Two Years Of Lucy

Two years ago today, this girl landed on our doorstep. Katie Boone, now Katie Atkinson, was her first owner, but was in the process of moving and getting married and couldn't manage all of that and a precocious four month old Golden Retriever at the same time. I was finally in the market for my third Golden. Pam was ambivalent. Our discovery of her availability itself was serendipitous. Katie just happened to have had lunch with my niece Christina Garland where she had mentioned that she was going to have to find a home for her dog. Christina heard the word "Golden" and immediately thought of me.

An appointment was set for us to meet her. Pam was nervous. I was nervous because Pam was nervous. The thing is, secretly I had to acknowledge that all of my wife's arguments against getting another dog were valid. Yes, it's a huge commitment. Yes, our freedom of movement would be curtailed. Yes, the financial impact might be significant if she turns out to have allergies like Molly.
Yes, yes, yes. Plus, how could she possibly measure up to Molly, her sainted and blessed predecessor? The truth was, I was still grieving Molly. She would never be replaced. When they knocked on the door, my heart began to beat loudly in my chest.

She was a whirling dervish of a thing, but well trained. We were quite impressed by the tricks she had

already been taught. Katie clearly loved her and was having difficulty with even the idea of parting

ways with a puppy with such deep, and loving eyes. Within thirty seconds, I was sold. I'm not sure how Pam really felt, but outwardly she seemed to approve.

Two years later, we are the proud owners of Lucy, the most uniquely idiosyncratic dog on the planet. She's healthy as a horse, strikingly beautiful, more fun than a barrel of monkeys . . . and dumber than a box of hammers. We have no regrets and will always be grateful to Katie for allowing us the privilege of being her owners. Although, in truth we don't really own her. She owns us!

Here's Why Statistics Are For Losers

Here's a little inside baseball about my blog that illustrates perfectly how misleading statistics can be. September of 2016 is in the books with the highest readership in the nearly six year history of The Tempest. In fact, September was the sixth consecutive month of increased readership as illustrated below:

MONTH                                           PAGE VIEWS

April                                                      3797
May                                                       4123
June                                                       5225
July                                                        5837
August                                                   6063
September                                             6898

Very nice. Over the last six months the number of page views has nearly doubled, up a whopping 82%. With all of this increased traffic, one might expect that the revenue steam generated by this blog would also have grown, by a factor close to 82% . . . but, one would be wrong. The highest revenue month was in fact...April, when The Tempest raked in a staggering $7.26!! September's nearly doubled traffic produced $5.43. At this rate, by the time I manage to attract 15,000 page views a month, I'll owe Blogger money!

Thankfully, I don't do this for a living. I do this because it makes living more fun.

Does NOT Paying Taxes Make You Smart?

Nobody loves paying taxes. Even the most liberal Hollywood celebrity who can be counted on to support every big government project has accountants on his/her payroll whose job it is to avoid paying them as much as the law allows. I'm no celebrity and I can be counted on to oppose most big government projects, and I have an accountant who is charged with the same task. But, I feel compelled to make it clear that if my accountant presented me with a legal scheme that would lower my tax bill to zero, I would decline it. Why? Let me try to explain the unexplainable.

When I heard the Donald in the debate the other night say that if he paid no federal taxes on his alleged 600 million dollar income, that would make him smart, it touched a nerve with me. I don't know the first thing about Trump's finances. Although my gut tells me that when someone talks about his personal wealth so much it usually means that he isn't as wealthy as advertised. But, for our discussion let's assume that he truly is as loaded as he claims. Does avoiding taxes on a multi-million dollar income make him smart?

I find it easy to believe that someone with a great accountant, especially someone in the real estate business could, in fact, find a legal way to avoid paying federal income taxes. That's because our Rube Goldberg contraption of a tax code, with its 7000 pages of addendum, codicils and waivers lends itself to this sort of thing. When lobbyists and politicians and lawyers write the laws, what would you expect? So, it's probably legal. But is it smart? No. Here's why.

Let's imagine that Mr. Trump lived under a flat tax of 17%. That would mean he would owe the Treasury roughly 100 million on a 600 million dollar income. By not paying, the burden of funding the government's latest boondoggle falls to someone else. But the funding of the legitimate functions of government falls to someone else too. That aircraft carrier doesn't pay for itself! So, guess who ends up paying the freight? Not the poorest Americans. Not even the lower 45% of earners who currently pay no income taxes because of things like the earned income tax credit and the home mortgage deduction etc. etc. Yes, you guessed it, the middle class, specifically the upper middle class.

But, there's another reason why not paying your taxes is not smart. It means you are a lousy citizen and even worse, an ingrate. We live in the greatest nation on this planet. There is more opportunity here than anywhere else in the world. We live a life of comfort, plenty and ease unimaginable in most of the rest of the world. I thank God every day for allowing me to be born an American. One of the things that makes America work is a functioning government. As a citizen, although I may not like how my tax dollars are spent and although I may think our tax code stinks to high heaven, it's my job to pay what I owe. Somebody has to defend us, somebody has to administer our system of justice, someone has to build bridges, hospitals and highways. When I pay my taxes, I participate in providing the funds that allow my country to work. When I  weasel out of paying, I become a fake citizen, in essence . . . A freeloader.

Yes, I allow my accountant to claim my mortgage interest deduction. Yes, I keep my business receipts. Yes, I established a c-corporation years ago to help lower my tax bill. But, I have declined other, more imaginative schemes to avoid taxes, partly because I didn't understand them, but partly because I feel blessed in this life. America has been one of the greatest things to ever happen to me and I did nothing to earn the title American. It was an accident of birth. But the prosperous life I've built here is no accident. It has come about in no small part because the freedoms I enjoy here, and freedom isn't free, my friends.

So, on the fifteenth of every month, I make sure there's enough money in my business checking account to cover the IRS draw. I complain about it. I grumble and moan. But I pay, and a part of me feels good and grateful. If that makes me dumb, so be it.

Getting Excited!

One week from today, I get to see my kids again! This time, for the fourth or fifth year in a row, I forget which, I have rented a cabin in the Smoky Mountains near Gatlinburg. It's about a four hour drive for both of them and about six for us. It's far too short of a trip. It seems that just about the time we get settled in, it's time to leave. But I still do it because it's fall, its usually delightful weather, cool and crisp, and it gives us an excuse to be together.

There will probably be some hiking, perhaps a ride or two on the famed alpine coaster, maybe a go-cart race. If we have enough time we might go zip-lining. But mostly the weekend will involve lots of  cooking, eating and sitting in rocking chairs out on the back porch looking out over the blue-gray edges of the mountains spread out to the horizon. We will get caught up on all the gossip that isn't worth texting but makes for great den chatter. I will bring my guitar and try to coax a duet out of my talented son and his pretty singing girlfriend. I will pamper my daughter to within an inch of her life to help her recover some of her lost sanity from the insane rigors of back to school month. So, essentially whatever she wants next week, she gets.

Of course, there's always the chance that the weather will be horrible, that it will rain the entire four days. In which case, we will be forced to stay in our luxury cabin the whole time eating home cooked food, watching movies and playing games. As is usually the case with these trips, the television will never get watched. All of those big screens black and lifeless on the walls. As a result, my attitude about the world will improve.

We will miss Lucy and Jackson. No pups on this trip. But, that translates into less stress which is the whole theme of the trip this year. Let's get away for a few days and leave the wackiness that is America in 2016 behind. Let's clear our heads and celebrate what is good about life for a bit, shall we?

Why, yes. I think I would like that very much, thank you!

Schooled By My Big Brother

I called my brother last night. I had just heard that Wilson Ramos, all-star catcher for the Nationals, had blown out his knee and was lost for the season. I was in the midst of bemoaning the National's dimming playoff chances when he reminded me that...it's baseball, anything can happen! Then, he changed the subject to my last blog about the debate. Without saying so, he suggested in a round about way that perhaps my view of the future was overly bleak. Doug, we survived James Garfield, right? How bad can it be?

He's right. I'm as guilty as anyone of seeing the glass as half empty. The heat of the moment is a terrible/perfect time to write a blog. It's perfect for capturing passion, it's terrible for communicating wisdom. So, upon further review let me point out several worse things that our country has been through and survived.

1. The Revolutionary War.

How we even became a nation was essentially a series of miracles, punctuated by improbably fortuitous coincidences, wrapped around rare, unexplainable military victories. If there had been a Vegas betting line back in 1776 it would have had Great Britain minus 100. The over and under would have had the Empire crushing us in less than six months, seven tops. They had the best fighting army in the world. We had George Washington and a bunch of farmers. But here we are, 240 years later.

2. The Civil War

Who would ever have thought in 1865, after killing over 600,000 of our fellow Americans, that our greatest days as a nation were ahead of us? That so much death and destruction was visited upon our nation over our greatest national sin was probably divine justice. But the fact is, we paid a horrible price to free our slaves and rid ourselves of that institution, proving that God is not mocked. Despite the horrific loss of life and the destruction of cities great and small, within one generation the United States of America was being transformed into the mightiest industrial power in the history of the world. The aforementioned James Garfield was the fourth consecutive forgotten President of the post war period. You know, the ones nobody can name after Lincoln and before McKinley? So much for the notion that America is doomed without a strong leader in the White House.

3. Jimmy Carter

The first President I ever voted for was Jimmy Carter. Even back in 1976, I loved outsiders. He was arguably the most moral, decent and humble man ever to hold the office. Jimmy Carter was and is the sort of guy who you wouldn't hesitate asking to babysit the kids. And yet, by practically any measure he was a feckless disaster as a leader. One and done. Jimmy Carter had more personal integrity and a more dependable moral compass than Hillary and Donald combined. But that didn't help him lead the country. You want to watch a cringe-worthy presidential address? Google his malaise speech. Brother! My point is, whichever one of these two winds up in the White House . . . We will survive.

Sometimes it's hard to see past the junk. When you're in the middle of it, all you can see is the junk. But, when you step back and put on the magic glasses of perspective, the skies brighten. I have done that thanks to my big brother. Things are looking a little brighter to me this morning.

God bless America.

Who Won the Debate?

I tried. Honestly, I tried as hard as I could to be a good citizen, to do the right thing. But, at 10:20 I walked out of the room. I was done with it.

Pam had tried valiantly to brighten the mood, to provide fun distractions with her debate bingo game and a modified drinking game using Cheez-its. But, ten minutes in, the familiar nausea which comes every time I give my undivided attention to this election, arrived on the scene. It isn't often in my life when I am embarrassed to be an American, but as I watched the debate I kept asking myself, what must the rest of the world think of us?

I will not get into the actual substance of what either of them said. My views on politics and ideology are well known to all of you. Based simply on deportment and temperament, Hillary was the clear winner. For me personally, she is the single most unlikeable woman to arrive on the American scene since Rosanne Barr. But, how any thinking person could watch and listen to Donald Trump last night and think him worthy of the Presidency is simply beyond my understanding. Simply stated, the man is a buffoon. And yet, this morning I am greeted with the results of four unscientific online polls from institutions as diverse as the Drudge Report and Time Magazine declaring Trump the winner.

Long ago, I resigned myself to the fact that on Inauguration Day 2017, I am destined to be disappointed. After last night, I find it difficult to believe that the American people will actually walk into voting booths all around the country and award Donald Trump the Presidency. Despite what the polls say, when hard working, levelheaded men and women get inside that booth, sanity and simple decency will not allow most of them to cast their future onto the bilge barge that is Donald Trump. But that conviction means that we will be governed by one of the most corrupted, manipulative Machiavellian strivers to ever grace the American landscape. The consolation prize for our electoral due diligence?....the Eva Peron of the American Oligharchy. Congratulations to us!

It's hard to fight off despair in times like these. My son has said, elect Hillary, then hope for better candidates in 2020. The problem with that guarded optimism is that by then it might be too late. Give Hillary Clinton four years to insert her greedy tentacles into the machinery of government, then Chelsea, 2024 might be an inevitability.

My plan from now [until . . .forever], will be to keep my head down, work hard, pay my taxes and prepare myself for the economic and social decline of my once great country. Hell, we had a great 240 year run. Who better to manage our decline than a statist like Hillary Clinton?

My Arnold Palmer Story

Arnold Palmer died yesterday. I first saw the news running across the bottom of my TV screen. Even though he was 87 and in ill health, it was a shock. For men of my age he was one of the first sports personalities we discovered. When I was a kid, you either rooted for Jack or Arnie. I was an Arnie guy. Jack Nicklaus was the greatest golfer of all time, and we all hated him for it, because although we admired Jack's game, we were in love with Arnie. Jack won 18 majors. Arnie won our hearts.

Here's my Arnold Palmer story. His last professional victory happened to be at the 1988 Crestar Classic at Hermitage Country Club right here in Richmond, Virginia. My best friend Al Thomason and I showed up for the final round that Sunday morning and made a beeline for Arnie's Army which was amassed on the first tee. We elbowed our way to the ropes and followed our hero for all 18 holes. It was one of the highlights of my life. On the back nine, he was nursing a one shot lead with three holes to play, when he came to a par five, pulled out the driver and nailed a long drive right down the middle. Al and I figured that Arnie being Arnie, he would probably go for the green in two instead of laying up. So, we sprinted from the tee box to the green so we could watch his daring approach shot. Only, he hooked the shot badly and we watched in horror as the shot landed deep in the woods to the left of the green. We immediately ran over to where the ball landed along with what seemed like a million other people. The ball was sitting up nicely on a bed of leaves six inches from the base of a small tree. He had a shot.

When he arrived on the scene, he hitched up his pants as he looked down at his ball, obviously pleased with the fortuitous lie he had drawn. Then, he looked around at everyone and smiled a sheepish grin.

"...You guys didn't place this ball in this perfect spot did you?"

Everyone laughed and so did he. It was a magical moment. Then...

"...Well then, the least I can do is get this thing up and down!"

Which he did.

At the time, nobody knew that this would be his last professional win. It was the first and only time I ever saw him play in person. What I remember most was how friendly he was to the fans, how natural his interactions with us were. He had the one thing that most professional golfers lack...charisma.

RIP, Arnold Palmer.