Review of Walking In Her shoes

Below is a book review from the May 2013 issue of the Sturbridge Times Magazine, Page 11, about a daugter's quest for family information.

The mystery of mom.

Walking In Her Shoes

By Marylou Depeiza

AuthorHouse, 2011

Paperback, 156 pages

ISBN 978-142994617

List: $15.00 Amazon: $15.00

Book review by Richard Morchoe

As the saying goes, the past is an undiscovered country.  For Marylou Depeiza, that is so, but she did as much as anyone could to find it.  Her search for the family story, left untold at her mother’s death was a competent a piece of amateur detective craft.  Alas, even hard work can only take you so far.

Who we are and what we are is an obsession for many people. Ancestry.com is big business.  Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates has a popular show, Finding Your Roots, where prominent people search for their background using documentary evidence and DNA information.  The company 23andme will, for a sample of saliva, tell you where your ancestors come from, if not their names and addresses.

Marylou wasn’t trying to find out she was a direct descendant of the Grand Duke of Ruritania.  Her goals were far more modest, though no less important for that.  Her book, Walking In Her Shoes, is a biographical account of life with her mother, Leola Williams.  The book is an intimate and loving portrayal of a woman who tenaciously kept a family fed, clothed and together no matter how little she had.  It is also chronicles the later life and decline of a strong woman and how it affected those she loved and loved her.

Walking In Her Shoes is a story of Boston from just before World War II through the post war era.  She has it pitch perfect.  The elegance that was Filenes is reflected as well as her mother’s meeting with Mayor Curley.  Marylou imagines her mom’s meeting with His honor.  It is as good as the dialogue of the mayor meeting his people in Edwin O’Connor’s roman a clef about Curley, The Last Hurrah.  One quibble, she has Curley speaking with an Irish accent he did not possess.  The mayor was second generation and spoke with a florid, stentorian voice, but not a bit of a brogue.

Filenes was a vision of middle class style and grace, but it was also part of the cultural patterns of the times.  Marylou notices her mother’s job as stock girl is not the equal of white women who work behind the perfume counter.  Leola brushes it off, but the contrast is stark.

For all that, Leola was a woman of mystery.  Her children never knew her husband and the circumstances of her marriage. About all that they knew was that he was killed in the World War II and she was a war widow.

Finality and closure are not complete even in families where the history is kept as far back as possible.  Roger, her brother found the military files on Leola’s husband, James Williams, through an online search.  Private Williams had been killed in the service of his country by a violent explosion in India. He had been part of an outfit building a road to China to circumvent the Japanese occupation.

But what of the relationship of Leola and James?  Marylou undertook a search of court records. She would find that her mom did not have a marriage made in heaven.  She got the details of James’ suit for divorce and Leola’s contesting of it. Their relationship was complicated to say the least.  She also saw the Veterans’ Administration records of the battle for mom’s rights as a widow.

If the marriage didn’t originate in paradise, the in-laws seemed to come from somewhere far south of it.  They fought Leola over benefits and she was even assaulted.  Still, Marylou wanted to know about the other side of the family.   She continued the detective work to no avail.

Marylou had uncovered a story that would be considered shocking from the point of view of middle class values.  Yet for all of Leola’s tangled life, the Williams household, as Marylou tells it, was no zone of dysfunction.  It chugged along through adversity with a strong personality at the helm.  

Searching for your history can be a minefield as Oedipus found out, but who among us could shield our eyes no matter how devastating the revelation?  Walking In Her Shoes is not a long book.  You will turn the pages quickly and regret that it ends so fast.

Marylou Depeiza is Boston born and bred.  A graduate of Boston State (now merged with UMass Boston), she has been an actress for over 20 years.  Wife and grandmother, this is her first book.  She is currently working on a murder mystery.

Marylou has an author page on Amazon at

http://www.amazon.com/Marylou-Depeiza/e/B0055L19XG.

Review of Straightling: A Memoir

Below is a book review from the April 2013 issue of the Sturbridge Times Magazine, Page 8 about a rehab form hell.
-->

Book Review

Book tells story of a straightened-out victim

Straightling: A Memoir

By Cyndy Drew Etler

Lucky 17 Publishing, 2012

Paperback, 229 pages

ISBN 978-1469902807

List: $9.99 Amazon: $9.99

By Richard Morchoe

Dissident Vladimir Bukovsky related a story about the Soviet regime, “One nasty morning Comrade Stalin discovered that his favorite pipe was missing. Naturally, he called in his henchman, Lavrenti Beria, and instructed him to find the pipe. A few hours later, Stalin found it in his desk and called off the search. "But, Comrade Stalin," stammered Beria, "five suspects have already confessed to stealing it."

We can only imagine the brutality of a totalitarian regime that could make people confess to things they never did and be glad it could never happen here, except that it could and did.  Not only that, those who admitted to things they never did, came to believe their own guilt.

There were no guard towers surrounding the installations in this country.  Barbed wire did not encircle the venues.  Rubber hoses and truncheons were not used to force confessions and yet, they occurred.  A Gestapo or KGB did not search for deviations from orthodoxy to ensnare the deviant.  It was much more effective because of whom the betrayer was, mom and dad.

Cyndy Drew Etler spent 18 months in Straight Inc.  She was willing to confess to near anything except the Soviet Dictator’s pipe and she might have done that if it could have conceivably held marijuana.  Not that she had vast experience with cannabis. 

Cyndy was a teenager from Connecticut with a few problems, but she was not a hardcore drug user or alcoholic.  Not untypical of her contemporaries, she had been drunk once and stoned twice.  She was guilty of having a troubled home life.   Her stepfather molested her and her mother was not notable for being aware or interested.

She dealt with the unpleasant domestic situation by staying away, crashing with friends until the authorities became involved.  Her time at Janus House for Youth in Crisis, a place for a short-term stay, felt like Nirvana compared to home. 

Given a choice, she chose foster care over being sent home.  Home has to be pretty bad for a child to want to be placed with strangers.  Most 14 year olds think parents the enforcers of unreasonable rules and regulations.  In spite of that, few would want to leave the familiar hearth for the unknown.

 It was not to be.  Apathy Mom all of a sudden got involved and signed her into an organization endorsed by Princess Di, already a living saint, but not yet a dead goddess.  Nancy Reagan had also given her imprimatur.  What could be more wholesome?

Sold to her as a boarding school, the truth dawned soon after arrival when the system of restraint, holding belt loops, was used on her.  There were no artsy, cool hippy type teachers as she had anticipated.  Instead, an intake interview was an inquisition to start the policy of breaking her down.

Cyndy didn’t have a clue as to what was happening to her.  For a while she thought that they would see she is not a druggie and let her go home.  That hardly worked so she figured to give them what they wanted. 

In one of the group sessions she “shares” her account of the beating and molestation at the hands of Jacque, her stepfather.  She felt support and understanding and that will lead to her liberation.

Boy was she deluded.  In the next group session, she was told to stand and was asked, “Why’d your father beat you, Cyndy” It does not go well.  The inquisitor screams in her face, “Parents don’t put a hand on their kid for no reason!  What did you do to make him beat you?”

In the same vein, he accuse her of initiating the molestation by being a flirt.  The Borg now has her soul.

Years ago, I read the book, Prisoner of Mao by Bao Ruo-Wang.  He was able to escape the Chinese Gulag because he held French citizenship, being half Corsican.  His account of how a prisoner is broken down is eerily like Cyndy’s.  Still, at its worst, he never believed in his own guilt as fully as Ms. Etler would.  Even when Cyndy is released, she accepts she is a druggie. 

Straightlings did not stay at Straight at night.  They were sent out to homes in the community for a good dose of family.  Just your average clan that locks and alarms every door and window through a confirmation process and observes even your bodily functions.  So what’s the point of dispersing everybody?  Why not just have a residential community?

This is where it gets really cute.  By sending the kids out, Straight was officially non-residential and thus needed only a day treatment license.  Inspections and oversight were lighter for that.  The creators of the program had thought of everything.

Cyndy and others who went through the programs generated enormous amounts of cash for Straight.  Her mother used the money her father, Smith College music professor and composer, Alvin Etler, had left her for her education.  

Did it ever do any good?  Judging by the number of suicides of former Straight attendees, the program’s efficacy may be in doubt.

Eventually, Cyndy was able to shake herself out of the Stockholm syndrome and realize that she had admitted to things that had not happened.  The result is her book.  Stylistically, it is almost stream of consciousness.  This may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but you feel you are with her.  If you are old enough to have been around the block a few times, you almost want to yell, “Hey, Cyndy, you’re being set up.” 

Cyndy’s relationship with her mom is minimal.   Jacque was litigated, but not prosecuted.  Straight is out of business, but successor operations are out there.  The question becomes is our national paranoia about drugs worth it?   One hopes there is a path that can be followed with more wisdom or less foolishness.  What is being done now is not working.

Why do I have a pen name

-->

Below is my column from the July, 2012 Sturbridge Times Magazine, Page 20 explaining why I felt it necessary to be less common.

NOM DE PLUME

BY RICHARD MORCHOE (THE ARTIST FORMERLY KNOWN AS RICHARD MURPHY)

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

Such are the words of Juliet as she tells her Romeo he is not his name.  Is that true?  Is what we are called merely an incidental aspect of our lives?  I’m not sure, but I have a problem with my name.  There are way too many Murphys.

To give you an idea of what I’m up against, nobody in Massachusetts will ever say, “You know the problem with this state is you can never find anybody with the last name Murphy.”  It may not be the most common surname around, but there are a lot of us.

That is not the worst of it.  Murphy is the go to name for humorous treatment of Irish people.  Whether it’s Funky Murphy’s bar or the song, “Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder,” we are the victims of our name.  We don’t even get royalties for Murphy’s Law.

Someone hears your name, they figure you are an expert or at least a source of Irish information.  In my case that might not be completely untrue.  I do have a lot of friends and relatives who are Irish.    There is a lot of Irish history I know, but I am a history nerd and probably know more about someone else’s ethnic record because that is my interest.

Then there is the subject of alcohol.  I am no teetotaler, but there is the assumption sight unseen that I must drink more than average due to my Hibernian ancestry.  True, in college I did my part to keep the American brewery industry healthy, but failed to become an alcoholic.  Though I can happily ingest the odd pint of Guinness, my preference is more vin rouge avec le diner.  

It has become such that when people ask me something that assumes i am Irish, I tell them my ancestry is full blooded Italian.  Upon their skepticism, I reply that when my great grandfather Giuseppe di Merfi came to immigration, those horrible Irish made him drop the di and change Merfi.  I then claim the cost in therapy for the family has been brutal.  Considering the number of people who actually believe that foolishness, I should think about becoming a conman.

I had thought a unique first name would solve the problem for my children.  I didn’t name my son Sue as in the Johnny Cash song.  There would have been no point to that as there are too many Sue Murphys.  He was given a name that I thought no one in America would possess.  Wrong.  I was sure until my sister handed me a business card of a co-worker with my son’s name.  I fleetingly thought it would have been good idea to use exotic names of other ethnicities, but Genghis Murphy doesn’t really work.

Then there was the recent Russian sleeper spy ring that was caught.  One of the spies was named Richard Murphy.  I am no expert on the subject of slavic nomenclature, but my guess is that Murphy was not the man’s original tag.

Getting other peoples’ mail can also be interesting.  Unfortunately there were never any checks.  Someone else with my name was the patient of the same doctor.  I would get notices that I was long delinquent on the bill.  Being considered a deadbeat by the man I was entrusting with my health is not where I wanted to be.

For a writer, the name is much too common.  Yet actually, I am proud to be a Murphy.  My family and ancestors suffered occupation and oppression and never gave in.  I don’t want to change my name, only its form. In fact Murphy itself is an Anglicization, and there is a form, Morchoe, which is more Irish though it does not sound so.  People will mistake me for something else, or nothing else.  I’m okay with that.  Best of all, there are no other Richard Morchoes in the country, or maybe the world.  Go ahead, google it.  There are nada, zip, zero.  When Richard Murphy is searched there are over seven million.

Maybe Juliet was completely wrong and we are our names.  Maybe I’ll be a changed man with a nom de plume.  My family might aver that it would not be a bad thing.  

Anyway, I never had a pen name before.

The Gift of Insecurity

The column below appeared in the December, 2010 issue of the Sturbridge Times Magazine.

November saw much discussion in the media about the vast resources allocated to insure the president’s safe trip to India.  There was some disagreement about the number of naval vessels that would accompany him.  Even the lesser number than originally quoted would have been enough to destroy all but the world’s largest navies.  To insure a peaceful sleep, it sounded as if every hotel room in Mumbai was to be reserved, just in case.

The security mania did not start with the incumbent and Mumbai does have an image problem around safety after the 2008 siege.  Still, the recent foreign tour highlights what to some, namely me, might seem a problem.

An article, Lunch With George, written by the publisher and editor of this publication has been on my mind since it appeared in the August of 2008 issue.  Paul Carr wrote about an afternoon spent in the near company of George Bush the elder.   I did not think his portrayal of the ex president to be unsympathetic, but neither was it fawning.  It was a day in the life of a man who had had his day in the sun.  The 41st president was just enjoying post celebrity mode.

What I took away from Paul’s article was not about the man being out and noticed by the public.  What caught my eye were the security arrangements.  The man had been out of office over a decade and a half.  The only person known to have it in for him lethally went to the gallows.  Yet, he will be accompanied by men described in the article as “behemoths” as long as he lives.  Every president will have this protection for life.

Contrast this with the current state of travel for an American citizen.  He or she may have to go through a machine that will leave nothing about their anatomy to speculation.  If they opt out of the electronic pat down, the physical one is more demeaning.

So are we being paranoid?  Let’s do the math. It has been reported that we have passed the million mark on our national No Fly List. Breaking down the numbers, on 911 it was a team of 19 men who executed the plan. Assume that there were six liaison, handlers and other staff. That makes up a crew of 25. That means a possible 40,000 terror teams whose potential members we know about, but just won’t let fly. I may never come out from under my bed.

It seems we are going to the National Security State with us all on lockdown. A few years ago a car veered off our street. An officer responded and did a normal investigation. It was a little strange that he was wearing a SWAT uniform. At our town meeting, the department requested and was voted the police version of the M-16. There is almost never an arrest here. It is that boring aspect of the town that we love. Yet, our town dads and moms can be easily stampeded into paranoia.

Never mind that statistics show that we are pretty safe. We are still told that without a constant effort we will be at the mercy of the terrorists. With what we are paying for our Department of Homeland Security, we should not have a care in the world.

There is reason for a climate of fear. We are in danger.  It’s just not the danger being sold. When we screw our courage to the sticking point and finally get in the car to get a slurpie down at a convenience store, we have a good chance of becoming a casualty. Not from Abdul the Jihadi, but from another driver crashing into us. Go and poll undertakers in your region about how many kids they’ve buried due to a drowning in the family pool.  Ask them how many local terrorists have caused any funerals.

So we are heading toward more and more control. We need “Real Id” to make us feel better. In a scene from the movie The Hunt for Red October, Sam Neill's character is talking with Sean Connery's.  Neill talks about how he is going to travel from state to state in his recreational vehicle when he becomes an American. At one point he says, "No papers?" and Connery affirms, "No Papers." It is the difference between a free and unfree country. What will we say when we have to hear, “Your papers, please.”

I expect to be accused  of Lèse majesté for the suggestion I intend to make, but so be it.  It is time to take away the Secret Service protection of presidents and candidates and other officials and people of importance. Now, before giving vent to paroxysms of rage, think about it. A vast sum of money is spent to protect him and a fortune is spent to watch you in your own name. There is no incentive to change the system.

I have no desire to see anyone in government be the victim of any violence. Let me not mince words. I wish it to happen to my lumpen countrymen far less. We should all have the same level of protection or the same risk.

The desire to protect the president is understandable. There have been a number of assassination attempts since JFK. Like all my contemporaries, I remember my circumstances that day. The funeral was spectacle, but it was heart wrenching no less for that.

Since then we’ve had the King shooting, the attempt on Reagan’s life. The multiple bizarre attempts on Ford didn’t help. Remember Arthur Lee Bremer?  We started getting paranoid even about fringe candidates.

That all is true, but the thing about the presidency is there is never a dearth of ambitious men (and some women) who seek it. It is a pinnacle of success. It is also a position of leadership and therefore should not be without risk. Serious risk. Though not a betting man, I would be happy to wager that even without the coterie of guards we now provide, there would still be a surfeit of aspirants.

So how would this reform help anything? If the president cannot have a protecting force for himself, he may be cognizant of a shared risk. Our protection should be his protection and his should be ours. It is theory we should be willing to test.

Who knows, we could get back to a real human presidency. Harry Truman used to walk down to the drugstore by himself in the morning to get the paper. That may never happen, but if the president doesn’t want to go out without a helicopter hovering overhead, he can subscribe.

Oh well, things won’t change.  I should just seek a sinecure that leads to the need for protection. I want three security personnel and a driver on the federal dime. Would be willing to trade one of the agents for a masseuse.

Veritas in Sturbridge:a truly fine dining experience

UPDATE: Sadly Veritas has closed.

Below is my review of the Sturbridge restaurant, Veritas that appeared in the October, 2012 Sturbridge Times Magazine.

Dining Out

Veritas in Sturbridge: a truly fine dining experience

-->

Since the dawn of humanity, people have been searching for truth.  Finally, we can stop, at least in Sturbridge.  The lovely building at 420 Main Street now is home to Veritas, Latin for truth. 

You will not find philosophers debating what is the good.  Instead, diners seeking victuals and staff preparing and presenting them are there.   When we entered we were cordially greeted and taken into the colonial dining room.

Our waiter, Rick came by to ask if we had a drink order.  We told him that we would choose a wine with the dinner, but would like the fried calamari appetizer.  Rick took the order but quickly returned with a breadbasket.  A buttery sweet potato spread came with the bread.  It seems sweet potato is in everything these days, which is not something to complain about.

The calamari came in due course, served with feta, capers and field greens with an aioli sauce.   It was crunchy and gone quickly.

We ordered dinner when the appetizer arrived, and it came soon after we had finished the calamari. 

My choice was the sauerbraten, a German pot roast.  The menu described it as being made Rupprecht’s way.  Rupprecht’s way is a well-flavored serving of beef.  It was accompanied by a sweet and sour sauce and spaetzle.  I like spaetzle, a soft noodle and the sauce was nice.  Better was the wonderful red cabbage that completed the plate.

Bríd, my daughter, ordered the ahi tuna steak. It was large and cooked medium rare. The noodles, seaweed salad, and ceviche on the side were all full flavor and fun additions

The hit of the afternoon however was the Salmon Oscar my wife ordered.  The salmon itself was pan seared and had a delicate flavor and tenderness.  The asparagus in béarnaise sauce with basil garnish was lovely and of course, who does not love garlic mashed potatoes.

My wife’s desert was the Crème Suchard, which is a light chocolate mousse, whimsically called Moose on the menu.  She described it as delightful.  It is composed of chocolate, whipped cream and cookies and served in a martini glass.

My key lime pie came with pineapple, mango coulis, a cool dish on a warm early evening.

Bríd ordered the bread pudding. She described it as tender, flavorful, and large. Also the brandy sauce was “killer.”

As you approach the restaurant at the front door, there is a sign with the legend, In Vino Veritas.  This is a hint as to the truth Kelly and Kurt Soukup were looking for.  The phrase translates as “In wine, truth.”  It means after enough wine, one cannot lie.  Kelly and Kurt were looking for truth in good wine for a wine bar they contemplated opening in Hartford.  That did not happen, but they loved the name and would use it twice.

What is immediately evident about the couple is they love the restaurant business.  Kurt started at 14 years of age doing dishes at the old Lakehouse in Wilbraham.  His true education began at the Student Prince, a Springfield Institution.  Under the tutelage of Chef Rupprecht he learned everything from butchering to the formal tableside service.

Kelly started waitressing 14 years ago.  Obviously, she got along with Kurt and now gets to run the front of the operation.  This is not the first Veritas.  On the American Caribbean island of Vieques, they operated an open-air restaurant for three years.  They still own the home they built there.

The Soukups came back to Massachusetts because of family.  It can’t be the weather.  Fortunately they found 420 Main Street and signed a lease.  They have only praise for the landlords at the 420 complex who have been there for them.

Everything is made on the property, including catsup and pickles.  They do their best to source locally.  Their goal is to be consumer friendly and economy friendly given the current financial environment. 

The happy hour menu is a budget bill of fare.  Especially so is the build your own burger option.  The toppings list is exhaustive.  Mondays is burger and beer night, a pint of the beer of the month and a 9oz burger is $11.

We also sampled the Stone Pie.  No, it is not a pie made of stone, but a pizza made in a stone oven.  We have good pizza in Sturbridge, but the stone pie is New Haven style, which is popular in the lower Nutmeg State.  New Haven style pizza in Sturbridge is news.  We sampled the Giardino, a vegetable topped thin crust pie.   There is a Wednesday deal of $30 for a pizza and bottle of wine from the Forever $21 wine list.

On Sunday nights, Prime Rib is on special.

The interior of the dining rooms is in an appealing colonial décor.  The bar upstairs is a cozy room.  Kurt’s mom made all the drapes and his dad framed the prints.  Veritas is a welcome addition to the Sturbridge restaurant lineup.

You can read more about Veritas at http://veritasma.com/.

Tax The Poor

Below is my column from the February 1, 2013 issue of the Sturbridge Times Magazine.  I take some vindication from the linked Christian Science Monitor article titled, New Tax Law will increase the burden on the poor. 

Anyway, the article is below.  Enjoy if you can.

-->

The fiscal cliff has come and gone and no doubt will come again.  As always, a deal was done, and the figurative can was kicked down the road.

A constant drumbeat during the run-up to the agreement was that if the exchequer could just put its hands in the pockets of the rich, why nirvana would ensue.  To cliché it, the tax the rich meme went viral.

I’m from a working class family and as resentful of my betters as the next guy.  The pitchfork is by the door and ready at a moments notice to storm the Bastille with me, at least rhetorically.

Certain segments of the wealthy should be fair game.  The ongoing crisis that began in 2008 had its origin in large banking institutions that are “Too Big To Fail” otherwise known as TBTF.  What that means is, as is said, that if they are allowed to sink, they crash civilization. 

In the recent presidential election, neither candidate addressed the too big to fail issue.  The incumbent never said that he had been working on the problem and the solution was in hand, because he hadn’t.  The challenger never suggested it would be a priority of his administration because he would have gargled razor blades rather than touch it had the votes had been counted in his favor.

We had a measure in place that kept the banks from getting TBTF.  It was called Glass-Steagall.  The Glass-Steagall Act of 1933, passed in a previous era of economic turmoil, prohibited Commercial Banks from engaging in the investment business.  What the act meant was succinctly put by economist and author of the book, Currency Wars.  James Rickards.  Rickards wrote on August 27, 2012 for US News and World Report, that under Glass-Steagall, “Banks would be allowed to take deposits and make loans.  Brokers would be allowed to underwrite and sell securities.  But no firm could do both due to conflicts of interest and risks to insured deposits.  From 1933 to 1999, there were very few large bank failures and no financial panics comparable to the panic of 2008.  The law worked exactly as intended.”

If life was not horrible under Glass-Steagall, why was it thrown overboard?  This can be explained by the nature of our party structure.  An anonymous Republican congressional staffer is credited with saying, “In America we have a two-party system.  There is the stupid party, and the evil party.  I am proud to be a member of the stupid party” The man then said, “Periodically, the two parties get together and do something that is both stupid and evil.  This is called bipartisanship.” 

Deep-sixing Glass-Steagall was bipartisanship at its most stupidly evil.  The people had not risen up and called for repeal.  Almost none of them had ever heard of it.  That’s what happens in a nation with a surfeit of laws.  No, it was the world of finance that used their influence to get what they wanted.  When they had sucked as much as they could out of the system, and it all started to go south, they went crying to the government for succor.  The bankers were all for profits staying privatized, but supported a healthy socialism when it came to losses.

So, a class of people did some looting on a vast scale and got away with it.  The cry has gone up, “Make them pay their fair share.”  To paraphrase the old western horse operas, “Taxing is too good for them.”  Unfortunately, they had gamed the system so that apparently the law, if not the force, is with them.  Of course, The SEC and the Department of Justice have been desultory at best in pursuing the wrongdoers.   There have been a few wrist slaps to pretend action, but nothing substantial.  We can’t even sentence them to having to listen non-stop to ABBA piped into jail cells for a few hours.  Okay, that is going overboard.

Taxing a class sounds like a fantastic idea.  Not all the rich were bankers and many provide honest employment for their fellow citizens.  Still, there is an argument that adjusting the tax rates upwards is a good thing.  The problem is, it is no panacea.  Most economists have admitted it can’t work magic. 

Taxing the rich inevitably reaches down into the pockets of the middle-class.  Don’t think so?  I have three letters for you, AMT.  They stand for Alternative Minimum Tax.  I don’t remember if it was Chet Huntley or John Chancellor or another newsreader in the 60s intoning in a serious talking head voice about an injustice.  The evil rich were getting away with murder.

By investing in municipal bonds, wealthy members of society were able to avoid federal taxes on the interest.  In doing this, they received a lower interest rate allowing governmental units to finance schools or bridges or other projects.  That did not matter.  Something had to be done.

What was done was the Alternative Minimum Tax.  In the early 1990s, the law was changed so the AMT could also tax people with lower incomes.  Our compassionate solons, troubled by the injustice, yearly “patch” it so most, but not all, of the middle class escapes.  Nothing permanent is ever done, though.

Adjusting the tax on the rich may raise a few dollars and make us feel good, but won’t solve the problem.  Taxing the middle-class other than the status quo is considered bad form.  What’s left?  Why of course, doing what has been done most consistently throughout history, taxing the poor. 

Unconscionable you say.  Balderdash.  We already tax the poor horribly, and couch it in terms of doing it for their own good.  The cigarette tax falls disproportionately on the shoulders of folks in the lower income bracket.  I have never heard a non-smoking fellow citizen decry this as an injustice though it raises the price of a small pleasure several times.  Taxes on alcohol are not light, but see how far you get proposing an excise that triples the cost of single malt out of compassion for the health of the wealthy.

Throughout history societies sooner or later get around to taxing the poor.  This can be fraught with danger.  Take the French aristocracy who had their heads handed to them.  No, a federal tax on the downtrodden will have to be done shrewdly.

Fortunately, there is a way to do it that, if not loved, will be embraced with enthusiasm.  In this the states have shown the way.  Many of us have stood in line waiting to pay for gas or coffee at a convenience store.  Often there is someone ahead of us taking what seems years to make several choices.  To the more highly evolved, they are wasting time, but to that man or woman, it is a momentous choice.  With each new day, it is the most important decision of their life.  If their choice of scratch ticket or lottery numbers is correct, the drudge job they hate is history, at least till the money runs out.

As a math professor once said, “The lottery is a tax on people who can’t do math.”  It is the shrewdest form of impost ever devised.  Why should not the federals use it to solve our ongoing fiscal crises?  A nightly national Powerball drawing will beat even Dancing With The Stars’ ratings.

Ah well, this may take a while to come to pass.  There are a few tricks left like a trillion dollar platinum coin so why worry.  After all the Congress saw it’s duty, came together and raised taxes on the elite, and while you were feeling good on you too, Mr. and Mrs. Two Earner Family.

Yup. The two percent increase in payroll tax will affect you more than anything that might have been done to Warren Buffett

My countrymen and women, you were like marks for a three-card monte dealer.  While the barker kept yelling beat the rich, he took your money.

Bipartisanship, ya gotta love it.

Our National Deficit

My  May, 2010 column from the Sturbridge Times Magazine and an observation on the Senate.

Our National Deficit

There was a recent video of a congressman that caused a lot of mirth all across the internet.  Representative Hank Johnson of Georgia was questioning the commander of the Pacific Fleet, Admiral Robert Willard. At one point, he inquired if there was any concern that the island of Guam could, due to overpopulation, “tip over and capsize.” In one of the most adroit displays of self-control, Admiral Willard completely retained his composure. On hearing Johnson, most normal folks would have said something like, “c’mon Hank, yer kiddin” after rolling on the floor. Nope, he wasn’t and the admiral knew it. Like any military bureaucrat, Willard has to worry about appropriations. Maybe Johnson was having some fun, but why take chances?

To be fair, the congressman is suffering from hepatitis C and this does affect judgment. Still, the lower house of our national legislature has not been known for a lack of interesting characters in its history.  Wilbur Mills would make the list. He served as Ways and Means chairman longer than anyone ever did. It is a position of immense power and in his tenure he had the respect of the congress. No one remembers that. As powerful as he was, he lived in relative obscurity until October 9, 1974. In the early hours of that fall morning, he was stopped by the police because his car lights were not on. No big thing, might have blown over except that someone ran from the car into the tidal basin.  It still might have gone away had it been, say, a doyenne of DC society. Unfortunately, it was a women whose professional name was Fanne Fox. She billed herself as the Argentine Bombshell. Her dancing was known for a progressive lack of clothing. Did ol Wilbur come to his senses?  Only if you call following her to Boston and climbing onto the stage at a burlesque theater sensible. Wilbur, who had studied constitutional law at Harvard, made Hank look like the soul of reason.

You probably think I am appalled by all of this. Not in the least. True, I don’t think the antics of the solons are in anyway positive, but that’s not the point. The framers of the constitution feared democracy, but they knew the average Joe must have a voice. The House of Representatives is that voice. When we elect its members, we are electing ourselves, and getting what we deserve, good and hard.

It is the Senate that bothers me. The framers of the constitution were trying to mimic a lot of what they rebelled against. A Senate was not meant to be democratic. The closest example the former colonists had was the British House of Lords. The lords did not have to pander for votes. Men who do not have to take into account public opinion should be more deliberative.

Supposedly, Washington told Jefferson that the Senate would be a cooling saucer against the passions of the House. The hereditary title business, however, was not going to fly. What to do?

The solution was to have the Senate selected by the state legislatures. Yeah, that worked. We all know that such bodies are composed only of persons of absolute rectitude. By the last quarter of the 19th century, numerous scandals had been exposed regarding corrupt elections of senators. David Graham Phillips, a muckraking journalist employed by William Randolph Hearst wrote a series of articles entitled The Treason of the Senate.  Sentiment for direct election of the upper house became a torrent.

Understandably, the senators were happy with the status quo. Only when the groundswell got so large that states were calling for a constitutional convention did the senate move an amendment. Even today, the thought of a constitutional convention scares sane people not to mention even some lunatics.

So what have we got for the great extension of the franchise? It takes oodles of cash to become a senator. Now, who will the victor in an election feel more beholden to, his constituents or the moneybags supporters? Of course, that begets election reform and when that is gamed, more election reform.

In the electronic age, elections are beauty contests. I met our senior senator during his first campaign. What I remember most about the encounter is not what he said, but his appearance. He was perfectly coifed and exquisitely dressed. I have never seen another man as well put together. Heck, I haven’t seen many women that well done up.

That senators are little more than reps with longer terms is probably not a good thing constitutionally. Ah, but the entertainment value is increased by an order of magnitude. Joe Biden has left the upper house, but all those gaffe skills he honed for years, he is putting to use as veep.  There is our own John Kerry being for a bill before being against, or was it the other way around?

Lest you think I only lampoon Dems, John McCain provided some mirth during the presidential debates. There is a Youtube mashup of the former candidate with Miss South Carolina. The beauty queen had been asked a question which she completely flubbed. When McCain was asked an economic question he dropped names and platitudes, but did not answer in any real sense. He was oblivious, and made the hapless lass from SC look like Cicero in comparison.

I don’t think a Lincoln and Douglas could run against each other today. They would not be photogenic enough and their logical presentation of issues would do them no good. I would love to say I could have followed their marathon debates, but I am a product of my times. I scare myself.