jeff yen

Hump day

Conversations between me and my father have acquired a certain constancy lately. There is the usual businesslike exchange of civilities, and then an invariable devolution into a just-short-of-hostile discussion of my motivations for taking my trip. I have the distinct impression that my parents both believe I'm a bit mad for doing this, and I cannot wholly disagree. I do, however, disagree with the reasons for their assessment. I recognize it as an emotional knee-jerk reaction (myself being party to several, of late), but try as I might I think the most I'll be able to do is contain their fears to some manageable baseline.

My parents didn't have it easy. After immigrating from China, they struggled through several tough years in Michigan while my father worked towards his engineering degree. Mom likes to tell me about the long-awaited day she finally got to try an honest-to-goodness American Hamburger, and always laughs at what a profound disappointment it was. They then moved to Oklahoma, where my sister was born. Pressing on to Texas, my dad landed a job with ARAMCO, and six months after I was born they packed us up and moved to Saudi Arabia.

Like most parents, they believe their prime responsibility is to keep their children safe and secure. Being both the youngest and the only male child, I think I was a more central target of their protective instincts than my sister, which would help account for my unquestionable egocentrism. The passing of my sister, no doubt, heightened those protective instincts to an unhappy degree.

So I can understand their reasoning; but I just can't agree with it. They want me to spend my life in comfort; but I've been comfortable all my life, and I've come to realize it's no way to live. A desire for -less- comfort in one's life is, I know, the exclusive privilege of self-obsessed spoiled kids, but that doesn't really change things. This isn't to say I want to go live in the woods and eat berries and squirrels for a year. I just want to get out there and live outside my comfort zone for a little while.

That said, while my intent hasn't changed, my parents' persistent questioning has convinced me that I should examine my reasoning. Just so I know what my expectations are going to be, and how to manage them properly.

The scene here is perfectly set for some serious introspection. I've just poured myself a dram of Redbreast, Thievery Corporation is coming up on the playlist, and my neighbours across the way are so insistently humping that their tender pillow talk can be heard through two sets of windows and a pair of earphones. So, here goes.

I first decided to do this trip as a kind of impulse, when I wasn't in a particularly stable frame of mind; that is, not long after the breakup with Carrie. The more I --
(Ohhh yeaaahh, baby, oh oh oh!)
er... the more I thought about it, though, the more it made --
(*SMACK* Say it, bitch!)
sense. Granted, in a twisted sort of way, but still. And now that I'm feeling more myself, and frankly pretty embarrassed about the --
(Oh baby, oh fuck yeah!)

Christ, never mind. I'm going to turn up the volume and go to sleep.

It’s been a taxing day

Every year, as I slowly grind my teeth into nubs while working on my taxes, I reflect on how monumentally idiotic our tax code is.

This is not unlike my sudden passion for overhauling our traffic enforcement regulations every time I get a parking ticket, so you may want to keep that in mind if you decide to press on.

I spoke with a friend of mine in Norway recently, and explained my dread at the prospect of doing my taxes this year. He seemed puzzled, so I pressed for details. He told me the entirety of his tax filing process was to visit a website and click a button that said "Yes."

Now, I can't really believe it's all that simple for every Norwegian, but seriously now. I was wading through armfuls of receipts and check registers all day today, and I feel like I've been run through a shredder. The tax code is so ludicrously convoluted that companies make enough money helping people figure it out for three months a year that they can essentially go on vacation for the other 9 months and still stay in business.

Now that I am -- at least nominally -- operating as a business, things get even more complicated. I have to keep written records for everything. When I drive around on business, I have to note down how far I drove, on what day, and so on. I've gotten into the habit of buying things almost exclusively from a rapidly narrowing collection of online stores, just so I have a built-in log of receipts. I think I'm just going to have to accept the fact that I'll be a gibbering madman for a few days out of every year from now on.

When I started this morning by just tallying up my gross income, my combined state and federal income taxes weighed in at about $27,000.

That's right.

I basically owed a well-equipped Japanese roadster to the federal and Californian governments, one of which just lost 350 billion dollars up a few banking CEO's asses, and the other of which is so far up shit creek that it's issuing IOUs to its employees and creditors.

My street is full of potholes.

I pay an arm and a leg for my own health insurance, which does its damnedest not to cover any actual illnesses.

Every time I pass by the DMV, there's a line wrapped around the building.

At various times over the course of the past few years, I have been unable to eat strawberries, spinach, tomatoes, and peanuts because they can't seem to comprehend the notion that if someone takes a dump in a tub of food, maybe you shouldn't let them sell it for money.

The only time I've seen a cop do something useful lately is when a CHP officer gave me a speeding ticket.

Our deployed military is killing itself off faster than enemy combatants are, and goons from the Paleolithic era are collecting government salaries just to shine flashlights in our eyes as we drive past the airport terminal.

...

Honestly? I owe these fucking clowns money?

As I told a friend while taking a break from beating my head against the floor, I imagine it would be more cost-effective to buy myself a Congressman and have him excrete some kind of tax exemption for me.

Oh shit, I think this is how Republicans are born.

Perfection

I believe I have, by happy chance, stumbled upon a perfect moment.

The evening thus far has been one of those famously orgiastic Friday nights that have characterized my weekends of late, involving an uneventful dinner with friends, a bit of television, and a soak in the tub. Shocking, I know.

But as I sat here with a tumbler, it started to rain.

Fat, thick drops of rain course earthwards, only to splay themselves against the walls in an endless, formless rhythm. Gusts of wind rattle the window panes, occasionally whistling through a gap to breathe a final, dying gasp into the room. A sip of whisky wends its glowing way past my heart as the rest swirls back down into the glass, trailing amber fingers as it goes. A thoughtful melody rises slowly against the rain and the wind, and everything melts rather sheepishly into a soft-focus background.

I have innumerable stressors on my life, as does everyone around me. Events beyond my control are pulling me in several directions at once, not to mention a growing dissonance between my self and my perception of the same. For many others I know, their issues are vastly more concrete, immediate, and substantially less manageable. I worry about them too, even virtual strangers, which I readily admit is a fairly serious character defect.

But for now, I can sit here and savor this one moment. I have a warm bed, a whole day in which to worry tomorrow, and absolutely nothing to concern me right now. It is not ecstasy by any measure, nor what I would call happiness, exactly.

But, for a moment of quiet reflection, this will do just fine.