Category Archives: Random Access

Random Access, the op-ed.

Oxymorons

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I’ll bet you thought this would be about the maroons in Washington who suck the oxygen out of the air wondering whether Roger Clemens took steroids instead of buckling down to the business of running a government.

And, yes, Roger Clemens could probably do a better job at the business of running a government. Jessica Rabbit could probably do a better job at the business of running a government.

Heck, even the Great State of New York with its 783 year history of waiting until 2153 to pass the 1960 budget brought theirs in on time this year.

Word play maybe isn’t as much fun as sex but it’s still pretty satisfying (I may catch holy hell from the missus for saying that).

Last week, I noted that Washington is a fine mess (most everyone there is a real phony) but I didn’t have space to work in absolutely unsure, devout atheist, genuine-imitation leather, or half naked.

Of course I, like all my readers, am absolutely sure of everything I write. For example the true believers in anthropogenic global warming have literal faith that planetary temps have risen almost exactly 10 degrees since last week. I should note that many on that side of the aisle who believe implicitly in political science poo pooh the scientific creationism embraced on the other.

I AM™ increasingly irked by the food industry for selling me twelve-ounce pound cakes and 48-ounce half gallons of ice cream. Food giants take a different view of the smaller, lighter, easier to carry half gallon orange juice cartons so I invited Popsicle-Klondike-Ocean Spray-Slim Fast-Starbucks-Ben & Jerry’s-Breyers-Heartbrand-PepsiCo-Frito Lay-Quaker Oats-Tropicana spokesman Ross Messier to comment. He pronounces his name ROSS.

“We already sell personal servings in many markets. We see the bigger containers as our dual entree in the grocery and convenience markets,” Mr. Messier (pronounced MAY-she) said. “Convenience stores are big on Super-Sizing their offerings.”

Remember, you read it here first when you see a straw taped to the side of a “half gallon” OJ carton and a wooden spoon on the ice cream tub at the Quick Stop next year.

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3066/2764922038_9ce559c4d7.jpg I bought a new shirt last week. It’s a nice, blue, button-down, pinpoint oxford that drapes superbly and has a marvelous hand. The girls wouldn’t let me buy the one I really wanted, though. Maybe because it had a random pattern.

I’m in rather a financial pickle as so many are in these perilous times, but I like fine clothing, have a good eye, and even have my mom’s sketch books for inspiration. Oh, I know. I generally wear khaki slacks, button down shirts, and Bass Weejuns with no socks but I truly believe I could develop a line that caters to early adopting young taste makers who love the originality and eclectic style of mature clothing lines. And by “mature” I mean “old.” All I really need is a nameless celebrity to endorse me!

For the record, I wrote this whilst sucking on a sweet tart in my home office where the IRS prohibits personal business. I gotta get back to work.

Rolled Oats

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According to the NYTimes this morning, “Speaker John A. Boehner told his fellow Congressional leaders and President Obama that he did not spend 20 years working his way up to the top job on Capitol Hill just for the cachet of the title — he wanted to accomplish something big…

“The speaker’s lofty ambitions quickly crashed into the political reality of a divided, highly partisan Congress.”

Having Congress is like having 535 wives. If you think having one wife who doesn’t listen, just imagine…

That’s why I didn’t want to write about politics this morning; Washington is a fine mess. They’re smmoooooth but they just. don’t. listen.

Oatmeal raisin cookies are a significantly healthier breakfast than a smoothie.

My good friend Liz Arden had a smoothie for breakfast this morning. Despite the date, it didn’t come from the 7-11. She blended her own rolled oats, cranberry juice, yoghurt, fruits, and protein powder. She says it tastes like ice cream. Really? We’re alone here but this is a family column so I can’t tell you what that particular flavor and texture combination evoked. I can say that acrid, gooey, whitish, slime doesn’t seem all that appetizing to me.

Anyway, the rolled oats got my attention. I likes oats. That grain forms the basis for my third most favorite sandwich bread and my third most favorite cookie. We still buy Arnold Oatnut bread because I haven’t put together a recipe to bake it here at home and I’m noshing on an oatmeal raisin cookie right now.

Rolled oats. Did you ever wonder how Quaker teaches oats to roll over? Do they have classes? Do the slow oats get special tutoring while the quick oats command higher prices in the marketplace? Can oats learn to sit up and beg? Do we need to do some genetic engineering so they can shake hands?

Wikipedia reports that professional trainers should most likely instruct the oat’s owner to train his or her own flake; available group classes continue the lessons for the more mature grain. Grains can be so stick-in-the-muddish that the owner must repeat and reinforce the techniques taught in the original class.

Owners and groats who attend class together have a unique opportunity to learn each other’s likes and dislikes and how to work together to become flakes without being, well, flaky. Training is most effective if all oat handlers take part in the training to ensure consistent commands, methods, and enforcement. Classes also help socialize the flakes to the other flakes in the round cardboard shipping tube. Training classes are offered by many brands, including Better Oats, McCann’s, and Quaker.

Probably just as well that Ms. Arden had neither fresh prunes nor fresh raisins for her smoothie.

It’s all better than tipping cows, I suppose. After all, I’m pathologically parsimonious and they take umbrage at my usual 10 percent.

In the real world of agribusiness, grain processors apparently employ no private trainers. They use heavy rollers to press oat groats into flat flakes, then steam and lightly toast them.

Independence Day

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“Too often in recent history liberal governments
have been wrecked on rocks of loose fiscal policy.”

Here’s a revolutionary idea.

Independence Day commemorates our declaration of independence from the King of England. The revolution officially began two days earlier when the Second Continental Congress approved the legal separation of the American colonies from Great Britain, a resolution proposed by Richard Henry Lee of Virginia in June. After voting for independence on July 2, Congress debated and revised the Declaration itself for two whole days and approved it on July 4.

In the centuries since, only the 111th Congress has moved with anywhere near the speed of that first gathering, since the 111th Congress passed trillions of dollars of spending on millions of pages of bills in less than 100 days. And no one in Washington read any of them.

The Declaration of Independence fits on one page. Everyone in the Continental Congress read the whole thing.

In Peoria just one hundred fifty-seven years ago Rep. Abraham Lincoln said,

Nearly eighty years ago we began by declaring that all men are created equal; but now from that beginning we have run down to the other declaration, that for some men to enslave others is a “sacred right of self-government.” … Our republican robe is soiled and trailed in the dust. Let us repurify it. … Let us re-adopt the Declaration of Independence, and with it, the practices, and policy, which harmonize with it.

Lincoln spoke of the enslavement of persons. Today our republican robe is soiled and trailed in the dust by a government that would enslave We the Overtaxed People, taking more and more of our rights and our land and our life’s blood to its own purpose.

Just to rekindle our liberal friends, Franklin Delano Roosevelt made the “loose fiscal policy” quote.

The 112th Congress is back to its usual wiener roasts and Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus is indeed still fiddling in Washington.

Two hundred thirty-three years ago today, General George Washington marked July 4 with a double ration of rum and an artillery salute for the soldiers who fought off the foreign monarchy that did enslave us. It is now time to mark July 4 with a double ration of electoral salute to those who would be the modern monarchy of government.



Much of our litigious life today grew out of English Common Law. We abandoned one really good idea in the first Revolution, though. We abandoned the No Confidence vote.

An earlier version of this column appeared in 2009.

FLAT-TAX

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Editor’s Note: This column is the second in my three-part series on taxes; it appeared in the Burlington Free Press in 1996. I have not updated the numbers.

I have met many people who think paying taxes is fair. I have met even more who think our current tax system is unfair.

Taxes on earned income are the most equitable way to raise revenue. Our income comes from our productivity: make a widget, sell the widget, get paid. Taxing land, cars, stock certificates, machinery, bank franchises, electric energy, and insurance is an artificial method to sneak money out of your wallet. Current tax laws do all that and more.

Politicians have made the flat tax this year’s buzz word. Unfortunately, these same representatives just passed the 12th “short term” spending resolution, instead of working on substantive tax reform.

I have long admired the flat tax in principle; in practice it has the potential for burdening the low income taxpayers who today pay little or no taxes and for hammering the middle class taxpayers who pay most of the bills.

We need four canons to make a flat tax work fairly:

  • Every wage earner pays a small percentage of his income as tax; income includes interest and capital gains but not dividends.

 

  • Every wage earner files an income tax return.

 

  • Every wage earner gets a substantial “personal deduction” and no other discounts.

 

  • Every wage earner pays a different percentage of any remaining income as tax.

Every citizen owns a piece of the federal government and each of us has a responsibility for its good operation. Let’s set a figure of 4% of income as the minimum cost of governance. Everybody pays that, regardless of their [dire or rosy] straits.

Obliterate the married/single/household head categories. That simplifies our calculations, eliminates all discussion of the “marriage penalty,” and assures we each file a return.

We ought not tax a wage earner for the cost of creating that income. That means we should exempt some common amount for basic shelter, food, and commuting costs but not spare any other expenses. Let us remember that the current tax code grew out of a fairly simple system. Once upon a time, our income tax taxed income; then the politicians and special interest groups changed the code to foster social change. Want everyone to buy a home? Grant a mortgage deduction. Need more babies to work the fields or factories? Create an exemption for kids. Need to work those oil wells? Concoct a depletion allowance. Make the personal deduction $21,500.

After deducting that $21,500 from your paycheck, pay an additional 24% percent on whatever is left.

If you earn less than $21,500, you owe 4% of what you made. Period. If you earn more, the flat tax percentage assures you will pay a little less than today’s tax schedule demands.

“But wait!” you say. “Gomer Gotrocks netted half a million last year. The tax table says he owes $145,072 but under your plan he’ll pay $29,372 less in taxes. He’ll save more than I make in a year!”

Reality check. Anyone clearing half a million a year can find $100,000 in effortless deductions today. With those “small” deductions, the tax table says Gomer now owes only $114,072. That’s a wee bit less than the expected $115,700 flat tax on his half million. Now imagine this dream in living color; Gomer can actually find a lot more than $100,000 to subtract today.

This plan gives folks earning under $8,800 a small financial stake in governance for the first time. It also makes taxpayers earning between $40,000 and $65,000 and those earning over $200,000 pay a little more.

We may have to fiddle with the percentages and deduction. My rates and deductible may not produce enough revenue to run Washington. If that’s true, we have two choices: (1) change the tax rate or the deductible, or (2) put Washington on a diet.

 

On the Road Again

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A day late.

According to most folks here, I’ve been goofing off in South Puffin for the last couple of weeks. OK, I did goof off there some of the time, but I spent a month on the road over the past three days.

Rufus had left his truck at my little island house (y’all understand how nice it is to live on an island you can drive to, yes?) And I volunteered not only to drive it off the island but to take it all the way north.

Road trip!

Traffic on the southbound 18-mile stretch into the Keys had backed up to Homestead. The great state of Florida has finished eight-years of the five-year project to rebuild most of that two-lane highway into a wider two-lane highway so it can handle more traffic without tie-ups. They have about two-years to go before they finish.

The planning proved itself Saturday. Traffic on the new single-lane southbound 18-mile stretch into the Keys had backed up to Homestead because one lane was blocked by an accident and its emergency vehicles. A fire truck, an ambulance, and a bunch of police cars had parked around a couple of scrunched cars.

Fortunately, I was northbound.

Oddly, none of the emergency folk was working on any of the cars as I flashed past. They were all looking over the pastel green concrete guardwalls into the marsh below.

I love road trips. Sights I have never seen before, people I’ve never talked to, expensive gasoline. I have to wonder why, though, when it hadn’t rained for six months in South Puffin did Rufus’ truck need ark building lessons just a couple of hours after I re-entered the United States?

Some of that rain slowed me to 30 mph on the Interstate when most of the other cars were going slower. Many pulled off. Other than the rain, the boat dragged up on a flatbed tow truck, half a dozen other accidents, and a few micronaps, the first day on the road was uneventful.

And the truck got really clean.

It is unusual to see a V-bottom boat lying on its keel and chine on a tow truck bed when there is what appeared to be a perfectly good boat trailer right there on the road. Of course, right behind the boat trailer was a sedan with its nose and its tail stove in. I’m thinking the car rear ended the boat, knocked it off its trailer into the road, and got itself rear ended in turn.

I landed at a AAA-rated motel in Walterboro, SC. I have no idea how they got a AAA rating. I had planned to stay in the Country Hearth until they stiffed me by not honoring their coupon or their marquee price; I won’t stay there again. The motel I did choose had an easy and fast Internet connection and a micro fridge but I didn’t find the ice maker until morning.

Late arising, I missed the Continental breakfast (dried bread with a dollop of lemon Jell-O).

The best part of the trip came by mistake. I like the (lower case) blue routes meaning the real thing, not the website, but this trip needed speed so I planned to bang it out on the Interstate. Until I got to Richmond and found nothing but traffic. I hate traffic. I hate traffic lights. The roads should clear whenever I need to drive.

Anyway, Rufus routed me onto 301 North. Our family drove 301 most weekends when we kept the boat on the Eastern Shore. I drove across the Bay bridge and up. Good looking corn. Golden waves of grain. Brick mansions and horse fences and development houses. Kent Island looks built up beyond its ability to support concrete but the rest of the ride showed me you can go home again.

I stopped in Chestertown, MD. We had kept the boat at Kibler’s Marina (now the Chestertown Marina) on the Chester River and most weekends went no farther than Devils Reach to drop the hook. A fellow washing down his boat and I talked a bit. He had not known Joe Strong.

I met Joe Strong in 1960 or so, about the same time my folks did. He and my dad were contemporaries so he was an old guy to me. The lifelong Chestertown resident was a 1938 graduate of Chestertown High School; my dad was a 1937 graduate of West Chester High School. During World War II, Joe enlisted in the Navy and attained the rank of lieutenant; my dad enlisted in the Army and attained the rank of lieutenant. Joe was assigned to Cape May, N.J. where he flew patrol missions over the Atlantic. After the war, he returned to Chestertown, where he owned and operated C. W. Kibler & Sons, selling coal and fertilizer and lime and seeds. He also owned Kibler’s Marina and opened the Old Wharf restaurant next door where he helped the 11-12 year-old me collect Coke™ bottles for the deposits so I’d have some change to bowl ducks when my folks were working on the boat.

Joseph Wilbur Strong Sr. died in Delaware in 2005 just 4 months after my dad died in Florida.

The marina has changed — Joe’s old CCKW truck that he used to haul boats on the shallow railway was replaced by a Travelift years ago — but people still work on their own boats there.

This was also Bentley weekend. I passed a Continental GTC with the top down somewhere in Georgia and chatted with the owner of a Mulsanne at a gas stop in Virginia. I don’t know if he was a lawyer or a politician. By the way, it is rather a joy to spend some time on the Bentley Configurator. Even if spell-check doesn’t think so.

Perhaps the oddest part of the trip came on Monday when Rufus drove me from his Bucks County, PA home to Newark to catch a plane to Philly so I could catch a plane to Vermont. USAir priced the Vermont flight alone at over $600, but by flying into Philly in a propeller driven aircraft, I saved $500.

It’s been decades since I flew out of Newark. They have added gates but they haven’t found much new space so it is a very cramped airport. USAir tagged my carry-on for gate check (obvii) but I snagged an exit row seat in Row Two, and I ended up playing footsies with the aft-facing passengers in Row One and trying to disguise my laptop bag so they wouldn’t gate check it, too.

The second leg was not only late but oversold by three seats. I made it aboard although they gate checked my carry-on again.

So, here I AM™ in North Puffin.

I had some issues getting the laptop hooked back up in my desk dock. I can’t find my good keyboard, so I’m using a spare with goofy Home/Del key placement. My good Yamaha speakers got stupid while I was gone and couldn’t remember how to make noise. I plumbed in a spare pair which work fine, so I’ll have to figure out why the Yammies don’t. And I still haven’t found my webcam. It’s packed somewhere. Or gate checked.

And !@#$%^ Comcast turned off the Internet just when things were getting good last night.

I missed walkies during the trip so tying up my sneaks felt good this morning. I did a little property inspection here and down the road. The state probably figures it is done with the flood cleanup. They have shoveled out most of the debris and have spread new gravel over the road shoulders. The neighbors have cut up a few of the washed up trees into firewood size chunks. The southernmost camp looks fairly clean of the big stuff although their shed is now sitting, orphaned, almost by the road and their docks are still scattered and demolished. The family next to them has removed the skirt from their trailer which looks pretty ratty. The high lake waters drained last next door, so there is some debris and a lot of silt on that lawn. About all I have to do as a result of the flooding is mow.

And this morning, I learned how to say nothing at all by investigating what ontologists do.

Internet is up again. I gotta get back to work.