What do you think we should do about the illegal immigration issue? I will have three posts on this topic: This one is designed to identify some of the facts and problems. The second one will be to expand my thoughts on these points. The final one will be to identify my solutions to the entire matter. Review these topics and feel free to comment.
• Ronald Reagan once implemented a program that offered 3-million of them amnesty. Was that a mistake?
• Now 12-million more of them have followed. WHY?
• Should Mexicans be treated differently than immigrants from other countries?
• It takes 6 years or longer for them to legally get into our country. Is that appropriate?
• These are basically honorable, industrious and desperate people looking for work, which does not exist in their own country. Why is there so little work in Mexico?
• What could or should be done to establish more opportunities in their own country.
• They take the least desirable jobs. Then they learn skills and make contributions that enrich us.
• They are exploited by ruthless employers.
• Since they are forced to hide under the radar, they do not pay income taxes or social security taxes, which our government desperately needs.
• The jobs they take could be entry-level jobs for our own high school students and other citizens.
• When there are so many people competing for the low-end jobs, it drives the wages down for all concerned.
• They seek medical treatments in emergency rooms because hospitals are required to treat emergency cases, but if they were legal, they could make more money and pay for health insurance, which would cut down on the costs that are passed on to the rest of us.
• They are a drain on our schools and other resources.
• They are also consumers who stimulate the economy and create other jobs.
• They send many billions of our dollars to their country.
• Americans feel like we are being force to adopt their language and culture when it ought to be the other way around.
• If we send them all home our economy would suffer greatly because we would lose many consumers and create vacancies in millions of apartments and homes, which would dump a lot of fuel on an already burning housing market. Do you want your real estate values to plummet?
What are your thoughts?
Be sure to check out my other blog about Family Finances
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Bus Stop: A Love Story
The young, curly-haired woman was waiting at the bus stop, and on her way to work when “He” drove by in his pickup truck. She was barely five-foot two-inches tall. The light-green summer dress that she wore was hand-made by her widowed mother. The thin, black, leather belt that wrapped around her tiny waist was intended to be a modest accessory, but it actually screamed, loud and clear, that her arrival at the threshold of womanhood was something to behold. Mother Nature took over from there. The young man instinctively guided his truck to the curb. “Hi, remember me?”The last time they saw each other was four years earlier, just before he joined the Navy, during World War Two. She was about seventeen at the time; he was a few years her senior. They had one date, of sorts, but it was fairly uneventful. Their age difference might have played a role in the somewhat-boring evening, but as far as he was concerned, she was “way too quiet” and that was all there was to it. A few months later, he did what most young men did at the time: He went off to serve his country.
The young sailor was assigned to the USS Ancon, which was the Flagship at Omaha Beach, during the battle of Normandy (D-Day). Although he would never admit it, he played a minor role in bringing the war to an end. His job was to make maps for Admirals Kirk, Hall and Wilkes who used those maps to lay out the battle plans which affected so many lives… and deaths.
As soon as the war was over, the sailor immediately headed back to the little Midwest town that he and the petite woman, with the light-green dress, called home.
While the youthful map-maker was busy at war, the pixie-like lady did a little growing up of her own. Right after she graduated from high school, she headed for San Francisco, and became a switch-board telephone operator. All day long she received and redirected incoming calls.
Her job was to adopt her most friendly tone, and inquire of callers, “Number please?” Upon hearing their number of choice, she completed their connection. All of that professional talking, in the big city, got her over that “too quiet” thing that the sailor once noted. After a couple of lease cycles, she grew tired of the big city, so she too returned to their home town. Now she was twenty-one, beautiful, a lot wiser and waiting for a bus.
So, there they were: two young, single and healthy adults…getting reacquainted by an otherwise nondescript bus stop, on some unknown side-street, in a small Midwest railroad town, known as Burlington, Iowa. The year was 1946.
This time, their happenstance meeting was different; very different indeed. She was in awe of the strong sense of confidence and worldliness that his travels thrust upon him. He adored the little chatter box that lurked inside her and jumped out at the most interesting moments. They began to spend lots of time together.
One evening they went to a local dance and the band began a new song they had been rehearsing. It was a slow and romantic number. Right on cue, the lights dimmed and the room grew very quiet. To the young woman’s surprise a band-member handed the microphone to the love-struck sailor. He looked deep into the eyes of the charming little woman who had won his heart, and he sang “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” as the band provided the back-ground music. The outcome was inevitable.
Their marriage was quickly rewarded as they added a daughter to the baby boomer generation. Less than two years later they were blessed with another beautiful baby girl. By the mid-50’s the young Iowa family transplanted themselves into Colorado. A few years later they built a very charming mountain home, essentially with their own hands. It would provide four decades of precious memories for them all.
In 1966, I had a seemingly innocent date with their younger daughter. On that evening, I was introduced to the bus stop people in the lovely mountain home that they built. None of us dared to imagine they were destined to become my in-laws, and grandma and grandpa to my own children. And now, a third generation of descendents has joined in.
The bus stop people spent 40 glorious years together before God called the sailor home. That was twenty-five years ago. Fortunately, the former telephone operator lives on, now 87.
Time may have replaced her youthful beauty with a very-complete collection of wrinkles, and a moderate dose of Alzheimer’s Disease, but she still treasures every vivid detail of that fateful day in 1946…when a young fellow, who would become her life partner, steered his old pick-up truck to the curb and inquired, “Hi, remember me?”
Here are a few of the people who are glad she did.
Comments are Welcomed
Stop by my other blog
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Prisoners
(He puts his hand on the Bible)
My friends, I swear on this Holy Bible that what I am about to tell you is the Truth, the Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth, so help me God!!!
When I was just 17-years old, my high-school letter sweater and everything it stands for actually led me into the middle of an incredible violent brawl.
I was up against no less than TEN very dangerous bad-boys, each and everyone had already served hard time in various prisons for any combination of violent crimes, including murder, armed robbery, rape, assault, and gang fighting. None of them had been even remotely “reformed”.
Their onlookers had plenty of loaded guns and rifles and they were fully prepared to use them.
As hard as it is to believe, I was only 17 at the time and I was all alone.
At my most vulnerable point, I had just hit their leader with all of my might and I too was knocked down.
They were converging on me like a pack of hungry wolves, and I was completely at their mercy.
Now, before I tell you how I got out of that improbable predicament let me tell you how I got into it.
It all started when I was in High School where I was a bit athletic. In my sophomore year, I lettered in track and gymnastics and football. I was a middle linebacker. I was good enough that I actually had a good chance at obtaining a scholarship in a small-sized college. But, as it turned out, I injured my knee and spent half of the season of my senior year just sitting on the bench. No such scholarship would follow.
However, I still wanted to try to play college football so I was a walk-on at Western State College, in Gunnison. I am pleased to report that I indeed made the junior-varsity team, both as a middle linebacker and a guard.
One of our most noteworthy games was in Canyon City, at the Colorado State Prison. Yes we played the prisoners’ team. They were called the Canyon City Cons.
Then they escorted us into a large locker room that was big enough for both teams. Armed guards were patrolling on ovr-head cat walks because large rooms are frequently places where problems occur in prisons.
The prisoners’ running back would be my responsibility. I would have to “Key on” him all day. Whenever he got the ball, it was my job to stop him. His name was Ron Lyle
Let me tell you just a little bit about Ron Lyle.
As a teenager, Ron shot and killed a fellow in a gang fight and was sentenced to 15-25 years in prison. Soon after he arrived in prison that gang put a hit out on him. It was not long before somebody got to him with a homemade knife and slashed his belly from one end to the other. It would take 7 hours of surgery and 35 pints of blood to save his life. Then a Lt. Mattax introduced new sports to the prison to give the prisoners something worthwhile to do.
Ron was an awesome athlete who excelled at basketball and football but he was an especially talented boxer, Two years after our game, Ron was released from prison and immediately embarked on a professional boxing career. He won 19 consecutive professional fights, 17 by knockouts. The story was too juicy for the promoters to resist. They soon booked the bad-boy from prison against none other than the heavyweight Championship of the World: Muhammad Ali. Ron impressed all the experts as he pounded on Ali early, and lasted 11 rounds before Ali was declared the winner in a controversial decision. (VIDEO)
A short time later Ron Lyle fought George Foreman. Lyle knocked Foreman to the mat twice in the early rounds and then Foreman regained his composure and knocked out Lyle in the 5th round. Many boxing experts came to refer to that fight as the most exciting heavyweight fight in history. Here it is. (VIDEO)
Now that you have an idea just what a beast Ron Lyle was, let’s return to that fateful football game. On that particular day Ron Lyle was not Muhammad Ali’s problem, or George Foreman’s problem…HE WAS MY PROBLEM!!!
Can you imagine that?! A 165-pound, 17 year-old kid, (me) was supposed to control a 220-pound beast among men.
When the game began, armed guards took up positions around the field with several of them behind the prisoner’s bench.
It did not take long before the inevitable conflict occurred. The quarterback for the cons pitched the ball to Ron Lyle to run around the end on the prisoners’ side of the field. It was my job to stop him. I had to run as fast as I could because he was so athletic. When I reached the sidelines I could tell that I was baely going to reach him so I had to take a giant leap.
At the point of impact, I was running as fast as I possibly could and I hit Ron with everything I had but he sidestepped the brunt of the impact and he barely stepped out of bounds. All of that extra energy from running so hard and leaping had to go somewhere and I ended up hitting the ground so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of me. I tumbled end-over-end, ass-over-elbows and crumbled up like a piece of newspaper in a Wyoming wind storm. I did not stop until I landed right smack dab in the middle of the prisoners’ bench. Instinctively, all the guys on their bench jumped up and came toward me.
My mind was still spinning around from the impact. I was dazed and barely able to focus, but then I realized I had crashed into the feet of some of the meanest dudes on the entire planet.
I impulsively resorted to self preservation and curled up in a fetal position and awaited the inevitable outcome.
The Cons drew closer.
But then, the strangest thing happened. One of those cons patted me on the helmet and screamed out “Nice hit, kid” and another one of them patted me on the shoulder and proclaimed, “Get back in there and do it again” Yet another bellowed, Way to go”. Their whole bench joined in with a support and enthusiasm I never would have imagined in my wildest dreams.
Naturally, I was relieved and I quickly gathered my wits the best I could. I staggered back to the field and got an equally positive bunch of “atta boys” from my own team mates, and right then and there I knew I had genuinely earned the respect of everyone within eyesight.
As it turned out the prisoners were the cleanest team we played all year. There was no biting or scratching or leg twisting or any of that stuff in the piles, like were so common in our other games. Football was a privilege for the prisoners which allowed them to act tough and manly, as long as they respected the rules.
I’d like to tell you that I scored the winning touchdown, or something like that, but this is not Hollywood. It is real life. In fact the prisoners actually won the game. Furthermore, any objective observer would say that the 220-pound future-boxer got the best of the 165-pound, 17-year old college kid that day, but the young fellow won something too: lots of respect and that is a lot.
When the game was over we returned to the locker room where another important lesson was to be learned. We concluded the game with a shower, just like we always did, only this time we shared a locker-room with the prisoners,
I don’t know much about ladies locker rooms or showers, but prison shower rooms are unlike any others. The armed guards patrol over-head on cat-walks to make sure nothing goes wrong.
But there was something more uncomfortable to be concerned about. When a group of teenage boys are butt-naked in front of a bunch of scary guys who had not been with a normal partner for years, they get a very awkward and predictable “stare”. As we took our showers, we were in full view of the cons. Cat calls and whistles soon filled the room. The guards seemed unconcerned as long as that was as far as it went. That was the only time in my life that I felt the anxiety of actually being a sex object.
Well anyway, before we left we ate a late lunch in the prisoners’ cafeteria. Once again, we were surrounded and protected by guards. While we were eating, our equipment managers put away our gear under the watchful eyes of more guards. They were making sure no prisoners would escape in our bus.
We then took a 4-hour bus ride back to school and returned to our relatively boring college lives.
The moral to this story is: Life’s best lessons come from tackling the beasts that live within our own self-imposed prisons. That is why we cannot grow if we always remain in our comfort zones. We must try new things and expose ourselves to failure. But as this true story illustrates: Inside every failure, lies a pathway to success.
And that is the truth, so help me God!
My friends, I swear on this Holy Bible that what I am about to tell you is the Truth, the Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth, so help me God!!!
When I was just 17-years old, my high-school letter sweater and everything it stands for actually led me into the middle of an incredible violent brawl.
I was up against no less than TEN very dangerous bad-boys, each and everyone had already served hard time in various prisons for any combination of violent crimes, including murder, armed robbery, rape, assault, and gang fighting. None of them had been even remotely “reformed”.
Their onlookers had plenty of loaded guns and rifles and they were fully prepared to use them.
As hard as it is to believe, I was only 17 at the time and I was all alone.
At my most vulnerable point, I had just hit their leader with all of my might and I too was knocked down.
They were converging on me like a pack of hungry wolves, and I was completely at their mercy.
Now, before I tell you how I got out of that improbable predicament let me tell you how I got into it.
It all started when I was in High School where I was a bit athletic. In my sophomore year, I lettered in track and gymnastics and football. I was a middle linebacker. I was good enough that I actually had a good chance at obtaining a scholarship in a small-sized college. But, as it turned out, I injured my knee and spent half of the season of my senior year just sitting on the bench. No such scholarship would follow.
However, I still wanted to try to play college football so I was a walk-on at Western State College, in Gunnison. I am pleased to report that I indeed made the junior-varsity team, both as a middle linebacker and a guard.
One of our most noteworthy games was in Canyon City, at the Colorado State Prison. Yes we played the prisoners’ team. They were called the Canyon City Cons.
When we entered the prison we were thoroughly searched. The guards went through our bus and all of our equipment, with a fine-tooth comb. I guess they wanted to make sure we were not sneaking any weapons in.
Then they escorted us into a large locker room that was big enough for both teams. Armed guards were patrolling on ovr-head cat walks because large rooms are frequently places where problems occur in prisons.
The prisoners’ running back would be my responsibility. I would have to “Key on” him all day. Whenever he got the ball, it was my job to stop him. His name was Ron Lyle
Let me tell you just a little bit about Ron Lyle.
As a teenager, Ron shot and killed a fellow in a gang fight and was sentenced to 15-25 years in prison. Soon after he arrived in prison that gang put a hit out on him. It was not long before somebody got to him with a homemade knife and slashed his belly from one end to the other. It would take 7 hours of surgery and 35 pints of blood to save his life. Then a Lt. Mattax introduced new sports to the prison to give the prisoners something worthwhile to do.
Ron was an awesome athlete who excelled at basketball and football but he was an especially talented boxer, Two years after our game, Ron was released from prison and immediately embarked on a professional boxing career. He won 19 consecutive professional fights, 17 by knockouts. The story was too juicy for the promoters to resist. They soon booked the bad-boy from prison against none other than the heavyweight Championship of the World: Muhammad Ali. Ron impressed all the experts as he pounded on Ali early, and lasted 11 rounds before Ali was declared the winner in a controversial decision. (VIDEO)
A short time later Ron Lyle fought George Foreman. Lyle knocked Foreman to the mat twice in the early rounds and then Foreman regained his composure and knocked out Lyle in the 5th round. Many boxing experts came to refer to that fight as the most exciting heavyweight fight in history. Here it is. (VIDEO)
Now that you have an idea just what a beast Ron Lyle was, let’s return to that fateful football game. On that particular day Ron Lyle was not Muhammad Ali’s problem, or George Foreman’s problem…HE WAS MY PROBLEM!!!
Can you imagine that?! A 165-pound, 17 year-old kid, (me) was supposed to control a 220-pound beast among men.
When the game began, armed guards took up positions around the field with several of them behind the prisoner’s bench.
It did not take long before the inevitable conflict occurred. The quarterback for the cons pitched the ball to Ron Lyle to run around the end on the prisoners’ side of the field. It was my job to stop him. I had to run as fast as I could because he was so athletic. When I reached the sidelines I could tell that I was baely going to reach him so I had to take a giant leap.
At the point of impact, I was running as fast as I possibly could and I hit Ron with everything I had but he sidestepped the brunt of the impact and he barely stepped out of bounds. All of that extra energy from running so hard and leaping had to go somewhere and I ended up hitting the ground so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of me. I tumbled end-over-end, ass-over-elbows and crumbled up like a piece of newspaper in a Wyoming wind storm. I did not stop until I landed right smack dab in the middle of the prisoners’ bench. Instinctively, all the guys on their bench jumped up and came toward me.
My mind was still spinning around from the impact. I was dazed and barely able to focus, but then I realized I had crashed into the feet of some of the meanest dudes on the entire planet.
IT WAS THE SCARIEST MOMENT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE I thought they would kill me for hitting their hero so hard. After all, he was the leader of their “GANG”.
I impulsively resorted to self preservation and curled up in a fetal position and awaited the inevitable outcome.
The Cons drew closer.
But then, the strangest thing happened. One of those cons patted me on the helmet and screamed out “Nice hit, kid” and another one of them patted me on the shoulder and proclaimed, “Get back in there and do it again” Yet another bellowed, Way to go”. Their whole bench joined in with a support and enthusiasm I never would have imagined in my wildest dreams.
Naturally, I was relieved and I quickly gathered my wits the best I could. I staggered back to the field and got an equally positive bunch of “atta boys” from my own team mates, and right then and there I knew I had genuinely earned the respect of everyone within eyesight.
As it turned out the prisoners were the cleanest team we played all year. There was no biting or scratching or leg twisting or any of that stuff in the piles, like were so common in our other games. Football was a privilege for the prisoners which allowed them to act tough and manly, as long as they respected the rules.
I’d like to tell you that I scored the winning touchdown, or something like that, but this is not Hollywood. It is real life. In fact the prisoners actually won the game. Furthermore, any objective observer would say that the 220-pound future-boxer got the best of the 165-pound, 17-year old college kid that day, but the young fellow won something too: lots of respect and that is a lot.
When the game was over we returned to the locker room where another important lesson was to be learned. We concluded the game with a shower, just like we always did, only this time we shared a locker-room with the prisoners,
I don’t know much about ladies locker rooms or showers, but prison shower rooms are unlike any others. The armed guards patrol over-head on cat-walks to make sure nothing goes wrong.
But there was something more uncomfortable to be concerned about. When a group of teenage boys are butt-naked in front of a bunch of scary guys who had not been with a normal partner for years, they get a very awkward and predictable “stare”. As we took our showers, we were in full view of the cons. Cat calls and whistles soon filled the room. The guards seemed unconcerned as long as that was as far as it went. That was the only time in my life that I felt the anxiety of actually being a sex object.
Well anyway, before we left we ate a late lunch in the prisoners’ cafeteria. Once again, we were surrounded and protected by guards. While we were eating, our equipment managers put away our gear under the watchful eyes of more guards. They were making sure no prisoners would escape in our bus.
We then took a 4-hour bus ride back to school and returned to our relatively boring college lives.
The moral to this story is: Life’s best lessons come from tackling the beasts that live within our own self-imposed prisons. That is why we cannot grow if we always remain in our comfort zones. We must try new things and expose ourselves to failure. But as this true story illustrates: Inside every failure, lies a pathway to success.
And that is the truth, so help me God!
Comments welcomed!
Visit my other blog about Family Finances
Saturday, April 10, 2010
100 Days After Adopting a Shelter Dog
Things we learned after 100 days with Gracie: A Golden Lab and Golden Retriever mix we got from a shelter.
She has lyin’ eyes. If she thinks I am willing to feed her, she will act as if she is really hungry, even if she just ate.
She takes a 3-hour nap before going to sleep for the evening; then, when she gets up in the morning, she likes to eat breakfast and then lay in the sun.
She has lyin’ eyes. If she thinks I am willing to feed her, she will act as if she is really hungry, even if she just ate.
She takes a 3-hour nap before going to sleep for the evening; then, when she gets up in the morning, she likes to eat breakfast and then lay in the sun.
She has never really learned to play. We have taken her to the doggie park quite a few times in hopes she will run after tennis balls with other dogs, but she would rather sit at our feet and watch the others.
She is exceptional on a leash. With very few exceptions, she stays on our right, without much coaxing.
She has a doggy door, but so far she has not learned to stay outside very much. Perhaps she will like it more when it is warmer, but it appears she is insecure. She wants to be an indoor dog.
Taking a dog for regular walks is more demanding than it would seem like, but it is good for all of us and 45 minutes flies by once we get going.
One time, she was so pleased to see our son, Justin, that she lost control and dribbled some pee on the floor (Justin does that to all of us).
She enjoys nearly everybody; especially children and small dogs. She gets so excited around the little ones that her tail becomes a weapon of mass destruction as it whips back and forth at the speed of light. On the other hand, it appears somebody was too harsh with her. Whenever we cook or wash the dishes and want her to sit outside the kitchen, she acts as if she expects to be beaten. She drops to the floor, ducts her head and cowers in fear. It can be very challenging to guide her without making her feel like she is “in trouble”.
She loves it when we get on the floor and roll around with her, but she has not been able to figure out wrestling. She likes to get “roughed up” but she rarely responds in the playful ways that dogs usually do, like fun-growling, running around the house in excitement, or dropping to their front legs with butt in the air and ready to spring at you, etc.
She does not understand riding in the car. She usually just lies down. We are trying to get her to stick her head out the window and enjoy the fresh air, but not much luck so far. But she will help me plow the driveway.
She has put us in some new and awkward situations. Last week we all went for a walk but I had less time than Patty so I had to head back home a bit sooner than she and Gracie. Along the way Gracie had a nature call so we scooped up the droppings into a plastic bag. It is fairly common to see people walking around with their dog and a little package like that. Well anyway, there is a park a couple blocks from our home so Patty and Gracie headed that way, while I took the little bag of goodies and headed home. Along the way, several cars passed by and the drivers waived as they usually do. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking as they acknowledged the guy who was walking a bag of poop, but no dog!
There are lots of magazines and books for dogs. One offered a product that makes poop taste bad (presumably to dogs). I was wondering if it is really necessary to add anything to poop to make it taste bad? Wouldn’t it already taste bad enough? And how do they test a product like that? Here doggy, doggy!!!
Overall, 100 days with Gracie have made it clear that rescuing dogs from shelters is a great way to get a new pet. We may have forfeited the cute puppy stage, but we bypassed the potty training, chewing on furniture, excessive energy and other problems that come with young dogs. We learned ahead of time if she was going to be a digger, a beggar, an escape artists, a barker, aggressive, protective, good on a leash and a wide variety of other issues.
She is exceptional on a leash. With very few exceptions, she stays on our right, without much coaxing.
She has a doggy door, but so far she has not learned to stay outside very much. Perhaps she will like it more when it is warmer, but it appears she is insecure. She wants to be an indoor dog.
Taking a dog for regular walks is more demanding than it would seem like, but it is good for all of us and 45 minutes flies by once we get going.
One time, she was so pleased to see our son, Justin, that she lost control and dribbled some pee on the floor (Justin does that to all of us).
She enjoys nearly everybody; especially children and small dogs. She gets so excited around the little ones that her tail becomes a weapon of mass destruction as it whips back and forth at the speed of light. On the other hand, it appears somebody was too harsh with her. Whenever we cook or wash the dishes and want her to sit outside the kitchen, she acts as if she expects to be beaten. She drops to the floor, ducts her head and cowers in fear. It can be very challenging to guide her without making her feel like she is “in trouble”.
She loves it when we get on the floor and roll around with her, but she has not been able to figure out wrestling. She likes to get “roughed up” but she rarely responds in the playful ways that dogs usually do, like fun-growling, running around the house in excitement, or dropping to their front legs with butt in the air and ready to spring at you, etc.
She does not understand riding in the car. She usually just lies down. We are trying to get her to stick her head out the window and enjoy the fresh air, but not much luck so far. But she will help me plow the driveway.
She has put us in some new and awkward situations. Last week we all went for a walk but I had less time than Patty so I had to head back home a bit sooner than she and Gracie. Along the way Gracie had a nature call so we scooped up the droppings into a plastic bag. It is fairly common to see people walking around with their dog and a little package like that. Well anyway, there is a park a couple blocks from our home so Patty and Gracie headed that way, while I took the little bag of goodies and headed home. Along the way, several cars passed by and the drivers waived as they usually do. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking as they acknowledged the guy who was walking a bag of poop, but no dog!
There are lots of magazines and books for dogs. One offered a product that makes poop taste bad (presumably to dogs). I was wondering if it is really necessary to add anything to poop to make it taste bad? Wouldn’t it already taste bad enough? And how do they test a product like that? Here doggy, doggy!!!
Overall, 100 days with Gracie have made it clear that rescuing dogs from shelters is a great way to get a new pet. We may have forfeited the cute puppy stage, but we bypassed the potty training, chewing on furniture, excessive energy and other problems that come with young dogs. We learned ahead of time if she was going to be a digger, a beggar, an escape artists, a barker, aggressive, protective, good on a leash and a wide variety of other issues.
Your comments are invited
Friday, April 2, 2010
Taxes
My niece graduated from college about ayear ago. She got married shortly thereafter. Now she is dealing with a new reality, includinghow taxes steal away our money. but in her case she has some extra reason for concern. here is her story.
Let me preface this by saying, I do not know much about government. Most of the complicated political dialogue that is thrown around goes over my head. But what I do understand is that the federal government is finding more and more ways to insert itself into my private life through the guise of protection, when all they really want is to redistribute my money.
For example, when I moved to Chicago, I brought a car with me. In order to park my car on a public street in front of my building, I had to get new license plates. OK, fine by me. Well, first I had to get an Illinois Driver’s License. Then I had to transfer the title on my car to Illinois (with an accompanying fee). Then I had to pay for the plates and the sticker. All of this seemed normal (annoying, but still commonplace) until they told me I had to pay for a city sticker. Apparently, in order to keep too many people from owning cars, they require that drivers must purchase one of these city stickers. Without one, your car will be fined $50 for each infraction, and after 3 it will be booted and towed. And trust me, they will catch your car every single day. There is no shortage of ticket police in this economy. This magical little sticker costs $150 a year. So, in order for me to even own a car in Chicago costs $400. Our building is on a street that does not require an additional sticker, which many of the streets immediately behind our building require. This additional sticker says that you live on the street you’re parking on to ensure that people who do not live there do not park there. It costs $25, and let me tell you, we used to live on a street that required one of these additional stickers, and they do nothing to create more parking spots. It’s simply an additional way to tax people.
Now, obviously, I elected to own a car. No one forced me. What I am pointing out, though, is how complicated owning a car can be. The government has made the very simple concept of owning a car an incredibly complex one, and attempted to force people to give up the battle and opt for public transportation (which is owned by the city…convenient). When people fail to adhere to their control, they are heavily fined. Either way, the government makes a pretty penny off of people simply living in Chicago. There are cameras on the lights here. If you run a yellow light, automatic $50 ticket. It’s illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving ($200 fine) and it’s also illegal to text while driving. I don’t encourage doing this while driving because it is dangerous, but that’s not why they regulate it; they want OUR MONEY. It even costs $7 in tolls if you want to leave this crappy city.
Knowing how complicated, expensive, and bureaucratic owning a car can be, I cringe to think that people earnestly believe the government will take care of them with healthcare. For myself, I just want the government to leave me alone. I want the freedom to succeed in life without being taxed to oblivion for it, and I want the freedom to utterly fail and dig myself into the ground without interference. Is that too much to ask? Am I being too young and naïve?
What do you think? Are you bothered by the level of control the government has? Or do you prefer the government to regulate the issues daily affecting your life?
For example, when I moved to Chicago, I brought a car with me. In order to park my car on a public street in front of my building, I had to get new license plates. OK, fine by me. Well, first I had to get an Illinois Driver’s License. Then I had to transfer the title on my car to Illinois (with an accompanying fee). Then I had to pay for the plates and the sticker. All of this seemed normal (annoying, but still commonplace) until they told me I had to pay for a city sticker. Apparently, in order to keep too many people from owning cars, they require that drivers must purchase one of these city stickers. Without one, your car will be fined $50 for each infraction, and after 3 it will be booted and towed. And trust me, they will catch your car every single day. There is no shortage of ticket police in this economy. This magical little sticker costs $150 a year. So, in order for me to even own a car in Chicago costs $400. Our building is on a street that does not require an additional sticker, which many of the streets immediately behind our building require. This additional sticker says that you live on the street you’re parking on to ensure that people who do not live there do not park there. It costs $25, and let me tell you, we used to live on a street that required one of these additional stickers, and they do nothing to create more parking spots. It’s simply an additional way to tax people.
Now, obviously, I elected to own a car. No one forced me. What I am pointing out, though, is how complicated owning a car can be. The government has made the very simple concept of owning a car an incredibly complex one, and attempted to force people to give up the battle and opt for public transportation (which is owned by the city…convenient). When people fail to adhere to their control, they are heavily fined. Either way, the government makes a pretty penny off of people simply living in Chicago. There are cameras on the lights here. If you run a yellow light, automatic $50 ticket. It’s illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving ($200 fine) and it’s also illegal to text while driving. I don’t encourage doing this while driving because it is dangerous, but that’s not why they regulate it; they want OUR MONEY. It even costs $7 in tolls if you want to leave this crappy city.
Knowing how complicated, expensive, and bureaucratic owning a car can be, I cringe to think that people earnestly believe the government will take care of them with healthcare. For myself, I just want the government to leave me alone. I want the freedom to succeed in life without being taxed to oblivion for it, and I want the freedom to utterly fail and dig myself into the ground without interference. Is that too much to ask? Am I being too young and naïve?
What do you think? Are you bothered by the level of control the government has? Or do you prefer the government to regulate the issues daily affecting your life?
So, Whaddya think? Do you feel sorry for her?
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