OK - I give up. I just tried to write Fred to tell him I want one of his new books.
But, he's doing some weird thing with Kindle that allows me to buy electrons that will fit a Kindle, but not my bookshelves. Now I just happen to know what Kindle is about. And it has nothing at all to do with what you might think.
Kindle is not about being "green" or being an easy way to store the entire Library of Congress in an easy to carry format. No sireebob - it's meant to kill off any hope of starting a conversation with that stunning Redhead 'cause you have absolutely no idea what she's reading. Even though she's on the next towel over on the beach.
Scene: Almost fifty years ago. An 18 inch by 9 inch transistor radio is squawking 4 Seasons music, static and all, on a beach beside a river. Several groups of teens are sunning themselves and covertly eyeing members of the opposite sex while pretending to read.
Pimplefaced Boy: "Hey, I see you're reading Steinbeck. I'm a great fan of his. Have you read To A God Unknown?"
Beautiful Babe: "Get lost, loser. I'm lookin' for a guy with a clear complexion."
Do any of you guys remember those conversations? I do, and more often than not they went just like that. But every now and again something would click. It was all a matter how many times a guy tried, and the easily discouraged seldom won this game.
Well Kindle just killed this deal. How does a modern teen do it these days?
Scene: Same beach today. There's more plastic crap and toxic chemicals in the water.
Pimplefaced Boy: "Hey, I see you have a white Kindle. I kinda dig that color."
Beautiful Babe: "Get lost, loser. I'm not lookin' for a racist."
See what I mean? Unable to read the spine on a Kindle, the poor loser is lost forever. He hasn't a clue what she's reading and can't start the conversation that just may lead to a lifetime of blissful partnership, three kids and nine grandchildren. This new way of reading, I believe, is an enormous plot to maintain the virginity of every teen in America. And, I'm a firm believer in sex. It's how I got here. You'll never catch me reading on one of those things - it's just unnatural.
So anyway, I tried to write to Fred and tell him I want a copy of his new book in a bound style, it matters not whither it's a Paperback or Leather Covered first edition which will be worth it's weight in gold someday. Even when gold is worth eighteen thousand dollars an ounce. Next week sometime.
If I wanted to write someone on my old computer all I'd have to do was click on the link that says "Write Fred". My Outlook Express program would automatically display a form with an area reserved EXCLUSIVELY for MY use. I'd type in some sort of message and click send. Off it would go. Somehow or another, and this part really is magic folks, Outlook would choose from about four billion computers located everywhere on the planet, and put my letter to Fred on his screen.
Think about that. The US Postal Service manages to lose my mail at least five percent of the time, even though it's properly addressed and they've been at this business for a century or more. Email makes it every time - as long as you have the right address. And as long as ya can pull up the stinking link without getting a message from your computer that says "Could not perform this operation because the proper mail client is not installed."
Now just what does that mean? I'm hoping there is someone out there among my readers who can translate that phrase. My English, I'm afraid, is sorely out of date. I think it's telling me my mail client, of which I have none, is improper.
If that is indeed the case, tell me, and tell me how to scold him. I'll be happy to restrict his driving privileges or whatever until he straightens up and becomes "proper". Can't paddle his butt, some jerko political correctness policeman would throw my sorry butt in jail. Then I'd never get to read Fred's newest book. Probably won't get to do that anyway. Just my luck.
So, anyway. Fred - if you still read this rambling mess, send me an email - you have my address but sadly, yours is on my old computer up in the rafters of my garage. I ran out of shelf space and climbing ladders is not a fit activity for a man with my back and associated balance problems. I hired a kid to put it up there.
And, dear readers, in the likely case that Fred has tired of my ravings, please assist me if possible. I really have no clue what that message means, and want to buy his book.
Man, I hate Kindle almost as much as I hate new computers.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Don Quixote
We lived for a while in one of California's most beautiful towns, Napa. It was a nice place, filled with fine people and we enjoyed our time there.
The small town and valley is a delight for the eyes of all who live or visit there but there is another, almost sinister, dimension to the place. It goes almost unnoticed by the average citizen, and totally escapes the view of all visitors.
The town is OWNED by a few wealthy families, and they run the town, the police and the politics. Their influence even affects who plays on the high school football team. This is no exaggeration - I know of an outstanding player, the strongest and fastest offensive back on the team at that time, who rode the bench, along with his hopes of a college scholarship, while a less capable athlete took the field. The parents money, and their donations to the school, won over the coach.
Some small towns are like that, money buys all the toys, from zoning laws and business licenses to the playing field at the local high school. Some drunk drivers wind up in jail and their cars end up in the impound lots, others are given rides home, their cars driven to their homes by public servants. Mostly, this stuff passes unobserved by most folks - they're too busy trying to feed and clothe their families. I'm not sure if things have changed now or not; we haven't lived there for more than twenty years. But, back then, Napa was such a town.
In the late 1980's Don Quixote, aka Harry Martin, rode into town on his white printing press carrying with him his long lance, The Napa Sentinel.
Harry's weekly publication's circulation grew quickly because he was one of the rarest of journalists, an investigator. He would spend a week researching a story, usually one detailing corruption in the local police or government, and wrote with a style that made it almost impossible to wait for the next edition. He was good.
Soon, the biggies in town started to notice. The advertisers in his paper were rumored, and then proven, to have been threatened by the powers that were. They started having code issues and the like. But, Harry lived through this harassment and his paper flourished. He was such a crusader for the average guy, he soon was drafted to run for City Council - he won.
In fact, he served for three terms, and during that time his paper continued to grow, he continued fighting for the average Joe, and championed the construction of a homeless shelter. This was no easy feat, the monied interests had no use for the homeless in "their" town. It was bad for the tourist industry, they claimed.
None the less, with Harry leading the charge, it was built. And, that has turned out to be a good thing for Harry, because now he and his wife are living there.
They both have had medical problems recently, and the Doctor's, illnesses and hospitals have done to this outstanding citizen what they have done to many other less capable men. His ill fortune has taken from him all he had and forced him into bankruptcy.
Over the course of a lifetime I've been fortunate and have come to know many, many people who have remained in my life as we all travel to our graves. One of these people sent me this information today. Please take the time to read it. http://napavalleyregister.com/news/local/former-councilman-living-in-homeless-shelter/article_e2a47faa-c30d-11e0-a216-001cc4c03286.html
It saddens me to see this happen to a man who cared more for his neighbors than he did for himself. A man who spent his life crusading against corruption and trying to make things a little better in the place he chose to live. Like the good Quixote, I imagine he'll wind up the butt of many a joke among the Dukes and Duchesses of Napa Valley, defeated and humiliated on his deathbed.
We have learned nothing in the last four centuries about caring for our fellow man. But I am heartened by one thing in this article. After all his financial reverses, Harry is still filled with hope. He's looking forward to better health, re-opening his newspaper and writing a book.
Harry remains the man I admired, and I applaud him. I hope his dreams are realized, and not crushed along with the grapes when it's time for the harvest.
Napa is good at crushing grapes.
The small town and valley is a delight for the eyes of all who live or visit there but there is another, almost sinister, dimension to the place. It goes almost unnoticed by the average citizen, and totally escapes the view of all visitors.
The town is OWNED by a few wealthy families, and they run the town, the police and the politics. Their influence even affects who plays on the high school football team. This is no exaggeration - I know of an outstanding player, the strongest and fastest offensive back on the team at that time, who rode the bench, along with his hopes of a college scholarship, while a less capable athlete took the field. The parents money, and their donations to the school, won over the coach.
Some small towns are like that, money buys all the toys, from zoning laws and business licenses to the playing field at the local high school. Some drunk drivers wind up in jail and their cars end up in the impound lots, others are given rides home, their cars driven to their homes by public servants. Mostly, this stuff passes unobserved by most folks - they're too busy trying to feed and clothe their families. I'm not sure if things have changed now or not; we haven't lived there for more than twenty years. But, back then, Napa was such a town.
In the late 1980's Don Quixote, aka Harry Martin, rode into town on his white printing press carrying with him his long lance, The Napa Sentinel.
Harry's weekly publication's circulation grew quickly because he was one of the rarest of journalists, an investigator. He would spend a week researching a story, usually one detailing corruption in the local police or government, and wrote with a style that made it almost impossible to wait for the next edition. He was good.
Soon, the biggies in town started to notice. The advertisers in his paper were rumored, and then proven, to have been threatened by the powers that were. They started having code issues and the like. But, Harry lived through this harassment and his paper flourished. He was such a crusader for the average guy, he soon was drafted to run for City Council - he won.
In fact, he served for three terms, and during that time his paper continued to grow, he continued fighting for the average Joe, and championed the construction of a homeless shelter. This was no easy feat, the monied interests had no use for the homeless in "their" town. It was bad for the tourist industry, they claimed.
None the less, with Harry leading the charge, it was built. And, that has turned out to be a good thing for Harry, because now he and his wife are living there.
They both have had medical problems recently, and the Doctor's, illnesses and hospitals have done to this outstanding citizen what they have done to many other less capable men. His ill fortune has taken from him all he had and forced him into bankruptcy.
Over the course of a lifetime I've been fortunate and have come to know many, many people who have remained in my life as we all travel to our graves. One of these people sent me this information today. Please take the time to read it. http://napavalleyregister.com/news/local/former-councilman-living-in-homeless-shelter/article_e2a47faa-c30d-11e0-a216-001cc4c03286.html
It saddens me to see this happen to a man who cared more for his neighbors than he did for himself. A man who spent his life crusading against corruption and trying to make things a little better in the place he chose to live. Like the good Quixote, I imagine he'll wind up the butt of many a joke among the Dukes and Duchesses of Napa Valley, defeated and humiliated on his deathbed.
We have learned nothing in the last four centuries about caring for our fellow man. But I am heartened by one thing in this article. After all his financial reverses, Harry is still filled with hope. He's looking forward to better health, re-opening his newspaper and writing a book.
Harry remains the man I admired, and I applaud him. I hope his dreams are realized, and not crushed along with the grapes when it's time for the harvest.
Napa is good at crushing grapes.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Close Shave
Mike, the volunteer, came by this afternoon to stay with Carolyn so I could get some shopping done. One of the handy items on my list was "Razor, Disposable." Now all you non-government types would have written it the other way around and left out the comma, but I spent one heck of a lot of years collecting a paycheck from a government paymaster and have learned to use a lot of those little marks.
If I had gone to Costco, (comma) I would have had a much easier time buying those Razors, Disposable today because they probably have a much smaller assortment from which to choose. But Costco is 1.2 gallons of gas from me and 1.2 gallons back so I went to Wal*Mess instead. If I can catch the green light or blow through the yellow, it's only a 4/10th gallon round trip in the Guzzler, 9/20ths in the Guzzler Deluxe.
Don't know if you've shopped for razors at Wal*Mess lately, but take it from me, it's a dizzying experience. There is a four foot shelf with a bin full of them across the bottom of a four foot wide, five foot high piece of pegboard crammed with hook after hook of razors. Blue ones, yellow ones, some with handles shaped like Flash Gordon's rocket ship, others with pictures of NASCAR drivers on the package - in other words, more different types than the average guy could use in a year if he used a different one every day.
One blade, two blades, four blades and for the really discriminating guy, FIVE, count em, blades. Dang - What a waste. I think it's easier to pull a single blade razor through my stubble five times than to pull a five bladed one through it once. I probably get better results, but stand five times the chance of getting cut.
For one of you under or unemployed guys out there - here's a chance for some quick government money. Get one or another agency to fund a study. Is five really better than one? Just what are the odds of committing accidental suicide with each type? I'm sure there's a quick couple of million laying around just waiting for you to grab it - this is important stuff. Inquiring minds want to know.
Anyway, just trying to find the cheapest package of single blade throw aways took about fifteen minutes of my day. Take heart, dear readers, I managed it. I found a five pack for only 78 cents. Now these days ya can't beat that with a club. Even if ya have to pay to join. And, just so you won't think I'm a lazy guy, I was multitasking during those fifteen minutes. I was thinking about the art of shaving while I was busy scouting out the best deal.
I've come to the conclusion there are three types of guys. Or maybe there is one type of guy who goes through three stages of shaving - more study is needed, and we need further funding to determine this. Contact me by email for an address where you can send your money to assure the results you want from a study of this sort. With enough money you can buy any result you desire - I guarantee it.
Anyway, there are those who shave with an electric razor, and those who use a blade. I know, you're thinking one type and the other type makes only two. Most of the time that's true, but this is a special case. Ya see, blade guys are two types all by themselves - those who use lather or foam at the sink and those who use regular soap in the shower.
You're gonna have to believe me on this one, I've studied it for a while, fifteen minutes or so while I was also doing something else, and formed a high pothisis. My study was rather limited in scope, just one test dummy, me, so your results may differ.
When a guy is young and first starts to shave, he emulates his Dad. He lathers up at the sink, tries to find one or two whiskers to slice away from his freckled face, and rinses. He then towels off and splashes on some manly crap that smells like Old Splice and hitches a ride to school with his older and cooler buddy who already owns a car.
After a while, this child has grown a bit and now uses an electric razor. He does this because he can plug the thing into the cigarette lighter in his car and shave on the way to work because he is running late, or while on his way to that VERY important meeting so he can look his best while trying to part the client from his dough.
Later in life, it doesn't much matter if he's running late 'cause he's the client with the dough - but he still uses an electric razor 'cause he can plug it into the outlet in his office bathroom.
It doesn't take long before retirement rolls around and believe me, that happens much sooner than you think it will - get ready for it. That's when the electric razor goes into the drawer. It never worked very well anyway. A blade shaves much closer, and I don't really care how many good lookin' ladies on TV wrap their arms around some guy who uses the electric version. It really sucks.
That's when our hero starts to shave with a blade in the shower 'cause it's so much easier. It takes real effort to foam up, shave, rinse then do it again when ya discover the spot ya missed, and all the time precious energy is being wasted just holding the body upright this early in the morning. Besides, a bunch of foam always makes it into the coffee cup. It's Newton's little known 17th law of motion. "Any uncovered first mug of morning coffee will be rendered unpotable by shaving foam" He knew that back in the 16th century or whenever he discovered it. Do it yourself - I'm too lazy to look it up.
Shaving in the shower has many benefits, the most important of which is ya can shave while the hot water is easing tensions in the worn out back muscles while the blade is gently prodding the facial muscles into action for a new day. All the crap just goes down the drain - if it happens to plug up sometime during your lifetime the RotoRooters can handle it.
It's just easier to do it that way, and to toss the stinkin' razor when it starts to pull instead of cut. I just wish there weren't so dang many to choose from. It's a huge waste of precious time.
And every day I have one less day to waste.
If I had gone to Costco, (comma) I would have had a much easier time buying those Razors, Disposable today because they probably have a much smaller assortment from which to choose. But Costco is 1.2 gallons of gas from me and 1.2 gallons back so I went to Wal*Mess instead. If I can catch the green light or blow through the yellow, it's only a 4/10th gallon round trip in the Guzzler, 9/20ths in the Guzzler Deluxe.
Don't know if you've shopped for razors at Wal*Mess lately, but take it from me, it's a dizzying experience. There is a four foot shelf with a bin full of them across the bottom of a four foot wide, five foot high piece of pegboard crammed with hook after hook of razors. Blue ones, yellow ones, some with handles shaped like Flash Gordon's rocket ship, others with pictures of NASCAR drivers on the package - in other words, more different types than the average guy could use in a year if he used a different one every day.
One blade, two blades, four blades and for the really discriminating guy, FIVE, count em, blades. Dang - What a waste. I think it's easier to pull a single blade razor through my stubble five times than to pull a five bladed one through it once. I probably get better results, but stand five times the chance of getting cut.
For one of you under or unemployed guys out there - here's a chance for some quick government money. Get one or another agency to fund a study. Is five really better than one? Just what are the odds of committing accidental suicide with each type? I'm sure there's a quick couple of million laying around just waiting for you to grab it - this is important stuff. Inquiring minds want to know.
Anyway, just trying to find the cheapest package of single blade throw aways took about fifteen minutes of my day. Take heart, dear readers, I managed it. I found a five pack for only 78 cents. Now these days ya can't beat that with a club. Even if ya have to pay to join. And, just so you won't think I'm a lazy guy, I was multitasking during those fifteen minutes. I was thinking about the art of shaving while I was busy scouting out the best deal.
I've come to the conclusion there are three types of guys. Or maybe there is one type of guy who goes through three stages of shaving - more study is needed, and we need further funding to determine this. Contact me by email for an address where you can send your money to assure the results you want from a study of this sort. With enough money you can buy any result you desire - I guarantee it.
Anyway, there are those who shave with an electric razor, and those who use a blade. I know, you're thinking one type and the other type makes only two. Most of the time that's true, but this is a special case. Ya see, blade guys are two types all by themselves - those who use lather or foam at the sink and those who use regular soap in the shower.
You're gonna have to believe me on this one, I've studied it for a while, fifteen minutes or so while I was also doing something else, and formed a high pothisis. My study was rather limited in scope, just one test dummy, me, so your results may differ.
When a guy is young and first starts to shave, he emulates his Dad. He lathers up at the sink, tries to find one or two whiskers to slice away from his freckled face, and rinses. He then towels off and splashes on some manly crap that smells like Old Splice and hitches a ride to school with his older and cooler buddy who already owns a car.
After a while, this child has grown a bit and now uses an electric razor. He does this because he can plug the thing into the cigarette lighter in his car and shave on the way to work because he is running late, or while on his way to that VERY important meeting so he can look his best while trying to part the client from his dough.
Later in life, it doesn't much matter if he's running late 'cause he's the client with the dough - but he still uses an electric razor 'cause he can plug it into the outlet in his office bathroom.
It doesn't take long before retirement rolls around and believe me, that happens much sooner than you think it will - get ready for it. That's when the electric razor goes into the drawer. It never worked very well anyway. A blade shaves much closer, and I don't really care how many good lookin' ladies on TV wrap their arms around some guy who uses the electric version. It really sucks.
That's when our hero starts to shave with a blade in the shower 'cause it's so much easier. It takes real effort to foam up, shave, rinse then do it again when ya discover the spot ya missed, and all the time precious energy is being wasted just holding the body upright this early in the morning. Besides, a bunch of foam always makes it into the coffee cup. It's Newton's little known 17th law of motion. "Any uncovered first mug of morning coffee will be rendered unpotable by shaving foam" He knew that back in the 16th century or whenever he discovered it. Do it yourself - I'm too lazy to look it up.
Shaving in the shower has many benefits, the most important of which is ya can shave while the hot water is easing tensions in the worn out back muscles while the blade is gently prodding the facial muscles into action for a new day. All the crap just goes down the drain - if it happens to plug up sometime during your lifetime the RotoRooters can handle it.
It's just easier to do it that way, and to toss the stinkin' razor when it starts to pull instead of cut. I just wish there weren't so dang many to choose from. It's a huge waste of precious time.
And every day I have one less day to waste.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Jerry
Ya wanna know just how screwed up we are around this great country? A guy died late yesterday who touched the lives of, oh let's just be on the safe side and call it five hundred million people, and his passing was worth only a couple of seconds airtime on the evening news.
Ya see, there was a toy earthquake that shook a bunch of folks on the east coast for a second or so this afternoon and most of the news was about a broken water pipe in the pentagon. Oh - gosh. I almost forgot - some bricks fell on a couple of cars too.
All the cartoon cast of "American President 2012" had nothing to say, but said it anyway and that took up a bunch of time. Also, a bunch of yahoos were running around some street in Northern A-freak-ka shooting guns into the air. It was enough to keep the news stars busy and Jerry was just an afterthought. So much for major news organizations ability to separate the great from the mundane. And the abysmal.
Let's play a game. You remember this, don'tcha? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dt7zGi9Jdww And this? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmGQ5SlazJA and this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3HXy9mGPpI . How about this? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ke6SDKNbnxA
I can play this game with you for about a day and a half. That's how long the list of his stuff is, and you'll remember most of it. Doesn't matter if you're 25 years old, or a geezer like me. You know at least a couple, if not most, of the songs by heart. Word for word.
I can usually hear a song and say "I remember that! I was driving a '58 TR-3 and dating Karen Lipsky when that was number one." I can't do that with Jerry's stuff. It's hard to remember just what you were doing when the song was popular because they've been popular for the last sixty years. Your whole life was lived while his music was playing. He wrote your song. And your theme song.
I can remember what Jerry's favorite was. And I bet you remember it too. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VscVP_Gt_s
Jerry has the answer now, and I wish he could come back and tell us. Don McLean told us about "The day the music died." back in '72 but he was wrong.
The music died yesterday, August 22, 2010
Ya see, there was a toy earthquake that shook a bunch of folks on the east coast for a second or so this afternoon and most of the news was about a broken water pipe in the pentagon. Oh - gosh. I almost forgot - some bricks fell on a couple of cars too.
All the cartoon cast of "American President 2012" had nothing to say, but said it anyway and that took up a bunch of time. Also, a bunch of yahoos were running around some street in Northern A-freak-ka shooting guns into the air. It was enough to keep the news stars busy and Jerry was just an afterthought. So much for major news organizations ability to separate the great from the mundane. And the abysmal.
Let's play a game. You remember this, don'tcha? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dt7zGi9Jdww And this? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmGQ5SlazJA and this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3HXy9mGPpI . How about this? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ke6SDKNbnxA
I can play this game with you for about a day and a half. That's how long the list of his stuff is, and you'll remember most of it. Doesn't matter if you're 25 years old, or a geezer like me. You know at least a couple, if not most, of the songs by heart. Word for word.
I can usually hear a song and say "I remember that! I was driving a '58 TR-3 and dating Karen Lipsky when that was number one." I can't do that with Jerry's stuff. It's hard to remember just what you were doing when the song was popular because they've been popular for the last sixty years. Your whole life was lived while his music was playing. He wrote your song. And your theme song.
I can remember what Jerry's favorite was. And I bet you remember it too. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VscVP_Gt_s
Jerry has the answer now, and I wish he could come back and tell us. Don McLean told us about "The day the music died." back in '72 but he was wrong.
The music died yesterday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Sit!
Muffy! Sit!
So he jumps up on the couch, grabs his chew toy from under one of the cushions and scrambles off in the general direction of Venus. That was last months lesson, and I know he understood just exactly what I wanted of him. He's not dumb, it's just that he though it would be OK to sit sometime next week.
The next day we tried again. Muffy! Sit! He did much better. He put both front paws on my leg and grinned at me. The normally tightly curled tail started to wag, which meant his whole body started to gyrate and he needed to return his paws to the floor so he wouldn't flip over. When all four feet were again in contact with the floor, he did what he usually does; he started running living room laps. Going around both couches, then a figure eight around and between the two recliners, and ending up at my feet constitutes one lap. If I change my location by even one inch, he adjusts his course to match. Built in GPS, I guess. No other explanation works.
He does up to four or five of these laps depending on his pleasure. He never stops just because he's tired or winded.. At least he stayed in the same room, so I considered progress had been made. When it comes to training dogs, you can bet I'm in the bottom five percent of folks in the whole universe. Bottom one percent if all ya include are people on the planet Earth.
I can completely understand my lack of expertise in this endeavour. I've never been able to train anyone to do my bidding. Two wives were beyond my ability, and the third is smart enough to say "Yes, Dear." when I climb on the platform. She still does exactly as she wishes, but in her case that suits me just fine. A ton of people I worked with, who were 'sposed to report to me, over the course of a lifetime also fit the class of "Individuals Upon Whom My Wishes Don't Much Matter". It's why I refused the job of EAA Chapter President when it fell at my doorstep. I knew better.
Anyway, I completely understand Muffy's hesitation to sit upon my command. Let's just say I'm used to it. I have a commanding voice, but really don't much care if someone wants to do it my way or not, and I think that's what matters most in these things. And ya know? - That's perfectly OK with me; I have about two dozen ex-bosses who gave up trying to get me to do it their way. I'll do it my way and I expect the same from others. Goose and Gander or something.
So, one day when our good neighbor Barbara asked if she could take Muffy for a walk and maybe try to teach him a trick or two, I was thrilled. Paraphrasing Henny Youngman, I said "Take my dog - Please." What I didn't say was "Thank you Lord for sending someone to save us from this small but totally out of control mutt." But that's what I was thinking.
Barbara, it turns out, has trained dogs before, and has had much success doing it. She and her husband are trying to determine if they should replace their last best friend or just do without. It's a tough decision, opening your home to a mutt at our age, when the mutt just may outlive your ability to care for it. We've all read stories of animals who mourn their masters for the rest of their lives, and real animal people will pause to consider the consequences of having a new one enter their home late in life. Besides, it's harder and harder to pick up dog poop after a certain age. I know. Believe it.
Yesterday, after only a week and a half of thirty minute daily walks, Barbara was ready to show off her newest pupil. Upon returning from the walk she knocked on the door and instead of letting Muffy enter the house, she said "Go get Carolyn and both of you look out the window. I want you to watch Muffy perform."
"Already?" I thought, "How totally cool." I loaded Carolyn in her chair and rolled it to the window overlooking our front lawn. Our beautiful verdant GREEN lawn. There they were. Barbara and Muffy in the center ring. The lights were dimmed (OK - a passing cloud took care of that for all you doubters), the crowd was hushed, and the show started
"Muffy, Heel." Barbara started to walk and the dog was right at her side! The leash actually had all kinds of slack in it! It hung in a parabolic curve that varied it's shape not one millimeter as they strolled together. Barbara stopped. Muffy stopped and sat down beside her.
"Muffy, Stay." Barbara dropped the leash and walked thirty or forty feet from him and turned. Twenty seconds later they were still facing each other, both in the same position. "Muffy. Come." The dog jumped to his feet and ran all the way, dragging the leash behind him, and sat at her feet.
She picked up the end of the leash, "Muffy, Heel" and they walked to the door.
Holy Best in Class Championship Trophy! My Muffy was a star, not only a star, a ROCK star. People around the world would kneel at our doorstep, waiting to bow down as he passed, tail tightly curled on top of his butt, and offer treat after treat if only they could pet him for a moment or two.
A place in Time and History was reserved for both Carolyn and I. We were the owners of MUFFY the Miracle Mutt. For all future dog people we would be special. They would remember Muffy and his amazing owners until the end of time. I thanked Barbara, never once letting on that I knew she had assured our fame and glory.
Wait! There is more! "I'm not finished with him yet," she said, "We only just started. But, I wanted you to see his progress. I'll be back for him tomorrow."
Wow. It doesn't get any better than this.
A little later that evening the dog was running around as usual. He came over and stood before me as I was seated on the recliner. "Muffy, Sit."
Off he went. Bounding down the hall, he stopped long enough to pick up his chew toy. Then with a twist of his head, he tossed it up on the dining room table. He hopped up on a chair, then onto the table, leaped to the floor and was off on his way to Venus.
I expect no less from my Mutt.
So he jumps up on the couch, grabs his chew toy from under one of the cushions and scrambles off in the general direction of Venus. That was last months lesson, and I know he understood just exactly what I wanted of him. He's not dumb, it's just that he though it would be OK to sit sometime next week.
The next day we tried again. Muffy! Sit! He did much better. He put both front paws on my leg and grinned at me. The normally tightly curled tail started to wag, which meant his whole body started to gyrate and he needed to return his paws to the floor so he wouldn't flip over. When all four feet were again in contact with the floor, he did what he usually does; he started running living room laps. Going around both couches, then a figure eight around and between the two recliners, and ending up at my feet constitutes one lap. If I change my location by even one inch, he adjusts his course to match. Built in GPS, I guess. No other explanation works.
He does up to four or five of these laps depending on his pleasure. He never stops just because he's tired or winded.. At least he stayed in the same room, so I considered progress had been made. When it comes to training dogs, you can bet I'm in the bottom five percent of folks in the whole universe. Bottom one percent if all ya include are people on the planet Earth.
I can completely understand my lack of expertise in this endeavour. I've never been able to train anyone to do my bidding. Two wives were beyond my ability, and the third is smart enough to say "Yes, Dear." when I climb on the platform. She still does exactly as she wishes, but in her case that suits me just fine. A ton of people I worked with, who were 'sposed to report to me, over the course of a lifetime also fit the class of "Individuals Upon Whom My Wishes Don't Much Matter". It's why I refused the job of EAA Chapter President when it fell at my doorstep. I knew better.
Anyway, I completely understand Muffy's hesitation to sit upon my command. Let's just say I'm used to it. I have a commanding voice, but really don't much care if someone wants to do it my way or not, and I think that's what matters most in these things. And ya know? - That's perfectly OK with me; I have about two dozen ex-bosses who gave up trying to get me to do it their way. I'll do it my way and I expect the same from others. Goose and Gander or something.
So, one day when our good neighbor Barbara asked if she could take Muffy for a walk and maybe try to teach him a trick or two, I was thrilled. Paraphrasing Henny Youngman, I said "Take my dog - Please." What I didn't say was "Thank you Lord for sending someone to save us from this small but totally out of control mutt." But that's what I was thinking.
Barbara, it turns out, has trained dogs before, and has had much success doing it. She and her husband are trying to determine if they should replace their last best friend or just do without. It's a tough decision, opening your home to a mutt at our age, when the mutt just may outlive your ability to care for it. We've all read stories of animals who mourn their masters for the rest of their lives, and real animal people will pause to consider the consequences of having a new one enter their home late in life. Besides, it's harder and harder to pick up dog poop after a certain age. I know. Believe it.
Yesterday, after only a week and a half of thirty minute daily walks, Barbara was ready to show off her newest pupil. Upon returning from the walk she knocked on the door and instead of letting Muffy enter the house, she said "Go get Carolyn and both of you look out the window. I want you to watch Muffy perform."
"Already?" I thought, "How totally cool." I loaded Carolyn in her chair and rolled it to the window overlooking our front lawn. Our beautiful verdant GREEN lawn. There they were. Barbara and Muffy in the center ring. The lights were dimmed (OK - a passing cloud took care of that for all you doubters), the crowd was hushed, and the show started
"Muffy, Heel." Barbara started to walk and the dog was right at her side! The leash actually had all kinds of slack in it! It hung in a parabolic curve that varied it's shape not one millimeter as they strolled together. Barbara stopped. Muffy stopped and sat down beside her.
"Muffy, Stay." Barbara dropped the leash and walked thirty or forty feet from him and turned. Twenty seconds later they were still facing each other, both in the same position. "Muffy. Come." The dog jumped to his feet and ran all the way, dragging the leash behind him, and sat at her feet.
She picked up the end of the leash, "Muffy, Heel" and they walked to the door.
Holy Best in Class Championship Trophy! My Muffy was a star, not only a star, a ROCK star. People around the world would kneel at our doorstep, waiting to bow down as he passed, tail tightly curled on top of his butt, and offer treat after treat if only they could pet him for a moment or two.
A place in Time and History was reserved for both Carolyn and I. We were the owners of MUFFY the Miracle Mutt. For all future dog people we would be special. They would remember Muffy and his amazing owners until the end of time. I thanked Barbara, never once letting on that I knew she had assured our fame and glory.
Wait! There is more! "I'm not finished with him yet," she said, "We only just started. But, I wanted you to see his progress. I'll be back for him tomorrow."
Wow. It doesn't get any better than this.
A little later that evening the dog was running around as usual. He came over and stood before me as I was seated on the recliner. "Muffy, Sit."
Off he went. Bounding down the hall, he stopped long enough to pick up his chew toy. Then with a twist of his head, he tossed it up on the dining room table. He hopped up on a chair, then onto the table, leaped to the floor and was off on his way to Venus.
I expect no less from my Mutt.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Volunteer
Carolyn's mom was in a hospice program for the last few weeks of her life, and that occurred during a period starting not quite two months ago. It ended when she died on the 22nd. of last month. We spent as much time with her and Carolyn's sister as was possible, and met all the kind people, paid and volunteers, who were associated with the hospice organization. These everyday folks, some of whom freely donated their time, made the way home easy for Carolyn's mom.
As the days went by, we got to know them better and they got to know us. The day before Lucy passed one of the volunteers, Mike, pulled me to the side for a talk.
"Forrest," he said, "Lucy isn't going to last very much longer. I'm gonna have about four hours a week of free time when she goes, and want to know if there is anything I can do to help you and Carolyn."
I told him Carolyn was far from qualifying for any hospice program - she still has a life expectancy of four to six years. Then I told him our level of income did not allow us to participate in any other program of which I was aware.
"We should have enjoyed our money as we got it instead of setting it aside for later, Mike. Now we have plenty for the two of us but not enough to afford the $3200 every month it takes just to provide someone to help with her during the night,and the more than double that it will take during her final years."
"I'm doing all I can while she is still relatively easy to care for, and saving our cash for when it is more than I can handle. They can't take my income from me, but I'm afraid everything else is fair game and I'm pretty much gonna be broke by the time all this is over. Don't worry, we're OK for now, and will be fine."
Mike then told me of something the agency he volunteers with does. They call the program "Transitions", and it's designed just for people like us. A terminally ill patient with too much money for government help but not enough for sufficient care, and with only a single caregiver is just the candidate they look to find. "You fit the bill," he said, "And if you let me, I'll tell my supervisor about you two."
He's a man of his word, and three days later the RN who oversees the "Transitions" program was sitting on our small couch across the room from us and filling in the forms she had brought with her. As she was finishing up and getting ready to leave she said, "Ya know, it's not often I find myself in this situation. Mostly my office is filled with people looking for help and I have none to offer. It's different with you two - Mike came to me and said he wanted to help you. Not someone else that he doesn't know, but you. You're very fortunate - he's one of my best."
This afternoon was his first day on "our" job. He came in, I showed him where everything was and he shooed me out of the house with my shopping list. "Take your time - I'll be here until five o'clock, and we're already family."
For the first time in six months I was able to take my time. I did not worry that Carolyn was alone and might fall with no one there to pick her up. I bought all we will need until next Thursday, when he returns, and even stopped at the library and picked up a book I've been meaning to read.
Mike has said he'll be with us four hours a week for as long as we need him, and I believe it. As he was leaving today I told him I could never repay him for what he was doing for us. "But." I said, "I can repay the favor you are doing for us. And I will."
You bet I will. I know just which RN to contact when it's my time to volunteer.
As the days went by, we got to know them better and they got to know us. The day before Lucy passed one of the volunteers, Mike, pulled me to the side for a talk.
"Forrest," he said, "Lucy isn't going to last very much longer. I'm gonna have about four hours a week of free time when she goes, and want to know if there is anything I can do to help you and Carolyn."
I told him Carolyn was far from qualifying for any hospice program - she still has a life expectancy of four to six years. Then I told him our level of income did not allow us to participate in any other program of which I was aware.
"We should have enjoyed our money as we got it instead of setting it aside for later, Mike. Now we have plenty for the two of us but not enough to afford the $3200 every month it takes just to provide someone to help with her during the night,and the more than double that it will take during her final years."
"I'm doing all I can while she is still relatively easy to care for, and saving our cash for when it is more than I can handle. They can't take my income from me, but I'm afraid everything else is fair game and I'm pretty much gonna be broke by the time all this is over. Don't worry, we're OK for now, and will be fine."
Mike then told me of something the agency he volunteers with does. They call the program "Transitions", and it's designed just for people like us. A terminally ill patient with too much money for government help but not enough for sufficient care, and with only a single caregiver is just the candidate they look to find. "You fit the bill," he said, "And if you let me, I'll tell my supervisor about you two."
He's a man of his word, and three days later the RN who oversees the "Transitions" program was sitting on our small couch across the room from us and filling in the forms she had brought with her. As she was finishing up and getting ready to leave she said, "Ya know, it's not often I find myself in this situation. Mostly my office is filled with people looking for help and I have none to offer. It's different with you two - Mike came to me and said he wanted to help you. Not someone else that he doesn't know, but you. You're very fortunate - he's one of my best."
This afternoon was his first day on "our" job. He came in, I showed him where everything was and he shooed me out of the house with my shopping list. "Take your time - I'll be here until five o'clock, and we're already family."
For the first time in six months I was able to take my time. I did not worry that Carolyn was alone and might fall with no one there to pick her up. I bought all we will need until next Thursday, when he returns, and even stopped at the library and picked up a book I've been meaning to read.
Mike has said he'll be with us four hours a week for as long as we need him, and I believe it. As he was leaving today I told him I could never repay him for what he was doing for us. "But." I said, "I can repay the favor you are doing for us. And I will."
You bet I will. I know just which RN to contact when it's my time to volunteer.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Back Home
I put Carolyn's youngest son on a plane today and by now he's tucked in, safe and snug, in his own bed in Napa, CA. It's fun having family visit, and we are already missing him walking around the rooms and hallways of our joint. Normally, there's not a whole bunch of walking around here, any motion activated camera would record tons of Carolyn lurching and me hobbling instead.
And Muffy? He never walks anywhere. The mutt always is running or bounding. He has a sort of hopping leap that can cover three to four feet without touching the ground - and he can keep it up for the entire length of the house when he feels like it. One of these days I'm gonna take the little guy to one of these traveling x-ray machines that are often seen in the parking lot of the local library. I'll bribe who ever is running the thing and find out just how tightly coiled the steel springs inside his hind legs are. I'm thinking if I could somehow manage to hook those springs to a clock, I'd never have to wind it again. Ever.
The house has that sort of empty feel to it that happens whenever a source of energy is removed. Eric added a lot more than great pancakes to start our days, and we feel the loss of his company. Both of her sons have grown into men of whom she can be proud and she has watched as they have raised their families and grown her grandchildren into decent members of the human race. If all children in this country were of the same quality as hers, there would not be trouble in this nation as that we are now experiencing.
Eric's back home: Carolyn misses the comfort of having him near. And me? I miss the pleasure of being able to talk to a person, any person, who's mind has not been dulled and slowed by the terrible disease that is now ravishing the mind of my dear wife. Someone who's tongue has not been thickened by a force beyond control and who's speech has not been slurred almost to the point of not being understood . I can not imagine what it's like for her on the other end of all the conversations. Just how does it feel, trying so hard to be understood, that by the end of the day all her energy has been drained? I ache for her.
And there's nothing I can do to help except keep her comfortable and warm while she's here with me, just the two of us back home, the way it was before her son was here.
And Muffy? He never walks anywhere. The mutt always is running or bounding. He has a sort of hopping leap that can cover three to four feet without touching the ground - and he can keep it up for the entire length of the house when he feels like it. One of these days I'm gonna take the little guy to one of these traveling x-ray machines that are often seen in the parking lot of the local library. I'll bribe who ever is running the thing and find out just how tightly coiled the steel springs inside his hind legs are. I'm thinking if I could somehow manage to hook those springs to a clock, I'd never have to wind it again. Ever.
The house has that sort of empty feel to it that happens whenever a source of energy is removed. Eric added a lot more than great pancakes to start our days, and we feel the loss of his company. Both of her sons have grown into men of whom she can be proud and she has watched as they have raised their families and grown her grandchildren into decent members of the human race. If all children in this country were of the same quality as hers, there would not be trouble in this nation as that we are now experiencing.
Eric's back home: Carolyn misses the comfort of having him near. And me? I miss the pleasure of being able to talk to a person, any person, who's mind has not been dulled and slowed by the terrible disease that is now ravishing the mind of my dear wife. Someone who's tongue has not been thickened by a force beyond control and who's speech has not been slurred almost to the point of not being understood . I can not imagine what it's like for her on the other end of all the conversations. Just how does it feel, trying so hard to be understood, that by the end of the day all her energy has been drained? I ache for her.
And there's nothing I can do to help except keep her comfortable and warm while she's here with me, just the two of us back home, the way it was before her son was here.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Pancakes
Carolyn's youngest son has been visiting this week. He came in last Monday and will be with us until Monday next week. I'm enjoying his company even more than Carolyn, but he's working me to death.
So far we've replaced the gizmo's that shoot a beam of light across the bottom of the garage door. Ya know, the whiz-bang black box filled with small people who watch to make sure it no one gets hurt when it closes? Must be a ton of them inside the thing. I've tried these things at all hours of the day and night and can assure you one of the miniature minions is always on duty. It's impossible to close it on your foot with any force at all.
We've mowed and raked the lawns, brought boulders home to drop into the flowerbeds and trimmed the jungle I've managed to produce with copious amounts of fertilizer around the whole place. He's trying hard to talk me into tossing all the bags and jugs of plant go-go stuff in the garbage. Says it'll make life a lot easier for me. I tell him I'm enjoying having the green grass and blooming flowers everywhere. It's been a long time since I've been able to use so much water.
In fact, we're having home grown Broccoli with our evening meal tonight. I grew it myself from seeds in a package I bought way too soon for this area. My gardening skills need to be changed somewhat to deal with the climate here, but just you wait. Next years gonna be a bumper crop.
That phrase, "bumper crop" has always intrigued me so one day I researched it. "Bumper" in this context means "unusually large." I used to think it had something to do with automobiles, but never could quite make the connection. I'm used to that happening.
If we get around to it today, we're gonna fix the sliding screen door so we can enjoy a cool evening breeze with our Broccoli. New doors seldom fit the old frames even though all the paperwork and instructions say they will. I think it's because all the new screens are made in China, and those guys use a different length for the standard inch. Their inch is slightly smaller than ours and they do it so all of them can be six feet tall. The whole country over there is filled with people of smallish stature, and to overcome the natural inferiority being small causes most males, they came up with the brilliant idea of redefining the "inch".
It's OK, we do the same thing right here in America. Just last night Michelle Bachmann said "Submit" means "respect." I'm pretty used to using the word differently so I looked it up. Here's what I found.
SUBMIT:
"Course if you happen to be an alien from some other planet, you might claim it means "respect" Maybe that's what's going on. She's from Vulcan. Hope she's here legally - I'd hate to see our president deported because of immigration issues.
Anyway, Eric fixed us pancakes this morning and we sat outside to eat them. Pancakes, bacon, enough butter to clog the arteries of six fully grown men, and the whole mess covered in real Canadian Maple Syrup. Some days life is so good a guy can forget about the rest of the world for awhile.
So far we've replaced the gizmo's that shoot a beam of light across the bottom of the garage door. Ya know, the whiz-bang black box filled with small people who watch to make sure it no one gets hurt when it closes? Must be a ton of them inside the thing. I've tried these things at all hours of the day and night and can assure you one of the miniature minions is always on duty. It's impossible to close it on your foot with any force at all.
We've mowed and raked the lawns, brought boulders home to drop into the flowerbeds and trimmed the jungle I've managed to produce with copious amounts of fertilizer around the whole place. He's trying hard to talk me into tossing all the bags and jugs of plant go-go stuff in the garbage. Says it'll make life a lot easier for me. I tell him I'm enjoying having the green grass and blooming flowers everywhere. It's been a long time since I've been able to use so much water.
In fact, we're having home grown Broccoli with our evening meal tonight. I grew it myself from seeds in a package I bought way too soon for this area. My gardening skills need to be changed somewhat to deal with the climate here, but just you wait. Next years gonna be a bumper crop.
That phrase, "bumper crop" has always intrigued me so one day I researched it. "Bumper" in this context means "unusually large." I used to think it had something to do with automobiles, but never could quite make the connection. I'm used to that happening.
If we get around to it today, we're gonna fix the sliding screen door so we can enjoy a cool evening breeze with our Broccoli. New doors seldom fit the old frames even though all the paperwork and instructions say they will. I think it's because all the new screens are made in China, and those guys use a different length for the standard inch. Their inch is slightly smaller than ours and they do it so all of them can be six feet tall. The whole country over there is filled with people of smallish stature, and to overcome the natural inferiority being small causes most males, they came up with the brilliant idea of redefining the "inch".
It's OK, we do the same thing right here in America. Just last night Michelle Bachmann said "Submit" means "respect." I'm pretty used to using the word differently so I looked it up. Here's what I found.
SUBMIT:
verb (used with object)
1.
to give over or yield to the power or authority of another (often used reflexively).
2.
to subject to some kind of treatment or influence.
3.
to present for the approval, consideration, or decision of another or others: to submit a plan; to submit an application.
4.
to state or urge with deference; suggest or propose (usually followed by a clause): I submit that full proof should be required.
verb (used without object)
5.
to yield oneself to the power or authority of another: to submit to a conqueror.
6.
to allow oneself to be subjected to some kind of treatment: to submit to chemotherapy.
7.
to defer to another's judgment, opinion, decision, etc.: I submit to your superior judgment.
"Course if you happen to be an alien from some other planet, you might claim it means "respect" Maybe that's what's going on. She's from Vulcan. Hope she's here legally - I'd hate to see our president deported because of immigration issues.
Anyway, Eric fixed us pancakes this morning and we sat outside to eat them. Pancakes, bacon, enough butter to clog the arteries of six fully grown men, and the whole mess covered in real Canadian Maple Syrup. Some days life is so good a guy can forget about the rest of the world for awhile.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Wallet Contest
Went back to the barber today. I honestly can not figure out why the hair that rings my growing bald spot refuses to just fall out of my head the way the rest of my unruly hair has done. The stuff just keeps growing longer by the minute. That means I must have it cut by the month.
I walked in, waited a while and then took the empty chair when it was my turn. The guy in the other chair finished up and paid for his trim. Then he looked at his bulging wallet and asked if he could trade a bunch of ones in it for a larger bill. Of course it was OK with the barber so he counted out twenty of them. "Thanks - My wallet was getting pretty fat." he said, and then he walked out.
Now, you folks know me pretty well - I couldn't just let that go without comment. I've never learned to keep my comments to myself. "Say, Bill," I said, "My wallets pretty fat too. OK if I trade you a bunch of pieces of paper with stuff written on it that I can't read anymore for a twenty?"
That started it. Everybody in the place just had to complain about how fat their wallets were. One guy took the complaining to the next level; he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and showed it to us.
"You think yours is fat? Take a look at mine." He then started to pull out all kinds of paper, the usual phone numbers, random dimensions of things he was going to build someday but had forgotten what the item was, business cards and combinations to locks that had long ago been misplaced. No one could stand to just let that go unchallenged.
He had not yet joined the fun, but when mention was made of a contest and an actual vote, he pulled out his wallet. "Mine's not as fat as all you guy's, but I think I can win the most unusual item. Wanna see?"
I almost booed. The nerve of this character. His wallet was one of those skinny trifold business and credit card organizers some girleymen carry. Not a real, honest to goodness bifold wallet. The manly kind with the hidden compartment for larger bills, ya know, like a couple of twenties, a place for pictures and little pockets designed for one credit card, but large enough to jam four into.
The kind that when properly filled guarantees it's owner will suffer permanent damage to the spinal cord because it makes ones butt uneven in any type of chair. Every time one sits down with a completely packed wallet in his back pocket he leans to one side or the other depending which pocket the wallet's in. And, it's no fair changing sides to try to keep the spine from always being bent the same way. It feels funny if it's in the wrong pocket. Ask any guy - he'll tell you.
No, unlike all ours, his appeared to be a marvel of modern design, capable of allowing the owner to find anything located within any of it's many compartments in a jiffy. What could possibly be in that thing that could win the contest? He pulled it out and showed us.
It was some sort of folding x-ray of a piece of metal plate that had been implanted in his head. He said he always sets off the machines at the airport, and hated to have the TSA wand guys wave those things around his head. "Can't stand to have much more of it damaged," is what we were told. He shows the security guys the x-ray, lets them wand the rest of his body, and they'll let him through.
He won.
I walked in, waited a while and then took the empty chair when it was my turn. The guy in the other chair finished up and paid for his trim. Then he looked at his bulging wallet and asked if he could trade a bunch of ones in it for a larger bill. Of course it was OK with the barber so he counted out twenty of them. "Thanks - My wallet was getting pretty fat." he said, and then he walked out.
Now, you folks know me pretty well - I couldn't just let that go without comment. I've never learned to keep my comments to myself. "Say, Bill," I said, "My wallets pretty fat too. OK if I trade you a bunch of pieces of paper with stuff written on it that I can't read anymore for a twenty?"
That started it. Everybody in the place just had to complain about how fat their wallets were. One guy took the complaining to the next level; he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and showed it to us.
"You think yours is fat? Take a look at mine." He then started to pull out all kinds of paper, the usual phone numbers, random dimensions of things he was going to build someday but had forgotten what the item was, business cards and combinations to locks that had long ago been misplaced. No one could stand to just let that go unchallenged.Soon all the guys in the shop, except Bill and I - we were busy - had their wallet out on public display, airing the assorted junk guys pick up all the time and stuff into them. There were small screws and washers, a lock of hair from one of the guys daughter, some .22 ammunition and all kinds of foil wrapped pills of every size and shape.
Notes were compared, evaluations made and they were starting to vote on just who's wallet contained the most unusual crap. I don't think a prize of any sort was to be given, but for sure this was a contest that HAD to have a winner. About that time a guy sitting across the room from all the action finally spoke up.
He had not yet joined the fun, but when mention was made of a contest and an actual vote, he pulled out his wallet. "Mine's not as fat as all you guy's, but I think I can win the most unusual item. Wanna see?"
I almost booed. The nerve of this character. His wallet was one of those skinny trifold business and credit card organizers some girleymen carry. Not a real, honest to goodness bifold wallet. The manly kind with the hidden compartment for larger bills, ya know, like a couple of twenties, a place for pictures and little pockets designed for one credit card, but large enough to jam four into.
The kind that when properly filled guarantees it's owner will suffer permanent damage to the spinal cord because it makes ones butt uneven in any type of chair. Every time one sits down with a completely packed wallet in his back pocket he leans to one side or the other depending which pocket the wallet's in. And, it's no fair changing sides to try to keep the spine from always being bent the same way. It feels funny if it's in the wrong pocket. Ask any guy - he'll tell you.
No, unlike all ours, his appeared to be a marvel of modern design, capable of allowing the owner to find anything located within any of it's many compartments in a jiffy. What could possibly be in that thing that could win the contest? He pulled it out and showed us.
It was some sort of folding x-ray of a piece of metal plate that had been implanted in his head. He said he always sets off the machines at the airport, and hated to have the TSA wand guys wave those things around his head. "Can't stand to have much more of it damaged," is what we were told. He shows the security guys the x-ray, lets them wand the rest of his body, and they'll let him through.
He won.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A Wise Man Says
I found this over at Jessies Cafe this morning. Unlike me, he is analytical instead of argumentative, makes better use of reason instead of sarcasim, and speaks quietly instead of with a loud voice. He is a man well worth listening to.
Yes, the US has some very real long term issues with Social Security and Medicare.
Social Security is being strangled by the refusal to raise the income limit on the Social Security withholding tax in response to the gradual creep of inflation. If this limit was raised periodically the Social Security 'problem' would be resolved.
One could consider 'means-testing,' not providing benefits to the better off, but that strikes to the heart of the program, which is not an 'entitlement' but as an insurance trust, distributed uniformly to all participants based in part on their contributions over the years.
Medicare and in particular the drug portions of the program added by the Bush II administration are driving costs much higher. And this is more of a problem because of the structural cost problems in US healthcare system. Big Pharma in the US is a powerful lobbying force, and Americans pay MUCH higher costs per benefit for their health care services. This is inhibiting the steps that are needed to restructure the US healthcare system.
But Social Security and Medicare, without the drug program, have not substantially changed since the 1990's, when the US was running a budget surplus, and then Fed Chairman Greenspan was reassuring the public that the Fed had a plan to deal with the lack of debt.
So what changed?
The repeal of Glass-Steagall and the growth of unregulated financial products, the co-opting of the regulatory agencies, the growth of corporate influence in Washington, and two unfunded and very costly wars of long duration, based largely on lies and distortions based on a terror attack by a small group of people, coupled with tax cuts for the wealthy.
There is relatively little discussion, much less investigation, indictments and convictions, from one of the largest financial frauds in history.
And within twelve months of the crisis breaking, Wall Street bonuses were back to record levels, even as the rest of the country began its long downward spiral into debt, downgrade, and despair.
That is the long and short of it. And it bodes ill that these issues are so infrequently mentioned in the political and economic discussions circling Washington and New York today.
Rational discussion and factual analysis has been overwhelmed by a well funded program of propaganda and sloganeering, and bought and paid for politicians and media which serve to direct the discussions according to the program of the monied interests.
And this is why the outlook for the US is so negative. Governance has failed, the system has been thoroughly corrupted or co-opted, and the planning and discussions cannot gain traction. Some have recently referred to Obama's clarity gap because it is so unclear what he stands for, what principles he is willing to fight for.
The politicians of both parties, the media, and the business leadership are caught in a credibility trap in which the root causes cannot even be discussed, must less addressed, because they have all been involved in or benefited from a massive injustice in the financial frauds. They are complicit, and cannot act openly and honestly for fear of losing control of the debate, and of subsequent discovery.
07 August 2011
It's the Unfunded Wars and the Financial Fraud, and the Unwillingness to Reform
Yes, the US has some very real long term issues with Social Security and Medicare.
Social Security is being strangled by the refusal to raise the income limit on the Social Security withholding tax in response to the gradual creep of inflation. If this limit was raised periodically the Social Security 'problem' would be resolved.
One could consider 'means-testing,' not providing benefits to the better off, but that strikes to the heart of the program, which is not an 'entitlement' but as an insurance trust, distributed uniformly to all participants based in part on their contributions over the years.
Medicare and in particular the drug portions of the program added by the Bush II administration are driving costs much higher. And this is more of a problem because of the structural cost problems in US healthcare system. Big Pharma in the US is a powerful lobbying force, and Americans pay MUCH higher costs per benefit for their health care services. This is inhibiting the steps that are needed to restructure the US healthcare system.
But Social Security and Medicare, without the drug program, have not substantially changed since the 1990's, when the US was running a budget surplus, and then Fed Chairman Greenspan was reassuring the public that the Fed had a plan to deal with the lack of debt.
So what changed?
The repeal of Glass-Steagall and the growth of unregulated financial products, the co-opting of the regulatory agencies, the growth of corporate influence in Washington, and two unfunded and very costly wars of long duration, based largely on lies and distortions based on a terror attack by a small group of people, coupled with tax cuts for the wealthy.
There is relatively little discussion, much less investigation, indictments and convictions, from one of the largest financial frauds in history.
And within twelve months of the crisis breaking, Wall Street bonuses were back to record levels, even as the rest of the country began its long downward spiral into debt, downgrade, and despair.
That is the long and short of it. And it bodes ill that these issues are so infrequently mentioned in the political and economic discussions circling Washington and New York today.
Rational discussion and factual analysis has been overwhelmed by a well funded program of propaganda and sloganeering, and bought and paid for politicians and media which serve to direct the discussions according to the program of the monied interests.
And this is why the outlook for the US is so negative. Governance has failed, the system has been thoroughly corrupted or co-opted, and the planning and discussions cannot gain traction. Some have recently referred to Obama's clarity gap because it is so unclear what he stands for, what principles he is willing to fight for.
The politicians of both parties, the media, and the business leadership are caught in a credibility trap in which the root causes cannot even be discussed, must less addressed, because they have all been involved in or benefited from a massive injustice in the financial frauds. They are complicit, and cannot act openly and honestly for fear of losing control of the debate, and of subsequent discovery.
"Every thing secret degenerates, even the administration of justice; nothing is safe that does not show how it can bear discussion and publicity."
Lord Acton
And who do we see on American television this morning, providing economic advice and promoting the Wall Street prescription for a cure through a return to more bank deregulation? The angel of economic death, Alan Greenspan, a man without shame or honor as one of the great authors of the misrepresentations and mismanagement that led US into the financial crisis which rewarded the few at the expense of the many.
The real issue at the end of the day is reform. The US has been led down a dark alley and strangled in what history may recognize as a financial coup d'etat, and a campaign of economic war against the common people.
The Banks must be restrained, and the financial system reformed, with balance restored to the economy, before there can be any sustained recovery.
The real issue at the end of the day is reform. The US has been led down a dark alley and strangled in what history may recognize as a financial coup d'etat, and a campaign of economic war against the common people.
The Banks must be restrained, and the financial system reformed, with balance restored to the economy, before there can be any sustained recovery.
You will find much more of this wise man's work here. http://jessescrossroadscafe.blogspot.com/ He's well worth reading every day of the week.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Dress Codes
I quit shopping on Saturdays the same day I retired. It's just too much of a hassle because every working stiff in the whole country has to shop on that day. And, most everybody in the world forgets how to dress on the weekends. It's like every thing they own is in the laundry basket and all that's left in the closet are light blue sweatpants and a reddish Hawaiian shirt. A torn reddish Hawaiian shirt.
The Saturday lines are bad enough, but having to cope with the visual delights of the designer fashion challenged while standing in them is enough to make me want to pray for the souls of the folks who are clothed in such garb. Goodness knows, they need help from somewhere, and maybe even our Good Lord is not powerful enough to save them from themselves.
And worse, most of the youngsters, mainly of the female type, seem to have fallen into fishing tackle boxes. Face first. Just how does one eat with a small metal barbell through one's lower lip? I'm surprised the dang thing never gets entangled with the nose ring. But, I'm sure Kimberly-Clark is doing quite well supplying tissues with which to absorb the constant drooling I suspect all the metal causes. And, Johnson and Johnson must be making a fortune bandaging the fresh tattoos.
For every barbell or needle nose there are at least five tattoos. Most of them can't be seen in the check out line, but just go down an aisle or two in the store. For sure you're gonna find some sweat pants person, pants well below the Plumber's line, bending over at the waist, trying to grab the Cheetos on the bottom shelf and in so doing exposing a tattoo on the upper left cheek that says " For a good time call 476-9730" or some such. I remember when these things were written on bathroom walls.
Carolyn's sister and BIL were coming to dinner tonight, and this afternoon I discovered there was no broccoli in the house. We were also missing Sourdough bread. Since lasagna (home-made, no less - I actually had to heat it in the oven after I bought it at Costco) was the entree, I needed to make a rare Saturday run to the grocery store.
Everytime I do that I promise myself, Never Again. I hate shopping on Saturday. Oh yeah, sorry, I've already mentioned that. But this time, I promised myself, was gonna be different. I wasn't going to offer the address of the Salvation Army and Goodwill stores to all the people who had not enough clothes to see them through the entire week, I was going to overlook the mess of humanity. I vowed to try to see this from their point of view.
You see, I am a mere 71 inches tall. In my case, gravity has started to win the height contest. I'm shrinking. But, I'm putting up a pretty good fight in the weight category. Every year I manage to gain another couple of pounds, no matter the cost of groceries, and now weigh a little more than 235 pounds. Even though I dressed in clean, hole free Wranglers and a spiffy Western shirt with all the snaps in place and the long sleeves neatly rolled up, I'm a fatso.
If they have to look at me, I guess I'll just have to look at them. Live and let live.
But, if it ever comes up, I'm votin' to close all the tattoo shops.
And worse, most of the youngsters, mainly of the female type, seem to have fallen into fishing tackle boxes. Face first. Just how does one eat with a small metal barbell through one's lower lip? I'm surprised the dang thing never gets entangled with the nose ring. But, I'm sure Kimberly-Clark is doing quite well supplying tissues with which to absorb the constant drooling I suspect all the metal causes. And, Johnson and Johnson must be making a fortune bandaging the fresh tattoos.
For every barbell or needle nose there are at least five tattoos. Most of them can't be seen in the check out line, but just go down an aisle or two in the store. For sure you're gonna find some sweat pants person, pants well below the Plumber's line, bending over at the waist, trying to grab the Cheetos on the bottom shelf and in so doing exposing a tattoo on the upper left cheek that says " For a good time call 476-9730" or some such. I remember when these things were written on bathroom walls.
Carolyn's sister and BIL were coming to dinner tonight, and this afternoon I discovered there was no broccoli in the house. We were also missing Sourdough bread. Since lasagna (home-made, no less - I actually had to heat it in the oven after I bought it at Costco) was the entree, I needed to make a rare Saturday run to the grocery store.
Everytime I do that I promise myself, Never Again. I hate shopping on Saturday. Oh yeah, sorry, I've already mentioned that. But this time, I promised myself, was gonna be different. I wasn't going to offer the address of the Salvation Army and Goodwill stores to all the people who had not enough clothes to see them through the entire week, I was going to overlook the mess of humanity. I vowed to try to see this from their point of view.
You see, I am a mere 71 inches tall. In my case, gravity has started to win the height contest. I'm shrinking. But, I'm putting up a pretty good fight in the weight category. Every year I manage to gain another couple of pounds, no matter the cost of groceries, and now weigh a little more than 235 pounds. Even though I dressed in clean, hole free Wranglers and a spiffy Western shirt with all the snaps in place and the long sleeves neatly rolled up, I'm a fatso.
If they have to look at me, I guess I'll just have to look at them. Live and let live.
But, if it ever comes up, I'm votin' to close all the tattoo shops.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Freedom To Invest Act
"Hey, Martha. Com'mere. There's this guy on the TV talkin' bout a new freedom act. Som'in bout investin and gettin more jobs HERE. Sounds purtty good fer a change."
That's how they're gonna sell this sack of manure to us. And, what with the market falling all over itself and everybody still arguing about the debt ceiling, now's the perfect time for the latest crime against the American people to emerge.
Ya see, there's this law that allows American Corporations to make a ton of money overseas and not have to pay taxes on it. But, if they bring the money back into the states, like for instance to pay bonuses and dividends, the taxes are due. So, a whole bunch of Corporations are flush with big overseas bucks and want to ship them back here to this fair land between the Atlantic and Pacific shores. But, they don't want to pay any taxes on the money.
So, instead they have dropped a few million bucks into the campaign war chests of a bunch of legislators. The results were remarkably predictable. There now is a bill, The Freedom to Invest Act, making the rounds, quietly adding one after another lawmaker, and which you soon will hear about all over the news as a way to increase the number of jobs right here in the good ol' US of Corporate America.
Here's John Chambers, CEO of Cisco, back in March. http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=7360936n I suggest asking him just how many folks he plans to hire. Last month they announced they'd be laying off more than 10,000 workers. Nope, the money is gonna go into his pockets and into the pockets of other CEO's who run Corporations with overseas profits.
The word for the day, people, is BOHICA. Let me elaborate. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.
And again, and again. Brought to you by America's greatest CEO's and the loyal legislators in both branches of the finest group of lawmakers money can buy.
Anytime the title of an act begins with the word "Freedom", you can bet it'll cost you some freedom - not the other way around.
This is not an original thought, I'm merely bringing to your attention some stuff I've been reading about for the last several days. But it's depressing enough that I'm also gonna tell you a joke a friend told me just today. I've presented way too much gloom around the blog this last week.
Thanks to Lora B. for making me smile today.
Texas Beer Joint Sues Church In Mt. Vernon , Texas
Drummond's Bar began construction on expansion of their building to increase their business.
In response, the local Baptist Church started a campaign to block the bar from expanding with petitions and prayers. Work progressed right up until the week before the grand reopening when lightning struck the bar and it burned to the ground!
After the bar burning to the ground by a lightning strike, the church folks were rather smug in their outlook, bragging about "the power of prayer ", until the bar owner sued the church on the grounds that the church . . ."was ultimately responsible for the demise of his building, either through direct or indirect actions or means."
In its reply to the court, the church vehemently denied all responsibility or any connection to the building's demise.
The judge read through the plaintiff's complaint and the defendant's reply, and at the opening hearing he commented "I don't know how I'm going to decide this, but it appears from the paperwork that we have a bar owner who believes in the power of prayer, and an entire church congregation that now does not."
That's how they're gonna sell this sack of manure to us. And, what with the market falling all over itself and everybody still arguing about the debt ceiling, now's the perfect time for the latest crime against the American people to emerge.
Ya see, there's this law that allows American Corporations to make a ton of money overseas and not have to pay taxes on it. But, if they bring the money back into the states, like for instance to pay bonuses and dividends, the taxes are due. So, a whole bunch of Corporations are flush with big overseas bucks and want to ship them back here to this fair land between the Atlantic and Pacific shores. But, they don't want to pay any taxes on the money.
So, instead they have dropped a few million bucks into the campaign war chests of a bunch of legislators. The results were remarkably predictable. There now is a bill, The Freedom to Invest Act, making the rounds, quietly adding one after another lawmaker, and which you soon will hear about all over the news as a way to increase the number of jobs right here in the good ol' US of Corporate America.
Here's John Chambers, CEO of Cisco, back in March. http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=7360936n I suggest asking him just how many folks he plans to hire. Last month they announced they'd be laying off more than 10,000 workers. Nope, the money is gonna go into his pockets and into the pockets of other CEO's who run Corporations with overseas profits.
The word for the day, people, is BOHICA. Let me elaborate. Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.
And again, and again. Brought to you by America's greatest CEO's and the loyal legislators in both branches of the finest group of lawmakers money can buy.
Anytime the title of an act begins with the word "Freedom", you can bet it'll cost you some freedom - not the other way around.
This is not an original thought, I'm merely bringing to your attention some stuff I've been reading about for the last several days. But it's depressing enough that I'm also gonna tell you a joke a friend told me just today. I've presented way too much gloom around the blog this last week.
Thanks to Lora B. for making me smile today.
Texas Beer Joint Sues Church In Mt. Vernon , Texas
Drummond's Bar began construction on expansion of their building to increase their business.
In response, the local Baptist Church started a campaign to block the bar from expanding with petitions and prayers. Work progressed right up until the week before the grand reopening when lightning struck the bar and it burned to the ground!
After the bar burning to the ground by a lightning strike, the church folks were rather smug in their outlook, bragging about "the power of prayer ", until the bar owner sued the church on the grounds that the church . . ."was ultimately responsible for the demise of his building, either through direct or indirect actions or means."
In its reply to the court, the church vehemently denied all responsibility or any connection to the building's demise.
The judge read through the plaintiff's complaint and the defendant's reply, and at the opening hearing he commented "I don't know how I'm going to decide this, but it appears from the paperwork that we have a bar owner who believes in the power of prayer, and an entire church congregation that now does not."
Evil Knievel
We had a very interesting night, and I'll leave you hanging. Suffice it to say we were tied up for a while. No disaster, but instead a problem easily remedied. And that, folks, is why I started thinking of a problem that is not so easily remedied.
Today the Dow average dropped 512 points. Over the last two weeks it's lost 10% of it's value. Why is that? An easy question for once. Jerks in DC, PIIGS, wealthy folks not willing to pay their share of the freight. And, all the while, most bought off main stream media screaming as loudly as possible, "Leave the billionaires alone. We need them to buy more jets and big boats. They are the ones who create jobs, ya know, they don't know how to fly the planes or drive the boats. They hire, like, um, servants and stuff. Fer God's sake don't bother them."
Well, they claim something close to that - you'd never hear that kinda truth on TV. Here's the truth as I see it, and I'll take the risk of being called a goof ball, anarchist lunatic. The Dow's gonna fall another 20% or much, much more. Gold is gonna go to $2000/ounce. Rioting will occur, but not be reported, in many rust belt streets. All by the time St. Nick slips down the chimney. And, just maybe we're gonna look back at this tiny vision of the near future and wish with all our might that that's all that occurred. It could be a whole, whole lot worse.
I've said somewhere before that I wish I could buy a ton of gold. I've instead settled for a couple hundred cans of Spam and tuna fish. Along with several fairly high stacks of rice and beans. Oh yeah, don't forget - enough ammo to bag enough fresh meat until it's all been eaten. Full disclosure is required at the end of this paragraph. I am considered by many of my immediate family members to be a little off. One short of 52. They put up with me 'cause they've known me for a while. And because every now and again I've been right.
How's that for being a dare devil? Ol' Evil Knievel has nothing on me. 'Course he has more broken bones. I'm a chicken at heart.............
Update: That didn't take long... http://www.todaystmj4.com/news/local/126825018.html
Today the Dow average dropped 512 points. Over the last two weeks it's lost 10% of it's value. Why is that? An easy question for once. Jerks in DC, PIIGS, wealthy folks not willing to pay their share of the freight. And, all the while, most bought off main stream media screaming as loudly as possible, "Leave the billionaires alone. We need them to buy more jets and big boats. They are the ones who create jobs, ya know, they don't know how to fly the planes or drive the boats. They hire, like, um, servants and stuff. Fer God's sake don't bother them."
Well, they claim something close to that - you'd never hear that kinda truth on TV. Here's the truth as I see it, and I'll take the risk of being called a goof ball, anarchist lunatic. The Dow's gonna fall another 20% or much, much more. Gold is gonna go to $2000/ounce. Rioting will occur, but not be reported, in many rust belt streets. All by the time St. Nick slips down the chimney. And, just maybe we're gonna look back at this tiny vision of the near future and wish with all our might that that's all that occurred. It could be a whole, whole lot worse.
I've said somewhere before that I wish I could buy a ton of gold. I've instead settled for a couple hundred cans of Spam and tuna fish. Along with several fairly high stacks of rice and beans. Oh yeah, don't forget - enough ammo to bag enough fresh meat until it's all been eaten. Full disclosure is required at the end of this paragraph. I am considered by many of my immediate family members to be a little off. One short of 52. They put up with me 'cause they've known me for a while. And because every now and again I've been right.
How's that for being a dare devil? Ol' Evil Knievel has nothing on me. 'Course he has more broken bones. I'm a chicken at heart.............
Update: That didn't take long... http://www.todaystmj4.com/news/local/126825018.html
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
A Tale of Two Doctors
Carolyn had appointments with two of her Doctors today. The first was with her primary care provider. I'm gonna tell you a little about it, and let you make some sort of judgment of this Professional Provider of Care.
We walked into the clinic five minutes before our appointment. Promptness is a trait both Carolyn and I share, and even though it takes almost two hours to prepare her to leave the house, we are always on time. I consider it an act of courtesy and respect for the person who we are to meet.
I sat Carolyn in a chair and approached the reception desk.
"Yes! What do you want!"
"Carolyn has an appointment today."
"Well, go sit down. We'll call you."
Twenty minutes later we were led into an exam room where we spent another twenty minutes waiting on the Doctor to show up. When she did, she walked in empty handed, no notes, no charts, no files, no nothing. "Well, what can we do for you today."
Understand, she had made the appointment, and we had been called and told to come in. I thought there was something important and that she wanted to share it with us. Luckily, there was something we needed from her. Earlier this month we had seen Carolyn's Neurologist, a very thorough and caring Physician, and he had asked us about what Carolyn's Primary Care Dr. had done about something he had discovered during an exam four months previously. "Well, we told her you had found something and she felt the area you mentioned to us," I told him, "She said don't worry about it." He actually rocked back in his chair. "I'm gonna give you a copy of the results both she and I received," he said, "And I want you to hand it to her yourselves the next time you go."
I handed her the paper he had given us and said he wanted to be sure she read the part he had circled in red. We also asked her when the "Welcome to Medicare" physical we had requested when we last saw her four months ago was going to be scheduled. Appearing puzzled, she asked what we wanted to have checked. "What tests do you need?" she asked.
"Ya know, we really don't know.", I said. "You're the Doctor. Have you read her charts? Can you give us an idea what she needs to have checked?"
"She's got a long history. I really haven't read it."
I was floored. I told her to give me the charts, I'd read them and see if there was anything I could find and we'd get back to her.
"Oh, no, I can't do that. I'll tell you what. I'll look through them and order some tests. Also, I'm going to refer you to a specialist to look at the thing your Neurologist pointed out. We really should do that soon. Oh, another thing. When was her last tetanus shot? And has she had a shingles vaccination?'"
I told her to look in Carolyn's records. We really had no idea. I never accompanied Carolyn to her appointments before two years ago, and she absolutely is unable to recall. "OK," she said. "I'll have our assistant set up the appointment with the specialist and administer a pneumonia shot." Then she left.
About eight minutes later the assistant came in with the appointment information. We did not prepare to leave and she looked questioningly at us. "The Doctor's finshed. It's OK to leave now." I asked about the pneumonia vaccine Carolyn was to receive. "Oh! I forgot! Just a minute, I'll be right back."
I will swear upon the highest stack of Bibles you can round up that this is a factual account of the care Carolyn received today. And you know what? Thre's nothing we can do about it. This Doctor is the only female practitioner of medicine who accepts new Medicare patients in the area. If I had the time, I'd go back to school so I could better care for her. But, it takes most of my time to care for her now.
Here's how her other appointment went.
We walked in to the office and were greeted by name. "Hi Forrest. Hi, Carolyn. How are you?"
"We're great. We're here to see about more medications for her eyes."
"Oh, yes. We know. Tammy will take you right back."
We were left alone in the exam room for less than two minutes. The Doctor came in, exchanged pleasantries, and examined her. He asked if there were any new problems, inquired about how her medications were working and wrote a new prescription. "I'll have the receptionist set another appointment in three months," he said, "Call me if you experience any difficulty before then."
Medicare pays both these Doctors the same amount for the appointments. And we are concerned with teachers unions that protect teachers who can't teach? How about Doctors who can't practice medicine?
We walked into the clinic five minutes before our appointment. Promptness is a trait both Carolyn and I share, and even though it takes almost two hours to prepare her to leave the house, we are always on time. I consider it an act of courtesy and respect for the person who we are to meet.
I sat Carolyn in a chair and approached the reception desk.
"Yes! What do you want!"
"Carolyn has an appointment today."
"Well, go sit down. We'll call you."
Twenty minutes later we were led into an exam room where we spent another twenty minutes waiting on the Doctor to show up. When she did, she walked in empty handed, no notes, no charts, no files, no nothing. "Well, what can we do for you today."
Understand, she had made the appointment, and we had been called and told to come in. I thought there was something important and that she wanted to share it with us. Luckily, there was something we needed from her. Earlier this month we had seen Carolyn's Neurologist, a very thorough and caring Physician, and he had asked us about what Carolyn's Primary Care Dr. had done about something he had discovered during an exam four months previously. "Well, we told her you had found something and she felt the area you mentioned to us," I told him, "She said don't worry about it." He actually rocked back in his chair. "I'm gonna give you a copy of the results both she and I received," he said, "And I want you to hand it to her yourselves the next time you go."
I handed her the paper he had given us and said he wanted to be sure she read the part he had circled in red. We also asked her when the "Welcome to Medicare" physical we had requested when we last saw her four months ago was going to be scheduled. Appearing puzzled, she asked what we wanted to have checked. "What tests do you need?" she asked.
"Ya know, we really don't know.", I said. "You're the Doctor. Have you read her charts? Can you give us an idea what she needs to have checked?"
"She's got a long history. I really haven't read it."
I was floored. I told her to give me the charts, I'd read them and see if there was anything I could find and we'd get back to her.
"Oh, no, I can't do that. I'll tell you what. I'll look through them and order some tests. Also, I'm going to refer you to a specialist to look at the thing your Neurologist pointed out. We really should do that soon. Oh, another thing. When was her last tetanus shot? And has she had a shingles vaccination?'"
I told her to look in Carolyn's records. We really had no idea. I never accompanied Carolyn to her appointments before two years ago, and she absolutely is unable to recall. "OK," she said. "I'll have our assistant set up the appointment with the specialist and administer a pneumonia shot." Then she left.
About eight minutes later the assistant came in with the appointment information. We did not prepare to leave and she looked questioningly at us. "The Doctor's finshed. It's OK to leave now." I asked about the pneumonia vaccine Carolyn was to receive. "Oh! I forgot! Just a minute, I'll be right back."
I will swear upon the highest stack of Bibles you can round up that this is a factual account of the care Carolyn received today. And you know what? Thre's nothing we can do about it. This Doctor is the only female practitioner of medicine who accepts new Medicare patients in the area. If I had the time, I'd go back to school so I could better care for her. But, it takes most of my time to care for her now.
Here's how her other appointment went.
We walked in to the office and were greeted by name. "Hi Forrest. Hi, Carolyn. How are you?"
"We're great. We're here to see about more medications for her eyes."
"Oh, yes. We know. Tammy will take you right back."
We were left alone in the exam room for less than two minutes. The Doctor came in, exchanged pleasantries, and examined her. He asked if there were any new problems, inquired about how her medications were working and wrote a new prescription. "I'll have the receptionist set another appointment in three months," he said, "Call me if you experience any difficulty before then."
Medicare pays both these Doctors the same amount for the appointments. And we are concerned with teachers unions that protect teachers who can't teach? How about Doctors who can't practice medicine?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Bonus Post! Rogers wings are on!
Several weeks ago I posted"Roger's Tri-Pacer" telling of a friend who is putting his airplane back together after a hail storm. Well, not only is he putting it back together, he's doing a complete restoration. I just got this in my email. His wings are going on the fuselage.
The gang's all there, helping lift the wings into position. From the left, Jeff, a spare arm, some ol' boy with shorts and a smallish belly- maybe Randy?, Thomas, Roger, Skip and Will. I should be in the middle of this mess, getting in the way. Man! I miss these guys! Good luck to you Roger. You're in great company!
Now, scroll down to read today's regular post, "Genius Part 2" Thanks.
The gang's all there, helping lift the wings into position. From the left, Jeff, a spare arm, some ol' boy with shorts and a smallish belly- maybe Randy?, Thomas, Roger, Skip and Will. I should be in the middle of this mess, getting in the way. Man! I miss these guys! Good luck to you Roger. You're in great company!
Now, scroll down to read today's regular post, "Genius Part 2" Thanks.
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