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Fair Winds, Charlie Wilson

Charlie Wilson died February 10, 2010, ten days ago.  He was my Representative.  I will never forget these memories of the first Congressman I knew (and met), because they are impossible to erase.

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When I was in the first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Robertson, was a big-time Democrat.  A lot of people in Texas were, back in those days.  Mrs. Robertson imbued a lot of her politics on me, including the slanders of Ross Perot, which I unwittingly, and to my parents’ surprise, took home in repetition.  So, naturally, I was as excited as she was to learn Governor Ann Richards and Charlie Wilson were coming to our town.  The year was 1987.

The elementary school was assembled in the parking lot of my hometown grocery store, which I would work at exactly ten years later in order to earn money to blow on CDs.  Then, being first graders, we sang songs in anticipation.  My wife was there, too, in the same class, and I had a crush on her then, when we were six.  Then I heard the helicopter approaching.  Yeah, that’s right, a freaking helicopter landed in the grocery store parking lot, and out jump the Governor and my Congressman, who, as I remember, was a giant.  At 6-foot-4, and with his personality, he seemed like a giant to most adults, too.

The speeches came and went, the content of which I cannot recall, but I do remember Charlie Wilson conversing with my teacher and all of us, and shaking our hands.  I shook his hand, and the deal was sealed.  I would never forget Charlie Wilson.

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I knew Charlie Wilson was scandalous then, but I was not allowed to know why.  I will not discuss his personal exploits here; you can read all about them on his Wikipedia page, read the biography Charlie Wilson’s War by George Crile, see the slimmed-down 2007 movie version, or my preference for a reference, Crile’s short piece, “Charlie Did It,” linked to here.

Instead of the tabloid material, I’d like to briefly address his two major successes: somehow getting re-elected; and defeating the Soviet Union.

So how exactly did the “Liberal from Lufkin” get elected – repeatedly – as the Congressional representative of one of the most socially conservative districts in Texas?  Simply put, he was proficient at accurately reading his Southeast Texan constituency and delivering for them.  He was a master of low-tax populism, replete with a healthy tolerance for cronyism, as long as he could “get the job done” for Historic Texas 2.  Along with his political astuteness, Charlie Wilson had an incredibly infectious personality and a general likability factor, which I observed first hand as a six-year old.

In the Congress, he was a genius at consensus-building, a man with loose convictions on matters that did not initially concern him, at least prior to the vote-trading.  Fiscal responsibility?  Nah, but these were different times, mind you.  Macroeconomics was being handled (quite well, I would offer) by Art Laffer and Jim Baker.

Although I now disagree with his domestic policy agenda, I, like Charlie Wilson, am a US Naval Academy graduate, a former surface warfare officer, and, in turn, an ardent anti-Communist.  In the Summer of 1980, Charlie Wilson embarked on a plan to alter history in that regard, while flexing the powers afforded to his station in government to levels previously unseen.

With the Saudis matching the U.S. dollar-for-dollar in aid to Afghan rebels, this one man was able to funnel over a billion dollars to fund a covert mission to eradicate Afghanistan of their Soviet occupants.  This man personally delivered much of this armament through the Khyber Pass to the Freedom Fighters in Afghanistan.  Mikhail Gorbachev called the Afghan-Soviet War a “bleeding wound.”  It was the only war the Soviets ever lost, and one year later, the USSR was no more.  Former President Zia of Pakistan credits this man with Afghanistan’s success, stating simply, “Charlie Did It.”

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This man, when confronted with the truths of our current entanglements there, rejected the notion that his prior involvement had any true bearing on the situation.  No, he would deny the circumstances that inadvertently empowered the mujahideen, and eventually shaped today’s Taliban.  On the contrary, Charlie Wilson would defend the strategy he pursued, saying (with more colorful language) that we wouldn’t have “screwed it up” if we would have followed through with his mission to build schools and fund the development of, and eventually democratize, the fledgling Afghanistan.

He may have been right, but we will never know.  Regrettably, the course of history can’t turn back to take the path not travelled; it must proceed down the path it chose, and make the best of it, accepting the consequences therein.  This is true for both man and nation.  Charlie Wilson confronted his personal and political challenges with his boots on, dusting himself off again and again, with a glint in his eye, and a smile on his face.

So, to honor a man such as this, and to say farewell to a shipmate, I will be at Arlington Cemetery for his funeral this week, where he will be buried with full military honors.  Godspeed, Charlie.

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“A gone shipmate, like any other man, is gone forever; and I never met one of them again.  But at times the spring-flood of memory sets with force up the dark River of the Nine Bends.  Then on the waters of the forlorn stream drifts a ship — manned by a crew of Shades.  They pass and make a sign, in a shadowy hail.  Haven’t we, together and upon the immortal sea, wrung out a meaning from our sinful lives?  Goodbye, brothers!  You were a good crowd.  As good a crowd as ever fisted with wild cries the beating canvas of a heavy foresail; or tossing aloft, invisible in the night, gave back yell for yell to a westerly gale.”

- Joseph Conrad

Castor’s Sacrifice

My apologies for the last string of posts.  I was boring myself with them, honestly.  You probably don’t want to hear me drone on and on about the decline and fall of Western Civilization – it’s depressing.  The data is there if you want it.  You really don’t need me to simply repeat it for you.  The argument always deteriorates into something I never wanted to get into:  first, I present the facts; then, I give my opinion on the facts; but after that, I start questioning motives, saying things like “Obamacare is not about health care at all – It’s about control.”  I mean, how could I know that?  Are the President and Congress deliberately driving the nation over the brink?  Who am I to say?  In the parlance of the President, that’s “above my paygrade.”  That’s between them and God.

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This week, however, I reached an inflection point, at least in my own mind:  if I had to guess, I’d give the United States a fifty percent chance of making it as a (free) nation.  Why do I say that?  Well, this week, the White House Budget was released, and it’s quite ridiculous.  With a record-breaking $1.6 trillion deficit, the federal government is set to spend $3.8 trillion in 2011.

Does this make any sense to you?  Is this how people live?  Oh, right, right, we have to do all this, certainly because of something George W. Bush did.  I hear it almost daily.  This liberal trope has run its lifespan; the largest of the Bush deficits, of which this Administration “inherited,” was less than $200 billion (one-eighth of Obama’s, if you are not mathematically inclined).  I’d call it “doubling down cubed” on the worst parts of Bush’s policies.

Although I promised not to go into the stats – yeah, I’m already slipping – but our deficit-to-GDP ratio is 10.6 percent.  To put this in relative terms, the EU is set to order Greece to reduce theirs from a current 12.7 percent level to 3 percent.  What would we do if China ordered us to do that same thing?

Which leads me to conclude we are in a free fall, held hostage by the most irresponsible public servants in our nation’s history, unwilling to make the hard choices, unwilling to sacrifice, like Castor for Polydeuces, an “entitled” level of comfort to sacrifice for others, namely, our children.  Both parties lack the willpower to do so.  Is there any HOPE?  Tell me what you think, because I’ve said my piece.

I’ll re-double my efforts and focus on abstraction.  Take a ride with me, through my personal life and a bit of history, and see if you can follow a couple of themes, which have, in fact, already begun.

Boots or Boat Shoes?

Since getting a pair of boots last month, every morning, I face the same question.  Do I wear my boots, with the hardest working soles I’ve ever owned, or my typical boat shoes, which are, by nature, flimsy.  It should be noted I have three serviceable pairs of boat shoes, five total, but only one pair of boots.  I feel like a boss in either manner of footwear, so the question is independent of preference, because I like them both equitably.

Why does it matter?  Not accounting for the ambulatory requirements in the record snow now outside my house, this is indeed an existential question.  Boots of all sorts are generally worn by people in a field of work involving something physical – I reject the term “working class,” as well as “middle class,” as I oppose any kind of feudalist order and terminology – while boat shoes are worn by, well, the “sailing class.”  That’s sarcasm.  Also, in a way, both of these shoes represent and pay homage to two distinct parts of my life.

And while the question is multi-faceted, the answer is not:  depends on the pants.

Bluegrass or Old-Time String Music?

My favorite music spans these two genres.  Admittedly, the two styles are intertwined, like siamese twins, hinged at the hip.  Where one begins and the other ends is sometimes indistinguishable, while the extremities of the two are immediately recognizable as separate.

Bluegrass has a boom-chuck-boom-chuck rhythm, usually established with a bass and a chop from either a mandolin or a guitar, and filled with a rolling banjo and likely a fiddle.  Bluegrass is immediately recognizable and often fast in nature.  ”Old-timey” music sounds like Depression era hymns, are slower in nature, and are meant to be uplifting, healing, or simply provide comedy relief.  What is more entertaining to see is how iTunes labels this music, especially when the former ventures into classical styles, such as chamber music, or jazz, as with the Flecktones.

Why do I like this music so much?  Perhaps it’s because of our similar origins in Appalachia, and before that, back across the pond.  Unlike steel, though, DNA is not made stronger by folding (and re-folding) it onto itself.  Somewhere deep in my DNA lies a proclivity for the pairing of a banjo with fiddle (or two, best represented with the twin fiddles of Mark O’Connor and Stuart Duncan on Bela Fleck’s “Up and Around the Bend“).  More than likely, my ancestors have been playing music like this for centuries.

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This kind of music evokes an emotion within me other types of music simply cannot.  Why try to classify any of it?  I mean, what, exactly, does Doc Watson play?  I don’t know, but I know I like it.

Wilson or Coolidge?

In our history books (and Wikipedia), one of these men is lionized, while the other is demonized.  That’s not surprising, as the American system of learning has been hijacked by leftists, perpetuating the problem by producing little leftists.  If you couldn’t tell, I obviously have a different take on it, for the following reasons, which are not spelled out by the Trotskyites who plagiarize their professoriat for Wikipedia.

Before Woodrow Wilson, there was no permanent income tax.  There was no Federal Reserve, and no Internal Revenue Service (as we now know it).  When first implemented in 1913, the upper income tax rate was 7 percent.  Eight years later, the upper rate had been increased to 77 percent.  Admittedly, much of this was a result of World War I, but most was due to an expansion in the role of government in everyday life.

Something odd occurred as a result of these high income taxes.  Instead of raising revenues, the national debt increased from $1 billion to $24 billion under Wilson.  Why is that?  Well, instead of taking the risk of failing and losing everything, or succeeding and keeping 23 percent, would-be innovators simply decided not to play.  Unemployment was eleven percent when Wilson left the Presidency, even though unemployment tends to drop during wartime.

This was the financial situation Warren Harding “inherited.”  Harding was personally ravaged by scandals (such as Teapot Dome) that plagued his Administration, due greatly to his character deficiencies, and he up and died two years into his term.  During those two years, however, he put forth the framework for cutting the income tax, something Calvin Coolidge acted on.

Coolidge, along with his Congress, cut the top tax rate to 24 percent, with only the top 2% of wage earners paying any income tax at all.  Unemployment, as a result, fell to 3 percent, and inflation flatlined at 1 percent, producing what is commonly referred to as the Roaring 20’s, with the lowest “misery index” in our nation’s history.  As a direct result of his tax (and spending) cuts, Coolidge (with Treasury Secretary Andrew Mellon) drew down the national debt by $7 billion and experienced six years of budget surpluses during his Administration.  He is, in fact, the only President who had a surplus every year of his tenure.  How?  By doing less, not more.

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So, in my mind, one of these men is a Saint, and the other is a Monster.  Long live laissez faire.  Case closed, right?  Well, another piece of history came about, but it’s a bit different than your teacher told you.

Miscalculations

When the stock market crashed, President Herbert Hoover took bold action to stop the hemorrhaging, but instead, made it worse, by raising the upper tax rate from 24 to 63 percent, and signing the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act in 1930.  Hoover, a progressive Republican, took a lot of blame for not doing anything about the crash, and then came Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a true Wilsonian if there ever was one.  (Note: Vice President Biden has a different take on this.)  FDR raised the top income tax rate first to 79, and later to 90 percent.  In 1941, FDR proposed a 99.5 percent marginal rate on all income over $100,000.  When an advisor questioned this proposal, his response was, Why not?”

When that proposal died in Congress, Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9149 on April 27, 1942, taxing all income over $25,000 at a rate of 100 percent, effectively establishing a maximum wage in the United States.  The next day, FDR addressed the American people, saying, “I do not think that any American citizen should have a net income in excess of $25,000 per year after payment of taxes.”  Today, FDR’s $25,000 is equivalent to about $250,000.  Where have I heard that number before?

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Congress eventually overturned that executive order, but not before FDR lowered personal exemptions to $600, meaning most Americans now paid some form of an income tax.  What happened to the unemployment rate under FDR?  It skyrocketed to 24 percent, until World War II virtually evaporated unemployment in the United States, as the future of our nation depended on every able-bodied person.

We face the same situation today, with a similarly progressive leadership, who want to tax and regulate anything that makes a profit, until they need to be subsidized just to survive.  I believe we need taxes, and regulations, but I equate the proper regulation of capitalism to the act of establishing a bowling lane for kiddos with gutter bumpers.  Regulations serves as the bumpers.  If the ball is moving in the wrong direction, you don’t go running down the lane to push it one way or another.  You let it go.  This is something the Keynesian central planners cannot, by nature, understand.

Historical statistics, as well as basic economics, proves that wage intervention produces unemployment.  Instead, our central planners get involved in everything, targeting specifically those industries that make a profit, in that way, acting as locusts that feed on one field and then move to another, moving quickly to disrupt and dismantle the capitalist order upon which innovation and production is built.  Gee, where did American production go, exactly?

Final Thoughts

I personally believe half the country is perfectly fine with what’s going on, if not complicit, then oblivious to the deleterious effects of our government’s policies.  A recent Gallup poll supports the idea that more are complicit than oblivious, reporting 36 percent of Americans viewing socialism positively, with 61 percent of liberals, 20 percent of conservatives, and 39 percent of moderates expressing this sentiment.

Let me ask you: How did Rome fall?   A once-great nation was spread too thin with two acting capitols, out of resources, militarily weakened, letting the Visgoths silently infiltrate them.  By the time the Romans realized what was happening, it was too late, and no those who noticed didn’t really care anymore.  What’s that got to do with us, you ask?  Lech Walesa, co-founder of the Polish Solidarity movement, Nobel Peace Prize winner, and former President of Poland, put it bluntly this week, at the Foundation for Human Rights in Cuba:

“The United States is only one superpower.  Today they lead the world.  Nobody has doubts about it.  Militarily.  They also lead economically, but they’re getting weak.  But they don’t lead morally and politically anymore.  They world has no leadership.  The United States was always the last resort and hope for other nations.  There was the hope, whenever something was going wrong, one could count on the United States.  Today, we lost that hope.”

But there I go again, questioning motives.  Complicit or oblivious?  Let’s get back to the peripherals.  In Greek mythology, Castor sacrificed his deity for his dying half-brother Polydeuces, so they could both live together on earth, as Homer put it, bound to “the corn-bearing earth that holds them.”  Will this generation give up it’s so-called “entitlements” (Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid) to save an entire nation?

Castor made the sacrifice, and now both brothers are immortalized in the sign of Gemini, represented by the planet Mercury, faster than any other planet in our solar system, taking only 88 days to circle the sun.  I’m not much for astrology, and I could go further than you’d want me to, discussing the theories associated with the end of the Age of Pisces, the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, how it ties into end times and the pouring out of the seven bowls containing God’s wrath, but I think I’ll stop there, and to that home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away.

Bouncing Back

When I was a child in elementary school, I was a fanatic for Hardy Boys books.  In fact, I read every single “Choose Your Own Adventure” book in the library.  I loved getting to the bottom of that pivotal page where you had to choose whether to take one course of action or the other.  If you chose poorly, I would simply go back to the page of decision and go the other way.  I would often read both paths, just to see if I had initially chosen wisely.

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Life, however, is not a Hardy Boys book.  For the most part, a man must live with the consequences of his actions.  He can’t flip around, rewriting history, making better decisions at different points in his life.  In this life, things are going to suck sometimes, and sometimes, they are going to suck worse than other times.  There’s no escaping that.  Sure, a man can try to avoid the suck, but what kind of life is that?  The unsucky part about life is that the sucky parts, while they suck when you are going through them, make your life better in the end.

How can that be?  Well, after going through the bad parts of life, a man is more prepared for the bad when it returns because 1) he’s stronger and more resilient to it and 2) he’s more prepared for a similar situation and can avoid unnecessary pain associated with the situation.  The bad parts in life prepare us to bounce back.  Finding the willingness to do so is the challenge.

General George S. Patton once said something to the effects of, “A man’s success is not measured by how high he climbs, but how high he bounces back when he hits bottom.”  There are plenty of great quotes like this attributed to Patton; check it out.  Essentially, Patton is reminding us that in the face of adversity, it would be easier to lay down and wallow in defeat.  It takes a lot more strength to get back up and try again.

Another person with a plethora of great quotes on the importance of perseverance is Sir Winston S. Churchill.  Among his popular “Never give in” quote, and, “If you’re going through hell, keep going” quote, I found this pearl of wisdom:  ”Success is not final, failure is not fatal:  it is the courage to continue that counts.”

If you listen closely to Churchill, you can hear the echoes of another great leader, Theodore Roosevelt, who in his ”Man in the Arena” speech to a graduating class in Paris, France, in 1910, said the following words some of us know all too well:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.  The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

While words like these from great historical figures can provide inspiration during trying times, ultimately, the challenge is personal, and victory over the challenges come from within.  The first step towards victory is accepting your past as having passed, and setting your mind towards the future.

As for me, I’m not President Roosevelt, Sir Winston, or General Patton; not even remotely close.  These gentlemen certainly lived by these words, but for me, it’s easier to say these things than it is to follow them.  Life has its unexpected twists and turns, and subsequently, its regrets.  Sometimes I want to flip back and choose a different path at those points in my life which I, knowingly or unknowingly, made bad decisions that resulted in wasted time, money, or brain cells…. but I can’t. 

And I won’t.  I don’t want to.  I’m looking forward. 
So now, it’s official:  I am a Patriot.

A Testament

When I die, don’t bury me;
I don’t want to be in some cemetery.
Don’t spend your money on a coffin or a grave;
That’s good money that you should save.
You can sell my effects and all my things,
But don’t go and spend it on diamond rings;
Take it back to Texas and buy some land -
Some rolling field where my children can stand.
A place to enjoy nature and watch the sun set -
That’s the highest honor that a man could get.
And since I won’t be any where you can see,
When I die, you can cremate me.

The Long View

Alright… gather ’round for some rose smellin.’

Emotionally, I have been a little more introspective than usual lately, which isn’t saying much, but I guess fatherhood makes you sympathetic in previously unforeseen ways.  I have recently been interested in interests, comparing and contrasting the self and the collective, and have realized my own loves, hates, and indifferences make me who I am.  Additionally, the scope of your interests helps determine where you are in your own life.

For instance, I love my wife and family (more daily), in addition to BBQ, light mists of rain about this time of year, driving about 15 MPH faster than the posted speed limit (whatever it may be), church bells, the reserved acknowledgment of one’s own heritage, the way a seagull at sunset leaves me in awe of man’s walk with God, Appalachian music, and conversely, the pouring of one’s soul across the fretboard and through the strings of a Fender Stratocaster, travelling the glut of effects at one’s feet, and out of a stack of Marshall amplifiers, and ultimately captured Live (!) on disc for my enjoyment.  I have specifically found myself loving, as a unit of currency, the dime.  Think about it.  The dime (barely) yields more worth per weight than any other coin.  A quarter?  Ha!  Give me three dimes any day.  I guess my frequent use of DC parking meters lately in my 4WD double cab pickup (ah, another joy of mine:  offending metrosexuals) has brought about this newfound admiration.  That’s just my two cents – or, for a fraction of the weight, you could have had twenty cents, ten times the wealth!  See what I mean?

Additionally, I dislike many assorted mundane things, such as litterers, the Wal-Mart exchange counter, Facebook, decaf (in concept and reality), and the existence of restricted areas in the U.S. Capitol Building (saying nothing of certain members of the current majority party).  Chiefly, however, I have come to loathe the gumball.  Not the smooth, chewy gumball from a machine, of which I am indifferent, but the spiky critter spat from the humongous gum tree in my front yard.  After mowing my lawn and dilligently picking these things up, thousands remain invisible to the eye, making for an unsteady walk across the yard, buried, trampled underfoot, after decades of negligence.  If you arbitrarily drop your hand any place under said tree, you can dig two, three, or four of these things up with your fingers.  I now consider a gum tree in the front yard of a potential home sale a bad omen.

In addition to the aforementioned confectionary gumball and speed limit signs, I am indifferent to seatbelts (I’ll wear them), and the feces in my son’s diaper.  I don’t look forward to it, but I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

Introspection Meets Retrospection

It’s here I turn to a popular issue of the day, torture and the Central Intelligence Agency. (huh?)  It’s easy to criticize the actions of our operatives now, as National Intelligence Director Dennis Blair said, “on a bright, safe, sunny day in 2009.”  We forget to take the long view, forget to look back on what decided those actions.  Would I rip out another’s, namely, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed’s, fingernails to save a loved one’s life?  Absolutely.  Would I rip out a loved one’s fingernails to save another’s life?  Absolutely… and I hope you’d do the same for, or to, me, in that situation.  We fall victim, however, to the comforts of security and collective reasoning, and forget the past, looking fervently forward through a distorted lens.

Interestingly enough, however, this past century rendered a remarkable verdict on collective reasoning and its viability with the collapse of the Soviet Union.  As Thomas Friedman put it, the United States enjoyed the relative peace of unilateralism “from 11/9 to 9/11,” 11/9 being November 1989.  With hindsight, America should have been more celebratory, and perhaps a bit more retrospective…

Twelve years after the fall of the Soviet Union, in 2001, I would find myself (sleeping through class and) studying the Commonwealth of Independent States, those Russian satellite nations, at the Naval Academy.  I freely chose to research Belarus for a paper and presentation, fascinated by the Chernobyl nuclear accident and the high rate of death among its sanitization crew and nearby inhabitants.

Six years later, I would find myself (terrified and) testing the operational limits of my own Mobile Chernobyl as Propulsion Plant Watch Officer on the USS Theodore Roosevelt, off the coast of Virginia, in the same waters I had navigated from a more enjoyable topside position as Officer of the Deck on a Guided Missile Destroyer, some three years prior.  Time moves quickly in reverse as well as forward.

I say all this, because these diverse and adverse experiences made me who I am today.  Today, however, I sit in relative comfort as a Budget Analyst with little stresses besides those self-induced.  That these little things capture my fascination (i.e. gumballs, dimes, and feces) says more about my standard of living than do the items themselves.  I have found myself a casual observer of the world around me, perfectly content with who I am, but where am I going?  Where will I be in another five years, or twelve years?  Perhaps I should be a little more retrospective…

One of the first thoughts that raced across my mind while holding my newborn son in my arms minutes after he was born was that someday, he will probably be holding me like this, getting ready to change my diaper, and looking for a place to lay me down, for the last time.  Not to fret over, though.  Japanese Zen koan defines happiness this way: “Grandfather dies, father dies, son dies.”  It’s that order I find myself hoping for.