the tax hike boondoggle?

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Ronni Bennett at Time Goes By and I are the same age, so I’m launching this post based on what she has written about the mistaken notions many people have about income tax rates and the history thereof.

From our early youth to our early twenties, the top tax bracket ranged between 81 and 94 percent. (See here.) For most of that period, those tax rates were placed on incomes over $400,000. That level of taxation on the wealthy helped to propel us out of the vestiges of the Great Depression and into the middle class prosperity of the 1950s.

Understandably but not forgiveably, the Republicans are waging a war against President Obama’s plan to make the tax burden placed on all economic classes more fair.

From here:

It [Obama’s plan] would boost taxes on the wealthy, oil companies and other businesses while cutting Medicare and Medicaid payments to insurance companies and hospitals to make way for a $634 billion down payment on universal health care. It would also limit charitable and other tax deductions for the affluent and trim spending on government subsidies to big farms.

Predictably, Republicans complained, much as they had done during last year’s presidential campaign, that Obama was pitting the haves against the have-nots.

Here’s a reminder from Ronni Bennett’s Crabby Old Lady rant linked to above:

The rate remained around 70 percent until Ronald Reagan was elected when the rate was dropped to 28 percent for awhile. George H.W. Bush raised it to 31 percent and Clinton increased it to 39 percent. Then George W. Bush got the rate down to 35 percent in 2003, where it has remained.

The rich have been making out like bandits for half a century on the backs of working stiffs. No one is asking them to pay 91 percent and a few more percentage points isn’t going to change the lives of the rich and famous much, but it will help a bit to offset needed spending.

As President Obama has mentioned and any thinking person knows on their own, we all need to make sacrifices now, and the rich cannot be exempt.

It seems to me that the Republican way of solving the country’s economic problem would just be another Bermie Madoff Boondoggle.

what’s that broom?

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“What’s that broom for?” my six year old grandson asks, referring to the “witch’s broom” that hangs on my wall to the left of my computer table, alongside some quilted wall-hangings created by a close friend, an icon of Akuaba (a gift long ago from b!X), and a old photo of 19th century “Witches at Tea” upon which I superimposed the faces of my five close friends and myself.

“It’s a witches broom,” I tell him.

“There are no such things as witches,” he asserts.

“Well,” I say, “it’s a magic broom.”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” he again asserts.

I take the broom down from the wall and wave it around, singing Salagadoola, mitchakaboola, bibideebobbedee boo.

“Well, maybe there is, and maybe there isn’t,” I say. “How about if I try to do some magic with you.”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. What will you do?”

I stop and think a minute. What would Granny Weatherwax do?

“OK,” I say. “How’s this: I think it would be really nice if you weren’t so fidgety at the dinner table, if you could sit and relax and join in the dinner conversation instead of getting up and and walking around and then sitting down again. How about if I do some broom magic so that you could relax and we all could enjoy a quiet dinner.”

As he looks at me from his perch on the carpet-covered expensive cat-litter enclosure that sits behind my chair in the corner, I look him in the eye, wave the broom around in circles, and tell him that today he will be more relaxed at the dinner table. And I tell him that he will also have a peaceful night’s sleep.

I twirl the broom like a baton and respond to his skeptical look with a “Let’s wait and see.”

At dinner that evening, except for getting up once to go to the bathroom, he sits and converses and eats all of his dinner.

“See, I say, “my magic worked.”

“I was hungry,” he replies.

The next morning I ask him how he slept.

“I only woke up once,” he tells me.

“See,” I say. “My magic works.”

Granny Weatherwax calls it “Headology.”

Despite her power, Granny Weatherwax rarely uses magic in any immediately recognizable form. Instead, she prefers to use headology, a sort of folk-psychology which can be summed up as “if people think you’re a witch, you might as well be one”. For instance, Granny could, if she wished, curse people. However it is simpler for her to say she has cursed them, and let them assume that she is responsible for the next bit of bad luck that happens to befall them; given her reputation this tends to cause such people to flee the country entirely.

Headology bears some similarities to psychology in that it requires the user to hold a deep seated understanding of the workings of the human mind in order to be used successfully. However, headology tends to differ from psychology in that it usually involves approaching a problem from an entirely different angle.

It has been said that the difference between headology and psychiatry is that, were you to approach either with a belief that you were being chased by a monster, a psychiatrist will convince you that there are no monsters coming after you, whereas a headologist will hand you a bat and a chair to stand on.

Hey, I figure. Whatever works.

the legacy of voice

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We are all writers in this family: my daughter, my son, me, and my late former spouse, whose unexpected death almost a year ago still affects our offspring. My kids and I write when we are moved to do so and have the time. He wrote because, as he once said to me “everything else is sawdust.”

And so our daughter has launched a brief and intense campaign to raise enough money to fund a summer writing workshop for a talented kid. She is negotiating with the New York State Writer’s Institute to provide this support through their program.

She has until March 21 to raise $550.

Those who knew Bill Frankonis know that his life was dedicated both to the art of writing and to encouraging creativity in children of all ages.

We have been affected by the legacy of his voice. It’s fitting to extend his legacy even further, and to help some young budding writer to find her or his own unique voice.

You have until March 21 to add your $10 (or more) donation. If the goal of $550 is not met, your donation will be returned.

You can go here to donate to the W. A. Frankonis Budding Writers Scholarship Fund.

taking the long way home

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This blog is still under construction, as is my life.   Physically, I have finished moving into my new home; but I haven’t yet moved the rest of me.

Over on Facebook, David Rogers posts a note about the music albums that changed his life, and he challenges the rest of us to list our own.  It occurs to me that, while there are no albums that actually changed my life, there are albums that are very clear audio markers for significant parts of my life.

As I’m putting together that list (it’s not finished yet), what I come to realize is that the songs from my childhood were not on albums; they were on 78  or 45 vinyl records.  The first two popular songs I remember were played by my Aunt Helen on a crank-up phonograph:

Nature Boy by Nat King Cole

and Paper Doll by the Mills Brothers

Of course, then there were the crazy lyrics song, like (as close as I can remember)

Chickory Chick chala chala chekerloroni anifilanika folicka wollika can’t you see chickory chick is me.

Meanwhile, in the background as I blog this, my almost-seven year old grandson is listening to Vampire Weekend.

I guess home is where the music is.

The Son’s Blog Migration Report

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b!X here, jumping in briefly to explain that we’re in the midst of a migration from MT to WordPress. That basic transition is finished, but there are settings to be tweaked and eventually a theme to install and debug. But for now, the blog itself should be working, and permalinks the same. For the time being, commenting is turned off. All old comments — both internal to MT and external from Haloscan — have been brought along for the ride, so nothing should be missing.

a good day for a poem

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It’s snowing outside, and I’m marooned here with my mother and brother for another day. Mom is sleeping, exhausted just by getting up to eat. My sciatica is acting up and I have a pimple blooming on my chin. (That’s such a perfect metaphor for who I am!)

Several weeks ago, I waded through my stacks of poems and picked out a bunch of short ones to blog once a week. Of course, they are waiting for me in my new home, but I won’t be back there until tomorrow.

But today seems like a good day for a poem, especially after reading my daughter’s poignant post of yesterday.

So, instead of one of my poems, here’s one of Jim Culleny‘s — because it seems like a good day for this particular poem.

DUST
by Jim Culleny

A restoration of faith
(if only for moment)
makes that moment great
and raises dust.

Dust? Don’t wait.

Dust drifts and settles but can be shaken off.
We do ourselves a justice when we shake our dust.
Once it’s shaken off, work we must
to raise more dust.

Change raises dust.

In our metier (before we return to it)
dust is a must.

Well, mom’s up. So much for engaging with the world of the internet.

lessons from the future

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Mike Brotherton, scientist and SF writer, lists this among the reasons he likes science fiction:

Seeing sides of humanity possible in no other way. How would we react to the discovery of aliens? Or aliens much smarter than us? Aliens with different belief systems and good reasons for having them? Or technology that gives us opportunities and challenges we’ve never had before? Or we will have, but not yet?

As an avid science fiction reader for more than 50 years, I continue reading sci fi novels because they push the boundaries and bonds of my attitudes about societies and beings very different from what I’m used to. They challenge me to examine my beliefs about how to deal with uncompromising adversaries.

Contemplate, for example, the following descriptions of alien cultures whose values clash with those of most of the inhabitants of planet Earth:

Considered within their own ethos, the Aalaag are extremely just masters — mistreatment of their human “cattle” by one of their kind is a serious offense. But they demand obedience and a rigid code of conduct that rankles the human spirit. Actually, the Aalaag are a conquered race themselves, fleeing from some unnamed but awesomely powerful enemy that took their home worlds. They are in essence warriors, tall and proud, each with a collection of personal arms and possessing a Spartan outlook on their condition. Every single Aalaag views duty as the highest virtue, and all duty is directed towards one day regaining their lost worlds. The races they themselves conquer are used to exploit resources in support of this ultimate goal.

The Psychlos don’t just conquer planets. They don’t just conquer galaxies. They conquer universes. Only they have the secret to instantaneous teleportation. And one of their biggest operations is the Intergalactic Mining Company, which knocks natives back to the Stone Age and then systematically strips their planet of all available ore, almost down to the very core. Oh, and the Psychlos find cruelty to be “delicious.” The crooked — even by their standards — Security Head of Earth is named Terl and he is scheming to get rich by “training” native humans to do some illegal mining for him.

As humans are a culture of individuals, as ants are a colony culture, the Fithp are a herd culture. [snip} — and being herd creatures, they do not understand the concept of diplomatic compromise… you either dominate or you submit.

….these tongue-in-cheek tales of derring-do and human ingenuity in the face of human diplomatic incompetence have sold quite well for many years. In most of them, there is an insidious plot behind whatever the current weird aliens are doing that is being masterminded by the Groaci. No slouches at the diplomatic bargaining table, the Groaci are nonetheless almost incapable of dealing squarely.

Although the “worms” are the most visible face of the Chtorr, what we have here is nothing less than the attempt of an entire biosphere to conquer Earth.

Sometimes there is no way to compromise with “alien” beings and cultures, and so the decision is to go to war with them. But is that really the only solution?

A friend of mine from college, a retired CIA polygraph examiner who has written several books on the subject, emailed this article from February 3rds New York Post.

After my post yesterday about wanting to bring back the “banned” movie Song of the South, I hesitate to share my views regarding what the Post piece by Ralph Peters suggests about the way we (America) deal with our “alien” enemies.

But Peters, while beginning his piece with a rather shocking assertion (that motivates you to read the whole article), ends with these statements that contain some common sense:

The point isn’t to argue that Afghans are inferior beings. It’s just that they’re irreconcilably different beings – more divergent from our behavioral norms than the weirdest crew member of the starship Enterprise.

As an analytical exercise, try to understand Afghanistan as a hostile planet to which we have been forced, in self-defense, to deploy military colonies. How do the bizarre creatures on that other planet view us? What do they want? What will they accept? Is killing us business, pleasure – or both?

Are there tribes among these aliens with which we can cooperate? Which actions of ours inflame the alien psyche? What will the alien willingly die for? What does the alien find inexplicable about us? Must we preserve a useful climate of fear?

Do we intend to maintain our military colonies out there in deep space? For how long? Can the angry planet ever be sanitized of threats?

Of course, there’s more in play than images of our “starship troopers” combating those alien life-forms that call themselves “Taliban.” This exercise is just meant to break our mental gridlock, to challenge our crippling assumption that we’re all merry brothers and sisters who just have to work through a few small understandings.

This is a “war of the worlds” in the cultural sense, a head-on collision between civilizations from different galaxies.

And the aliens don’t come in peace.

This is what’s bothering me: America (or rather those in power in America) seem to believe that it is this country’s right to go out and convert those “alien” cultures to our version of capitalistic democracy That missionary zeal (as all missionary zeal does) generates dislike and distrust — and even hatred, in the case of the Taliban — among those we consider “others.”

Sci fi novels present a variety of “what if” scenarios in which the protagonists have to learn to survive — despite, within, or alongside of — disturbingly “alien” cultures.

Maybe someone should suggest to Obama that he assign a sci fi reading list to his international and military advisers.

remembering “Song of the South”

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I’m thinking of one of my favorite childhood memories, as a result of the post today on Time Goes By where there are mentions of many of the songs that were the playlist for the first decade of my life.

I can remember being about 8 or 9 years old. It is a warm, sunny summer day, and my cousin Dianne and are holding hands, skipping down Chestnut Street and singing
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
My, oh my what a wonderful day!
Plenty of sunshine heading my way
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
Mister Bluebird on my shoulder
It’s the truth, it’s actch’ll
Ev’rything is satisfactch’ll
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
Wonderful feeling, wonderful day!

It is one of those days when all seems right with the world. My cousin, ten months younger than I, is my best friend. Our mothers, who are sisters, often dress us alike. We have a close extended family. World War II is over. Rationing has finally ended, and we have just seen the Disney movie Song of the South — the first Disney movie that featured live characters interacting with animated ones.

–the simple, heart-warming story of a boy, a girl, and the person of Uncle Remus himself, who becomes a living personality. Set in the nostalgic memorable days of the late nineteenth century, the story enacted by the living players take place on a lovely Southern plantation. It is a deeply moving, romantic account of a lonely and bewildered boy, left to his own devices when his father, an aggressive Atlanta newspaper editor, is caught between domestic responsibility and political challenge

At least that’s how the Disney camp described it at the time. And, at the time, it enchanted me. Uncle Remus (the live, storytelling character) was a poor man, an old man, and a black man in a post Civil War America that offered few opportunities for him to better his life. Uncle Remus enchanted me with his humor, his compassion, his wisdom, his wonderful animal stories, his optimism.
However,

The animal stories were conveyed in a manner in which they were not deemed as ostensibly racist by many among the audiences of the time; by the mid-20th century, however, the dialect and the “old Uncle” stereotype of the narrator, long considered demeaning by many blacks, as well as Harris’ [the author] racist and patronizing attitudes toward blacks and his defense of slavery in his foreword, rendered the book indefensible to many. Without much controversy the stories became less popular.

Several years back, some people began to think that it’s time to bring back the Song of the South, bring it to a much different audience, an audience that lived through the Civil Rights movement, an audience that celebrates Black History Month, an audience that can view the Song of the South through the lens of history.

Those who have criticized “Song of the South” have claimed that it makes slavery appear pleasant or pretends that slavery didn’t exist at all. Nevermind the film is set in the years following the abolition of slavery. I always have thought the movie offers a good, honest representation of the lives that some black Americans lived in a time that really existed.

I would love to see Song of the South again. I’d love to see it with my grandson, who has grown up without being hampered by old stereotypes. I’ll bet he would love Uncle Remus for the kind and entertaining man he is. At least he is, still, on the disintegrating film locked up somewhere in Disney’s vault.

So, I’m signing this petition to get the film released on DVD.

Here’s a look at Uncle Remus and his pals.