This week Caesar came for me, demanding my tax obligation. As a 1 percenter, my burden was substantial, but I’m not whining. I love my country and understand it needs money to fulfill its obligations. So the check is in the mail. Thirty-five years ago, I was broke, having just graduated from Boston University with a master’s degree in broadcast journalism. I was lucky enough to get hired as a reporter in Scranton, Pa., at $150 a week.

One problem: I couldn’t pay my rent on that. So I picked up an additional $80 a month writing dopey gag lines for “Uncle Ted’s Ghoul School,” a Saturday night monster fright fest. Stuff like: “Listen, Drac, here’s what’s at stake.”