Monday, April 15, 2002
It's not death, so it must be taxes
If you drive a car, I'll tax the street,
If you try to sit, I'll tax your seat.
If you get too cold I'll tax the heat,
If you take a walk, I'll tax your feet.
Don't ask me what I want it for
If you don't want to pay some more
'Cause I'm the taxman, yeah, I'm the taxman
George Harrison, “Taxman” from Revolver, 1966
The Beatles
Yes, it's that time of year again in the United States, when millions of people spend today filling out variations on the 1040 form as required by the IRS.
Years ago I used to have it done by H&R Block but that changed around '97 or '98 when one of the accountants at the company I worked at did my taxes for me. “Sean,” she said to me, “do you mean to tell me that you've never deducted your mortgage interest payments?” I think she felt sorry for me so we went over my taxes.
The following year (since I wasn't working there anymore) I did them by hand. The dreaded 1040, with schedules.
It's not all that bad, just very tedious and some years, quite confusing (one year, to continue filling out the 1040, you needed the result from Schedule D. Unfortunately, the way Schedule D (Capital Gains and Losses) was written, you needed to finish the 1040. Oops) but over all, I find it more tedious than confusing.
And like most Americans, I tend to procrastinate the filling out of the dreaded 1040. Like this year (I just now finished. Sigh). This year is not that bad—only 1040 and Schedules A (Itemized Deductions) and B (Interest and Ordinary Dividends). There have been years that I've had to fill out Schedules A-D (Schedule C is Profit or Loss From Business—freelancers get hit with this) plus Schedule SE (Self Employment Tax—where you get to pay 7.5% for Social Security as an employee, and an additional 7.5% for Social Security as an employer). So I'm filling out this year's taxes when I have to calculate Schedule A and I see “Medical and Dental Expenses.”
Ooooh! Ooooh! I had medical expenses! Emergency room and everything! So I spent the next hour looking for receipts. I knew I had them, but ever since the move I don't know where anything is anymore. I found a missing check book, my map of West Palm Beach County and pieces of my 2000 tax return. Digging deeper into some boxes I finally found the receipts only to find out that they didn't exceed a minimum amount.
Grrrrrrr.
But I was able to take off the home mortgage interest and property taxes for a nice tidy sum to take off my gross income, which certainly helped things. All in all, I over paid my taxes so I do get a refund which is very nice (there were years I owed taxes. That's not fun).
Move over Ozzy and Harriette, it's time for Ozzy and and Sharon
MTV shacked up with the Osbournes for six months, with the now-familiar intention of capturing the experiences of “real people” in their natural habitat. The table-turning difference here is that the Osbournes are not the tedious “real people” of the televised variety. They—or their paterfamilias, anyway—are already famous. And if the series makes one thing abundantly clear, it's that after 30 years, being famous is a job like any other—a job that requires dressing up in “Moulin Rouge” drag and fellating a banana, but a job nonetheless. (And one with its own pitfalls. “Darling,” Ozzy patiently explains to Kelly when she complains about his failing hearing, “you have not been standing in front of a billion decibels for 30 years. Just write me a note.”)
… When English neighbors keep the Osbournes up at all hours playing techno music and singing “My Girl” with acoustic guitar accompaniment, Ozzy finds himself thinking longingly of his old neighbor, Pat Boone. Sharon misses him, too. “He was just the best person ever to live next door to. You don't realize it until you get the neighbor from hell.”
Via Robot Wisdom, Herman Numster, rock god
No wonder this show is popular. How often do you get such a disconnect between a bat head biting rock star and a father telling his daughter not to consume drugs, and they're the same person? Or that he preferred Pat Boone as a neighbor? (they must have had a good relationship—what else explains Pat's Heavy Metal album?)
“Don't bother calling us; we're the Phone Company.”
I'm finally cancelling the phone server to Condo Conner. It's easy enough—you call up The Phone Company and cancel the account, yada yada. Only I don't have the phone number to call.
It's printed on nearly every page of the phone bill, but I don't
have a phone bill currently to look at. No problem. I'm sitting
here, in front of a computer currently hooked to the Internet. I'll just go
to BellSouth (and
it's an easy URL to
remember: bellsouth.com).
Ah look! There it is!
Now, find a phone number you can call. Go ahead. Try. Their search page is oh so helpful. They're the phone company—expecting them to have, say, oh, a phone number on their site is asking too much I suppose.
Guess I have to see if we have any phone books in the Facility in the Middle of Nowhere.
Mindless link propagation of wacked conspiracy theories involving JFK, Elvis and Nixon.
At long last the truth behind the greatest criminal conspiracy of the twentieth century (and there's been a lot of them, folks) can be told. A shocking and scandalous exposé of KGB machinations, Cold War Mata Haries, hunka hunka burning hate, adulterous hanky-panky, and the events of that tragic day in Dallas.
You know, this could explain why Nixon met with Elvis. The cover story of Elvis wanting to be federal agent in the War on Drugs is a bit thin, considering Elvis died of a drug overdose (that is, if you believe that story … ).
Interesting indeed …
