The Progressive Income Tax: higher incomes pay higher income tax rates, unless you make a lot of money

I'm going to talk about taxes; don't turn away yet. Yes, a lot of things that are incredibly boring (or at least seemingly so) do in fact matter.

At some point in my education, I learned about the flat tax and the progressive tax. I was taught that in America (I know it is incredibly pretentious to refer to the United States as America, but it comes most naturally; replace with USA or The States if necessary) we have, and have always had, a progressive income tax system. In the simplest terms: higher incomes pay higher income tax rates. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, and most would assume that the application of this framework has been relatively consistent over time. That is to say, we all hate income taxes, but they’re not new, they haven’t changed, and likely never will.

Except that income taxes have changed, the progressive nature is not what it once was. Tax rates have changed a lot for some, and not so much for others.

All dollar values have been converted to 2014 dollars for comparative purposes.

In 1945 marginal tax brackets ranged from a low of 23% to a high of 94% on earned income in excess of about $2.5 million. Currently (2014 tax brackets) every dollar earned in excess of $406,751 is taxed at the same (39.6%) rate. Our progressive income tax system is capped at about $400,000. A flat tax exist over $400,000.

Throughout the 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s about 25 marginal tax brackets delineated the progressive federal income system. Currently there are 7.

In 1945, 12 different brackets (of 24 total) applied to income earned in excess of $400,000*. There were 19 marginal tax rates higher than the current 39.6% max.

In 1955, 9 different brackets (of 24 total) applied to income earned in excess of $400,000*. There were 18 marginal tax rates higher than the current 39.6% max. The highest rate was 91% on income over about $1.7 million.

In 1964, the top marginal tax rate fell from 91% to 77% on income over about $1.5 million. Seven different brackets (of 26 total) applied to income earned in excess of $400,000*. There were 16 marginal tax rates higher than the current 39.6% max.

By 1975, just two brackets (of 25 total) applied to income earned in excess of $400,000*. Eleven of the 25 marginal tax rates were higher than the current 39.6% max. The top marginal tax rate was 70% on income above $426,755.

By 1982, the highest marginal tax bracket (at 50%) applied to all income in excess of $98,737. There were 14 total tax brackets, 3 of which were higher than the current 39.6% max.

In 1987 the top marginal tax rate fell from 50% to 38.5%. There were 5 tax brackets, the highest of which was 38.5% for income over $109,138.

From 1988 to 1990 there were 2 tax brackets: 15% on income up to about $34,000; 28% on income above about $34,000.

From 1993 to 2001 there were 5 tax brackets. The top bracket was 39.6% (decreased to 39.1% for 2001) for income over about $390,000.

From 2003 to 2012 there were 6 tax brackets. The top bracket was 35% for income over about $390,000.

*refers to the current $400,000 (adjusted) cap

Here’s another way to look at things.

The effective income tax rate on a single earner making $50,000 has changed very little since World War II. The highest effective tax rate a $50,000 single earner has paid since 1942 was 24% in 1944-1945. The lowest was 16.8% in 2009. In 2014, a $50,000 earner paid an effective tax rate of 17%.

Someone earning $100,000 in 2014 paid an effective tax rate of 21.4%. The highest effective tax rate a $100,000 single earner has paid was 31.5% in 1981, the lowest 21.3% in 2009.

The highest effective tax rate a $250,000 single earner has paid since 1942 was 49.9% in 1981. The lowest was 26.2% from 1988-1990. Someone earning $250,000 in 2014 paid an effective tax rate of 26.7%.

A $500,000 earner has paid a maximum effective tax rate of 60.5% in 1953, and a minimum of 27.1% from 1988-1990. Someone earning $500,000 in 2014 paid an effective tax rate of 31.3%.

A $1 million earner has paid a maximum effective tax rate of 73% in 1953, and a minimum of 27.6% from 1988-1990. Someone earning $1 million in 2014 paid an effective tax rate of 35.4%.

A $25 million earner has paid a maximum effective tax rate of 92.7% in 1944-1945, and a minimum of 28% from 1988-1990. Someone earning $25 million in 2014 paid an effective tax rate of 39.4%.

In its simplest terms, tax rates on high-income Americans have dropped precipitously over the past 50+ years. Proposing a tax hike in today’s America is labeled as socialist. Was the United States a socialist country in the 1940s and 50s? How about the 60s and 70s? I guess high taxes are fine for fighting wars and communism, and putting a man on the moon, but shouldn’t be used to fight poverty and disease, or build roads and bridges.

I spent the next few months hiding from them

In the summer of 2011 I moved to Stowe. I moved into a house with three other guys for the summer, or until I found a place to live. I had already been visiting the doctor, I had had tests performed, answered all the questions I was asked. I first went to the doctor in April and wasn't diagnosed until late August. In between, truly prior to April as well, I wondered, I feared, I hoped in my heart for something okay, something better than I feared. In the meantime I moved out of my grandmother’s house by the airport, and in with friends in Stowe.

I moved into a small room in a house with three guys and I spent the next few months hiding from them.

I went for a run by myself and didn't know what to think. I would go for runs on the bike path and quickly realize that I felt so weak. I would try to sprint as fast as I could but it was so slow, so very slow. I was exhausted afterwards. I was running in slow motion. I had no strength, no ability to push off. My ankles had no strength.

I switched to riding my bike; by myself, always by myself. It was a bit better but my balance was failing.

We’d go out drinking and I couldn't handle it. Never mind going out, I couldn’t handle the pre-gaming. Drinking just makes everything worse: muscles give up, balance fails, it all becomes more obvious. We’d go to the bar and I would stand around just trying to keep my feet under me. When it was my round I'd go to the bar, get pints and try not to spill them on the way back. Usually I spilled some. It’s easy to attribute almost anything to drunkenness.

No one ever asked me what was wrong and I damn well didn't tell anyone. I didn't know myself, how was I to tell anyone? And once I found out, how was I to tell anyone?

One night we were at Rimrock’s, (in the Baggy Knees shopping center!) we all drank quite a bit before going out, of course, and frankly I was a mess. I was doing my thing, standing by a bar table, not dancing. Not enjoying myself at all; sipping a beer because that's what you do.

And I had to get some air. I wasn’t having fun. I went outside and hung out with the smokers. I was chatting with someone (a girl maybe?) and I don't know what happened but someone pushed me, two hands in my chest. I went down like a sack of potatoes, like throwing an inanimate object on the ground.

I got back up and in my drunken state offered nothing as explanation. A girl was laughing at the fall, as if it was an act. I was a stuntman working hard to make it look authentic. It was authentic. I was cut down like a tree.

I hung out for a while longer outside until I got bored and thought “where are my friends?” I decided to go back inside only to find the doorman wouldn't let me. I was too drunk. I've never been too drunk in the line of the bar. Let me rephrase that: I've been too drunk to get into a bar to be served more alcohol. I certainly have been that. No one has ever noticed; no one has ever called me on it or said you look unsafe or anything like that. Because I'm not, or I wasn't, but on this night I was. I could barely stand.

So I milled around outside for a bit longer, walked around the parking lot, thought about taking a cab home, or walking. I'm not sure how it came to happen, but someone offered me a ride. That's the sort of thing that happens in Stowe, people drive. Someone offer me a ride and I took it. I didn't know where they were going but they saw me meandering around the parking lot and offered me a ride so I got in the car. I don't know what kind of car it was. It had four wheels and a motor that drove me home.

The next morning, or day or whenever it was that we talked about the night before, I told them I was drunk, I went outside, and they wouldn’t let me back in. So I got a ride home. Not too out of the ordinary. No one thought anything of it. Weird things happen when you're drunk.

a gallon of milk weighs 8 pounds

Usually I like to write about the slightly abstract, the less than obvious aspects of my life.  But I could tell you all about it, my experiences, moment by moment.  I could tell you how difficult it is.  I could describe in detail what it's like every day.  Let me try for a moment.

I woke up this morning and realized I was in the middle of the bed.  I had to decide whether to move left or right to get up.  I shifted my body slightly to the right and pulled at the covers to escape.  I pulled my right elbow away from my body and rolled onto it to prop myself up.  It’s not easy on my right side.  My shoulder is very weak.  Lifting my arm is almost impossible.  Once propped on my elbow I used my left arm to push away and lift my torso to the vertical.  I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, stood up and bent over to grab a pair of sweat pants on the floor.  I backed up a few steps and sat back down on the bed to pull them on.  

I sleep in a shirt most nights.  It’s easier not to take my shirt off at night and put one back on in the morning.  I don't wear socks around the house unless I get too cold.  It’s one more hassle.  I rarely shower first thing in the morning.  I don't really have the energy. 

This is how I think.  Every action is taken with thought.  How I sit, how I stand, how I brush my teeth.  Every menial task comes with thought and effort.

A gallon of milk weighs 8 pounds.  It feels like 50.

I remember when Nick threw a no-hitter

I didn't write about Nick this year.  Not on June 6^th, not about June 6^th.  I saw the day approaching and I thought about what to write.  I tried to think about something different.  I wanted to change the focus; to change my focus to an earlier day.  I thought of writing several anecdotes, stories from our childhood.  I wanted to tell a different story, a simpler story, and above all a happy story.  Here is one of those.

I remember when Nick threw a no-hitter.

Backyard wiffleball was life at that time.  It's all we cared about, at least it's all most of us cared about.  Nick’s interest was not pushed to the obsession of some others, but he was most certainly one of the group.  Nick was as competitive an athlete as anyone I knew, but in whiffleball he wouldn't see the success he later enjoyed.  His successes were based more on the possession of an unending determination than anything else.  In the backyard he wasn't the best player.  He wasn't as gifted a bat-and-ball athlete as some of us. I think he played with a defeatist attitude at times.  He knew he wasn't as good as many and that had to kill him. 

But that's what we did.  Everyone.  All the kids (okay all the boys) in the neighborhood played.  A pile of bikes on the front lawn told the story.

The game was competitive, very competitive.  We kept a stat book. The field was kept as perfect as we could make it, at times included raking the grass and dirt, lining the field in chalk (and/or spray paint), and yes, even re­-sodding portions of the infield.  That’s grass.  We put in new grass. We had rules about everything from how much tape could be used on the bats, to the exact ball to use (from Mills and Greer; always from Mills and Greer), to how hard a fielder could bean, that is throw at with intent to imprint a whiffleball-shaped welt, a baserunner.  I’m kidding about that last one; harder throw makes bigger welt means more fun for all.  Of course.

We kept records: most hits in a game, most home runs in a game, who pitched a no-hitter, most steals in a game, most walks in a game, most strikeouts in a game.  There are more; everything was documented.  I still have the record sheets.

We went through a phase where we videotaped every game, rain or shine.

Most of us pitched, some of course more than others. One day Nick was going to pitch.  The game was four-on-four.  Each team had two fielders, the pitcher, and the catcher.  I was the catcher.

Nick threw sidearm, all the time.  He dragged his back foot on every pitch creating a small hole on the mound and ruining the toe of his right shoe.  He threw from the stretch, right foot on the rubber, and strode towards the first base side of home, throwing side arm every time.  Strode is a word, I double checked.  He had only one pitch:  fastball.  A sidearm fastball that at times tailed a lot, that is it would start out towards the left hand batter’s box and move back towards the right. I make it sound like it had a three foot break; it didn’t.  It moved more like a good two-seamer in the pros (any baseball fans out there?).   

We played seven innings, two outs per inning.  Fourteen outs, no hits.  I'm not sure who we played; who was on the other team that day.  I don't remember the details of the game.  I remember catching and calling the pitches (okay, locations).  I remember things going well. 

I mostly set up on the outside corner, that's the pinky on the right hand.  We stayed away from the righties (I think all four were right-handed) with the tailing fastball.  It was a difficult pitch to hit; difficult to gauge the speed and location.  We had but the one pitch (and the ability to change speeds); mostly we worked on changing locations and keeping the ball out of the middle of the plate.

I still have the ball from that day.  I'm not sure how many pitches he threw or how many strikeouts he had.  I'm not sure how many runs we scored to support him.  I know we won and I know he threw a no-hitter, but that's all I can remember for sure.

Nick didn’t show his emotions when successful.  He was far more likely to show them when he failed, as evidenced by the waist-high shoe print on the back of the (white­-painted) garage.  When the game was over and all of the kids were congratulating him, he reacted with a sheepish half-smile, seemingly embarrassed by his success. 

I've never quite known how to take a compliment either.  I’m not sure whether it comes from a humble soul, or one riddled by self-doubt.  Maybe it’s a bit of both.  Maybe one feeds the other.  One thing I know, in that moment he had to feel like a success.  Even today I have a strong sense of the pride I then felt.  I was just so happy for him, and I’m not sure I had felt before, or have felt that exact surge of emotion since.

It’s great to succeed in an area of strength, but maybe it’s better to succeed in a way that you didn’t see coming.

None of this is Useful

I've wanted to write about Anne but I haven't known what to write.  I could write the same things that I've written before.  About how I feel when someone dies so young.  I could write about the future; what could have been and how I'm not so much sad for what was, but for what could have been.  I could write about who she was and what she meant to so many.  I could write about what it felt like to see her; to see her friends and her family and those who cared as she lay there on display.  I could tell you what I saw in the faces of those who came as they looked around the room.  I could talk about the photos that were shared; photos showing youth, energy, enthusiasm, and joy.  And how all that life brought so much pain.  I could tell you what I did to avoid the pain.  I could tell you how I coped in the moment and how I stood silently without feeling.  I could try to imagine what it's like for her husband and the father to be.  I could try but I would fail.  I don't know.  I could tell you a story about her from the brief time we spent together.  I could make it funny; I could make it heartfelt.  I could lie or I could be honest about the way you'll feel today, tomorrow, and forever.  I could try to relate to you, to how you're feeling, to your experiences.  I could try and I'm sure I’d have something to offer, something from my soul, but I'm not sure it would do you any good.  I'm not sure what would do you good.  I could try to tell you, as others invariably do, that time heals all.  That's a lie.  I'd be lying if I said that.  Nothing heals all.  What time does do is create distance.  Time creates distance between us and the past, between us and the people we've lost.  The distance can be a good thing or not.  Ultimately, each day draws us further from those we have lost.  I'm not sure what to say to those who knew her, to those who were closest to her.  My words will not heal your wounds.  If anything will, I haven't found it.

Catherine Anne Raeburn, and her unborn son, Charles George Raeburn, passed away unexpectedly on March 25, 2015, in her home.

It's like riding a bike

Routine is boring.  Nothing is routine.  Confidence is easily attained.  I have no confidence.  

How do you ever know anything?  How do you know you can do it?  You know because you've done it before.  If you've done it before, you can do it again.

At age 30, rarely do I confront something that I have not done before. I know how to do it.  I remember doing it, even if I never gave it a thought.  But I can't do it any more.  And if I can, I can't do it the same.

Every day I fumble to do what once came so easily.  So easily I never gave it any thought.  

Confidence comes from knowing.  Confidence comes from repetition.  Confidence comes from life experience.  

I am living outside of the normal reality; nothing is constant.

It's like riding a bike, except that it's not.

I don't have those

It takes high functioning fingers to swipe a credit card at the gas station pump.

I don't have those.

I no longer pay at the pump.

Remember Away Messages?

One good thing about music, 
When it hits you, you feel no pain.

One good thing about music, 
When it hits you, you feel no pain.

So hit me with music.  
Hit me with music.

Meaning from Nothing at the Addison County Line

I was driving home the other night, from my parents’ house.  The sun was beginning to set, the sky was blue, it was a beautiful evening.  Driving slowly on a dirt road, windows down, life seemed to slow as I enjoyed the sunlight falling on the bright green leaves of the hillside beside me. 

I approached a couple out for a walk.  I thought of what a perfect night it was; what a perfect moment they were sharing. 

As I passed them I slowed to a crawl.  I got the feeling that they weren't enjoying themselves.  They didn't look pleased.  They didn't look as happy as I wanted them to be.

Maybe it was her idea.  Maybe it was his; the walk after dinner tonight.  Maybe they don’t get along.  Maybe they're trying, but it's not working.  Maybe it’s just too much exercise.

I don't know why but they just didn’t look as happy as I thought they should be.  It's so simple.  Getting out and enjoying the weather.  It's so simple yet so incredible.

And maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe they are as happy as they've ever been. Maybe it's unfair to expect so much of something so simple.

Problem Solving

Often times I wear a belt when I don't have to.  I do it because I'm never sure whether I'll be able to button my pants.   If I find myself in the restroom and I can't button my pants, I have a safety net.  These are the things I worry about.

there's more to this story/stitches look like beard hairs

On August 25^th I had about a week’s worth of facial hair, I closed on my house, started to move in, got three stitches in my chin, and was probably slightly concussed.  

Last week I shaved the beard.

At Least Walter Can Go Outside

I bought a house last summer.  It was my first (okay maybe second) true venture into permanence.  Or so I thought.

I’m not a long-term thinker; never have been.  But buying a house is a long-term decision. 

Finally I could build a home; paint the walls, fix the sink, change and improve as I please.  After ten years of renting and never truly feeling home (or maybe I did, I don’t know), I made a big decision and bought a house.

“Bought a house” is just three words, but it would take far more to convey the horrendous pain in the ass that is buying a house.

But eventually I stood at the front door, keys in hand, and the rest was all in the past.  If it weren’t for the joyous expectation of that moment and everything that would follow to counter the never-ending credit checks, endless paperwork, and further plethora of unknowable hassles, no property would ever change hands.

I’m not sure where I was going with this except to say that my dream of permanence fell apart.  For a short time I allowed myself to ignore reality.  Eventually (or not so eventually) I will need to pull the plug, give it up, and experience something new: selling a house.

I do however recommend that keys-in-hand, front-lawn-staring-at-the-house feeling.  It’s nice.

Walter is my cat.

Step Two Can be Difficult

Perhaps the most important question to ask is why.  Why do you live?  For what purpose?  Those who struggle to find a purpose struggle in life.  

1)  Recognize the need for purpose
2)  Find a purpose
3)  Fulfill your purpose

Step two can be difficult.