Thursday, January 31, 2019
Fashion Why's
There are fashion Do's and fashion Don'ts. That we can all understand. Harder to comprehend is the fashion Why. As in why the bare cut-out shoulder look? The off-shoulder formal look can be alluring, but to have the top of the shoulders exposed, not so much. I wonder how that look started, but more to the point, why it started.
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Causes of Death
The most reliable way to determine a person's cause of death is an autopsy. The victims of the limousine crash underwent autopsies which revealed their cause of death was blunt force injuries. Autopsies are expensive, costing in the thousands of dollars for each corpse. They are mandated if there is any evidence of criminal causation. Then the fee is paid by the investigative unit, or so I gather. Hospitals cover the cost of an autopsy if it is their interest for teaching or if a body has been donated.
Unless you are murdered, your chance of getting an autopsy is next to zero. That no doubt is a good thing. But many autopsies are conducted on a private-pay basis. If the family of the deceased suspects that negligence or mal-treatment by medical professionals or institutions or companies may have led to their family member's death, they often pay for a private autopsy. They want answers and are willing to pay the price for that answer. Often the basis for their wanting to know is a lawsuit. Good luck to them, because that's the only way they're likely to know for sure.
Every so often, the news will report the death of an older person, and the consensus is death was due to a heretofore undiagnosed case of Lyme disease or such. Or else, the death was caused by a rare infection or other malady. That makes news.
But if, say, someone, especially an older person, dies in a non-dramatic fashion, the chances are slim that the hospital or medical examiner will try very hard to find the cause. Heart failure will most likely be the ultimate ruling. Why cut the poor old thing open; death will occur soon enough anyway.
The point is that when you hear that a person dies of a particular disease or condition, it is most likely that the family insisted on finding out the reason. It's not an automatic follow-through. Especially for the old folks. We could contract the bubonic plague, and the death certificate would read natural causes.
Unless you are murdered, your chance of getting an autopsy is next to zero. That no doubt is a good thing. But many autopsies are conducted on a private-pay basis. If the family of the deceased suspects that negligence or mal-treatment by medical professionals or institutions or companies may have led to their family member's death, they often pay for a private autopsy. They want answers and are willing to pay the price for that answer. Often the basis for their wanting to know is a lawsuit. Good luck to them, because that's the only way they're likely to know for sure.
Every so often, the news will report the death of an older person, and the consensus is death was due to a heretofore undiagnosed case of Lyme disease or such. Or else, the death was caused by a rare infection or other malady. That makes news.
But if, say, someone, especially an older person, dies in a non-dramatic fashion, the chances are slim that the hospital or medical examiner will try very hard to find the cause. Heart failure will most likely be the ultimate ruling. Why cut the poor old thing open; death will occur soon enough anyway.
The point is that when you hear that a person dies of a particular disease or condition, it is most likely that the family insisted on finding out the reason. It's not an automatic follow-through. Especially for the old folks. We could contract the bubonic plague, and the death certificate would read natural causes.
Catch'em If You Can
The odds of catching the perpetrators of the attack on the Empire star are roughly equivalent to finding the real killer of Nicole and Ron. Just sayin'.
Thursday, January 24, 2019
Personal Space / In your Face
Probably too much has already been written about the confrontation between the Preppy and the Native American. And not that it matters, but my initial reaction has changed.
It first appeared the smirking youth had confronted the elderly* Native American and was engaged in staring him down. But in later reports the Native American acknowledged it was he who had confronted the youth. That would definitely change the scenario, and probably account for the smirk, or uncomfortable expression.
* And if reports are true, the Native American is 64 years old, almost a decade younger than our president, and of an age where I could be his mother.
It first appeared the smirking youth had confronted the elderly* Native American and was engaged in staring him down. But in later reports the Native American acknowledged it was he who had confronted the youth. That would definitely change the scenario, and probably account for the smirk, or uncomfortable expression.
* And if reports are true, the Native American is 64 years old, almost a decade younger than our president, and of an age where I could be his mother.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Start to Finish (almost)
Claim Opened 8/24/2017
Closed 9/23/2017 Denied
Opened 10/16/2017 Denied
Opened 11/30/2017 Denied
Appeal Opened 2/26/2018 Denied
Re-Opened 4/23/2018 Authorization Review
Closed 4/26/2018 Denied
NOD 5/9/2018 (Notice of Disagreement)
Appeal Granted 9/12/2018*.
* Strings attached: Fiduciary proposal
Resolved 1/04/2019
Closed 9/23/2017 Denied
Opened 10/16/2017 Denied
Opened 11/30/2017 Denied
Appeal Opened 2/26/2018 Denied
Re-Opened 4/23/2018 Authorization Review
Closed 4/26/2018 Denied
NOD 5/9/2018 (Notice of Disagreement)
Appeal Granted 9/12/2018*.
* Strings attached: Fiduciary proposal
Resolved 1/04/2019
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Monday, January 21, 2019
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Dream World
It had happened again.No garbage pickup. Last week, in that alternate world of reality, no pickup. The containers had been carefully placed as usual on the edge of the driveway. In the morning, they were pushed back a short distance. Probably from dropping off the robot arm, I assumed. But when I went to bring them back to their customary place, I found them full. I can only think that the overnight wind must have blown them into the driveway a short way, and so the truck simply bypassed them. So much for service, I thought. I forgot about it, or so I thought, but maybe not because in my world of dreams, the issue recurred:
This time the containers themselves were missing. We were evidently being refused by our waste removal service. Left on our lawn was a chocolate milk carton, I didn't know where to put it. I saw our neighbor's garbage receptacle lying on its side, empty, so I walked over and threw the carton sideways into it. Then I thought they might be offended, so I considered going over to offer an apology. But before I could do so, I was distracted by a higher priority: the missing snake had been located.
It was somewhere in Albany, and it was up to us to go retrieve it and bring it home to David, who was its owner. "Us" meant me, Dave, Dorothy, and maybe a few others, but I was primarily responsible. (It was my dream.) Cut to a highway in Albany and later to Oakwood Avenue. We were guiding the snake along the roadside. For some reason, which was never in question by any of us, we had to guide the snake as it slithered along. It had to make the trip on its own. It was a long and tedious process, with several incidents along the way, but eventually we reached Schaghticoke, where all which had promised a successful outcome suddenly went wrong.
As we reached the elementary school, proceeding up the old cut-off road, the snake made a sudden right turn, or as sudden as slithering allows, and veered into the school building. We followed along, still guiding it, so relieved that we would soon arrive home and I could report good news to David. But then the snake, so smoothly proceeding down the corridor, veered offtrack once more and slithered under the closed doorway of the science room.
Of course we followed into the classroom where the teacher was teaching a class gathered in the front of the large room. The snake had disappeared into the long closet at the back of the room. We slid open the closet door, expecting to find our snake. But what we saw appalled us. The floor was piled with shoes and boots, and interwoven among them a mass of snakes, of differing sizes and colors. We carefully inspected all of them, but none matched our snake. We realized we had to abandon our search. But I took one more look into a far corner and spotted a snake curled up there. We were delighted because it looked like our missing snake, but unfortunately, on closer examination, it turned out not to be so.
I pulled from the corner the snake's shirt. Everyone else, including the teacher who had finished teaching his class and was now attempting to help us sort through the snake pile to locate ours, thought the shirt was ugly, but I thought it was pretty good looking. The shirt was lemon-yellow with some kind of coordinating trim down each side. The size was small, as befitting a shirt for a snake. I shook the shirt out, placed it on a hanger, and carefully hung it in the closet.
This time the containers themselves were missing. We were evidently being refused by our waste removal service. Left on our lawn was a chocolate milk carton, I didn't know where to put it. I saw our neighbor's garbage receptacle lying on its side, empty, so I walked over and threw the carton sideways into it. Then I thought they might be offended, so I considered going over to offer an apology. But before I could do so, I was distracted by a higher priority: the missing snake had been located.
It was somewhere in Albany, and it was up to us to go retrieve it and bring it home to David, who was its owner. "Us" meant me, Dave, Dorothy, and maybe a few others, but I was primarily responsible. (It was my dream.) Cut to a highway in Albany and later to Oakwood Avenue. We were guiding the snake along the roadside. For some reason, which was never in question by any of us, we had to guide the snake as it slithered along. It had to make the trip on its own. It was a long and tedious process, with several incidents along the way, but eventually we reached Schaghticoke, where all which had promised a successful outcome suddenly went wrong.
As we reached the elementary school, proceeding up the old cut-off road, the snake made a sudden right turn, or as sudden as slithering allows, and veered into the school building. We followed along, still guiding it, so relieved that we would soon arrive home and I could report good news to David. But then the snake, so smoothly proceeding down the corridor, veered offtrack once more and slithered under the closed doorway of the science room.
Of course we followed into the classroom where the teacher was teaching a class gathered in the front of the large room. The snake had disappeared into the long closet at the back of the room. We slid open the closet door, expecting to find our snake. But what we saw appalled us. The floor was piled with shoes and boots, and interwoven among them a mass of snakes, of differing sizes and colors. We carefully inspected all of them, but none matched our snake. We realized we had to abandon our search. But I took one more look into a far corner and spotted a snake curled up there. We were delighted because it looked like our missing snake, but unfortunately, on closer examination, it turned out not to be so.
I pulled from the corner the snake's shirt. Everyone else, including the teacher who had finished teaching his class and was now attempting to help us sort through the snake pile to locate ours, thought the shirt was ugly, but I thought it was pretty good looking. The shirt was lemon-yellow with some kind of coordinating trim down each side. The size was small, as befitting a shirt for a snake. I shook the shirt out, placed it on a hanger, and carefully hung it in the closet.
Friday, January 18, 2019
Word(s) of the Day
The cop was getting ready to search a perp. He asked if he had anything in the "wedding vegetable" region. The guy said no.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Monday Morning: 3 Calls, 3 Errors, 3 Hits
Well, sorta. I waited over the weekend to make 3 calls about issues that needed clearing up. I won't go into great detail because, even you, O Blog, are most likely prone to tldr.
The first call was to Spectrum to ask why the amount due on my current statement did not reflect the discounted amount negotiated 2 months ago. This rep said it was because the previous rep had not filled out the correct forms. She did so, in a most pleasant manner.
The second was a call to inquire as to when I may expect an important decision letter. The answer was that somehow it had not been mailed to me. The rep offered to mail me a duplicate, and was kind enough to inform me of a favorable outcome. Yay! Success.
The third call was incoming. The business manager clarified a retroactive date, which had been mistakenly entered. (Turn up the heat, he said.)
One must never assume finality. To err is human.
The first call was to Spectrum to ask why the amount due on my current statement did not reflect the discounted amount negotiated 2 months ago. This rep said it was because the previous rep had not filled out the correct forms. She did so, in a most pleasant manner.
The second was a call to inquire as to when I may expect an important decision letter. The answer was that somehow it had not been mailed to me. The rep offered to mail me a duplicate, and was kind enough to inform me of a favorable outcome. Yay! Success.
The third call was incoming. The business manager clarified a retroactive date, which had been mistakenly entered. (Turn up the heat, he said.)
One must never assume finality. To err is human.
Watch your language.
Alas. It seems a lost cause. Today former Deputy and present Acting Attorney General George Terwilliger said in an interview that a "more fulsome" explanation may be forthcoming.
He could have said "fuller" but he didn't. But maybe the more complete version will indeed be fulsome. I wouldn't bet against it.
He could have said "fuller" but he didn't. But maybe the more complete version will indeed be fulsome. I wouldn't bet against it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Monday, January 14, 2019
YURN2-ME NPR Radio
I lived then, as now, in an apartment in New York City. It was a while ago, years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes. But I won't go into details. Let's just say a while ago.
I had suffered a loss, was emotionally drained and at the same time devastated, if that is a possibility. My psychiatrist, who wears a gray suit or else a pair of gray slacks with a pullover sweater, assures me, if such is possible in that world, that one can suffer from more than one affliction at the same time. He asks me what I think. There is something about me, evidently, that draws others into my world, even though I make no attempt to enter theirs. I don't know what that quality is, as in general I couldn't care less about the problems of others. I have suffered a loss and it seems unbearable. I am reluctant to even leave my apartment.
But I must go out from time to time, for food and other reasons. When I open my door, I stumble over the offerings that others have left in my doorway. They know I grieve and am of a sensitive nature. Because of the inexorable charm of my personality, which I must say I do not understand, others want me to know they care. I don't quite get where they're coming from as I have absolutely no interest in them, but sometimes, even in my modest assessment of myself, I have suspected they want something from me. I in no way promote myself as a person who has anything to offer, but still, they keep pressing.
For example, a woman who sees herself as a family friend insists on inviting me to dinner. She is older than me and not my type anyway. She smells of old, though expensive, perfume, and her hair style, though coiffed, is somewhat dated. But she persists in showering me with unwanted attention, compliments on my looks and character, which most certainly are undeserved, until I order her to stop. Later I kick into the hallway the food offerings she has left on my doorstep. There will be more, from others, if not her. People seem to adore me.
I am still suffering, feeling alone and unworthy. (I am not yet aware of the breakthrough yet to come, but when and if it happens, I will reveal it in my writings, which are almost intolerably touching and unique.
I had suffered a loss, was emotionally drained and at the same time devastated, if that is a possibility. My psychiatrist, who wears a gray suit or else a pair of gray slacks with a pullover sweater, assures me, if such is possible in that world, that one can suffer from more than one affliction at the same time. He asks me what I think. There is something about me, evidently, that draws others into my world, even though I make no attempt to enter theirs. I don't know what that quality is, as in general I couldn't care less about the problems of others. I have suffered a loss and it seems unbearable. I am reluctant to even leave my apartment.
But I must go out from time to time, for food and other reasons. When I open my door, I stumble over the offerings that others have left in my doorway. They know I grieve and am of a sensitive nature. Because of the inexorable charm of my personality, which I must say I do not understand, others want me to know they care. I don't quite get where they're coming from as I have absolutely no interest in them, but sometimes, even in my modest assessment of myself, I have suspected they want something from me. I in no way promote myself as a person who has anything to offer, but still, they keep pressing.
For example, a woman who sees herself as a family friend insists on inviting me to dinner. She is older than me and not my type anyway. She smells of old, though expensive, perfume, and her hair style, though coiffed, is somewhat dated. But she persists in showering me with unwanted attention, compliments on my looks and character, which most certainly are undeserved, until I order her to stop. Later I kick into the hallway the food offerings she has left on my doorstep. There will be more, from others, if not her. People seem to adore me.
I am still suffering, feeling alone and unworthy. (I am not yet aware of the breakthrough yet to come, but when and if it happens, I will reveal it in my writings, which are almost intolerably touching and unique.
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Just In
From WKYC TV Cleveland:
"Ohio death row inmate proclaims innocence AHEAD OF next month's execution."
"Ohio death row inmate proclaims innocence AHEAD OF next month's execution."
Blogs, Clogs, Bulbs and Leaks (One more Draft)
First, I had to unclog the plumbing, the plumbing in the bathroom. A clog. I threw the entire contents of Rid-Ex (sp?) down the toilet, waited the designated number of minutes and then poured in three kettlefuls of scalding water. Not successful. Although I was being advised to get the plunger, I resisted. For one thing, I no longer know exactly where it is ever since all the stuff has been moved around and piled up out in the storage room. For another, I didn't really want to find it. I don't want to pull anything up from the drain. I want whatever is clogging it to disappear down the drain, never to be seen again. So although it was late in the evening, I drove to the store and bought what the label said was the strongest clog buster on the market.
Cliche (Found in my Drafts file from 2015.)
An accident waiting to happen is a cliche to be sure, but one that often turns out to be all too true.
Recently as I drove into the Village of Valley Falls along State Route 67, I saw a child standing along the side of the road. He had retrieved his mail from the mailbox located across the road from his home. He was wary, old enough to know how to cross the road, but he had to wait, in the precariously narrow space between the metal guardrails and the edge of the busy highway, just inches away from the oncoming traffic.
His is not an isolated instance. There are 10* homes along that less than one-quarter mile stretch of Route 67, and all those who have mailboxes cross the road to get their mail. (##Count the mailboxes.)Standing along the highway is risky enough in any kind of weather. When snow accumulates alongside the guardrails or the road becomes icy and slippery, the situation becomes even more treacherous.
I understand that the postal service has a fixed route, but though inconvenient and even costly, change has not been unprecedented. A number of years ago, there was no Village mail delivery to homes within a certain distance from the Post Office. That has been changed to where there are **mailboxes on State Street alone, with delivery on both sides of the street, and numerous other home mail delivery to the other streets in the village, also on both sides of the street. Those who choose to have their mail delivered to a mailbox have to walk no further than the end of their lawn.
A number of families in the village, including some on Route 67, have daily newspapers delivered to their homes. All the newspaper boxes are on the same side of the street as the houses, usually by the driveways. Not a single one is located across the road.
If you follow Route 67 over the Valley Falls Bridge, there are * mailboxes on the opposite side of the State Route, located on the same side as the homes.
It is possible that the families who must cross the busy road to get their mail are content with their lot, and have not requested that their mailboxes be located in front of their homes. But since the situation seems so precarious, especially when children and the elderly are often the persons designated to retrieve the mail, it would seem a matter of public safety to rectify it by placing the mailboxes on the same side of the road as the houses.
A new law, and a good one, requires that motorists provide space for police officers who are in the highway. Shouldn't the same principle of safety apply to civilians as well?
Recently as I drove into the Village of Valley Falls along State Route 67, I saw a child standing along the side of the road. He had retrieved his mail from the mailbox located across the road from his home. He was wary, old enough to know how to cross the road, but he had to wait, in the precariously narrow space between the metal guardrails and the edge of the busy highway, just inches away from the oncoming traffic.
His is not an isolated instance. There are 10* homes along that less than one-quarter mile stretch of Route 67, and all those who have mailboxes cross the road to get their mail. (##Count the mailboxes.)Standing along the highway is risky enough in any kind of weather. When snow accumulates alongside the guardrails or the road becomes icy and slippery, the situation becomes even more treacherous.
I understand that the postal service has a fixed route, but though inconvenient and even costly, change has not been unprecedented. A number of years ago, there was no Village mail delivery to homes within a certain distance from the Post Office. That has been changed to where there are **mailboxes on State Street alone, with delivery on both sides of the street, and numerous other home mail delivery to the other streets in the village, also on both sides of the street. Those who choose to have their mail delivered to a mailbox have to walk no further than the end of their lawn.
A number of families in the village, including some on Route 67, have daily newspapers delivered to their homes. All the newspaper boxes are on the same side of the street as the houses, usually by the driveways. Not a single one is located across the road.
If you follow Route 67 over the Valley Falls Bridge, there are * mailboxes on the opposite side of the State Route, located on the same side as the homes.
It is possible that the families who must cross the busy road to get their mail are content with their lot, and have not requested that their mailboxes be located in front of their homes. But since the situation seems so precarious, especially when children and the elderly are often the persons designated to retrieve the mail, it would seem a matter of public safety to rectify it by placing the mailboxes on the same side of the road as the houses.
A new law, and a good one, requires that motorists provide space for police officers who are in the highway. Shouldn't the same principle of safety apply to civilians as well?
Sunday, January 6, 2019
WHY Redux
"Sandra Oh's family shows their support AHEAD OF Golden Globes." Yahoo Entertainment 1/06/19
As in-- it was the night ahead of Christmas, and...
As in-- it was the night ahead of Christmas, and...
Traveling?
Dr. Remington Nevin is presently on a train from Vermont to Baltimore, so if anyone feels like traveling...(He's speaking at Johns Hopkins.)
Friday, January 4, 2019
Last night I dreamt that...
A car pulled up in front of Sara's Confectionery Store where I was working. Out stepped Mary (Doherty Madigan) Roberts, who was holding a soggy-looking container of ice cream, the half-gallon size. She was smiling as she tipped the carton open on the lawn in front of the store. Out poured a stream of brown melted ice cream. It looked like root beer. "I just want you to show this to Sara," she said. "The carton didn't keep it from melting on the way home." She handed me the now empty and dripping carton.
I didn't know what to do, and I wasn't sure if I had the authority to make a decision, but I figured Sara would not want to deal with the dripping carton. So I threw it away and filled a new carton with ice cream. I even added sprinkles. Mary Roberts, always good-natured, seemed pleased.
I didn't know what to do, and I wasn't sure if I had the authority to make a decision, but I figured Sara would not want to deal with the dripping carton. So I threw it away and filled a new carton with ice cream. I even added sprinkles. Mary Roberts, always good-natured, seemed pleased.
In? Out? / All the Same
How times change. It used to be that ailing workers, unable to report to their duties, would call in sick. Not any longer: they now call out sick.
In / Out-----I can see logic for both. But calling in sick seems to designate a specific location. Calling out sick conjures up the image of a person in sickness and misery lying in their bed and screaming in pain.
But, I suppose, it could just be my interpretation...
E.G. 1/5/19 CNN: "Hundreds of TSA workers calling out sick."
In / Out-----I can see logic for both. But calling in sick seems to designate a specific location. Calling out sick conjures up the image of a person in sickness and misery lying in their bed and screaming in pain.
But, I suppose, it could just be my interpretation...
E.G. 1/5/19 CNN: "Hundreds of TSA workers calling out sick."
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