Author: Maria Rubinstein

Nobody calls up the Internal Revenue Service for fun. But the other day, a reporter telephoned Eric Erickson, a “media relations specialist” for the IRS, to ask a few nosy questions. Erickson said that about 640,000 Minnesotans filed their taxes in the last two weeks before April 15, 2004. That’s almost the combined populations of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Erickson does his own taxes, and doesn’t understand why so many people put it off. “It’s easy,” he said.

Really? The reporter picked up a 1040EZ, the “easy” tax form. Then she called Joel Rosenberg, who’s been a technical writer for twenty-five years. “I enjoy it,” he said of technical writing, “because it’s fun to figure out what’s going on.” With his experience, Rosenberg ought to have no problem figuring out what’s going on with the 1040EZ. On top of his technical expertise, he’s also one of the authors of Everything You Need to Know about (Legally) Carrying a Handgun in Minnesota. Rosenberg recently wrote a similar book for Missouri, and now he’s working on a nationwide edition. He attributes the book’s success to one simple fact: “I try to explain what the law is in terms that people can understand.”

He agreed to try to do the same thing with the 1040EZ. But it wasn’t long before he ran aground. “When do I find out whether I can use this form or not?” he grumbled, flipping through the instructions, before finally coming to page eight. “This should be at the front, where you can find it fast.” Then he looked through the list of requirements, one of which involves something called the Alaska Permanent Fund. “What is that?” asked Rosenberg. “Where do they tell me what that is?” He flipped back through the instructions, looking for some kind of explanation. “They’d make this easier,” he finally said, “if they just said, ‘Take this to an accountant.’”

Rosenberg has taken his own taxes to an accountant since the eighties, after an unpleasant incident. “I got a letter from the IRS telling me I owed $27.34,” he said. He spent “hours” checking and rechecking his tax form, reading and rereading the letter. Then, like the experienced technical writer that he is, “I figured out what the IRS was really telling me,” said Rosenberg. “They were telling me that if I just sent them $27.34, they’d leave me alone.” Rosenberg sent a check. The IRS left him alone.

Courtney Danielson would do the same because, she says, the IRS has “a fear persona—they have so much power.” Danielson is a graphic designer who works at Brainco, an advertising school in Minneapolis. She and school founder Ed Prentiss agreed that the IRS could use a good marketing campaign, in addition to employing a technical writer.

“They don’t do a good job educating people,” said Prentiss. “Really, they’re just the messenger; they’re just doing their job. But they have this image of trying to get you. Pay up—or we’ll take your house.”

Prentiss had a couple ideas how to change that image. One approach would make the IRS “more personal.” The IRS could admit a few things, Prentiss said. They could openly say, “We understand that this is complicated, but you still have to pay your fair share.” He’d also focus on the positive aspect of taxes. “There are things that are common to everybody, like an ambulance or roads.”

Or, said Prentiss, he could go a different route altogether and use humor. He and Danielson even mocked up a beautiful print ad, at no expense to taxpayers: “Please give generously so we don’t have to take it from you.” Humorous ads work, Prentiss said, because they’re true. “There’s such a power in honesty. It’s refreshing.”—Maria Rubinstein

It’s February, and if you aren’t carbo-loading for the Birkebeiner, then you could be carbo-loading on behalf of your local public broadcaster. Can it be long before the next round of pledge drives hits the airwaves? The last time this happened, I volunteered all over town to sample the culture and the carbohydrates.

First I went to KFAI, the little community radio station on the West Bank, where I sometimes have a show. When I arrived, another woman and a man (not a couple, forty-something) were already there to volunteer. They wore jeans and sweaters. It was early on a weekday morning so, naturally, I was still in my pajamas. No one seemed to mind. With its natural light and the smell of good, strong coffee, KFAI’s war room was a lot like my neighborhood coffee shop; there were books of poetry (written by an on-air host) for volunteers to take home. There was one small card table, and all three of us sat around it, talking about films, restaurants, and the changing Twin Cities scene. And we answered the phone. Between calls, we’d eat bagels and homemade coffee cake. My best call came from a woman at a violin repair shop, who can’t receive KFAI’s signal unless she turns off the lights. One of my two fellow volunteers said she was having such a good time that she planned to come back next week.

Next up: Minnesota Public Radio. On this weekday morning, there were maybe twenty volunteers. The youngest looked to be about thirty, and more than a few were probably in their seventies. A few of us wore grubby jeans, but most dressed in workplace casual. MPR’s vibe is very office-like. We started with a twenty-minute presentation on filling out pledge forms, conducted by a woman using a pointer. After the lecture, we filed into a room with one window and about thirty cubicles—stopping first for food. The spread was strictly breakfast-meeting: bagels, pastries, fruit, and coffee, although I was happy to see I didn’t have to use non-dairy creamer. I found a cubicle and struck up a conversation with my neighbor, a freelance classical musician who’s been volunteering at MPR for years. He remembered taking pledges sitting at a table in the hall and said, “Cubicles are much better,” which is something I never thought I’d hear someone say. Like me, he must need a fix of office life every once in a while. In fact, I found myself longing nostalgically for happy hour, with free nachos and all the chicken wings I could eat after a long day driving the mouse.

Meanwhile, I talked with my neighbor about skiing and I answered the phone. I took a call from a man making a sizeable pledge in memory of his stepson, who was murdered in St. Paul. I got up to check out the freebies, mostly books on financial planning. “‘Sound Money’ must have weeded out their library,” my neighbor said when I came back with a book on retirement options.

My last stop was Twin Cities Public Television. It was a Saturday night, and I felt a little out of place in a group of about forty people, mostly in their sixties and seventies, wearing pressed slacks and pressed sweaters. I even spotted my first Christmas sweater of the 2004 holiday season. Since we were seated at two long tables and could talk only to our immediate neighbors, answering phones at TPT was a lot like those dinners with relatives I see only once a year. The conversation focused on the weather, winter driving, the shortage of flu shots, and local television personalities. Unlike a family dinner, everyone at the table could simultaneously surf the web and talk on the phone. My best call was from a woman who worried that her premium might include the disco ball clearly visible on that evening’s programming. I was able to talk her down from this harrowing emotional ledge.

When it was time for food at TPT, I have to admit that I expected green bean casserole and Jell-O salad. But the spread was totally slumber-party: pizza, ice cream, and popcorn. The staff contributed to the family-room atmosphere, drawing names out of a hat for the freebies. A woman next to me got a Sesame Street T-shirt, which she traded with her neighbor for a video of a Sarah Brightman special. They were both happy.
—Maria Rubinstein