This is the time of year for reviewing the past year, celebrating the birth of Jesus, and filling out new patient sheets at the doctors.
I gather up my list of medications and vitamins with all the care I would give to mom's grocery list for Dicoskey's market. They then give me my "'new" patient form to complete. I still think the purpose of this is to keep you from noticing the magazine about the "Red Sox Miracle" or the one headlined, "Nixon Resigns".
Recently I negotiated a compromise with our dentists' receptionist. I could read over the questions and mark "no change" if appropriate. I did so right after the question: date of birth?
I like to sit in the corner of the examining room. From there I can see when the doctor removes the chart from the rack outside the door. I love it when they scratch their head - trying to remember who the hell I am.
I recently mentioned to a doctor's assistant that, after several visits, I did not recall ever meeting the doctor.
In about 6 seconds the doctor appeared - in scrubs - was extremely hospitable and offered myself and my family weekend passes to Disney. I appreciated the sensitivity but it was innocent - on both sides. The day I see the PA is the same day the doctor operates.
Our family physician doctor has a practice comprised of mostly seasoned patients. My favorite doctor day visit is "The Senior Human Chain Bracelet Dance". The lab tech finally comes out from the lab. He/she reads from a clipboard the numbers of the "not too patiently waiting" patients who are now permitted to come inside to have our blood "drawn."
Then, like the 7 dwarfs heading off for the mines, we shuffle off inside the hall to our assigned chairs. One guy picked the wrong chair. They hauled him out of there by his ear, re-scheduled him for a different month. and wouldn't return his shovel. Me? I just hummed "Whistle While You Work" and the real audiophyles among us joined in.
On my last visit there was one new nurse and two student nurses in the blood lab.
The student nurses assigned to me pulled his blue plastic "sanitary" gloves out of his pants pocket and pulled them on his flabby hands. The first swab he obtained when he missed the vein fell to the floor when he tried to drop it into the trash container. It remained there. After three tries to find a vein my student called the nurse for help but he, was busy overseeing his attractive female postulant.
Patients were now starting to rock in their chairs. Nobody would dare head for the bathroom as they feared losing their designated chair. Many wished they had chosen fresh Depends.
.
I finally inquired about the use of the rubber ball and introduced the "Holy Trinity" to tapping the patients wrist or forearm to assist vein location. My suggestions appeared to baffle them.
They had an epihany, called for a doctor and found he was busy. Then they made a committee decision to bring in a leech to search for a vein of mine they could use.
I won the "name the leech" contest. I chose Stephenie Meyer.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
BOUND TO HAPPEN
Let's face it. We all knew it was bound to happen.
A rumor is "afloat" (as you will) that a petition has been sent to Baseball Commissioner Bud Seligs office demanding a name change for the Pittsburgh Pirates. (PP)
It was filed by a group claiming to represent The Pirates Of Somalia. (TPOS). The gist of the petition is that the PP are giving TPOS and pirates everywhere a bad name due to it's obvious lack of a winning record and aggressive behavior on the field of play over several years. (Note they say "aggressive" not "offensive".)
They reference the consistent unwillingness of PP pitchers to pitch high and inside as just one example in support of their conclusion. They also speak to allowing outfielder - and leading base "stealer" Nyger Morgan - to be shipped off to "The Washington Generals" (sic).
Frank Drake IX, the spokesperson of the group, claims: "The "softie" identification with the PP name is also a constant affront to our members as well as their ancestors."
He cites the willingness of several sports teams to make changes of their previous names in deference to the demands of small indigenous native american groups who "apparently were shut out of casino largesse and had a lot of time on their hands".
(It was interesting they did not observe this fate has yet to have befallen the Washington Redskins - whose owners adroitly argued they were named after a vegetable - clearly a half baked allegation -but one that received massive legislative support.)
Drake included a tape of a sample negotiation demand conversation with Greek shipping magnates: "We are the Pirates. You have to give us 10 million dollars if you ever expect to get your hijacked oil tanker back. Otherwise, we will set it on fire." You then hear the sound of raucous laughter from the Greek shipping magnates, followed by a dial tone.
It seems the shippers made the same misidentification that is the focus of the petition. They assumed it was our PP, a floundering sports organization that appeared to be seeking non-reportable income for the purpose of becoming "The New Pirates Of The Caribbean". (TNPOTC)
It was an honest mistake.
You see, the shipping owners have relatives in the food concession business in Pittsburgh who continue to return to their native land on vacation. Each year these relations have loudly lamented the lack of any agressive behavior by their beloved PP's - resulting in decreased fan attendance and a dramatic fall off of Baklava sales at the stadium.
TPOS in their petition do cite as an encouraging example of promising local piracy the possible unwillingness of the PP management to open their books to the people of Pittsburgh. They concede it certainly would be a positive sign - but perhaps a case of , "too little - too late."
To further this argument they remind Bud that neither the performance of the team nor the actions of it's ownership seem to have attracted his interest, let alone the other MLB owners.
The following scary but plausible closing argument was related to us by an individual privy to the negotiations, but not authorized to speak publicly:
"Due to the association the name "pirates" now has with your sports team, we have become the Rodney Dangerfields of Larceny (RDOL) . We simply are getting no respect.
It's getting tougher and tougher to make a dishonest buck! Should you fail to capitulate to our demands, the only viable option for us may be to purchase our own MLB team - recoup our losses - and enjoy the anti-trust protection afforded others."
We should point out the petitioners were not without their conciliatory advances at first. Noting Pittsburgh's fondness for outlandish alliteration in the form of the Pittsburgh Pirates, Penguins, and long departed Pipers, etc; they offered alternative choices.
They suggested as a more accurate name selection: The Pittsburgh Pansies, Pip Squeaks, Pushovers, Pee-Wees, Putrids, and P---ants, as well as what seemed to this writer to be another valid alternative name choice.
Drake claimed that should their petition be accepted by MLB and, what they saw as an absolutely appropriate substitute name be chosen, they will voluntarily erect a statute in honor of the long suffering PP fans : A 17 foot "Plaster of Paris Pigeon" to be located in the middle of Market Square.
I say, "Go for It. It's good for tourism and it would be "a steal".
A rumor is "afloat" (as you will) that a petition has been sent to Baseball Commissioner Bud Seligs office demanding a name change for the Pittsburgh Pirates. (PP)
It was filed by a group claiming to represent The Pirates Of Somalia. (TPOS). The gist of the petition is that the PP are giving TPOS and pirates everywhere a bad name due to it's obvious lack of a winning record and aggressive behavior on the field of play over several years. (Note they say "aggressive" not "offensive".)
They reference the consistent unwillingness of PP pitchers to pitch high and inside as just one example in support of their conclusion. They also speak to allowing outfielder - and leading base "stealer" Nyger Morgan - to be shipped off to "The Washington Generals" (sic).
Frank Drake IX, the spokesperson of the group, claims: "The "softie" identification with the PP name is also a constant affront to our members as well as their ancestors."
He cites the willingness of several sports teams to make changes of their previous names in deference to the demands of small indigenous native american groups who "apparently were shut out of casino largesse and had a lot of time on their hands".
(It was interesting they did not observe this fate has yet to have befallen the Washington Redskins - whose owners adroitly argued they were named after a vegetable - clearly a half baked allegation -but one that received massive legislative support.)
Drake included a tape of a sample negotiation demand conversation with Greek shipping magnates: "We are the Pirates. You have to give us 10 million dollars if you ever expect to get your hijacked oil tanker back. Otherwise, we will set it on fire." You then hear the sound of raucous laughter from the Greek shipping magnates, followed by a dial tone.
It seems the shippers made the same misidentification that is the focus of the petition. They assumed it was our PP, a floundering sports organization that appeared to be seeking non-reportable income for the purpose of becoming "The New Pirates Of The Caribbean". (TNPOTC)
It was an honest mistake.
You see, the shipping owners have relatives in the food concession business in Pittsburgh who continue to return to their native land on vacation. Each year these relations have loudly lamented the lack of any agressive behavior by their beloved PP's - resulting in decreased fan attendance and a dramatic fall off of Baklava sales at the stadium.
TPOS in their petition do cite as an encouraging example of promising local piracy the possible unwillingness of the PP management to open their books to the people of Pittsburgh. They concede it certainly would be a positive sign - but perhaps a case of , "too little - too late."
To further this argument they remind Bud that neither the performance of the team nor the actions of it's ownership seem to have attracted his interest, let alone the other MLB owners.
The following scary but plausible closing argument was related to us by an individual privy to the negotiations, but not authorized to speak publicly:
"Due to the association the name "pirates" now has with your sports team, we have become the Rodney Dangerfields of Larceny (RDOL) . We simply are getting no respect.
It's getting tougher and tougher to make a dishonest buck! Should you fail to capitulate to our demands, the only viable option for us may be to purchase our own MLB team - recoup our losses - and enjoy the anti-trust protection afforded others."
We should point out the petitioners were not without their conciliatory advances at first. Noting Pittsburgh's fondness for outlandish alliteration in the form of the Pittsburgh Pirates, Penguins, and long departed Pipers, etc; they offered alternative choices.
They suggested as a more accurate name selection: The Pittsburgh Pansies, Pip Squeaks, Pushovers, Pee-Wees, Putrids, and P---ants, as well as what seemed to this writer to be another valid alternative name choice.
Drake claimed that should their petition be accepted by MLB and, what they saw as an absolutely appropriate substitute name be chosen, they will voluntarily erect a statute in honor of the long suffering PP fans : A 17 foot "Plaster of Paris Pigeon" to be located in the middle of Market Square.
I say, "Go for It. It's good for tourism and it would be "a steal".
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
NOT TO WORRY
Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is around the corner. You couldn't have missed it. It was in all the Walmart ads.
So, you pulled out the outdoor extension cords and Christmas trimming lights you store together and discover all the cords look like the first spaghetti you made as a young bride or anxious bachelor.
Hint: never pack the lights up on New Years Day when you have a New Years Eve hangover. You have enough on your mind just trying to figure out how the hedgehog got in your bed.
NOT TO WORRY # 1. Be like us. At our home we're as prepared as the Pentagon.
About a week before Thanksgiving we pack all the cords in a large cardboard box and haul them over to the local daycare center. They become the focal point of the Annual Thanksgiving Puzzle Contest. (ATPC)
The kids are split up in teams of three - with a teacher or volunteer assigned to each group as a timer. All the various cords are covered with nap pads before the contest starts so no child can inavertently start unwinding them in their mind. (We have some really advanced kids in our daycare center who are taking calculus as an elective)
The teacher blows a whistle and the puzzle solving begins. If a few kids on the teams are temporarily members of the remedial puzzle solving group - maybe due to a poor attention span or boredom - but are great sleepers - that's when the nap pads come in handy once more.
NOT TO WORRY #2. Prizes? That's the genius in this whole scheme.
About eight days before Thanksgiving you thaw out some of those fruitcakes Aunt Martha gives you annually. You know, the ones you shove in the freezer cause you never know what to do with them.
Ah ha! You're starting to recognize the classic "two-fer": Even weird Aunt Martie can't get upset should she discover you were willing to give up your Christmas goodies to feed hungry kids.
NOT TO WORRY #3. Remember those are the same tummies that can digest edible crayons, cat food, and colored snow. Kids are tougher than you think.
Be sure to pick up your unentangled cords the morning before holiday recess. You'll have the trimming done in about 15 minutes. Guaranteed!
--------------------------------------
Hope you had a great Thanksgiving.
So, you pulled out the outdoor extension cords and Christmas trimming lights you store together and discover all the cords look like the first spaghetti you made as a young bride or anxious bachelor.
Hint: never pack the lights up on New Years Day when you have a New Years Eve hangover. You have enough on your mind just trying to figure out how the hedgehog got in your bed.
NOT TO WORRY # 1. Be like us. At our home we're as prepared as the Pentagon.
About a week before Thanksgiving we pack all the cords in a large cardboard box and haul them over to the local daycare center. They become the focal point of the Annual Thanksgiving Puzzle Contest. (ATPC)
The kids are split up in teams of three - with a teacher or volunteer assigned to each group as a timer. All the various cords are covered with nap pads before the contest starts so no child can inavertently start unwinding them in their mind. (We have some really advanced kids in our daycare center who are taking calculus as an elective)
The teacher blows a whistle and the puzzle solving begins. If a few kids on the teams are temporarily members of the remedial puzzle solving group - maybe due to a poor attention span or boredom - but are great sleepers - that's when the nap pads come in handy once more.
NOT TO WORRY #2. Prizes? That's the genius in this whole scheme.
About eight days before Thanksgiving you thaw out some of those fruitcakes Aunt Martha gives you annually. You know, the ones you shove in the freezer cause you never know what to do with them.
Ah ha! You're starting to recognize the classic "two-fer": Even weird Aunt Martie can't get upset should she discover you were willing to give up your Christmas goodies to feed hungry kids.
NOT TO WORRY #3. Remember those are the same tummies that can digest edible crayons, cat food, and colored snow. Kids are tougher than you think.
Be sure to pick up your unentangled cords the morning before holiday recess. You'll have the trimming done in about 15 minutes. Guaranteed!
--------------------------------------
Hope you had a great Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
" And Bingo Was His Name"
Writing a blog is good therapy for an aging senior like me. I also discovered that playing Bingo with my wife at our community clubhouse can be similarly stimulating.
Like everything else there have been several alterations to the game of Bingo since I last played. It seems they have given up on putting the kernels of corn on the squares and abandoned the use of those little plastic chips too. Nowadays, in order to play efficiently you need a dauber about the size of a Hebrew salami. Fortunately this old Irishman found one with green ink.
My introduction to Bingo was the annual Fireman's Fair in my hometown of Forest Hills, Penna. I didn't play much there but mostly labored as my Mom's good luck charm., standing erect behind her until she won her first Bingo game. As you can see, Mom was Irish too.
As a kid I thought Bingo was really called "Aw, s--t!, as that's what I heard at the end of every game. I was sure many of these Forest Hills women of the late 40's & early 50's were former resistance fighters in Poland and Denmark during WW II.
Last week I discovered the rules for Bingo, had changed more than "Strip Canasta". There are more patterns and games of Bingo than this mind can handle. There are diamonds, 4 corners, , diagonals, full card immersion, corner squares, secret numbers, and "quickies".
The latter held my interest until I discovered this meant the Bingo caller rapidly shouts out the numbers without furnishing you with the corresponding 5 letters.
I now realized I had lost any command of the Bingo language acquired in my youth and was clearly a member of the remedial Bingo class in my 55 and over community.
At one point we were informed by a very nice blue haired lady, who I refer to as the Bingo Gatekeeper, that the next game to be played required the use of the secret number "4".
We're all getting older and some of us don't hear well so we can easily become confused. Therefore, I listened carefully as the gatekeeper patiently explained to us this meant that any card space ending in the number "4" was a "freebie", and need not be recorded.
That was fairly easy for me. It reminded me of a twist on a popular beer drinking game at Pittsburgh weddings in the 60's. However, it evoked several acts of verbal desperation by some of the hearing impaired and fellow remedial class members with whom I empathized.
The gatekeeper was not as forgiving. After fielding several questions her previously patient gaze had turned into a stare that would have melted Tupperware. "Does that include "34"?", one woman in the back boldly inquired. The gatekeeper replied , "That would be it, dear", and appeared to be honing her stare, apparently fearing she would not reunite with her spouse until 2010.
Seemingly immune to the increasing change in the gatekeepers attitude, as well as the fading hour, the woman continued with her verbal assault, "Would that be number "54" as well?"
The gatekeeper's eyes were now dissolving the cover of the Naugahyde chair in the far corner of the room. "YOU BET-CHA!", she replied in a tone suggesting she was a fraction of a second from loudly requesting a "pricecheck".
"I have a 74. Can I include that too?", the player bravely continued. The gatekeepers' orbs were now glowing and the separation in the floor tiles beneath the woman's folding chair was widening.
"FOUR, FOUR, FOUR! Any number ending in a 4."she screamed out of desperation. She then chugalugged her Gatorade before slumping into her own chair, upon which she had previously been standing.
Noting that I had the number "44" I wisely hesitated to inquire if that meant I got two free squares
Instead, crouched like Quasimodo, I resumed my preassigned duty of daubing each one of my squares ending in 4 as well as the number "62", which was awarded to us posthumously.
I was totally confused. When we entered I had been furnished two 4 card sheets . This was far more than the three cards with which my mom entrusted me as a child. This was the "big time."
My ignorance proved to be a disaster in the quickie game or when we had to try to fill up all our squares with dauber dye. I hit the back of my wife's left hand and wrist several times during the evening. I also ruined her faux Gucci watchband, and knocked over her Creme Soda and my Dr. Pepper.
Wait till they see all those green spots on the table under my paper thin cards.
I don't think we'll be invited back.
Like everything else there have been several alterations to the game of Bingo since I last played. It seems they have given up on putting the kernels of corn on the squares and abandoned the use of those little plastic chips too. Nowadays, in order to play efficiently you need a dauber about the size of a Hebrew salami. Fortunately this old Irishman found one with green ink.
My introduction to Bingo was the annual Fireman's Fair in my hometown of Forest Hills, Penna. I didn't play much there but mostly labored as my Mom's good luck charm., standing erect behind her until she won her first Bingo game. As you can see, Mom was Irish too.
As a kid I thought Bingo was really called "Aw, s--t!, as that's what I heard at the end of every game. I was sure many of these Forest Hills women of the late 40's & early 50's were former resistance fighters in Poland and Denmark during WW II.
Last week I discovered the rules for Bingo, had changed more than "Strip Canasta". There are more patterns and games of Bingo than this mind can handle. There are diamonds, 4 corners, , diagonals, full card immersion, corner squares, secret numbers, and "quickies".
The latter held my interest until I discovered this meant the Bingo caller rapidly shouts out the numbers without furnishing you with the corresponding 5 letters.
I now realized I had lost any command of the Bingo language acquired in my youth and was clearly a member of the remedial Bingo class in my 55 and over community.
At one point we were informed by a very nice blue haired lady, who I refer to as the Bingo Gatekeeper, that the next game to be played required the use of the secret number "4".
We're all getting older and some of us don't hear well so we can easily become confused. Therefore, I listened carefully as the gatekeeper patiently explained to us this meant that any card space ending in the number "4" was a "freebie", and need not be recorded.
That was fairly easy for me. It reminded me of a twist on a popular beer drinking game at Pittsburgh weddings in the 60's. However, it evoked several acts of verbal desperation by some of the hearing impaired and fellow remedial class members with whom I empathized.
The gatekeeper was not as forgiving. After fielding several questions her previously patient gaze had turned into a stare that would have melted Tupperware. "Does that include "34"?", one woman in the back boldly inquired. The gatekeeper replied , "That would be it, dear", and appeared to be honing her stare, apparently fearing she would not reunite with her spouse until 2010.
Seemingly immune to the increasing change in the gatekeepers attitude, as well as the fading hour, the woman continued with her verbal assault, "Would that be number "54" as well?"
The gatekeeper's eyes were now dissolving the cover of the Naugahyde chair in the far corner of the room. "YOU BET-CHA!", she replied in a tone suggesting she was a fraction of a second from loudly requesting a "pricecheck".
"I have a 74. Can I include that too?", the player bravely continued. The gatekeepers' orbs were now glowing and the separation in the floor tiles beneath the woman's folding chair was widening.
"FOUR, FOUR, FOUR! Any number ending in a 4."she screamed out of desperation. She then chugalugged her Gatorade before slumping into her own chair, upon which she had previously been standing.
Noting that I had the number "44" I wisely hesitated to inquire if that meant I got two free squares
Instead, crouched like Quasimodo, I resumed my preassigned duty of daubing each one of my squares ending in 4 as well as the number "62", which was awarded to us posthumously.
I was totally confused. When we entered I had been furnished two 4 card sheets . This was far more than the three cards with which my mom entrusted me as a child. This was the "big time."
My ignorance proved to be a disaster in the quickie game or when we had to try to fill up all our squares with dauber dye. I hit the back of my wife's left hand and wrist several times during the evening. I also ruined her faux Gucci watchband, and knocked over her Creme Soda and my Dr. Pepper.
Wait till they see all those green spots on the table under my paper thin cards.
I don't think we'll be invited back.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
If you get a good one - - - - - -
We love living on the Gulf side of Florida. You get a pretty good mix over here. The night life is good down in Sarasota- you can cruise out of Tampa - and there are a bunch of Steeler fans down here in Bradenton.
There's also a lot of farm land. Near our development there are several cows that use a former fruit farm as pasture. Bella, our Chihuahua, loves seeing them up close and thinks they're big dogs. Bella doesn't know a lot about animals. Guess I don't either.
Recently a fellow I met down at Geckos invited me over to his farm. I had just sat down in his farmhouse with a cold sarsasparilla he proffered when a three legged pig appeared from behind the couch I was occupying.
When my friend came back from the kitchen I inquired about the pig and noted to him that I observed it only had three legs.
My friend said, "Yep, that's a very unusal pig. I doubt we'd be having this conversation if it hadn't been for that pig. As you know, we get a passel of rain down here. With a farm this size we have to deal with a lot of mud. One rainy day I got too close to the edge of the pasture road. The tractor slid suddenly, flipped over, and pinned me underneath."
"Wow", I exclaimed. "How'd you get out?"
"Well, that's the strange thing," he said, sucking on his Dr. Pepper. "It just so happened that Chitlin, the pig you asked about, saw my predicament. I was too far away from the house to call anybody. I was getting concerned as it was getting dark and my leg had started cramping."
"Yeh, I'd have been scared too. I mean, how much help can a pig be when you're in a fix like that?", I asked.
"Well, that's just the thing I was thinking then. But, you know, Chitlin sat down for a while cogitating on the problem. Then he got up, put his head down and boar straight ahead; if you'll excuse the pun. He proceeded very carefully to dig a narrow trench from the roadbed and under the tractor, spitting mud right and left. His plan worked and allowed me to extricate myself without being crushed."
"That's one extrordinary pig", I said, in awe of the pigs perspicacity
"Yeah, but that's just the beginning. One time we were all sleeping and the kitchen caught on fire. The smoke was so thick you couldn't hardly see the front door to escape. Darned if that pig didn't smell the smoke, come to see what was going on, and then head butt the door in. This allowed the smoke to clear and we grabbed his tail to escape safely, looking for all the world like a human charm bracelet."
"Incredible!", I exclaimed.
"Finally", he continued, "there was the time the Feds were sneaking around the out buildings where we kept the still and Chitlin got wind of them. He set up a sort of a pig posse and he and the other pigs chased them guys plum off the land.''
He paused. "Of course, then we realized we needed to take evasive action and we moved the still into a cave we dug under the kitchen floor. By, the way, would you like another? It won't take me but a minute."
Finding I was having difficulty in identifying any of the primary colors on the Afghan spread across the arm of the couch, I declined graciously and quickly got back to the conversation. "I've never heard of anything like that in my whole life. But, tell me, why does Chitlin only have three legs?"
My friend put his thumbs under his overall shoulder straps and proudly exclaimed, "Well , you know, if you get a good one like Chitlin you just don't want to eat him all at once."
Don't know about you but it made perfect sense to me at the time.
(This blog has not received a P.E.T.A. seal of approval)
There's also a lot of farm land. Near our development there are several cows that use a former fruit farm as pasture. Bella, our Chihuahua, loves seeing them up close and thinks they're big dogs. Bella doesn't know a lot about animals. Guess I don't either.
Recently a fellow I met down at Geckos invited me over to his farm. I had just sat down in his farmhouse with a cold sarsasparilla he proffered when a three legged pig appeared from behind the couch I was occupying.
When my friend came back from the kitchen I inquired about the pig and noted to him that I observed it only had three legs.
My friend said, "Yep, that's a very unusal pig. I doubt we'd be having this conversation if it hadn't been for that pig. As you know, we get a passel of rain down here. With a farm this size we have to deal with a lot of mud. One rainy day I got too close to the edge of the pasture road. The tractor slid suddenly, flipped over, and pinned me underneath."
"Wow", I exclaimed. "How'd you get out?"
"Well, that's the strange thing," he said, sucking on his Dr. Pepper. "It just so happened that Chitlin, the pig you asked about, saw my predicament. I was too far away from the house to call anybody. I was getting concerned as it was getting dark and my leg had started cramping."
"Yeh, I'd have been scared too. I mean, how much help can a pig be when you're in a fix like that?", I asked.
"Well, that's just the thing I was thinking then. But, you know, Chitlin sat down for a while cogitating on the problem. Then he got up, put his head down and boar straight ahead; if you'll excuse the pun. He proceeded very carefully to dig a narrow trench from the roadbed and under the tractor, spitting mud right and left. His plan worked and allowed me to extricate myself without being crushed."
"That's one extrordinary pig", I said, in awe of the pigs perspicacity
"Yeah, but that's just the beginning. One time we were all sleeping and the kitchen caught on fire. The smoke was so thick you couldn't hardly see the front door to escape. Darned if that pig didn't smell the smoke, come to see what was going on, and then head butt the door in. This allowed the smoke to clear and we grabbed his tail to escape safely, looking for all the world like a human charm bracelet."
"Incredible!", I exclaimed.
"Finally", he continued, "there was the time the Feds were sneaking around the out buildings where we kept the still and Chitlin got wind of them. He set up a sort of a pig posse and he and the other pigs chased them guys plum off the land.''
He paused. "Of course, then we realized we needed to take evasive action and we moved the still into a cave we dug under the kitchen floor. By, the way, would you like another? It won't take me but a minute."
Finding I was having difficulty in identifying any of the primary colors on the Afghan spread across the arm of the couch, I declined graciously and quickly got back to the conversation. "I've never heard of anything like that in my whole life. But, tell me, why does Chitlin only have three legs?"
My friend put his thumbs under his overall shoulder straps and proudly exclaimed, "Well , you know, if you get a good one like Chitlin you just don't want to eat him all at once."
Don't know about you but it made perfect sense to me at the time.
(This blog has not received a P.E.T.A. seal of approval)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Who would know?
I bought a new car recently from my local GM dealer. It was time. My Henry-J was on it's last legs and I was having a devil of a time locating parts.
It's been a while so I was amazed at the amount of paperwork to be signed in the dealership and the volume of material contained in the two customer manuals they furnished me. One was a detailed book describing the entire vehicle. The second was sort of a "how to get started" instructional guide that covered the highlights, such as how to get out of the car.
I hesitated to go any any further as we Sullivans don't like to read directions. However, I admit I was curious what this could possibly be all about. There was a powerful lot of information in those books - and a lot of big words. In addition, even after seeing the pictures in the manuals I had trouble finding the matching locations in the front of the car. They all looked alike to me.
There was this one interesting section that discussed the skinny dill pickle shaped rod they had inserted into the left side of the steering column and that kept getting in my way.
It appears this was designed more for a multi-tasking adult. I didn't get into all the details as I'm a sort of "one step at a time kinda guy". However, I was impressed that the darn thing would wash your windshield and make the wipers go faster. I thought, "Who would know? What will they come up with next!" I put the book back in the trunk as it was clearly way over my head.
Don't get me wrong. I really do love the car despite the fact I don't understand it much, but, that annoying clicking and the church bells I sometimes hear are starting to get to me. After much thought, consternation and hesitant exploration, I concluded the noise has something to do with the pickle. I decided to question my peers in this "experienced adult" community for their input.
Driving the two blocks up to the Florida "old f--t" weekly Friday breakfast meeting at the clubhouse (so people could see my new car) I inquired of the other seniors at my table about the strange noises I was hearing. While many of them affirmed they too had experienced this annoyance they appeared to be equally frustrated and unable to explain their origin. I felt bad as clearly I had caused them to have their knickers all wrapped up in knots.
Sidney Lipshitz, our college "edjicated" neighbor, who lived in one of the big places up back, offered, "sometimes if you pound on the steering wheel real hard, the noise will stop!" Angus Furbush, the new resident from Iowa nodded his head in agreement - perhaps too vigorously -as this caused his face to plummet into his oatmeal and a prune became impaled in his right ear.
Finally, desperate for some "good" answers , I reluctantly took the car back to my dealer's service foreman. His name was "I.M. Goodratchet," according to the uniform label embroidered just above his vinyl pocket protector.
"I.M", I said. (I felt I could call him by his first name as I paid a bundle for the car.) "I've got a problem." He stopped his efforts to reglue the McCain/Palin sticker back onto the Service Limousine's rear bumper, and appeared to be really puzzled as I described my discontentment with my new purchase and the noises it made. His tanned forehead was wrinkled up like.
"It's your 'tern signals', he barked.. Not being the dimwit he suspected, I smartly replied, "That makes absolutly no sense. How many birdwatchers are there down here to justify the expense?"
Now, he really was puzzled. He walked me to my car and directed me to the passenger seat as he got behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and began to turn the pickle up and down causing it to start that infernal clicking sound.
He then patiently advised me that the purpose of the clicker was to alert other drivers as to where and when I was intending to turn the car. I looked at him in wonderment and inquired, "For what reason? Doesn't my winding down the window and sticking my arm out accomplish the same thing? This is just one more unnecessary doo-dad to jack up the price of the car."
Funny though, you could tell he seemed to have been around as he explained to this old timer why I no longer had to use my proven and well tested technique to signal my turns & stops.
He advised me that by "playing with the pickle" one of the front or rear lights on either side of the car, as well as the side mirrors would light up and advise other motorists what I was going to do. He said the clicking sound was to let ME know what I had done. That's when I lost it!.
I clearly told him since I was the one "doing the doing" I really didn't need some irritating noise to confirm my actions to me. I also explained to him that he was wrong, "I have seen many drivers who rolled down their windows and signaled other drivers with their finger". I also added, " I have never, ever, seen blinking lights coming from the front or rear of other cars out on the road - let alone showing up on their mirrors."
He shook his head sadly and softly whispered, "I wouldn't be surprised". Then he disappeared into the Service building, leaving his unattached bumper sticker behind him.
Now, I was the one who was confused, but, as I slowly reviewed our conversation and repeated his words I finally concluded, "You know, 'I.M.' just might be on to something here. I can't wait to tell the guys at Friday's breakfast meeting."
Look, I want to assure you that I'm no evangelist preacher. I'm just relating this story to you as a concerned citizen, but, think about it, if this lack of knowledge is going on in Florida, it could be happening all over the country.
That's dangerous stuff man!
It's been a while so I was amazed at the amount of paperwork to be signed in the dealership and the volume of material contained in the two customer manuals they furnished me. One was a detailed book describing the entire vehicle. The second was sort of a "how to get started" instructional guide that covered the highlights, such as how to get out of the car.
I hesitated to go any any further as we Sullivans don't like to read directions. However, I admit I was curious what this could possibly be all about. There was a powerful lot of information in those books - and a lot of big words. In addition, even after seeing the pictures in the manuals I had trouble finding the matching locations in the front of the car. They all looked alike to me.
There was this one interesting section that discussed the skinny dill pickle shaped rod they had inserted into the left side of the steering column and that kept getting in my way.
It appears this was designed more for a multi-tasking adult. I didn't get into all the details as I'm a sort of "one step at a time kinda guy". However, I was impressed that the darn thing would wash your windshield and make the wipers go faster. I thought, "Who would know? What will they come up with next!" I put the book back in the trunk as it was clearly way over my head.
Don't get me wrong. I really do love the car despite the fact I don't understand it much, but, that annoying clicking and the church bells I sometimes hear are starting to get to me. After much thought, consternation and hesitant exploration, I concluded the noise has something to do with the pickle. I decided to question my peers in this "experienced adult" community for their input.
Driving the two blocks up to the Florida "old f--t" weekly Friday breakfast meeting at the clubhouse (so people could see my new car) I inquired of the other seniors at my table about the strange noises I was hearing. While many of them affirmed they too had experienced this annoyance they appeared to be equally frustrated and unable to explain their origin. I felt bad as clearly I had caused them to have their knickers all wrapped up in knots.
Sidney Lipshitz, our college "edjicated" neighbor, who lived in one of the big places up back, offered, "sometimes if you pound on the steering wheel real hard, the noise will stop!" Angus Furbush, the new resident from Iowa nodded his head in agreement - perhaps too vigorously -as this caused his face to plummet into his oatmeal and a prune became impaled in his right ear.
Finally, desperate for some "good" answers , I reluctantly took the car back to my dealer's service foreman. His name was "I.M. Goodratchet," according to the uniform label embroidered just above his vinyl pocket protector.
"I.M", I said. (I felt I could call him by his first name as I paid a bundle for the car.) "I've got a problem." He stopped his efforts to reglue the McCain/Palin sticker back onto the Service Limousine's rear bumper, and appeared to be really puzzled as I described my discontentment with my new purchase and the noises it made. His tanned forehead was wrinkled up like.
"It's your 'tern signals', he barked.. Not being the dimwit he suspected, I smartly replied, "That makes absolutly no sense. How many birdwatchers are there down here to justify the expense?"
Now, he really was puzzled. He walked me to my car and directed me to the passenger seat as he got behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition and began to turn the pickle up and down causing it to start that infernal clicking sound.
He then patiently advised me that the purpose of the clicker was to alert other drivers as to where and when I was intending to turn the car. I looked at him in wonderment and inquired, "For what reason? Doesn't my winding down the window and sticking my arm out accomplish the same thing? This is just one more unnecessary doo-dad to jack up the price of the car."
Funny though, you could tell he seemed to have been around as he explained to this old timer why I no longer had to use my proven and well tested technique to signal my turns & stops.
He advised me that by "playing with the pickle" one of the front or rear lights on either side of the car, as well as the side mirrors would light up and advise other motorists what I was going to do. He said the clicking sound was to let ME know what I had done. That's when I lost it!.
I clearly told him since I was the one "doing the doing" I really didn't need some irritating noise to confirm my actions to me. I also explained to him that he was wrong, "I have seen many drivers who rolled down their windows and signaled other drivers with their finger". I also added, " I have never, ever, seen blinking lights coming from the front or rear of other cars out on the road - let alone showing up on their mirrors."
He shook his head sadly and softly whispered, "I wouldn't be surprised". Then he disappeared into the Service building, leaving his unattached bumper sticker behind him.
Now, I was the one who was confused, but, as I slowly reviewed our conversation and repeated his words I finally concluded, "You know, 'I.M.' just might be on to something here. I can't wait to tell the guys at Friday's breakfast meeting."
Look, I want to assure you that I'm no evangelist preacher. I'm just relating this story to you as a concerned citizen, but, think about it, if this lack of knowledge is going on in Florida, it could be happening all over the country.
That's dangerous stuff man!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
"I'm not a lawyer, but - - - -"
When Charles Dickens visited this country many years ago he described it as "The most litigious country in the world". Charlie would have loved it in 2009!
Now, not only do we have attorney commercials seemingly non-stop in Florida, with each firm pleading their case for signing up, but we also have actors encouraging folks to call someone who guarantees to "FIND" you a doctor or an attorney.
While I think it's a brillant premise, I'm puzzled. Did attorneys stop advertising on the back of your phone book?
I'm retired from the insurance claims end of things for about 10 years now, so I admit to some bias - and that's not necessarily bad.
Unfortunately, I continue to be amazed at the gullibility of some people who are willing to listen to the law firms rhetoric only and not think for themselves.
It's not that they can't. I met many good folks with whom I discussed a settlement who were every bit as bright and usually more communicative than a few attorneys with whom I had contact. Ah, but you see, the injured people were usually discussing just one case - their own.
I enjoyed those one on one discussions and I was fair. These were the folks who were "doing the hurting", not the attorney. They were people who deserved my empathy and understanding. Fortunately, I worked for a company that understood this - insisted we pay what we owe - and were consistently ranked as one of the top companies for customer satisfaction.
Yeah, I know - that can't be. Right? We all know insurance companies are evil. Why? Because some attorney ads tell us that they are. When was the last time you saw an insurance company ad that put down attorneys? So, who is it that you want to believe?
Why, when you are the person who was hurt, would you consider sometimes giving away over 1/2 of the money from an insurance settlement? In a recent USA article addressing the cost of litigation the writer spoke of injured claimants who had to pay out 54% of the settlement to their attorneys for fees and administrative costs.
The amount didn't surprise me as much as the fact that a media source would allow that information "to see the light of day". Frankly, in my experience, that's rare to see and I never could figure out why. The news providers always seemed so anxious to tell you about the amount of the settlement. (Ah yeah, there's that bias thing again.)
This is a great country and people should be able to make up their own minds - if given the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately, a lot of good information is out there that people never get to see or hear.
Knowing how much time you have to get an attorney, if necessary, is a good first step in using the brain that God gave you. In Pennsylvania you had two years. To me, that seems more than sufficient for the average Joe or Joan to figure out whether or not they believe the insurance company is acting in their best interest.
What's the hurry?
By the way, I get a little uptight when someone in a TV ad is talking to the camera as they are driving. To these old eyes, they don't appear to be looking out to be sure they know where they are going.
But, YOU can be!
Now, not only do we have attorney commercials seemingly non-stop in Florida, with each firm pleading their case for signing up, but we also have actors encouraging folks to call someone who guarantees to "FIND" you a doctor or an attorney.
While I think it's a brillant premise, I'm puzzled. Did attorneys stop advertising on the back of your phone book?
I'm retired from the insurance claims end of things for about 10 years now, so I admit to some bias - and that's not necessarily bad.
Unfortunately, I continue to be amazed at the gullibility of some people who are willing to listen to the law firms rhetoric only and not think for themselves.
It's not that they can't. I met many good folks with whom I discussed a settlement who were every bit as bright and usually more communicative than a few attorneys with whom I had contact. Ah, but you see, the injured people were usually discussing just one case - their own.
I enjoyed those one on one discussions and I was fair. These were the folks who were "doing the hurting", not the attorney. They were people who deserved my empathy and understanding. Fortunately, I worked for a company that understood this - insisted we pay what we owe - and were consistently ranked as one of the top companies for customer satisfaction.
Yeah, I know - that can't be. Right? We all know insurance companies are evil. Why? Because some attorney ads tell us that they are. When was the last time you saw an insurance company ad that put down attorneys? So, who is it that you want to believe?
Why, when you are the person who was hurt, would you consider sometimes giving away over 1/2 of the money from an insurance settlement? In a recent USA article addressing the cost of litigation the writer spoke of injured claimants who had to pay out 54% of the settlement to their attorneys for fees and administrative costs.
The amount didn't surprise me as much as the fact that a media source would allow that information "to see the light of day". Frankly, in my experience, that's rare to see and I never could figure out why. The news providers always seemed so anxious to tell you about the amount of the settlement. (Ah yeah, there's that bias thing again.)
This is a great country and people should be able to make up their own minds - if given the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately, a lot of good information is out there that people never get to see or hear.
Knowing how much time you have to get an attorney, if necessary, is a good first step in using the brain that God gave you. In Pennsylvania you had two years. To me, that seems more than sufficient for the average Joe or Joan to figure out whether or not they believe the insurance company is acting in their best interest.
What's the hurry?
By the way, I get a little uptight when someone in a TV ad is talking to the camera as they are driving. To these old eyes, they don't appear to be looking out to be sure they know where they are going.
But, YOU can be!
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