"Just in Time"

It might surprise you to learn that at one point during my upbringing Detroit automakers controlled a whopping 92% of the American marketplace.  

Meaning more than 9 out of every 10 cars sold in America were made by American manufacturers.  Built by American labor and sold by American dealers.

The only foreign cars sold here back then were mainly those little Volkswagen beetles and the 190d Mercedes-Benz ugly, clunky 4-door sedans.  They were very expensive even back the.  Hippies drove the Beetles and doctors drove the M-B's.  Just a few of them, certainly not enough to worry about.

They thought.

Now?  Detroit, meaning what's left of the "Big Three," General Motors, Ford and Chrysler (which is owned by the Italian Fiat) control only 44% of the American marketplace.  And who controls the other 56%?  Mostly Japan, with Toyota and Honda leading the way.  And South Korea featuring Hyundai and Kia chief among them.  And Fiat of Italy, meaning besides little Fiats, Ferraris and Maseratis, to be sure.  And Mercedes-Benz and Porsche of Germany, plus a few others.  To put it coloquially, they've eaten our lunch.  We served it to them, and watched them chew it up and swallow it...

At the end of the Big War, back in the 1950's, Soichiro Honda started a motorcycle company.  The little 50cc motorbikes he made were selling like hotcakes in Japan.  For those who wanted a quick, simple and cheap way to get from here to there, those little bikes were paramount.  Some of them were exported to the U.S. and we bought them like hotcakes, too.  They were bulletproof, cheap and fun.  

And that's what started it all.

What followed during the late '50's and early '60's was what's called "Just in Time" manufacturing.  The Japanese didn't have much money or a stock market to help them finance unlimited production like we did.  They also didn't have the raw materials to make oodles of cars to put in gigantic parking lots as we Americans were doing, to build millions of them and then wait for people to buy them.  Back then Detroit would guess at how many cars they'd sell and manufacture to that number.  If they overproduced, they'd sell last year's model alongside this years' at big discounts until last years' was all sold out.  

The end of the model year was August 31st.  All the new automobiles were released during the first two weeks of September.  And each car model was introduced in a big reveal.  The dealers would put butcher paper on their usually floor-to-ceiling windows so no one could see them early.  And then, on that Big Day, they'd invite in the public and show them the two or three they had in their showrooms.  And hopefully take orders.  So when sales didn't match production and we'd overbuilt, Detroit would close the plants and everyone would go to the lake for a few weeks.  Unlike today with cars being built all the time.  

The Japanese, on the other hand had to figure a way to make a lot from a little.  They had to figure a way to make cars from parts that arrived at exactly the right moment.  At exactly the moment they were ordered.  And not one car more.  They struggled to figure a way to do it protifably, quickly and with little overlap.

While we were building works of art, like the '57 Chrysler 300c, and the '59 Chevrolet Impala, and the '57 Studebaker Golden Hawk, the Japanese were building tiny little cars that we were loving to buy.  Cars like the original Honda Civic and the Toyota Corolla.  Cheap, well built and producing great gas mileage, they were.  Even before worrying about gas mileage was a thing. 

Even I, your friend The Chuckmeister, bought a Honda Civic wagon as I was starting my family.  I needed cheap transportation and that Honda provided it.  So a guy who loved loud, fast and thirsty muscle cars found a place in my garage for one of "those."  And so did a whole bunch of others.

Detroit decided to try and compete with these cars by producing dumb, ugly, poorly screwed together pieces of crap and sell them alongside thier usual fare.  Remember, they were in the business of producing 18' long behemoths.  Like the 1970's Cadillac Eldorados.  19' long and wouldn't fit into anyone's garage.  But they tried to also compete with cars like the Chevy Chevette.  And the Ford Pinto, and the Plymouth Valiant.  Not worth the powder to blow them to Hell.  And in the case of them Pinto, it would literally burn you to Hell.

Nobody bought them.  And Detroit nearly went bankrupt.  The Federal Gubmint had to extend loans in the 80's (to all but Ford) to keep automaker jobs from going away.  Chrysler's Lee Iaccoca responded by creating nice little cars.  Smart.  I even bought the very first Plymouth Voyager minivan to land in Orange County, California.  I drove the wheels off it.  They sold them by the tens of thousands.  And Iaccoca paid back his loan to us 4 years early.  GM never paid back their loan, BTW, so far as I know.

So America put tariffs in place to protect our car manufacturing.  What did the foreigners do?  They built car plants here.  They hired Americans to compete with Americans at non-union plants.  Paying the workers $27 an hour vs. the $50 paid in union plants.  But without union dues, and in places like the south where there were no other jobs, people took those jobs and prospered.  There are now 23 foreign car plants here in 'Murica, selling us foreign cars, produced here locally, and made by Americans.  Confused yet?

So now we sell 11 or 12 million cars every year.  We used to sell upwards of 20 million cars.  But we've been subsidizing the world with our favorable trade arrangements.  Up until Trump, that is!

Now Trump is finally charging a flat 20% on all foreign cars the moment they land on our dirt.  Which brings in a projected $1 Billion New Dollars every year.  Finally somebody did something about it.  

Oh yeah, BTW, there was this named guy named Ernest Sadler who worked for Henry Ford.  He helped Ford establish our very first assembly line back in the early 19th Century.  Sadler developed the "Just in Time" concept for Model T's.  Later, while he was teaching at a college, he offered to bring that concept to General Motors.  Like how to have a railroad car full of bumpers and fenders and car seats arrive exactly when bumpers and fenders and car seats were needed.  They told him to pound sand.  So what did he do?  He went to Taiichi Toyoda and taught him and the Japanese how to manufacture cars using his plan.  Toyoda (his real name) used that system to produce his cars better, cheaper, of higher quality, and only when needed.  So he could successfully compete with us Americans like never before.  He was able to finally win World War II without any more bullets flying.  

And BTW, Detroit ultimately adopted the "Just in Time" system as well.  Long after the Japanese did.  Long after they'd figured out how to make their cars more profitably.  After they were taught how to do so by an American.  Long after the horse had left the barn.  Long after the Japanese had eaten desert.  Just thought you'd like to know... 

TTRPMO (Part Drei)

   ("Things That Really Piss Me Off," Part 3)

As you've learned, having put up with me all these years, I occasionally comment on the things that really piss me off.  Because being older than dirt qualifies me to comment on such things.  The 30,000 foot view of those things that cause me angst, and anger, and tight jaws.  And perhaps other old folks as well.  Perhaps you, Fellow Patriot, are among them.  The folks like you who know the answers to every question but nobody's asking.  And they're pissed about it.  So read on...

Number One:  Celebrity Worship

I'd like to start by saying that I was apparently not invited to Travis and Taylor's wedding.  I kept going to my mailbox, but strangely, no invite.  And this missive should not be misconstrued as me being pissed at that obvious oversight.  So don't take it as such.  They had to stop at 1,000 and I didn't make the cut.  Okay?   

Now then, Travis catches footballs for the Kansas City Chiefs.  And since I'm from Kansas City, and was at Super Bowl 3, trust me, I'm a BIG Chiefs fan.  And Taylor sings and plays the guitar and is a billionaire.  A self-made billionaire.  So she should be congratulated for figuring out how to make a bundle by singing and strumming.  But beyond that, I could give a royal sh*t what either of them do when he's not catching footballs and she's not singing and strumming.  Whether they hunt, or fish, or drive, or sleep, or whatever, I could care less.  

So renting out New York City and spending $30,000,000 to get married impresses me like zero.  I don't care.  I don't need anyone to look up to.  Not Kel, Tay Tay, or anyone else.  Don't need them at all.  Don't need to read about them or see them on TV.  Nor should you.  Being able to catch footballs, or memorize words to a song, makes them oddles of bucks but impresses me not at all.  Fuggetabout it!

In my opinion, those who need to dote on the activities of others to get through the day need to get a life.  Literally.  I don't.  So there.

Number Two:  Blivet

We used to have a saying back home in Missouri.  It was called a "blivet."  That's "two pounds of sh*t in a one pound bag."  In short, that means whatever you're talking about is too much of a not-good thing.  We had 176,433,000 people in America the day I was born.  Now?  341,555,000.  Not counting some number of million illegal immigrants.  Almost exactly double.  Yet, there's the same amount of space to pack it into.

Example:  California hasn't built a new freeway since 1976.  That was the 105 Freeway, an 11 mile connector from the 605 Fwy. to the 105 Fwy., near Lost Angeles International Airport.  Yet, there's twice as many drivers.  Twice as many cars.  And Johnnie Carson used to joke about the traffic jam we faced while stuck in traffic on the 405 and the 105 near that airport.  And that was 30 years ago.  Thank God he's dead, for he'd die if he saw what it's like now!

CA has the highest gasoline taxes in the Nation!  About $0.68 cents a gallon.  Just imagine how many gallons of $6.00 gas is sold here in the Once-Golden State.  And then wonder where all that money's going, 'cause it's certainly not going to build freeways!  Nor even repair the one's we've got!  The Taxifornia highway system is a blivet.  Two pounds of sh*t in a one pound bag!

Number Three:  The "Thin Blue Line," vs. "The Fat Wallet You."

It takes two full years to become a policeman in Germany.  That's where being a cop is a real profession.

It takes two full years to become a beautician in America.  To cut hair and style it and make people think they look good.  A real profession here in America.

But it takes less than six months to become a cop in America.  Just attend any of the various police academies, and voila!  28 weeks later, you're a cop!  And then you can enforce any of the laws in your particular city or county or state.  

Here in California, there are 366,355 laws.  More than twice as many as the second most litigious state, New York, and three times as many as number 3, Illinois.  More even that our Federal Gubmint, at 300,000!  So how is a cop supposed to enforce them when he hasn't been trained on them and doesn't know them?  Not the slightest clue.  Exactly!   They're trained on only those laws that bring in the $cash.  DUI's and speeding and careless and reckless and like that.  Taking DUI violators off the roads is great.  But I say lighten up on those traffic tickets!   

I think having 880,000 cops in America is a great idea, especially if they catch thieves and robbers and carjackers and murderers and rapists.  But NOT a good idea if they park behind a tree and hide so they can catch those breaking minor traffic laws on our highways.  NOT a good idea!  A warning is what should happen.  We already pay them to enforce the laws.  We don't need to pay them again via high-priced traffic tickets!  If they have to pull a driver over, they should give them some education on why they should stop doing whatever they were doing.  That's what we pay them for.  

Here in Taxifornia the average traffic ticket, like rolling through a stop sign or 10 mph over on the freeway, costs the driver an average of $799.  Money they could be spending on their kids' food and their rent and on our Nation's most expensive gas to put into their cars.  But there's a bunch of cities and towns out there who pay there bills with traffic fines.  And they field Road Pirates to write those tickets 24/7/375.  That pisses me off!  

To our cops out there:  Start catching bad guys and stop giving out traffic tickets.  They cost points on licenses and increase insurance premiums and bring on the risk of license revocations.  Protect and Serve for a change.  You'll sleep better at night.  And so will we, the taxpayers... 

Growing Up in "Flyover Country."

For those you who were born in California, or another of the Deep Blue States, and wonder how growing up in "Flyover Country" was altogether different, read on...

I remember vividly shooting one of my Dad's rifles at the ripe old age of five.  And I emphasize "one of."  For he had many rifles, and many shotguns, and many pistols.

In fact, Dad won the Missouri State Pistol Championship in both 1938 and 1940.  He was also a champion skeet and trap shot, and the winner of many rifle competitions.  Plus, he was a hunter of anything that walked, ran or flew.  

So I was introduced to guns at five years old.  That's when Dad let me pull the trigger on his .30-06.  I was gifted a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas at the age of 6.  And recevied a Stevens .22 single-shot rifle for Christmas at the age of nine.  Imagine having a .22 rifle at nine years old.  

And because my Dad's best friend was a guy named Kenney Frost, who owned the local Army/Navy store, with a substantial gun sales department, I was "given" to him as an intern.  To learn all about firearms.  And I did.  For years.  

I'd go to his shop after school and on weekends and he'd train me about guns.  I actually learned to repair and build custom varmint rifles (gophers, woodchucks, coyotes, etc.) to order for Kenney.  I don't know if those who ordered them from Kenney to be manufactured from scratch, actually knew a 13 or 14 year-old kid was making them in the back room, but they were.  That's where you order a wooden stock blank, a barreled rifle action, and all the other parts and pieces necessary to make a custom gun.  And then fit them together with lots of elbow grease over several weeks into a shiny new rifle.

If fact, I even built one for myself.  It was a 13 pound .270 Winchester small game rifle.  It was a rifle to behold!  My cousin Reinhard Fajen owned the best rifle stock business in the Country at the time, and he gave me the most beautiful Circasian Fiddleback walnut rifle stock blank anyone's ever seen.  It featured a full beavertail forend and scoop cheek piece.  Add to that it had a 10x power Lyman Wolverine telescopic sight and helium-filled Redfield Jr. scope mount.  I chose a Model 98 Mauser magnum bolt action and a 30" Timken steel bull barrel.  Add to that a fully-adjustable trigger with an Ace trigger shoe and you've got a rifle that can put five bullets into a playing card at 600 yards.  That's sub-minute of angle accuracy (1" per 100 yards), for those of you who care about such things.

Oh yeah, I still remember the recipe for my handloads.  That's where you shoot rifle cartridges and then reuse them.  You use the cases and primers and gunpowder and the necessary tools to remake ammunition after it's been shot.  I used Norma .30-'06 rifle cases necked down to .270 so they'd hold more powder.  I used 50 grains of Dupont #4350 smokeless powder and Peters primers.  And 110 grain open point Speer bullets.  This enabled me to obtain 3,200 feet per second performance with flat ballistics out to more than 200 yards.  And all this at less than 0.25 cents per shot.  A quarter.  That's damm cheap fun!  

I was also a member of two quick draw clubs.  That's where you wear a quick draw holster like you used to see on TV, and use an 1873 .45 Colt Peacemaker clone.  You slowly walk toward a man-shaped target with a light bulb on its head.  When the bulb lights up, you draw and shoot a wax bullet propelled only by the primer.  That still propells the wax "bullet" at about 400 fps.  And the clock determines how many pieces of a second it took you to accurately respond and hit the target.  With about a quarter of a second as normal  reaction time, I would average about .320 of a second to observe, draw and shoot. 

Great fun!

And a great afternoon for me back then would be to throw a few guns in the back seat and drive down a gravel road until I found the city limits sign.  Then I'd get out and fill my .22 cowboy revolver with six shots and throw the paper box they came in out as far as I could.  Then I'd draw quickly and shoot at it.  And keep on doing so until I ran out of bullets or the box was so far out of sight I could no longer hit it.  And then do it all over again.

So I owned more than 50 firearms when I was finally drafted into the U. S. Army.  I gave or sold most of them away, figuring I'd likely be killed in the "Nam."  I even posted the highest basic training rifle range score in Fort Leonard Wood's history.  998 out of 1,000.  Even after 50 years, I think that high score still stands today.

And oh yeah, I entered the Schwarzwalden (Black Forrest) Shooting Club's 1968 Olympic qualifications finals competition.  I came in third.  Had I placed first or second, I'd have qualified to represent Germany in the '68 Olympics.  I always wondered how my commanding officer would have received that bit of news.  An American G.I. competing in the Olympics for a foreign country.  Somehow I think that might have caused a stir.  Hmmmm...

I tell you all of this to explain why some of us who weren't born and raised in Democrat, high population states know their way around guns.  And horses and cows and wild boars and so much more.  And why we take it as a personal insult when our governor, and the governor of the other wussie states, sign executive orders limiting our ownership and use of the firearms they deem dangerous.  Or all black and scary looking.  I personally don't care what they deem.  Perhaps if they'd had an upbringing like mine, and like my neighbors, and like the people born and raised in the South and Mountain states and the Big Sky states and all the others with country you can hunt in,  consider as routine.  Normal.  Usual.  Places where they value their 2nd Amendment Rights and are willing to fight to protect them. 

We consider guys like BoyGuv ("Hairgod") Newsom as a shining example of pussyhood.  And that fat dude in Illinois.  And the one in Colorado.  And in the 22 states of our Union where they attempt to outlaw firearms.  Maybe they should be required to take firearm owners and users courses when they're elected.  So they'd know what it's like to grow up like a Man.  Like an American.  Not like a lily livered girly man, as Schwartzenhoozits used to call them.  Before his Kennedy-raised wife threatened to withhold her female favors if he didn't start acting more like a Democrat.  

Sorry to post about guns so often for those of you who "know."  Who know what us gun owners and users know.  But for those of you who don't, it's time to learn what the rest of us consider "normal."

As a remember, here's what the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution guarantees:  

"...the Right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."

God Exists!

I was headed in to the infusion center for my fourth, and last, chemo treatment.  

My fourth chemo series, and the last one of the fourth in that series.  Dammm, was I happy.  And relieved.  It was finally over.

Chemotherapy, if you haven't had the (dis)pleasure, is what they hit you with when you're diagnosed with cancer.  Or perhaps radiation.  Either is bad.  They both suck.

Lung cancer, in my case.  Metastatic Small Cell Lung Cancer, which is the worst, fastest growing, and most aggressive type, they tell me.  Sort of like hearing from yout doctor, "You have ebola.  It's the very worst sort of virus around anywhere.  And there's no cure for it.  You'll die from it within weeks.  And it will be painful.  There's nothing more we can do for you.  Call if you have any questions.  We have a tee time to get to.  So have fun."

The day I got the diagnosis, I went home and Googled "metastatic small cell lung cancer."  Google told me I had 3 or 4 months to live.  Gulp!  I closed the Google app and vowed not to check it again.  So even though my sainted registered nurse wife and I created and managed the first emergency medical service of its kind, and ran it for nearly 40 years, I knew painfully little about cancer.  My knowledge was all centered around kidney failure.  And End Stage Renal Disease.  And treating desperately ill patients who were in need of acute dialysis treatments.  We figured one time we treated about 10,000 patients in those 40 years.  Who would have had little other chance without us.

In short, even though I'd spent 50 years in medicine,, my knowledge about it was half a mile wide and an inch deep.  Except for End Stage Renal Disease.  Which I knew more about than the doctors who treated it.  And even though I played a doctor on TV, the last person I'd ask about treating cancer would be me.  Especially if it was my cancer.

So my oncologist, a really smart 40-something babe who chose to take me on as a patient, mapped out my treatment plan.  She lowered the dose a bit, choosing not to give these aging bones of mine the full wattage.  And put me in the hospital.  

The idea is to kill the fast growing cells.  And the fastest growing cells are cancer cells.  But they also shut down your immune system.  So she customized my dosage to keep me alive.  Thank God.  For if she'd hit me with the full 100% of the normal dosage, I'm sure I'd have collapsed into a heap of protoplasm.  For chemotherapy is the gnarliest, nastiest, meanest, awfulest and most toxic thing anyone can do to you.  It's poison.  And it could kill you if they screw up the dosage.  It's like months of the flu, with body aches, projectile vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, and deathly sickness in the name of wellness.  

How ironic.

Anyway, my four daughters overrode my vote to handle the whole thing myself, and chose to each take a day and drive me to my treatment.  It was four days of chemo, then one week of hoping you'd just go ahead an die, and a week of more of less normalcy.  Normalcy with cancer, that is. Then back to them trying to kill you.  

This went on for 5 months.  During which I many times wondered if I'd chosen correctly to have chemo.  It's that bad.  But my daughters won out, over my veto, and thank God they did.  For however determined I was to handle it all my self, I doubt I could have.  So they drove me there, stayed with me while they tried to kill me, then brought me home.  And tucked me in, if necessary.  And sometimes it was... 

We had a saying back home about things like this.  It went sorta' like "Shot at and missed, sh*t at and hit."

Thanks to Tiana, Dana, Lauren and Jennifer for being the best daughters a father could ever have.  I truly wouldn't have made it through without you.

Back to my last chemo treatment.  It was Tiana's turn.  She drove me to the infusion center, dropped me off and parked her car.  I played with my phone while she did.  Then I put it in my travel bag when she returned.  She pushed me in to the center and to my chair.  A big, gray thing that reclined should I wish it to.  And I almost always did.  I got into the chair, put my travel bag on the tray table, got comfy, and told Tiana I'd call her in 4 hours or so when my treatment ended.  She walked out of the center just as I reached for my phone.

It wasn't there!

Tiana was gone.  And I had no phone!  I hurriedly took all the travel stuff out of the bag.  The earphones, the  bottle of water, the Compazine, the tissues, a book and magazine.  Nothing.  I looked between the cushions of the recliner.  Nothing!  I asked the nurses to look outside around the entrance, and in the waiting room.  They did.  Nothing.  I looked in the bag again.  Same story.  I was sick.  I was already sick, it being the fourth day in a 4-day chemo treatment series, but this made me even sicker.  Instead of being able to go home and go to bed, I'd have to go to the Verizon store and blow 3 hours and a $1,000 on a new one.  And without having an existing phone to transfer across all the data, I'd have to reinvent my entire life into the new one.  While being sick.  

The thought made me even sicker.

I'd spent 30 minutes looking for the phone and was resigned to my fate.  I didn't even know Tiana's phone number!  Figuring I had nothing to lose, I looked to the sky and said, "God, I know you're busy.  But if you or one of your angels has a moment, I'd sure appreciate it if you could help me find my phone."  

Just then, not one second later, JUST AS THE LAST WORD LEFT MY LIPS, one of the nurses said to me, "Well, we could always call the number."  

I said, "Probably do no good, but go ahead if you want to.  The ring tone is the theme sone from "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly."  And it's really loud.  Probably do no good.  But give it a try if you wish."  I thought "go ahead if you must."  I was that bummed out.   

I held out no hope, figuring that God was far too busy to help find a phone.  Especially MY phone!  It's not like I've been a choir boy, ferGod'sake!  And without Him at this point, I felt there was zero chance my phone would show up.  

She dialed the number.  Just then, that song began to blare under my butt.  Loud!  "Doodle, oodle, ooh, doo doo, doooo.  Doodle oodle ooh, doo doo DOOOOO!"  

I nearly jumped out of the chair.  The other 50 or so sickies in the center nearly jumped out of their chairs, too.  The nurse who called the number clapped with glee!  She then got on her knees and began to try and find the phone.  She dug between the cushions of my chair as much as she could.  No luck.  She found a coat hanger, took it apart and straighted it out so she could use it to dig.  She finally found it waaay down between the cushions and way back where it would never have been found.  Ever!  She was able to pull it out, thankfully.  She presented it to me with a bow and the whole center apdplauded.  I returned the bow, too, as you could imagine.

Can you say RELIEVED!

Although I've always believed in God, I'd never gotten so close to proving His presense then as I did that day in the infusion center.  I doubt He did it personally, though.  Probably St. Michael.  Or the patron saint of phones, whoever that might be.  Or maybe my own special, personal angel, which the Bible tells us we all have to look after us.  

But we never needed him or her like I did that day inthe center.  And boy, did I ever!  I took it as proof that God exists, and He exists to help us in our time of need.  Like I experienced that day.  Maybe you'll think it wasn't all that important.  Trust me, to me that day, it was.  

And for me, at least, it's absolute proof.  There is a God!  And He helped me find my phone.  And I'll pay it forward the very first chance life gives me.  I hope it's for you...

Epilogue:  I'm pleased to say I'm in remission and undergoing immunotherapy.  It's an hour-long infusion every three weeks.  I'm in debt to my personal doctor for demanding I get a CT scan because I'm a reformed smoker.  I asked my oncologist how long I'd need to keep on that schedule.  She said, "Forever."  I laughed inwardly.  I'm pretty sure her idea of forever and my idea of forever, are really diifferent  "forevers."

A Birthday Card to America

I'd like to say I looked forward to joining the Army, being shipped 8,000 miles away, and shooting at little short guys I'd never met.  And hoped to never meet.

I'd like to say that but I can't.

What I can say is I did my very best to avoid the draft.  I attended five colleges, but chose not to actually attend classes.  They seemed to expect that.  I was too busy shooting pool and picking the pockets of folks who thought they could pick mine.  That kept my 2-S deferment active until I reached the magic 5 and 1/2 years, at which time my draft deferment ended.  And I received a letter from the Gubmint which opened with, 

"Greetings."

Choosing not to permit them to draft me, I enlisted to become a sniper.  Until they told me my glasses would steam over in 100 degree heat and 100% humidity while I was low-crawling though two foot-tall grass.  Fortunately, I'd done well on my entrance exams.  Well enough for Army Intelligence (no laughter here) to rescue me.  And my amazing Army career then began to unfold.  Ending with me being awarded the Army Commendation Medal.

Ummm, wha...?

To back up a bit, I was born in Kansas City, but raised in the tiny town of Bosworth, Missouri.  A town of 200 people.  Then my folks moved me to Chillicothe, which was proud of its 9,800 residents.  So my view of the U.S. of A. was seen until my young twenties through the prism of Small Town, America.

I managed to grow older without growing up, I'm afraid to say.  I had the wickedest pool cue, the prettiest girlfriend, one of the the fastest cars in the county and no sense at all.  I thought everybody wore a money belt and carried a gun.  I had no idea at all what it meant to be an American.  No sense of patriotism.  No sense of pride in my County.  

No sense at all.

The Army took away my name and gave me a number.  They worked me like a rented mule.  And taught me there were other folks besides me in the world.  Other men from other cities and states.  Other men of other races and religions.  Others who thought differently and acted differently than me, but were still good people.  Others with whom I might just have to share a foxhole someday.  Others upon whom I had to rely.  And they upon me.  I never had that feeling before.  

I learned that America had fought for its independence.  And fought another 200 wars and battles and skirmishes and police actions to keep all us Americans safe.  And only guys like me stood between our friends and families and those who wished to do us harm.

I learned pride in my unit.  And pride in my company.  And pride in my battalion and brigrade.  And pride in  the U. S. Army.  And more than that, pride in my Country.  I learned that, although it's not perfect, ours is the best Country on Earth.  The only Country where your freedoms are granted by God, and are worth fighting for and to keep.  

I came home from the Army grown up.  And ready to assume my responsibilities to my family and my Country.  Whereas before I was a selfish pool hall rat, interested only in myself, I came home from the military reformed.  Ready to finish school and get a job and get married and start a family and do what I could for my friends and neighbors and community and Country. 

The Army did that to and for me.  I shudder to think what I'd have become had I not been conscripted.  But I know what I became because of it.  

America ceased drafting its young men and women after its disastrous Viet Nam foray.  Since 1975 we've been an all volunteer military.  No longer will your bunkmate be representative of all the cities and states of America.  It will be representative only of those who chose to enlist and even stay for life.  They're older, wiser, better educated, and an all-around fiercer fighting force.  But it's not the same as what I experienced.  And I recommend we return to that time.  I recommend we resume the draft.  So that, like 22 other countries, we require our high school graduates to give back to their country two or more years of their lives.      

Think back to how smart (or dumb) you were at 18 years old.  And think back at how much smarter you were a couple of years later.  And then imagine how much better prepared you'd be for life if you'd have grown up while defending your country. 

And then let your Country pay you back by paying for your education and helping you buy your first house and providing you with continuing health care. 

It worked for me.  It could work for you and your kids.  Just remember on this 250th Anniversary of America, your freedom was bought and paid for by those who wrote a blank check for everything up to and including their lives.  And more than one million of them died while paying for it.  Think of them while you enjoy the day they bought for you with their lives.

I've been to 47 countries.  And I can tell there's nowhere like America.  Our Great Experiment in Freedom has proven successful.  We've had a small "d" democracy longer than any other country on Earth.  And we're positioned to go on for another 250 years.  With your patriotism, and the dedication of those in our military, we'll surely achieve it...

Happy Birthday, America!

Don't Tax You, Don't Tax Me...

           ...Tax the Man Behind the Tree.

                                                           Benjamin Franklin, 1789  

If we go way, way back, we find that our progenitors, the homo erectus from which we all sprung, were so-called "hunter/gatherers."

They followed herds of animals, killing one every now and then for its meat and its hide.  They did that for several hundred thousand years.  Starting about 400,000 years ago.  More or less.  The archeologists and the paleontologists and the various "ologists" continue to argue about just when they first appeared, but let's just agree it was a long time ago.

They would pitch their camp, using animal skins for their tents.  Sometimes they would gather with other hunter/gatherers and camp together for mutual safety.  Keeping that saber tooth tiger at bay, doncha' know.  And sometimes they would form a group to hunt and camp together.

It wasn't long before these camps grew to several dozen, even hundred, with the hunters doing the hunting, and their womenfolk doing the cooking and seiwing and other chores.  

And before long these encampments were so large they needed to elect a mayor.  Or chieftain.  Somebody to establish rules and regulations governing the actions of all these campers.  And then they hired a sheriff to keep the peace.  And other foks to help run things.  Pretty soon we had a town.  And then they needed to enact taxes to help pay for all the people they had running things.  And that's where I being today's diatribe...

Did you know that our first taxes were 3% of everything over $800 a year?  The Democrats who ran Abe Lincoln's Administration were responsible for that.  It was to help pay for the Civil War.

And then our first Progressive president, Woodrow Wilson, decided to help pass the Tax Revenue Act of 1913.  It taxed our citizens at ther rate of 1% of all income over $8,000 a year.  The die was cast.

And then Roosevelt decided to make that flat tax progressive, with more taxes being levied on those with greater income.  Providing a disincentive to work harder and a reason to cheat.  And that's where we now find our selves. 

Did you know that the top 1% of our income earners pay 38.8% of all income taxes?  And that the top 25% pay 75% of all income taxes?  And that the bottom 50% of our citizens pay only 3.3% of our income taxes?  And yet, the Progressives among us continue to bleat about the "rich" paying their "fair share?"  Are they smoking some of those funny little cigarettes?

So you take a job.  And then get your first pay check.  You'll be smacked in the face with the realization you only receive about 75% of your actual pay.  The rest goes to income taxes, Social Security taxes, and all the other taxes your state chooses to levy.  It's been said that if we were forced to actually write a check on April 15th to the IRS for our taxes, there would be a mass revolt.  Torches and pitchfolks, to be sure!

And then you go buy a cup of overpriced coffee.  And pay 10% for the privelege of paying for it.  Or a new car.  Which now averages $51,140.  That tax means the state gets $5,000 for allowng you to buy that car.  

Or you buy a fishing license.  There's a tax on that.  Or a hunting license.  You can't be a hunter/gatherer today without paying the state for the privelege.  Think about that!  

Or you can live in California and pay the highest personalf income tax of 13.3% of your pay over a certain amount.  In addition to the Federal tax rate of 28.9%.  Add to that your property taxes, which for some is more than their mortgage payment, and you might wind up with a mere pittance of your total earnings.

And then you die.  If you croak in CA or NY or IL or other states that want to pick your bones on the way out, your heirs may have to pay as much as 50% of your estate to The Man.  Or, like CA, you might have to pay 5% of your total Net Worth if you're worth a $Billion or more.  That little craziness is on the ballot this November.  That's why the majority of our 200 $Billionaires are all moving to Texas, or Florida, or Tennessee, or any of the other 27 states that charge no income taxes.  They now pay 51% of all of California's income taxes.  Who do you think they'll be coming after once they go?

Take a look at Las Vegas.  It used to be that you could go there and buy a shrimp cocktail for $0.99.  And dinner for $4.95.  And a room for $15.00.  And then the corporations got involved, like MGM Grand and Ceazars Corp.  They bought up all the casinos on Las Vegas Blvd. and started trying to milk you for every last nickle.  They nick you for $50.00 to park your car.  And $25.00 for a cocktail.  And $185.00 for dinner.  That's why nobody's going there anymore.  

California is Vegas writ large.  Remeber what Mark Twain once said:

 "Trying to tax your way to prosperity is like standing in a bucket and pulling yourself up by the handles."

P.S.  Will the last one out please turn off the lights?

Change...

Change for the sake of change, is not necessarily good.

Nor necessary.  

Let me give you an example.  The very last American car with hand crank windows was the 2025 Jeep Wrangler.  This year's Wrangler comes standard with power windows.  As well as every other American car and truck.  

Why?  For purposes of standardization.  To stock both hand crank and power window lift assemblies is costly to the manufacturers.  They don't know how many of each to order or stock, thus increased costs.  So the manufacturers order only power window assemblies from their suppliers.  And then fold the cost of power windows into their new car price tags.  Like they're doing you a favor.  And you keep on buying them.

Is that a good thing?  Depends upon whom you ask.  For me it is.  I can remember having to stretch waaay over the seat to reach the far right window so as to crank it down.  For those lazy summer drives with the wind in your hair.  

But those power asemblies often go bad.  And that's a $600 dollar repair charge.  At least.  And they add extra weight.  As do every other motorized button you push that does something for you you could easily do for yourself.

And they add an extra cost you might not want to spend.  My first new car was a 1962 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport 409 cube, 409 horse.  4-speed, posi-trac, bucket seats.  Honduras maroon with black interior.  $2,824.00 out the door.  And it weighed only 2,890 pounds.  Of course, it had no air bags or anti-lock brakes or any other modern safety gear.  And they all add weight.

As in, the average new 4-door sedan weighs at least 4,200 pounds.  That's 1,400 pounds more than my '62  Impala.  Is that good?  You have to buy extra $6.00 a gallon (California) gas to cart all that extra weight around. 

And the average new car costs $51,190.  With $750.00 a month payments for 84 months.  That's not a good change.  Not for me, not for you.  

And when I was coming up we knew that next year's car would be bigger, faster, more powerful, prettier, and handle better.  With 18 colors to choose from.  Pink and lime green and a nice toasty brown.  Today?  Every car looks the same, next year's car won't be any better, it won't be faster or handle better, and it for sure won't be lighter or cost less.  In fact, it just might be worse.  Heavier and slower and guzzle more gas.  And 80% of all new cars are black, silver, or blue.  Have those changes been for the better?

I'd say no.

Another one?  Sure.

I remember when I was a kid, back when Christ was a corporal, there was one thing that held true to every family, no matter whether they were Black or White, rich or poor, or from the North or the South.  Come dinner (or supper) time, every member of the family had to have their ass in a chair around the dinner table or they didn't eat.  How's that for a sentence?

There was no Internet.  No cell phones.  No laptops.  No Facebook or Google or X or Instagram or TicTok.  And only 3 channels and they were all black and white.  No place to have your face except looking at your mom and dad. And sister Kate and brother Mike.  You spent that half hour catching up with your family.  About the happenings around your house.  And then  you went off to study or out for a date.  But you never, ever missed those few moments.  Have we progressed?  

I'd say no.  

We now live in our own little bubble, completely divorced from our family and friends.  Or even wife or husband.  I've said for years that the 'Net is the bane of our existence.  That it will bury us.  And we should sh*tcan it.  Today.  We should go back to the days when family and friends came first.  When we went out to meet girls instead of hoping our dating sites would bring us a girl- or boyfriend.  Face it.  We've devolved.

Just because you can order a thing from Amazon and have it delivered before sunrise tomorrow doesn't mean you should.  And just because Elon can cause a rocket booster to bring itself back to Earth in one piece doesn't mean we should care.  Good for him, not necessarily for us.  

There is almost exactly twice the number of souls in Armerica now as of the day I was born.  And we're paying a price for that crowding.  We are less friendly.  And helpful.  And caring.  And more self-centered.

I fondly recall the nights will my girl in a Pizza Hut consuming a large, 3-topping pie, a carafe of White Zinfandel, and walking out with change from a $20.00.  After leaving a good sized tip. And then heading for the drive-in movie just as the sun goes down.  I remember seeing Dirty Dancing and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly as a double feature.  Windows all cranked down, eating popcorn and drinking Cokes.  With the breeze blowing through our car.  I pine for the good ol' days.  They'll never come back, and that's a shame.  And those who never experienced them don't know what they're missing.

So I say get back to having dinner at 6:00 with your family.  Then turning off the TV and shutting off your cell phones and playing Monopoly with your clan.  You just might enjoy it...