Wizard or Hermit?

As the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon noted:
          What's in a name? that which we call a rose
          By any other name would smell as sweet...

All the same, I wager Stratford's wordsmith would agree that, "With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good." And, too, "With a name like Rocky, you gotta be a fighter."

My full name, John Roquemore Floyd, is a copy of my father's with a "Jr." at the end. Just as my son's name is a copy of mine appended with "III". What's in our name? Our heritage, muddled as it is–Welsh, French, and Scots-Irish. Our middle name recalls my paternal grandmother, Maude Roquemore.

My father was called John or Johnny and to avoid confusion, I was given the nickname, Rocky, which I never felt I lived up to. A short and skinny kid, for a time I was given a daily tonic for anemia. Though I eventually grew to 5 ft - 10 inches and 205 lbs, on my first driver's license at 16, I was listed as a puny 5 ft - 6 inches and 149 lbs.

Though I abandoned the nickname after high school, it did serve me well on one occasion. I played trumpet in the band. After a road trip during which I laid some heavy petting on one of the majorettes in the back of the bus, her boyfriend met with me after school. In the middle of my junior year my family had moved to Charlotte, NC from Atlanta, GA. My new best friend Woody, a drummer in the band, told me the boyfriend was looking for me and that he had told the guy that I had been a "Golden Gloves" champion in Atlanta.

With the sound of Rocky Floyd evoking images of Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano, and Floyd Patterson, the boyfriend took the bait and I got off with a discussion instead of a concussion. Thank you, Woody! End of story.

To the present... As noted in a previous post, I have moved my home on wheels back to Arizona and no longer hang out in Waxhaw. I live alone here on my secluded homestead, so perhaps I should change the name of this blog from "The Wizard of Waxhaw" to "The Hermit of Hereford". But then, What's in a name?

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Pyrite in the sky

       Would that I could mine the sky
             I'd be a wealthy man.
          There's gold up there aplenty
             Enough for many a man.

          Once each day at evening
             Sun and cloud conspire,
          To spin in truest alchemy
             The metal of my desire.

          No want for pick and shovel
             Though a ladder I'd surely need
          To join the fiddler on the roof
              And satisfy my greed.

          Truly I am not the fool
             I may appear to be.
           No more could mine the sky
            Than could I make a tree.

          Yet–shall I be wealthy
              So long as there are these:
          Spacious skies and rainbows,
              Sunsets and trees.

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Back in the U.S.S.R.

About a month ago I returned to my retreat in southeastern Arizona. I have named my eight-acre RV home base and wildlife sanctuary, Under Spacious Skies Retreat.  So... with apologies to the Beatles, I'm "Back in the U.S.S.R."

I'm resuming work on a small house here. The pad was poured a week ago and currently there are six stacks of concrete blocks which will form the walls for the first floor and the support columns for the two 8 x 20 ft cargo containers that comprise the second floor.

Other than the pouring of the concrete pad, I'm the only worker–architect, contractor, plumber, carpenter, and chief grunt. I will have the 5,000 lb containers lifted in place by forklift and will get help with the metalwork–cutting window openings and welding the containers together.

Difficult as the work can be, watching plans on paper morph into physical living space can be very rewarding. I should be working today. Bright sunshine, sixty-two degrees. But a mean wind is sweeping up the San Pedro River valley between the Huachuca and Mule Mountains. Thirty mph sustained winds with gusts up to fifty. The wind is so foul it's blown down my weather station!

So, there's nothing to do but remain inside, observe & honor the vernal equinox–do some ironing, scrub the shower, clean the windows (interior only), and write for this blog.

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Nunc est bibendum!

The Latin scholars among you will understand the above phrase to mean, "Now is the time for drinking!" At least that's how my Sigma Chi fraternity brothers and I translated it. We were very fond of short phrases loaded with layers of meaning particular to our circumstances. During the second half of my pledge year, 1959/60, I roomed with two brothers –Ed Summers and Joe Eagles– and my fellow pledge, Ted Kratt. We rented a two-bedroom apartment and always answered the phone, "This is it!" Which was to say, you have connected with the coolest guys on campus.

We were probably pre-hippies, seeking to align ourselves with the wildly hedonistic Black culture. Many of our pet phrases were taken from the Afro-American musicians who played in our basement dance hall on weekends. "Come on, man!" entered our lexicon when the band leader was trying to get his combo together to begin playing. We found a plethora of contexts in which to invoke the phrase. Another, "Tell it! Tell it like it is!" I'm not sure of the exact origin but the flavor is definitely chocolate.

So what in the psychopathology of everyday life brought this to mind? Well... I imbibe a single, measured 3-oz gin and tonic every evening at my retreat in SE Arizona. During the warmer months, I enjoy this end of day ritual from the comforting rhythm of my porch swing and try to coincide the finish with the sunset over the Huachuca mountains to the west. As the sun sets later and later, I must delay each day's toddy by a few more minutes in order that the timing of my buzz synchronizes with the sunset. Ergo, the "time for drinking" is not the same time every day...

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Birds of a Feather

Did you know that bird-watching is the largest spectator sport in America? While I'm not a true birder, I do provide for the birds on my Sonoran Desert retreat. I maintain three types of feeder (wild bird seed, thistle, and hummingbird) and I keep water available. When I cleared a space for myself, I left several tangled piles of mesquite brush for roosting and nesting.

I have a field guide, Birds of Arizona, and have noted more than thirty species and sub-species on and above my property. Most are common wildfowl–finches, sparrows, doves, and quail. I have also spotted less common fowl: a pair of great horned owls, a blue grosbeak, and a male lazuli bunting. The female lazuli was probably with him, but she looks so much like a common sparrow I overlooked her. But then isn't that the point of the female having less gaudy plumage?

The birds seem appreciative of the food and water, but have no idea that I am their benefactor; they scatter to the winds when I come near. Why does anyone go to the trouble and expense of taking care of wild birds? My neighbor, whose wife also caters to wildfowl, once quipped, "I wonder what the birds did before bird feeders?"

As he was hinting, I expect the birds got along just fine. It's just that they were not feeding where I could pass the time observing them and marveling at the rich diversity of the bird world.

Need a bird feeder or want to learn more about wild birds? Here's the place to go.

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Wealthy is he who knows he has enough. –Lao Tzu

According to Robert Reich, "Last year, America’s top thirteen hedge-fund managers earned an average of $1 billion each. One of them took home $5 billion."

Heavens to Murgatroyd! What in the name of Zeus does a single man or woman do to deserve an annual salary of a billion dollars? Where does the money come from to pay a billion-dollar salary?

According to Wikipedia, "[H]edge funds are open only to a limited range of professional or wealthy investors... and are exempt from many of the regulations that govern ordinary investment funds." Hmmm... then the work of a hedge fund manager is to help the rich become even richer.

Most hedge fund managers are compensated on a "2 and 20" basis, that is, they receive 2% of each investment "up front"–plus 20% of the profits. So a manager who earned $1 billion increased the wealth of his or her investors by $5 billion (of which he took $1 billion). And where did this $5 billion come from? Presumably from other investors who lost an equal amount of money in this zero-sum game.

So, do hedge funds contribute to the economy? Do they produce a product, provide a service, create jobs or stimulate the economy? Nope. A hedge fund is just a huge crap game played by the super rich. Winnings are taxed at the "capital gains" rate of just 15%, which is a "wash" as far as the IRS is concerned since the losers are able to declare an equal amount in "capital losses" on their tax returns.

And you thought the rich invested their money in banks, which provide capital for entrepreneurs to fund businesses that create jobs for workers. Isn't that how "trickle down economics" is supposed to work? Isn't that the reason the Republicans don't want to burden the rich with high taxes? The hard truth is that supply-side economics does not work because the rich would rather play "hedge fund games" with their money and invest it off-shore where they get better interest rates than paid by the banks in the U.S.

The solution? Return to a progressive income tax. Robert Reich has proposed a tax system as follows:
    $15 million and up would be taxed 70%
    $5 million to $15 million would be taxed 60%
    $1/2 million to $5 million would be taxed 50%
Taxes on earnings less than $500K would be cut. [NB: We're talking individual earned income, not corporate & business taxes.]

So, if you managed a hedge fund and earned $1,000,000,000, and couldn't find any loopholes in the tax laws, you'd still take home $300,000,000. Even at the lower end of the highest tax bracket, with a salary of a mere $15,000,000, you would still take home $6,255,000. Shouldn't that be enough?

Enough is enough!

Most of us think of tax as a "four-letter word," but it is a necessary evil. A progressive tax is the only way to control the greed of the super-rich and bootstrap our economy out of the Great Recession. Think Robin Hood! We simply must take from the rich–especially the super-rich–not to give to the poor, but to provide the middle and lower classes with a decent living–with jobs, education, and health care.

It only seems fair that those who are sucking the cream off the top of the economy should pay more in taxes than those of us left with skimmed milk in our trough.

P.S. Watch "Real Time with Bill Mahr," the Feb 18th episode.

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What's wrong with this picture?

If you watch the evening news you know that the Republican governors of Wisconsin, Ohio and New Jersey are trying to end union rights for teachers. The governor of New Jersey recently said, "I'm attacking the leadership of the union because they're greedy, and they're selfish and they're self-interested."

Teachers are greedy and selfish? Here's a quote from the Feb 17, 2011 post on the blog of Robert Reich, a PhD economist:

      Last year, America’s top thirteen hedge-fund managers earned
      an average of $1 billion each. One of them took home $5 billion. 
      Much of their income is taxed as capital gains – at 15 percent –
      due to a tax loophole that Republican members of Congress have
      steadfastly guarded.

      If the earnings of those thirteen hedge-fund managers were taxed
      as ordinary income [at just 28%], the revenues generated would
      pay the [annual] salaries and benefits of 300,000 teachers. Who is
      more valuable to our society – thirteen hedge-fund managers or
      5 million teachers? Let’s make the question even simpler. Who is
      more valuable: One hedge fund manager or one teacher?

...or one nurse?
          or one truck driver?
                    or one fireman?
                              or one farmer?
                                        or one librarian?...

Think about it.

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