26 November 2009

"And what rough beast, 
     its hour come round at last, 
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born."

   — W.B. Yeats

A friend recently told me that she was so involved with her work, time had completely fallen away, and she didn't even know what day it was. I laughingly replied that she ought to see if she could work out a deal with the moon to get some more epagomenal days.

When Nut was pregnant, her husband Geb refused to allow her to give birth on any day in the calendar. In her distress, she turned to Thoth, who devised a stratagem to assist her. He gambled against the moon, with the stake being a small fraction of light for each game won. Eventually, he'd managed to amass enough light for five more days. He gave the days that he'd won to Nut and in them she gave birth to Osiris, Isis, Nephthys, Seth, and Horus, five of the principal Egyptian gods.

My friend is an artist whose creativity and passion have the power to transform the lives of the people who it touches. She gives birth to a new world in her days unmarked by time. I just want to be around when the new deities come into being.

Excuse me. I'm out of time.

R.B.


12 November 2009

 No clever arrangement of bad eggs will make a good omelet.
     - C.S. Lewis

Like most people today, I'm cautious about how I spend my money. Discretionary spending is a thing of the past. I live frugally, and I carefully track my expenditures against my income. There are challenges at times--occasionally, things go wrong without warning--hard drives crash, roofs develop leaks, windows break, and auto parts can fail. That's just an unfortunate fact of life, and I have to do what I can to minimize the impact on my bank balance.

In May, I noted that my rear brakes were making unusual squealing and grinding noises. I figured I'd have to replace the brakes and calipers (I've been here before), so I dutifully made the rounds to several garages, franchises, and independent mechanics, asking for estimates on the repair. Two or three were happy to give me written estimates of between $700 to $900, telling me that if I could return with a lower estimate from somebody else, they'd match it. I was daunted, but kept looking.

I finally went to Cambridge Tire Center in Stoneham. Without telling them about the previous estimates, I asked what they would charge me to repair my rear brakes. The guy sitting at the service desk said, "A small car like yours? Rear brakes?" I added that the calipers would probably need replacing as well. He shook his head and said, "I've been in the business for 20 years. The calipers are probably just stuck and we don't need to replace them. These young guys always want to replace them because they don't want to be bothered trying to unstick them." After assuring me of his competence, he said, "We can probably do it for about $300, maybe $400, bucks, tops." Cocky, but I figured with experience comes confidence.

A real bargain, considering all the other estimates.

The next morning, I dropped the car off early. I was told I'd have it back by the end of the day. At noon, my phone rang. The call was from Cambridge Tire. The caller identified himself as "the manager," and said there was a change--the calipers really did need replacing, and the repair would cost between $850 and $900. He needed my authorization to continue.

I tried to stay calm. I told him, "I cannot afford it. Don't do the repair. I will come get my car within an hour." I told my spouse what happened. He was incredulous. He asked me how the cost could more than double in the space of a morning. I didn't know, but there was no way I'd let them do something I couldn't afford. I added that it felt like a classic "bait-and-switch," and because of this, I didn't trust them.

The phone rang a few minutes later. It was the manager at Cambridge Tire again. He told me he'd "thought about it," and that "we can work something out." He said that because the estimate had been so far off, he would repair the brakes and calipers for $700, plus tax. I said I'd be coming over to pick up my car. My husband, however, decided that this was a great compromise, and convinced me to call them back and authorize the work.

That evening, I shelled out $729.13 for what was supposed to be a $300-$400 repair. As I left, I promised myself I wouldn't ever go back there.

Less than four months later, my parking brake suddenly stopped working. My car has a 5-speed manual transmission. When I park, I put the car in neutral, and engage the brake. I've always done this; it's reflex. Now, the brake didn't do anything other than ratchet as I pulled it up. In Massachusetts, you can't pass the annual safety inspection if your parking brake doesn't hold the car.

Figuring this might be related to the previous repair, I took the car back to Cambridge Tire in Stoneham. I explained the problem, and "Mr. Cocky" at the service desk said he'd look at it while I waited. He said the cable probably just needed "adjusting," a simple enough fix. Half an hour later, he said the brake cable was "too stretched out" to be adjusted, and that they'd have to replace the whole cable. He said he'd order one for me and call me when it came in.

I waited three weeks before taking the car to a local mechanic a friend recommended to me. I explained my situation, and he put the car up on the lift. Within minutes, he had a diagnosis, and I had a clear understanding about the way the brakes actually work. The caliper on the right side didn't function at all. The one on the left side was sticking and intermittent. He said, "These calipers are defective. This should still be under warranty. Take it to the garage that did it, and have them replaced. Shouldn't be a big deal. If they don't know what's wrong, tell them to call me." I thanked him and left. I gritted my teeth and drove straight to Cambridge Tire, where I said I wanted them to replace the defective calipers. "Mr. Cocky" was nowhere in sight.

Yesterday was the brake re-repair. The service manager assured me my car would be ready before the day ended. At 5:00, the phone rang. My brakes were fixed, and they were working fine. Trouble was, during the test drive to make sure the brakes worked, the "passenger side CV axle shaft" snapped in two, the car was undrivable, and it "wasn't anything we did." The caller said, "If you come here, I can show it to you." I said I'd be right over.

I told my husband what happened. We both went to the garage.

The service manager walked us into the bay where my car was still on the lift. he showed us the broken axle shaft, which was about an inch or so in diameter, snapped cleanly in two. The exterior of the shaft was rusted and grimy, but the break was clean and shiny. He said that it had snapped due to "excessive rust that had thinned out the shaft."

Sure.

We told him we wanted to speak with the Cambridge Tire manager. He told us the manager would be in at 7:30 in the morning. We said we'd be back then.

Last night we spent a couple of hours researching CV axle shafts and their wear, tear, and failures. According to our research sources, the causes for CV axles to break this way are rare--too heavy a loading on the gear exchange (shifting from 4th gear to 1st, for example), hitting something (potholes or big objects), or metal fatigue (usually due to incorrectly fitted aftermarket parts). I'm a cautious driver, and hadn't hit any potholes, so I knew it couldn't be the first two causes. The third also seemed highly unlikely, as it was the original manufacturer's equipment, and I'd not had any unusual symptoms while driving before handing the car over to Cambridge Tire.

We arrived at the garage this morning to meet with the manager. We actually held hope that the manager would listen to reason, and understand our dissatisfaction with what had happened. I'd driven in with one problem, and a more serious one had developed while one of his employees drove my car.

Unfortunately, not only was Mr. Cocky sitting at the service desk, it turned out he'd been promoted--he is now the general manager of the place. I let my husband do all the talking. My husband--a retired nuclear physicist--spoke to Mr. Cocky about metal stress, and the unlikelihood of this being an event without a human cause. Mr. Cocky didn't want to hear it. He said, "I'm a mechanic. I know what I'm talking about."

Sure.

Eventually, Mr. Cocky told my husband that he'd "eat" the cost of the part, which he told us was $172, as a "customer satisfaction issue," but that we'd have to pay for the labor to make the repair. $115, plus tax. He said my car will be fixed by the end of day today.

Sure.

I don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of being held hostage by greedy, incompetent, and arrogant men who create more problems for me than they solve. There's no "customer satisfaction" in any of this. I'm going to ask for the broken part when we retrieve my car from these unmasked bandits.

Excuse me. I'm off to buy a Chilton's, find an expert witness, and hire a pitbull who has a Massachusetts attorney's license.

R.B.





















20 October 2009

A fool and his money are soon parted."
     - Thomas Tusser

I received a noteworthy email this morning. I offer it without comment, typos and grammar intact:

Dear Friend,
I am MR MAYO JARRAR the manager In charge at the bill and exchange department BANK OF AFRICA (B.O.A) In my department the bank management discovered an abandoned sum of $15m US dollars ( fifteen million US Dollars) . In an account that belongs to one of our foreign customer who died along with his entire family in year 2004 in a plane crash.
Since the got information about his death, the management have been expecting his next of kin to come over and claim his money because the cannot release it unless somebody applies for it as next of kin or relation to the deceased as indicated in our banking guide lines but unfortunately the learnt that all his supposed next of kin or relation died alongside with him at the plane crash leaving nobody behind for the behind as his next of kin.
It's therefore upon this discovery that I now as an insider decided to make this business proposal to you and let's join together as partners and claim the money from my bank to your own account as the next of kin or relation to the deceased for safety and subsequent disbursement since nobody is coming for it and I don’t want this money to go into the Bank treasury as unclaimed Bill with the plans of the bank managements.
The Banking law and guideline here stipulates that if such money remained unclaimed after five years, the money will be transferred into the Bank treasury’s as unclaimed fund. The request of foreigner as next of kin in this business is occasioned by the fact that the customer was a foreigner and a Burkinabe can not stand as next of kin to a foreigner as the rules and regulation of my bank.
I decided to make it that 30 % of this money will be for you as my foreign partner, in respect to the provision of a foreign account and assisting me , 10 % will be for any expenses both of us will make during the processing of this fund to you as the next of kin to my bank and 60 % will be for me and this 10% is for any expenses from your own side you make and from my own side I make during the processing of this fund to you as the next of kin , and when the fund is transfer to your account first of all we have to deduct the expenses we made from our pocket during the processing by my bank before shearing the fund according to the percentages I indicated here in my proposal .
Then after I will visit your country for disbursement according to the percentages indicated. Therefore to enable the immediate transfer of this fund to you as the next of kin, you must apply first to the bank as relations or next of kin to the deceased indicating your bank name, your bank account number, your private telephone and fax number for easy and effective communication and location where the money will be remitted when the processing will be over and approval of the fund to you as the next of kin . Upon receipt of your reply, I will send you by fax or email the text of the application.
I will not fail to bring to your notice that this transaction is hitch free and you should not fear as I have all the information related to the deceased customer also the fund deposited here in my bank . You should contact me immediately as soon as you receive this letter. Trusting to hear from you . Immediately you receive this letter call me for giving you information also send email to me. +226 78 87 63 72
THANKS
MR MAYO JARRAR
B.O.A (BANK OF AFRICA )



I've changed my mind. Here's my comment--anyone dumb enough to form a "partnership" with a person who identifies himself as a generic jar of mayonnaise (why didn't he at least call himself Cain or Hellman?) absolutely deserves what he or she gets. Which, of course, will be nothing, other than the harsh lesson eventually learned from the scam.

Besides, I have better things to do with my money.

Excuse me. I have to call my broker. He says he's got a hot tip about coal-mining companies on Jupiter.

R.B.

15 October 2009

Oft in the lone church yard at night I've seen,
By glimpse of moonshine chequering thro' the trees,
The school boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up
    - "The Grave" by Robert Blair

Here is a sampling of the headlines I faced when I went to Google News this morning. It's not for the faint of heart to read:

"Gunmen, Bombers Hit 4 Sites in Pakistan; 37 Die," "Stagnant Consumer Prices Prevent Social Security Benefit Increases," "'Miracle' Mom: Swine Flu Almost Killed Pregnant Woman," "Dad Released From Japanese Jail in Custody Fight," "US Stocks Drop After Goldman, Citigroup Results; Alcoa Falls," "Stagnant Consumer Prices Prevent Social Security Benefit Increases," "Allies Push Israel for Gaza Probe," "North Korea Warns of Possible Naval Clash With South," "Clinton Calls for Joint Missile-Defense System on Russia Trip," "Mom of Son Set on Fire: It's 'Disgusting'," "Fact Check: Health nsurers cherry-pick facts," "Health care: Public option gains traction," "Majority of Nobel jury 'objected to Obama prize'," "Hidden Costs of Medicare Advantage," "Missing laptop contains data on 800,000 doctors," "Corzine Can't Count on Open-Space Bonds for Environmentalists," "Unsafe abortions kill 70,000 a year, harm millions," "US Math Tests Find Scant Gains Across New York," "Model Claims Ralph Lauren Fired Her For Being Fat," "Harley-Davidson's Profit Plunges," "One (or two) years on - they have learnt nothing," "Marathon winner disqualified for wearing iPod," "Is Your Digestive System Making You Sick," and "Former Teacher's Aide to Change Plea in Child Rape Case."

Not very pretty, is it?

This is a snapshot of what's going on in the world, and in the course of any twenty-four hour period, it changes. The problem I have is that it never seems to get better, or less miserable. Seriously, with so many crises coming at me daily from every corner of the planet, battles over health care, education, economics, politics, privacy, ecology, religion, sex, and athletics, my stomach churns, and frequently I feel like weeping as I read these unending accounts of man's inhumanity. To everything, and everyone.

When I was much younger, I suffered from recurring nightmares in which nuclear bombs exploded, crazy-eyed and hatchet-wielding maniacs chased me through a neighborhood where all the doors were locked, and monsters waiting to devour me lurked in darkened rooms. It took years of hard work to banish those night terrors. I'm worried that if I continue to expose myself to the news, the nightmares will return with a vengeance.

I'm not now sure it's possible to read the news on a daily basis, and remain sane. I think it's time I declare a personal moratorium on horror, cruelty, and insanity. I stopped watching television news years ago, because I didn't want the awful images burned into my memory. Today, I will stop reading the internet news, for the exact same reason.

I know that evil exists, and I know the problems being reported are real. However, I also know that being fed this stuff on a daily basis is diminishing the quality of my life. After reading for ten minutes, I'm frequently sad, frightened, and anxious. The effects linger--they're like a bad smell that I can't escape. I want more control over what makes its way to the space between my ears.

And the coup de grĂ¢ce that cemented this decision for me? "No More Jon & Kate After November."

The horror. The horror.

Excuse me. I need to go wash out my eyes with soap.
R.B.







29 September 2009

“I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear 
better shoes.”
    - Oprah Winfrey

The publication in May 2009 of a relatively non-wavemaking medical study went largely unnoticed by major media outlets. The study, titled "Foot pain: Is current or past shoewear a factor?" was funded by the American College of Rheumatology Research and Education Foundation Abbott Health Professional Graduate Student Research Preceptorship, grants from the National Institute of Arthritis and Musculoskeletal and Skin Diseases and National Insititute on Aging, and another grant from the National Heart, Lung and Blood Institute's Framingham Heart Study. The eight study authors come from Boston University School of Public Health, the Institute for Aging Research, Hebrew SeniorLife, Harvard Medical School, and the Hospital for Special Surgery.

This bunch of geniuses decided that the best use of the available resources was to examine the condition of foot pain, relative to the type of shoewear worn. They selected a cross-section of 3,378 people from a local Massachusetts community. Each person in the study completed a foot examination between 2002 and 2008. The investigators asked, "On most days, do you have pain, aching or stiffness in either foot?" The responses they received from the subjects were duly measured and categorized, with each person being assigned as wearing "good," "average," or "poor" type shoes.

They adjusted the results for age and weight of the subject.

Lo and behold, they came to the conclusion that when compared with "average" shoes, women who wore "good" shoe types in the past were 67% less likely to report pain. They reported that there was no association between foot pain and shoes in men, "possibly" because fewer than 2% of men wore "bad" shoe types. It doesn't say in the abstract what the "good" or "bad" shoe types are, but it's a pretty good bet the "bad" ones are high heels (anything over an inch), ill-fitting shoes (pinch you or fall right off), or designed for species other than humans (trust me, I've seen these on Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue alike). According to the New York Times reportage, the average age of the women in the study was 66.

Well, d-u-u-hhhh.

They could have reached that same conclusion a whole lot faster and with a lot less expenditure of time and money, had they simply asked me. I'd have been happy to tell them that hell, yes, wearing foot coverings that are at least one full size too small in either direction, and then wobbling around in them for fifteen or twenty years on 3- or 4-inch stiletto spikes, would play havoc with foot bones, back bones, hip bones, knees, and ankles.

How could it not?

So why is this such hot news today, several months after the fact? Because Arthritis & Rheumatism plans to publish the study in the October issue of the journal, is why. I howled when I read the quote from Alyssa B. Dufour, the study's principal author.
    “I think women need to really pay attention to how a shoe fits, and realize that what you’re buying could have potential effects on your feet for the rest of your life,” said the paper’s lead author, Alyssa B. Dufour, a doctoral student in biostatistics at Boston University. “It’s important to pay attention to size and width, and not just buy it because it’s cute.”
Well, double-d-u-u-hhh.

I wonder exactly how much funding was necessary to draw this remarkable conclusion?

Excuse me. My Manolos and I have an appointment with my podiatrist.

R.B.



15 July 2009

Therefore Sarah laughed within herself, 
saying, After I am waxed old shall I have 
pleasure, my lord being old also?
   - Genesis 18:12

Where to begin? We begin today with an ending. With a death, and an obituary.

Maria del Carmen Bousada de Lara has died at the age of 69 years, in Cadiz, Andalusia, from cancer. Her death is noteworthy because of who she leaves behind. Her twin two-year-old sons, Christian and Pau, who were born as the result of in vitro fertilization a few days before their mother's 67th birthday.

In order to accomplish her goal of motherhood, Bousada, a single woman, was canny. She sold an apartment she owned to raise money for the IVF treatments. She lied to the fertility specialists, telling them that she was 55, rather than 65. Everybody apparently took her right at her word without bothering to ask for a birth certificate. She didn't let anyone in her family know what she was up to until a couple of months before the births.

Bousada shrugged off outrage and legitimate concerns, telling everyone that as her mother had lived to the ripe old age of 101, she might herself live as long, and see grandchildren.

Trouble was, the doctors who delivered the twins by caesarian section also discovered some tumors that later proved to be malignant. She was basically under a death sentence, from the day her sons were born. Now those children are completely dependent upon the family that didn't want them, and didn't understand or approve of their mother's actions.

I am not making this up.

Here are some other names and numbers for you: Omkari Panwar (70), Adriana Iliescu (66), Harriet Stole (66), Elizabeth Adeney (66), Satyabhama Mahapatra (65), Liz Buttle (64), Papathiammal Subramaniam (64), Arceli Keh (63), Patricia Rashbrook (62), Janise Wulf (62), Rosanna Della Corte (62), and Frieda Birnbaum (60).

The numbers are the women's ages when they gave birth. Do you think any of these women are laughing as they read the news about Bousada's death?

I'm not laughing. I'm thinking about the stupidity, greediness, and vanity of old women who think of nothing but their own selfish desires.

Excuse me. I need to call my broker. I'm considering divesting myself of my assisted living center stocks, and investing instead in orphanages.

R.B.









02 July 2009

"The ideal tyranny is that which is ignorantly 
self-administered by its victims. The most perfect 
slaves are, therefore, those which blissfully and 
unawaredly enslave themselves."
   - Dresden James

I recently had occasion to send an email that described some recent contacts I'd had with the medical community--primary care physician, specialists, surgeons, test technicians, and hospitals--an altogether harrowing series of exchanges that left me both anxious and exhausted. It occurred to me that I've had past experiences that generated those feelings in me. I recalled one in particular, however, that for a long time fueled my neurosis and paranoia. Everyone was out to get me. Lined up, in fact, for the chance to have a shot at me.

Dodgeball.

Did you ever play this game as a youngster?

It used to be very popular among physical education teachers when I was in grammar school. The teacher would gather everyone in the gym, pick two students (usually the best two, who were strong, athletically gifted, and possessed of an icy determination to win and a mean streak a mile wide), and then have them choose teams, one at a time. After, the teacher flipped a coin. The winners got to be the throwers in the center of the gym, the losers, the dodgers up against the wall.

There were dozens of heavy rubberized balls about the size of soccer balls, and when they struck you, they would sting on your bare flesh, bloody your nose, break your eyeglasses, jam your fingers, and generally mess you up. One at a time, each member of the throwers took aim and launched a ball at the wall. If it hit a dodger before bouncing, the dodger was out, and the thrower got to have another turn. If the thrower missed, the next thrower took a turn until missing, and so on, until one of two things happened: either all the dodgers were hit, which meant the throwers won, or if there was a dodger still standing against the wall unhit after all the throwers had a turn, then the dodgers won, and the teams reversed positions.

The teachers took a kind of sadistic glee in cheering on the throwers--"Harder! Put your shoulder into it! Aim for the mid-section! Aim for the head!"

We'd gone to the hospital at the appointed hour. After blood work, we took the elevator to the day surgery area. There was the usual fumble of paperwork, forms and questions that we've been asked dozens of times before. We endured the transformation from ordinary person to patient, via the relinquishing of rights to privacy and the open-backed johnny. Sea-change complete, we were ushered to a small, dimly lit room where we were asked to wait for the anesthesiologist, who would deliver us into the hands of the operating team. However, it was the surgeon who appeared. He informed us that all the operating rooms were still in use, everything behind schedule, and it looked as if there wouldn't be a free one until nearly 9:00 that night.

After some back and forth, we decided the operation wasn't going to happen. For one brief, crystal-clear moment, we forgot about being victims of the system, and took command of our situation. The surgeon didn't disagree with our conclusions, so we reversed our process, and left. Both of us were smiling by the time we reached the parking lot.

We're now investigating non-surgical, non-invasive remedies for the problem. There are a few, and we're going to explore them before entering that arena again.

Our backs were planted against the wall, the balls were hurled hard, and we are still standing.

Excuse me. I need to add my voice to Obama's cry for healthcare reform.

R.B.