Monday, July 2, 2018

Sunny's Week Of Hell



Sunny, seen above with our granddaughter in a 2016 photo, is the sweetest and gentlest dog you’ll ever meet. She’s a show-winning purebred Blue Merle Collie who we rescued from the show circuit in 2010. She can be a fierce protector of our yard, keeping the squirrels and chipmunks and turkeys and various other wildlife at bay, barking at them and chasing them. But with humans, Sunny is the kindest dog around.

This week, the week of our Independence Day celebration, is Sunny’s week in hell.

Sunny is scared to death of fireworks. She hides, scratches the floor or carpet with her right front paw, hyperventilates, and paces. Her older sister (actually, half-sister) Shadow, our other Collie, isn’t bothered by the unpredictable loud booms. But the noise really gets to Sunny.

I understand some people want to indulge their propensity to make loud and unpleasant noises on the 4th of July, but for the past several years, some of our exurban neighbors have taken it to the extreme. They buy professional-grade fireworks like aerial bombs and cherry bomb mortars and set them off all night.

Not just on Independence Day, but, since it falls on a Wednesday this year, they’ve assaulted us with their explosive devices starting the weekend before and will continue every night through the weekend after the 4th.


Our township has noise ordinances and rules about fireworks that go into the air, but the cops won’t enforce the laws. I understand lax enforcement on the 4th, but – 10 nights of aerial bombardment from 9 PM to 1 or 2 AM? Please. I’ve called the cops and given them the exact addresses of the three “launching pads” within a few blocks of our home, but – no joy.

Last year our veterinarian gave us some “doggie Prozac” to use in calming her down, but the stuff, even at the lowest dose, knocked her for a loop. One dose made her sleep so soundly I worried about her respiration and made her loopy the entire next day. She could barely stand 16 hours after the dose was administered.

We haven’t tried the thundershirt, because reviews from actual users on Collie discussion boards are split 50-50. Half swear by them, half say the expensive garment did no good. Maybe buying one and trying it is our next step.

Channel 15 in Madison did a great TV story with a war veteran who suffers from PTSD, and how the fireworks affect people like him. I can’t find it on their website or I’d give you a link.

If you’re one of those people who loves to blow things up and make loud noises, just please be aware that all of us do not share your joy in these things.

Thursday, April 26, 2018

HDDTTWA



Years ago, before the period of media newsroom devouring, my friend George Hesselberg would occasionally devote his column in the Wisconsin State Journal to a HDDTTWA topic.

The letters stand for “How Dumb Do They Think We Are?” and, in his inimitable style, George would relate an example of a person or company or institution that was trying to pull the wool over our eyes.

I recently jettisoned one of my two day-jobs, a job which required me to use a land-line to get higher quality audio recordings (news interviews) than you typically get with a cell phone. When I made the call to the company (initials AT&T) to cancel my land-line, I came prepared for the same kind of HDDTTWA runaround I got from them about 15 years ago, when everyone in our house had a cell phone so there was no need of a land-line.

I called to cancel the landline. They told me it would be cancelled the next day and that I’d get a “final” bill. Of course, it didn’t happen. A month later, after I’d paid the “final” bill, I got another bill, and discovered the land-line was still active.

When I called them to say WTF, the lady exclaimed “oh – your cancellation didn’t go through!” I told her that if it “failed to go through” this time, I’d refer the matter to the fraud division of the state consumer protection department – knowing full well that companies as large as the one in question have no fear whatsoever of such agencies.

Fast-forward to March of 2018. This time, when I called to cancel the land-line, I recorded the conversation. I even warned the nice young lady that I was recording the call. She assured me the land-line would be cancelled immediately, that it would be disconnected within 24 hours, and even asked me what kind of message I wanted people who called it to hear.

A few days ago, when the land-line was still connected, and another monthly bill arrived, I called the company again. This time the guy on the line assured me that they had no record of any call cancelling the service, and that every time someone from the company discussed anything with me about my service, a “digital fingerprint” would be on my file, and there was no such fingerprint.

I asked him if he wanted to hear my conversation with his colleague a month ago, when I was assured the line was cancelled.

Long pause.

I said “perhaps you should connect me with someone in a management or supervisory capacity”.  Suffice to say that about 20 seconds after I began playing the recorded conversation to him, he caved. Said the matter would be taken care of immediately, gave me a “cancellation confirmation number”, and, long story short, it’s disconnected and I’ve paid the “final, final” bill.

They think we’re pretty dumb.

Thursday, April 12, 2018

There’s Retired, And Then There’s RETIRED



Paul Ryan isn’t retiring. He’s not running for re-election. Big difference. My guess is he’s not even retiring from politics. I’ll bet he will soon become another highly-overpaid lobbyist. And maybe he’ll accept an invitation to a corporate board or two, to add a few million dollars to his annual earnings.

I’m retired. Not capital-R retired, but I’m down to one personal services contract that keeps me off the streets and keeps my mind active. I’m going to be 69 in a few weeks, and I’m counting the days until my child-bride retires. Capital-R retires.

At age 48, Paul Ryan probably could actually capital-R retire, but I don’t think that’s likely.

For my friends from out of state who follow politics, you may or may not be aware that it’s quite likely that Ryan would not be re-elected in Wisconsin’s First Congressional District. For one thing, Ryan has served well the interests of the Koch Brothers in Washington, but as for the folks in Janesville and the eastern part of the 1st WI District – not so much. That fellow with the hard hat and prominent moustache is looking more and more likely to win that election, no matter who he faces.

I’m not a historian and I don’t know how the historians will write Paul Ryan’s chapter. I’ll remember Ryan as a failed candidate for Vice President, and a failed Ayn Rand acolyte who leaves office with a trillion-dollar nation debt as his heritage. How ironic, for someone who billed himself as a policy-wonk fiscal conservative.
I will say this: Ryan is gettin’ our while the gettin’ is still sorta good.

There’s a storm a’comin’.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Radioactive News


I spent a bit of time this morning watching MSNBC, CNN, CNBC, and  Fox News. I had a minor surgical operation on my foot a few days ago and the doc said I should take a break from work every couple hours and elevate my foot.

So, during my foot-elevation time around 9:30, I scanned the TV band. I watched a bit of CNN, a bit of MSNBC, a dab of CNBC, and then landed on Fox News Channel. They were talking about how dangerous train travel has become. Three train wrecks in the past few days.

I try to achieve some balance in what I watch. MSNBC constantly bashes Trump. CNN does, too. So I throw in a little Fox News Channel to at least get a sense of what a third of America believes is happening.

After the trains are scary story, the Fox News Babe (I'm sorry - I shouldn't objectify people) explained how the stock market was just fine, that this is a correction, that the ups and downs this morning show how the market is just seeking a new level. Hmmm. She sounded pretty intelligent and composed. I thought Fox would paint a gloom and doom scenario, but - they surprised me.

Then, they swung into a story I hadn't seen or heard anywhere else this morning. Some Homeland Security dude said the terrorists "crown jewel" is to blow up another airplane, that airplane travel is extremely dangerous. After his spiel, the FNC anchors nodded approvingly, and repeated the line about how blowing up an airplane is considered the crown jewel of terrorist achievement.

Very scary. Airplane travel. Scary. Bombs. Terrorists.

Then it was time for a commercial.

The commercial was an enticement for me to buy silver. I was told that banks and other money houses are hoarding silver. Silver is my safe haven against global market turmoil. Smart people are buying silver, because they want to be safe from the global market turmoil.

It was then that it struck me: watching Fox News is sort of like exposing yourself to radioactivity. The body can take small doses from time to time, but constant exposure is toxic.

And to make sure that everyone hates me, I think it's fair to say that the same can be said of MSNBC. Joe and Mika ridicule the President every morning. The nighttime MSNBC hosts bash Trump constantly.

Overexposure to either extreme is toxic. Somebody oughtta invent a cable TV news dosimeter, which would beep and boop loudly to warn you that you're approaching a toxic dose of cable TV news.

I think you'd reach your daily limit of exposure in a much shorter time watching Fox News, where the world is a very scary place, and there are so many things you need to be afraid of and hate.

It may take a bit longer, but I think this dosimeter would also go off to warn you of a possible toxic overdose from MSNBC and CNN.

Perhaps an advanced version of the dosimeter would automatically switch your TV to the Game Show Network or The Hallmark Channel when you're in danger of a cable news overdose.

It's a way you'd be assured of fairness and balance.

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Adventures In Antihistamine-Land


I strolled into a pharmacy on the west side of Madison yesterday afternoon to buy some allergy pills. Claritin D, to be specific. This was a small shop in a strip mall, and I’d never been there before. But I know from years of experience that to purchase Claritin-D, you’ve got to show your driver’s license, sign a bunch of forms and waivers, and the pharmacist has to do the same.

The feds and their failed war on drugs.

I was the only person in the store and the pharmacist was busy filling a prescription when he looked up and said “can I help you?” “Claritin-D, 24-hour, 30-count box, please” I said. He said “not sure if I’ve got the brand name, but I know I have a generic that’ll work.” As he rummaged through his stock of allergy meds, I removed my driver’s license from my wallet and set it on the counter along with my debit card.

After a moment of examining his stock, he said “I’ve got something that’ll work, but each box is only 12 pills.” “I’ll take two, then”, I said. He glanced down at my driver’s license and debit card and said “you’ve been through the routine before, I take it.” “Yup. I know the drill”, I said.

He consulted some table and said “I can only sell you one box today – two would put you over the daily limit.” I shook my head. “Can’t have you stocking up for your meth lab”, he said, with a smile. I said “oh, no, I do a P-2-P cook.” “Large scale manufacture, huh?” the pharmacist said. I said “the name on my driver’s license is fake; you can call me Heisenberg.”

The pharmacist laughed out loud and said “I loved that show”. The show, of course, is Breaking Bad, and the picture at the top of this post, for those who didn’t follow the show through its five tumultuous seasons, is the rolling meth lab where Walter White and Jesse Pinkman began their career as meth cooks.

As he tried to find the right combination of allergy pills that would hold me for a couple weeks, and that the feds would let me walk out of the store with, the pharmacist began a diatribe about the feds and their complex and absolutely inflexible rules about how much allergy medicine you can buy at one time.

“There’s an opioid crisis in America”, he said as we both filled out all the paperwork that goes with the transaction, “and it’s because the feds made meth so expensive on the street that junkies turned to heroin – not that the feds would ever admit it”. “Amen, brother”, I said.

“And now Sessions wants to lock up even more people for smoking a joint”, he continued. We talked about the futility of the war on drugs and the misguided thinking that’s behind it, from people like Attorney General Jefferson Beauregard Sessions and his ilk. And we talked about the for-profit prison industry, which is another huge factor in the war on drugs.

At long last, the paperwork was completed, and I slid my debit card through the sensor. “All this rigmarole for a transaction that you might make- what, a buck – on?”, I said. “Get rich or die tryin’”, the pharmacist said, with a wry smile. I thanked him and left the store, taking my generic contraband with me.



The irony of this whole thing is that my allergies are wicked from April to October, and my primary care doc has written a prescription for me, for Claritin-D. I get it at Walgreens, with all the rest of the meds that keep me alive. But yesterday, when I went to take a Claritin-D pill in the morning, I discovered that I had stupidly let my supply run out. And my eyes were killin’ me. And my nose was flowing like Niagara Falls.

And when I called Walgreens to get my prescription refilled, the nice lady told me that my prescription had expired, and that they’d have to call my doc to get a renewal before they could refill it. Usually that takes a total of three or four days, and I needed relief NOW. Which is how I wound up in the west side strip mall pharmacy yesterday.

Oh, and by the way – when I stop in at Walgreens later this week to pick up my Claritin-D 24-hour prescription, I’ll get a 90-day supply. I’ll drive off with enough pseudoephedrine for Walt and Jesse to cook up a nice big batch of meth. No signature, no driver's license, no federal paperwork. Just the co-pay and I'm on my way. Ridiculous.


Tuesday, July 18, 2017

My Body’s “Service Engine Soon” Light Is On



My Venerable Road Warrior SUV’s “SERVICE ENGINE SOON” warning lit up about a month ago, a couple days after the guys at Zimbrick had just given it a little more than fifteen hundred bucks’ worth of TLC. The Road Warrior is just shy of turning a hundred thousand miles on the odometer and in a few months it will be 12 model years old.



The Venerable Road Warrior is as old as our wonderful purebred collie Shadow. Both were “born” in 2006. Our old gal Shadow was born at our breeder’s home in suburban Franklin, WI and we took her home when she was six months old. The Venerable Road Warrior was born at an assembly plant in Ramos Arzipe, Mexico, a couple hundred miles southwest of Laredo, TX and began life as a Hertz rent-a-car at the San Francisco airport.



It’s amazing how easy it is these days to find out things about your car’s history. I have no idea how it wound up on the lot at Zimbrick in Madison, where I bought it in ’08. At that time, it had only about 20K on the odometer.



As usual, I digress.



The idea for this post came when, the other day, I was helping my buddy Shadow navigate the seven stairs between my office and the next level of our quad-level home, where our kitchen, dining room, and “living room” are located. We found out in April that Shadow has degenerative myelopathy, a disease of the spinal cord that develops in some dogs. The spinal cord degeneration causes the dog to gradually lose control of the hindquarters, which makes going up stairs a challenge.



Eventually, and our vet tells us it’s likely a matter of months, perhaps weeks, Shadow will completely lose control of her back legs. She won’t be able to stand, much less navigate stairs. So – we’ll have to help her across the Rainbow Bridge, as pet-owners say, at that time.  Our vet assures us there’s no pain to the animal as the disease progresses, but it’s irreversible and untreatable.
Here's Shadow, In Her First Summer in '07



As I gently lifted Shadow’s butt a bit to help her ascend the stairs, I thought “you know, Shadow, we’ve got three things around here that have the ‘SERVICE ENGINE SOON’ light on: you, me, and the Venerable Road Warrior”.



About the same time our vet had made the diagnosis of degenerative myelopathy on Shadow, I was diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy. Usually it affects people with diabetes, which I do not have, but it’s pretty common, with about 3 million new cases every year. It’s a degeneration of the nerves in the hands and or feet that causes numbness and tingling. In my case, it’s the feet more than the hands. This whole thing started out for me when I told my primary care doc that I was having trouble keeping my balance. Long story short, I wound up sitting in front of a podiatrist who told me what was going on, and made the diagnosis.



The podiatrist explained that the balance issues come from the inability of the damaged nerves in my feet to communicate vital information to my brain – information that’s necessary to maintain your balance when standing. You can have surgery on your lower spinal cord to help mitigate the effects, but it’s risky, not at all a guaranteed fix, and has a long rehab.



Oh – and the reason for the “SERVICE ENGINE SOON” warning light on the Venerable Road Warrior? It could be a bad oxygen sensor. Or a bad catalytic converter. So, for right now, until I decide whether it’s worth it to stick another grand or so into the ’06 SUV, the warning light will be a permanent feature.



So I guess the three of us….me, Shadow, and the Venerable Road Warrior….will just wait to see what happens.

Friday, July 7, 2017

Why Does Madison Tolerate This Annual Auditory Assault?



I sometimes daydream that I am in possession of a high-powered drone, equipped with an infrared camera, possessing the capability of dropping a small but extremely powerful munition that could be detonated about 50 feet over the head of anyone blowing off fireworks, instantly rendering them temporarily deaf, causing their ears and nose to bleed profusely, leaving them with a monstrous headache, and shattering every piece of glass in their home.



This magnificent imaginary weapon would have such a highly-developed munition that its incredible blast of noise would be limited to a very small footprint, enabling highly localized pain and devastation.



Because Independence Day fell on a Tuesday this year, people apparently felt some sort of Constitutional right to blow off unlawful fireworks Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday night, Monday night, all day and night Tuesday, and even Wednesday night. Five or six nights of relentless aerial bombardment by these wannabe pyrotechnicians.



In my tiny Town of Madison suburban neighborhood, which consists of a handful of homes arranged like spokes of wheel around a huge cul-de-sac (which I believe is the largest cul-de-sac in Dane County), the noise this year was relentless.



The explosions drive my younger collie nuts, causing me to have to stay up until 2 AM comforting her until the drunken pyros pass out or run out of ammunition. There is one particular cretin, who lives about a quarter-mile northwest of us, who each year loads up on professional-grade aerial bombs, and sets them off, about ten minutes apart, from 8 PM until 2 AM. This year, he started Friday night and continued through Tuesday night.



This is not the kind of stuff you can buy at the myriad tents set up around Dane County a couple weeks in advance of Independence Day. This is the kind of stuff that is used in professional fireworks shows. It doesn’t create a beautiful shower of brilliant colors when it’s launched; it just ascends to about 200 feet and then explodes. Its sole purpose is to make an extremely loud noise.



If I step outside, I can hear the WHUMPH of the mortar being fired, which propels the noise-making device to a couple hundred feet. A couple seconds after the initial, dull WHUMPH, the aerial bomb detonates, with a deafening roar. I have one of those decibel meter apps on my iPhone, and the explosion registers 116 db.



Suffice to say it’s loud enough to scare the wits out of my younger collie. She’s skittish in thunderstorms but the fireworks really scare her. Her older “sister”, who is less high-strung and far more mellow, couldn’t care less. Her ears flick when the aerial bombs go off, but she’s unperturbed.



There’s another guy about a quarter-mile southeast of us, who delights in setting off similar, but not quite as loud, aerial bombs all night. Those “only” register 95 on my handy-dandy DbA app.



I get it. People love to blow off fireworks on Independence Day. I can deal with one night of staying up late, comforting my scared collie. But five or six nights? Come on.



I posted a short rant about it on my Facebook page, and a friend, who is an executive at The Capital Times, commented “I keep waiting for someone to politically organize on this single issue. The volume and frequency increase each year and there are tents set up in parking lots up and down Verona Road selling the things. I'm told that veterans with PTSD are often affected by the constant explosions. Actual firing ranges don't sound as bad.”



This year and last year on July 5th, I phoned in a noise complaint to the cops, giving them the exact addresses from which the professional-grade stuff was being launched. (How do I know? Drive by in the daylight and observe the abundant wreckage of scorched cardboard and wrappings strewn about their yard.)



The dispatcher, both times, has asked me if I want “personal contact with an officer”, and I politely say “no, just arrest the lawbreakers and confiscate their unlawful contraband.”



Maybe some year, if enough people make their voices heard, the cops will do just that.