Doing Our Taxes

The distinguished looking man on the left is Mark Everson. You probably don’t know him. You’ve probably thought of him. He’s the Commissioner of the Internal Revenue Service.

Hey, Mark! I’ve just done my taxes. What exactly were you guys thinking?

I am a lucky guy. I make a good living. With few investments outside my home, cars, or retirement account, my taxes should be easy. After all, I’m an employee. I can’t deduct much of anything.

Even using an online service, it still takes hours! I tried to get it right. Can anyone be sure they did?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m willing to pay taxes to pay for government services and programs. Sure, I don’t agree with everything you guys in Washington/Hartford/Town Hall are doing, but I’ll pay my fair share. I just can’t seem to figure out what that is.

Why should doing my taxes be so stressful? Mark, are you with me?

The commish is probably a bright guy. He went to school here in New Haven at Yale. Yale is no guarantee of brightness (insert your own joke here since the last three presidents have gone to Yale), though it’s a reasonable reassurance.

Why can’t I, a former math team member, easily blow through this thing without worrying I’ve done something terribly wrong and will end up bunking with a former politician in Danbury, or worse? Why is it so difficult? Why is it so confusing?

Is there a reason you’ve got multiple forms, all named 1099? There’s 1099B, 1099DIV, 1099OID… I could go on. This is like George Foreman naming all his children George – and you know how we feel about that idea!

Then, there’s the question of money for Steffie’s college expenses. We were good parents and put something away when she was a little girl. Exactly how much did we originally invest in the late 80s? Uh – I’ll get back to you on that.

In the past, I’ve had relatives who worked backwards in their tax forms. In other words, they decided what they thought would be a fair amount for them to pay, then worked from there until the other numbers made that happen. I don’t do that.

I’m not looking to move my geofffox.com headquarters to the Cayman Islands or Bermuda. Should I? That really pretty yacht we saw in Cabo San Lucas, owned by a guy from Montana, flew the Cayman flag. Maybe he’s on to something?

A few years ago, Stanley Works, the tool company in New Britain, CT, tried to move its offices offshore. Lots of companies have. Even our cruise ship, Norwegian Caribbean’s, “Norwegian Star,” was registered in the Bahamas. That’s not part of Norway nor the US.

All I want is an easier tax system. Since none of the special exemptions I have to ponder are for me, you’ll probably have to tick off people with more influence than I have. C’mon Mark, you can do it.

Finally, am I being graded on spelling?

Visiting Colima Volcano

Aboard the Norwegian Star

I woke up early enough to hear the Captain on the P.A. system. The harbor pilot was coming on for our entry into the harbor at Manzanillo. I moved to the balcony.

It certainly was the warmest we’ve felt so far. The humidity was way up too. That’s the way it should be, nearly 1,500 miles south of Los Angeles.

The ship slowed as it moved into the channel. Along side, two tugs watched our every move (though we weren’t using the tugs for guidance).

A small boat with a handful of soldiers moved up and down alongside the ship. This boat was loaded for bear. It looked like everyone onboard was holding an automatic weapon.

After a shower and quick breakfast, I was off to meet Gilles. He would be my guide for Colima Volcano.

Two gangways led of the ship. I went down one, looked, didn’t see Gilles and moved on. I went to the second. He wasn’t there either!

I paced the quay for 20 minutes, looking for a tall, thin man with a volcano t-shirt. Nothing. I asked a guard. Still no positive response.

I borrowed a phone from one of the ship’s officers and called Helaine and Stef. They were gone.

Panic was starting to set in. Stood up, I’d be alone in the ‘crying lane’ on the ship.

Back up in the cabin, I re-read Gilles email. He would meet me at the gate. I hadn’t seen a gate. Oops. I’d stopped too soon.

Long story short, it wasn’t long before I was in Gilles SUV and we were heading out of Manzanillo.

Gilles is around 6′ 2″, thin and looks like the college teacher he is. Though from France, via Canada, he is married to a woman he met here (also at the university). They have a four year old daughter.

After a few minutes of city streets we were on a divided highway heading out-of-town. The ocean was on our right, though not for long.

You’ll be glad to know there are toll roads in Mexico. This was one. Gilles fished out a 100 peso note for the 85 peso toll and we continued.

We began seeing the volcano over 25 miles away. Even then it was a large presence.

As we approached Colima, we left the highway for a more traditional road, then cobblestones through a town and finally onto a winding rutted dirt road running along the edge of a cliff.

It wasn’t long before we came to a substantial gate blocking our progress. There was no lock. We opened it and continued, closing the gate behind us.

There was another gate farther up the path and we repeated the process.

A few minutes later, the path opened up and we were in a meadow. Cows were lazily grazing the short grass on this open space, about 5,000 feet above sea level. East of us, dominating the sky was Colima. It is magnificent.

Even if you’d never seen a volcano, it is immediately obvious. The sides are steep and a light gray, courtesy of the ash which accompanies eruptions.

Gilles took some cloth chairs from the back of the SUV and placed them under a banyon tree. We sat and watched, hoping there would be some activity. The volcano does ‘go off’ a few times a day – though not in a cataclysmic fashion.

As we watched super heated steam escape from the top, another truck pulled up. Inside were three Mexican men, in the forties. They sat down and watched too.

I asked if I could take a photo and then spoke with them. Though from Colima, one admitted he had never been to this spot. But, even with the volcano an ever present part of their lives, they wanted to come and watch. They sat and drank wine.

Even without major activity, Colima was active. The plume’s steam intensity varied with time. Every once in a while a different plume of steam or smoke would rise from one of the mountain’s faces. Gilles said, at night you would often see the glow of molten lava.

After a while we turned to leave. After all, I had a ship to catch.

I think the altitude, or maybe just the excitement and early angst got to me. I became very tired and began to yawn. It was uncontrollable – almost comic, as I kept taking down those huge swigs of air.

I’m back on the ship now. It was quite a day.

This is one of those things you remember forever.

Struggling Into Spring

I was just interviewed for the Stonington Times in far Southeastern Connecticut. The interviewer wanted to know about snow, its costs, and how this winter stacked up.

In reality, and in spite of my kvetching, winter was about normal. It just started off so brutally that I got sick of it sooner than normal. We didn’t have much of a summer or fall – that added to the whole scenario.

Even today, with temperatures in the low 50s, there are reminders that winter isn’t that far behind us. On my side lawn, this pile of ‘permasnow’ stands defiant.

This is not the normal, sweet, fluffy snow that falls from the sky, but that evil icy junk that gets plowed and then compressed. It whiteness reflects the warmth of sunlight away. Its density prevents the air’s temperature from affecting anything but the very outer skin. It shares a survival instinct with the Norway rat – the unofficial animal of New York City.

At the same time, buds are starting to show on trees. This is from one of my peach trees (in the opposite side yard from the permasnow). Before long the air will turn colorful as the first of the flowering plants and bushes gets going.

In our front yard, bulbs we planted 12-13 years ago will shoot up and flower and be eaten almost immediately by the neighborhood deer. It’s a vicious cycle.

From now until late fall, what you see on the left is my favorite view. This home, an old mill house with the spillway nestled right up against the foundation,

is across a small pond and a few streets over from where I live. As the trees fill in, the house will become tougher to see. The view will remain excellent, and made better because I’ll be walking over to look instead of driving.