Back in February, I received my Taiwan tax information from the local organization that is responsible for preparing my Taiwan taxes. The organization will go nameless because I don't want to get sued (which is highly unlikely because nobody ever actually reads my blog). I ignored it, and several follow up emails because, well, I'm an idiot.
So recently (late June), I decided to take a look at what was sent and do something. Whoops. It turns out that I had to supply lots of information about myself and my wife. Scramble, scramble, scramble, here's the information.
I owe what? I don't even pay that much in the US of A!!! No worries, my company has a "tax equalization" policy that ensures I don't pay any more or less in taxes than if I was working in the States.
And it is due when? June 30!!! OK, so my bad. I asked the folks in the organization that is responsible for my taxes in general (which shall also go unnamed) if they could pretty please transfer the huge amount of money to the organization that is responsible for my Taiwan taxes. Case closed.
Nope. It turns out that there have been some Homeland Security rule changes and the organization that is responsible for my taxes in general cannot transfer money to the organization this is responsible for my Taiwan taxes or people may die in Afghanistan.
The organization that is responsible for my taxes in general actually came through and got the mony transferred to a Taiwan bank account that I maintain for just such cases. However, I had to go to that bank and show my passport and sign some forms to prove that it was not drug money or terrorist money or Monopoly money or whatever. And then there were complications with the forms (my local bank is still operating with a fax machine). It all got finally sorted out (via telex) and I could pay my taxes with the special form that was sent to me by the organization that is reponsible for my Taiwan taxes via registered mail.
If you have complaints about the US Postal Service, save them. The Post Office in Taiwan makes the US Postal Service appear to have counter workers who are actually vertical. And the Taiwan Post Office is also some sort of bank. But not the kind of bank at which I can pay my tardy Taiwan taxes.
And this is the really funny (sad? boring?) part. The person at the organization that is responsible for my Taiwan taxes was just constantly emailing me because I was going to be LATE!!!! YOU. ARE. GOING. TO. BE. LATE!!!!! LATE I TELL YOU!!! If I don't pay my taxes by July 6, I will owe an additional 862 NTD. That's less than $30 USD. I spill more whiskey than that every week.
I went to the local other kind of bank on Wednesday (the kind of bank that also sells 25 pound bags of rice) with a Taiwanese co-worker, and guess what. They could not process the payment. I was informed that I had to go to the "tax bureau". Ahhhh, living life large and loving it. Can't a brother just pay his taxes?
There is a new plan in place, but it involves heavy machinery and a spatula. Wish me luck.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Day the Celebreties Died
First it was Ed McMahon. I grew up watching him. He is almost as much of an icon as Johnny. I was sad to see him go, but it seemed appropriate. He was 80-something, he was born and grew up in the cigarette/martini era, and he had passed from celebrity. Goodbye Ed. Thanks.
Then Farrah died. WTF? I know she was all stoned out and stuff, but dead? Dead? That's almost like saying that I don't have a penis. Hundreds, thousands, tens of hundreds of thousands of pubescent males have fond memories of flogging the dolphin whilst dreaming of Farrah. And she knew it, like Goldie Hawn. But apparently something in her genetic makeup caused her to break under the weight of all that teenage testosterone. Shocking? Yes. Hard to explain? No. Goodbye Farrah. Thanks.
And because these things happen in three's, Michael the Martian went and kicked the bucket. I guess the Ed McMahon and Farrah Fawcett tributaries will have to wait. This is the A-bomb.
I like Mike, but dude was a straight on alien. Years ago, when I was young and in college, Michael rocked. Really. I mean "rocked" as in not disco, not rap, not like anything else. He did it. Thanks Michael.
But that was a long time ago. What is the last MJ song/video that you remember? What up with the face surgery? How could you hang your son out over a London balcony?
A friend says it was drugs. Probably. I am sure we will find out in a full-on Dianna media probe. I'm not interested. I am just mourning the death of three people that were icons in my lifetime.
OK, since nobody reads this blog anyway, I'm going to rant about this. I've been listening/reading about this celeberity death thing like everybody else and I have to say this. Three people/groups have had "it" since I have been alive: Elvis, The Beatles, and Michael. Period. You can't argue about it. You can't explain it. It has nothing to do about who wrote what. It has nothing to do with "Well the Rolling Stones were there" or "Bob Dylan was instrumental" or "Tupac changed the landscape". Elvis/The Beatles/Michael had "it". End of story. Stop trying to explain the unexplainable. You're making a jackass of yourselves.
Then Farrah died. WTF? I know she was all stoned out and stuff, but dead? Dead? That's almost like saying that I don't have a penis. Hundreds, thousands, tens of hundreds of thousands of pubescent males have fond memories of flogging the dolphin whilst dreaming of Farrah. And she knew it, like Goldie Hawn. But apparently something in her genetic makeup caused her to break under the weight of all that teenage testosterone. Shocking? Yes. Hard to explain? No. Goodbye Farrah. Thanks.
And because these things happen in three's, Michael the Martian went and kicked the bucket. I guess the Ed McMahon and Farrah Fawcett tributaries will have to wait. This is the A-bomb.
I like Mike, but dude was a straight on alien. Years ago, when I was young and in college, Michael rocked. Really. I mean "rocked" as in not disco, not rap, not like anything else. He did it. Thanks Michael.
But that was a long time ago. What is the last MJ song/video that you remember? What up with the face surgery? How could you hang your son out over a London balcony?
A friend says it was drugs. Probably. I am sure we will find out in a full-on Dianna media probe. I'm not interested. I am just mourning the death of three people that were icons in my lifetime.
OK, since nobody reads this blog anyway, I'm going to rant about this. I've been listening/reading about this celeberity death thing like everybody else and I have to say this. Three people/groups have had "it" since I have been alive: Elvis, The Beatles, and Michael. Period. You can't argue about it. You can't explain it. It has nothing to do about who wrote what. It has nothing to do with "Well the Rolling Stones were there" or "Bob Dylan was instrumental" or "Tupac changed the landscape". Elvis/The Beatles/Michael had "it". End of story. Stop trying to explain the unexplainable. You're making a jackass of yourselves.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Flying in an Aeroplane Sucks
Flying on an areoplane was once a magical experience. I have vivid memories of my father taking off from the Augusta, ME, airport on "The Yellowbird" in the late 1960's. I was sure that he was being attended to by mini-skirted flight attendants asking which brand of cigarette he prefered. And he was going someplace else, away from Augusta, ME.
In 2009, it's like Guantanamo without the waterboarding.
First of all, the security checks. I understand that some bad people were responsible for the horrific deaths of thousands of people in NYC. But why did that translate into gathering a bunch of retards off the street and giving them uniforms? And giving them the power to make us take our shoes off?
Secondly, the boarding. Dickwads with too much carry-on. Cell phone enthusiasts. Hicks who cannot find seat 37D. I swear they get these people from an "Airplane" extras casting call.
Thirdly (did I just say Thirdly? Damn I hate that), there is the Safety Speech. The speech is always half-hearted and ignored. For once, I’d like to hear a real pre-flight Safey Speech. To wit:
Welcome aboard General Airways Flight 4219 with service to Chicago O’Hare Airport - ‘the Hub that everyone avoids’ - with continuing service to some God-forsaken Midwest town that even Rand McNally has yet to visit. Please pay attention to this safety briefing, even if it is the twiddly-seventh time you’ve heard it, because otherwise you’ll be bypassed during the peanut distribution.
If you refer to the safey card in the seat back in front of you, you’ll notice that there are several pieces of previously used chewing gum attached. Ignore these and the other debris left by underpaid aeroplane cleaning personnel and note the exit locations. These exits could be used in the extremely unlikely event that the airplane lands in one piece.
Your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device, but the chance of you surviving a water impact is about the same as that of you surviving a land impact (0.00000033), so unless we crash into a land mass and bounce into a water mass, your seat cushion will remain, well, a seat cushion.
We’re not even going to go into the seat belt discussion, because if you need an explanation on how to use your seat belt, then we hope you die horribly because you are screwing up the gene pool.
Fourthly (now I'm really over-doing it), the actual flight. There are several categories of annoyance:
Screaming babies: No one likes sitting near screaming babies on an airplane, but if they are quiet, they can actually provide a bit of amusement - on a philosiphical level. The concept of "If man were meant to fly" is not something that has yet registered in their cerebral cortex. They are quite unaware of the fact that they are flying around in a multi-ton vehicle controlled by a vast array of digi-electro-mechanical geegaws that, at any minute, could plunge into the nearest geographical feature, leaving only a charred mosaic of flesh and technology that would take months of CNN updates to sort out. When I watch them, I am oddly comforted.
Beverage/Meal service: Not really a service, per se, just a mandated aeroplane function performed by a collection of misfits. Homosexuals that think they look good in uniform, blonds that want to marry a pilot, older blonds that remember the days of serving cigarettes in mini-skirts, and assorted other losers that could not find a real job.
Funny noises: They scare the crap out of me. Actually, scary noises are the equivalent of waterboarding. Scratch the "without the waterboarding" comment that was previously written.
Restrooms: Just make sure that all of your bodily functions have been attended to before you board. Because you do not want to go there.
Finally, the phrase that everyone on the Guantanamo aero-detainment cylinder is longing to hear: "We are now landing at YourDestinationAirport. We hope you had a pleasant flight."
I didn't. And you know it.
In 2009, it's like Guantanamo without the waterboarding.
First of all, the security checks. I understand that some bad people were responsible for the horrific deaths of thousands of people in NYC. But why did that translate into gathering a bunch of retards off the street and giving them uniforms? And giving them the power to make us take our shoes off?
Secondly, the boarding. Dickwads with too much carry-on. Cell phone enthusiasts. Hicks who cannot find seat 37D. I swear they get these people from an "Airplane" extras casting call.
Thirdly (did I just say Thirdly? Damn I hate that), there is the Safety Speech. The speech is always half-hearted and ignored. For once, I’d like to hear a real pre-flight Safey Speech. To wit:
Welcome aboard General Airways Flight 4219 with service to Chicago O’Hare Airport - ‘the Hub that everyone avoids’ - with continuing service to some God-forsaken Midwest town that even Rand McNally has yet to visit. Please pay attention to this safety briefing, even if it is the twiddly-seventh time you’ve heard it, because otherwise you’ll be bypassed during the peanut distribution.
If you refer to the safey card in the seat back in front of you, you’ll notice that there are several pieces of previously used chewing gum attached. Ignore these and the other debris left by underpaid aeroplane cleaning personnel and note the exit locations. These exits could be used in the extremely unlikely event that the airplane lands in one piece.
Your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device, but the chance of you surviving a water impact is about the same as that of you surviving a land impact (0.00000033), so unless we crash into a land mass and bounce into a water mass, your seat cushion will remain, well, a seat cushion.
We’re not even going to go into the seat belt discussion, because if you need an explanation on how to use your seat belt, then we hope you die horribly because you are screwing up the gene pool.
Fourthly (now I'm really over-doing it), the actual flight. There are several categories of annoyance:
Screaming babies: No one likes sitting near screaming babies on an airplane, but if they are quiet, they can actually provide a bit of amusement - on a philosiphical level. The concept of "If man were meant to fly" is not something that has yet registered in their cerebral cortex. They are quite unaware of the fact that they are flying around in a multi-ton vehicle controlled by a vast array of digi-electro-mechanical geegaws that, at any minute, could plunge into the nearest geographical feature, leaving only a charred mosaic of flesh and technology that would take months of CNN updates to sort out. When I watch them, I am oddly comforted.
Beverage/Meal service: Not really a service, per se, just a mandated aeroplane function performed by a collection of misfits. Homosexuals that think they look good in uniform, blonds that want to marry a pilot, older blonds that remember the days of serving cigarettes in mini-skirts, and assorted other losers that could not find a real job.
Funny noises: They scare the crap out of me. Actually, scary noises are the equivalent of waterboarding. Scratch the "without the waterboarding" comment that was previously written.
Restrooms: Just make sure that all of your bodily functions have been attended to before you board. Because you do not want to go there.
Finally, the phrase that everyone on the Guantanamo aero-detainment cylinder is longing to hear: "We are now landing at YourDestinationAirport. We hope you had a pleasant flight."
I didn't. And you know it.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Undisputed Truth
I just tripped over a Golden Oldie – “Smiling Faces” by Undisputed Truth. Which got me to thinking. Are there really undisputed truths? Let’s put it to the test:
“The sky is blue” – It appears to be blue, but that’s just some refraction shit goin’ on. It actually does not have any color.
“The Red Sox will never win the World Series.” Well, we did. Twice. 2004 and 2007.
“Death and Taxes”. Sure everyone is gonna die. Except me. So there goes the theory. Plus I just got $2K back from my Taiwan taxes. That makes taxes a good thing.
“War. Hng. Good God y’all. What is it good for? Absolutely nuthin’." I guess there is at least one Undisputed Truth.
“The sky is blue” – It appears to be blue, but that’s just some refraction shit goin’ on. It actually does not have any color.
“The Red Sox will never win the World Series.” Well, we did. Twice. 2004 and 2007.
“Death and Taxes”. Sure everyone is gonna die. Except me. So there goes the theory. Plus I just got $2K back from my Taiwan taxes. That makes taxes a good thing.
“War. Hng. Good God y’all. What is it good for? Absolutely nuthin’." I guess there is at least one Undisputed Truth.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Coffee Cup Chronicles
Sometimes, your life is defined by your coffee cups.
I grew up in a coffee environment. With a predominantly Swedish heritage, this is no surprise. Swede's drink coffee like alcoholics drink vodka. Actually, Swede's drink vodka like alcoholics drink vodka, but that is not the point.
I also grew up in a "matching set" environment. The coffee cups matched the saucers matched the plates matched the dinnerware matched the placemates matched the glasses matched the friggin' wallpaper.
So it came as a bit of a surprise to me, whilst washing the dishes (coffee cups) this evening, when I realized that my coffee cup collections is, shall we say, a bit eclectic. How did I go from "matching sets" to "anything that will hold hot brown liquid"? I guess the answer is "life", so without further quotation marks, here are the Coffee Cup Chronicles.
McKee Dental Care: I got this when I moved to San Jose, CA, and went to a dentist's office that I found in the online Yellow Pages. I selected this dentist based on location. Turned out to be a fine operation. They gave this cup to me on my first visit, filled with all sorts of bric-a-brac, including a refigerator magnet that has since been lost. I am a refrigerator magnet junkie, so this is a disappointment. A welcome part of the family because it carries well, but it is a bit too small.
Coca Cola: My favorite of the six, but I inherited this from the wife, so not sure of the history. It is my favorite because it is the largest, has a nice design, and it is the largest. Not in the family long, but in the family strong.
Generic White: I don't recall exactly where Whitey came from, but I think it came from an apartment that my company leased in Houston. The apartment was furnished, including sundries, and somehow I ended up with the cup. It is inexplicable how this coffee cup, out of the dozens of coffee cups that I have owned, is still with me, but there you go. It does not carry well and is a bit to small, but it is part of the family now.
Maroon (?) QIP Team Member: Like all American corporations, when the Japanese started killing us in the 80's because they made good stuff, my corporation decided that we could make good stuff if only we had a Quality Improvement Program. Funny thing is we were already making good stuff. But don't let that stand in the way of progress. I remember having five meetings in a row, at least two hours each, in which we tried to agree on a team name. You can't make good stuff unless your Quality Improvement Program teams have names that all team members can agree on. This cup lives on in the family, but it's like the cousin that you have to be nice to only you wish that they would move to Paraguay. Too small.
The Sage School. My sister married a wicked rich guy, but to be fair, she married him before he was wicked rich, so it's not her fault. Anyway, their two kids (my neice and my nephew) went to this special school for rich kids and all I got was this coffee cup. A bit too small. It has to remain part of the family because my neice and my nephew are the coolest.
Penguins: Again, the details are hazy, but I remember I bought this at a chain drugstore when I had moved to a new location (Los Angeles?) and I was shopping for other things entirely. I think it is my oldest cup family member. And although Coca Cola is my favorite overall cup family member, this one wins as the nostalgic favorite. Even though I can't remember the time/place of purchase. And yes, it is too small.
So here I am, living large on a small island and drinking out of too-small coffee cups. Not the way I would have planned it, but family is family.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
I am going to start a new religion. Because all of the old religions piss me off. The old religions have caused, and continue to cause, too much confusion and strife in this world. I use the word "strife" because I am not sure what it means, but it sounds scary. And we should be scared.
The current upheaval in the Middle East is a good example, but it is far from the only example of religion related mayhem. The Christians kicked it old school back in the day. Scores of other sects have executed their vendettas on unsuspecting folk who were primarily interested in eating and getting laid.
It is not just the violent religions that ire me. Passive religions such as Buddhism are also a catalyst for my desire to create a new religious outlet. Sure, Buddhists don't advocate mass slaughter of infidels, but they still cling to archaic traditions. I am pretty sure that my future is not dictated by some six armed elephant that sits in the lotus position.
So, let's imagine a new religion. Rule #1: Don't kill anybody. Rule #2: Be polite. Rule #3: Don't worship any imagined deities. And of course, Rule #4: Look both ways before crossing the street.
I don't have a name for my new relgion. I was thinking "The New Religists", but that sounds like a rock band from the 60's. How about"The Nice but not Ancient"? Suggestions are welcomed.
The current upheaval in the Middle East is a good example, but it is far from the only example of religion related mayhem. The Christians kicked it old school back in the day. Scores of other sects have executed their vendettas on unsuspecting folk who were primarily interested in eating and getting laid.
It is not just the violent religions that ire me. Passive religions such as Buddhism are also a catalyst for my desire to create a new religious outlet. Sure, Buddhists don't advocate mass slaughter of infidels, but they still cling to archaic traditions. I am pretty sure that my future is not dictated by some six armed elephant that sits in the lotus position.
So, let's imagine a new religion. Rule #1: Don't kill anybody. Rule #2: Be polite. Rule #3: Don't worship any imagined deities. And of course, Rule #4: Look both ways before crossing the street.
I don't have a name for my new relgion. I was thinking "The New Religists", but that sounds like a rock band from the 60's. How about"The Nice but not Ancient"? Suggestions are welcomed.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I Hate Cooking
I despise cooking. I abhor cooking. I word-stronger-than-abhor fucking cooking. That being said, I just whipped up some pretty good stuff.
As a Dragon Boat Festival gift I was given a baggie full of beef strips. And instructed to cook them and eat them, because they were a special offering from Pa. These are instructions that cannot be ignored. Cook and eat. Yes Drill Sargent.
I hemmed and hawwed and pretended they were too "frozen" or some-such, and that bought me a couple days. But I was hungry this evening and could not stand another dinner of microwave popcorn, so here is what I did. I put them on a stove, in a frying pan, and grilled them until they were basically one valence band away from carbon. And they were, if I must a say so myself, fantastical.
This stuff can be marketed. I could call them Carbonized Beef, but that's probably not going to grab the attention of the cognoscenti. So I am thinking Beef Chips. When we go national, our ads would be all about differentiating Beef Chips from other chip-like snacks. And, of course, explaining that we are not talking about manure based product.
In any event, delicious. But I digress from the primary point of this rant. I hate cooking.
Because, as wonderful as the Beef Chips (regular or Super-Size!) are, I now have to (a) dispose of the fat drippings and other disgusting stuff, (b) wash dishes, and (c) wash dishes. Which I guess, when it comes down to it, is the actual root cause of my rage. If I go out to eat, somebody else takes care of the dishes. If I have a bag of Mala Spicy potato chips, it is relatively little effort to dispose of the offending container. But now I gotta deal with the mess. Beef Chip, Inc. will most definitely have a well staffed dish washing department.
Aside from disposal and dishwashing issues, there are other things that bother me about cooking. To wit:
So, dear readers, cook if you must. But I will be down at the local restaurant (look it up in the dictionary) ordering somebody else to cook for me and clean for me. I'll be having the Beef Chip special (Tuesday all you can eat!).
I despise cooking. I abhor cooking. I word-stronger-than-abhor fucking cooking. That being said, I just whipped up some pretty good stuff.
As a Dragon Boat Festival gift I was given a baggie full of beef strips. And instructed to cook them and eat them, because they were a special offering from Pa. These are instructions that cannot be ignored. Cook and eat. Yes Drill Sargent.
I hemmed and hawwed and pretended they were too "frozen" or some-such, and that bought me a couple days. But I was hungry this evening and could not stand another dinner of microwave popcorn, so here is what I did. I put them on a stove, in a frying pan, and grilled them until they were basically one valence band away from carbon. And they were, if I must a say so myself, fantastical.
This stuff can be marketed. I could call them Carbonized Beef, but that's probably not going to grab the attention of the cognoscenti. So I am thinking Beef Chips. When we go national, our ads would be all about differentiating Beef Chips from other chip-like snacks. And, of course, explaining that we are not talking about manure based product.
In any event, delicious. But I digress from the primary point of this rant. I hate cooking.
Because, as wonderful as the Beef Chips (regular or Super-Size!) are, I now have to (a) dispose of the fat drippings and other disgusting stuff, (b) wash dishes, and (c) wash dishes. Which I guess, when it comes down to it, is the actual root cause of my rage. If I go out to eat, somebody else takes care of the dishes. If I have a bag of Mala Spicy potato chips, it is relatively little effort to dispose of the offending container. But now I gotta deal with the mess. Beef Chip, Inc. will most definitely have a well staffed dish washing department.
Aside from disposal and dishwashing issues, there are other things that bother me about cooking. To wit:
It is not an exact science. I don't have teaspoon or tablespoon measuring devices, and I certainly have no idea how much a dash is. Cook until brown? When meat is cooked, first it is not brown, then it is brown for a long time, then it is black. Which version of brown do I choose? Stir, chop, filet, knead, toss? Toss this.
Grocery shopping. You have to figure out what to buy (did I put oregano on my list?) and how much to buy (I can freeze this and use it on Saturday with the leftover noodles).
Letovers. I refuse to be the dork at work who is walking down the hall to take his Tupperware container of leftover goulash down to the communal microwave.
People who like to cook. They make like they are Michelangelo, creating some one-of-a-kind dish that is simply fabulous. And if you do not compliment them on their spectacular cooking acumen, then you are a douche. Now wait a minute, who is the real douche here...
Cooking shows. Please. Watching people cook on TV is probably the only thing I hate more than actually cooking. Bam!
Work. It is all work. Cooking is work. Dishwashing is work. Grocery shopping is work. Tolerating people who like to cook, and the cooking shows that they have spawned, is work. A certain genius. whose name is lost in the sands of time, invented a remedy for this work. It is called a restaurant.
So, dear readers, cook if you must. But I will be down at the local restaurant (look it up in the dictionary) ordering somebody else to cook for me and clean for me. I'll be having the Beef Chip special (Tuesday all you can eat!).
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