Monthly Archives: September 2014

Can You Sell That?

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Mr. Obama says the country is doing better. I guess if he says it, it must be true.

“Can you sell that?” Steve Kroft asked on 60 Minutes.

Good question.

Mr. Obama says he doesn’t have to sell it because the data proves it.

Yeppers. Here’s the data:

  • Median household income fell again.
  • 46.5 million people now live in poverty.
  • Oh, yeah. And the national debt approaches $17.76 trillion.

Remember Little Mikey?

Mikey was the young boy in a television commercial for the breakfast cereal, Life. The popular commercial first aired in 1972 and stayed on the air for more than twelve years, ending up as one of the longest continuously running commercial campaigns ever aired.

Little Mikey would eat anything.

Quaker Oats ran the commercial to change kids’ perception that something they thought would be bad would taste good. Mikey liked it.

Let’s look at the data that proves we’re doing better.

Median household income fell again, but only slightly in a change the Census Bureau does not consider statistically significant.

Heh. I have a statistically insignificant smaller number of bucks in my wallet but everything I bought last week cost more than the week before. Yeppers, I’m doing better. The data proves it.

Of course, Mr. Obama’s federal government also says the US inflation rate is low, something anyone who has shopped for ground beef (up from to $1.99/pound six years ago to $4.79/pound today), or home heating oil ($2.21/gallon on January 16, 2009, $2.56 by that November, and $3.869/gallon today), chocolate chips (on sale at 99 cents in 2008 but $2.50 today), or a basic Internet connection (I paid !@#$%^Comcast $41.81/month for spotty Internet service six years ago and $61.14/month for it this month) might question. Could it be that the Consumer Price Index doesn’t track what real consumers “pay at the pump”?

46.5 million — that’s one out of every seven people in the USA — now live in poverty. That’s also the largest number in the 54 years the Census has measured poverty. (Worthy of note is the fact that the percentage of people in poverty has declined as the actual number has risen because the overall population has also climbed.) Yeppers, they’re doing better. The data proves it.

Oh, yeah. And the national debt to pay for social programs to eliminate poverty and other stuff is about $17.76 Trillion (the national debt stood at about $10.7 Trillion on this date in 2008). Yeppers, we’re all doing better. The data proves it.

There’s plenty more. The NYTimes reports today on ER costs skyrocketing in spite of Obamacare. The San Francisco Chronicle reports today that ATM fees keep climbing despite government banking watchdogs. The Chicago Tribune reports today that Americans are stepping up spending, but the home market is weakening, despite federal programs. Doing better.

The True Believers like it.

“Can you sell that?” Steve Kroft asked.

Of course he can. He can sell it to Mikey. Mikey will eat anything! The data proves it.

 

Voicemail

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A very nice surgical physician’s assistant grabbed the couple of cysts I had mentioned. Easy peasy. He mostly shaved my chest and numbed me up with a quick acting, long lasting ‘caine-based anesthetic. Made a couple of cuts. Popped the cyst sacs out intact. Dug around in the bigger one to pull out all the scar tissue and cauterized the grave. Pulled the tissue together so there wouldn’t be too much depression. And did two layers of stitches. There are about 15 stitches all together.

The whole procedure was absolutely painless. And the dermatology practice will bill for just one procedure including the initial consultation, the excision, and even the return visit to remove the 27 miles of stitches. As an aside, people who can tie stitches awe me. I’m good with fine handwork. I can tie up a dinghy or a destroyer. I have no trouble with a reef knot. I have never mastered the surgeon’s knot in 4-0 silk.

They will also send the cysts themselves in for lab analysis. That will cost extra.

The phone call with the results won’t cost extra but it may not be painless.

When Nurse Nancy said she would call me, I reiterated that she could leave a detailed message on my voicemail. See, I know that Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act requires privacy so you have to fill out a form in quintuplicate and seal it with the blood of a goat to allow a doc to leave you a message.

I had already given them the blood of the goat.

“Well, maybe I can,” she said.

Errr?

“Does your message identify you?”

Of course it does but apparently some people don’t.

“Lots of people leave the wrong number. Sometimes I don’t dial correctly. If I can’t tell for sure it is your voicemail, I can’t leave the message,” she said.

Geico called my cellphone and left a message for [name deleted] that their insurance wasn’t bound yet because they had not supplied enough information.

I don’t know if the poor schlub gave them the wrong number or if the Geico rep misdialed but not even my “Hi this is Dick Harper. Don’t leave a message and particularly don’t leave one for [name deleted]” outgoing message deterred them.

People.Just.Don’t.Listen.

Then there is the famed, federal Telemarketers’ Sourcebook (the FCC calls it the “Do Not Call” registry but we know they’re “here to help”). The first phone call in history happened on a nippy March day in 1876 when Alexander Graham Bell rang up Mr. Watson. “Come here. I want to see you,” he said. The second phone call in history happened later that chilly when a telemarketer called for “Mr. Fell” and offered to sell a genuine medicinal oil. The third phone call in history happened when Mr. Bell asked the Feds for help.

128 years later, a law made it illegal for telemarketers to call people on their list. Uh huh.

I get a lot of calls from “Consumer Svcs,” and “extended warranty” robocallers, and “Skycare,” and more. One enterprising phisherman even “spoofed” Swanton Lumber’s number. I do a fair amount of business with Swanton Lumber, so I answered that one. Snake oil.

The law doesn’t deter them. They just keep calling.

My outgoing voicemail message doesn’t deter them. They just keep calling.

My stadium air horn hasn’t deterred them. They just hire another, not-yet deaf, crook and just keep calling.

There are a number of hinky solutions such as anonymous call rejection, priority rings, and complete call blocking from your phone company to smart phone apps that do the same. My cordless phone has call block built in. All I do is scroll back through the Caller ID screen, select the offender, and save that number to the blocked list. Most amazing of all is that the phone turns off the call to my entire system so all the phones in the house stop ringing. I have no idea how that works. Black magic, I’m thinking.

People.Just.Don’t.Listen. but thanks to my phone’s extraordinary “Call Block” feature, I don’t have to listen either.

 

Tool Guy

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Over the years I’ve built cars and houses and boats and batteries and computers and …

OK, you get the idea.

Over the years I’ve collected a lot of tools. A couple of them would go home at the end of the day but most went back in the toolbox or chest where they belong.

Over this summer I’ve had a little plumbing project.

Advertising Image of Bosch Power ToolsStop it, Harper! This isn’t the Story of O. This is the story of Dick the Tool Guy.

My great grandfather Barnard the farmer-engineer built cooling tunnels and had a small-gauge steam train on tracks in the front yard. He had tools. My grandfather Harper the station master built a wood shop in the baggage room of his station where he made lovely cabinets. He had more tools. My dad rebuilt most of our boat from that wood shop but he later moved it to our chicken coop where he made exquisite tables and more. This Vermont house has a nice 19th Century barn that I converted to my shop when we moved here.

I inherited and kept some of the tools my dad inherited. I inherited and kept all of his tools. And I’ve managed to buy one or two of my own.

Oddly, my dad and I shared most of the same tool preferences although he was a southpaw and always a Ford guy and I’m not. Still, you can’t tell the difference between his hand tools and mine. And I didn’t like my grandfather Harper’s hand tools but I did keep his Shopsmith.

I started the real assemblage when I started building race cars. In fact, the bed of my 22-foot long, green 1973 Chevy crew cab was more workshop than anything for the years we used it to haul race cars. The centerpiece of that was a stacked mechanic’s roller cabinet. The truck is long gone but I still have the tool box and now I’ve mostly duplicated them with my dad’s. (I got out of racing when it became apparent I’d need an 18-wheeler instead of a pickup).

Power tools are a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.

My dad was also a table saw guy. I lurve my radial arm. Now I have three table saws, the Shopsmith, and, natch, a good 12″ radial arm saw. Each one has its strong points although I find myself using one of the table saws more than the radial because I can put it on the jobsite while the radial sits in the barn.

Speaking of power saws, I somehow ended up with four circular saws; I bought one in 1975 and another a quarter century later. And two industrial Sawzalls. And three jigsaws which he always called “saber saws.” My dad was also a bandsaw guy. He had one that now lives in the very back of my hut, the outdoor cinderblock storeroom in South Puffin. He used it a lot but in all of my projects, I’ve never had enough reason to drag it out; it always seemed easier to cut that curve with a jigsaw. I bought a bandsaw on a super sale 20 years ago. I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’ve never set it up.

I have three air compressors but only one pneumatic framing nailer. And one air hammer. A straight line air sander. A rotary air sander. Two impact wrenches, though, one air and one electric.

Other than the bandsaw, all of my own tools have arrived in response to a job: working on cars, building a boat or a cabinet in the barn, modeling a robot, building a bunch of float chargers.

The plumbing project also turned into a wiring project. The hole I had to dig in the kitchen floor stumped me, though. The original floor boards laid in 1855 or so were not quite as smooth as we expect for modern kitchen needs such as vinyl or cork or laminate or tile. The design isn’t conducive to using a (rented) floor sander and I knew I’d get wavy results (and a mess) with the big 9″ disc grinder or my belt sander and I’m way too lazy to use a jack plane on the whole bloody floor.

Ah ha!

What a perfect opportunity to buy a 3-1/4″ power planer. I’ve resisted that particular impulse in the past, simply because I didn’t need it. Until now. It did just what I needed and now I have another power tool.

Recently, I’ve been thinking I should have an oscillating multifunction power tool, too. And I really want a milling machine…

Heh.