Friday night there was another train versus pedestrian fatality in Arlington Heights. According to the earliest reports in the suburbs' Daily Herald newspaper, the victim was male. Given very little information by the police, the article is mercifully brief and devoid of speculation and drama.
With probably more than a thousand miles of commuter railroad track spread out in a spider web from the hub of Chicago, the Metra Rail system sees a lot of incidents involving cars, trucks and pedestrians. Friday night's was at least the second pedestrian incident at the Arlington Heights station in about a year.
While I certainly feel sorrow and pity for the victims of these incidents, I feel just as strongly for those who have witnessed them. As a perhaps overly-sensitive human being, I can barely stomach the thought of seeing another human being (or just about any being) die; to see one's life snuffed out amid the carnage wrought under the wheels of a train is the stuff that nightmares and a lifetime of psychiatric therapy are made of, and I'm only imagining it.
I was having a fairly slow day. By 5:00pm I had just barely made my goal for the day, when I was dispatched to pick up a fare in Mt. Prospect, the next town along the Metra Northwest line to the southeast of Arlington Heights. When I arrived I saw literally hundreds of people standing around on the train platforms, in the parking lot, and along the street adjacent to the station, which usually means the line has been stopped, and people are free to find other means of transportation, until the problem is fixed. My fare got in, and I said, "Train problems?"
He said, "No. A pedestrian was hit in Arlington Heights." It took no more than that to turn the entire conversation to all of the past incidents of memory.
He asked me to take him to the Rosemont CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) station, about 10 miles away toward the city. I forgot to make a turn that would have brought him to his destination a bit sooner, due to traffic, and so we wound up staying on Northwest Highway, running parallel to the Metra Northwest line's tracks most of the way. When we drove through Des Plaines, there was easily double the number of stranded people than I had seen at Mt. Prospect. "I know which way I'm heading back," I said to my customer.
Rosemont is about 10 minutes — with rush hour traffic — south of Des Plaines. I dropped off my customer in Rosemont, and the fare came to $20 exactly, and he gave me a four dollar tip. I headed back to Des Plaines. A block past the Des Plaines Metra station, I picked up two men who wanted to go to Arlington Park, the station that sits across a parking lot from the Arlington Park horse racing track, and which is the next station beyond Arlington Heights, where the incident had occurred - $25.60 plus a three dollar tip.
At Arlington Park I was hailed by a gentleman who asked me to take him to the Barrington station, which is two or three stops northwest of Arlington Heights - $22.00 plus a four dollar tip. The trains had begun moving again, after nearly three hours of delay.
From Barrington, I drove empty all the way back to Arlington Heights, where I was flagged down by an attractive young Polish woman who had apparently been blown off by a cab she had called for. Arlington Heights was her stop, and she just needed a ride home to Rolling Meadows - nine dollars, plus a 4 dollar tip.
By the time I ended my Friday, I had exceeded my goal by nearly fifty percent. A man had died, but in the relative chaos his death had caused, I saw opportunity standing in rows along the street.
Something about this makes me feel dirty.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
"Shrink Rap"
The first one is up and running!
Rennratt, if you could contact your viral buddies and have them work their magic, it would be awresome!
Rennratt, if you could contact your viral buddies and have them work their magic, it would be awresome!
Sunday, January 01, 2012
The Dawn of a Great Friendship
Back when I was a wee lad, a mere sophomore in high school, I thought I was pretty damn funny. Strange how little things change. But anyhoo, I found myself sitting in Sophomore English class, smack in the middle of the classroom. I was too shy to sit up front — especially since I had a huge crush on the teacher, Ms. Lloyd, and I was ever fearful of what might “pop up,” you know, being a teenage boy and all.
But I digress.
And I was too much a goody-two-shoes to sit in the back of the classroom with all the kids who were too cool to sit anywhere but in the back of the classroom.
Sophomore English was a school year divided by study tracks. One track was composition, another was Greek mythology, another was Speech, I think. There may have been others, but I don’t remember. I moved into Ms. Lloyd’s classroom mid-year as I started the composition track. I found this education style uncomfortable because, after a school quarter or so in one class, I had grown comfortable with a certain routine, certain friends, a certain class pecking order, as it were, and then we were all uprooted, shaken up and placed in a new situation to sort through all over again. Welcome in the part of my life that I’m in now, but as a painfully self-conscious teen it was very stressful.
On the first day in Ms. Lloyd’s class, during the roll-call, among the names she called out was Sam Lapin. The kid next to me raised his hand. “Here.”
My best friend, Lu, had told me about this kid, Sam Lapin, told me how funny this kid was, how clever he was. This was my best friend, telling me — pretty damn funny me — since junior high — how funny this Sam Lapin kid was. Until that day I had never met Sam Lapin, though I had seen a kid on the playground and in the halls who I thought was Sam Lapin, and I despised the very sight of the kid, not to mention the very mention of his name. And here he was, sitting right next to me in English class. Only the kid sitting next to me answering to the name Sam Lapin wasn’t Sam Lapin, or at least the kid who I had thought was Sam Lapin up to that point!
Okay, so I had to get used to a new face to associate with the name of the kid I hated for no other reason than my best friend’s accolades.
As time went on in the class, Ms. Lloyd proved to be a very good sport — if not an easy target — for my brand of humor (hence my eventual crush...plus she was nice to look at), which is very word-nerd oriented. My brand of humor relies heavily on plays on words and taking words from someone else’s mouth in their alternate contexts.
But the thing I noticed was that, at every moment I found to blurt out some wise-crack based on Ms. Lloyd’s words, Sam Lapin from right next to me, blurted out a wise-crack, too. Not only that, but he often said the same thing I did. I mean the same thing, word for word, which caused both of us to look at each other and laugh with, I’m certain, the same look of bewildermazement on our faces! And whenever we didn’t blurt out at the same time, he proved to be as pretty damn funny as my best friend, Lu, had told me he was! In turn, Sam Lapin found my solo quips to be worthy of a good laugh.
In short time I no longer bore any animosity toward this Sam Lapin, but we shared the spotlight in cracking up each other and our fellow classmates and — yes — Ms. Lloyd! One day Sam made the first effort to forge a friendship — detailed in another blog post to come — and to this day we remain good friends, despite our infrequent correspondence and even less frequent face time, as we now live in places about 600 miles apart.
But our shining moment as the comedy duo Sam & Tony came late in the school year. I’d like to think Ms. Lloyd had something to do with Sam and me winding up in her classroom for the entire rest of the school year as the English tracks changed, but it may have just been lucky coincidence.
Sam’s trademark wise-crack move was to respond whenever a teacher — after explaining a concept or procedure — would pose the open-ended question to the class, “Are there any questions?”
Every time — and I mean every time — Sam would raise his hand. And the teacher would point to him. “Sam?”
And every time Sam would ask the question, “What’s the capital of North Dakota?” It mattered not what the topic of discussion was; that was Sam’s question.
As I said, Ms. Lloyd was a loving, trusting easy target for guys like Sam and me, and every time she asked the question and Sam raised his hand, she fell for it. Every. Time. But one.
Late in the school year she finished a discussion of a topic or a set of instructions, I remember not which, and she asked the inevitable, “Are there any questions?”
Sam raised his hand.
Ms. Lloyd got this expression on her face, a sort of bemused smile-smirk, as she looked at Sam and said, “Not you, Sam--” She was on to him and she finally hadn’t taken the bait! Instinct took over, and I raised my hand as she finished telling Sam with a chuckle in her voice, “--I’m not falling for it this time!” And then she shifted her gaze to me. “Tony?”
Fighting a laugh at my own clever self and barely managing the words, I said, “What’s the capital of North Dakota?”
The whole class erupted in laughter — or at least I like to remember that they did, but they might have been so tired of our shit by that point that they didn’t bother to hear us — and Ms. Lloyd hung her head in defeat. I’m certain Sam knew what was going to come out of my mouth the moment Ms. Lloyd called on me, and his laugh was the loudest in the class.
For many years after we graduated Sam and I maintained a friendship with — and I my crush on — Ms. Lloyd, sending or bringing her a Snickers bar every year on her birthday, an inside joke the origin of which I no longer remember.
I lost contact with Ms. Lloyd only about 10 years ago, a good 20 years after my graduation from high school. A Facebook search seems to be in order.
And to the person who was that kid I thought was Sam Lapin from 7th grade into the first semester of sophomore year, whoever you are… I’m sorry for all the dirty looks and mean thoughts I sent your way.
°
But I digress.
And I was too much a goody-two-shoes to sit in the back of the classroom with all the kids who were too cool to sit anywhere but in the back of the classroom.
Sophomore English was a school year divided by study tracks. One track was composition, another was Greek mythology, another was Speech, I think. There may have been others, but I don’t remember. I moved into Ms. Lloyd’s classroom mid-year as I started the composition track. I found this education style uncomfortable because, after a school quarter or so in one class, I had grown comfortable with a certain routine, certain friends, a certain class pecking order, as it were, and then we were all uprooted, shaken up and placed in a new situation to sort through all over again. Welcome in the part of my life that I’m in now, but as a painfully self-conscious teen it was very stressful.
On the first day in Ms. Lloyd’s class, during the roll-call, among the names she called out was Sam Lapin. The kid next to me raised his hand. “Here.”
My best friend, Lu, had told me about this kid, Sam Lapin, told me how funny this kid was, how clever he was. This was my best friend, telling me — pretty damn funny me — since junior high — how funny this Sam Lapin kid was. Until that day I had never met Sam Lapin, though I had seen a kid on the playground and in the halls who I thought was Sam Lapin, and I despised the very sight of the kid, not to mention the very mention of his name. And here he was, sitting right next to me in English class. Only the kid sitting next to me answering to the name Sam Lapin wasn’t Sam Lapin, or at least the kid who I had thought was Sam Lapin up to that point!
Okay, so I had to get used to a new face to associate with the name of the kid I hated for no other reason than my best friend’s accolades.
As time went on in the class, Ms. Lloyd proved to be a very good sport — if not an easy target — for my brand of humor (hence my eventual crush...plus she was nice to look at), which is very word-nerd oriented. My brand of humor relies heavily on plays on words and taking words from someone else’s mouth in their alternate contexts.
But the thing I noticed was that, at every moment I found to blurt out some wise-crack based on Ms. Lloyd’s words, Sam Lapin from right next to me, blurted out a wise-crack, too. Not only that, but he often said the same thing I did. I mean the same thing, word for word, which caused both of us to look at each other and laugh with, I’m certain, the same look of bewildermazement on our faces! And whenever we didn’t blurt out at the same time, he proved to be as pretty damn funny as my best friend, Lu, had told me he was! In turn, Sam Lapin found my solo quips to be worthy of a good laugh.
In short time I no longer bore any animosity toward this Sam Lapin, but we shared the spotlight in cracking up each other and our fellow classmates and — yes — Ms. Lloyd! One day Sam made the first effort to forge a friendship — detailed in another blog post to come — and to this day we remain good friends, despite our infrequent correspondence and even less frequent face time, as we now live in places about 600 miles apart.
But our shining moment as the comedy duo Sam & Tony came late in the school year. I’d like to think Ms. Lloyd had something to do with Sam and me winding up in her classroom for the entire rest of the school year as the English tracks changed, but it may have just been lucky coincidence.
Sam’s trademark wise-crack move was to respond whenever a teacher — after explaining a concept or procedure — would pose the open-ended question to the class, “Are there any questions?”
Every time — and I mean every time — Sam would raise his hand. And the teacher would point to him. “Sam?”
And every time Sam would ask the question, “What’s the capital of North Dakota?” It mattered not what the topic of discussion was; that was Sam’s question.
As I said, Ms. Lloyd was a loving, trusting easy target for guys like Sam and me, and every time she asked the question and Sam raised his hand, she fell for it. Every. Time. But one.
Late in the school year she finished a discussion of a topic or a set of instructions, I remember not which, and she asked the inevitable, “Are there any questions?”
Sam raised his hand.
Ms. Lloyd got this expression on her face, a sort of bemused smile-smirk, as she looked at Sam and said, “Not you, Sam--” She was on to him and she finally hadn’t taken the bait! Instinct took over, and I raised my hand as she finished telling Sam with a chuckle in her voice, “--I’m not falling for it this time!” And then she shifted her gaze to me. “Tony?”
Fighting a laugh at my own clever self and barely managing the words, I said, “What’s the capital of North Dakota?”
The whole class erupted in laughter — or at least I like to remember that they did, but they might have been so tired of our shit by that point that they didn’t bother to hear us — and Ms. Lloyd hung her head in defeat. I’m certain Sam knew what was going to come out of my mouth the moment Ms. Lloyd called on me, and his laugh was the loudest in the class.
For many years after we graduated Sam and I maintained a friendship with — and I my crush on — Ms. Lloyd, sending or bringing her a Snickers bar every year on her birthday, an inside joke the origin of which I no longer remember.
I lost contact with Ms. Lloyd only about 10 years ago, a good 20 years after my graduation from high school. A Facebook search seems to be in order.
And to the person who was that kid I thought was Sam Lapin from 7th grade into the first semester of sophomore year, whoever you are… I’m sorry for all the dirty looks and mean thoughts I sent your way.
°
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Poison in a Pretty Package
Prejudice is alive and well in Chicago. I was dispatched to the Mt. Prospect train station to pick up two passengers under the name Prasalli at 9:00pm. Usually, when it's a time order at a train station, the passenger is coming in on a train.
I arrived at the station around 8:55. The night after Christmas was cool, damp and rainy, with a light drizzle falling as I waited. At 9:00 nearly on the dot two young women approached from the station house and got into my cab. Since no train had pulled in yet, I verified that they were my customers.
"Hi. Did you call for a taxi?"
They were both young, probably college age, both very attractive. They both responded at once. The brunette said, "Yes."
The blond replied, "Who are you?"
"You did call for a taxi?"
Blond said, "We called one of our friends. What's your name?"
I told her my name. "I'm waiting for a customer who ordered this taxi. What's the name you gave when you called?"
Blond said, "Erin."
"Well that's not the name I have on my order."
Blond asked, "What's the name you have?"
Brunette said, "Doesn't matter. He can't take us."
"Prasalli," I replied.
The confused conversation continued, and they told me that they had a couple of taxi drivers they use regularly.
"We find the good guys we like, and we call them when we need rides so we don't get any ...weirdos. You know what I mean?"
I was pretty sure I knew what she meant.
They chatted on and told me that one of their best friends had just died, and that one of their taxi driver friends was apparently coming to get them in an unmarked green van, which Blond was uncertain about getting into. I told them that, as it was now after the scheduled time for my customers' pickup, there was a good chance they wouldn't show, and I could take the ladies to Palatine after all. Resigned to the likelihood that I wasn't available to take them to Palatine, two towns up to the northwest along the rail line, they got out.
The railroad crossing gates came down, signaling the approach of a train from Chicago. The two young women approached me again.
,
They both were under the delusion that my incoming customers were a woman, named Priscilla. Blond seemed to be in charge, or at least the stronger personality. "Where is this Priscilla going?"
"Wheeling," I replied, about a ten-minute drive north from the train station.
"Do you think maybe we could ride in your cab with them to wherever they're going, and then you could take us to Palatine?" she asked.
"That's up to my customers," I replied. "If they're cool with sharing, then I have no problem with it, but you'll have to ask them."
Moments later, train in the station, there was a knock on my driver's window. A dark-skinned man with straight hair combed and parted on one side, and sporting a mustache asked me, "Wheeling?"
"Did you call for a taxi?"
"Yes," he replied, his crisp Indian accent evident even in one brief word.
"What name did you leave on the order?"
"Prasani."
It was close enough to "Prasalli" to call it a match, so I told him and the woman who accompanied him that they could get in my car. I mentioned to them that the two young women standing now about 20 yards away from the taxi were interested in sharing a ride, though I'm not sure Mr. Prasani understood what I was saying.
I rolled down the window and called to the women. "Do you still want to share the ride?"
"No, we're good."
I find it amusing that they were willing to do just about anything to get a ride right up until they saw that their car mates were Indian, no doubt the kind of "weirdos" they were so concerned about having as their taxi driver in the random taxi lottery into which calling for a taxi enters you.
So I drove Mr. Prasani and his companion to their destination in Wheeling, all the while contemplating a return to the Mt. Prospect train station on the slim chance that those two young women would still be there. I mean, they were attractive, I am a horny middle aged man and I did want to be a hero. But the more I thought about it, the more disgusted with them I became that they had a change of heart when they saw who they thought was "Priscilla" actually was. So I said screw 'em! I am bound by the laws of this state to serve all customers, regardless of race, ethnicity or gender. If those women had gotten into my otherwise available car spewing racial hatred, I would have had to take them wherever they wanted to go. However, the circumstances as they were, I was not bound in any way to head back to get them, to save them from the rain.
No, as a matter of fact that thought quite pleased me!
I arrived at the station around 8:55. The night after Christmas was cool, damp and rainy, with a light drizzle falling as I waited. At 9:00 nearly on the dot two young women approached from the station house and got into my cab. Since no train had pulled in yet, I verified that they were my customers.
"Hi. Did you call for a taxi?"
They were both young, probably college age, both very attractive. They both responded at once. The brunette said, "Yes."
The blond replied, "Who are you?"
"You did call for a taxi?"
Blond said, "We called one of our friends. What's your name?"
I told her my name. "I'm waiting for a customer who ordered this taxi. What's the name you gave when you called?"
Blond said, "Erin."
"Well that's not the name I have on my order."
Blond asked, "What's the name you have?"
Brunette said, "Doesn't matter. He can't take us."
"Prasalli," I replied.
The confused conversation continued, and they told me that they had a couple of taxi drivers they use regularly.
"We find the good guys we like, and we call them when we need rides so we don't get any ...weirdos. You know what I mean?"
I was pretty sure I knew what she meant.
They chatted on and told me that one of their best friends had just died, and that one of their taxi driver friends was apparently coming to get them in an unmarked green van, which Blond was uncertain about getting into. I told them that, as it was now after the scheduled time for my customers' pickup, there was a good chance they wouldn't show, and I could take the ladies to Palatine after all. Resigned to the likelihood that I wasn't available to take them to Palatine, two towns up to the northwest along the rail line, they got out.
The railroad crossing gates came down, signaling the approach of a train from Chicago. The two young women approached me again.
,
They both were under the delusion that my incoming customers were a woman, named Priscilla. Blond seemed to be in charge, or at least the stronger personality. "Where is this Priscilla going?"
"Wheeling," I replied, about a ten-minute drive north from the train station.
"Do you think maybe we could ride in your cab with them to wherever they're going, and then you could take us to Palatine?" she asked.
"That's up to my customers," I replied. "If they're cool with sharing, then I have no problem with it, but you'll have to ask them."
Moments later, train in the station, there was a knock on my driver's window. A dark-skinned man with straight hair combed and parted on one side, and sporting a mustache asked me, "Wheeling?"
"Did you call for a taxi?"
"Yes," he replied, his crisp Indian accent evident even in one brief word.
"What name did you leave on the order?"
"Prasani."
It was close enough to "Prasalli" to call it a match, so I told him and the woman who accompanied him that they could get in my car. I mentioned to them that the two young women standing now about 20 yards away from the taxi were interested in sharing a ride, though I'm not sure Mr. Prasani understood what I was saying.
I rolled down the window and called to the women. "Do you still want to share the ride?"
"No, we're good."
I find it amusing that they were willing to do just about anything to get a ride right up until they saw that their car mates were Indian, no doubt the kind of "weirdos" they were so concerned about having as their taxi driver in the random taxi lottery into which calling for a taxi enters you.
So I drove Mr. Prasani and his companion to their destination in Wheeling, all the while contemplating a return to the Mt. Prospect train station on the slim chance that those two young women would still be there. I mean, they were attractive, I am a horny middle aged man and I did want to be a hero. But the more I thought about it, the more disgusted with them I became that they had a change of heart when they saw who they thought was "Priscilla" actually was. So I said screw 'em! I am bound by the laws of this state to serve all customers, regardless of race, ethnicity or gender. If those women had gotten into my otherwise available car spewing racial hatred, I would have had to take them wherever they wanted to go. However, the circumstances as they were, I was not bound in any way to head back to get them, to save them from the rain.
No, as a matter of fact that thought quite pleased me!
Monday, December 26, 2011
Magic Memory
I wish I was a pure atheist, one who never knew what it's like to have felt a duty to a god or a church and their corresponding patterns of behavior. Because those things have left a mark on me, on my cerebral cortex, my instinctive brain. I often call religious indoctrination "brainwashing," and this is why; the trained instinct of belief. It's brainwashing because - despite the rational, reasoned thought that tells me there's no magical, invisible entity holding the universe in the palm of his hand, who knows my every thought and that of every other thinking being in the universe - in unguarded moments I still catch myself thinking of my mother "in heaven," or my father "looking down on me" and approving or disapproving. It's brainwashing because - despite years - decades, now - of consciously brushing off those ideas into the dust-pile of fairly tale - I still can't unthink the thoughts that swim up from the depths of my childhood indoctrination.
Yes, to be free of that ready, instinctive compulsion to regard an active, populous spirit world would be refreshing. To have never felt beholden to a god, a prophet and that guy behind the screen every Sunday would be liberating. But those childhood memories are also responsible for the warm feelings I still get at Christmas time, for the anticipation for Christmas day, when it seems as though the world goes quiet; for the warmth I feel when I hear the songs - reverent or secular (one has to admit, whether a believer or not, that the concept of the nativity of Jesus Christ has inspired some great songs!); for the comfort of the closeness of family and the anticipation of the great food and lively conversation in their proximity.
I guess it's pointless to wish for the things I'll never have, or to be what I can't be, for they're things done that can't be undone. Not without a frontal lobotomy, anyway. And, now that I think of it, I guess I've had the best of both worlds; to a kid - the kid I was - the magic, the fantasy, is real. With age, reason ruled out, and I'd hate to imagine myself a slave to that kind of doctrine, but, with a head still full of those magic moments, looking back has a magic all its own.
*
Yes, to be free of that ready, instinctive compulsion to regard an active, populous spirit world would be refreshing. To have never felt beholden to a god, a prophet and that guy behind the screen every Sunday would be liberating. But those childhood memories are also responsible for the warm feelings I still get at Christmas time, for the anticipation for Christmas day, when it seems as though the world goes quiet; for the warmth I feel when I hear the songs - reverent or secular (one has to admit, whether a believer or not, that the concept of the nativity of Jesus Christ has inspired some great songs!); for the comfort of the closeness of family and the anticipation of the great food and lively conversation in their proximity.
I guess it's pointless to wish for the things I'll never have, or to be what I can't be, for they're things done that can't be undone. Not without a frontal lobotomy, anyway. And, now that I think of it, I guess I've had the best of both worlds; to a kid - the kid I was - the magic, the fantasy, is real. With age, reason ruled out, and I'd hate to imagine myself a slave to that kind of doctrine, but, with a head still full of those magic moments, looking back has a magic all its own.
*
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Joint Ownership
I get pretty tired of the people who cry foul about how "we" are taking Christ out of Christmas. Nobody is taking Christ out of Christmas. He's right there where he has always been all along. It's the first two thirds of the damn word!
Nobody is taking Christ out of Christmas. If you haven't noticed by now, here in this melting pot society we call the United States of America, there are more religions than just the Christian ones, and more than just the Christian religions that happen to have high holy days that fall during this time of year. And you know something? Those celebrations are not called "Christmas!" The Jews have Hanukkah, for instance. The pagans — should you happen to consider paganism a religion (I don't) — hold special relevance for the winter solstice, which happens a couple days before Christmas. Every. Frikkin. Year. I'm no expert, but I'm sure there are other groups who observe something special at this time of year, too.
So when collective society at this time of year gushes with "Happy Holidays!" they ... we ... are not taking Christ out of Christmas. We're taking Christ out of Hanukkah, out of the solstice, out of the grand sauce festival of the fellowship of the flying spaghetti monster... wherever Christ is not observed or cherished or wanted. This time of year is not owned by Christians, so don't get so bent out of shape when I don't want Christ to be a part of my celebration, yet I want to honor or respect you — and everyone else who is celebrating something at this time of year — by gushing, "Happy Holidays!"
Just as you wouldn't want me to come to a Christmas party at your church and scream "Praise be to Richard Dawkins!" no Jew is going to be too crazy with you crashing his family's Hanukkah observance and shouting "Jesus is the reason for the season!"
Understand that when your local TV station runs a station ID that reads and blurts, "Happy Holidays!" you and your savior are included respectfully along with everyone else whose religion or belief system finds these days to be something special.
Celebrate Christ in your home and your church, let everyone else celebrate in their own way in their own place, and just shut up already about the generic public acknowledgment of "everyone's" reverence for this time of year!
Nobody is taking Christ out of Christmas. If you haven't noticed by now, here in this melting pot society we call the United States of America, there are more religions than just the Christian ones, and more than just the Christian religions that happen to have high holy days that fall during this time of year. And you know something? Those celebrations are not called "Christmas!" The Jews have Hanukkah, for instance. The pagans — should you happen to consider paganism a religion (I don't) — hold special relevance for the winter solstice, which happens a couple days before Christmas. Every. Frikkin. Year. I'm no expert, but I'm sure there are other groups who observe something special at this time of year, too.
So when collective society at this time of year gushes with "Happy Holidays!" they ... we ... are not taking Christ out of Christmas. We're taking Christ out of Hanukkah, out of the solstice, out of the grand sauce festival of the fellowship of the flying spaghetti monster... wherever Christ is not observed or cherished or wanted. This time of year is not owned by Christians, so don't get so bent out of shape when I don't want Christ to be a part of my celebration, yet I want to honor or respect you — and everyone else who is celebrating something at this time of year — by gushing, "Happy Holidays!"
Just as you wouldn't want me to come to a Christmas party at your church and scream "Praise be to Richard Dawkins!" no Jew is going to be too crazy with you crashing his family's Hanukkah observance and shouting "Jesus is the reason for the season!"
Understand that when your local TV station runs a station ID that reads and blurts, "Happy Holidays!" you and your savior are included respectfully along with everyone else whose religion or belief system finds these days to be something special.
Celebrate Christ in your home and your church, let everyone else celebrate in their own way in their own place, and just shut up already about the generic public acknowledgment of "everyone's" reverence for this time of year!
Sunday, November 27, 2011
In Bidness!
Well, Stuff Enterprises, LLC, is off and running, and earning a buck. It's not any time soon on the Forbes 100 list, but I'm paying the rent...so far. I don't know that there is a businessperson anywhere who can truly say he's done it all himself, because when it comes to all the crap involved in setting up a business legally, a businessperson would just give up and hold a cup on a street corner for a daily meal.
My savior has been Chris, the accountant-cum-HR-cum-taxes whiz at my former employer. She has helped me cross the I's and dot the T's and had me sign the forms that the state and Fed need in order to properly get their claws on my earnings.
It was on her advice that I shifted my personal status from independent contractor to employee. Of Stuff Enterprises, LLC. The company I own. So, yes, I am the owner and president of the company. And I am the sole employee of the company! The reason behind this setup is to protect myself from any potential lawsuits that may arise as a result of my operation of the taxi. Should that happen, the company is the legal target, and any damages or seizure of assets is exacted upon the company, and not me, personally. As an independent contractor leasing the taxi from my company, I would still be individually liable in the event of any legal action. So I exercised my Employer Identification Number and became a job creator! Though, admittedly, the hiring process involved an unfair amount of favoritism....
As a tax deadline loomed in October, Chris called me in to finalize and sign some paperwork. And she said to bring my checkbook...which sounded ominous.
I arrived, and she explained a few things, and gave me some forms to sign, among them an IRS form authorizing the service to withdraw a fixed amount monthly as payroll tax, based on a salary that I'm paying myself.
I'M PAYING MYSELF A SALARY!
I asked her if this IRS fixed amount was the amount for which I needed to write the check, and she said that it was not, and that it was going to be withdrawn electronically from my business checking account.
She also advised me to consider changing my company from a Limited Liability Company to an S Corporation — which I did not know I was eligible to do — in an effort to save a little on taxes annually. We're going to wait on that decision until the new year.
Then she presented me with another form, and pointed to the amount on that sheet as the amount I needed to write on the check — an amount which, for this month, anyway, was anything but ominous.
"This form is the Unemployment Insurance form. As an employer, you have to provide this for your employees. As an employer, should you close the doors on Stuff Enterprises and go out of business, as an employee you can collect unemployment."
The spoon in her coffee cup rattled when my chin hit the desk. In the freaky world of entrepreneurial endeavor, I am no longer unemployed. And while I am self-employed, I am no longer self-employed.
My next question for Chris is to wonder if Stuff Enterprises, LLC, can have a summer work slowdown and subsequent layoff for, say, a month or two....
I also want to remove the name "Stuff Enterprises" from the taxi business, as I also operate — in principle, anyway — a video production company. I want Stuff Enterprises to be the parent company of the others, so I need a new name for the taxi operation. My favorite, because it actually sounds like my family name — Gasbarro — is "Casbah Row Transport Company," though I fear it may mislead one to think I'm Algerian.
Of course, I could call it "Casbah Row Airport Passengery," and go by "CRAP" for short.
OR, I could take suggestions. From you. Serious ideas accepted, too!
My savior has been Chris, the accountant-cum-HR-cum-taxes whiz at my former employer. She has helped me cross the I's and dot the T's and had me sign the forms that the state and Fed need in order to properly get their claws on my earnings.
It was on her advice that I shifted my personal status from independent contractor to employee. Of Stuff Enterprises, LLC. The company I own. So, yes, I am the owner and president of the company. And I am the sole employee of the company! The reason behind this setup is to protect myself from any potential lawsuits that may arise as a result of my operation of the taxi. Should that happen, the company is the legal target, and any damages or seizure of assets is exacted upon the company, and not me, personally. As an independent contractor leasing the taxi from my company, I would still be individually liable in the event of any legal action. So I exercised my Employer Identification Number and became a job creator! Though, admittedly, the hiring process involved an unfair amount of favoritism....
As a tax deadline loomed in October, Chris called me in to finalize and sign some paperwork. And she said to bring my checkbook...which sounded ominous.
I arrived, and she explained a few things, and gave me some forms to sign, among them an IRS form authorizing the service to withdraw a fixed amount monthly as payroll tax, based on a salary that I'm paying myself.
I'M PAYING MYSELF A SALARY!
I asked her if this IRS fixed amount was the amount for which I needed to write the check, and she said that it was not, and that it was going to be withdrawn electronically from my business checking account.
She also advised me to consider changing my company from a Limited Liability Company to an S Corporation — which I did not know I was eligible to do — in an effort to save a little on taxes annually. We're going to wait on that decision until the new year.
Then she presented me with another form, and pointed to the amount on that sheet as the amount I needed to write on the check — an amount which, for this month, anyway, was anything but ominous.
"This form is the Unemployment Insurance form. As an employer, you have to provide this for your employees. As an employer, should you close the doors on Stuff Enterprises and go out of business, as an employee you can collect unemployment."
The spoon in her coffee cup rattled when my chin hit the desk. In the freaky world of entrepreneurial endeavor, I am no longer unemployed. And while I am self-employed, I am no longer self-employed.
My next question for Chris is to wonder if Stuff Enterprises, LLC, can have a summer work slowdown and subsequent layoff for, say, a month or two....
I also want to remove the name "Stuff Enterprises" from the taxi business, as I also operate — in principle, anyway — a video production company. I want Stuff Enterprises to be the parent company of the others, so I need a new name for the taxi operation. My favorite, because it actually sounds like my family name — Gasbarro — is "Casbah Row Transport Company," though I fear it may mislead one to think I'm Algerian.
Of course, I could call it "Casbah Row Airport Passengery," and go by "CRAP" for short.
OR, I could take suggestions. From you. Serious ideas accepted, too!
November's Urge ~ November Surge?
This author has been very extremely remiss with this blog, and with reading others' blogs. However, judging by the number of blogs in my "Better Blogs Than Mine" that have gone dark, I am not alone in this.
I can blame any number of factors in my life right now for the word blight, but they all come back to me, eventually. The taxi job, of course, takes up a lot of my time. Where I had originally thought that I could use all of the down time in the car for writing, I soon realized that working nights — and the down time that came with it — translated to slow financial death: I wasn't making any money. So I switched to days and began to enjoy the busyness that shift brings... and my writing suffered.
I also leapt back into theatre — with a vengeance, to my exhaustion — and every last moment of potentially free time was taken up.
This past summer I purchased my own taxi with the hopes that lightening my burden of the steep weekly lease payment would also free up some of my time. Of course, I have been in hiatus from theatre work since the spring due to the impending move in the fall, so that free time was fleeting at best. But ownership of my taxi, in conjunction with my move into a lower monthly rent, has made it possible for me to function entirely without leaning on my retirement IRA for supplemental cash, as I had been doing since shortly after I lost my job in 2009...IF I work the hours of an indentured servant.
I always lament at how far behind the curve I am with movies, so I have renewed my slog through my Netflix queue, another activity that sucks my time away from writing.
And I will do no more than mention "Words With Friends."
My photo blog even died a lonely death. I would link to it, but what's the point? It hasn't seen a contribution since July, and nothing short of a monumental effort (for which I have no time, surprise, surprise!) can resuscitate it.
So I can do nothing more than promise to try (how's that for evasive?) to write more in future. Perhaps there will be a real, serious New Year's resolution involved. The shame of it is that I call myself a writer, yet every opportunity I have to write I have filled with other activities. And sorry, Tony, the discovery during "Words With Friends" that "BICE" is actually a word does not count as writing.
I can blame any number of factors in my life right now for the word blight, but they all come back to me, eventually. The taxi job, of course, takes up a lot of my time. Where I had originally thought that I could use all of the down time in the car for writing, I soon realized that working nights — and the down time that came with it — translated to slow financial death: I wasn't making any money. So I switched to days and began to enjoy the busyness that shift brings... and my writing suffered.
I also leapt back into theatre — with a vengeance, to my exhaustion — and every last moment of potentially free time was taken up.
This past summer I purchased my own taxi with the hopes that lightening my burden of the steep weekly lease payment would also free up some of my time. Of course, I have been in hiatus from theatre work since the spring due to the impending move in the fall, so that free time was fleeting at best. But ownership of my taxi, in conjunction with my move into a lower monthly rent, has made it possible for me to function entirely without leaning on my retirement IRA for supplemental cash, as I had been doing since shortly after I lost my job in 2009...IF I work the hours of an indentured servant.
I always lament at how far behind the curve I am with movies, so I have renewed my slog through my Netflix queue, another activity that sucks my time away from writing.
And I will do no more than mention "Words With Friends."
My photo blog even died a lonely death. I would link to it, but what's the point? It hasn't seen a contribution since July, and nothing short of a monumental effort (for which I have no time, surprise, surprise!) can resuscitate it.
So I can do nothing more than promise to try (how's that for evasive?) to write more in future. Perhaps there will be a real, serious New Year's resolution involved. The shame of it is that I call myself a writer, yet every opportunity I have to write I have filled with other activities. And sorry, Tony, the discovery during "Words With Friends" that "BICE" is actually a word does not count as writing.
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