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Accounting Nightmares

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Some Things Just Won’t Reconcile

Some Things Just Won’t Reconcile

Even though my first memories are of childhood nightmares, my dreaming has, over the last few decades, been remarkably free of anything scary. Those first nightmares, however, were real wowsers: In response to toilet training, I would be stuck in the bathroom with the walls closing in on me with the sound of a steam engine. Or there were the times I was being chased around our home on East 120th Street by a lion.

Since I started working in accounting, I have had a different type of dream—particularly when I am facing some problem of whose resolution I am uncertain. Right now, I am trying to analyze the sales of government securities that just don’t seem to reconcile. First of all, there are Fannie Mae investments with a monthly Return of Principal, which I am not sure is being accurately registered in the brokerage statements. And then there was the mistaken sale of three securities that had already been sold earlier that month in the same statement. What was even stranger was that, when the sale was canceled, in each case it was assessed at a different value than the value at the time of “re-sale.”.

When I have trouble dropping off to sleep, I occasionally revisit these technical problems; and the numbers swirl around and around in my head. Sometimes, in my half-sleep, I come up with brilliant solutions. Almost always, I gain some insight, even though I lose some sleep in the process.

If you were to ask me, I think I would prefer the extra sleep.

 

The Man Who Walked Through Time

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ColinFletcher

Colin Fletcher (1922-2007)

Today I got into a conversation with my co-workers on the subject of footwear. It’s not something I talk about very much, so I surprised myself how much I was influenced by the thinking of one man some thirty years ago. The man was Colin Fletcher, an indefatigable hiker who wrote several books about his long walks, most notably:

  • The Thousand Mile Summer (1964) about a walk from Southern California by the Mexican border all the way to the Oregon border—along the ridge line of the Sierras.
  • The Man Who Walked Through Time (1968) about his hike along the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon.
  • The Complete Walker (several editions) in which he talks about the gear you need (and what you don’t need) to walk long distances.
  • The Man from the Cave (1981), about his researches tracking down a man who lived in a cave in the Desert Southwest and left many of his belongings behind.

From Fletcher, I learned to wear only socks that have wool content, the more the better. And I learned to buy only those shoes whose soles and heels would wear like iron—which is why I am partial to Rockport walking shoes and various well designed hiking boots and shoes.

For many years, shoe salesman lied to me about my size. At best, I wear a size 9-1/2 shoe (American) EEE, though I can wear a 10 EE. Most shoe stores, however, stock only D-width shoes. Rather than lose the sale, they will sell me a size 10-1/2 D or even an 11 D, which leaves about two inches of storage space between my toes and the leading edge of the shoe or boot. Needless to say, I avoid shoe stores like the plague. It’s L.L. Bean or OnlineShoes.Com for me.

Being reminded of Colin Fletcher, whom I had forgotten for so long, I remember the happy hours I spent reading his books and paying close attention to his advice. Much of his hiking advice is now a bit dated because of the recent influx of new materials that have revolutionized the gear situation for camping and hiking, but the basic information was solid; and Colin tested it all himself the hard way.

If you can find any of Fletcher’s books, you may well find yourself falling under the man’s spell. I particularly recommend the first, second, and fourth books I listed above. The Complete Walker needs to be substantially revised, though I have no plans to get rid of my fourth edition copy.

The Hundred Days of Hell

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Nothing But H-E-Double Toothpicks!

Nothing But H-E-Double Toothpicks!

Between now and April 15, the IRS deadline for tax submissions, we in the accounting profession are trying to survive what I call the Hundred Days of Hell. It will be more so this year because of the dilatory tactics of the baboons in Congress over the so-called fiscal cliff. They not only dragged that out, but the process led to a delay in the final design of hundreds of tax forms, with the result that the IRS cannot even process tax returns right now. Many will not be ready until March 1—and March 15 is a tax deadline for corporate tax returns.

At least we will not have as many days in tax season as last year. 2012 was a leap year, so we had February 29 to contend with. And then the tax deadline date was April 17, because April 15 fell on a Sunday, and April 16 is a holiday in the District of Columbia (“Emancipation Day”).

There will be days I will not be able to post any blogs because I am too busy at work and too tired once I step into my apartment. (Because I feel a furor scribendi virtually every day, I will try anyhow.)

 

44

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Another Birthday, Already? Jeez!

Another Birthday, Already? Jeez!

Again I survived! Today is my 44th birthday. Before you smirk, I now measure my age strictly in the hexadecimal numbering system, which counts 0, 1, 2, 3 and on to 9, A, B, C, D, E, and F. I think you will agree that it’s a much more flattering number, until the letters of the alphabet start showing up, making people say, “Hold on thar!” Of course, I won’t get to be 4A years old for another six years. By then, I may have to find a still more flattering number system—perhaps vigesimal (to the base twenty).

If you are not a computer wonk and want to find out how old I really am now—in the decimal numbering system— you just follow these simple steps:

  1. Take the number of Muses in Ancient Greek mythology.
  2. Add the number of the current Baktun in the Long Count of the Mayan Calendar.
  3. Multiply the result by the number of Theological Virtues in Catholic dogma.
  4. Add the number of scoops of raisins in every box of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran cereal.

There, that wasn’t so very difficult, was it? Easy as pi!

A Family Christmas

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Lori, Hilary, Danny, Jennifer, and Dan

Lori, Hilary, Danny, Jennifer, and Dan

I just returned from Palm Springs about an hour or two ago after spending one of the best Christmases in my adult life. My brother and sister-in-law rented a house in PS’s “Movie Colony” neighborhood.

Present were Dan and Lori, my brother and sister-in-law; Hilary, just returned from Guatemala by way of her home in Seattle; Danny, from L.A.’s South Bay; Jennifer, from San Diego; and Martine and me from West Los Angeles.

As you know, I tend to be something of a Grinch; but the events of the last five days have melted the residual ice that encased my heart. It was great fun talking with my nephew and nieces, and spending the days touring the Coachella Valley with Martine while the kids were involved in hiking, swimming in hot pools, and such like.

Martine and I got to visit the Living Desert Zoo and Botanical Gardens in Palm Desert, which we’ve seen two or three times before; the Palm Springs Air Museum, a labor of love by WW2 veterans; the Oasis Date Gardens in Thermal, California; and the Shields Date Gardens in Indio, California. (Yes, I guess I really do enjoy eating dates.)

In the days to come, I will post blogs about the first two places above, which I think are world-class tourist destinations. And I will try to write something about the Coachella Valley’s date palms.

In the meantime, I hope all of you had a Merry Christmas!

 

Down Time

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Palm Springs

Palm Springs

In a couple of hours, Martine and I will be heading to Palm Springs, where my brother and his family have rented a house for the holiday season. Because I do not happen to have a laptop computer. you will probably not hear from me until we return in a few days.

I plan to spend some quality time with my brother and his family, and to see some films and read some books. I will continue with my least likely Christmas book ever—Antony Beevor’s Stalingrad: The Fateful Siege 1942-1943, as well as some other reading interspersed.

We hope to visit one of our favorite zoos, The Living Desert in Palm Desert, which is also a botanical garden. (That, of course, depends on the weather, which is always dicey this time of year.)

So far the world has not ended yet, and it shows signs of persisting through the holidays. I’m sure a lot of people will end the day with egg on their faces, which is only right. As Monty Python warned us, “NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

I Make An Exception

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David Burks, Artistic Director and Conductor of the Torrance Civic Chorale

David Burks, Artistic Director and Conductor of the Torrance Civic Chorale

In general, I am not too fond of Christmas carols. I find them sappy and all too frequently a wheezy, whiny attempt to get shoppers to go into a buying frenzy. Mt annual exception is the Christmas concert of the Torrance Civic Chorale. Here there is no Little Drummer Boy PahRupUpUpPum, but rather an attempt to find the hidden heart of Christmas and Chanukah through music.

Under its genial and brilliant artistic director and conductor, David Burks, the Chorale has put on a series of concerts over the years that feature a combination of old standbys in new arrangements, medleys, and relatively unknown (to us) holiday music from around the world.This year featured the American premiere of “Wherever You Are,” a British carol referring to the enforced separation of families of Tommies during the Afghanistan conflict.

Martine and I started attending the concerts at the invitation of a good friend of ours who sings Second Soprano. But we wound up just loving the concerts as a heart-warming manifestation of the holiday spirit as we feel it should be—not the way it is in elevators and blaring over the speakers at shopping malls.

Shampoo Your Way to the Poorhouse

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So Many Shampoos, and So Expensive!

So Many Shampoos, and So Expensive!

For many years, I have been using relatively cheap, non- or minimally-scented shampoos. Every couple of years, my brand of choice disappears from the market. No doubt some junior vice president recommended adding desiccated rat turds and tripling the price, thereby guaranteeing himself a bonus and a promotion.

My latest choice has been Suave Naturals Aloe & Waterlily, which is reasonably cheap and not too stinky. But it is no longer being stocked at my local drugstore, so I will probably have to order some on the Internet. (Hmm, it looks as if WalMart is buying it up the entire production run.) In the meantime, if I run out too quickly, I’ll try another cheap brand, Alberto VO-5, to see if it’ll do as a stopgap.

The personal care industry really wants you to buy shampoo that costs upwards of six to ten dollars a bottle. Something that’s demographically targeted to the way you feel about your hair. As a male with unruly white hair of silky thinness, I am not too eager to try some witches’ potion that will burn what remains off my scalp. And I am not eager for anything that advertises “fragrance that lasts.” What the heck type of fragrance do sweet young things look for in a fat old guy with thinning white hair? Eau d’argent? How about durian or eggplant?

Things can get ridiculous quickly in the shampoo section of your market. Not surprisingly, the active ingredients in all shampoos are pretty much the same. What you pay for is something that will make you feel special, something that will separate you from the herd. Perhaps something with a touch of whooping crane or passenger pigeon. Or Vladimir Putin’s special Polonium Blend. Or essence of saffron. Something that will go with my titanium left hip and my love of the poems of George Mackay Brown.

Actually, all I really want is a clean head.

Read this blog by TreeHugger on the subject for some more interesting observations. Also, I hijacked the picture from his website. Sorry, guy!

Why I Don’t Text

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One Can Pick and Choose Which Technologies to Adopt

Is it because I’m older than dirt? Hmm, maybe, but it wouldn’t be the exact reason. The real reason is that I faced a major struggle to learn how to speak and write correct English.

It all started at Harvey Rice Elementary School in Cleveland, Ohio in January 1951. The school was at that time right in the middle of the largest Hungarian neighborhood in the United States. My parents and great grandmother did not speak English at home, so I was raised speaking Hungarian. (We didn’t have a television set until later.)

My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Idell, sent me home with a note pinned to my shirt saying “What language is this child speaking? Is there something wrong with him?” Duh! Mrs. Idell was teaching in the middle of a Hungarian neighborhood and had no idea of what Hungarian sounded like. How 1950s is that!

I wonder whether that was the main reason we moved to the suburbs in 1951 after my brother Dan was born.There, I attended St. Henry Elementary School on Harvard Avenue where I made fairly rapid strides in learning what was for me a new language. Where, in kindergarten, I was thought to be something of a retard, by Fifth Grade and onwards I was getting all As—particularly, I might add, in English. In fact, by the Eighth Grade, I was the only person in my class who could diagram complicated sentences by parts of speech. And I got a scholarship to Chanel High School in Bedford, Ohio (now called St. Peter Chanel).

With this background, I do not accept the abbreviations forced on texters, such as OMG, LOL, IMHO, YATFM, and wkewl. My idea of language is not a branch of shorthand: It is a medium for communication that attempts to be exact and even, whenever possible, elegant. I like varying my sentence architecture and even using words that might not be all that common. But I always search for the mot juste. And abbreviations and shorthand don’t qualify. I love Martine dearly, but I will not confuse her by saying 143 to her. Incidentally, it’s not the technology: it’s all the shortcuts I hate. I never even used any smileys in my e-mails, though I was e-mailing before many texters were even born.

At the risk of being thought an old fool (which imputation I will not necessarily dispute), I will continue to eschew technologies that vitiate the hard-won battles of my past life.

 

The Law of Diminishing Returns

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Are We Reaching the Limits of E-Mail?

Every time a new technology comes into being, it gets vitiated by overuse as an advertising medium. I remember back to the early days of junk mail, when it was still a novelty, and I was more willing to consider it as having some value. That included those little voting guides put out by Citizens For … or Taxpayers Against ….The last Presidential election turned me into a person who wound up tossing most of his junk mail without so much as a glance. The same thing is now happening with all those mail order catalogs from various Indian Missions and yuppie techno-device vendors. It’s relatively rare for me now to salvage more tha n one tenth of what ends up choking my mailbox.

That goes double for e-mail. I have learned to distrust e-mail—even from friends—unless it shows some sign of knowing who I am. Several of my good friends have had their computers taken over by Malware that sends me e-mails that contain nothing but a URL. No thanks: That’s like inviting a vampire into your house.

Then, too, there are companies in my industry that think it’s a great idea to send me half a dozen e-mails a day. Unless they are announcing a new release of their software that has to be downloaded, it all goes into the Delete folder toute suite. I get invited to more webinars every day than any human being can reasonably be expected to take, so into the Biz Bag with them as well.

I suspect that smart phones will soon become the next garbage overload medium. Although my cell phone is a very dumb phone, it’s gotten to the point that I do not even try to answer it any more. I figure that if it’s important, people will leave a Voice Mail message—and those I eventually check.

Such a pity that the hucksters wind up killing all the new technologies.