A Taxing Day and Night

Tax night. I have a top-drawer post in the works that was meant for today, but I was subjected to a day of such hideous complexion that I think I will postpone it.

I kid you not when I say my day contained in incident of literal insanity (no, not me), a viscious attack on my character as an educator and a three-hour test proctoring session that is the first in a series of five of these sessions, culminating in one on this coming Saturday. And at the end of this glorious day, tax night -- a trip to the accountant's. Huzzah!

But the office is a feast for the eyes. It is an set in a old, tumbledown house on a muddy, deeply-pocked lot that faces a highway split by a dirty grey wall. From the front door, there is a dazzling neon view of a dilapidated motel complex frequented by ladies of the evening and their randy clientele. (I know this, because I used to play in a club next to said complex and the aforementioned pleasure professionals would frequently attempt to peddle their wares to the band. The club was such a classy establishment that, once, when the lead singer of the band and I went outside to stop a man from kicking his prostrate girlfriend repeatedly in the face in the parking lot, the man defended himself, as we grabbed him, slurring: "Dudes -- it's okay. She's my girlfriend." Really.)

The carpet of my accountant's place -- similar but grayer in hue than the wooden wall panels -- has not been vacuumed since the year we started going to this fellow -- perhaps not since the Reagan administration. There has been a single paperclip recumbent on the floor by the leg of the receptionist's desk for five years running, now. I look for it each year. It has not moved. The carpet is dotted with little pieces of paper and looks as if it belongs on someone's front porch.

There are leaning towers of paper everywhere -- obscuring desks and framing shelves that already have ream upon ream crammed impossibly tightly into them.

The place is, as they say, a stinkin' mess.

But what struck me this year was the variety of doo-dads perched around the place. I took the liberty of listing them while I was there: a tiny "desk top darts" game (unopened); a plastic jar of honey (half-empty); a quart can of onion soup; two separate bags of "mini" bagels atop two separate paper towers (both open-ended); a flat screen TV, still in the box, which has pictures of smiling young people eating pizza on it; a rusting can of Barbasol shaving cream; a can of Raid bug killer; a can of Raid roach killer; an empty Butterfingers box and a sign, lolling diagonally, that says: "The Lord Giveth and the Government Taketh Away..."

The receptionist was a likable women who was listening to Adele songs, but not sung by Adele, because "they wouldn't let me download the real ones," whatever that means. She was also quite a Poison fan.

Anyway, we got some dough back, so, I'm cool.

Well, I had better rest up now. Watching ninety kids fill in ovals is tiring, so I had better get my rest for another exciting round tomorrow morning. Terry Pratchett -- take me away.

Friday's post: the literal future of conservatism and liberalism, or, the latest archaeosociology from Bradbury University, Mars Colony, 51st century...

Either that or a simple, self-indulgent descriptive piece on my local convenience store. Depends how crappy Thursday is...