Dear Phinehas, I'm So Sorry.

Today the boss was completely preoccupied with philanthropic foundation work. He has a board meeting in Pacific Grove all weekend. Finding very little on my plate that could rightly be called "pressing," I set out to take care of some personal business that has been needing business-hours-only attention.

First, I had a bagel. I had been needing a bite all morning and it was high time.

Then I dropped by the Lee family cleaners and discharged a whole pile of things that have been needing attention. I am quite embarrassed at the state of the collar on my white shirt with the fine green stripes. Atrocious. What will the Lees ever do with me? I suspect they will clean my shirts and graciously say nothing of their natural disgust. It's criminal, I tell you.

Off to home, I there checked my files, and wended away to the DMV office. I hate the DMV, but I like the fact that their website tells me which location has the shortest line. That is a fantastic approach to queueing. I arrived and received absolutely zero helpful information. Even if I had, the effect would have been dubious, as I could barely understand the lady who "helped" me.

Thus equipped, I made my way back home and picked up my IRS files. Clearly I wasn't going to make it back to the office today anyway, so why not try to square away as many things as possible?

It was raining hard at the Alongi Brothers' yard. I almost called Mike Alongi to see if there was any relation, then thought better of it. I hardly had that kind of luck today, and if I had, I would need it for other things.

I was somewhat confused as to what I should do now. I knew my wounded hulk of a car was behind the fence, and that I really didn't want the hassle of having it back in my possession. I recovered my personal belongings and paperwork from the all-too-familiar seat pockets and cubbies, glove compartment and trunk. It was sad seeing how clean my little Honda's seats were, and how useless now. Oil puddled around my loafers in the confused rain runoff. It's not the rain drops' fault they had to fall there, but now they're all soiled. I half-heartedly trudged past the rain, coat pockets full of musty paper and old CDRs, back to the front desk. I shrugged as I signed the ransom papers that would free me from my car and its $55 per-day impound rent, and drove away. I tried to tell myself the Purell was to clean that front office from my fingers, and not to get the sad smell of a loyal old automobile off my guilty hands.

North on Sunol, right on San Carlos, under the bridge, and through downtown, I eventually found 55 South Market Street, where the IRS taxpayer assistance office was apparently holed up in a lonely corner of the fourth floor. I had a few dimes and nickels, and fed them to the metal machine, and ran up the street, up the steps and into the elevator, noting that the other fellow, who had pressed past me, had also pressed the "four" before me. He was was at least twenty years my senior, and dressed shabbily at least fifteen years my junior. His heavy boots, black Dickies trousers, and black hoodie sweatshirt spoke of foodservice, his demeanor spoke of hopelessness, his thinned grey tousle spoke of a missing hat, and his shirt appeared to be the scrubs of a medical worker. I never stopped wondering about him.

I waited in line behind the pushy presser, and was eventually helped by a kindly Ms. Mohammed, who tried in vain to secure my progress past the waiting area, directly into a service window. Unfortunately another fellow complained that he had been waiting, so I took the opportunity to fly back down, find the local branch of my bank, withdraw twenty quarters, and feed the meter. Four minutes wouldn't have been enough parking time, and the three-wheeled snarks would surely have tagged me. Running through the downtown, my loafers slapped the puddles, and my hurried reflection in the big buildings looked oddly confident and savvy, contrasted against my bedraggled taxpayer peers.

The IRS is entirely oppressive. It stands against everything dignified about human life. In a purported effort to assure the quality of the service I received, the management recorded everything my attendant did while I was in her booth. She nervously answered my questions with very official but unrelated unformation, and generally treated me as though I might bite her, or at any moment cause her to be bitten by someone else. This state of affairs not only assured my very poor service, but also completely dehumanized every part of our interaction. It was all I could do not to raise an alarm and revolt right there in that office. God cannot smile upon bureaucracy. It steals our money and steals our souls and when we nicely ask for them back, it gives us empty paperwork for us to fill.

The whole of government are pirates, and never the good kind we see in the movies. They're the bad news you hoped would never come but has - alas - always been here.