So, you´ve gotten the letter from the LA City Finance Office informing you that you owe the LA city tax on earnings from a small business from a previous year. Read this post if you need information about the actual letter – including exemption and deadline info.  This post deals solely with the art of speaking to the fine folks down at city finance. You didn´t know that you had to pay a city tax and now you have to physically go to one of The City of Los Angeles Finance Offices and get this whole thing straightened out. Here are some tips that might just save you from having to pay extra money.

• Know the following regarding the ¨ignorance of the liability¨ excuse: this is the most common excuse the office hears. No matter how cute or persuasive or nice you are, if you did not send in your exemption form prior to February 28 of the year immediately following your tax liability then you will have to pay the tax itself, no matter what. (If you somehow get out of it, please let all of us know how you did it.)
• Know the following regarding the penalty portion of your liability: you have the right (no matter what the clerk at the window says) to request a one-time penalty waiver due to your ignorance of liability. A clerk adamantly insisted to me at the West LA office that I could not have a penaty waiver.
• Should a clerk refuse to give you a penalty waiver and this is your first time requesting one, then ask for his or her supervisor. Or simply go to a different LA City Finance Office, which is what I did when I was refused a penalty waiver. There are several Finance Offices in LA County.
• A penalty waiver is a request only. It does not guarantee that your penalty will be waived, but you have a much better chance of a successful waiver if you pay the back taxes on the spot.
• Try to go to the LA City Finance Office early in the morning. The people who work there have to deal with all kinds of schmuks all day long. It´s best if you talk to them before the afternoon rush of other people with problems.
• Always be nice, even if you have a bad experience with a clerk, like I did. This particular clerk was annoyed because I arrived just as the office opened and apparently I interupted her coffee conversation with a co-worker. I suspect this is why she lied and told me that I was not eligible for a penalty waiver.
• Don´t be confrontational with a clerk who informs you that you are still liable for the back taxes – the penalty waiver is the best help they can give you. Not even their supervisors can get you out of your tax portion of the liability.
• Spread the word! Inform your friends who run freelance businesses in the City of LA about this issue so that they can get their exemption forms in on time. The City of LA does not inform anyone of their liabilities until after the deadline of February 28. Knowledge is power!

Good Luck! And next year, remember to file your exemption form on time.

Running a teeny, tiny lil’ side biz in LA? Getting 1099′ed because your employer is being cheap? Then read on and save some money on your tax bill! Because, oh yes, the City of Los Angeles wants their piece of the pie and what you don’t know will cost you plenty! What you will know after reading this article could get you an exemption from a city tax liability that you probably didn’t even know you had.

Don’t expect your tax accountant to inform you of your liability with the City of LA. I love my tax accountant, but he didn’t tell me about my responsibilities with the City of LA. Learn from my mistakes and save some money!

I received a letter from the City of Los Angeles back in June regarding a possible outstanding tax liability from the past three years, but I was on the road and couldn’t do anything about it. The reason I write this boring tax post is for all you creative type people out there. If you are anything like me, you are too busy worrying which color looks best with that background or wondering how in the world you are going to hang the stars and moon – literally – for that demanding client. Or you could just be receiving 1099 income for doing some independent contractor work within a creative field in Los Angeles.

Whichever the case – be aware and informed! (Regardless if you are in a creative field or not) If you -

• Have a schedule C on your federal taxes (ie, small business expenses) and/or
• Are 1099′ed for independent contractor work

then you are liable for the City of Los Angeles small business tax.

Ready for the good news?  If your gross receipts (the income before your write-offs) total to less than $100,000.00 then you are EXEMPT. But in order to receive this exemption, you must file for the exemption with the city of Los Angeles before February 28 of the following tax year that you’ve incurred your tax liability. In plain speak, that means if you have any Schedule C income for 2008, then you have to file the exemption with the city no later than February 28, 2009. The exemption is really quite easy to file; it’s just another hoop to jump through down at the LA City Finance Office.

Now for some Q & A:

Q: What if I don’t inform the City of LA that I’ve been 1099′ed or have a small business (Schedule C) on my federal taxes?

A: Well, they will find out . . . like they did with me – there’s some sort of computer program they run/information exchange they have in cooperation with the state. And then, you will still be liable for the back taxes plus a monthly penalty.

Q: But, what if I didn’t know?

A: Crying about it to them down at the Office of Finance won’t help. (I tried that – and I’m convincing.) You still have to pay it.

Q: But that’s not fair! I still have to pay the penalty, even if I didn’t know about my liability?

A: A lot of stuff in life isn’t fair, but you can request a one-time penalty waiver due to your ignorance.

Q: I already have to deal with this issue and I’m already late. Do you have any advice on how to talk to the people at the City of Los Angeles Finance Office?

A: Yes, I do. Click here to read that post. Trust me, you want them to like you. You want them to like you – A LOT. If not, they could make your life miserable and you might have to pay more than you should.

Q: I just received a letter saying that I owe for 2009? I don´t understand.

A: Make sure you file your exemption form with the city of LA (if your gross receipts for this year end up totaling less than 100,000.00) between January 1 and February 28, 2010 and you will be exempt!

So, now you’ve read the article. Now you know. Save some money. Get your butt in there and file that exemption form so that you don’t have to shell out hundreds or (if you did really well in your small business last year) thousands of dollars of Los Angeles City taxes that you technically are not liable to pay – if and only if you file that god-damned form in a timely manner.

Standing in the backyard, about 50 of us gather to celebrate my friend’s mother’s 69th birthday, which happens to fall on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor.

Two large tequila bottles sit on a picnic table surrounded by a few older women. The Patron bottle is empty; they’ve just cracked open the Sauza Commemorativo and are cutting more limes. A line of people buzz around three tables packed full of carnitas, asada, roasted chicken and other delicacies. Others grab beers out of ice-filled buckets. Nearly a dozen kids run around playing, dancing and pushing one another across the yard in a plastic kiddie car.

A mariachi band surrounds my friend’s mother. She is completely enthralled, locked inside the gaze of the violinist,  singing the songs along with him with all her heart and tears in her eyes. Suddenly, mariachis are momentarily upstaged.

“What’s that flying in the air?” Someone points to a kite-shaped plane that seems to be doing acrobatics in the clouds. The thing seems relatively flat and glides through the sky like a giant grey manta ray, smooth and menacing at the same time. The kids begin shouting, “Batman!” Suddenly everyone’s cameras point toward the graceful triangular object circling the party.

“It’s stealth bomber – the most important plane in the US Air Force!” replies my friend’s brother.

The mariachis keep their mesmerizing presence, never break their intense concentration in singing their songs, never stop looking my friend’s mother in the eye. The stealth bomber keeps circling the sky in a large loop that encompasses the entire neighborhood. It seems our party and the merry band of roving performers is the target of it’s vortex.

As I sit eating the best Mexican beef brisket I’ve ever had and toasting rounds of Sauza with friends while the trumpets of the mariachis play in the background, I feel a nagging discomfort in my belly as the ominous stealth bomber continues to silently patrol the airspace all around us. Those guys flying that thing are on our side, I think to myself, but how scary it would be if they weren’t. It’s a bit unsettling.

As the kids continue to squeal in delight and the band plays on, I notice the bass player look up a few times with a nervous glance. The jets quietly purr over the horns and guitar only when the bomber flies directly overhead. I can’t help but sit there and let my food get cold and my beer get warm. What abject fear the sight of that machine gliding low through a neighborhood in Baghdad must cause! The damage that thing is capable of is immense and frightening. Something in my gut will not allow me to cheer it on.

The stealth bomber, we surmise, is flying overhead to commemorate the 68th anniversary of Pearl Harbor. It seems odd to think of the thing as a symbol of victory and safety. Everyone waves to it as it flies low overhead, but I can’t shake the creepy feeling inside myself until it is gone. Can’t stop thinking about parties in other parts of the world that it could turn into a grease spot within seconds.

Oh the nog-spilling!

Oh the beer-guzzling!

The tinsel-spewing good times of the LA Santacon  . . .

Matt and I . . . bottom front. El Cid.

Then later . . . I stole a sign from one of those clowns . . .

I’m sporting my grandma’s green taffeta ball gown. As you can see, things got a lil’ fuzzy . . .

Tito’s home-boy was in town for the weekend. To celebrate, a bunch of the homies stayed up all night drinking Patron and High Life. Tito did the right thing and slept at his friend’s crib even though he had to get back to the east side early in the morning, yo.

He left at some-thing like 7 AM with blood shot eyes and a headache and sped down the 110, taking advantage of the clear roads. From out of nowhere, a cop pulls him over.

The cop proceeds to give Tito a field sobriety test. The sun rises bright and clear over the po-po’s shoulder and Tito’s eyes directly hit in the morning glare and it’s messing him up. “Hey, man,” he says to the cop, “Can I do this . . . like . . . not staring directly into the sun, sir?”

That was the best part of Tito’s day, because the officer obliged. Try as he might, the cop could not declare him drunk, even after dragging the test on for five rounds of the same finger-tracking exercise. And indeed, he no longer was drunk, just hurting with hangover. He escapes with only a speeding ticket. Happy Holidays, Tito . . . from your friends, the LAPD.

He doesn’t get much sleep during the day. There’s another big party that night, but he’s still crabby and cranky from the morning. “Let’s go to the club,” says Tito as the party winds down. “My cousin will be the designated driver, yo. I’m not risking it again.”

So Tito and his friends go to the club. They stand in a long line in the cold in front of The Havana Club in Alhambra. Anna doesn’t stand in line for a club, ever, for any reason, but she concedes this time, because Tito had a bad day and all he wants to do is get into this club and have a pitcher of beer with his friends.

They get to the head of the line. The doorman looks at Tito’s clothes, shakes his head and says, “Man, your pants are too baggy and you gotta lose the jacket.” He points to a sign on the door that says “Strict dress code enforced.”

“Man, we don’t need to go in there anyway, dawg,” says Tito’s friend.

Tito’s sister is already inside, however, and he can’t just leave her there. She comes out and yells at Tito in front of his friends for not dressing better. His cousin drives him twenty minutes to his home where he changes his pants and loses the sports jacket.

Tito returns to the Havana Club, irritated cousin in tow and re-enters the line, which of course, is much longer now. He stands there with his friends for over an hour. The line doesn’t move, but somehow many people who seem to know the doorman are ushered inside by his wide gracious arm, including three Alhambra cops in full uniform. Tito, hoping to find out if his pants are acceptable, attempts to make eye contact with the doorman on more than one occasion, but is ignored.

The three Alhambra cops saunter outside the club a while later, grinning and carrying ziplock baggies of cigars in one hand whilst keeping a finger on their night-sticks with the other. Tito is still freezing in line with his cousin and his friends. It’s nearly 1 AM by this time and any buzz he might have had earlier has melted away.

Then the line moves. The doorman approaches Tito and says to him as he shakes his head, “Man, I wish I would have seen you earlier. Those pants, they are still just too baggy, man.”

Where are my contact lenses? Headlamp? Voter registration? ID? And where did my lucky spoon run off to?

These sorts of questions have plagued my existence the past eight months. About two months into my wacky cross-country journey this year, I began using the blender analogy. Take all of my possessions, put them in a giant blender and then spread them randomly across five non-contiguous states in the US and that’s pretty much been my mixed-up world for most of this year.

The moment I learned to laugh at the folly of it all was Memorial Day weekend in the Atlanta airport parking labyrinth.  I carried a soccer-ball-sized jumble of keys and couldn’t remember which car of the three in my rather loose custody that I’d parked in the lot. My own car was in storage in New Mexico and I had rental cars from both Texas and South Carolina. As we approached the lot number printed on my ticket, the bus driver said, “What kind of car?”

“I’m . . . um . . . , ” I consulted the mess of keys with a furrowed brow. “Not sure.”

“Huh, look at that,” the driver guffawed to the entire bus. “She don’t know which car she drove here! Wish I had that problem!” And we all laughed.

From then on, I stopped freaking out about misplaced items.  When I lost my contacts, I just wore my glasses, provided I could locate them, and if not, well, I just walked around blind and laughing. Then I decided that I didn’t really need my headlamp to be my woobie/security blanket any more, and I still haven’t found the darned thing. The voter registration is still in the ether somewhere too, but I was able to find my ID in time to vote, so no harm done. And my lucky spoon that’s traveled at least 10,000 miles? Seems I left it at home this last time, where I discovered it nestled in the silverware drawer upon my return. Lucky for the spoon, ’cause I’m sure I would have lost it somewhere between Tenn-Tucky and Holly Springs, Mississippi.

Although I made light of it, the blender of my life took a toll on me that I didn’t really notice until I got back to LA this past month. I’ve been wound up and overwhelmed because although all the stuff was suddenly in one place again, the blender had pureed everything into a smoothie of confusion. The power drill was found, but where was the charger? My one lonely Smart Wool sock was crying out for it’s long lost mate. I stopped wearing any sort of jewelry about two months ago, for fear that I’d lose some irreplaceable accessory.

The result was that I’ve been on edge and really didn’t even realize why until yesterday. I took a deep breath and came to my storage space/art studio in disguise. My goal? To deconstruct the blender. Two days of climbing ladders, sorting through dirt (yes, dirt) and dumping out about 10 banker’s boxes onto the floor and now I’ve gotten my flotsam of stuff whipped into recognizable and findable shape. Several trips to the Tabernacle Thrift Store and I’ve suddenly got less to worry about. The charger is found, the socks are reunited and tomorrow I plan to don some shiny things – at least one ring and a necklace.

I’ve regained that underlying sense of calm and ease that I lost somewhere on the road earlier in the year. Just in time too, because I’m leaving again very soon, destination to be announced in the coming weeks. And this time, I’m leaving with just my Italian army backpack.

Finally.

I’m tired. Can’t think of words. But, suffice to say, I’ve emptied the bottle of the two buck Chuck and now my wonderful boyfriend Matt is here to pick me up. I’m going home, going to bed.

When I left for Albuquerque in February, I’d just taken a studio space and was offered a distant location job one day later, so the space became a high priced storage unit. Now, fast forward to November and two full days of work and wine and I’ve turned this space around from mere storage space to fully functioning art studio.  Two days ago, I was literally crying – with real live tears, buckets of them – just ask Matt, he’s the one who kissed them away – because I needed a space to shut out the world and get to work.

And now it’s done. And now I’m tired (and kinda drunk). And can’t find words. But that’s ok, because I’m excited about tomorrow, and those words that I live my life for will be there, waiting for me to set them free.

 I think I found my true calling in life – A Day Of The Dead dancing banana!

Backstage before the Day of The Dead Bootie LA Mashup performance of “Hollaback Thriller.”

That shit was bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-S! Why? ‘Cause this is Thriller-night! Then, the break-dancing gorilla came out on stage and tried to eat me . . . .

It’s a new movement habit with myself and a few of my other thirty-something girlfriends. We sit together, drink tea and bitch about how much money our IRA’s have dumped in the last quarter. There is always a napkin, usually cloth because paper is so less environmentally friendly you know, to daub crumpet-crumbed mouths. And you’d better believe there is a stack of coasters on hand to protect the expensive mahogany Edwardian secretary desk with the satinwood inlay from accidental water marks.

We know the best Feng Shui masters in all of Los Angeles. We exchange both plant cuttings and hair color advice. We sup wine and eat exotic Thai from down the street on china plates that we’ve inherited from our grandmothers. The hiring and firing of plumbers, fine chocolates, adrenal fatigue and the best way to gracefully quit a job are topics of late. To meet with my friends over tea after being gone so long is comforting, but there is, at least with me, a pervasive air of unsettledness and restlessness.

I really try to suppress the desire throw rocks at the annoying kids down the street or howl at the yuppie assholes to walk away from the Pink Berry, back slowly away from the hundred-dollar t-shirt store and get the fuck off my unfortunately-ever-more-gentrified Venice sidewalks. I try not to focus on Wal-Mart, the economy, the election – all of it encapsulated within an unending media circus that just gets me more and more distracted and annoyed and cranky and feeling all helpless and well . . . part of the manipulated, depressed sheeple (part sheep, part people) faction of society.

It’s my goal to put that angst into some other more responsible, creative and gratifying outlets. So forgive me that I’ve been gone from blogging for a few weeks. I’ve just really not been too much fun to be around. I’ve been giving myself an AnnaTude adjustment.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I take a big sigh and get all overwhelmed with catching up on all the dumb life stuff awaiting me now that I’ve returned home. Boring shit like doctors, the vet and taxes.

Yesterday I was at my favorite thrift store in Venice, The Bible Tabernacle Thrift Store, donating stuff back to them that I’ve carted out of there over the years. I was so happy to see that they were still in business and still had the same funky style even though the grungy ole beer store next to them has been remodeled into Lincoln Ave Fine Wines and a Whole Foods megaplex has taken over the defunct Big Lots space in the stripmall down the street.

John, the unassuming guy who runs the Tabernacle, perked up when he saw me walk in the store. “I haven’t seen you in wow, how long has it been . . . ? Did you have a good time on your journey?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “It’s been wonderful and tough sometimes, too . . . but in the end it was everything a good journey is supposed to be.” Then a smile crept across my face again. And it hasn’t left yet.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I’m smiling still and grateful, because it has been an exciting year and I am living a dream.

We drove 20 and a half hours straight from Texas back to LA. We hit LA just in time for the glory of morning rush hour. We could have stopped somewhere for the night, but between worrying about the safety of the stuff in my car and dealing with pulling out the cat and kitty litter . . . (sigh) we just decided it’d be best to wreck our minds and bodies and push forward. I’m not able to get back into my bungalow til mid-October. We’re staying in a friend’s awesome little guest house in Highland Park. I am thankful for place to land and even more thankful that it’s with a friend.

Yesterday I was cranky upon arrival. And hot! It was HOT here – 100 degrees plus. I tried to go to sleep, but the caffeine in my system made me toss and turn. Plus, the bed radiated heat. I could feel it coming up in waves. And the fan blew hot air. There was just no escape from the yuck of the searing, mother-fucking oppressive heat!!!

I was numb yesterday – having just returned from an exciting and surprising 8 month adventure with lots of twists and turns, starts and stops not to mention changes and amendments in plan, I just didn’t know anything but blank numbness. And crankiness. Raaarg! Did I mention cr-r-anky? I sat inside a corner restaurant in a foreign-to-me Los Angeles neighborhood drinking water with ice cubes melting faster than the polar ice caps and really wondered what the hell I was I thinking, coming back to Los Angeles.

Then I went back home and took a nap, awoke at sunset in a puddle of sweat and cat hair, drank a couple of glasses of wine, listened to an Ella Fitzgerald record, listened to the closeness of the neighbors as I was tucked away inside my comfortable space and read a book as I sprawled out in the middle of the hardwood floor. I was beginning to feel better.

Then my friends came home. We all sat on the patio and Matt and I re-told hours of our summertime adventure stories. We laughed and joked and drank cold water that we’d put in the freezer hours before. I heard that the hot day was just a fluke. I still am looking forward to getting back to Venice, though, where I can roller skate to my heart’s content with cool ocean breezes tumbling through my hair.

I woke up this morning with a slight lingering crankiness, but now that I’ve had some tea and an English muffin and plans to jet over to Venice to empty my cram-packed worrisome car, I seem to be all sun-shiney once again.