Breaking news….

It’s amazes me what passes for “breaking news” these days. 

It wasn’t that long ago that when the networks broke in on regularly scheduled programming, the news carried national importance.  Now it seems anytime there’s a car chase, it’s breaking news on the national cable news stations.  One can almost envison the following “breaking news” scenario:

A breaking news screen comes across the TV followed by aerial footage of a multilane highway with smooth flowing traffic except for one pulled over automobile.

Newscaster voice over:  “You are presently viewing the live video footage of a disabled vehicle on the interstate Route 90 from our local affliate’s Skycopter.  At this point in time, we have no clear indication of why the vehicle is pulled off into the emergency lane, though some passing motorists have told our affiliate that the rear driver side tire appears to be flat.”

Sky camera zooms in on the vehicle and shows the flat tire.  Suddenly an individual exits from driver’s side and walks to the back of the vehicle.

Newscaster:  “It appears as someone, perhaps the driver - we don’t know for sure, has left the vehicle and is now walking to the back of the car. 

Sky camera shows the trunk door opening up and the individual reaching into it.  The person pulls out some tools and goes over to the flat tire, bends over and appears to be setting up some small equipment.

Newscaster: “At this point in time, it is still unclear if there are other occupants in the vehicle.”

More live video footage showing the person apparently struggling to properly set up equipment to jack up the vehicle.

Newscaster:  “We have, Bill Jones, one of our affliates on the line.  Bill, can you provide some insight?”

A small square photograph of Bill Jones shows up in the upper right hand corner of the screen.

Bill:  “What I can tell you is the following:  We do not believe that Triple A has been notified.  Our sources there confirm that they have no record of a call for assistance from any vehicle in this vicinity.”

Newscaster:  “Very interesting.”

Bill:  “We can also confirm that at least one tire is flat and…”

Newscaster (breaking in): “Bill, I’m sorry but we are now seeing the departure of another person, apparently a male, from the vehicle.  This person appears to be walking towards the brush growing on the side of the highway.    He is entering into the brush area….”

Video shows partially obscure and shaded man in the bushes.

Newscaster: “At this point, we are not sure if this second individual is related to the first.  Bill, does it look like he is trying to flee the vehicle?”

Bill:  “I believe he’s urinating.  Though it is hard to tell through the foliage.”

Camera zooms in on second occupant, but no detail can be seen.

The Cable Guy

For years, Verizon has been our phone service provider, but recently we decided to switch to the digital phone service offered by our cable company.  Why?  Because, like all monopolies our existing cable service is excellent and the prices just can’t be beat. 

Well, actually there is a little more to it than that.  Verizon had recently sold all their telecom assets in New Hampshire to a small and debt bloated telecom utility in North Carolina.  So, no fiber optic cable for us.  Plus with the introductory deal from our local cable company, we would get a free year of HBO and a smidgen cheaper phone bill.

The cable technician was scheduled to install the service last Saturday and early that afternoon I received a frantic phone call from him.  Apparently our address was not in the database of his GPS.  I didn’t consider it much of a problem once I realized he was on a major route that lead directly by our neighborhood.   I suggested that he enter a nearby established cross street into the GPS as his destination.  Once he passed it, I informed him that our street would be next on the right.

Strangely, this turned out to be a difficult concept for him to grasp.  Soon, it was clear that he was accustomed of being directed everywhere by his GPS, so the idea of not completely relying on it was little out of his concept space.  Become over reliant on technology and it gets hard to think for yourself.

I decided to get radical in my approach with him.  It took some cajoling, but I convinced him to try the ancient tactic of writing down dictated directions and then following them with the GPS off.  The tricky part, I explained was that he would actually need to read street signs and decide by himself the appropriate places to turn.  He agreed but there was a a nervous tone in his voice, so I promised that I would stay by the phone in case of trouble.

Several minutes later, he called me back when he was less than half mile from my house and I talked him through the last few turns.  He had a big, proud grin on his face as he walked up to our front door and I found myself wondering how in the heck I could let this guy install phone service in my home.  

The Idiot’s Guide to Dummies

I was in an upscale bookstore the other day searching for a good cappuccino when I stumbled into an aisle full of those ubiquitous “for dummies” and “Idiot’s guide” books. One particular book entitled “Pregnancy for dummies” stood out and I immediately realized, “Yes, of course, that’s exactly what’s wrong with this country - Too many pregnancies by dummies!”

My second thought was that the authors must be running low on subject material.  After a simpleminded overview of the procreation process what’s left to write? “The Idiot’s Guide to Toiletry?”

I remember when these self help books first appeared. They focused on the basics of how to use a personal computer or on simplifying the mysteries of Microsoft Windows for the uninitiated. It was a book purchased for your mother after you saw her trance-like in front of her new computer screen and waving a mouse through the air like a wand. Now they seem to cover everything from stock trading (I’m not sure that’s something we need dummies doing) to beekeeping (Chapter One: Don’t use killer bees).

Clearly the idiots will not be denied their glory.

Well with all the recent talk of a recession, maybe an “Unemployment for Dummies” would be timely. But here’s my hint for the unemployed: Don’t waste your money on a book for morons.

Open Wide

I had a dental appointment last week. The goal of this early morning visit was to generate an amazingly large sum of money for my dentist. In exchange for the capital infusion, I was to have a slightly cracked molar repaired with a new ceramic crown.

When I reached the office, I was greeted by a dental assistant who was clearly a card carrying, board certified member of the morning person club. Skipping down the hallway, she energetically inquired if I was ready for my little procedure. “I guess you could say, anytime cold hard steel and high rpm blades meet human flesh I’m often ready, but seldom titillated”, I replied wishing for caffeine or something stronger.

After being seated in the torture chair, my mouth was x-rayed to confirm the on-going presence of teeth in my head and to start the cash generation process. Successful dental x-raying involves placing a piece of hard, multi-folded cardboard into one side of the mouth in order to create maximum discomfort to the surrounding gum tissue when bitten down on. It’s also a good way to remove residual cream cheese and bagel bits from the site. If you are unfortunate with dentistry, as I am apt to be on occasion, the cardboard leaves small ulcerations that eventually develop into canker sores. Otherwise, you just get a pleasant dose of ionizing radiation.

The next step, and most critical from an insurance justification standpoint, was to visually document the offending molar through use of a small fiber optic camera.  Of particular difficulty this morning was the small matter of my tongue. You see in spite of my best efforts, I just couldn’t get it sufficiently away from the area of interest to allow the camera to be maneuvered over the inside of the tooth. I vainly exercised every conceivable tongue muscle until an embarrassing case of fatigue sets in.

Perhaps if I was a chattier person, a real talker, or one of those annoying folks who just doesn’t know how to shut up, I would have had the endurance and flexibility required to complete the task. Not a problem for little Ms. Sunshine however. Lickety split, she cheerily forced a mega wad of gauze under my recalcitrant tongue, unnaturally pinning it against the other side of my mouth. Thus, a wonderful color photograph of my cracked tooth was obtained while I fought to breath through a microscopic gap that formed between the roof of my mouth, her latex gloved hand, the fiber optic camera, two pounds of gauze, and my very tired tongue.

Next on the agenda was the novocaine injection. Unfortunately, I am not easily affected by the drug. In other words, it takes a high dosing amount to provide a sufficient level of localized anesthetic effect. So that means a bigger needle in more places. The needle of choice for me is about the size of a caulk gun. And from the expression on the face of the dentist as he forced the novocaine into my gum, cheek and tongue, it’s about as easy to use.

Within minutes, numbness arrived and I lost whatever remaining amount of control I had over my tongue. It floundered in my mouth like a beached whale on shore. Answering a simple question like: “Do you promise to pay the balance of your bill today?” struggled out of my mouth as “I ah wanna no painy pleas zub”.

Finally the drilling was ready to begin. Now, I have one simple requirement for anyone using power tools inside my mouth: I want their complete and undivided attention. But as the procedure began, Ms. Sunshine couldn’t wait to start rambling on about a bizarre dream involving horseback riding, technicolor pastures, and the apparent manhandling of small farm animals.

At this point it occurred to me that the words “dental” and “devil” have many common letters.

In spite of this distraction, my dentist admirably focused on drilling out my molar. At the end of the day, that is probably why I pay him the big bucks. Inspired by his example, I resolved to focus on the high pitch whine of the drill blade as it ground tooth into dust.

Hypothesis 101

On my iGoogle home page, I have a quotes of the day section. Occasionally, a quote comes along that resonates with me. Like today when I read the following quote attributed to Thomas H. Huxley:

“The great tragedy of Science - the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact.”

So often the beauty of the hypothesis comes from inside. It is my hypothesis, my idea, my insight and that is what makes it beautiful. Being able to discard that hypothesis in light of an ugly fact can be difficult to do and accept. It is the reality that I have overlooked something, miscalculated or come up short. Instinctly I want to challenge the validity of this “ugly fact”. Ultimately, however, the quicker the acceptance of incompleteness of my present hypothesis, the sooner I am to get closer to a better hypothesis and hopefully closer to true discovery and understanding.

Guinness World Book of Weirdos

There is a wide world of interesting folks out there and it seems a lot of them want to be in the record books. With that in mind, my son has compiled his top 5 weirdest Guinness World Records.  I’ve add the commentary. 

1.  A German man drags a van a distance of 300 feet via two hooks inserted into the skin of his back.   Here’s a hypothetical: You’re trying to sell your home and this guy is your neighbor.  The real estate agent bring prospective buyers by when this guy is outside, bare-back, hooks protruding from his skin, dragging his van down the driveway.  Guess what the buyers will remember about the house tour.  
2. A Chinese man pulls a car forward more than thirty feet using ropes attached to his lower eyelids.  With billions of men on this planet, it’s probably inevitable that a certain subset will enjoy dragging vehicles around via cables connected to their flesh.  I say, let’s see how far they go with the hooks attached to their testicles.  My guess is not too far.
3. A Turkish construction worker squirts milk over nine feet from his eye.  I believe his next feat will involve corned beef hash.
4. For nearly fifty years a Frenchman has lived on a diet of metal and glass. I don’t know about you, but if I get even a tiny bit of aluminum foil in my mouth it is just ZING right up to my brain.
5. An American woman can pop her eyeballs almost half an inch beyond her eye sockets.  I wouldn’t recommend showing this off on a first date unless she’s out with the french guy.  But in that case, where would they go? Perhaps an electrical supply outlet, where she could pop her eyes out every time he ate a light bulb.

Middle Age Gas

I scared the living crap out of an elderly woman the other morning.

I had pulled into the local Mobil gas station to fill up my car.  As I was pumping gas, a good friend pulled up at the next bay. So I walked over to say a hello and converse for a few minutes as the gas tank filled with the kids’ college fund. 

After we finished talking, I walked back to my car and started it up.  Then as I pulled away, I heard the sound of frantic honking behind me.  I wondered momentarily what it was all about,  but undeterred I continued to drive out of station. Next thing I know, my friend runs over waving for me to stop the car.  So I stop, and well darn it all, it turns out I had never disconnected the gas nozzle from my car.  As a result, I had ripped the hose right off the pump as I pulled away.

I hate it when that happens. 

Fortunately, the pump was designed with a quick disconnect mechanism to prevent morons like me from doing any real damage.  But I don’t think the elderly woman who was pumping behind me knew that.  At least, the ash-white expression on her face and her numerous shaking body parts made me think that she had one of those “life flashed before my eyes” moments.  I’m sure she thought the station was about to go up in one of those MythBuster like explosions that make the evening news.

Chalk it up to middle age forgetfulness.   It’s tough to get old.

Liquid Torture

Occasionally I will get on a mini health food kick. More often than not, it’s because some event makes me feel remorseful about my less than wholesome eating habits. My latest guilt trip was triggered by a discussion that Jean and I had a few nights ago. Earlier that day Oprah, with the help of a mysterious Dr. Oz, had expounded on the deleterious effects of some bad ingredients we put in our bodies like hydrogenated oil and high fructose corn sryup. They also touted the benefits of some really great foods like tomatoes and pomergranates. Jean debriefed me on the show between bites of her Klondite bar.

The next day at work I decided to forgo the cheese burger and fries at lunch for a healthier menu. For my entree I opted for a chef’s salad. While looking for healthy drink, I spotted a pomergranate based beverage from a well known all natural juice company and decided to give it a try. After all, if pomergranates were good enough for Oprah and friends, its antioxidant packed juice was good enough for me.

Wow, what a mistake. Honest to God, it was one of the most disgusting drinks I have ever consumed. It might as well have been liquidified liver and onions, it was so revulsive in consistency and flavor. I would really like to see the supporting marketing data. I mean, for crying out loud, don’t they have to taste test it before they sell it? I can only recall two other times in my life when I had drank something comparable in its abomination. One was a barium brew I struggled down for upper GI exam. The other drink was a large glass of warm prune juice slowly forced down my throat many years ago to induce regularity in an intestinal track stopped cold by peritonitis.

Well no one was forcing me to drink this time. But for some God forsaken reason I felt compelled to drink all sixteen ounces of liquid torture over the next couple hours. Perhaps, it was a desire to cram my body full of antioxidants, but more likely it was a subconscious penance to the small vengeful portion of my brain still concerned about my health.

I can only wonder what my co-workers thought listening to me gag down that devil juice.

A Piece of the Rock

I don’t understand how insurance companies can make any money on life insurance. I mean, eventually everyone dies, so isn’t the pay out rate 100%? For example, I know someday my policy will pay out much more than I’ll ever pay in premiums. I suppose they make money on people who purchase coverage for most of their lives, but for some inexplicable reason decide to cancel the policy before they die. Now there’s a smart move.

I am in the midst of buying some additional life insurance.  I thought it would be a relatively straight forward process. When I first purchased life insurance, all I did was fill out a few forms, swear that I was in good health and in no time I had my insurance policy. Well, the qualification process has been a little more rigorous this time around.  It has gone something like this:

First of all, I downloaded the application from the company’s web site, filled it out and sent it in.  Simple enough.  But, then I heard nothing for several weeks before finally receiving a notification that I needed to fill out the same application again plus a lot of new forms.  Slightly aggravated, I completed the paperwork and sent it in.

A few weeks later, I received a call from a pleasant sounding woman explaining that she would need to come to our home to ask me a few questions, perform a simple physical exam and take a “little” blood sample.  We set up an appointment date.

She arrives at the appointed time with a big suitcase full of apparatuses. I immediately get a hunch that much more than a blood sample will be taken. I’m right. Over the next several minutes, she collects a blood sample, a saliva specimen, a urine sample, a hair swatch from my back, and a set of toe nail clippings from each foot. Then she precedes to swab the inside of my mouth, floss my teeth, fingerprint me and take several pictures of my slightly droopy right eyelid. At this point, it feels more like a cloning experiment than an insurance exam. Fortunately we complete the collection process before I run out of specimens to give.

Next up she measures my height, weighs me, takes my blood pressure (elevated at this point), checks my pulse, listens to my lungs, and measures my waist (which correlated well with my weight). By now, I half expect her to pull out a portable MRI and do a full body scan.

Then the interview portion begins. The first questions are simples ones about present health status and recent medical history. No problems there. Next she quizzes me on the medical history of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and eventually, it seems like, all my ancestors going back to the 15th century. I answer to the best of my ability.

Finally the questions start to explore my likelihood of facing accidental death. The question and answer session went like this:

Q: “Do you ever drive above the speed limit?”
A: Pause.
Q: “If so, is it typically 5mph over?
A: Another pause.
Q: “10mph over?” 15mph over?”
A: “Keep going, you’re getting warmer…”

Q: “Do you ever cross a busy street when the ‘Don’t Walk’ sign is flashing?”
A: “I plead the fifth.

Q: “Do you have smoke and carbon monoxide detectors in your home?”
A: Yes.
Q: “On each floor?”
A: Yes.
Q: “Are they both hard wired and with battery backup?”
A: Yes!
Q: “Are the batteries the long life alkaline type and do you change them every fall?”
A: Yes! YES!!
Q: “Okay then, Do you have an automatic external defibrillator at home?”
A: “Well, no, you got me there.”

Finally, the ordeal comes to an end. As she is leaving she informs me that the insurance company will get back to me in several weeks. Hopefully without more forms to fill out.

They don’t drive like this in Maine

My niece, Ashley, recently moved to Mumbai, India from coastal Maine to complete a year of school as an exchange student. Below is an email she sent home to her mother describing some of her early impressions:

“Traffic in Mumbai is not unlike a cosmic game of Frogger.

There is no traffic law.

Instead cars weave in and out, threatening to hit each other or (God forbid) a nearby cyclist, only stopping at the very last instance before confronting the car in front of them.

I’m surprised more people haven’t died.

And never before has taking a cab posed such as risk as it does in Mumbai.

Speeding down a road so congested that traffic has expanded to become five cars wide, despite the fact that it is only a three lane road, seatbeltless, and held hostage by a strictly Hindi-speaking cabby who is just a bit too aggressive as a driver.

This is where you will inevitably find yourself.

And it makes me think: who needs the rush of being a covert spy when all you really need to do to feel alive is sit in the back of one of these insane automobiles and soar down Marine Drive. You’ll be kissing the pavement in shear appreciation.

And then there are the looks:

Despite being told that, due to out-sourcing, more and more “Westerners” have been moving to the city, I seem to be somewhat of a rare commodity. Even the other students in my college, students who have become used to the annual surge of exchange students, continue to ask thing like whether or not my eyes are really blue.

To which I look at them and respond in the most innocent voice possible, “Well actually I’ve borrowed them from a friend. Do you think she’ll notice?”

Yet despite these semi-inconveniences, I’ve got to say, how cool is it to be living in a place where people have to worry about monkeys getting into their house?

I mean, I not exactly used to living in a place where monkeys are one of my great concerns. (More like taking the dogs out, watering the plants, and then worrying about arming our house against buglers of the primate persuasion….it’s all about priorities)

And of course, there’s college:

Though the school itself is seven stories of helter-skelter madness, the students are all very nice, and, like all other students, they seem to have become inflicted with an “Anywhere but Here” influenza. The result of which is a lot of “bunking.”

In other words, students come up with various reasons as to why the professors should conclude their lectures early for that day.

“It’s sunny. We should be outside celebrating a brake (sp.) in the rain.”

“But Professor, it is Friendship Day!”

“Sir, it’s raining outside. Don’t you agree that we should leave early in order to catch our trains before the tracks flood?” (Which is actually a legitimate excuse)

And of course, my version:

“You see, we’re just so exhausted from our other lectures that we are unable to impart on you the respect and focus that you deserve. That being said, holding class today would be disrespectful to you.”

I think I’m beginning to adapt.”