minister (Maggie Thatcher), one Pope (JP2), one Governor (George Deukmejian) , one Mayor (Tom Bradley); the Sherman Oaks Galleria was the center of all culture; postage was 22 cents, video games a quarter, and a phone call cost a dime. But most importantly, in stark contrast to the gay colors of Olde World currencies (yes, I still have a bag of lira, francs, marks, and various other historical curiosities), there was the eternal duotoned greenback (okay, maybe it was dark olive).

So I just emptied my pocket to have the upstart ten-cent piece before me as I write and — lo and behold — the year imprinted on its spotless face is... 1944!

See for yourself:

At this point, I'm for adopting the euro.