Cause he's the Tax Man

I don't know about you, but I hate my yearly trips to the accountant's office.

It has nothing to do with my accountant -- the rockstar CPA to the entire southern California ad community -- who is one of the nicest men on the planet. He also knows more about what's going on in the business than I do.

Who is going where.
What accounts are up for review.
And which sloppy CD will drink the most rose wine at Cannes this year.

I always leave his office with a good lead on my next freelance gig. But sitting in that chair as he enters the numbers from my various 1099's, W2's, K1's and 850TRP/a-3's always gives me the Willies.

It's not unlike that uneasy feeling you get when you're waiting for the dentist to interpret the X-rays.

"You're either gonna need a very painful Crown."

Ouch.

"Or an even more painful Root Canal."

This year I was particularly fearful, as 2015 was quite busy. This, despite the self-imposed three month sabbatical I took in order to complete publishing my book. Now, despite's Lee Clow's ringing endorsement, only sadly sagging in sales behind 1, 852,347 other books available on Amazon.

The year was also surprisingly fruitful despite my advancing age. You simply don't find many 44 year old freelance copywriters roaming the halls of today's ad agencies.

It's not as if with every rotation of the earth around the sun I have lost my ability to string words together and write a compelling TV spot or snappy headline. I can. Nor does my ever enlarging prostate inhibit my ability to litter the table with ideas for Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks™. I have.

It's just that the youngsters who revel in their all night work sessions and their new inky sleeves are not accustomed to, nor appreciate, dinosaurs who dare question their post-it note strategies and their cringeworthy pedestrian insights.

Nevertheless the numbers added up. And with it, the growing feeling that I was going to owe Uncle Sam a shitload of money.

But, my accountant, the man who puts the deductible in my every waking moment, sprung some good news on me. It seems, after totaling up the laundry list of "work-related" expenses, including everything from my orthotic insoles to my electric ear hair remover, I've got some refund checks coming my way.

From the state. And from the Feds.

So this trip my dentist...er, CPA, wasn't so bad after all.

"Yeah, I looked at the X-ray again. Turns out you don't need a Crown or a Root Canal. It was just a piece of lamb schwarma wedged between your molars."