Last year, I started running. I also stopped running. Then I started again. When you think about it, running is a lot like smoking, only in reverse.
You would think that running wouldn't be that expensive. You would be wrong. I have a pair of running shoes that I paid $130 for. I have a pair of dress shoes that I paid $60 for. My running shoes will last about 6 months. I will probably be buried in my dress shoes, assuming that the employees at the funeral home don't want a $60 pair of black loafers.
Shoes are only the first expense. Working up from shoes, you come to socks. Socks made especially for running. Some people run in normal socks. These people are known as heathens. Wearing running socks allows the runner to know that he has been scammed by large multinational athletic companies. That's something that you can't put a price on. Well, actually you can, about $10 a pair. If you run regularly, you'll probably want more than one pair.
Moving up my ever expanding body, I come to the knees. I wear a knee brace. It keeps my knee from spontaneously becoming an elbow. Actually I'm not entirely sure what it does but I've seen people on TV wear them and that's good enough for me. That was another $15.
I also wear special running pants although here the term "pants" is used rather loosely, unlike the pants which are just tight enough to restrict blood flow to my $10 socks. They're also tight enough to reveal the location of a small mole on my outer thigh. They're black but are emblazoned with stylistic racing stripes which make me look like a gazelle. Specifically, a gazelle that has been singled out by a lioness as a free lunch. They were $20.
Moving up my geodesic body, we come to the lower part of my midsection. I wear special running underwear. The theory is that my special running underwear will prevent chafing. This theory is only slightly less correct than the flat earth theory. I've forgotten what I paid for them but I believe that they weren't free.
As we arrive at my pear-shaped chest, you will find my running shirts. I run in the dark to spare the world the agony of having to see my multiple layers of flab slapping against each other like a pair of twin boys engaged in a death-match round of "Why are you hitting yourself?" I wear neon yellow t-shirts. There's a fancy name for it but I'm a guy so to me, it's just yellow. It might be puce. Or aqua. Or ecru. The good news is that my shirts only cost $5. The bad news is that when I take them off, the laundry hamper smells like the Harlem Globetrotters visited and left a month's worth of dirty uniforms in the closet.
At the top of my body, somewhere roughly above my neck, we find my enlarged head. It's big. Really big. I wish that implied something other than the fact that it's hard to find hats that fit, but it doesn't. I wear sweat bands on my head. I'm not sure what they accomplish. They don't keep sweat out of my eyes. In fact, they seem to be designed to gather copious amounts of sweat and then at the worst possible moment, funnel it directly toward my eye sockets, which being shaped like a bowl, are only too willing to collect the perspiration and store it until such time as it is needed. Unfortunately, it is never needed. The good news is that head bands are cheap. The bad news is that they are also worthless. I wear one nonetheless.
But now I'm a runner. I did consider a less expensive hobby, like yacht racing, but decided that I'd just look ridiculous wearing deck shoes.
Happy trails.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Physics and phathers
Almost 24 years ago, I became a father for the first time. About 2 years after that, I became a father for the first time again. I say that because every child is different and being a father to one is completely different that being a father to the other. In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to share some things that I've learned along the way.
1. Babies do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "Matter cannot be created or destroyed." Babies laugh at the idea. You can carefully measure 4 ounces of baby formula into a bottle and a baby can turn it into 7 pounds of poop, if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, and you will be, the baby also has the ability to turn 4 ounces of formula into a quart of hot steaming "spit up". As a well prepared father, you'll have a spit up rag carefully placed on your shoulder to serve as a target area for the spit up. Your baby will be a lousy shot and in fact all that the spit up rag will accomplish is keeping your shoulder area clean. The rest of you will look and smell like a cross between the grossest thing that you can think of and something far far worse.
2. Toddlers do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "A body at rest tends to stay at rest and a body in motion tends to stay in motion." A toddler, given his new found ability to toddle, will lie on the floor in seeming compliance with the first part of the law only to jump up without cause or provocation. Once upright, the toddler will examine his surroundings to determine the best object to crash into. Preferred destinations include tables, dogs, Ming vases and fathers' groins. In defiance with the second law of motion, the toddler will come to a complete stop and solidly land on its diaper. Said diaper is filled with a toxic chemical which could have easily changed the outcome of World War I if it had been weaponized.
3. Small children do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction." When an adult touches something, there is usually no reaction. When a child touches something, it falls over and shatters into a million shards of glass. This occurs even if said object did not originally consist of glass. The child will look at you with big innocent looking eyes and will say the only thing that will help. "Sorry." As an adult, we use "sorry" to express regret and the idea that our actions were hurtful and hopefully won't be repeated. A child uses "sorry" to express his desire to avoid punishment all the while surveying the room for the next item to react with.
4. Teenagers do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "Force equals mass times acceleration." Teenagers, once behind the steering wheel of a motor vehicle, will attempt to test this law. They will fail this test but not for lack of trying. Most motor vehicles primarily consist of a substance commonly known as "steel". In its solid form, steel is known for its propensity to resist bending and breaking. Typically, a large amount of force is required to transform it from one shape into another. A teenage driver will challenge this notion by trying to combine two vehicles into one. We refer to this scenario as a "crash". A teenager will say that they "barely touched" (this is also the excuse given for teenage pregnancy) and that some mysterious force, possibly dark matter, must be the explanation for the resultant $7000 worth of damage.
5. Fathers do not respect the laws of physics. A physicist will tell you that "E = mc2". In layman's terms, this means that the energy of a system is equal to the mass of the object times the speed of light squared. In case you're wondering, squaring a number has nothing to do with carpenter's squares, square dancing or the children's game Four Square. At any rate, the speed of light squared is an incredibly huge number (34,596,000,000). To determine my energy, we simply multiply my mass, say 180 pounds (HA!) by the speed of light squared and you get 6,227,280,000,000 somethings. I have no idea what they are but that would seem to be a lot of energy. Where have they gone? With that kind of energy, I should be able to accomplish anything. As it is, I consider it an accomplishment to put the foot rest up on my recliner.
It also follows that as I get more massive, (that sounds a lot better than "fatter") I should have more energy. I assure you, this is not the case. In fact, I should have approximately 6 times the energy of a toddler when in reality, I can get tired just by watching one.
6. It is said that being a father is the greatest job in the world. The people that say that have never heard of astronauts. Being a father isn't a job, it's a privilege, one that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Friday, May 10, 2013
I'm a travelin' man.
Like a lot of people, my job requires me to travel from time to time. Since my company is gracious enough to allow me to stay in hotels and doesn't require me to sleep on park benches, I've learned a lot about hotels and their patrons. Today, I'll share the good, the bad and the ugly.
The first story is both bad and ugly.
Once upon a time, I checked into a hotel in Chicago. Or maybe it was Portland. It could have been St. Louis. I really can't remember because every hotel front desk and every hotel hallway looks exactly like every other. At every front desk, there are always three people. One is checking people in. Another is talking on the phone. The third person serves no useful purpose; they are the manager.
Every hotel corridor looks like every other. As soon as you exit the elevator, you will be greeted by paisley carpeting. It will be stained. On the wall, there will be a small sign that indicates that rooms 413 - 429, 435, 6, and 402 - 408 (except for odd numbered rooms) will be to the right. To the left will be rooms 465 - 432, 589, the exercise room (which will require your keycard but it doesn't matter because you're not going to use it), a broken ice machine and a soda machine capable of maxing out your American Express card.
So, I don't remember where I was. If it's really that important to you, pretend that I was in Phoenix.
My check in had gone like every other. I had signed, initialled, showed my ID and my credit card and was given a key to my room. Or at least, a key to what I thought was my room. When I inserted the keycard into the lock a second time (they never work on the first try), the green light lit, I pushed on the door handle and instantly became aware of the fact that "my" room was in fact "our" room.
I can't tell you much about my roommate. I can tell you that he didn't want to share a room as was evidenced by his "GET OUT OF HERE!!" I can also tell you that he believed that our room was a clothing optional area and that he was exercising the option. Since he appeared to be busy, I decided that this was not the best time to ask if he wanted the bed by the window or the door.
As I made my way back to the front desk, I pondered the logistics of a hotel reservation system that would allow more than one customer per room. I have written thousands of computer programs in my lifetime (although none of them hospitality oriented) and I am somewhat familiar with the concept of gathering computer program requirements. As nearly as I can tell, when this hotel's system was being designed, the following conversation must have occurred.
Computer programmer: What color should the background be?
Hotel executive: Beige.
Computer programmer: Password security?
Hotel executive: At least 6 characters, upper and lowercase, 2 numbers and 1 squirrel sound.
Computer programmer: Should we limit the number of strangers that can see each other naked?
Hotel executive: We'll take care of that in the next upgrade.
When I got to the desk, my former roommate had already called and asked that I be reassigned. When I asked the clerk how two people could have the same room, she just shrugged and said "It happens." Ponder that for a little while. And by the way, you know that little metal hook thing that latches over a metal piece so that your door is "really" locked? It looks like this:
There's a tool that allows hotel management to undo them from the outside. It looks like this:
But don't worry, I'm sure the bad guys don't have one, just as I'm sure that they're not available on the internet for $29.95.
The good thing about staying in hotels is that you don't have to make your bed, clean your room or wash your towels. Every day, a nice lady with questionable English skills will do everything for you. Her name is "Housekeeping". I know this because whenever I am taking a nap, I will hear a knock on the door and a voice will say "Housekeeping".
Housekeeping is wonderful. She will do all of the things that you would normally have to do and she'll do them with a smile on her face. She will bring you new towels and hang them in the one and only place in the room from whence they must be moved prior to use, the shower. She will rearrange all of the items that you have left on your dresser. She will hide the remote control to your TV. She will give you new hermetically sealed soap that you will have to spend another 15 minutes unwrapping. She does this because you already used the last bar once and just like at home, once you've washed your hands with a bar of soap, you throw it away, right?
She will bring you new bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath gel and hand lotion. If you're a guy, you'll probably use the bath gel for shampoo (assuming that you brought your Vice Grips with you to remove the Super Glued-on screw tops). If you're a woman, you won't use any of them because you travel with your own personal supply of hair care products. You might take them home with you although you will eventually either throw them away or your husband will use them out of desperation when he runs out of "Great Value Fresh Scent" shampoo.
Your hotel bed will be hard. Not hard as in firm, but hard as in one notch below diamond.
More to come. Right now, it's time for "Big Bang Theory" and it will take me at least half an hour to find where Housekeeping hid the remote.
The first story is both bad and ugly.
Once upon a time, I checked into a hotel in Chicago. Or maybe it was Portland. It could have been St. Louis. I really can't remember because every hotel front desk and every hotel hallway looks exactly like every other. At every front desk, there are always three people. One is checking people in. Another is talking on the phone. The third person serves no useful purpose; they are the manager.
Every hotel corridor looks like every other. As soon as you exit the elevator, you will be greeted by paisley carpeting. It will be stained. On the wall, there will be a small sign that indicates that rooms 413 - 429, 435, 6, and 402 - 408 (except for odd numbered rooms) will be to the right. To the left will be rooms 465 - 432, 589, the exercise room (which will require your keycard but it doesn't matter because you're not going to use it), a broken ice machine and a soda machine capable of maxing out your American Express card.
So, I don't remember where I was. If it's really that important to you, pretend that I was in Phoenix.
My check in had gone like every other. I had signed, initialled, showed my ID and my credit card and was given a key to my room. Or at least, a key to what I thought was my room. When I inserted the keycard into the lock a second time (they never work on the first try), the green light lit, I pushed on the door handle and instantly became aware of the fact that "my" room was in fact "our" room.
I can't tell you much about my roommate. I can tell you that he didn't want to share a room as was evidenced by his "GET OUT OF HERE!!" I can also tell you that he believed that our room was a clothing optional area and that he was exercising the option. Since he appeared to be busy, I decided that this was not the best time to ask if he wanted the bed by the window or the door.
As I made my way back to the front desk, I pondered the logistics of a hotel reservation system that would allow more than one customer per room. I have written thousands of computer programs in my lifetime (although none of them hospitality oriented) and I am somewhat familiar with the concept of gathering computer program requirements. As nearly as I can tell, when this hotel's system was being designed, the following conversation must have occurred.
Computer programmer: What color should the background be?
Hotel executive: Beige.
Computer programmer: Password security?
Hotel executive: At least 6 characters, upper and lowercase, 2 numbers and 1 squirrel sound.
Computer programmer: Should we limit the number of strangers that can see each other naked?
Hotel executive: We'll take care of that in the next upgrade.
When I got to the desk, my former roommate had already called and asked that I be reassigned. When I asked the clerk how two people could have the same room, she just shrugged and said "It happens." Ponder that for a little while. And by the way, you know that little metal hook thing that latches over a metal piece so that your door is "really" locked? It looks like this:
But don't worry, I'm sure the bad guys don't have one, just as I'm sure that they're not available on the internet for $29.95.
The good thing about staying in hotels is that you don't have to make your bed, clean your room or wash your towels. Every day, a nice lady with questionable English skills will do everything for you. Her name is "Housekeeping". I know this because whenever I am taking a nap, I will hear a knock on the door and a voice will say "Housekeeping".
Housekeeping is wonderful. She will do all of the things that you would normally have to do and she'll do them with a smile on her face. She will bring you new towels and hang them in the one and only place in the room from whence they must be moved prior to use, the shower. She will rearrange all of the items that you have left on your dresser. She will hide the remote control to your TV. She will give you new hermetically sealed soap that you will have to spend another 15 minutes unwrapping. She does this because you already used the last bar once and just like at home, once you've washed your hands with a bar of soap, you throw it away, right?
She will bring you new bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath gel and hand lotion. If you're a guy, you'll probably use the bath gel for shampoo (assuming that you brought your Vice Grips with you to remove the Super Glued-on screw tops). If you're a woman, you won't use any of them because you travel with your own personal supply of hair care products. You might take them home with you although you will eventually either throw them away or your husband will use them out of desperation when he runs out of "Great Value Fresh Scent" shampoo.
Your hotel bed will be hard. Not hard as in firm, but hard as in one notch below diamond.
More to come. Right now, it's time for "Big Bang Theory" and it will take me at least half an hour to find where Housekeeping hid the remote.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
I'm changing careers - part 1.
After careful consideration, I've decided that it is time for a career change. Although I love my current job (in case my boss reads this), I think that I would make an excellent TV meteorologist.
A meteorologist is what was once known as a weatherman. At some point in weatherman history, it was determined that in order to be more professional sounding, "ologist" would need to be added to the name. "Weatherologist" sounds like someone that can't make up their mind so that name was rejected. Ironically, weathermen are particularly poor at making up their minds. If you were to greet one with "Hey, how's it going?", a typical weatherman would reply "There's a .0000025% chance that I will die today. I'm taking my death precautions."
For those that have never lived in Oklahoma, "precautions" is a word that is always preceded by "tornado", as in "Take your tornado precautions." Weathermen tell us to do this all of the time. No one ever has. In fact, no one has a "tornado precaution" other than going outside to see if the tornado is within visual range.
Weathermen give other peculiar advice in advance of an oncoming tornado. "You need to get as low as possible" is frequently said. In my case, that would mean that I need to get in the crawl space underneath my house. While I'm down there I might as well check my plumbing for leaks. In the event of an actual tornado, I'm fairly certain that the biggest leak would be coming from me.
People that live in mobile homes are usually told that they need to abandon their homes and get to a "place of safety". Most people think of their home as their "place of safety" but apparently mobile home owners need to eschew that particular line of thought.
The instruction to get to a safe place puts the mobile home owner in a particularly difficult predicament because they are simultaneously told that their vehicles are unsafe and they need to stay off of the roads. Since mobile homes tend to congregate, the only other structures within walking distance are probably other mobile homes whose residents are also supposed to be searching out the mythical place of safety.
So, since walking and driving are out, the only other reasonable transportation alternative is................
helicopters.
Yes, that's right, helicopters.
You might think that a helicopter would be a relatively unsafe to be during a tornado with all the whirling vortexes of death spinning around the atmosphere. You might think that said death vortexes would have an adverse effect upon a device that depends upon consistent air currents as its means of remaining aloft. You might think that a helicopter would be on par with a hot air balloon or a glider as a preferred method of emergency tornado transportation. You would be wrong.
Whenever a tornado warning is issued, a veritable swarm of helicopter pilots take to the skies in order to locate, chase and televise the potential winds of death, the very same winds that forced you to leave your mobile home or crawl under your house.
So if you don't have immediate access to a cellar, you should get a helicopter. It's the only sure-fire way to reach a place of safety, assuming that it hasn't blown away.
Time to check Craigslist.
In part 2, I'll explain why I'm becoming a meteorologist instead of a System Administrologist.
A meteorologist is what was once known as a weatherman. At some point in weatherman history, it was determined that in order to be more professional sounding, "ologist" would need to be added to the name. "Weatherologist" sounds like someone that can't make up their mind so that name was rejected. Ironically, weathermen are particularly poor at making up their minds. If you were to greet one with "Hey, how's it going?", a typical weatherman would reply "There's a .0000025% chance that I will die today. I'm taking my death precautions."
For those that have never lived in Oklahoma, "precautions" is a word that is always preceded by "tornado", as in "Take your tornado precautions." Weathermen tell us to do this all of the time. No one ever has. In fact, no one has a "tornado precaution" other than going outside to see if the tornado is within visual range.
Weathermen give other peculiar advice in advance of an oncoming tornado. "You need to get as low as possible" is frequently said. In my case, that would mean that I need to get in the crawl space underneath my house. While I'm down there I might as well check my plumbing for leaks. In the event of an actual tornado, I'm fairly certain that the biggest leak would be coming from me.
People that live in mobile homes are usually told that they need to abandon their homes and get to a "place of safety". Most people think of their home as their "place of safety" but apparently mobile home owners need to eschew that particular line of thought.
The instruction to get to a safe place puts the mobile home owner in a particularly difficult predicament because they are simultaneously told that their vehicles are unsafe and they need to stay off of the roads. Since mobile homes tend to congregate, the only other structures within walking distance are probably other mobile homes whose residents are also supposed to be searching out the mythical place of safety.
So, since walking and driving are out, the only other reasonable transportation alternative is................
helicopters.
Yes, that's right, helicopters.
You might think that a helicopter would be a relatively unsafe to be during a tornado with all the whirling vortexes of death spinning around the atmosphere. You might think that said death vortexes would have an adverse effect upon a device that depends upon consistent air currents as its means of remaining aloft. You might think that a helicopter would be on par with a hot air balloon or a glider as a preferred method of emergency tornado transportation. You would be wrong.
Whenever a tornado warning is issued, a veritable swarm of helicopter pilots take to the skies in order to locate, chase and televise the potential winds of death, the very same winds that forced you to leave your mobile home or crawl under your house.
So if you don't have immediate access to a cellar, you should get a helicopter. It's the only sure-fire way to reach a place of safety, assuming that it hasn't blown away.
Time to check Craigslist.
In part 2, I'll explain why I'm becoming a meteorologist instead of a System Administrologist.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
The Madman's Guide to Insurance
I've had to deal with insurance quite a bit lately and like many of you, I find it to be quite frustrating. To correct this, I've done my research and am now in a position (seated) to explain the ins and outs of insurance terms and practices.
What is insurance?
A definition is always a good place to start. Insurance is a means by which risk is pooled among a population of people. The assumption is that if we average people's risk over a large group, our risk will be less.
Let's look at an example. (Those of you that are math averse should look away) Suppose that my risk is "x". Your risk is "x" too. Together, our total risk is x + x. In case you failed algebra, x + x = 2x. Now, to find our average risk, we divide our total risk by the number in our group. This is written as 2x/2. Those of you that didn't fail algebra can see where this is headed. Our average risk is x. Nothing has changed.
But wait! you say. "Madman, you're overweight and to call your lifestyle sedimentary would demean an entire classification of rocks!" - you also say. (That was a little mean-spirited and hurtful, I'd reply) This is where the magic happens. If my original risk was 2x and yours was only x, our average risk would be 3x/2 or 1.5x. You've just inherited some of my risk and I thank you for it. Insurance counts on people with low risk, also known as "pigeons", to join together with high risk people, also known as "Kevins" to pool their risk.
How do I get insurance?
You purchase insurance from someone known as an "agent". They prefer to refer to themselves as agents because of the negative connotations associated with the word salesman. When you hear the word agent, you instinctively think of something mysterious and perhaps a little dangerous, like a James Bond type "secret agent". No one is intimidated by a "secret salesman". Real estate agents work on this same principle. They've even gone so far as to create a whole new word "realtor" to avoid being called salesmen. I fully expect insurance agents to adopt this strategy and start calling themselves insurators.
What happens when I need to use my insurance?
The short answer is "Sucks to be you."
The long answer is, first you file a claim. Suppose that you go to a doctor or dentist or auto repair shop, it doesn't matter, the process is the same. You go in with a problem, get looked at and them get a bill. If you're lucky, they'll file a claim for you. They'll contact your insurance company and get told "No. That's not covered." It doesn't really matter what "that" is. It's not covered. You could have purchased a policy titled "Insurance against death" and your death would not be covered. If you were to actually read your policy (no one has ever done this) you would see that a small addition to an obscure sub-section that is written in Sanskrit (you do read Sanskrit don't you?) specifically states that "No payments shall be made in the event of accidental or non-accidental life stoppage." You should have bought the life stoppage policy but it wouldn't really have mattered because it would have its own obscure sub-section that stated that life stoppage is only covered in cases of extreme polyantimorphism and your case wasn't extreme enough. Plus, it was a pre-existing condition.
But surely insurance companies pay sometimes.
Yes, in extreme cases, they do. They pay what is known as "usual and customary". Bear in mind that nothing is usual or customary to an insurance company.
During the Civil War, if a soldier was wounded, it was customary to amputate a leg. It didn't matter where or how serious the wound was, a leg would be amputated. Upon seeing the reluctance of soldiers with acne to visit doctors, insurance companies seized upon customary procedures. So, if you need a leg amputated, by all means, go to the doctor.
Unfortunately, the pay scale has not changed in the past 150 years either so you'll need to find a doctor that will either take your Blue Cross/Blue Shield card or accepts payment in chickens.
Is it really that bad?
Yes.
No. I mean, is it really that bad?
Yes.
What is insurance?
A definition is always a good place to start. Insurance is a means by which risk is pooled among a population of people. The assumption is that if we average people's risk over a large group, our risk will be less.
Let's look at an example. (Those of you that are math averse should look away) Suppose that my risk is "x". Your risk is "x" too. Together, our total risk is x + x. In case you failed algebra, x + x = 2x. Now, to find our average risk, we divide our total risk by the number in our group. This is written as 2x/2. Those of you that didn't fail algebra can see where this is headed. Our average risk is x. Nothing has changed.
But wait! you say. "Madman, you're overweight and to call your lifestyle sedimentary would demean an entire classification of rocks!" - you also say. (That was a little mean-spirited and hurtful, I'd reply) This is where the magic happens. If my original risk was 2x and yours was only x, our average risk would be 3x/2 or 1.5x. You've just inherited some of my risk and I thank you for it. Insurance counts on people with low risk, also known as "pigeons", to join together with high risk people, also known as "Kevins" to pool their risk.
How do I get insurance?
You purchase insurance from someone known as an "agent". They prefer to refer to themselves as agents because of the negative connotations associated with the word salesman. When you hear the word agent, you instinctively think of something mysterious and perhaps a little dangerous, like a James Bond type "secret agent". No one is intimidated by a "secret salesman". Real estate agents work on this same principle. They've even gone so far as to create a whole new word "realtor" to avoid being called salesmen. I fully expect insurance agents to adopt this strategy and start calling themselves insurators.
What happens when I need to use my insurance?
The short answer is "Sucks to be you."
The long answer is, first you file a claim. Suppose that you go to a doctor or dentist or auto repair shop, it doesn't matter, the process is the same. You go in with a problem, get looked at and them get a bill. If you're lucky, they'll file a claim for you. They'll contact your insurance company and get told "No. That's not covered." It doesn't really matter what "that" is. It's not covered. You could have purchased a policy titled "Insurance against death" and your death would not be covered. If you were to actually read your policy (no one has ever done this) you would see that a small addition to an obscure sub-section that is written in Sanskrit (you do read Sanskrit don't you?) specifically states that "No payments shall be made in the event of accidental or non-accidental life stoppage." You should have bought the life stoppage policy but it wouldn't really have mattered because it would have its own obscure sub-section that stated that life stoppage is only covered in cases of extreme polyantimorphism and your case wasn't extreme enough. Plus, it was a pre-existing condition.
But surely insurance companies pay sometimes.
Yes, in extreme cases, they do. They pay what is known as "usual and customary". Bear in mind that nothing is usual or customary to an insurance company.
During the Civil War, if a soldier was wounded, it was customary to amputate a leg. It didn't matter where or how serious the wound was, a leg would be amputated. Upon seeing the reluctance of soldiers with acne to visit doctors, insurance companies seized upon customary procedures. So, if you need a leg amputated, by all means, go to the doctor.
Unfortunately, the pay scale has not changed in the past 150 years either so you'll need to find a doctor that will either take your Blue Cross/Blue Shield card or accepts payment in chickens.
Is it really that bad?
Yes.
No. I mean, is it really that bad?
Yes.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Earth, Wind and Fire!
I've made you wait long enough. I've decided to update my blog. First the good news, I survived my trip to Philadelphia. Now the bad news, I've lost my notes that I was going to use to write part 2 of my blog. Even more bad news, I don't remember why I went to Philadelphia. It was probably work related since Sheri didn't go. At least, I don't think she went. My memory isn't what I remember it being. Do I still have two kids? I hope so, I think I liked them.
There's a new tab on the page where you create your blog. I think it's new anyway. It says "Monetize". I assume that if you click on it, it will add pictures of paintings from the great French impressionist Claude Monet onto your webpage. This would seem to be a fairly obscure feature but who am I to argue with the geniuses at Google?
There's also a tab that says "Stats". From this fascinating page, I see that a grand total of 3 of my loyal followers use the Chrome web browser. To be perfectly honest, that's about 3 more than I would have guessed.
But enough of this silliness, if you can call it that. (Call it what you like, I've got bigger fish to fry.) This blog is about the weather. In Oklahoma, so the song goes, "The waving wheat, can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!" In a lesser known and rarely sung verse, we learn that waving wheat is also capable of giving off an odor of "sand" when the wind comes before the rain as has been the case for the last few months.
The lack of rain has greatly contributed to the wildfire situation that has plagued southwestern Oklahoma as of late. It hasn't contributed as much as the people that believe that the roadside is the appropriate receptacle for their cigarettes but it has contributed nonetheless.
A few thoughts about fire:
1. Fire is cool. Not literally of course.
2. Whenever someone talks about free speech, the "You can't yell fire in a crowded movie theater" exception gets brought up. Why is it always a movie theater? If I'm at the opera and the urge should strike, can I yell fire? How many people constitute a crowd? If I'm at the midnight showing of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo" and there are only 2 of us, can I yell fire? What if there really is a fire in a crowded movie theater, would I be safe from prosecution if I yelled "Rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products!" Can I whisper to those around me "Don't tell anyone but there's a fire in here. Let's all pretend that we have to pee."
3. Any list should have at least 3 entries.
If any of you have recently lost your house to a fire, I apologize for making light (see what I did there?) of the situation. I'll send you all of the Monets that I receive from this year's blog.
The Earth sucks. It's a gravity thing.
There's a new tab on the page where you create your blog. I think it's new anyway. It says "Monetize". I assume that if you click on it, it will add pictures of paintings from the great French impressionist Claude Monet onto your webpage. This would seem to be a fairly obscure feature but who am I to argue with the geniuses at Google?
There's also a tab that says "Stats". From this fascinating page, I see that a grand total of 3 of my loyal followers use the Chrome web browser. To be perfectly honest, that's about 3 more than I would have guessed.
But enough of this silliness, if you can call it that. (Call it what you like, I've got bigger fish to fry.) This blog is about the weather. In Oklahoma, so the song goes, "The waving wheat, can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!" In a lesser known and rarely sung verse, we learn that waving wheat is also capable of giving off an odor of "sand" when the wind comes before the rain as has been the case for the last few months.
The lack of rain has greatly contributed to the wildfire situation that has plagued southwestern Oklahoma as of late. It hasn't contributed as much as the people that believe that the roadside is the appropriate receptacle for their cigarettes but it has contributed nonetheless.
A few thoughts about fire:
1. Fire is cool. Not literally of course.
2. Whenever someone talks about free speech, the "You can't yell fire in a crowded movie theater" exception gets brought up. Why is it always a movie theater? If I'm at the opera and the urge should strike, can I yell fire? How many people constitute a crowd? If I'm at the midnight showing of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo" and there are only 2 of us, can I yell fire? What if there really is a fire in a crowded movie theater, would I be safe from prosecution if I yelled "Rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products!" Can I whisper to those around me "Don't tell anyone but there's a fire in here. Let's all pretend that we have to pee."
3. Any list should have at least 3 entries.
If any of you have recently lost your house to a fire, I apologize for making light (see what I did there?) of the situation. I'll send you all of the Monets that I receive from this year's blog.
The Earth sucks. It's a gravity thing.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Philadelphia Freedom: Part I
It was an ingenious plan. To be honest, I never saw it coming, But now, looking back in hindsight (as if there were any other way to look back) it is perfectly clear. Steve Jobs, the CEO of Apple, and Amy, my physical therapist, teamed together (as if there were any other way to team) to kill me.
Steve's piece of the puzzle was simple, create a phone that everyone wants but that also has the battery life of a wind up emergency radio. Amy's piece was much more subtle. She had to convince me to add Fleetwood Mac's "The Dance" to my Netflix queue. While both of these actions taken separately, were fairly innocuous, (and Steve's is obviously bad business) taken together, they almost led to my untimely demise.
As many of you know, I'm currently not in Oklahoma anymore. I'm sitting in a hotel room outside of Philadelphia. I flew into Philadelphia on Monday. All of my travel information was stored neatly on my iPhone. This included my hotel's address and phone number.
When I got in my rental car, a Nissan Versa, (I have come to the conclusion that Versa is named for Versatile only without the acceleration) I entered the address into my GPS. Within a few seconds, Cleo (the name I have given to the GPS lady that gives me directions) discovered the quickest route to get me from the Payless Rental Car parking lot to King of Prussia Pennsylvania. (Two quick notes. 1. You do not get a free pair of shoes when you rent from Payless although you should. 2. King of Prussia is a silly name for a city.)
At this point you are probably asking (I realize that you're probably not) "What do Amy and Fleetwood Mac have to do with this?" As I said, Amy had conveniently convinced me to add "The Dance" to my Netflix queue several months ago. Somehow, I suspect that sorcery might have been involved, Amy knew that I would be traveling to Philadelphia this month. She also knew that I would have an iPhone with the "10 minute: Extended Life Battery." Knowing that I would view "The Dance" the night before my trip, she must have concluded that I would need a Fleetwood Mac fix that could only be cured by downloading "Rumors." She also knew that I would listen to "Rumors" during my 2 hour layover in Chicago, thereby shortening my battery life from "Power nap" to "Hiccup". Some of you might insist that I bare some responsibility for this fiasco. You would fall into the exceedingly large group of people that I refer to as "Not my friends."
So, as I'm navigating Philadelphia traffic, I am constantly looking at my phone to see if Cleo has died. The only way that this situation could become more dangerous is if I decide to start texting or checking email. I probably would have, but right on schedule Cleo died. Fortunately that's not a problem because I have the address to the hotel in an email, I'll just call them and ask for directions. Oh wait.
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