I went to med school the other day. In Dr. Collard's office I studied the HAND poster - which came in really handy when Dr. Collard came in and diagnosed carpal tunnel syndrome.
So I am wearing a brace for 2 months and then most likely scheduling surgery on my left hand.
Not to worry, Dr. Collard says, "the surgery takes 10 to 20 minutes" and "nothing can go wrong."
He didn't really say that last part.
I posted this (below) to the NextDoor website yesterday. It has generated 44 comments so far, ranging from "Oh God, that's horrible!" to "Hey, doesn't look that bad to me - what were you expecting, crystal clear water?"
Pretty much my whole life people have told me how good the water is around here – the stuff that Missouri American Water is pumping into our homes. And if you ask MoAm how good the water is, they have a mountain of data to show how good it is.
But in 2017 I installed a filter on the water line coming in. The replaceable cartridge was snow-white, and quite brown in October 2018 when I replaced it with another snow-white cartridge. Then last week I replaced it again, but I took a photo of it before replacement, and it was again quite brown after serving my needs for about 2-1/2 years.
This time I captured the sediment that was left in the bottom of the bowl when I took the filter cartridge out. After the water evaporated, I put the sediment in a teaspoon for another photo.
I gotta give MoAm a D on this one. Maybe an F, if I knew what was in that sediment. If I knew what brown stuff is embedded in the filter cartridge.
Came.
In broad daylight I walked into a store in Chicago and paid money in exchange for marijuana.
Ooops. Make that cannabis. Apparently marijuana is out of style and cannabis is in.
What's in a name? I don't know. But I know that the weed is powerful.
And legal. Well, in Illinois it is.
In Missouri, it's just powerful.
It's unlikely that I will ever be able to juggle bowling balls after smoking it.
Just about 45 years ago, some electrician buried the power lines that have supplied electricity to our house, which was then under construction. The underground conduit runs about 150 feet from a terminal box at the southeast corner of our lot, near the street, to the meter mounted on the west side of our house. Unlike overhead power lines, nothing goes wrong with the underground lines.
But then something did go wrong.
Three insulated cables are in the conduit. Call them A, B, and Ground. The voltage on A is 115 Volts as measure to the Ground. The voltage on B is 115 Volts. These A and B voltages are out of phase with one another, such that the voltage between A and B is 230 Volts. In the house, there are a bunch of 115 Volt circuits, some of which use A and some of which use B. And then there are a few 230 Volt circuits which connect to both A and B.
On April 8, we woke up to find that some of our lights and outlets were working and some were not. In the breaker box, I used my voltmeter to find that A had its full 115 Volts, but B had zero volts. The circuits fed by B were the dead ones.
Ameren Missouri supplies our power, and they have a pretty good system to report outages online. Within an hour, a guy called to say he was on the way but had to finish up some task nearby first. Another half-hour went by and a guy showed up with everything he would need to restore our power. He verified that the B cable was dead at the meter. He took the cover off the terminal box near the street to find that the B cable was very much alive there. Then he got a big coil of cable from his truck and connected one end to the terminal box and the other end to the meter box at the house. He ran the new cable across the driveway, through the grass.
Voila! We have power! And a big ugly cable running across the lawn.
Ameren will, at some point (couple of weeks from now?), send a crew out with an instrument capable of finding the break in Cable B, showing them where to dig. Dig they will. They will make quite a mess to uncover the bad spot in Cable B a couple or three feet down, make a repair, and then restore the lawn to some semblance of presentability.
Presumably, the cable now stretching across our lawn will go back in their truck for a future use.
Presumably, I will have some work to do to restore the lawn to the standard I have set, which is likely a bit higher than the one Ameren has set.
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Postscript: Ameren crew showed up, having given me no prior notification, to repair the buried cable on April 13. I was driving home from Chicago at the time, so I was not able to see what kind of problem they discovered when they dug. When I got home, they had obviously dug a hole about 18 inches square and restored the sod as best they could. The temporary cable was gone. Power was on in the house. All is well.
Several years ago I was blown away by Meat Loaf singing Star Spangled Banner at some sporting event. Just days ago I was blown away by Lady Gaga’s version at Joe Biden’s inauguration.
Last night I puked all over Brandon “Taz” Niedenauer’s version just before the kickoff at the AFC Championship game in Kansas City.
Over the years, I have heard some singers jazz it up, adding notes here and there, notes that make me think they are just showing off, stomping on a piece of music that is more or less sacred. There are something like 95 notes in the Lady Gaga version – she didn’t add any of her own. “Taz” probably played something like 3,000 notes, making it barely recognizable as our national anthem.
Some people apparently liked it. Detroit Sports Nation – whatever publication that might be – had this headline today:
Guitarist Brandon Niederauer absolutely rocks national anthem prior to AFC title game
Add this to the mounting evidence that I am just a grouchy old man telling young people to stay off my lawn.
The NFL doesn’t care what people my age like. They want young people to sign up, bow down, buy the jerseys. I get it. But I don’t like it.
On January 7 I went to the Des Peres Lodge, where I am a member, to do routine exercises. Normally, I leave my hearing aids at home so I can use earbuds connected to my iPhone while I exercise. But on that day I was wearing the hearing aids when I got to the Lodge. I took the hearing aids out and stowed them in the pocket of a jacket hanging on a hook near the track. I thought it was my jacket, but when I reached into my jacket pocket after exercising, the hearing aids were not there. I had put them in the pocket of someone else’s jacket, hanging next to mine and resembling my jacket’s style and color – and that jacket was gone when I went back to search for the missing hearing aids.
I asked the management at the Lodge to be on the lookout for misplaced hearing aids. Perhaps the person whose jacket I put the hearing aids in would discover them. And figure out they got pocketed at the Lodge. And return them to the Lodge. And the Lodge would notify me. All of these things happening made it a really long shot.
On January 15 a woman named Karen reached in her jacket pocket and found hearing aids, which was a total surprise to her. She racked her brain, and concluded that the only place she had left her jacket unattended was at the Lodge. She called the Lodge. The desk there called me, gave me Karen's number. I called Karen, she gave me her Chesterfield address, and 20 minutes later she handed the hearing aids to me. She refused a cash reward, saying she wasn't raised that way.
It is comforting to know that there are Karens in the world.
And yes, I know that some people use "Karen" as a derogatory term. I won't, that's for sure.
