The usual, obligatory income tax column

           According to the Columnist’s Handbook, come April a columnist is obliged to write a column about income tax, April 15th being the deadline for filing and for a column. The entry makes suggestions like “Say something funny about going to the post office at 4:30 p.m. on the 15th,” or “Make something up, like ‘the dog ate my receipts.’” It even suggests you “tell some of your favorite ways to cheat on your taxes.”

           I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything funny about income taxes. Paying taxes is our solemn duty as Americans, and we should take them seriously. I know every patriotic American does too, without complaining. Well except maybe corporations that hide money overseas, or get the kind of discounts we ordinary folk can only dream about.

           Saying something funny about going to the post office at 4:30 on the 15th? I wouldn’t know. I always mail mine off the first week in February, that’s how anxious I am to make sure I’ve got my share of Congress’s salaries and expenses covered. After all, they work so hard and they deserve every nickel.

           And make something up? Like what — how my accountant tells me to roll over a two-dollar lottery-ticket prize? Not even the convenience store clerks think that’s funny.

           As for telling someone my favorite ways to cheat on my taxes is concerned, are they crazy? I might as well invite an IRS auditor over and tell him to “Make sure you bring your handcuffs.” Besides, I wouldn’t dream of cheating on my income taxes any more than politicians would dream of cheating on their spouses.

           When I first started paying income taxes, I used the short form — which, in those days, was an IBM punch card. Remember those? Today the short form is as long as the long form was back then, and ever since I started having income from writing and various other legitimate endeavors to report (sometimes reaching as high as four digits!), I’ve had to fill out a bunch of other forms as well — Schedules C, SE, ASAP, TGIF, and Forms 8829 and I H8TAXES. Shakespeare wrote a play about it once. He called it Much Ado About Nothing, and that pretty much describes my financial impact on the economy.

           Like Christmas, Memorial Day, and Thanksgiving, April 15th comes but once a year, and I think we should celebrate it as an important holiday. In fact, maybe we should have the day off — paid, of course — and Macy’s could have a parade and stores would have sales. I think if we found a way to celebrate April 15th, we’d have a better attitude about paying taxes.

           Okay, probably not.

April Fools’ Day isn’t for the timid

           One of our most important days is coming up soon, and I think the public should know more about its history and some of its greatest moments. Armed with this knowledge, you might wonder why this auspicious day isn’t a legal holiday, as I do.

           No one knows the origins of April Fools’ Day, but according to Wikipedia, “the earliest recorded association between 1 April and foolishness can be found in Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales (1392).” What I read further on this made no sense to me, but who am I to argue with Wikipedia? If you’re curious enough, you can look it up yourself. I only have so much space here.

           The April Fools’ Prank Store website gives a more plausible explanation for its origin, but it’s possible the explanation itself is an April Fools’ joke. That’s the thing about April Fools’ Day — you never know. But Wikipedia does say that it’s been popular since the 19th century, and this is borne out by a number of well-documented pranks.

           For instance, as Mary Todd Lincoln wrote in her diary the next day, on the evening of March 28, 1861, “Mr. Lincoln put a whoopee cushion on my seat at dinner last night. He was trying out a prank for April Fools’ Day, he told me afterward. What a scamp.” It was the new president’s first state dinner, and thanks to the worsening situation at Fort Sumter, the mood was somber until Mrs. Lincoln sat down.

           While Yankees great Babe Ruth was known to be a cut-up, it was the quiet and reserved Lou Gehrig who tried to play a trick on the Babe during spring training in 1927. On April 1st, as the mighty Yankees prepared for a spring exhibition game against the St. Louis Cardinals in Nashville a few days later, the Iron Man found a short piece of stout manila rope, rested it in a hotdog bun and topped it with mustard, and gave it to the Bambino, whose fondness for hotdogs was legendary. But the joke fizzled when Babe wolfed down the faux dog and said, “That was great, Lou. Get me another one — with sauerkraut this time.

           This may come as a surprise to most Americans, but Bill Murray did not star in the movie called Groundhog Day, it was his twin Julius. The brothers frequently pretended to be each other, and had done so since early childhood. Meant to be a prank, they’d originally intended to call the movie April Fool’s Day and had prepared a script to match, but when they learned that a movie by that name had been released in 1986 they scrapped the idea and went with Groundhog Day at the last minute. However, the original joke was ruined so they never brought it up.

           Of course, I’m much too mature to play Aprils’ Fool jokes on anyone.

Our annual madness

           Here we are again, on the verge of our annual madness. Okay, so it’s a few days away, but in my world that qualifies as a verge — and there’s still time to end it.

           I’m talking about Daylight Savings Time, or setting the clocks ahead. And what do we do in the fall? Set them back. Does that make any sense at all? Sure, someone might say, “Well it would take awhile to implement and coordinate and blah-blah-blah.” Really? What’s so hard about not doing something?

           So maybe we need to get a hue and cry going. No one I know likes setting the clocks an hour ahead each March. The groans can be heard around the world. It’s an awful long wait to get that hour back.

           I don’t understand why the movement to end this clock-changing silliness doesn’t get any traction. Everybody hates it. I wrote my congressman last year — Patrick something-or-other — and suggested he introduce a bill to get DST repealed. It’s a win-win, I told him. Need a compromise? Then how about setting the clock ahead a half hour and LEAVING IT THERE FOREVER. I could live with that. He’d be a hero, I assured him. We might even remember his name. Did I hear back? Nooo. Was such legislation introduced? Nooo. There are even petitions out there, and I’ve signed them all — to no avail.

           So maybe we need to take matters into our own hands. Maybe everyone should keep their clocks and watches where they are right now and continue operating on Standard Time. Let’s call it a protest. Let’s persuade Microsoft to quit updating our computers for the time change. Let’s tune into our favorite TV shows at the time we’re used to, and complain when there’s something else on. Let’s get a trend going in social media — tweet #EndDST, write Facebook posts and tell everyone to share them, things like that. Let’s show up an hour late for work and dare them to fire us. If we stick together, we can’t lose.

           Okay, I’m delirious, but understand this — my delirium is a medical condition caused by the anticipation of the onset of DST, which results in a lot of unhealthy anxiety and aggravation, and not a few stupid ideas. It makes me nuts. I hate it, hate it, hate it, and I’m not alone. It’s bad for the heart and bad for the digestive system. It also causes hives in some people. Me, I get Post Daylight Savings Time Syndrome — PDSTS, as it is known in psychiatric circles. It is NOT a good idea to disrupt my circadian rhythm. I might explode and ruin a perfectly good chunk of the known universe. For Pete’s sake, let’s end this madness. Retweet if you agree (wait — this isn’t Twitter).

My memory only fails me when I forget something

         At 72, I am entitled to have memory lapses, and age is a great excuse for forgetting things. If you’re younger than I am and you forget stuff, you probably can’t wait to get old. You can forget the birthdays of people closest to you and be forgiven. Saves a lot of money too, because it’s even easier to forget to pick up a belated card or gift.

           Memory is funny. I’m sure there are experts who can explain why we remember some things and forget others. When I reconnected with my friend Jerry in Facebook, he reminisced about how we met in first grade. “Uh-uh,” I told him. “In first grade I was in PS 68. We didn’t meet until second grade.” Our teacher was Miss Santangelo, and she pulled hair. “Oh, that’s right,” Jerry said. “You have a better memory than I do — I must be getting old.” Right. Jerry’s ten months older. See? Blaming it on age.

           I remember my first telephone number (FL4-5231) and I remember there were no such things as area codes yet. I remember my air force serial number after 50 years, and I’ve never forgotten my social security number.

           But how often do I think of something I need to do in the kitchen and get up to go do it, and when I get to the kitchen I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted to do? Or how often have I put down a tape measure and then forgotten where I put it a few minutes later? Or how often have I put something important in a safe place and then forgotten exactly where that safe place was?

           I don’t have a bag of tricks for remembering things. I can leave myself a note reminding me of where that safe place was, but then I’d have to remember where I put the note. Leaving myself a note about where I put down the tape measure seems silly. Where notes come in handy is when I get an idea for something while I’m in the store and I scribble a few key words on the back of my shopping list. If I remember what the key words mean, I’m good to go. I do this when I get an idea for something I want to write, or when I think of something I want to Google. Generally the only time this fails me is when I can’t read my writing.

           I had an ending for this column all roughed out in my head, but I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and by the time I got back I forgot what it was. I suppose I could have left a note, but I forgot to do that too. I must be getting old.

I heart Valentine’s Day

           I’ve always been amazed at how ready people are to love things. I love pizza, I love the movies. They even express their love on bumper stickers. Seems like every other car you wind up behind, someone is announcing “I heart” something or other on their bumper, the heart being a cutesy symbol for you-know-what. Love is such a precious and unique emotion that it somehow doesn’t seem right to express love for schnauzers or Ben & Jerry’s ice cream with the same fervor as for a soulmate. In my humble opinion, there are no degrees of love any more than there are degrees of being pregnant.

           Love isn’t the only expression of affection you’ll see on a bumper. “Have you hugged” something today is popular. The first one like that I ever saw said, “Have you hugged a lawyer today?” Now I happened to know that the woman whose van sported that bumper sticker was married to a lawyer, and so I got why she hugged a lawyer. But I wonder how she would have felt if every woman who saw that sticker rushed up and hugged her husband.

           And lawyers aren’t the only ones people hug. People will ask motorists if they’ve hugged their kids today, even though not everyone has kids. Then there’s one asking if you’ve hugged a farmer. Now that’s a sentiment I can support, but if you live in Manhattan you’d have to drive a good distance before you can deliver that hug. Not that farmers from Vermont never visit Manhattan, but how would you find them? That would be like trying to find a needle in a farmer’s haystack. However, if you live in Brooklyn and a bumper sticker asks if you’ve hugged a tree today, you’re in luck because trees actually do grow there. Prospect Park is full of them.

           Dogs are not only loved — you can get a bumper sticker hearting almost every breed known to man — they are hugged. But one bumper sticker I saw asks “Have you hugged your horse today?” Who has a horse? Bumper stickers ask if you’ve hugged an inanimate object — your fiddle, for instance (although I don’t recommend it if it’s a Stradivarius, for obvious reasons). One I saw asked, “Have you hugged a cactus today?” A definite “no” there.

           As Valentine’s Day approaches, I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen a bumper sticker that said “I heart my wife” or husband or sweetheart, or mother, although I have seen bumper stickers that said “I heart my cat,” or “I heart tacos.” If someone I cared deeply about had publicly expressed love for fast food but not for me, I’d be a little hurt. When you heart someone, you should take every opportunity to let them — and the world — know it.

The writer’s brain comes alive at midnight

           Why is it that every night, as I am about to go to bed, knowing I should be going to bed, an idea shows up in my head and I have to sit back down at the computer and type it in because I can’t trust myself to remember it till morning — even if I leave myself a note. I’ll set down whatever streams out before I’m ready to call it quits, then leave myself a Post-it note to remind myself to look at what I wrote when I wake up, to see if it makes sense.

           It doesn’t always, but I won’t delete it because more often than not it can be fixed. And if it can’t right at that moment, I save it for another day. In the case of this particular work of literary art, all I managed the following morning was to finish the first sentence, and then I sat there pondering what else to write.

           As I pondered, I recalled some of the things I’ve written about in the past. I considered many of them to be in the public interest. Once, for instance, I raised several important questions about auto racing in a column called “Southern Culture on the Skids.” To this day no one has ever answered them, although NASCAR fans stopped talking to me.

           In another, I examined in depth a phenomenon known as “dust” in a column called “Dust: A Fact of Life,” and concluded that we just had to get used to it. In a similar vein, I took a look at horizontal surfaces in the home and how they often are “Junk Magnets.” We often rue how these surfaces become cluttered, but where would we put our junk otherwise?

           Columns often provide me with the opportunity to commiserate with my fellow consumers. Anyone as frustrated by useless cents-off coupons as I am probably appreciated “Very Helpful, Thank You,” and anyone who’s ever lost a sock in the drier found “Black Holes, Bermuda Triangles, Missing Socks” informative. And if you’re as overwhelmed by the supermarket cereal aisle as I am, you would have nodded knowingly at “Cereal Killers.”

           I’m not above uncontroversial political commentary either. “From the Surplus Screwy Ideas File” was a prime example of that. Mostly I stay away from politics though because I don’t feel like getting hate mail.

           As I mentioned earlier, I don’t always use everything inspired by a post-midnight idea. I scrapped the first version of this literary masterpiece after Clarke told me it wasn’t funny. However, the first paragraph remains intact, which is a relief because it cost me a half-hour’s sleep.

The thing about winter...

           Everywhere I’ve ever lived, winter has always been accompanied by cold weather. Even when I was stationed in Southern California, I wasn’t in subtropical San Diego. Nooo — I was on a mountain about 70 miles east of downtown, where it snowed in the winter and they issued us parkas. San Diegans would come up dressed in tee-shirts to fill their pickup beds with snow, and we’d pull them out of ditches, shivering, when they slid off the road.

           Winter isn’t this way everywhere. Second cousin Harry used to send Christmas cards from Hawaii with Santa on a surfboard, and Uncle Henry would send cards from St. Petersburg with Santa in swim trunks putting gifts under a decorated palm tree. Henry migrated there with Aunt Marie after too many winters in the Catskills.

           January is usually the worst. If winter is the depth of annual despair on ice, January is the Mariana Trench. I was born on a day in January, 1943 (happy birthday to me, thank you), and it was a cold, snowy morning. I nearly froze to death on the way to the hospital. My son was also born in January, and it snowed that morning too. In 1972, however, I was wearing more than my mother.

           I shouldn’t kvetch. I follow the national weather, and I know winter this year has already been insane in the Northeast — and it wasn’t even officially winter yet. Upstate New York had more than a winter’s worth of snow over nine days a week before Thanksgiving. My friend Clarke, who lives in southwestern Massachusetts, entertains me with enough bone-chilling tales about her white-knuckled drives to see her grandchildren to remind me of why I moved south decades ago.

           Except not south enough, I guess, because the cold still finds its way into my bones. Never have I thought about moving to Florida, though. Uh-uh. Hawaii maybe, but who can afford Hawaii? Cousin Harry apparently could, but then he’d been living there at least since the 1940s. By the ’60s Harry was living in San Diego, which is almost Hawaii on the mainland, climate-wise. But before you ask, California is out too. If you’ve ever driven the freeways, you’d know why.

           Winter always makes me feel old. Okay, I am old, but it makes me feel older. When I was a kid it was fun. When it snowed I built forts and had snowball fights. I belly-flopped on my sled down a hill. I shoveled walks for 50 cents. Today it’s not fun. Which is why I so look forward to spring, and the thunderstorms that were once rare but now seem like daily events. I can’t wait.