The right mix for the USA

Dumb and Dumber             

A Cocktail Party
Position

For several years, your Cocktail Party chairman had legislative liaison responsibilities for the U.S. Forest Service in research or management areas that included the State of Utah. There was a standard saying among legislative coordinators, including those who closely observed the Washington scene, regarding long-time Senator Orrin Hatch. It went like this:

“The only political people dumber than Orrin Hatch are his staff members.”

Now the Utah Senator is again proving his mettle by proposing a constitutional amendment to require balanced federal budgets. Rookie legislators in the House have passed a bill requiring balanced budgets; fortunately, it will go no further.

Mandatory balanced budgets work rather well at the state level, but there the stakes are quite different. Imagine a few scenarios should the feds have a strict balanced budget system:

1. Floods sweep over large parts of the Ohio River Basin. Several governors ask the President to declare disaster areas in their states and provide emergency federal funding to deal with the crisis. The President cannot comply; because it is late in the budget year and the government has insufficient funds earmarked for natural disaster relief, has no surplus funds in other accounts, and is not allowed to borrow money to cope with the unforeseen disaster.

2. North Korea without warning launches a massive missile attack on U.S. bases in South Korea and Japan. Military leaders urge immediate retaliation. The Commander in Chief says, “Sorry, boys, but we’re maxed out on the defense spending budget item right now. Your actions will just have to wait until next fiscal year unless we can quickly get three-fourths of the states to change the Constitution. We’ll probably have to eliminate Social Security next year to handle the extra military funding if we can’t get a substantial tax increase passed in a hurry.”

3. The State of California goes bankrupt. The Governor asks Congress for emergency funding to maintain the education, law enforcement, and prison systems while all the legal issues are being resolved. Congress has no funds budgeted for such bailouts, so it decides to respond by cutting 200 billion dollars from the authorization for defense spending.

4. Unprecedented forest and range fires burn huge acreages throughout the western States. The U.S. Forest Service asks Congress for a supplemental appropriation to pay for combating the blazes. To comply with the request, Congress cuts general disaster relief funds earmarked for such things as unforeseen flooding in the Midwest.

And round and round it could go. The federal government is where the buck stops when disasters strike us. That’s why the founding fathers wisely provided our government with the ability to borrow funds and didn’t say a word about balanced budgets.

We do need to reduce the size of the national debt in the near future, but removing the ability to borrow when necessary would be sheer folly. Borrowing is necessary right now, and will be for some time, to keep the good ship USS America from sinking and sucking the rest of the world’s economies down with it.

Senator Hatch is smart enough (just barely) to know that many Americans are dumb enough to think a federal balanced budget requirement would be just peachy-creamy. A balanced budget amendment would be horrible.

The Great American Cocktail Party is absolutely opposed to any requirement that the government of the United States be hamstrung by a balanced budget amendment or similar foolishness. Our representatives have enough trouble functioning rationally without that sort of impediment to effective government at the federal level.


To view the announcement of the founding of the Great American Cocktail Party visit the August 5, 2010 post titled “Coffee, Tea, or . . .” in the archive on the right-hand column of this Blog.

In Grateful                 
Memory

Seaman Aaron D. Ullom (U.S. Navy, assigned as a hospitalman to a Marine combat team), 20, Midland, Michigan. Killed while on patrol in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, July 12, 2011.

Will Work for Taxes

We were among the fortunate. My wife and I both were born before 1946, so my pension continued to be exempt when Michigan Gov. Snyder and his critics “compromised” by phasing in new taxes on retirement income rather than taxing all seniors the full amount immediately.

Almost hidden in the hot debates were the other two legs of the proposal to raise taxes on seniors. One removed the homestead tax credit for residences with assessed values above $135,000. The other removed the $3,200 individual personal income tax exemption for all seniors.

Thank you, governor, for sparing the oldest Michiganders such as us from part of the tax increase. Unfortunately, the other two tax increases will cut our spendable income by about $1,000 a year. We have no prospects for recovering that amount in the future, other than returning to work. At age 75, I’m having a hard time finding employment.

Perhaps one of those businesses Gov. Snyder said will use my higher tax payment to create jobs will hire me? I’ll wait for the calls.

(This item was published June 26 in the Kalamazoo Gazette. The Geezer is still waiting for the first job offer.)

In Grateful
Memory

                                                                                      
Staff Sgt. Joshua A. Throckmorton
(U.S. Army), 28, Battle Creek, Michigan.
Killed by an improvised bomb during an
attack by enemy forces in Paktika
Province, Afghanistan, July 5, 2011.



Sgt. Einer Ingman at age 82.



A True Hometown Hero

Other commitments kept me from attending the Fourth of July weekend activities in my hometown--Tomahawk, Wisconsin. That was unfortunate for several reasons.

The parade is a good one. There’s plenty of music, lots of participants, and having a Harley Davidson plant in town ensures there will be enough high-volume roaring to suit those who appreciate Fourth of July noise. Many high school classes hold reunions during the weekend, so it is a good time to renew old acquaintances.

But most important, I missed a chance to see a real American hero for the third time, and there probably won’t be many more chances. Most people have never seen a Medal of Honor or met anyone who has earned one. Sgt. Einer Ingman, who now lives in Irma near Tomahawk, received one for extreme valor during the Korean War.

Ingman is one of only 85 men alive today who have earned a Medal of Honor. About half the awards were made during the Civil War, when the medal was established. Since the start of World War II, only 859 soldiers, sailors, and airmen have earned the medal, and half forfeited their lives doing so. Ingman is one of just three Medal of Honor recipients now living in Wisconsin.

The Medal of Honor is nothing like those ribbons you see covering the chests of generals and admirals. That gaudy stuff mainly consists of unit citations awarded just for being somewhere, not doing anything. Earning a Medal of Honor requires heroic action.

I never was personally acquainted with Einer Ingman, but because of him I can claim membership in the small group of people who have seen both the medal and a recipient. In 1951, Ingman was flown from a military hospital to receive his award from President Harry Truman. Shortly thereafter, he took leave from a military hospital to be reunited with his family in Tomahawk.

The visit was somewhat of a surprise to civic leaders, but they moved quickly to set up a parade and a program to recognize Ingman. I marched in the high school band during the parade. Immediately after that, the program was held in Pride Athletic Park. I was among the spectators.

Tomahawk people did themselves proud. They gave Sgt. Ingman a new Buick sedan and what is almost as essential in northern Wisconsin—a new boat. I was close enough to the hero to see the award he wore around his neck.

A few days later, I got much closer to Ingman. We were in a small group waiting for the doors to open at the Lyric Theater for an evening movie. Ingman had difficulty walking with a cane and support from his girlfriend, who he married a year later. Frankly, it was hard to look at his disfigured face. It was said he had a dozen operations up to that time. He ended up having 30, before surgeons could do no more for him.

I said “Hi,” and he said “Hi.” I think it was just a ritual hometown greeting. He joined the Army while living in southern Wisconsin, and thus probably made north wood’s visits only occasionally on leave. Two years earlier, I worked with his brother, Bobby Ingman, for two months at the Highland Egg Farm near Tomahawk, and that was my only direct contact with the Ingman family, I think the war hero was just saying hello to everybody he encountered, which is customary in small Midwestern towns.

In the 59 years since, I’ve never crossed paths with Sgt. Ingman. He and wife Mardelle, who had seven children, attended numerous patriotic events over those years, including 11 presidential inaugurations. I had to make a living during that time, and didn’t travel in the same circles.

Medal of Honor recipients are so rare because of the extreme courage they must exhibit to merit the award. Here is a summary of what Sgt. Ingman (then a corporal) did to earn his medal, and what happened to him as a result:

Ingman was in one of two lead squads of an assault platoon in Korea. While attacking a fortified ridge held by the enemy, the platoon was pinned down and both squad leaders and several men were wounded. Ingman assumed command, combined what was left of the two squads, and formulated an attack plan.

Than Ingman single-handedly attacked a machine gun crew that was firing on his group, tossed a grenade into the emplacement, and killed the soldiers with his rifle. He approached a second machine gun, and was knocked to the ground and lost part of one ear when a grenade exploded near his head. As he got to his feet, he was shot in the face by a Chinese soldier. The bullet entered his upper lip and exited behind his ear.

Ingman continued his attack on the machine gun emplacement, firing his rifle and killing the remaining crew with his bayonet. He then fell unconscious as his men captured the objective and forced the enemy troops to flee.

Ingman was sent to Tokyo for medical treatment; he regained consciousness seven days after the battle. He lost his left eye and the hearing in his left ear, and had severe amnesia. Memories gradually returned after emergency brain surgery, but he has experienced memory problems throughout his life since and has difficulty speaking clearly. He was transferred to Percy Jones Army Hospital in Battle Creek, MI, for additional treatment, which spanned two years and included 23 surgeries.

What heroic action and what a horrible price to pay. I relate the details only to emphasize the huge sacrifices made by men who earned the Medal of Honor.  Ingman still carries the scars of battle, and now is wheelchair-bound.  The photo here was published recently by the Tomahawk Leader.

My hometown people saluted Sgt. Einer Ingman once again with a special ceremony on July 5, sixty years to the day after he earned his Medal of Honor. I wish I could have been there, if only just to say “Hi” to a hero.



“The Fridge” (left) and the kitchen variety both can inflict considerable pain. Encountering either one should be a young man's game.

 Refrigerators. . . Ouch!

I used to shudder while watching William “The Refrigerator” Perry run over pro football opponents when he was among the stars on some great Chicago Bears teams. Probably part of my horror was because “The Fridge” seemed to save his most ferocious attacks for my favorites, the Green Bay Packers, who were suffering through some bad years at the time.

The Bears added insult to the Packers’ injuries in one memorable game when they placed Perry, a defensive tackle, at running back. He promptly plowed over and through a couple of Packers on his way into the end zone for a touchdown. I remember wondering at the time how it might feel to be hit by “The Fridge” when he was traveling under a full head of steam. I got a pretty good idea a couple of weeks ago.

Perry claimed he weighed 382 pounds at his physical peak. That was in 1985 when Da Bears won the Super Bowl. The average weight of refrigerators in American homes nowadays is 400 pounds. As part of our ongoing home remodeling project, I was on a two-man team moving a slightly below-average-sized fridge down a flight of stairs. It and Perry probably would have been a match on the scales.

We were not novices at appliance moving. Equipped with a rented professional-model dolly, we securely attached the refrigerator and worked it into position at the head of the stairs. Being the oldest team member (by far!), I took the easy position below the unit. All went well for a while.

Then, about halfway down, we loused up our procedure somehow. The fridge started thundering down the stairs right on top of me. There was nowhere to go but down as fast as I could, and that wasn’t fast enough. The refrigerator bashed me against the wall at the bottom and pinned one arm and both legs to the floor.

I suffered a gash on one leg, a cut elbow, a slice on a hand, a terribly painful knee on the other leg, and assorted scrapes and bruises. When my moving team pal managed to crawl over the fridge and pry it up so I could escape, he asked, “Did you hit your head?”

“Are there any dents in the wall?” I asked.

“None that I can see.”

“Then I didn’t.”

For two days I could hobble about 15 feet from my bed to the bathroom with painful effort and help from a walking stick and anything else I could grab to take pressure off my knee. Two weeks later I could walk fairly normally, and most of the cuts and bruises had healed quite well. Today, everything is back to normal.

I’ve decided fooling around with refrigerators is a young man’s game. In a way I was lucky my encounter with a runaway 380-pound object happened late in life on a stairway rather than as a youth on a football field. Granted, those Packers “Refrigerator” Perry plowed through wore protective helmets and pads, but they didn’t have several weeks to heal up before their next game.

In Grateful Memory                


Pfc. Brian J. Bakhus (U.S. Army), 21, Saginaw Township, Michigan. Killed by small arms fire in Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, June 18, 2011.

Ah, Yet Another 
 Benefit

The right mix for the USA

                                                                     
A Cocktail Party
Informational 

Our executive committee was entertained recently by a newspaper column written by two automotive experts. They were asked if cleaning an engine’s spark plugs with vodka was a good idea, and if so what brand was recommended.

The response to the main question was an emphatic “Yes,” with the observation that any type of alcohol is good for cleaning up accumulated grime and sludge. We have known that for years. It is only logical to believe that a few well-constructed, highly alcoholic, martinis ingested at decent intervals have played a key role in keeping our chairman’s piping in excellent condition for more than five decades.

The mechanical wizards went on to recommend using expensive vodka and avoiding any of the juice and vegetable additives favored by the younger set in what they erroneously claim are martinis. The mechanics were right on the second count, but way wrong on the first.

Their error was in succumbing to what we call the “James Bond Syndrome.” Who has not heard 007 ordering up his favorite drink, a “vodka (pronounced in Bondian British something like vuwadka) martini, shaken, not stirred?” Rubbish, we say. Bond was an exemplary agent, but a total failure as a martini connoisseur.

First, vodka is a tasteless beverage favored by Russian peasants and depressed businessmen who would rather get quickly drunk to forget their woes than have their palates pleasantly tickled. Gin, on the other hand, has a unique taste associated with imperial splendor and fashionable cocktail gatherings around the world. Second, shaking a martini is premature, and thus counter-productive. An excellent martini features two small stuffed olives and a very small amount of vermouth. If you shake the gin and vermouth and pour it over the olives, much is lost. Ice is important. Drinking martinis “straight up” can be disastrous to your equilibrium.

The proper way to make an excellent martini is to fill a glass with ice, add two small olives, pour in two jiggers of gin (large if you really want to get blasted, small if you don’t) and add a dash of vermouth. Stir the liquid gently with a toothpick or swizzle stick upon which the olives are impaled. Stand or sit with a compatible person or persons, sip slowly at intervals, and enjoy the experience.

Never drink only a single martini. That will unbalance your body chemistry and ruin your disposition. Two is the correct number. Three is too many, unless you have a fervent wish for something approaching oblivion.

Two more instructions should be heeded. For the very best martinis, chill the glasses for a half hour before you do anything else. Putting them in the freezer does this nicely. If you have no room, surrounding the glasses with ice cubes or chips in an insulated container is almost as good.

Use any cheap gin and the most expensive vermouth you can find (Martini and Rossi is recommended). This is important for your economic well-being. If you have followed the other steps to successful martini making and ingesting, you will enjoy the result and save a good deal of money in the long run.

Cheers!

Read It Your Way        

German friend Eckart Maier chided the geezer with several messages while he was reading Days With The Dads: Recollections of a Small-Time Journalist, by Richard J. Klade.

Maier read the book a few pages at a time over several months during his daily train commute to work. He advised that a version available on a hand-held electronic device would have made his journey through the memoir more pleasurable.

Eckart, it took a while, but your suggestion, and probably those of others, got action. Now, the 120 million or so readers who can shop at “iBookstore” and own an iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch can buy an edition of Days With The Dads specially formatted for them to enjoy. The price is a bargain $8.99, a big discount from the retail cost of a paper version.


What will our intrepid production company president, Sancho Thuesen, come up with next?

Apple describes the contents of the new addition to its library thus: “An array of stories—many funny, some educational, and a few inspirational—take readers through the evolution of middle-class American society from the years just after World War II until the Iraq War era.”


Readers now can have it their way, whatever that may be.

By Which Rules?

In sports, as well as in life, there are written and unwritten rules. And sometimes, the unwritten ones take precedence.

Two incidents in major league baseball just a few days apart illustrate the point. Both involved catchers. I toiled at that position as a youth on grade school, high school, American Legion, and county league teams, so the news got my attention.

First, Buster Posey, a legitimate all-star performer with the San Francisco Giants, had a broken leg after an opponent crashed into him instead of sliding as Posey awaited a throw near the plate. Posey is out for the season. Just days later, Houston Astros’ catcher Humberto Quintero was put on the 15-day disabled list with a sprained ankle after a collision at home plate.

What’s new? Not much. Catchers have led most leagues in injuries since the game began back in the 1800s. “Muddy” Ruel knew of what he spoke when he dubbed the face mask, shin guards, and chest protector (plus a cup to protect a young man’s most important parts) as “The Tools of Ignorance.” Ruel was a catcher for the Washington Senators. The implication was that intelligent people with some semblance of ability could choose more rewarding positions with fewer hazards.

I was a very slow runner with other limited skills, so working behind the plate was my only real chance to participate in what was then, without a doubt, America’s pastime. Green Bay Packers t-shirts were rarely seen when I was a kid in Wisconsin. Chicago Cubs and White Sox and St. Louis Cardinals (and eventually Milwaukee Braves) caps were common. Every rinky-dink town had a baseball team, and, especially on Sundays, going out to the old ballpark was the thing to do. Boys wanted to be part of the action, and donning “The Tools of Ignorance” was my chance for glory.
 
My baseball career ended at age 17. By then I was smart enough to know I couldn’t hit curve balls tossed by even washed-up former minor league players. I also knew by then I had a relatively weak throwing arm to go with my poor foot speed. Before those truths dawned on me, I had played in several hundred games.

Four things remain from my days on the diamond. A deep bone bruise in my left hand still hurts if something hits there hard enough. The thumb on my right hand is noticeably larger than the one on the left, the result of being split open (it resembled an overcooked hotdog at the time) by a foul tip. All four fingers on my left hand work just fine (I can type really fast), but I can bend them at the first joint in a way few other people can. My left kneecap has a small scar over an area that serves well as a weather forecaster.

That’s what catchers do. They get hurt, whether the hurt is applied by errant balls, foul tips, flying bats, or base runners intent on scoring any way they can.

During the time I played, and to this day, the written rule in baseball said a catcher cannot impede a runner by standing in the base path without the ball. I knew that, because I made an effort to be familiar with the rules of the game.

My high school coach, who was a former minor league catcher as well as a college football star, never mentioned it. He taught the unwritten rule: “Your job as a catcher is to guard that plate. Make the opponents respect your territory. Whenever you can, make them pay a price for crossing the plate.”

My mentor pointed out that catchers have an advantage. The “Tools of Ignorance” give them some armor-plating the runners don’t have. That doesn’t always help, though. It often didn’t help in county ball.

The Lincoln County League, where I played two summers, was made up mostly of men in their 20s and 30s with only a smattering of high school boys. It was a man’s game, no question.

In one contest at Tug Lake, a community consisting almost entirely of a tavern and a rudimentary baseball field with no fences, the going got rough. Early in the game, a runner charged in from third base after tagging up on a fly ball. I took the throw and had plenty of time to block the path between him and the plate. He chose to slide with one foot high enough in the air to rake a spike across my leg above my shin guard. There is no written rule against that kind of high-spiking; there is an unwritten rule.

He was the third out, so the father of one of our players had time to give me medical attention between innings. That consisted of pulling a piece of sod out of my wound, dousing the cut with beer, and applying a bandage brought by a lady who had been watching the game from a window in the tavern. I continued to play. We had no subs.

A bit later, one of my teammates, Joe Obey, retaliated. Obey weighed well over 200 pounds and had success as a football center and hockey goalie among his athletic credentials. He was clearly out at first base on a routine ground ball. The first baseman somewhat sloppily let his foot drag over the bag. Obey stepped on it. Howls of pain and a few choice words resulted, but there was no serious injury.

Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not, an opposing runner tried to run right over me several innings later. He was attempting to score on an infield ground ball. I blocked the plate without the ball, assuming it had a chance of arriving about the time he did. It did.

The runner threw himself into me with a sort of clumsy cross-body block. But he missed most of me. I heard a sharp crack as I tagged him out. The middle of his shin had collided with the middle of my shin guard. He had a broken leg. The game was stopped for some time waiting for a stretcher and an ambulance. There were no further incidents, and both teams adjourned to the bar after the contest.

In the wake of the major league collisions, some are proposing rules changes to make it illegal for runners to try to level catchers and to keep catchers from impeding a runner’s path to the plate. The latter already is the rule. Neither of the two injured big league catchers had the ball when they were bashed. They were the ones violating the rule, not the runners.

The better player of the two, Posey, made somewhat conflicting statements. “I don’t think he did anything illegal,” he said of the runner who broke his leg. Later, he suggested that runners might be required to slide if “a lane presented itself.” Why should they have to slide when they could score by just running straight ahead?

Traditionalists yowled that just because an all-star was seriously hurt doesn’t mean the rules should be changed, and that injuries in the battleground around home plate are inevitable. I’m pretty much of an anti-violence guy, but in this case I’m with the traditionalists.

And, it’s not all bad to have a left knee that throbs a little to warn you when a storm is coming.

In Grateful Memory

Pfc. Robert L. Voakes, Jr. (U.S. Army), 21, L’Anse, Michigan. Killed by an enemy explosive in Laghman Province, Afghanistan, June 4, 2011.

One Up, For Sure


The geezer used to get lots of laughs with this line:

“Utah has a higher birth rate than Bangladesh.”

Well, no one stays atop the comedy charts for long. Recently, blogger Kay Dennison (http://kaysthinkingcap.blogspot.com) provided a U-Tube link in which Bill Maher rolled them in the aisles while discussing presidential candidate Mitt Romney. Maher said:

 “Mormons have a higher birth rate that Catholics on Ecstasy.”

He’ll Be There


A trusted commentator, who keeps track of such things, wrote on Memorial Day that many communities abandoned the traditional parades years ago. She said the holiday, originally established to honor Civil War dead, was becoming nothing more than a chance for family barbeques and other outings preceded by heavily promoted sales of outdoor merchandise. I was shocked.


By gum, Plainwell, Michigan, hasn’t abandoned our parade. People decked out in red, white, and blue came from near and far. The Martin Fire Department even dispatched a truck, and their village is seven or eight miles away. Imagine that.


I lucked out. A little bench in front of the Plainwell Ice Cream Company, the most popular place in town during summer, miraculously was empty. There I perched for the whole show.


Just as I settled down, a white-haired man wearing a Veterans of Foreign Wars outfit sat down on the other end of the bench. As he rose to offer up a salute when the honor guard carried Old Glory past us, I noticed his shirt and trousers were crisply pressed, the brass insignia on his collar and cap sparkled, and his black shoes gleamed. I also noticed, as the procession continued, veterans and military personnel in the parade often SALUTED HIM as they passed by our bench.


Things like that still happen in small towns.


The parade was almost a replica of those held a half-century ago in my hometown, which is just about the size of Plainwell. The high school band tried mightily to stay in some sort of formation and deliver a martial air. Children, young and old, followed the band in various costumes and vehicles. Restorers of old cars and tractors showed off their prize possessions.


Floats (I use the term very loosely) sponsored by businesses, churches, schools, and other organizations appeared at intervals. Most were decorated trucks of various sizes and vintages. Three displayed signs honoring a Plainwell boy killed in Afghanistan just a week earlier (see previous post). After the parade, a special ceremony at the city’s veteran’s memorial monument honored him. That was nice.


Everything wasn’t solemn, though. Few others seemed to make the connection, but I doubled over in laughter after a business “float” followed by a dozen girls decked out in Uncle Sam uniforms had passed. A point of local pride is that boys from our county formed the Federal unit that captured Confederate President Jefferson Davis near the end of the Civil War. Apparently unaware of which side Michigan was on, the operator of a CD player on the “float” programmed it to blare out the strains of “Dixie.”


What the heck, nobody in the parade was a professional, except the cops who kept things in order and the firemen who showed off their equipment. After the last police car signaled the end of the procession, many of the bystanders headed for an ice cream social on the lawn of the Community Center. The social was conducted by volunteers to benefit a women’s shelter charity.


The VFW guy and his wife just got up without a word and headed, arm-in-arm, for their car, which was parked not far from mine.


Abandon the Memorial Day Parade? I’ll bet if that old vet hears of any such nonsense, he’ll personally march through Plainwell to keep it from happening.

In Grateful Memory

PFC Thomas C. Allers (U.S. Army),

23, Plainwell, Michigan, killed by an    

improvised bomb in Kunar Province,

Afghanistan, May 23, 2011. We did

not know the family; many in our

area did.  He was an only child and

a well-liked grad of the local high

school.

The Price is What?


A few years ago, when beautiful wife Sandy and I were young marrieds, we had to watch every penny to stay above the poverty line. Included in our little family was a lovable poodle named Mitch—for Mitch Miller, the sing-along star of TV fame. Trust me; there really was a resemblance between the jovial band leader and our favorite pooch.


We wanted all the best for Mitch so, despite our meager bank account, when doggie problems came up we promptly took him to a veterinarian of good repute. Dr. Shebanek had a degree from Ohio State as a credential, and a pleasant dog-side manner that made clients want to return whenever professional care was indicated. After several visits, we noticed the bill was identical for quite different services.


We began to refer to the good vet as “Twenty-dollar Shebanek.” We paid that amount every time we put Mitch in his care. Perhaps the limited fee schedule was a way of simplifying his bookkeeping.


Nearly a half century and lots of cost inflation later, we noticed a certain parallel. Sandy’s computer went soundless. Our favorite expert couldn’t fix it. It was repaired at the local techie place. Cost: $200.


This happened about a week after a blogger from Ohio reported her computer developed a mysterious ailment, which her electronic expert friend couldn’t fix. It went into the shop for repairs. Cost: $200. Just after Sandy’s puter returned to duty a blogger in Virginia said his machine went whacko and was sent off for treatment because he could not find a cure. Cost: $200.


We just don’t know what to call the repair nerds. Maybe, $200 geeks? Doesn’t seem to have much pizzazz to it.

Hold That Celebration


All sorts of reports appeared over the weekend of people in many places partying and cracking bad jokes because it appeared that the forecast Judgment Day and associated Rapture transporting the worthy to heaven was just another false alarm.


Well, hold on there a minute, folks.


It is true that Judgment Day did not start at 6 p.m. on May 21 in New Zealand with an earthquake as the prophesy said it would. And nothing spectacular happened at 6 p.m. as we progressed through the other time zones. But that is not cause for celebration or ridicule. The preacher who launched the whole idea surely will point this out as soon as he has had a chance to think things through.


A quick check of the status of most of my friends and acquaintances shows all are still with us. But we would have to check the missing person lists worldwide to be sure others were not raptured soon after their clocks struck six. It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but few if any of my contacts have unblemished records. I may have committed a few minor transgressions myself. It is, therefore, not surprising that none of us vanished over the weekend.

If the bar was set very high, it just could be that only a dozen or so humans qualified to rise into the kingdom on the 21st. The rest of humanity, according to the prophesy, will get what’s coming to us between now and October 22. During that time, a series of catastrophes will extinguish many lives throughout the world. On the 21st, presumably at 6 p.m. although the prophet didn’t state the hour for this event, the world will end in a fiery ball.


Looking at things this way explains something that’s been bothering me. Following my generous offer (see May 11 post) to accept excess assets from all who believed they were too wealthy to make it into heaven, I received only two responses. One fellow blogger sent me a bill for $40,010.00, after calculating that his net worth was under water. The other respondent mailed a check for $1.37.


It’s too late now to make yourself more attractive by shedding your cash. You’ll all just have to join me in toughing it out until fall. Then we can party with confidence.

Modesty, First Class


For about 20 years when we lived in Ogden, Utah, the Geezer regularly played golf on Saturday mornings at the Ben Lomond Golf Club with the “Local Legends.” The Legends were mostly U.S. Forest Service personnel and retirees, but there was some diversity in the membership.


For a time, Richard Jones, a professor at Weber State University, played in the group. Of course, he almost immediately became known as “Dr. J.” What else?


Dr. J. was a big man who appeared to be in excellent condition and could hit golf balls a long way. He soon was asked the obvious question, “Did you play football in college?”


“Yeah, I played for a couple of years at a small West Coast school,” the professor somewhat grudgingly admitted.


Dr. J. continued with a story about one of the toughest games he ever played in when Michigan State badly defeated his team. Spartan coach Duffy Daugherty went directly into the losing team’s locker room after the game and gave a little speech telling the dejected players they should be proud of they way they conducted themselves during the contest. Dr. J. said he had never forgotten that example of goodwill by an opponent and how he was positively affected by it.


What was the “small West Coast school” whose team lost that day with our friend at tackle?


Stanford.

In Grateful Memory 

Cpl. Daniel W. Courneya (U.S. Army) 19, Vermontville, Michigan. Killed by enemy fire near Al Taga, Iraq, May 12, 2011.

Let Me Save You


We have been assured by Christian fundamentalist Harold Camping and his followers that the long-awaited Judgment Day is May 21. That gives us only ten more days of normal life.


The Geezer was concerned. A quick google of “Judgment Day” turned up all the biblical arguments and associated mathematical formulas that Camping says prove beyond a doubt we all will be brought to judgment on the 21st. Further, after a period of Rapture in which the “elect” will be taken up into heaven, the world will end on October 21. The webpage evidence was overwhelming. It made a believer of me.


Being convinced we now are living in the last few day’s of the history of earth, I did a little more Internet searching for details about just who the “elect” may be. Well, I found precisely who they will not be.


The Christian bible says, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God.” Wow! That’s pretty clear. We can assume that rich women, except for very skinny ones, also are excluded from entering the pearly gates. In the days Matthew allegedly penned the words, men didn’t feel much obligation to give spending money to their ladies, which probably explains the discriminatory language.


Some fundamentalists have tried to wiggle out of the clear biblical meaning by claiming the “eye” really is a narrow street or gate, so only the chubbiest of billionaires would have to be concerned. A majority of religious thinkers, however, say those who put forth this view are full of camel dung. The needle is a needle, and needles don’t have big eyes. And camels have big humps.


Unfortunately, nowhere in the bible is there a concise, or any other, definition of “rich.” So we are left on our own to figure that out. At least in America, almost everyone who is not extremely wealthy took a real kick in the assets during the last two years. So, it seems fair to define as “rich” any person whose net worth at the moment exceeds $10.


After pondering the situation at length, I have decided to sacrifice myself to save vast numbers of my fellow citizens. After all, I have lived a long and satisfying life. It is now time to dedicate what few days remain to others.


If you are nervous about your wealth, you can wrest yourself from among the rich guys who are going to unpleasant places on October 21 by cashing everything in and sending me the difference between your liquified assets and $10. Hurry. This offer definitely expires at midnight May 20. After that, it's a crap shoot.


Should the million-to-one chance that the fundamentalists are wrong actually happen and we are still here on October 22, I will cheerfully return all of your cash (except for a minor administrative fee of 5 percent to cover postage, transportation, and office expenses).


No need to thank me. The joy of giving myself up for a good cause will be reward enough.

Was He Worth It?


Two related things deserving of comment happened this week at almost the same time. As just about everybody knows, President Obama announced that Osama bin Laden had been killed in Pakistan. A day earlier, a Blog reader asked why I limit posts honoring our war dead in the Middle East to men and women from Michigan.


Considering the question first, the Geezer would like to honor all our troops and those of our allies equally. Unfortunately, I simply don’t have the time or resources to identify and salute every individual who falls in combat or is killed as a result of our wars in the Muslim world.


I only had to lower my flag and do a post here four times during April to recognize American heroes from my home state of Michigan who were killed in the Middle East. Four is a terrible toll, but it is only a fraction of the 49 young men and women from throughout the USA who were killed during April in Afghanistan and Iraq. And it is an even smaller number compared to the total of NATO allies lost plus hundreds of Afghans and Iraqis killed during the month.


The news media seem to have lost any interest they had in reporting Middle East casualties, but if you want to keep track of part of the carnage you can do so at http://freedomremembered.com/. That site will give you details of American deaths as they continue at the rate of about one every day. For the others, you will have to do additional detective work.


One of our government’s stated purposes for spending nearly a decade as an occupying force in Afghanistan was to hunt down bin Laden. Now we have succeeded in that. I most assuredly do not mourn his passing. But I wonder whether the life of that despicable monster was worth even one of the fallen sons, daughters, or grandchildren of my Michigan neighbors and many other good people throughout the world who participated in his pursuit.


Will we now honor all of our troops and their comrades by bringing them home?

In Grateful Memory                


Pfc. Robert M. Friese (U.S. Army) 21, Chesterfield, Michigan. Killed by a rocket-propelled grenade, Al Qadisiyah Province, Afghanistan, April 29, 2011.

In Grateful Memory
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Sgt. David P. Day (U.S. Marine Corps) 26, Gaylord, Michigan. Killed by a roadside bomb, Badghis Province, Afghanistan, April 24, 2011.

The Right Mix for the USA

Those Cats are Too Fat 

A Cocktail Party Position on Taxes
  


Now that some of the smoke and hot air has blown away and we are into serious discussions about federal budgets and how to stop the deficit bleeding, it is time to start talking sense about income tax rates. As usual, quite a few statements by politicians on both ends of the political spectrum twist the facts, or simply are not true.


One common assertion is almost true. The most recent Bush-era tax cuts are derided by political opponents as a gift to the wealthy. Actually, all taxpayers got a reduction. However, the very rich did benefit the most because the top dogs saw the maximum rate reduced from 44 percent to 35 percent, a huge advantage for them.


That brings up something often misunderstood about income taxes. Using an example that might apply to some of us mere mortals, let’s compare a couple filing jointly with taxable income of $50,000 and one whose income is $4 million. The tax rate for the little guys is 13.3 percent. The tax rate for the wealthy couple on the first $50,000 of their taxable income also is 13.3 percent—exactly the same. Higher rates for the high earners gradually kick-in at higher levels of income; the fat cat couple does not pay 35 percent on all of their income, only the amount that exceeds $379,150.


Consider President Obama’s income taxes this year. All recent presidents have made their return information public—a good thing. The Obamas filed jointly. Their income totaled $1.73 million. Most of it was the President’s $400,000 salary and royalties from three books he authored that sold millions of copies. The Obamas paid $453,770 in income taxes. That’s a lot of cash, but it is 26 percent and change, not 35 percent.


Knowing their tax records will be made public no doubt inhibits the Obamas from using tax loopholes to reduce their rate to an even lower level. Most wealthy folks have no such constraints. They can hire accountants and attorneys the little guys cannot afford. It is well-documented that the experts guide their clients to numerous legal ways to avoid a whole lot of income taxes. The rich don’t need much help in finding ways to profit from capital gains; these rates are lower than the income tax levels. People at the low end of the income spectrum have little or no ability to earn capital gains.


Some of the wealthy like to point out that they support millions of low-income people who pay no income taxes at all. It is true that nearly half of Americans pay no income taxes through their annual returns to the Internal Revenue Service, but some of those filers are quite well-to-do. And, everyone who works is liable for payroll taxes that finance Social Security and Medicare. These amounts are income taxes, even if we choose to call them something else.


Congress responded to an Obama proposal by using some trickery to give employees a gift throughout 2011. The usual 6.2 percent Social Security tax on wages was reduced to 4.2 percent. The difference, the legislation says, will be made up in transfers of funds from the treasury to the Social Security trust funds. The trouble with that is the treasury is broke, and the gift contributes to the ballooning deficit. The Social Security trust funds were doing just fine, with a multi-trillion dollar surplus, before this ruse went into effect. It is going to be difficult for Congress to take back this unnecessary gift at the end of 2011. If this tax reduction is not rescinded, it will seriously weaken the Social Security system.


Opponents of any income tax increase claim a return to the 44 percent top rate for the wealthy would retard the creation of badly needed jobs, and even contribute to increases in unemployment. That line of thinking is at odds with reality. The top rate peaked at 92 percent in the early 1950s. It was reduced to 77 percent in 1964 and later to 70 percent, where it stayed throughout most of the 1970s. The three decades when very high rates were in effect were among the most prosperous times in American history.


As the top income tax rate was lowered, we experienced a massive redistribution of wealth in the U.S. from the poor and the middle class to the rich. Reports based on Internal Revenue Service statistics show this clearly. One appearing in The Washington Post last summer said the average income for the top one percent of earners rose 281 percent, or about $973,000 per household, in the previous 10 years. The bottom 20 percent of earners saw their incomes rise only 16 percent, or $2,400 per household, during the same period. When inflation is factored in, poor and middle-class workers actually lost money while the fat cats grew much fatter.


The top one percent of Americans now take in nearly 25 percent of the annual income generated in the country. They control 40 percent of the wealth. These figures have risen dramatically recently as unemployment also rose to high levels.


Americans are fascinated by the rich and famous, and most of us admire those who climb up the economic ladder through their hard work, often coupled with risk-taking. We think they deserve to be well-rewarded. But we know instinctively that the current vast and growing gap between the rich and poor in the U.S. is unhealthy. Respect for the rich is turning to anger over huge Wall Street bonuses and outlandish salaries for corporate officers and a government that seems unable or unwilling to make adjustments to compensate for the excesses.

What we feel in our guts is bad for America has a scientific basis. A 2009 best-seller, The Spirit Level: Why Greater Equality Makes Societies Stronger, describes links between wide income gaps in nations and social problems. The problems including obesity, mental illness, drug and alcohol abuse, homicides, imprisonment rates, lowered life expectancies, over consumption of resources, teen pregnancy, and lack of upward mobility.


Surprisingly, the scientists state that many of the problems are experienced by the rich as well as the poor when wealth is very unequally distributed. And the connections to wealth inequality prevail in rich as well as poor nations. The scientists once again confirm the link between income gaps and poverty, which has been described many times.


Error rates can be high in studies involving the human condition and interpretations of data always are somewhat subjective in the social sciences. But if the authors of The Spirit Level are correct about only a few of the links they describe, we have compelling evidence that huge gaps in income and wealth within nations contribute to vexing problems that have high costs for all citizens. The ultimate solution when the gaps become too wide is revolution. No thinking American wants that.


The Cocktail Party endorses three actions to reduce the gap between the haves and have-nots in America to a more reasonable level, help reduce the federal deficit, and preserve Social Security:


1. Restore the top income tax rate to the 44 percent level when the current tax legislation authorizing the 35 percent rate expires.


2. Return the Social Security payroll tax rate for employees to 6.2 percent at the end of 2011.

3. Remove the cap on Social Security payroll taxation, which currently is $106,800, but leave the maximum payout where it is. Currently, the Social Security payout for workers who earned high salaries and retire at age 66 is nearly $26,000 per year. It rises through cost-of-living adjustments as do all payouts. That’s plenty of safety net for any destitute fat cats who manage to lose their millions. Removing the taxation limit coupled with minor changes in the way cost-of-living adjustments are calculated is sufficient to assure Social Security will be solvent for the foreseeable future.


The fat cats can well afford to slim down a little for their own good and the common good.


To review the announcement of the founding of the Great American Cocktail Party visit the August 5, 2010 post titled “Coffee, Tea, or . . .” in the archive on the right-hand column of this Blog.

In Grateful Memory
                                                                     
Lance Cpl. Dominic J. Ciaramitaro (U.S. Marine Corps) 19, South Lyon, Michigan. Killed in combat, Helmand Province, Afghanistan, April 23, 2011.

Put That in Your Cart and . . .


Beautiful wife Sandy is a shopping wizard. She can ferret out bargains obtainable with no sacrifice in quality and develop schemes for visits to stores that rank right up there with some of the more successful military campaigns in history. Sandy is at her best in dealing with the supermarket scene.


With rare exceptions, Wednesday is grocery shopping day. Sandy spends about a half-hour taking inventory, checking for coupon deals, and developing a list. Visits to two, and sometimes three, supermarkets are planned. I go along on the shopping trips often enough to maintain a barely adequate ability to handle the tasks on the infrequent occasions when Sandy is not available to replenish our supplies.


Wednesday is the day of choice for several reasons. All three markets get major deliveries on the same days, and Sandy long ago coordinated her visits with those events. At all three, shelves are fully stocked with fresh merchandise on Wednesday. Also, weekend advertised specials are in effect, but by making a mid-week trip we avoid the clogged aisles and long checkout lines that make supermarket visits miserable on a Saturday or Sunday.


The first market on our route gives a 5 percent senior discount on all purchases—only on Wednesdays. Best of all for me, the same store offers free coffee to fully mature adults on Wednesdays. Yes, Wednesday is the day.


Our next stop generally has lower prices, and Sandy buys items there priced below the 5-percent discount level at stop one. Coffee is 50 cents a cup at the second market, not a bad deal at all if I haven’t fueled up sufficiently at the first place.


Because my only important contributions to successful market-going are sipping coffee and pushing the cart, I have ample time to observe the strange attire and activities of fellow shoppers. It is cheap entertainment—almost as good as sitting in an airport, one of our long-time favorite spots for people watching. The variety is incredible. I often coin playful names for some of the characters—Go-Cart Gertie, Aisle Blocker Blanche, Chatty Cathy Checkout, The Raucous Rug Rat—and quite a few not for publication here or elsewhere.


On a recent visit to what is the cleanest and best-maintained of the three markets, I noticed the door of the toilet enclosure for handicapped folks in the men’s room had been vandalized. Someone had inflicted numerous dents in the metal panel, as though the perpetrator had been pounding on the door with a club.


Could it have been the work of Harvey Stall Banger?

Buckets of Buds


Sure signs of spring have arrived. Golfers are out in droves, advertisers are extolling the virtues of the latest gardening gadgets and products, and the “Boys of Summer” are back at it doing their best to whack baseballs out of the park or prevent the other guys from hitting them “where they ain’t.”


For me, spring always sets off a bit of reflection back to the days when I served as Sports Editor of the Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune. Spring meant a new crop of young pro baseball players would arrive to start a 124-game schedule in the Midwest League. Covering the team, a farm club of the Minnesota Twins, was my primary task until falling leaves signaled the end of summer. The local club played home games at Witter Field.


Witter Field was a nice ballpark, but no one would mistake it for Yankee Stadium. The press box perched atop the roof over the stands directly behind home plate resembled an enlarged chicken coop.


The box was clean, but far from fancy. It included a counter across the area beneath the two open windows and a few folding chairs. Bill Nobles and Dave Van Wormer joined me there on many summer evenings. They served as public address announcers, and broadcast most of the Class A minor league games for radio station WFHR. They occasionally asked me to fill in some dead time with a statistical report. Those moments probably set radio announcing back quite a few years.


Equipment perhaps unique to our press box occupied one corner. A pail tied to a lengthy coil of rope stood ready for a midway point in the game when one or all of us usually got thirsty. The beer stand was directly below the press box.


We would put two dollars in the bucket, lower it to the beer dispenser, and wait until he tugged on the rope. We then reeled up three Buds and our change.


Our radio broadcasts and newspaper reports didn't suffer. We almost always confined ourselves to one Bud per game. For young Wisconsin men, that hardly amounted to anything. Fans near the beer stand often greeted the appearance of our bucket with a cheer, so we thought we were making a worthy contribution to fan entertainment in addition to slaking our thirst.


Ah, springtime at the old ballpark.

In Grateful Memory          

Hospitalman Benjamin D. Rast (U.S. Navy) 23, Niles, Michigan. Killed by a missile fired from an American drone, Helmand Province, Afghanistan, April 6, 2011.

What about Libya?


A reader posed the question regarding our latest military adventure after reading the geezer’s opinions (March 20 post, “When Will We Ever Learn?) regarding American involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. Those opinions could be summarized as: “Get out.”

I’m a little nervous about another military entanglement in the Muslim world, but I believe the U.S engagement in Libya was justified. President Obama is being vilified just about equally by those who say we should have gone in sooner and those who claim we should not have entered the fray at all. Somewhere in the middle are various members of Congress who are complaining that they weren’t consulted, or even that Obama’s action was illegal without their approval.

It all reminds me of what many wise old U.S. Forest Service managers said during my career with that organization when we were in the middle of a controversy: “When we’re catching hell equally from the timber industry and the preservationists, we’ve got it about right.”

I think Obama got it about, but not quite, right this time.

To ignore the pleas for help from the young rebels in Libya would have sent a terribly wrong message to other youths calling for more freedom and democratic institutions throughout the Middle East. It would have sent an equally wrong signal to tyrants we have traditionally supported, such as the Saudi royal family. This, I think, is just the right time in history to change the course of our foreign policy to what we say it always has been—supporting freedom and democracy.

We don’t need to launch another dozen wars to pursue humane, rather than economic, goals. But we do need to demonstrate to the tyrants that they must make concrete progress toward reforms that benefit their people or they will lose any support we are giving them, and we will join international military opposition to them should it develop. We can help make the world a better place with that sort of policy.

Obama, I believe, made only one serious mistake in his approach to the Libyan situation. Early on, he announced to one and all that “Gadhafi must go.” That defined a not necessarily essential end point to the conflict. The current civil war could end in a stalemate, resulting in an east-west partitioning of Libya. I think a partition separating traditionally unfriendly tribes, although not entirely satisfactory, would represent progress. There was no reason to rule it out with an emotional declaration stating only one outcome is acceptable.

Otherwise, Obama did the correct things. He declines to agree with those who say he actually created an “Obama Doctrine” for dealing with rebellions against dictators, but I think he did. If he did, it’s a good doctrine.

He studied the situation carefully, almost until the last possible minute available to save the rebels. He waited for a commitment from the Arab League to oppose Gadhafi and a commitment from NATO allies to assume military leadership after our major involvement was completed. He helped get United Nations Security Council approval of action to protect Libyan civilians. He stated clearly that American troops would not be involved, and we were not going to accept a leadership position throughout the conflict.

This approach is superior to what we have done recently in the Middle East—launching an assault by all available American forces, dragging along only those allies we could coerce into participating. That’s the kind of action that got us in all the trouble in Iraq and Afghanistan, trouble we can’t seem to get out of.

Of course, the fact that the two wars have emptied our treasury may have been the primary factor in putting us on a better course than usual. Letting others take the military lead after a no-fly zone was established was a big cost saver for us. But it wasn’t a five-and-dime variety military action, either. Those Tomahawk cruise missiles (we fired about 112 the first night of our activities) cost $1 million to $1.3 million apiece. We had more than 2,000 stockpiled when we opened fire, so the costs won’t be immediate, but the bill will come due when we replenish the arsenal.

Those expensive missiles needed to be fired. Military leaders are unanimous in stating that the first step in establishing a “no-fly zone” is to knock out anti-aircraft weapons and detection systems. We did that pretty quickly. Now our involvement is limited to things we are very good at, such as aerial refueling and surveillance and related intelligence and communications operations. The rebels and our allies who have the biggest stake in creating a democratic Libya are handling the rest.

Our involvement in Libya has cost us some cash, but so far not one American life has been lost and we have saved many, many lives. Gadhafi said he would kill civilian opponents “like rats,” and go door to door to do it when he had the chance. There’s no reason to doubt his word on that. Our air and missile power attacks helped prevent slaughter on a giant scale. Obama needs only to stick to the limits he has set for American participation to make our part in the Libyan intervention a success we can take pride in.

Call the new approach whatever you want—a doctrine, a policy, a blunder, an accident of history. I call it a welcome, new approach when force becomes necessary to carrying out our responsibilities to help improve the human condition.