Sanders

A friend on Facebook asked why anyone would oppose Sanders, who is running for President:

The wage stagnation statistics are misleading, I think.  The workforce has grown something like 50% since Reagan’s election, most of that due to immigration (which is a good thing).   US wages since 1981 or thereabouts do appear flat for the lower two quintiles.  But if you look at real US worker wages now, versus the wages of a worker’s parent’s or grandparents, regardless of what country they were working in 30 years ago, wages are up significantly.  

But leave the income questions alone for a moment, and look at overall quality of life metrics.  A median worker, (US or worldwide) has seen an increase in longevity, much lower infant mortality for their family, better access to information, better ability to travel, and significantly more leisure time.

On a global basis, income inequality between nations has fallen drastically. And the off-shoring of manufacturing that Sanders criticizes has contributed to a tremendous reduction in extreme poverty worldwide.

What worries me, is that when you strip down Sanders economic arguments, he’s essentially a protectionist and a bit of a nativist.  That approach has a pretty bad track record.

I ‘m also not a fan of scapegoat politics, and Sander’s leans heavy in that direction.  The 1% make great villains (e.g. the douche bag who just raised the price on Daraprim), but I hold the quaint view that if you make money in this society, even a lot of money, it is more likely you’re doing something right rather than something wrong.  I am also reminded that to be in the 1%, you need only make $32k a year – on a global basis that is.

But it’s really more that the fuzzy numbers or policy choices, my disagreement with Sanders is deeper.  

Philosophically, I don’t believe that individual resources should be appropriated according to the will of a majority.  At its heart, I think that is what the senator is suggesting.  Regardless of how the inequity is framed, or how much wealth the Koch brothers have, theirs is not my money to take. At the least, I do not have moral claim to it.  We do, collectively, need funds to run national programs, but taxation is at best a necessary evil.  I get nervous when state seizure is recommended as a lever of justice. 

But that is a matter of opinion and seems out of step with most of my facebookiverse. In truth, if the day to storm the Bastille ever arrives, I’ll likely join in, because 1) that’s where my friends will be, and 2) the afterparty will be insane.

But until that day, while I am still sober, I would remind myself that fairness is always subjective.  And regardless of creed, leaders who promise it always (always) wind up with a thumb on the scale.

Puerto Rico, 1985

My High school, Sommerset, had classes arranged in three week courses.  One of those classes was held in Puerto Rico.  Eight of us went along, lived in the student housing of a seminary, and our lone supervisor (who was 24) turned a blind eye to the abundance of DonQ rum in our possession – at least until Nancy was nearly hospitalized for alcohol poisoning.

We did some touristy stuff mixed in with Lectures on PR history, or speeches by peninsulares types about statehood, or speeches by leftists about the need for independence. 

We went to the beach -- either Isla Verde or Luquillo --nearly everyday, and raided the food trucks for pina colladas, fried plantains and land crab empenadas.

We were required to keep a journal as part of the class, and I maintained the usual “today we went to El Moro castle and found the ruins very interesting,” sort of drivel up until the night that Nancy drank too much.  That night, our chaperone told us the rest of the trip was cancelled and we would all fail.

So after that, failure and expulsion looming, I decided there was no risk in journaling more brazenly.  So I wrote as I thought, and I said Fuck a lot more.

But rather than additional punishment, my instructor asked me to continue writing in this manner.  He liked it, he said, and compared my writing to Hunter Thompson – high praise to a 17 year old.  I had to clean up the syntax and the grammar, but if I could continue in adequate volume I could pass the class.

It was that trip, after Nancy’s bender, that I decided I was a writer.

Services for Ed

Eddie drove out to the beach and shot himself in the head with a shotgun.  He was Allison’s brother, and was around every Sunday for Redskins games.  We talked every week, at least during football season, but didn’t talk much.  He seemed a nice guy.  It is a shame he died.

Turns out he tried to get treatment twice, but wasn’t admitted into the psych facility because he smoked.  That makes me angry.  It made everyone who heard it angry.

The services were on Friday in Delaware.  Kath and I drove out, and drove back.  It was nearly all family, so I felt a little like we were intruding.

Today was meant to be more low key, a small gathering at Alison’s sister’s place.  But it was more conversational and that made it intimate.  Everyone said what they remembered about Eddie – from people who hardly knew him, to his siblings and closest friends.  Some talked for ten seconds, some talked for fifteen minutes.  It was very sad and it seems he was very loved.  Alison said she felt like she let him down, Matt said it was doubly sad that people who deserved happiness didn’t get it, I said there would be a hole on Sunday, Keith talked about how hard it was to climb out of that hole.

So I guess people mostly talked about themselves, at least in passing.  Even people who told the stories about Eddie were talking about themselves.  Grieving is a personal, egocentric thing I guess.

Anyhow, everyone talked and the event wore down. 

 I made a bit of an irish exit, talked to Alison in the garage and drove home in the rain.

Coffee with Kathy

We had an ice storm Monday, snow Tuesday, and Ry had been off school for two days.  We expected a delay, but didn’t have one, so Ry and I both dragged out of bed at 6:30 for the drive to Poolesville.  Got back by 7:45, as per usual.  Kath was still in bed, so I brought her coffee and we talked for close to an hour about nothing and everything, Megadog snuggled between us.

We were finishing up the Christmas shopping – I still need to buy for Linda and my Dad.  Since we are flying down to Florida for Dad’s 80^th, and we both shoip through the same amazon account, there is little surprise what I am getting Kath.  I want to buy her something in Florida so she has something to open under the tree.

We have mixed feelings about the trip south.  It seems an added errand to the busy season.  It takes away our Christmas at home – which both kath and I love.  Riley will be at college way too soon.  We will have three more Christmases before he goes, and we begin to feel the need to guard them.

Mom’s has organized some events, but Kath and I are frustrated sometimes by the looseness of our family events.  They seldom flow.   We fear we will both be chained to the kitchen – me to cooking, she to cleaning.

Gwen has taken the time off from Wegmen’s to go down.  Her hours are already too few.  She and we worry about her job, and her future.  We figure she will be living at home long after Ry is off and away.

So Kath and I talked about these things, and politics – frustrated with the healthcare laws, glad to see more of the country is concerned about the President. We talked about Kath's work.  We talked about my new work selling real estate.  I am excited, but worry I will fail at it.  We talked about the band gig this Saturday at a real club for real money.  All this and more, then we noticed the clock and then I went downstairs to look at the market and she got ready for work.

It was a morning both typical and special.  There is so much to do, so many reasons to be thankful, and so many annoyances.  It seems like the finish line keeps getting moved farther and farther back, but that is fine on those days when you enjoy the race.

I loaded up the fireplace, debated cleaning the kitchen, played a few minutes of avenger’s alliance, and decided to make a note of the morning.

Violence

I drove Ry to school this morning, same as every morning.  He is newly 15 and usually has a tough time waking up, but today was easier than most days.  We drove out, across the misty farmland, with the sun rising in the rear-view mirror, and chatted about computer games and his cousin’s software job.  I dropped him off at 7:15 ten minutes before first bell, and drove back from Poolesville.

I’d crossed the bridge over Seneca creek, was listening to political talk on the radio when the deer jumped out.

I was quick on the brakes – luckily no one close behind me – but it was probably less than a quarter second before impact.  I caught the small deer with the center of the f-150’s grill.  I came mostly to a stop, and the carcass rolled away limp.  The deer didn’t move.  I figured it had been killed instantly. 

There was nowhere safe to pull over, and there was a long line of traffic behind me.  I drove on home,  a little bit shaken and unsure how to proceed. 

If you’re going to hit a deer.  dead center with a truck is better than a small car.  It would’ve been a very different experience for someone driving with children in a Honda.  Or if someone had swerved, which is instinct, and pulled into an oncoming car. Reading about such accidents later, I learned that most people die from deer wrecks because of swerving into something.

I got home and looked at the truck.  The front bumper was slightly damaged.  The license plate had apparently been torn off.  I looked online to see what you should do about such an accident – count your blessings if your safe, contact insurance, some suggest putting the deer out of its misery, some suggest harvesting the carcass.  I’ve heard that road kill meat is usually tainted from the impact and not fit to eat, btw.  But that was the last thing on my mind.

I did feel bad about killing the deer.  I worried that it might be alive, suffering.  I also thought I should go collect my license plate.

So I went in the garage, grabbed a sledge hammer and a small pickaxe and drove back over to where I’d hit the deer.  I stopped at a street a couple hundred yards from the carcass and looked at the truck damage again.  Turned out the license plate was still attached, just pushed in.

I decided to take the small pickaxe, which would be more manageable than the sledge, and I walked down the busy road to the deer.  It was quite lifeless, and its eyes looked quite blank.  I worried it might be paralyzed and still suffering, so I took two swings with the sharp end of the pickaxe into its brain.  Maybe three seconds to swing the axe.  I think the skull was shattered because the point went in so easily.

Not being used to such violence, it felt odd.  It felt so strange that it was so easy and quick to swing fatal blows.  You forget how fragile things are.

I drove home, political news was still on the tv.  Gwen was awake and needed a ride to work by 10:15.