I’ll take you back just once more – this time to July 2009. The Squirrel Nation was ratcheting up its tactics to a disturbing new level of aggression. It's one thing to have a squirrel threaten to jump on your face, but now they were lobbing sticks at me from well-hidden sniper nests. They even attacked an innocent banana tree, which was living peacefully in our yard. The assailants dug up the plant, threw it on the ground, and left him for dead. Happily, after a difficult four months, the little plant made a stunning recovery from its injuries. In what some in horticultural circles called a "miracle grow," the tree came back to full health, and since then, has even surpassed some of its neighbors.
When asked how he was coping with the attack by the (still unnamed) assailants, the banana tree responded, "Even though the search for the dirtball who attacked me has been fruitless; I have strong roots in this community, and would be nuts to leave."
All this was bad – very bad – but the worst was yet to come. I was about to experience a coordinated attack by a combination of ground-based, tree-based, AND paratrooper forces. It’s been over a year since this happened to me, but I was too shaken to discuss it…until now. Here's how it all went down:
I was sitting on our front porch, minding my own business. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I had no reason to suspect any kind of nefarious rodent activity. At some random moment, I happened to glance to my left – just in time to catch my enemy making a sniper-like approach from the far end of the porch.
He froze...I froze.
He knew he'd been discovered; so, of course, he tried to play it casual. He swaggered right up to me, and passed by as if I wasn't even there. He took a left turn and ducked under the front bush. Next thing I know, he’s wandering out into the yard as if he were just an innocent civilian. But I wasn't buying into his lame little foraging ruse. Still, I wasn't prepared to make an aggressive move at this point. I allowed the would-be assassin to make his escape.
This incident, while disturbing, was not the first of its kind. I'd been stalked in that spot before. Each time, a clumsy claw on concrete, an involuntary tail twitch, or inadvertent nibble foiled the plot. But this time, it bothered me enough that I decided to relocate to the safety of the backyard. It was just what they were hoping I'd do. I rolled right into their furry trap.
I strolled down the driveway to the parking pad that covers most of our backyard. At the far edge of the parking pad is a small grassy knoll. There, a small stretch of grass leads quickly into the wooded area separating us from the next street. In this grassy area, we have a garden box situated on the left side. At that time, the garden box was enclosed with a Fort Knox of chicken wire to keep out deer, raccoons and, of course, squirrels. From the box, grew a long and winding tangle of pumpkin vines about a mile long – containing one tiny pre-pumpkin. To the left rear of the garden box, a tool shed sits precariously propped up against a tree, hoping not to slide any further down the hill into the next yard.
Well, as I said, I strolled down and situated myself near the garden box and its wandering little pumpkin patch. The tree line was no more than four feet away, across the grass and vines. The trees formed a canopy that loomed over my head, more than 30 feet above.
As I sat there, I suddenly became aware of a gentle rain of some sort of fine debris: it was such a curious site. What could this sawdust-like material be falling from? Before I had the chance to ponder the question another second, a cacophony of tree rustling, twig snapping, and some sort of high-pitched yelling of unperceivable commands exploded from above. I had no clue what was happening. Then – with no warning – it happened...
BLAM!!
Right in front of my feet, a bomb of some sort crashed into the middle of the pumpkin vines with a tremendous thud! It was a sound, which I can only describe as a catcher receiving a 90 M.P.H. fastball. It had fallen more than 30 feet from the walnut tree over my head, and landed inches away from killing me!
A flash of gray shot out from the impact crater. In the blink of an eye, the squirrel scurried to the safety of the woods. Realizing the incredible event I'd just witnessed, I decided to examine the area more closely. As I peered carefully into the vines, I saw another small, gray body lying motionless on the ground. He blinked; I flinched. He moved one paw…and then another. Slowly, the stunned para-rodent gathered his wits and staggered off into the woods. He sat there for a moment, falsely believing he was out of my sight. After some recuperation time, he gingerly climbed a tree and collapsed like a throw rug.
At that moment, just for a second, I actually felt bad for the little booger. He obviously had been on the bottom of a failed tandem jump, and had taken the worst of it. I almost felt like The Grinch, with my tiny heart starting to grow and warm by the second...until...
I suddenly became aware that I was, at that moment, surrounded by enemy rodents. This was obviously their landing force. There were two in the trees above – one in a nearby tree – the original two, still on/near the ground – and one stationed atop the tool shed. I wasn't about to let them take me. So, taking advantage of their apparent concern for a wounded comrade, I beat a hasty retreat to the safety of a nearby potted banana plant.
The attack was over; however, it will go down in history as one of the best conceived, albeit poorly executed, operations in all of yard rat history. It was a very narrow escape for yours truly. Had those paratrooper squirrels not failed to account properly for windage, they would’ve easily taken me out. Let’s just say they were aiming for something a lot more soft and squishy than a pumpkin patch – my head.
If this story had come from anyone else, you'd probably think I made it up. But, outside of some “creative interpretation,” I swear it's all true. You know if you get on Google right now and research the chance of being hit by both a meteorite and lightning simultaneously, I bet you'll find that the odds are about twice that of being aerially bombarded by Siamese squirrels.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Kidney Beings
I had planned to post another episode in my “Yard Wars” series this week, but then I went to get a haircut yesterday, and I need to talk about what happened there. We’ll do the Yard Wars thing next week – provided, nothing more worthy comes to mind this week.
Yesterday, my dad, uncle, and I made our monthly visit to Rick Weinel’s barbershop in Newport. Rick is an old fashion barber with an old fashion shop. Going there is always fun, as Rick is a master at deadpan humor. He’ll launch into the news of the day, or an intriguing story, and you’ll never know, until it hits you, that the whole thing was an elaborate set-up for a joke. Rick’s only failing is that he tends to forget to whom he told which joke, so you sometimes have to sit through a repeat…or two. Somehow, they’re just as funny, because you get to observe the master working his craft.
We filed into Rick’s little shop and dutifully lined up in the wooden chairs, stained a deep mahogany, which line up along the right wall of the shop. The chairs are interrupted only by a space where a vent belches freezing cold air in the summer and scorching heat in the winter. Well, I can’t make use of one of the comfy chairs, so guess where I get to sit. I’d just as soon sit in the yellow racecar-chair, where he cuts the hair of pint-sized NASCAR champions.
This day was a little unusual. For one thing, the place was unusually empty, save for one young man and a boy of about 10 years, who was getting something of a burr haircut. It’s the first time I’d ever seen a kid in there. Usually, it’s nothing but old geezers…and me.
We greeted Rick, and exchanged some brief pleasantries with the man, who was standing (supervising, I suppose) in front of the boy, seated in the barber’s chair. The man was chatting with Rick, but I was focusing in on a particularly intriguing headline on a Popular Mechanics magazine cover, and had no idea what they were saying. Then, I caught a word that immediately brought me into their conversation.
The word was, “dialysis.”
Without any provocation or questions from the assembled, the man began relating his story. He explained that he was missing his normal treatment time that day, and would have to make it up the next day. For the past two years, he has reported to a dialysis center, and sat for hours while connected to a machine that cleans his blood.
Having been on dialysis for a short time myself, I couldn’t help but engage him on our common experience. At the same time, I felt completely unworthy to pass myself as any sort of peer to this unfortunate fellow. My experience, although terrible, spanned only a blessedly short few months. Nevertheless, we shared some common misery. I was astonished to hear how he had put up with it for these past two years.
He showed me a long device that was implanted under one arm. They used this port to attach the dialysis tubing, and it was huge! It looked like a row of size C batteries. I felt ashamed that I had ever complained so much about my own little port, and the chaos that ensued from my deciding it no longer pleased me. Here was someone living with a flashlight in his armpit, and not complaining a bit.
The man went on to tell us that, not only was he in kidney failure, but his brother had been in the same boat for four years, and his sister was on dialysis as well. One of his nieces was just diagnosed. I could see the boy looking at him with troubled eyes that sank to the floor as he reeled off the list of stricken family members. The boy, he said, was not affected — yet. I know it seems inappropriate for him to bring this up in front of his child, but they both seemed quite accepting of the situation. This is their reality. It is what it is. They were both very upbeat and determined, but you could tell that the man was trying to present a strong front. Maybe it was for his son’s benefit — maybe for his own.
We went on talking about how awful dialysis treatments are. As treatments begin, his blood pressure skyrockets, but before it’s over, his pressure drops out the bottom. The treatments make him chilled, sick, tired, weak, and miserable. It doesn’t get much better in the short interval between visits. And he has to go through this on Monday…then Wednesday…and then again on Friday. He has been doing this crap for two years: are you freaking kidding me? I did it for a couple months, and almost didn’t survive it a few times. Then I spent the time in between treatments wishing I hadn’t survived. How do you do this for years?
The man’s only hope is a kidney transplant, and he hopes to get on the transplant list after some upcoming tests. His brother has been on the list for years, with no luck. See, these guys have a blood type of A-negative. It’s rare, and limits the pool of potential donors. They’ve had some donation offers, but the donors all turned out to be incompatible.
Now seated in the chair, he proudly pronounced his determination to live into his 50’s. He’s in his 30’s now. At that, the room fell silent for a moment; Rick stopped cutting and stood motionless. To break the icy stillness, I jumped in and semi-cheerfully stated that he was “going to get that kidney this year and not have to worry about all that anymore.”
Soon, the man’s haircut was finished. He and his boy walked off into their tenuous future. They left me feeling thankful for deliverance from my own dialysis hell, yet frustrated that I couldn’t solve their crisis. I’ll never know what happens to the man we met yesterday, and that is frustrating. I hope and pray that he finds a donor…or even better, a cure. Moments like this make it so clear that your life, no matter how screwed up, could always be worse. There will always be someone out there, worse off than you. Just be thankful for every new day.
I could never offer to give that man a kidney, since I have only one, and it’s pretty much “damaged goods” anyway. But maybe I can help in a tiny way by encouraging all my friends and blog fans to join me in becoming potential organ donors. It’s easy to do: just sign the back of your driver’s license, or carry a donor card. And notify your family too. It’s amazing how many different body components doctors can use to help other people: organs, bone, corneas, skin, veins, valves, tendons and more. I have bone in my spine right now, which was the gift of someone who signed his or her donor card.
Offering to become a live kidney donor is a big commitment, but an even greater honor. It’s not exactly easy, but it isn’t terrible either, from what I’ve heard. And living without one kidney is not too much of a problem, as the remaining one will compensate for the loss. You will be someone’s real life hero. Look into it and get answers to your questions at this site: http://organdonor.gov/. Donating blood is another way we can help others. It’s almost painless…and you get some semi-tasty orange juice out of the deal.
Look at it this way: Signing your license doesn’t increase your chance of dying, but it does increase the chance of someone else living.
Yesterday, my dad, uncle, and I made our monthly visit to Rick Weinel’s barbershop in Newport. Rick is an old fashion barber with an old fashion shop. Going there is always fun, as Rick is a master at deadpan humor. He’ll launch into the news of the day, or an intriguing story, and you’ll never know, until it hits you, that the whole thing was an elaborate set-up for a joke. Rick’s only failing is that he tends to forget to whom he told which joke, so you sometimes have to sit through a repeat…or two. Somehow, they’re just as funny, because you get to observe the master working his craft.
We filed into Rick’s little shop and dutifully lined up in the wooden chairs, stained a deep mahogany, which line up along the right wall of the shop. The chairs are interrupted only by a space where a vent belches freezing cold air in the summer and scorching heat in the winter. Well, I can’t make use of one of the comfy chairs, so guess where I get to sit. I’d just as soon sit in the yellow racecar-chair, where he cuts the hair of pint-sized NASCAR champions.
This day was a little unusual. For one thing, the place was unusually empty, save for one young man and a boy of about 10 years, who was getting something of a burr haircut. It’s the first time I’d ever seen a kid in there. Usually, it’s nothing but old geezers…and me.
We greeted Rick, and exchanged some brief pleasantries with the man, who was standing (supervising, I suppose) in front of the boy, seated in the barber’s chair. The man was chatting with Rick, but I was focusing in on a particularly intriguing headline on a Popular Mechanics magazine cover, and had no idea what they were saying. Then, I caught a word that immediately brought me into their conversation.
The word was, “dialysis.”
Without any provocation or questions from the assembled, the man began relating his story. He explained that he was missing his normal treatment time that day, and would have to make it up the next day. For the past two years, he has reported to a dialysis center, and sat for hours while connected to a machine that cleans his blood.
Having been on dialysis for a short time myself, I couldn’t help but engage him on our common experience. At the same time, I felt completely unworthy to pass myself as any sort of peer to this unfortunate fellow. My experience, although terrible, spanned only a blessedly short few months. Nevertheless, we shared some common misery. I was astonished to hear how he had put up with it for these past two years.
He showed me a long device that was implanted under one arm. They used this port to attach the dialysis tubing, and it was huge! It looked like a row of size C batteries. I felt ashamed that I had ever complained so much about my own little port, and the chaos that ensued from my deciding it no longer pleased me. Here was someone living with a flashlight in his armpit, and not complaining a bit.
The man went on to tell us that, not only was he in kidney failure, but his brother had been in the same boat for four years, and his sister was on dialysis as well. One of his nieces was just diagnosed. I could see the boy looking at him with troubled eyes that sank to the floor as he reeled off the list of stricken family members. The boy, he said, was not affected — yet. I know it seems inappropriate for him to bring this up in front of his child, but they both seemed quite accepting of the situation. This is their reality. It is what it is. They were both very upbeat and determined, but you could tell that the man was trying to present a strong front. Maybe it was for his son’s benefit — maybe for his own.
We went on talking about how awful dialysis treatments are. As treatments begin, his blood pressure skyrockets, but before it’s over, his pressure drops out the bottom. The treatments make him chilled, sick, tired, weak, and miserable. It doesn’t get much better in the short interval between visits. And he has to go through this on Monday…then Wednesday…and then again on Friday. He has been doing this crap for two years: are you freaking kidding me? I did it for a couple months, and almost didn’t survive it a few times. Then I spent the time in between treatments wishing I hadn’t survived. How do you do this for years?
The man’s only hope is a kidney transplant, and he hopes to get on the transplant list after some upcoming tests. His brother has been on the list for years, with no luck. See, these guys have a blood type of A-negative. It’s rare, and limits the pool of potential donors. They’ve had some donation offers, but the donors all turned out to be incompatible.
Now seated in the chair, he proudly pronounced his determination to live into his 50’s. He’s in his 30’s now. At that, the room fell silent for a moment; Rick stopped cutting and stood motionless. To break the icy stillness, I jumped in and semi-cheerfully stated that he was “going to get that kidney this year and not have to worry about all that anymore.”
Soon, the man’s haircut was finished. He and his boy walked off into their tenuous future. They left me feeling thankful for deliverance from my own dialysis hell, yet frustrated that I couldn’t solve their crisis. I’ll never know what happens to the man we met yesterday, and that is frustrating. I hope and pray that he finds a donor…or even better, a cure. Moments like this make it so clear that your life, no matter how screwed up, could always be worse. There will always be someone out there, worse off than you. Just be thankful for every new day.
I could never offer to give that man a kidney, since I have only one, and it’s pretty much “damaged goods” anyway. But maybe I can help in a tiny way by encouraging all my friends and blog fans to join me in becoming potential organ donors. It’s easy to do: just sign the back of your driver’s license, or carry a donor card. And notify your family too. It’s amazing how many different body components doctors can use to help other people: organs, bone, corneas, skin, veins, valves, tendons and more. I have bone in my spine right now, which was the gift of someone who signed his or her donor card.
Offering to become a live kidney donor is a big commitment, but an even greater honor. It’s not exactly easy, but it isn’t terrible either, from what I’ve heard. And living without one kidney is not too much of a problem, as the remaining one will compensate for the loss. You will be someone’s real life hero. Look into it and get answers to your questions at this site: http://organdonor.gov/. Donating blood is another way we can help others. It’s almost painless…and you get some semi-tasty orange juice out of the deal.
Look at it this way: Signing your license doesn’t increase your chance of dying, but it does increase the chance of someone else living.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Yard Wars: Deleted Scenes
Okay, so I wander out back onto the deck...guess you can see this coming.
Went out there with the dog, one fall morning in 2008, to get some fresh air and enjoy the exceptionally warm weather we were having that November. I happened to glance up into a walnut tree that stands in the middle of the little forest that marks the end of our backyard. Up on a broken off branch, sat a little squirrel. About a foot behind that little tree rat was yet another. Nothing too odd about that; our trees are always filled with the little nibble-heads.
Without provocation, the latter squirrel approaches the first. They make contact, exchange words, and I prepare myself for what looked as if it would be an epic battle...or even a chase! You know I don’t like the little boogers, but I will concede that their daredevil jumps at high speed can be first-rate entertainment. Instead of fighting, the squirrel in back reaches up, grabs a hold of, and starts doing something strange to, the front squirrel. Now, I'm no zoologist, but I can say, with relative certainty that these two were not…umm…"fighting." Nope, that was not fighting right there.
What is this world coming to? You wander out into your own yard, expecting a relaxing moment of communing with nature...and instead you're exposed to blatant and shameless rodent sex! My poor dog, Casey was clearly traumatized by the whole incident, and I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to explain it to her. She’s been fixed, and knows nothing of such things. Honestly, I wasn’t all that comfortable with it myself — and I haven’t been fixed.
After the disturbing display finally ended, the squirrel that initiated the encounter casually gathered his nuts, and wandered off as if nothing had ever happened — leaving his girl hanging out on a limb. This is so typical of these irresponsible creatures. You know, he probably didn’t even call her in the morning.
I can't be sure, but I would almost swear that a few little puffs of smoke drifted up from a nearby branch.
Went out there with the dog, one fall morning in 2008, to get some fresh air and enjoy the exceptionally warm weather we were having that November. I happened to glance up into a walnut tree that stands in the middle of the little forest that marks the end of our backyard. Up on a broken off branch, sat a little squirrel. About a foot behind that little tree rat was yet another. Nothing too odd about that; our trees are always filled with the little nibble-heads.
Without provocation, the latter squirrel approaches the first. They make contact, exchange words, and I prepare myself for what looked as if it would be an epic battle...or even a chase! You know I don’t like the little boogers, but I will concede that their daredevil jumps at high speed can be first-rate entertainment. Instead of fighting, the squirrel in back reaches up, grabs a hold of, and starts doing something strange to, the front squirrel. Now, I'm no zoologist, but I can say, with relative certainty that these two were not…umm…"fighting." Nope, that was not fighting right there.
What is this world coming to? You wander out into your own yard, expecting a relaxing moment of communing with nature...and instead you're exposed to blatant and shameless rodent sex! My poor dog, Casey was clearly traumatized by the whole incident, and I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to explain it to her. She’s been fixed, and knows nothing of such things. Honestly, I wasn’t all that comfortable with it myself — and I haven’t been fixed.
After the disturbing display finally ended, the squirrel that initiated the encounter casually gathered his nuts, and wandered off as if nothing had ever happened — leaving his girl hanging out on a limb. This is so typical of these irresponsible creatures. You know, he probably didn’t even call her in the morning.
I can't be sure, but I would almost swear that a few little puffs of smoke drifted up from a nearby branch.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Health Care-less
This week, I want to return to a serious topic. I want to talk about…
…healthcare.
Okay, for those of you still here, I’d like to talk about something very frustrating that I learned about one of our local doctors the other day. It’s just another bit of evidence that an over-inflated bureaucracy does nothing but get in the way of its true purpose and stated goals.
This doctor uses innovative and somewhat non-traditional techniques in treating her patients. These people often have long-term illnesses and/or conditions. So the care they need, while aimed toward cure, is focused on daily life issues. It’s about making their life “today” better — while still working toward the possibility of cure, tomorrow.
The doctor does not ignore, in any way, the concept of ultimate cure. However, she understands better than most doctors, that the patient has to live in the real world. They need treatment that will help them live a decent life with their condition, as they strive toward ridding themselves of it. This “palliative” care is a concept that many doctors brush aside. This physician, however, listens to her patients, and becomes familiar with their day-to-day needs, desires, and goals. She takes the time to learn how her patient lives, and does all she can to enhance their quality of life.
Many of her patients have life-long issues, such as diabetes, amputation and various other disabilities. Treating these patients ( who often have chronic and persistent wounds), requires a pragmatic approach, which focuses not so much on ridding them of their malady, as it does helping them to live with it. This is her mission, and I can tell you without reservation, that she does it well, and her methods work!
The government, on the other hand: Well, they’re not so sure.
The good folks at the bureaucratic red-tape capitol of the universe, which we lovingly call “Medicare” have been hassling this good doctor, and refusing to pay her for her work. They’ve been drowning her in pointless paperwork, and generally giving her a hard time. Apparently, they feel bad that she’s been helping her patients to feel good. According to their various computers, data sheets and policy books, “feeling good” is not a billable service. I guess they don't consider quality of life to be durable medical equipment. It’s okay to try to cure your patient, but if you try to make their life a little more pleasant in the “now” —well, they just can’t cover that.
The pencil pushers claim her treatment methods are unproven, and unapproved. Yet they, in fact, are approved for other circumstances. And the scientific evidence clearly shows that the methods are also beneficial when used in the way she's using them. Her patients are a clear testament to the fact that they do work.
But Medicare can’t put a code on comfort, fill a spreadsheet with security, or pigeonhole peace of mind. So they shake their little fingers and turn up their noses. They can’t see past the end of their desks, nor do they even want to try. Thinking outside of the box is not in the Federal Register. So anything that comes along that shakes up their confined, mundane world is immediately dismissed and, if necessary, dispatched at all cost.
I won’t pretend to have any answer for this; but it seems like they could work the human condition into the equation somehow. Some value could be placed on living a good life — not just a long one. I understand that the government, and the taxpayers are averse to wasting money, and that’s as it should be. However, is it wasteful to provide comfort, dignity, and security to our neighbors for whom our tax dollars are meant to help? Is it unwise to ignore alternative methods, which might just help people? Is it good policy to let people suffer, simply because you can’t completely cure them within the confines of some arbitrary timeline? In the end, aren’t the increased costs of treating patients for complications, avoidable accidents, and illnesses brought on by years of misery, going to cost the taxpayers even more?
The folks at Medicare should sneak away from their paper cages and venture out into the real world. They should make an investment in finding out what really works well, and what people really need. I won’t begin to dive into the murky waters of the healthcare reform debate. But it just scares the hell out of me to think that the system may soon become even more bureaucratic, with exponentially more decision-making power given over to policy wonks and number crunchers. I don’t want my quality of life determined by some guy who flunked out of MIT because his solar robot exploded.
Next week: Another episode of “Yard Wars!”
…healthcare.
Okay, for those of you still here, I’d like to talk about something very frustrating that I learned about one of our local doctors the other day. It’s just another bit of evidence that an over-inflated bureaucracy does nothing but get in the way of its true purpose and stated goals.
This doctor uses innovative and somewhat non-traditional techniques in treating her patients. These people often have long-term illnesses and/or conditions. So the care they need, while aimed toward cure, is focused on daily life issues. It’s about making their life “today” better — while still working toward the possibility of cure, tomorrow.
The doctor does not ignore, in any way, the concept of ultimate cure. However, she understands better than most doctors, that the patient has to live in the real world. They need treatment that will help them live a decent life with their condition, as they strive toward ridding themselves of it. This “palliative” care is a concept that many doctors brush aside. This physician, however, listens to her patients, and becomes familiar with their day-to-day needs, desires, and goals. She takes the time to learn how her patient lives, and does all she can to enhance their quality of life.
Many of her patients have life-long issues, such as diabetes, amputation and various other disabilities. Treating these patients ( who often have chronic and persistent wounds), requires a pragmatic approach, which focuses not so much on ridding them of their malady, as it does helping them to live with it. This is her mission, and I can tell you without reservation, that she does it well, and her methods work!
The government, on the other hand: Well, they’re not so sure.
The good folks at the bureaucratic red-tape capitol of the universe, which we lovingly call “Medicare” have been hassling this good doctor, and refusing to pay her for her work. They’ve been drowning her in pointless paperwork, and generally giving her a hard time. Apparently, they feel bad that she’s been helping her patients to feel good. According to their various computers, data sheets and policy books, “feeling good” is not a billable service. I guess they don't consider quality of life to be durable medical equipment. It’s okay to try to cure your patient, but if you try to make their life a little more pleasant in the “now” —well, they just can’t cover that.
The pencil pushers claim her treatment methods are unproven, and unapproved. Yet they, in fact, are approved for other circumstances. And the scientific evidence clearly shows that the methods are also beneficial when used in the way she's using them. Her patients are a clear testament to the fact that they do work.
But Medicare can’t put a code on comfort, fill a spreadsheet with security, or pigeonhole peace of mind. So they shake their little fingers and turn up their noses. They can’t see past the end of their desks, nor do they even want to try. Thinking outside of the box is not in the Federal Register. So anything that comes along that shakes up their confined, mundane world is immediately dismissed and, if necessary, dispatched at all cost.
I won’t pretend to have any answer for this; but it seems like they could work the human condition into the equation somehow. Some value could be placed on living a good life — not just a long one. I understand that the government, and the taxpayers are averse to wasting money, and that’s as it should be. However, is it wasteful to provide comfort, dignity, and security to our neighbors for whom our tax dollars are meant to help? Is it unwise to ignore alternative methods, which might just help people? Is it good policy to let people suffer, simply because you can’t completely cure them within the confines of some arbitrary timeline? In the end, aren’t the increased costs of treating patients for complications, avoidable accidents, and illnesses brought on by years of misery, going to cost the taxpayers even more?
The folks at Medicare should sneak away from their paper cages and venture out into the real world. They should make an investment in finding out what really works well, and what people really need. I won’t begin to dive into the murky waters of the healthcare reform debate. But it just scares the hell out of me to think that the system may soon become even more bureaucratic, with exponentially more decision-making power given over to policy wonks and number crunchers. I don’t want my quality of life determined by some guy who flunked out of MIT because his solar robot exploded.
Next week: Another episode of “Yard Wars!”
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Yard Wars: The Acorn Strikes Back
Believe it or not — and you probably won't — it happened to me again. Less than a year after the frightening encounter that I discussed last week, I lived through yet another run-in with terroristic yard vermin. Here is my side of the story:
One July morning in 2008, as is my routine, I wandered out to our back deck, seeking a peaceful moment of alone time. The scorching sun was burning through its blanket of fog…but having no luck in clearing the fog from my brain. While I was sitting there, half asleep still, my eye caught a glimpse of movement to my left. It was…
…a squirrel.
He was sneaking down out of the tree, and onto the deck railing. At first, he approached slowly. But as soon as he saw me watching, he bounded wildly over from the side rail to the front rail — completely bypassing the more traditional route over the wooden gate leading to the back steps. This provocative gesture was clearly meant to intimidate.
Next thing I know, he’s no more than five feet away from me. At this distance, I was an easy target. Suddenly realizing the absurdity of the situation (and that it was happening again), I started to laugh nervously. My sudden lack of fear apparently threw the squirrel off his game, and he scampered back to the safety of the tree. But it wasn't over…oh, not even close!
Next thing I know, he's climbing across the wall of the house. He approached from my extreme left, clinging to the bricks like Spider-Man®. I think he was going for the wooden trellis I was sitting under, in hopes of an overhead, “banzai-style” attack. But I spied him, and quickly foiled his scheme.
Back to the tree, my furry foe scurried.
Moments later, it was déjà vu all over again. This guy was completely obsessed! He charged along the rail again, bounding wildly over the lamps, which were affixed to each deck post. He was trying to intimidate me with his jumping prowess. He landed, once again, right in front of me.
Thus began, a stare down.
I stare at him...he stares at me. It was like the YouTube video, “Dramatic Chipmunk.” Although in this case, I was playing more the role of the chipmunk than he was.
Suddenly, he made some very suggestive bounding motions, as if to indicate that he was fully prepared to employ his finishing move. At that point, I honestly thought he was going to jump right on my head. And you know, I'm thinking that wouldn't have been a particularly titillating encounter for either party. He likely would have found himself catapulted a considerable distance, before landing on the unforgiving concrete far below; and I would be on my way to the hospital...with squirrel rabies.
Can you imagine how hard it would be for me to get a date in that situation? I mean, if you've got bad breath — poor grooming — even a grating personality — you still got a chance with the ladies. But just once, mention that, “oh by the way,” you happen to have squirrel rabies. Well, that’s going to be a deal-breaker with most women.
Our grand standoff ended when the squirrel turned-tail and ran in a blind panic toward safety. Okay…okay. Actually, that was the human. But the commotion of my clumsy retreat scared the little booger enough to send him scurrying back to his lair.
Another frightening squirrel encounter had come and gone without casualties. But these near misses could only go on so long before something terrible happened. This constant ramping up of tensions would soon lead to collateral damage, casualties, and a coordinated ambush that would defy all previous biological theory on rodent aggression.
Stay tuned.
One July morning in 2008, as is my routine, I wandered out to our back deck, seeking a peaceful moment of alone time. The scorching sun was burning through its blanket of fog…but having no luck in clearing the fog from my brain. While I was sitting there, half asleep still, my eye caught a glimpse of movement to my left. It was…
…a squirrel.
He was sneaking down out of the tree, and onto the deck railing. At first, he approached slowly. But as soon as he saw me watching, he bounded wildly over from the side rail to the front rail — completely bypassing the more traditional route over the wooden gate leading to the back steps. This provocative gesture was clearly meant to intimidate.
Next thing I know, he’s no more than five feet away from me. At this distance, I was an easy target. Suddenly realizing the absurdity of the situation (and that it was happening again), I started to laugh nervously. My sudden lack of fear apparently threw the squirrel off his game, and he scampered back to the safety of the tree. But it wasn't over…oh, not even close!
Next thing I know, he's climbing across the wall of the house. He approached from my extreme left, clinging to the bricks like Spider-Man®. I think he was going for the wooden trellis I was sitting under, in hopes of an overhead, “banzai-style” attack. But I spied him, and quickly foiled his scheme.
Back to the tree, my furry foe scurried.
Moments later, it was déjà vu all over again. This guy was completely obsessed! He charged along the rail again, bounding wildly over the lamps, which were affixed to each deck post. He was trying to intimidate me with his jumping prowess. He landed, once again, right in front of me.
Thus began, a stare down.
I stare at him...he stares at me. It was like the YouTube video, “Dramatic Chipmunk.” Although in this case, I was playing more the role of the chipmunk than he was.
Suddenly, he made some very suggestive bounding motions, as if to indicate that he was fully prepared to employ his finishing move. At that point, I honestly thought he was going to jump right on my head. And you know, I'm thinking that wouldn't have been a particularly titillating encounter for either party. He likely would have found himself catapulted a considerable distance, before landing on the unforgiving concrete far below; and I would be on my way to the hospital...with squirrel rabies.
Can you imagine how hard it would be for me to get a date in that situation? I mean, if you've got bad breath — poor grooming — even a grating personality — you still got a chance with the ladies. But just once, mention that, “oh by the way,” you happen to have squirrel rabies. Well, that’s going to be a deal-breaker with most women.
Our grand standoff ended when the squirrel turned-tail and ran in a blind panic toward safety. Okay…okay. Actually, that was the human. But the commotion of my clumsy retreat scared the little booger enough to send him scurrying back to his lair.
Another frightening squirrel encounter had come and gone without casualties. But these near misses could only go on so long before something terrible happened. This constant ramping up of tensions would soon lead to collateral damage, casualties, and a coordinated ambush that would defy all previous biological theory on rodent aggression.
Stay tuned.
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