tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-315529882024-03-05T01:01:56.981-05:00WREilersHand spun - pop chic - Victorian rants.W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-64933810052702333942011-08-16T13:08:00.000-04:002011-10-28T10:24:47.789-04:00The Myth of Cutting Corporate TaxesSo I'll be honest, I did not listen to or watch the debates the other night on Fox. I feel like the entire thing has been brought to hysterics and over the top antics trying to gain the apparent strength of a tea party inspired electorate. Even the people I would consider listening to have chosen to pander to irrational. That being said, my news feeds have been filled with sound bites and commentary. Most were silly, at times comical, claims of purity in the small government except to enforce morality hypocrisy. However, one bit stood out to me and reminded me of the sad state of politics in this country.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>The claim is that corporate tax cuts will create jobs in the US. I'm not sure who was the first to make the claim, but I am sure it was recited over and over in each persons "authentic" tone. Please understand, I am not an economist and my research lately has been limited to years of following the process and what late night scrambling I can manage to fit in after dinner. However, it seems rather obvious that these claims are just flat wrong. So let me try to elaborate on exactly what is wrong with this claim.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Rhetoric</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">The first thing to get out of the way, is to answer the why. Why make these claims considering the growing concern in this country regarding political corruption and class divisions? The answer is simple, they are appealing to the base and core needs of their constituents. People feel fairly helpless in this country. When supposedly smart(er) people stand up and tell us that the big machine needs you to sacrifice more so it can give you (fill in the blank), we, as a general population, accept it. Those that lean right (or lately full on roll on the right side), are attracted to the big button items that fuel their platform, i.e. small government. (Same for the Lefties, don't worry, I'm not that biased). Let's be frank, the Republican party is and has been, as of late, incredibly effective at convincing the American public that all corporate welfare is to the benefit of all. Trickle down economics, even if not in name, has been fairly well embedded into the economic debate, despite never having made any real proof of concept. Don't get me wrong, I am a good ol' capitalist just like the next guy and there is certainly some validity in the notion that strength in large corporations equals some real strength in the US economy. However, to take this much further requires deep consideration that is not only lacking in debates and speeches, but, quite frankly, behind close doors. Combine this premise with the rhetoric of jobs and you have a platform, a talking point. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Problem</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ok. So what is wrong with the proposition that cutting corporate taxes leads to job creation? To me the problem fails at two points, the disconnect between "corporate America" and the real small business and misconception of revenue retained through tax cuts being allocated to hire more employees. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">First, there was a brilliant move by the right in the last few years to attach the concept of "small business" to corporate America. The logic is simple, every mom and pop outfit doing business correctly is a corporation (or LLC or something similar). As "corporations" they have a shared interest in corporate tax codes etc. Thus when there is a discussion about raising corporate tax rates, it is easy to say "and that includes you Main Street mom and pop store." This is so obviously exposed when you consider the "definition" of small business. According to the <a href="http://www.sbaonline.sba.gov/contractingopportunities/owners/basics/whatismallbusiness/index.html">SBA website</a>, this means many things. For example, in the manufacturing sector, anything less than 500 employees, in the retail sector, anything less than 100 employees. These are pretty big numbers when we are talking about the public perception of small business. There is a big difference between the perception of small business and the actual application of the definition. It is a very sly slight of hand to relate a struggling landscaping company with Exxon-Mobile because they both have Inc. after their name.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Second, utilizing the misconception of tax savings and job creation. Political debate always boils down to generalities. For example, tax cuts = more revenue = more jobs. This is easier to say than the very complex truth of these things. Tax cuts for who? How big are the cuts? How are those additional revenues allocated? What kind of jobs are being created? The reason this is important is that the biggest fallacy in the tax cuts = more jobs scenario is that jobs are not over seas because of our tax system. They are over seas because of our labor system, our cost of living, and the American way lived by all our citizens. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Consider this very simple comparison and no please don't bother telling me all the minute details of why it is wrong. (It is simply to make a point and your knit picky analysis is not going to double the numbers or even add 50%.) A company with revenues of $500k (after taxes) a year gets a 3% tax cut, that is $15,000.00. There is no way that this company creates a "job" out of the tax savings. I know, I know, "but the that $15k not going to the government and is going into the economy". But the claim is jobs, how many jobs is that $15k going to create back in the wild? And in this economy, is it really going to be spent? Ok so let's up the ante. Now our company has revenues of $500m post taxes. The same 3% tax cut is applied, and wow $15m in savings. Now we are talking jobs, right? I mean, that's almost 300 hundred jobs based on median income in the US. Wrong. You see the problem is, increased revenues do not equal jobs as a blanket rule. Moreover, there is no way of guaranteeing and jobs created will be created in the US. Manufacturing did not move jobs overseas because of tax consequences (there are plenty of ways to avoid taxes and remain a US based company, see Google). The biggest savings oversees comes in the form of labor. There is also the logistical benefit of being where other parts and accessories are being manufactured. So what would a company do with $15m in savings? Well, it depends. Unless you are willing to incentivize actual job creation (through additional tax savings or training grants paid with tax payer dollars) or something short of outright telling a private company what to do with their money, no one can honestly make this claim. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">We need to stop following the simplistic A to B rhetoric and try to really make sense of what we want and how we get there. The more we cheer these one liners, the more we will steer ourselves astray. </span></span> </span></span>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-72052601476607978472010-07-01T15:05:00.000-04:002010-07-01T15:05:17.212-04:00Hip Hop History (At least for me)So it has been quite some time since I have written on this here ol' blog. Apparently having a child is time consuming, ;). But I think it is time to get those creative juices going again, and so here we go.<br />
<a name='more'></a> <span class="fullpost">Ok, well not really completely creatively speaking. Let's talk more about inspiration. The other morning, in my twisted slur of morning. In that place spotted with a sporadically giggly Lily, coffee not quite brewed, breakfast not quite served, I find myself listening to music, sometimes the news, sometimes Radio Lab, but usually music. Lately, the laziness of Pandora has been too hard to resist considering I haven't yet poured the motivation to go with my milk and honey. Every once in while though, I get that ear worm, that strange song stuck in my head for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was the country song at the strip club in my dream or maybe I heard it jamming out quietly at the bodega when I bought Claudia some ice cream the night before. Nobody really knows, (even though they do try to <a href="http://www.wnyc.org/shows/radiolab/episodes/2008/03/21/segments/93886" target="_blank">explain it.</a></span>) Anyway to make a long story longer, the other morning, I was struck by the rhythms of Newcleus, a trio from the early eighties who mixed rap with real instruments, keyboards. Like the epitome of the transition from Kool and the Gang to the Sugar Hill Gang. As I listened it hit me, this was the beginning of my white boy love affair with hiphop music. Sure it waxes and wains, but since I was eight years old, I have loved hiphop music. <br />
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I remember Ry Mitchem brought a tape home from his trip to Florida. I was eight. It had Newcleus, Sugar Hill Gang, UTFO, The Real Roxanne, Whodini, and few others like the Duke. Around that time, also got my first Fat Boys tape. In the next few years I would listen to Eric B., Doug E. Fresh, Slick Rick, Rob Base, Ice T, the Beastie Boys, and LL Cool J. By the time we moved to Lewisburg, in 1988 I was fully enthralled. With the addition of cable in our household (truly a new step in our lives) I found Yo MTV Raps, with Dre, Ed Lover, and Fab Five Freddy. Everyday was something new and exciting. Easy E, X Clan, MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, Heavy D, NWA its is off shoots. In Living Color always hosted music at the end of the show, that was something new and fresh. By the time junior high rolled around, I had faux leopard print, black suede wingtips (cheap ones), acid washed jeans and super dope rayon shirts. I practiced the running man and the Roger Rabbit and sang Boys 2 Men ballads when I had time alone. Our basketball team rocked out to Dodo Brown in the locker room. I wanted to sport a cane and those fake spectacles. <br />
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Being a small town WV boy, it took a while to really start to appreciate the big talents of the time like KRS One with Boogie Down Productions (eventually letting loose D-Nice), Guru and Gang Starr, Eric B and Rakim, and EPMD (in my opinion). Still there was plenty of good music and fun to be had. With the R&B junior high dance favorites like Jodeci and Tevin Campbell mixed up with Poor Righteous Teachers, Heavy D, Black Sheep, Nice and Smooth. I taped videos, practiced my dance moves, studied the lyrics. I loved it!! Looking back, I realize that this was truly a revolution in music. The gentle progression from the funk to the B boys to the colors and gangsta rap of the eighties and nineties to conscious rap to the dolla dolla bills krunked up Juvenile and beyond. To me, at least, this all started with Newcleus. Nowadays, for me it mostly Mos Def, Talib Kwali, Black Starr, Blueprint and lots of ol school, but if you ever get the chance go back and listen to the roots. With that, here is Newcleus and Jam On It.<br /><br />
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<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aXQSgNBo51o&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aXQSgNBo51o&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-28706592894056896242008-12-29T19:06:00.005-05:002011-08-16T13:11:13.564-04:00The Triplets of Bayview<div style="text-align: justify;">This morning, sitting on our balcony I witnessed one of the most amazing sites I have ever seen. In the spirit of story telling, I thought I would share. Happy Holidays.<br />
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As I splashed my mug with a refill of black soot coffee, hinted with honey, vanilla and hazelnut left over remnants Christmas cheer, I heard the normal bumbling grumbling of morning sounds. Doors swing in and out, foot steps echoing through the courtyard of our building, whispers and dog collar jingles intermittently muting through the open windows. It is December in Miami, and the air is perfectly correct. We keep our windows open and let the ocean breeze fill our space as constant, soothing refreshment. Open to the world, the sounds of life and morning stirs tend to float in and out, abrupt clangs of gates slamming, subtle coos of the mourning doves. At times, it is a circus of sounds dancing around the room, strangely peaceful and tranquil despite the jerky bangs of the occasional trash truck. Still, sometimes it is nice to plop down at our patio table and watch the world make it certain sounds. And so, this morning, I ventured out and observed.<br />
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Our building is near the end of a cul de sac banking the edge of our clear but littered canal. It is nice place for people to make the ever allusive turn around, making our street a strange hodgepodge of visitors. From our fourth floor nest, I watched the groggy dog walkers, pajamaed and slumber and spry joggers, fit and pristine. I saw the lurking bikers swaying slowly up the street, peering into windows, admiring my neighbor's personal belongings and the utility workers sleeping away quietly in the cab of their truck. As I looked east, I was struck by the pure blue that painted the morning sky. Not a single wisp of white even peeked the palette, crisp and essential. The staggered building short and tall, tall and short lined the horizon with their eggshell beiges and worn pastelly pinks. Admiring the view and swimming in the simplicity of my new day's begin, I sipped my coffee. Just as I went set my heavy mug back into its place marked with the dribbled ring of coffee stain beginning to form on the scratchy polished steel table top, a crashing surge of ramble came pouring down through the walls. Like someone had decided to move all of the furniture in their apartment in one lazy shove across a concrete floor, the rumbling, screeching heave vibrated through our whole apartment, quaking the concrete shelf of our balcony. Just as suddenly the grumble came to a halt, a slight shadow peeked down from the balcony above, and I realized that the triplets of Bayview were up to something bizarre.<br />
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You see, for as long as I have lived here, our upstairs neighbors have intrigued me. They are three Argentine sisters, living together like the Triplets of Belleville. I have never known their names, only their characters. We always address each other with lots of smiles and waves and “Como estas?”'s Perhaps we exchange a laugh over a half told joke in broken spanglish riding up the elevator, unsure if we are laughing at the same thing. The sisters are an elderly trio, all petite and slightly pear. The oldest is more stern than the rest, face weary and less vibrant than the rest. Her hair, blond, dulled with reds and grays, is stringing straight, nicely combed and held down tightly with an old black headband. She always wears solemn, dark colors, navies and blacks, highlighted with white blouses neatly buttoned, framing the sight of her dangling glasses. The youngest tends to venture out only with her older sister. She carries the same stiffness, but she is usually more jovial in her smiles and hellos. Her hair in pomegranate red shimmering hard against the contrast of her mod black glasses, round heavy rim, firmly set on her slight nose. Her more youthful presence is most often adorned with more vivid, but equally as stoic, colors, burgundy reds, heavy blues, and dark pine scented greens. The eldest and the youngest do most of the shopping and are the most common sighting of the sisters. I will see them chatting away as the retrieve their various wares from the bodegas and drugstores, walking lightly down the street. They are always pleasantly cordial, just hinting at the more airy beings hidden behind the precautions, keeping to themselves after our silly exchanges start to run short of words. However, the middle child, true to her calling, usually travels alone. Scattered and vibrant she bounces along with a perpetual smile. Sometimes she's in heavy plaids with her simple red hair in curls. Other days, her blue sweater is covered in blue and orange stripes with knitted sea horses and crabs dancing along the parallel lines. Every time I see her she is donned in rebellious patterns and subtle whimsy. Ofttimes, when I am sitting upon my observation stoop, she will wave from the street with joyful swats and a cheery smile. If I meet her at the door, she is always gracious and outspoken, as if a seeing an old friend after a long separation. My brushes with the triplets are always a joyful accent to the normal humdrums of condo living, starting my day with a smile or giving my return home an extra warmth. Of course, as with most neighborly crossings, our relationship is but a flicker in a sea of moments and amounts a nice pleasantry.<br />
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The truth is, I know very little of these ladies. Their world is the small fifth floor apartment along the bay exactly one apartment above us. Their plants line the courtyard balcony, overflowing from the apartment that is overflowing from the balcony. On nicer days, when the swell of summer humidity doesn't keep windows and doors shut, the whiffs of their cooking, churrasco and chimichuri swirls through the courtyard space, laden with garlic, vinegar and oil. I never hear a tv or a radio bellowing or whispering through cracked windows or dripping down through the walls. At night and early in the morning, Claudia and I sporadically hear what sounds like a very civil game of marbles, glass beads rolling across tile floors, bouncing, gently off one another. Like all apartment living, we catch the dulled crashes and bangs or three people living in a small space, but nothing that would ever give us any insight into the world of our sweet old neighbors. However lately, we have begun to hear more frequent, more distinct noises that have inspired Claudia and I to imagine the strangest of things.<br />
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Every day or so, I hear the clang of a wrench or a hammer banging against pipes. I hear the muffled hum of a jigsaw or a dremel tool. Sometimes it sounds that they are building. Sometimes it sounds as if they are moving out. We have spent many a night giggling at the possibilities. Perhaps they are a jug band tuning their makeshift scrapped guitars and fixing their trashcan ragtag drum sets. Perhaps they are superheroes moving through secret tunnels in the walls, scurry through the shadowy back alleys, aiding wayward drunken débutantes from the life's less savory creations. Maybe they are aged tango dancers too tired to take on more than a few steps, their aged clasps leaking pearls that fall in disastrous clusters across the floor. Or maybe they just have many, many small repairs, a toilet that constantly sticks and a finicky old air conditioner that needs a good smack to get up and running. The scenarios were endless and always gave us a good snicker. Two days ago, however, the pangs and clangs and thumps became almost unbearable. At four in the morning, yesterday, they began drilling into piping, hammering away a some unknown assembly, as quietly as they could. By eight, I was ready to crawl from my bed and pay the triplets a visit, when the deep rumble of diesel trucks outside our window covered all sounds with the steady rhythm of mufflers and crankshafts drowning out the triplet's tinkering. Still throughout the day I continued to hear tinks and clanks and booms. I thought to myself that they must be having work done, hurricane shutters or handicap rails or kitchen repairs. By five o'clock the clatter had ceased and no sounds were heard until, just before falling asleep, Claudia and I heard the metallic dribble of ball bearings bouncing across the tiles, giving us both a quiet, sleep giggle as we drifted off.<br />
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And so that was how my night ended and this morning began. Coffee and sunshine, blue skies and a rested mind, as I sat on the balcony listening to startled chaos that moved over head. Curious, I jumped to my feet to see what exactly was causing the cool new shadow upon my morning brew. I leaned against the railing and just as I turned my head, to look up, I caught the shape of a tinfoiled colander, crinkled and shinny, slightly protruding from the frame of the balcony above. Before I could focus on the strange shape overhanging the balcony edge, another quaking grunt vibrated through the walls and pulled what appeared to be an airplane propeller back into the triplet's apartment. Again shaken, I pondered my position against the illusion of what I had just seen, and I slid back into my seat.<br />
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“Was that really a propeller that I just saw??” I thought to myself, considering that an airplane had never been created in our exhaustive list of possibilities. Too curious to sit still, I jumped back to the railing, leaning out, hoping to catch a peek of the source of this almost terrifying noise. As I strained my legs to steady my hold, a boom echoed from the mouth of their apartment and through the streets as what was clearly an engine was started, coughing and choking like cartoon. Terrified, I shrunk all the way back into the apartment trying to make sense of the clamor muffled through the ceiling, but the roar of the engine was loud and overpowering. Lost in the sheer madness of the situation, I stood there frozen.<br />
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“Should I go peek or should I go to their door? What is going on? Did they build an airplane in their apartment?”<br />
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Befuddled and confused, I stood there in the middle of our apartment, pictures rattling off the bookshelf. Specs of dust steadily falling from the ceiling. My abandoned coffee mug splashed its contents across the patio table. As I heard the engine throttle to high, I could feel this machine, what ever it was, moving back toward the courtyard entrance and stop. With a sudden creek of metal scraping across the floor, I heard what seemed to be the entire upstairs apartment sliding off into the street. As I followed the sound rushing toward the windows, I watched a clumsy winged barrel drop heavy into my view. Like a lumbering goose it swayed, bouncing sporadically as puffs of black smoke sputtered from its tale end. The plane, this hodgepodge of scraps, was the most curious sight I had ever seen, like triplets had raided their kitchen and welded all the pots and pans together with tinfoil, plastic wrap and solder. Its body was formed from several old oil barrels, pots and pans, rivetted together in random overlapping mosiac, painted think in shiny tar black. In the cockpit were three low seats covered in fabric like each sister had draped here favorite coat across the back of a chair. The front of vehicle was shiny and chromed with foil under the sun's glare as the big diesel engine spun the propeller made of wicker and wooden fan blades stacked in fours. From just below the cockpit, the exhaust spewed thick black, smoke smelling of garlic and basil. The wings were framed with a jointed skeleton which gave them the slightest ability to flap. They were covered three or four times over in white linens, sewed taught and covered in a tiedye waxy coat.<br />
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As the alated smoker dropped below my horizon, I saw the triplets, snuggled tightly inside the strange vessel, old aviator goggles strapped tightly to their faces as they cackled in pure joy, a single scarf fanning from their odd cockpit. The middle child sat in the front holding the yoke and steering the behemoth giggling with joy. The eldest sat behind her and cranked a lever to an fro, giving the wings their subtle flap, her face determined but lightened with sweet crack of smile. The youngest just laughed, holding a black iron skillet and a wood spoon high in the air clanging away like a child, her smile as big a the sun. As the putters eased into the even drone of a firm full throttled engine again, the ladies steered their chunky albatross to the right and then straight again. The plane began to actually take flight, ascending just inches above the buildings across the street. Steadily the wings, thick with piping and sheets, climbed, waddling from side to side. The triplets were screaming with excitement as they flew toward the sunrise, fading ever so slightly with each bobble. The bizarre silhouette danced against the blue morning sky like a cigar with wings as the lingering smoke trailed along scenting the air with the sweetness of chimichuri. After what seemed like twenty blocks or so, the plane began to to swing slowly to the right and headed south. The sound of street traffic began to smother the last grumblings of their little airplane and with a subtle dip behind a distant hotel, they were gone. Thunderstruck, I tried to gather myself, placing the picture frame back into is bookshelf nook. I retrieved my mug and filled it with another round and sat down to take in the entirety of this morning.</span></div>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-87011000855863789262008-12-10T19:43:00.010-05:002011-08-16T13:11:44.925-04:00A Battle at Dawn<div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the small delay due to vacation, I have wanted to write this piece for some time. First of all it introduces you to what I hope will be a frequent character, Geronimo, my 1984 bronze Jeep Cherokee. However, this story itself has always been a great representation of the humor, the tensions, and the friendships between siblings as they make their way toward adulthood. I am sure that my brother will refute the facts, and perhaps he will post his own version, glorious and triumphant in his own way. That being said, I hope you enjoy.<br />
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<span class="fullpost">Like most mornings in the frigid winter, we had started our day with the chill of unraveling from our blanketed hide aways. The sun had not made its debut just yet and so the darkness reeked of midnight with the yellow orange tint of the kitchen lights welcoming us to the day. As usual, I was sluggish in my wake. I was seventeen, which would make Jud fifteen and Sarah nine or at least very close. Since I had turned sixteen, our morning gather for the school day was of our own adolescent will power. It is not to say that Mom and Dad weren't there for the occasional spark, but we had to be at the bus by seven and they had to be at work at nine and thus the days of the inevitable “Get up boys!!” bellowing from my dad's silhouette in the door had long passed. And so being the youthful sleepers that we were, every morning was a struggle and battle between Sarah, Jud and I that at times manifest itself in less than kind words between the brothers, arguing over who was halting the group's great ascension to higher learner.<br />
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On this particular morning, Jud was more than adamant in his conviction that, in fact, I had caused this mornings delay and perhaps every delay in the history of car rides.<br />
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“You're always fuckin' late. Uh huh, uh huh, blame of fuckin' Sarah.”<br />
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Of course, my recollection of the morning differed drastically, and I wholeheartedly believe that it was truly and fully Sarah's fault, which I told Jud in the kindest and most brotherly of tones,<br />
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"Shut the fuck up Jud. Where is Sarah? . . . . Still in the house, that's what I fuckin' thought. You little shit.”<br />
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You see, I had gotten up, done my morning routine, a quick shower, dressed and ran out to warm of the car, as there is nothing worse than a dash to the parking lot in the morning only to find that your ride away is but an ice box with an engine. In particular, Geronimo, my crusty old Jeep, was known to be slow and uncooperative, and so it was always worth an extra ten minutes of warming up. In the preparation for this day's journey, I had completed my morning agenda and as far as I can recollect, I was completely on time.<br />
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Regardless of my timing on this or any other morning, we had to leave no later than 6:45 if we were to get Sarah to the bus on time. This, of course, would be the basis of Jud's argument on this glorious morning. You see, Jud was, and still is, punctual to the nth degree. Every morning, without fail, he sat in the passenger seat at 6:40 smoking a cigarette, seatbelt fastened and ready to take on the day. He would fiddle with the jimmy rigged CD player and wait impatiently, windows fogged over as the last bits of frost swung off their icicly hinge and slipped down the windshield. He didn't care if the car was cold, he didn't care if there was no rush. He was ready to go and that was it. Any delay beyond this magical point was considered by him to be ridiculous and unconscionable. “How fuckin' hard is it to get ready!!” he would say.<br />
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On the morning in question, the stewing wait was more aggravating to him than usual. As I walked to the car, I could see his face through the frosted panes, irked and bothered with the day's already fouled up schedule. The sun had begun to share the slightest hint of silvery grays to the scene, but it was still dark and haunting against the creaking shadows adding a sinister tone to the mood. As I threw my bookbag into the back, I could hear the grumbling begin. By the time I got into the car, Jud was fuming with angst, spilling over with malcontent at my inability to be prompt. Rarely one to believe I was ever wrong, I shot back harshly, and thus we proceeded to tell each other exactly how the world was and exactly how it was going to be, all in full graphic color spewing from our country lips. As we waited for Sarah to meander her buddled self out the door, tensions began to rise. I watched her shuffle her little legs across the slippery walkway while Jud and I continued to smother each other with stinging words. When Sarah opened the door, our rage probably fringe her eye brows blowing like a furnace as she opened the door, breaking heavily into quiet somber of the mountains. Sarah, stunned, climbed in and with curious and fearful hands settled herself in to her seat. Up front, we paid her no mind and the torrent of teenage tirade maligned the crisp morning air. <br />
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At this point, the matter of who exactly had caused the delay seemed more than evident to me and as I turned the car around to begin the bumpy descent down the windy forest road, I reminded Jud that we had been waiting for Sarah. “If you would fuckin' help your sister in the morning then we wouldn't have to wait on her!!!” I said calmly with my famously know it all seventeen year old swagger. <br />
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His response was heated, to say the least, and now our baby sister had been pulled into the fight. However, time was of the essence and our sibling struggle snowballed along while Geronimo bumped down the through the woods, headlights lighting our way under the spotty shade of barren trees. Despite my attempts to warm the car, a steady draft seeped over the crack of our open windows as Jud and I yelled and smoked our cigarettes, huffing and puffing swells of smoke between verbal jabs. Sarah was now on the brink of tears, uncomforted by the steady chill of brisk air. As we approached the end of the drive way, the last steep bank before we settled onto the flat gravel of Dry Branch Road, tensions truly began to bubble over. Like a bad metaphor, we were at a crossroad and decisions had to be made and action had to be taken, and they had to be done with absolute haste and disregard for the world around us. Pickering siblings know very little of rational thought and thus with all the wondrous energy abound, a punch was thrown. To avoid any future confrontation, I will say that I do not know who land the initial blow, although I am pretty sure it was Jud. Who throw the first punch is of little consequence, because at this point a full on fist fight had ensued, only sporadically broken up so that I could steer and shift into third gear. It was a flurry of words and fists and smacks, like being inside the Tazmanian Devil's whirlwind. Grumbling and cussing overlay a steady beat of pop boom pows with Sarah's explosive tears wailing her hysterics in the background. <br />
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If you were meet Jud now, this story, so far, may sound fantastical, as he stands broad and towering over his older brother, brawny and strong. However, in our youth I was the tower, the booming five foot eleven tree that you know today, and Jud was decently tall but skinny and lanky, awkward at times. He wore big circular wire-rimmed glasses the snugged up against the brim of his ever present ball cap. He was stout enough but hardly a match for his older brother. However, despite the advantages I carried, Jud had a secret weapon, a strange “upper hand” that gave him great pleasure to wield, a pure as sunshine smart ass comment followed by an insulting laugh that with every beat questioned your virility. For as long as I can remember, this was Jud's reaction to a good punch. He would laugh. I would punch him in the stomach. He would laugh. I would punch him in the chest and he would laugh. The more he laughed, the angrier I got and the more I punched and so on, until tears would pour out and he would maintain his steady laugh, more challenging with each breath.<br />
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On this adventurous morning, no tears were shed, only insults, his laugh and the occasional swing across the console. In the midst of our battle, Jud paused to discover that I had “supposedly” broken his glasses.<br />
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“Way to go asshole!! You broke my glasses. Now you owe $200 bucks!!” As he spoke his distraught expression twisted into a quiet yet perfectly snide laugh and without a blink I swung at his stomach. <br />
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Tired of our fight and knowing that his laughter would only lead to worse things, Jud had decided that he had had enough and he began asking me to let him out of the car. “Stop the fuckin' car!!” <br />
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“No,” I said, “we're already late.”<br />
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“Let me out of “No!”<br />
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“Stop the car!!” As we yelled, Jud motioned as if he was trying to open the door. His focus was no longer on me or the fight, and he surveyed his surroundings as if he was threatening to jump from car as we barreled down the old gravel road. Sarah picked up on this and began to scream. “Don't jump Juddie, Don't jump!!!”<br />
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Still convinced to have my own way, I slammed on the gas hoping to scare any ridiculous notion of escape out of his head. Jud paused and with certain stubbornness and cracked open the door. The clank of gravel tinking against the fenders reminded all three of us of the actual speed of our situation. In Jud's face was a look of calculation, blank from our argument, filled with determination. His head almost bobbed as if timing the rotations of the tires against the road. Scared that he really was going to jump, I stepped harder on the gas pedal. Jud's eyes lit up and just as we began to accelerate more, he slipped through the opened door and out onto the road. There was no thump or thud, just the quick flash of Jud's body in the side view mirror, bouncing off the road and to his feet and just as quickly darting up into the woods. <br />
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In shock, I slammed on the brakes and started to turned around, Sarah's panicked, balling filled every nook and cranny of the car as she screamed at the top of her lungs. I, myself, was completely suspended in awe of the scene that had so quickly unraveled. As we turned back on your tracks, Sarah and I began to scan the wintry landscape, silver and black trees against the dark forest floor, the creek bed darking looming just off the road, looking for our escapee brother. Creeping by, it didn't take long to find him. He was crouched upon a craggy pile of rocks, hiding, I suppose, still as a grouse. As his hiding spot was less of conspicuous cache and more of a platform or a pedestal, we announced the obvious, “Jud we can see you!!!” But he only stood their huffing cold white puffs under the rising sun's light. Not a word, not a single movement came from his perch. He just stared, hard and angry, catching his breath. “Come on Jud, we have to go to school!!” <br />
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Realizing that we had come to standoff and still wallowing in my own befuddledness, I got my teary eyed sister back in the car and drove back to the house checking the rear view mirror for Jud to come jumping from the back onto the frozen road. When we got home, I told mom what had happened as she cleaned Sarah's tears and shook her head. Although she was slightly shocked by our behavior, she had seen things like this before. After calming the situation, she sent Sarah and I on our way and waited for Jud to make his inevitable climb through the woods and up the mountain back to the house. <br />
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It is important to note that this entire scene had occurred only a few hundred yards from our first stop on the way to school, Aaron's house. Aaron was our first stop on the country car pool, and he had been waiting impatiently for his ride. As we pulled up, Aaron looked around grinning and asked where Jud was. I told him the grand story of our morning, to which he replied, “Sweet, shotgun,” laughing as he climbed into the passenger seat. Thus the drama of the morning had ended. I would finish picking up the rest of our passengers, and we would drive Sarah to school since she missed the bus. Hours later I would run into Jud as he signed in at the front desk at the high school. After sharing a quick glance, we shook hands and hugged. Jud began to smile and as I started to walk away, he pulled me in and said, “You know what's funny, I tried to time my landing, and realized when my foot hit the ground that I was running the wrong way!!!” and that is how I knew everything was going to be okay.</span></div>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-81252305412898863542008-11-01T16:35:00.014-04:002011-08-16T13:12:46.116-04:00A Dog's Day<div style="text-align: justify;">In the spirit of Halloween, I thought I would write of one of my favorite, yet most gruesome stories. It is gruesome in my memory because it was traumatic to witness. However, I have found that as I have moved farther and farther way from the world of country living, it is the simple premise that makes most of my audience squirm. Thus, let me begin with a quick note that the rules of land as described herein are built on traditions and notions of protecting your livelihood. Over the years I have been conflicted deeply with these “rules” but as age brings conservatism, I find myself more open to accepting that it is, and will be “just the way things are.” I do not write this as an opener for debate about animal rights and cruelty or any version of urban defined country ignorance. It is story, true as to my memory, and I shall leave it at that.<br />
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The precise date is of little significance and as of far less recollection. That being said, I can say with certain surety that it was October. West Virginia in October is a vibrantly dismal place. Summer tries with all its might to shine in with warmth and vitality, but fall winds have much disregard for such flowery things. Skies are briskly blue and vacant but for the wisps of cirrus clouds. The mountains are splashed with vibrancy in all shades of oranges, yellows and reds. The scent of wood fires twinges the nose and lingers on you clothes. Puffs of smoke lazily drift from chimney tops. The cold air perks your senses in a way that even the last drums of woodpecker's diligent work land upon your ear with a more intense clarity and brilliance. There is a majesty in the landscape that inspires you soul, and yet in the same flicker of imagination, a looming, ever present darkness marches on the days. With each day, the night nudges a little closer, the chill stings a little deeper, as October descends into November and fall transforms into winter. It is this whirl of color and cold that paints my memory of that day. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">We were at home on our farm, our large dome snuggled up against the strip of a shady oaks and maples. There was a scurry of preparation around the house. John, my father, had been chopping wood, putting on the storm windows, while Hayes, my mother was finishing up the last batches of canned jams. It was not a desperate motion or any tirade of necessity. Quite simply it was the basic polar opposite of spring cleaning, a steady chore of packing things in and bundling up the home. Now I cannot, for the life of me, figure the precise year and therefore my age on this day. I assume that Jud and I were old enough to play amongst ourselves yet young enough to have avoided the treacheries of school bus rides in pitch black mornings, because we had a role in the events to come. I remember being outside with my brother playing in the grass. My mom was inside the kitchen doing some October task (although for some reason the smell of spicy plum jam keeps creeping into my mind as I write). My dad had gone to work early in the morning and it was just the three of us, my mother, my brother and I. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">It was mid afternoon, and the day was still full of sunshine, when the phone rang. On the phone was our neighbor, Andy Sharp, from several farms over, (or two mountains over, or “down the road” depending on your own concepts of neighbors). It seemed that our dogs had been running his sheep, chasing them for fun, a ancient reminder of their wolfie ancestry. He had warned us before, but this time they had gotten a ewe, and there was much concern because his prize ram was also out to pasture. He told my mom that he had shot the black one, our sweet and kind of stupid lab mix, Inky. However, he said that the yellow one Sammy, a golden retriever mutt, had gotten away and that we were going to have to do something about it. My mother was not entirely convinced of the rationale behind this concept, but she knew in her heart that this was the way of the land. Andy's sheep were a matter of livelihood, a matter of pride and a matter of property. She also knew that the economic consequences of loving and protecting a bandit sheep killer. Usually, my dad dealt with these unpleasantries, but my mom in swoon of compassion decided that she would help my dad deal with the problem. She knew what had to be done, as awful as it made her heart feel. And so, with shaky reluctance my Mother dug through the closet to get my dad's 30.6 (thirty ought six) rifle and clambered out the front door. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">From the perspective of my brother and I, this was only a tense flicker in our day of GI Joe men and wooden blocks. I am sure we sensed a heavy mood as mom called for Sammy, but his wagging tale and pure joy of hearing his name washed away any childish feeling of doom or terror. Thinking about it now, I am sure that his playful arrival was only an added torture to my mom's determination to do what she was trying to convince herself was right. And so in this tumultuous scene of dreaded inevitability, my mother tied a rope to Sammy's collar and explained to me that she was taking Sammy up on top and to watch after Juddie. She kissed me on the forehead and with that my mom took off walking into the color splashed background to our October day. As she began her hike, I remember seeing my mother cry walking away, her tears shimmering orange and blue on her cheek, and I knew that something was not right with this day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">Up the hill she trudged to the old dirt road tunneling through the forest and up to the top meadows. I never asked exactly where she stopped, or which tree she chose for the deed and so this scene has always been completely made up in my mind. I can see a lone hawthorne in the midst of a meadowy clearing. I can see a heavy old maple lining the edge of the field. Sometimes I imagine a sturdy sampling in the woods. However, the truth is only known by my mom, Sammy and eventually my dad. Whatever the arbor, whatever the scene, my mother chose a tree. She laid the gun on the ground, safely wrapped in its worn black leather sleeve, a few yards from the tree and walked Sammy to his execution stand where she tied his line to the tree. With emotions high, hands shaking and tears pouring, I always picture a frantic frenzy of knot tying ,and tying and tying, to secure that this moment would soon be over. A few words were spoken, whispered into his ears, Sammy licking the salty stream from my mother's eyes with lapping affection. With each lick, more tears gushed from deep inside my mom's heart, and with a last sweet goodbye, my mother stepped away. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">Apprehensive of the prospect of actually following through, my mom walked over to the leather rifle bag and unsheathed the heavy tool. She fumbled around the case to find a bullet, trying to remember all of the safety points she could muster through the cloudy muck of pure abhorrent terror. She planned out her next move and retraced each step with a desperate hope that always accompanies tragic deeds, the hope that something will stop time or rewrite the moment, often known Christianly as a miracle. It is in fact this hope, this prayer, that motivated her to raise the gun to her shoulder, anxiously awaiting the perfect moment for time and cosmos to conspire together and stop the madness. She clung to the belief that the next step would bring chaos shuttering down and end this ill fate. Her arms were shaking, her hands were chilled numb gripping the cold steel with every ounce of strength. Her knees were week and trembling and the knots in her stomach began to throb. Blurry eyed, sopping in tears her view through the scope was muddled and distorted. She struggled to make out Sammy through the cross-hairs and slowly eased the scope closer to her eye. Still laboring to make out a clear image of her furry target, she pulled upon youthful thoughts and memories of binoculars and microscopes as she gently set the scope against her eye. Trembling with agony and predetermined mourn she took a stuttery deep breath, letting it go with flooded emotion and pure, deep rooted pain. She locked her sight on Sammy and with a numb, ghost white finger, she pulled the trigger. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">What exactly happened next is a bit of blur in my recollection of the story, and I am sure my mom would say the same. However, one thing was for certain, the drama of this glorious October day failed miserable to end. Despite her careful calculations and aim, my mom had missed her target, a point that would only truly be realized many hours later. You see, in the chaos of the moment, my mom had forgotten one the truest and most shocking facts of the physics of explosives and firearms; a fact known to gunslingers as “kick.” When a large rifle fires a shell full of gun powder driving a bullet with deathly speeds at the target, the opposite force of the explosion acts upon the gun. With the scope so firmly pressed to her eye, the moment that she pulled the trigger, the gun kicked back, forcing the thin metal edge of the scope to carve deep into her face, bruising the bone and leaving a flap skin tangling from just below her eye. Tears were now smeared in blood, and the emotional knots of agony collided with the shear power of overwhelming physical pain. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">In a daze, she stumbled her way back through the woods, down the old dirt road and back to the house. When she arrived, my brother and I were ripped with fear. I was convinced that my mom had lost her eye. Her panicked moans only furthered our amaze as scarlet gushes covered her right eye while glassy tears sopped her face. She tried to calm us, but was overcome by the entirety of actual blood gushing pain stirred viciously with the events of the day. And so there we were, three of us lost in the haunting October day, helplessly trying make sense of it all, each in our own way. My mom trying to ponder through the pangs and sting of an open wound. My brother and I trying to decipher visions of reality with naïve and simple minds. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">Soon, my dad would arrive home from work. My mother would go to the hospital and get treatment and stitches and I am sure some friendly gun safety scolding. Later that evening my dad would finish the deed with an Ozark steadiness that has always been my image of pure on-call masculinity. Sammy, perhaps the most sick with doom, had still been tied to the tree, left to wrap his canine mind around his morbid predicament. My dad's task was short and poignant, although heavy with the sadness that poor Sammy had to endure such hysterics before his time had come. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">Time moved on, and winter reminded us of the coming months, the leaves fell to the forest floor leaving the silvery skeletons of bare trees. A few weeks later, my mom's sixty plus stitches and black eye would be mistaken for a fabulous make up job for Halloween , adding humor the tragedy and reminding us that the moment had passed. From that day, I would carry an aversion to guns that I still hold to this day. My mother realized that some things were better left to others. My brother never really reacted much to the situation and my father saw it as an opportunity to remind his children of the dangers of guns. From time to time, the story is told with lessons to be learned, humor to be found and tragedy to explain. As for the old country code, sheep farming is sparse in the hills these days, left to the few who have time and novelty of mind. Nowadays, coyotes and bears seem to be the greatest danger to the sheep farmer. Still the ways of the mountains and rules that govern remain firm, and thus we always try to keep the dogs at home.</div>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-62890437089512692512008-09-24T13:48:00.007-04:002011-08-16T13:13:17.200-04:00The Bailout<div style="text-align: justify;">So in the void of literary babbles that I intended this blog to be, today I write about the bailout.<br />
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As politicians ponder, pander and politic, the question remains what is going to happen to the US economy. I have spoken with many bright minds and read the chants of those dimmer flashes. Those in the know seem to be lost and unsure of the benefits of the plan, while Joe America screams foul for over paid CEOs and the potential for raised taxes. So here are my thoughts, albethem from a liberally educated, avoid economics, self-proclaimed dummy in regards to the markets. Thus I must warn you that in no way do I suppose or presume that I speak the truth except to the extent that I assure myself that I am right so that I will sleep well tonight.<br />
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First and foremost. Hey guess what!! The economy is in trouble people, $700 billion or not. The general consensus seems to lay most of the blame on Wall Street. However, I would like to remind the American pubic of its role in this debacle. Remember the '90s, oh glorious days of the tech boom. People were living high on the hog, not a care in the world. Then it came crashing down, or at least it stumbled a bit. People scrabbled and created a massive overblown housing market. A few regulations were pulled down, enough to let the subprime market grow and grow. Nobody questioned why their mortgage broker was lying on applications, nobody pondered why they were being approved for a loan. Lost in pacificity, Joe America (and Jane) asked no questions. As Congress is a reactionary archaic titan, it is slow to move and only really moves when provoked. And thus, like a sleepy old dragon, our not so beloved Behemoth dozed as "Wall Street" and the American public robbed its bits of Elivn gold. Some took alot, some took little, but most took. Massive SUVs to take an only child to ballet class. More TVs than <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/life/television/news/2006-09-21-homes-tv_x.htm">persons</a> per household. We stood in line for an iphone that sucked. We camped out for Playstations. We amassed credit cards from macy's, homedepot, bestbuy, sears, toys r us, and "We sell useless junk and charge you 30% interest." store. A complacent and lazy phoenix that rose from <a href="http://www.wcfcourier.com/blogs/lost.in.sixties/?p=23">the death of the hippie</a>, America had grown from an infant of commericialism into a towering Babel of consumerism. Band-aids and expensive pharmaceuticals were prescribed to sooth the fearful hearts and numb the soul. Cynics were chastised and labeled debbie downers. And here we are, desperately needing our fix, our techno-junkied happy button. We are a nation who's last hit of Ecstasy finally is wearing off.<br />
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So what does this have to do with the bail out? If we, the American people, through our surrogates, write this blank check with superficial "oversight provisions" and pinky swears, what will it do? Nobody really knows how much it will cost. Nobody really knows what it will do. So it could just be a drop in the bucket, leaving the economy still crappy, except we now owe some imaginary bond purchaser $700 billion. Or maybe it protects what value is left in the targeted markets, but it sends the dollar plummeting, in turn causing oil to sky rocket and the US economy comes to a hault. Of course, I imagine those holding dollars will make sure to drop a few more bills into the market as well, just in case we weren't sure if "King Dollar" could go any lower. OR maybe, just maybe it works. The economy stabilizes and we return to our mantle as the Empire with no clothes. Economic prozac returns our fragile selves back into a joyful passiveness. And then what?? Exactly.<br />
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Perhaps it is time for a little tough love America, a cold stale slice of humble pie. Humility is revealed in the dull concave boil of an old spoon, not the tinted lime light of your Lexus sideview mirror. The expectation of privilege must be replaced by wholesome value of appreciation. You learn many things about ourself sitting at the bottom of the barrel. it is with this thought that, sadly, I think the economy needs to tank. Besides it is going to tank anyway, so let it. Consider it controlled demolition. We minimize the fallout with careful and tenacious oversight. Meanwhile, since Quick Draw McGraw Congress is so willing to sign away our tax dollars, let's use it for something practical. Offer huge grants to green and alternative fuel companies. Rebuild Detroit on the condition that they rejuvenate American innovation. Universal health care will help guarantee that the new manufacturing jobs created from a tanked dollar will be full of healthy workers. And here's a thought, lets throw a couple hundred billion into a comprehensive and well planned education reform, so that our children will be able to compete with India and Chinese scholars, intellectuals and scientists. With a rebuilding of our industrial base, we can finally exploit NAFTA for its intended purpose. We could loosen our reigns as the self appointed world's police force and reduce military spending. With a return to a more insular economy, we will actually compete with Chinese manufacturing. Does it answer the questions of today?? No not really, but at least it has sights set for the future! <br />
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This plan does requires one very key ingredient, however, the power and force of the American people. We must shed ourselves of our do nothing garb. We must work together as Americas for our future and comfort each other in the bad times to come. Perhaps humility will remind us all our the precious gifts that should be appreciated and not taken for granted. <br />
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All this said, I have no idea what will happen in the coming months and years, but I can guarantee we will see drastic reduction in quality of living. We will see more job losses, more foreclosures, more crime and more instability, regardless of whether this blank check is written. Paying this $700 billion will not have any great manifestation for the American worker. However, not paying the piper will almost absolutely lead to a solid and rocky bottom. Thus it is a choice of two evils, one with perceived and wishful immediate results with not glance toward the future, and the other with certain chaos with hopes of building a new tomorrow. However, if we, the American public, choose to do nothing, Wall street and Washington will almost certainly help turn the page of this our short chapter in history. If we truly intend to change Washington and thus change Wall Street with the hope of changing our lives, we must be accountable for our own sins, and in due course take responsibility for what is ours.<br />
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Perhaps the Leviathan is a beast in need less of taming and more of purpose.</div>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-19868193467795470652008-03-23T15:02:00.004-04:002011-08-16T13:14:16.455-04:00What's In a Name?So this was intended to be a short intro to an essay that I am working on. Unfortunately, I was whipped viciously by the rambles and in the end I have a long rant of nothingness to present to the world. Enjoy or don’t.<br />
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Names are a peculiar instrument of human existence. They are the verbal recognition of one’s being by another. As time passes they are but single word descriptors of one’s whole existence, purpose and role. A name is the singular, yet complicated, answer to “Who am I?” or “Who are you?”<br />
<a name='more'></a> Other animals certainly must have something parallel means of recognition through grunted noises, for our pets seem to be able to distinguish between “Kodi” and “Titus” when we call their names. However, humans have the extended philosophical mess with which to contend. It is highly doubtful that Fido ponders the label of his soul and considers whether it was the appropriate gesture to name him Fido as opposed to Frank or Domino or Hobbit. It is only humans that take the primal grunt, the tick tick versus the tick tock and consider it a staging place for nicknames, childish pranks. Only humans find concern with whether there is a cosmic connection between the syllables that express a uniqueness within a crowd and the soulful matter that compiles to form our innerness, our aura and spirit. <br />
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More logically, but equally as impractical, a name is a tool of legacy and bloodline, passing on the namesake’s inspiration in a single word. It is a whisper of hope and prophecy, as proud parents hope to somehow influence a child’s entrance and place in this world with a connotation or a definition found in a book entitled, “Baby Names: Setting a Spiritual Path for your Child to Come.” It is both a self classifying system of evolution and geneology and a subtle attempt to place a piece of our own witty thought on the world. Naming a child is an incredibly stressful moment in a persons life (so I would guess). As personal philosophy tears at whimsy and superstition, all while compromising with the strange and peculiar logics of another persons love for Stevie Nicks or the color purple. Two people come together bring their traditions and notions of naming a child. <br />
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The art of naming children is cultural. The western world, descendant’s of European blood tend to have the “last name,” the <a href="http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apellido">”appellido"</a> that accentuates the sheer sexual prowess and fortitude of one man named Lopez or Smith. Similarly, eastern cultures pass on the names but with the name in the front. The eastern world tends to be more poetic in its original name of descendent but in the end, the rules of ancestry still apply. Some cultures, like the Portuguese and Spanish, prefer to name children in paragraph form, complete with foot noted dates of when the village was sacked by communists. The Germanic peoples tend to be short and to the point, like only a German can. While our British people like to have names sounding as if even Shakesspeare would make fun of them for being a little too stuffy. Whatever the background, it is rare that the naming of a child is anything less than an ordeal filled with opinions and questions of another’s integrity, ubringing, or taste in music. <br />
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Usually, this process of naming a child is a function of family tradition. A common consideration for naming children is to pay homage to loved family members or familiarly heroic figures in one’s family tree. The greater the aristocracy of your lineage, the more likely you are to follow this route. It is a symbolic nod to the long practice of incest amongst the nobles for fear of tainting the great blood pool. As Easter Island has shown, such protectionism may not have been the best form of preservation. In the US, probably the more common practice is to name a child on a whim, on a song, or on a book. Like bad tattoos people pull from the strangest of places to name there children. At thirty, and with several friends and family either having children or talking about it, I find this conversation so interesting. Would be or soon to be parents consider a strange plethora of factors when naming their children. People discuss possible playground taunts; vicarious hopes and ambitions; nicknames that will actually be what the child is called but not their real name; the place of conception versus the name of the artist of the first version of the song that was the playing in the car when they first discussed having kids, and so on and so on. The results are sometimes trite and laughable, like a washed up beach volleyball player naming his son Spike. Others are simply appalling distortions of the English language like <a href="http://lonestartimes.com/2005/04/20/worst-baby-name-ever/">”Urhines”</a>. <br />
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Now this being said. Most of us have a decently common and practical name. Sure, there are a few jokes to be made here or there. The Silly Willies, the Chatty Cathies, the Sheila the Sluts. Some nicknames hang on a little too long. Prophecies rarely prevail except that every once in while a kid name Colt actually does become the quarterback for Texas. Whatever the result, like asks us, sometimes begs us to rearrange and recondition our brains to hear another calling. (Ice T dropped Cop Killer for Detective as it apparently pays better). Sometimes our profession or stage in life require us to “rename” ourselves. Like Willi to Will to sound more . . . plain? Or Will to W. R. Eilers to sound more literary? However, in the end we must remember that our names are quite simply what there were intended to be, a way for those around us to announce that their comments, hurtful, pleasant or otherwise, were directed at us. In turn, we are conditioned to respond to any and all of the possible names beaconing us to retort.W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-75265013074730406002008-03-03T12:40:00.003-05:002011-08-16T13:15:01.454-04:00Whoo Whoo WhooOver the top a bit, but I needed to get things going as apparently once a week so quickly has become once a month. To more effort!!! Cheers.<br />
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Whooo whooo whoooo, soft and gently whispered across a morning wake not that long ago. The call of a mysterious bird stood out amongst the plops and bangs of the urban awakening.<br />
<a name='more'></a> This subtle vibrancy that had wandered into my morning mood, sparked a curiosity my mind. What creature had spilled this whooting cry into my day, dripping off of the chirps and buzzes just out our bedroom window. I wanted to know what bird had squeezed a owlish whoot into the sun shining grips of the day. For many days, I assumed that the sound was just that, the lost moans of a youthful owl. In the spirit of telling stories, I assumed that a young owl had planted himself not far from my window, confused or too anxious to fall asleep. I imagined that he sat perched high upon telephone pole and warned the world of his unveiled terror or more likely fearfully whooting away his own fears of the day’s brightness and chaos. No longer hidden by the night’s dark cover, certainly, he could not have been so intimidating to the sleeping moles and mice hiding deep in the day time holes. Thus, after my mug had been filled with the perfect mixture of coffee and honey I moved to the balcony to search out this base song. However, my inquiry was of little resolve and I was left only with the ringing resonance of this birds distant message. <br />
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For weeks, I continued this ritual. In the morning, I would scan the horizon as I sipped on my coffee, determined to find this enigma amongst the morning chatters of song birds, traffic and the rising temperature. As the time passed, the joyful investigatory morning ritual slowly transformed to a nagging torture. With the first breaths of meeting the day, before the creep of sunlight had bore through the curtains, I would hear that whoo whoo whoo of my omnipresent imaginary owl. Over time, I began to notice that the my feathered friend had followed me far and away. Taking breaks at work I would hear the coo of an epidemic of lost youthful owls, bouncing the day with strange and eerie call. In the distance as I walked to my car, several blocks away on my lunch time sun light absorb. As the days passed, the sound had left its place in the classification of soothing and curiously tonal hmm. From haunting and sad it quickly became and annoyance. Like the tell tale heart of Poe, it had become overwhelming. The whoo whoo whoo pierce the air, flooding atop the crash and bang of trash trucks and sirens. Conversations would be left hanging as my attention was obsessive and single minded. Like a jealous boyfriend, I fumed with irrationality at the mere existence of this flighty beast. A single note of this demonic avian hum would send anxious needles up my spine, pinching with a bitter cold slashes. <br />
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Quite obviously, this being had substantially interfered with my life’s existence. He had whittled away the layers of my soul with a whoo whoo and a whoo. Determined to rid my sanity of this plaguing song, I began researching. I spent hours listening to the songs of Florida’s great winged fellows. Over and over I listened to calls of owls and pigeons and sparrows and water fowl. I needed to know the face and the composition of my dreadful terrorizer. In my studies, I continuously skipped over the innocence the beamed from the word “dove.” I mean come on, a dove is the symbol of peace. Noah’s great hope was manifest and joyously presented in the mouth of a white dove. Never could such an angelic creature be the dismal source of misery’s soundtrack. But there it was, peering up at me time and time again. The mourning dove, its soft, fat gray body was unassuming and almost pigeon ish but without all the sickening hunger for leftovers. I pressed play, and there it was, a canned reel of my tortuous whoot. <br />
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In a moment I was swooned with disappointment, relief and sorrow. I had always kept this image of a majestic owl wandering the day lit streets of Miami with an a noble and disheveled manner. Sadly, my hopes of finding the proliferation of these woodsy owls in urban transformation had been dashed away. My pains seemed wasted and trite. Such an upheaval of personal attention and thought had been revealed for the minuscule and mundane that it really was. I imagine it was likely how Dorothy felt when she finally met the Wizard. Smacked head on with mediocrity in glorious clothing. It made me want to just kick that plump, beady eyed ball of feathers in a calm but swift gesture of bestial dominance. I had placed this fierce bird on par with Poe’s Raven, looming and undeniably haunting. Alas I had come to find that my mysterious raven, who’s who who who was now so much less the “Nevermore” was quite simple a dud, a second hand character actor, horribly unconvincing in costume or demeanor. It was frustrating that his poor attempts to be forever mourning did not justified any of the personal uproar. Its appearance, its call, its squatty manner bring about visions of losing your car at the mall. Quite sadly, life, it turns out, was not as scary as I had imagined it to be.W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-61409526932015208592008-02-02T14:13:00.001-05:002011-08-16T13:15:29.618-04:00FillerSo this is an excerpt of a long term project (5 yrs.) that I am working on. The story I have compiled for last week is being retinkered (think Poe and a mourning dove who-who-who) so I feel like i needed to get some things out there. Here's ya go.<br />
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Excerpt from the Memory Project. . . .<br />
I entered the woods, chilled by the slight change in temperature. The soft forest floor seemed to pull gently as if the underworld was wisping me away in delicate sinking. I crossed the small head of the gorge. Orange and yellow leaves that mounded up to form a bridge onto a crag of rock jetting out over the hillside that flowed down the small ravine ending ten feet ahead as it dropped into the forest below. New growth trees towered above and around as the tip of the small cliff revealed a gentle opening in the forest panorama. Mingo Knob still towered to the northwestern corner and the sky beamed with a buttery white glare hinted with pinks and blues.<br />
Mom and Dad had put some chairs on the edge of the crag for moments just like this, and so as unnaturally as I had arrived, I sunk into the curves of an old wooden chair. With a single plop, I reached deep inside to suck in a relieving deep breath, but I stuttered as even breathing was seemingly burdensome. Still, with some thoughtful effort I filled my lungs and let it all out with such exhaustion that my body actually caved, falling deeper into the chair. As the breath blew from my chest, a rush of energy flushed my head and my eyes and tears burst from my heart. Tears fell like afternoon thunderstorms. There was no stutter or stagger to the pain that was pouring from my entire soul. As I wept, I made no effort to clean the shame from my moistened cheeks. The taste of whiskey joined a salty stream in what poets might call the taste of sorrow. Thoughts became fleeting twitches that moved across the mind like shooting stars. My view was blurred by the steady flow of tears falling like sheets from my burning eyes.<br />
In the distance I heard the familiar grumble of four wheels sailing across chirt and gravel that is the sound of someone coming home. Still, I sat in my damp hole, sunken into the chair. The tears began to calm as the wind brought a slight chill to the cheeks. As the dogs ran off barking their warnings to the new arrivals, the gravel hum came to a settled parking spot. I heard voices laughing and playful with the dogs. Sarah and Mom had just gotten home.<br />
With the same constitution as a man waiting to step before a firing squad, I sleeked out of the chair and began a slow meander back to the house. It was at that moment that I knew I was where I needed to be for this moment. Away from the world, protected and held by the mountains and my family. The walk was calm and settled. No energy hummed around me. The breeze was gentle and unaffecting. Sarah must have caught eye of my hiding and had already started down the yard with dogs circling, bouncing, whimpering as she teased them with the ever hypnotizing “ball.” My own calmness must have been telling, because their was no jump in her step or haste in her movement. As we neared each other the splashes of pain still glistening on high cheeks became more than evident and I could see that she knew the outcome. Still, with only the sweetness that a little sister can provide she asked anyway.I entered the woods, chilled by the slight change in temperature. The soft forest floor seemed to pull gently as if the underworld was wisping me away in delicate sinking. I crossed the small head of the gorge. Orange and yellow leaves that mounded up to form a bridge onto a crag of rock jetting out over the hillside that flowed down the small ravine ending ten feet ahead as it dropped into the forest below. New growth trees towered above and around as the tip of the small cliff revealed a gentle opening in the forest panorama. Mingo Knob still towered to the northwestern corner and the sky beamed with a buttery white glare hinted with pinks and blues.<br />
Mom and Dad had put some chairs on the edge of the crag for moments just like this, and so as unnaturally as I had arrived, I sunk into the curves of an old wooden chair. With a single plop, I reached deep inside to suck in a relieving deep breath, but I stuttered as even breathing was seemingly burdensome. Still, with some thoughtful effort I filled my lungs and let it all out with such exhaustion that my body actually caved, falling deeper into the chair. As the breath blew from my chest, a rush of energy flushed my head and my eyes and tears burst from my heart. Tears fell like afternoon thunderstorms. There was no stutter or stagger to the pain that was pouring from my entire soul. As I wept, I made no effort to clean the shame from my moistened cheeks. The taste of whiskey joined a salty stream in what poets might call the taste of sorrow. Thoughts became fleeting twitches that moved across the mind like shooting stars. My view was blurred by the steady flow of tears falling like sheets from my burning eyes.<br />
In the distance I heard the familiar grumble of four wheels sailing across chirt and gravel that is the sound of someone coming home. Still, I sat in my damp hole, sunken into the chair. The tears began to calm as the wind brought a slight chill to the cheeks. As the dogs ran off barking their warnings to the new arrivals, the gravel hum came to a settled parking spot. I heard voices laughing and playful with the dogs. Sarah and Mom had just gotten home.<br />
With the same constitution as a man waiting to step before a firing squad, I sleeked out of the chair and began a slow meander back to the house. It was at that moment that I knew I was where I needed to be for this moment. Away from the world, protected and held by the mountains and my family. The walk was calm and settled. No energy hummed around me. The breeze was gentle and unaffecting. Sarah must have caught eye of my hiding and had already started down the yard with dogs circling, bouncing, whimpering as she teased them with the ever hypnotizing “ball.” My own calmness must have been telling, because their was no jump in her step or haste in her movement. As we neared each other the splashes of pain still glistening on high cheeks became more than evident and I could see that she knew the outcome. Still, with only the sweetness that a little sister can provide she asked anyway.W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-26193818239050641342008-01-08T14:09:00.000-05:002008-12-08T16:38:33.513-05:00A Drive Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfOev3NYn0FLU-iIpm1YWLMKbVE5riFX_0NtGed6B2eSCQttqiRCX51AsXYmgsvJyb8CLKaKXmE60i70zHNc-Fzykli_WZK7ju2Oru0tQ2oa-LIE_PJaWQ13HXGCmTMX1gNH0oA/s1600-h/November+starts+again+024-400.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153189005331578034" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 228px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px" height="240" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfOev3NYn0FLU-iIpm1YWLMKbVE5riFX_0NtGed6B2eSCQttqiRCX51AsXYmgsvJyb8CLKaKXmE60i70zHNc-Fzykli_WZK7ju2Oru0tQ2oa-LIE_PJaWQ13HXGCmTMX1gNH0oA/s320/November+starts+again+024-400.jpg" width="228" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Tussling with the thought of my return from the snowy north, I am always perplexed by the confusion of dealing with a South Florida December that befuddles the senses and nags like that yearning for activity on a rainy day. Slightly itchy from the ironic thought of cabin fever where there is no cabin and nothing enveloping me with obstructive capture, this time of year is riddled with the joy of living in such a place and being eerily displaced. Up north, in the cold, dreary grays of hillsides scattered with the arborous skeletons we associate the faded sun and dim afternoons with December, with winter and big coats. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">In south Florida we associate the same dwindling day with vacant memories of dreary December days up north. We find the result of Earth's natural tilt to be less poetic and quite simply an inconvenient end to a beautiful day, a rude halt to a fine sandy nap. For the working day, the shortened sunlight causes us to miss the brilliant light show of sunsets as we drive home in a darkness that is half past dusk. All of the joys and beauties of a South Florida winter hidden away behind far off western glimmers of the fading day that we see from the top of an overpass. It is a peculiar feeling, that I still have not found to fit my skin. And yet, every once in a while, that moment arrives. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">A day off , an unintentionally mapped trip home and in a I am struck by awesome displays. It was last weekend that I had this moment. Driving the same route that caused a ghostly giant of a moon to peak from behind the eastern skylined view of downtown Miami with such enormity that I stuttered in thought as the paranoia of too many sci-fi thrillers set a panic up my spine. It was along this same bone chilling route that I was presented with the constant but gentle fading scene of a fade to twilight. </div><div align="justify"><br />As I sat at the light preparing to turn to the east, I notice a swarm, a flock, a parcel, a murder of black silhouetted birds. Too small to be crows, too fat to be grackles, the plump rounded little bodies flapped little wings and danced in and out of the dark power lines that criss crossed a Mediterranean blue sky. Warm and alive, the scattered scene sat boldly framed through my windshield. When the light changed colors, I turned left up into the same scene that I was admiring. With each second it seemed, the crystalline blue began to fade deeper into royal hues. The same dance splashed the canvas as if the busy movement of birds had gently painted reds with each passing flutter. I drove under the swarming madness and followed it through the rear view mirror. Above the image of trailing traffic the silhouetted scene had plastered itself into a buttery froth of saffron and golden yellows of a western sky as it faded away gentle from my view into massive flash of shimmers and shines of sunbeams across the tops of moving vehicles. Like a responsible driver, I turned my eyes to focus on the road ahead. As downtown's sharp boxy lines stood out before a drooping blue sky that had now edged into a subtle pink along the horizon. My eyes moved across the panoramic and realized that I had entered that fleeting moment where Miami derives its colors. It was the moment that inspired the colors of the Dolphins' uniforms. It was the moment that gave Don Johnson license to wear pastelly pinks and baby blues. Like a Baby Gap ad across the sky, the blues moved overhead and met with pinks a quarter past the horizon in a shimmer of white. As quickly as arrived the moment faded away. The light began to dim. Only the reflection that glassed the windows of downtown peeked any noticeable color. And with less than a poof, it was gone. The dotted lights of high rises outlined the dark shadows of the passing buildings. A twilight blue had settled into the sky, deep and long, letting us know that night would soon come. </div>W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31552988.post-59884990123154309362007-12-13T13:15:00.000-05:002007-12-13T13:36:10.605-05:00Welcome to WReilersAs an exercise of my own writing muscles, puny and itsy bitsy as they may be, I am trying to expose my works, my thoughts and my visions to the world in peculiar hodgepodge of measly tidbits and snacks, the smallest morsels of my writings. I want to hear comments, good and bad. I want to use you for your networking feelers and navigational tools. I want to expand this experiment of observation and on the street reporting of the world as it passes me by. Let the debauchery begin!!!! And thanks for stopping by.W.R. Eilershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00164014582267113439noreply@blogger.com2