Things That Make Ya Go Hmmm

by Jeff Brown

Real Estate Investments Broker

Author website

I was born and raised in Southern California. Learned to swim in the ocean under the watchful eyes of local surfers we knew wouldn’t let us go permanently under. I’ve lived in the suburbs of L.A. and Orange County, and along its coast. Life in Manhattan Beach in the late 50’s to early 60’s is the closest thing to Heaven on earth we’ll ever know. From around eight years old or so, you could walk anywhere without adult supervision, sans fear of anything but not makin’ it home before Dark:30.

Just before turning 16 I opted to move from Orange County to San Diego to live with Dad. Mom wasn’t pleased, but understood the need for a boy of that age to be around his dad. It was only 100 miles down the 5, not exactly an intercontinental move. Just two months short of my 16th birthday, it wasn’t horrible timing.

A San Diegan for over 43 years now, I’ve seen it morph from a kind of citified, relatively hick free Mayberry, to what it is today, which is, I’m not sure what. If ya peer in closely, you might be able to see, as I certainly do, remnants of the barely surviving infrastructure of its Mayberry past. But honestly? It’s just for show — we can’t go back.

None of this is really the point though, as I’m taking advantage of the platform here to harken back to days when character mattered, and political correctness meant you voted.

Even a month ago, if you’d told me I’d be seriously entertaining the idea of putting 59 years of SoCal in my rearview mirror, I’d of been confused as to why you’d even think such a thing. But for the first time in my life, the thought of leaving California doesn’t seem abhorrent to me.

I’m now thinkin’ the unthinkable — moving to another state.

At first I thought it was a transitory mood, melancholy brought on by California’s childish, mostly entitled electorate. Please don’t think I’m being unkind, as my words are being chosen carefully. But after a week of thinking, letting my emotions settle, it’s become clear to me, that what I see on the horizon is my own tipping point, comin’ at me like a runaway freight train.

I’m beginning to understand Peter’s viewpoint, in Grandpa’s humorous version of a well known bit of wisdom. “Always robbin’ Peter to pay Paul ends up with a sore Peter.” In California, the robbers evidently outnumber the robbees.

Something very simple happened to me yesterday while pickin’ up coffee ‘n pastry from Starbucks, in anticipation of an office meeting. Rightly or wrongly, it clarified for me what’d been doggin’ my mood since last Wednesday morning. The cashier didn’t realize I’d ordered a large drink, and wasn’t charging me. Without thinking, I asked him if he’d forgotten the Venti pumpkin coffee concoction I’d ordered. (Ordered by the lady I was meeting. I’d never forfeit my ManCard so cavalierly.) He quickly turned to the lady getting my stuff ready, who verified I’d indeed also ordered that drink.

He smiled warmly, then said, “Integrity, much appreciated.”

It occurred to me that if I’d been in East Butt Wart, North Dakota, (Is Starbucks even there yet?) my integrity would’ve been assumed, as opposed to being so rare as to be worthy of comment. Think about that. By merely pointing out a potential, albeit very simple mistake, I was thanked for being a man of integrity.

That, my friends, is California in a nutshell.

That moment helped me understand why I’d been so down in the dumps, and the uneasy feeling the past week. In California, integrity stands out like a turd in a pail of milk. And yes, those who just voted in the majority here wouldn’t flinch at a turd representing integrity in that analogy.

As I’ve so often said, there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who wanna learn how to fish, rising and falling based upon their own merit — and those who simply wanna take my fish, rising and falling based upon my merit.

Ya can’t swing a dead cat in California without hittin’ a buncha folks who want your fish. Most of ’em are either so ignorant or stoopid, they express joy when told many who voted other than they did have been and are continuing to move out. They don’t realize they’ve bought into to the whole Golden (Goose) State propaganda, and are about to find out who’s really been skinnin’ all those cats — or better put, layin’ all those golden eggs. Furthermore, it hasn’t dawned on them that we’re takin’ our golden egg layers with us.

Another way of describing the two kinds of people is producers and takers.

I’m a proud, lifelong producer.

Are you in the 5% top wage earners nationwide? The country’s median income is under $50,000 — around $68,000 for dual income households.

Are you aware that Californians hit the second highest income tax bracket BEFORE they hit the median income?! If they make over $1 Million they pay over 10%. We’ll revisit this later.

In my city, the sales tax is 9.5%. You can’t make up something that stoopid. And that’s less than L.A.’s 9.75%. In other words, buy a new $30,000 car there, and your registration and sales tax alone would total $3,358!

Back to high wage earners. You know, the producers. The ones the takers need to survive.

Imagine someone in the top 5%, a Californian. His IRS tax rate is 35% for every penny he makes over about $373,000. In CA he pays 9.3% on every penny he earns over about $47,000 — less than the national median. Let’s do some fourth grade math.

For every dollar he earns above $47,000 his combined income tax bracket is 34.3%. He pays 42.3% combined from $172-374,000 or so. From $374-1 MIlion he owes 44.3¢ on each and every one of those dollars. If, God forbid, he earns more than a million bucks? His new combined tax bill will run 45.3¢ for every dollar he earned over that amount.

How’re those SoCal beaches lookin’ to ya now?

If our hardworking, well paid taxpayer moves to say, Alaska, Florida, Nevada, South Dakota, Texas, Washington, Wyoming, New Hampshire, or Tennessee, he’ll pay no state income tax on what he earns on the job. (New Hampshire and Tennessee tax only dividend and interest income, not job income.)

What? You thought folks were movin’ to Pig Fart, Wyoming for the weather?

Our Golden State (Now that’s ripe, isn’t it?) taxpayer will save a bit less than a dime for every buck he makes by simply calling Bekins. For blue voters in CA, that means if he makes half a mil a year, he’s saving just under $50,000 a year by moving. For those in the Bay Area, in round numbers, that’s about a million bucks in 10 short years.

What would you do with an extra million dollars in your Levis every decade?

Things that make ya go hmmm.