Columnist Jon Ralston: Cramming for Taxation 101

Friday, March 21, 2003 | 6:02 a.m.

It was hard to return to the classroom after spending so much time (seemed like almost two months) ruminating about the teacher's harsh lessons and lampooning his lectures, conspiring with each other to cheat on the final exam and still return next semester, and trying to come up with better ideas than the didactic tyrant who made John Houseman in "The Paper Chase" look like a pussycat.

The semester was almost half over and the kids had yet to buckle down. Few had even cracked the textbook -- 1,100 pages on tax policy was like the Finnegan's Wake of college tomes. Many grumbled that the course was too advanced, that the teacher, Mr. Guinn, would not let anyone ask questions and that he wouldn't listen to any of their ideas.

Of course most of their ideas were inchoate, inane or insignificant.

Many seemed to be studying another textbook, that seminal tax-avoidance manifesto called "Bait and Switch," written and updated by many Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce leaders. For instance, the most recent edition argues that it's best to propose something amorphous (a sales tax on services), but don't be pinned down (no sales tax rate and no services specified) and then continue to claim that you will pay a "large, large" (meaning "small, small") share of the burden.

Others seemed to be rendered mute by the class bullies who lived in one of those fancy houses on Las Vegas Boulevard South. The teacher, too, had a tough time escaping the shadow of the often-arrogant, sometimes heavy-handed gang that always wanted to control the agenda and even write the final exam.

Never, though, had the teacher seemed so focused, so intent on his inculcation, so determined to impose his will on the class (or at least two-thirds of them). Mr. Guinn even showed impatience with a couple of the class eggheads who had their own ideas on how the class should be taught.

"Mr. Care and Mr. Amodei," Guinn thundered, "What makes you think you know better than the people who wrote this 1,100-page text or, for that matter, me?"

Terry and Mark were undaunted. "We just wanted to continue the debate," Mark replied. Terry added: "Our ideas are no worse than yours, Mr. Guinn. And they are better than that awful gross receipts."

"Oh really," the teacher fulminated. "More taxes on gaming, but not much more. So you look tough but don't broaden the base? And a sales tax on services that exempts services less than $50? What about some poor woman who has been abused by her husband and has to get a lawyer -- she has to add insult to injury by paying sales tax on his services? You guys sound like chamber pod people."

The class tittered, but the eggheads fumed.

"Well," Terry spoke up. "At least we proposed cuts in our package -- $50 million worth."

"Yeah," said Mark. "We even said we won't raise taxes for 10 more years, either."

"You guys are so brave," the teacher sneered. "First, you say I should cut $50 million from the budget, but you and no one else can tell me where. That's pure politics. And then that 10-year thing is a joke. It's not binding. Sounds good, though."

The class was silent.

Guinn was not done yet. "I do like one thing about your plan, boys," the teacher said. "It raises a billion dollars, just like mine. So why don't you all go home and tell everyone that you're not arguing about the need anymore, that the rest of the semester will be spent about how to fulfill that need. At least we agree on that."

From the front of the class, a hand shot up. It was the teacher's pet, Bill Raggio. Some of the kids often whispered that he played the teacher so well, he might as well be the teacher.

"Don't forget you said you liked my idea," Bill told the teacher. "You mentioned it in your opening lecture, my plan to divert property taxes from local governments to state government."

Some of the kids from the South started shaking their heads. "That's robbing Peter to pay Paul," said Dina Titus, who despised the teacher's pet.

Raggio smiled and whispered to his best friend, Randy Townsend: "Actually, I think of it as robbing the South to pay the North." Townsend laughed noiselessly and said, "You're just like Willie Sutton, Bill. You go where the money is."

Guinn smiled uncomfortably (he didn't like Bill's idea but didn't want to get him mad) and dismissed the class with this admonition:

"It's time to get down to business. Only two months and change left until we say goodbye. By April 1 I want to see your list of cuts that I've heard so much about. I also want to know what you think will happen if you do nothing and schools have to cut programs and key state services are slashed. And I want each of you to write a paper on why a franchise tax on banks and a statewide impact fee on developers wouldn't help us out of this mess. So get to work so I don't have to call you back for summer school."

The class filed out. Playtime, it seemed, really was over.