Ophthalmology

Ophthalmology

 

That’s what you call what them eye doctors do. I think the reason they call it that is cause if you can read it, you got 20/20 vision. Probly the first six months o’ school, they learn how to pronounce it an’ after that, they ain’t just an eye doctor, they’re a for sure OPHTHALMOLOGIST! – in trainin’ of course.

I called my Ophthalmologist the other day ‘cause I was gettin’ blurred vision in one o’ my eyes. It was one o’ them things that sorta sneaked up on me. The thing is that when you got two eyes an’ only one o’ them is blurred, you don’t figure it out right away. To tell the truth, the first thing I did was to wash the windshield on my car. That didn’t make no difference so I slowly remembered havin’ the wrinkles ironed outta my other eye sometime after cataract surgery. It was an easy procedure done right in the office. The Ophthalmologist gave me some eye drops, froze the eye, stuck a ring in it to keep it open an’ proceeded to iron it all out with a lazer thingamebob. You might compare it to takin’ a hair dryer to the plastic you put over yer windows in the winter time to smooth it out. The whole business was done in less than five minutes except for the wait time while the eye drops took effect.

So you’d figure it’d be a pretty simple affair. Not so, according to that snippy receptionist in the office. “When did you have the procedure done?” she wanted to know.

I looked it up an’ told her five years ago. “Too long,” she says. “You’ll have to go to an Optometrist and get a referral.”

WHAT?  I had a referral in the first place to have my cataract removed. “Don’t matter,” she says with some finality. So I hung up the phone an’ stuck my head in a paper bag to let off steam.

Eighty bucks later, I had a referral to do exactly what I had predicted in the first place, not that they’d believe the owner of the eye that don’t see proper. Well, I made the appointment, but not with them buggers. They wouldn’t miss me anyways.

In my mind it’s the Optometrist should be doin’ that window polishin’ hisself instead o’ some high falutin’ Ophthalmologist anyways. They could set up a whole eye cleanin’ department an’ get some o’ them kids what put together computer parts to do the job. They got steadier hands than most of us an’ with a little instruction, could do as well as any Ophthalmologist, an’ probly better. After all, you don’t need to be an architect to wash the windows on a high rise apartment buildin’ do you? At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

 

 

 

 

Technology

Technology

 

See the thing is, my phones don’t work proper. I say phones ‘cause there’s three o’ them in a cordless package these days. You don’t get single ones no more. I guess they figure you gotta be within arm’s length of any o’ them contraptions in case somebody wants to talk to you. By now of course them cordless phones are a little out o’ date, given all the cell phones an’ other paraphernalia, but then, we ourselves are a little outa date too.

We didn’t realize there was anythin’ wrong with them for the longest time. You could still dial out an’ talk to whoever without a problem so there was no excuse to question them. But, technology bein’ what it is, gets a little technical now an’ then. When you call somebody an’ a machine answers, givin’ you a choice of what department you want to talk to, they tell you to press one for this department, press two for somethin’ else an’ so on. Well I could press buttons ‘til the cows come home an’ nothin’ would happen. Even the machine on the other end was gettin’ frustrated. I was expectin’ to hear a pile o’ indiscrete expletives from it.

It all became clear when our security system wouldn’t let anybody into the apartment. I said to the missus, “I’ll go down an’ phone up an’ you buzz me in.”

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll do ‘er. But don’t forget your key card, just in case.”

So I go downstairs an’ dial up. The missus pushed the button on the phone to let me in. There’s a gurglin’ sound like what yer stomach makes after you’ve eaten a piece of rhubarb an’ strawberry pie for the first time this year. An’ the damn door won’t open.

The big box store where we got the dad blamed thing from don’t know nothin’ about problems with them things neither so they give me a one – eight hunnert number to call the manufacturer. Holy cheese an’ crackers! It took at least an hour to get through to the right customer service department an’ when I finally did they say; “If the equipment you are calling about is more than two years old, there is no service on it. You will be required to pay seven dollars and fifty cents for your question.” Well somethin’ like that. I should have my credit card ready so they can charge me.

I had to hang up pretty quick ‘cause all of the sudden the question that popped into my head had nothin’ to do with telephones. So I decided to look them up on the internet. Wouldn’t you know it, they’re bleedin’ money hand over fist, an’ seven dollars an’ fifty cents ain’t goin’ to save their bacon. Maybe if they was to concentrate on servicin’ their mickey mouse telephones instead of  collectin’ seven dollars an’ fifty cents per question, they might not be hemmoragin’ so bad. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

The Long and the Short of it.

The Long and the Short of it

 

Listen, this argument has been goin’ on since dirt was invented. It already started when Eve got together with that snake of a snake. An’ it all has to do with the same basic thing. Really girls, you’re not foolin’ anybody one bit. We know what you’re up to. Well who can really blame you. After all you got them blossoming bodies bustin’ outa your bloomers, an’ somebody’d better notice. How else you gonna find out who’s tryin’ to figure out how far up your pants your legs go? Or just how cleaved your cleavage is?

If you think for one minute that anybody’s gonna believe the only reason you dress that way is to be comfortable in the hot weather, think again. Two inches or four inches (or however many centimeters that is) on the hemline of a pair o’ shorts or a top ain’t gonna make one iota o’ difference. The temperature you refer to has nothin’ to do with the weather. It has everything to do with the body temperature rising at the remarks you pretend to be offended by. You might as well wear some “Depends” or a “Colostomy” bag to keep all that crap in. The same goes for them guys wearin’ muscle shirts you girls seem to like so well.

Just so’s you know, let me tell you that school, especially middle school is an incubator for learnin’ not sex. Do you see your parents and grandparents goin’ to work dressed like you are? I don’t think so.

But I’ll tell you what though. You got a good point about the schools bein’ wrong in sendin’ you home to change yer pants. What’s gotta change is the curriculum just a wee bit. Right after assembly, they have to have a mandatory “come as you are arc weldin’ class an’ construction instruction. That way you get to see the sparks fly in ways you never thought you would AN’ you get yer exercise at the same time. Not only that, but you learn a trade different from the oldest one in the book too. What could be better?

Just think. You’d win the age old argument and wear whatever you want with nobody givin’ you grief over it an’ the boys could watch you dance every time you got a shower of sparks up your wazzits, or down your wazzits, whatever wazzits you got hangin out. It would completely camouflage your true intent that you could then take to the next level AFTER SCHOOL IS OUT! At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf,

Just sayin’.

GOOD MORNING!

GOOD MORNING!

 Me an’ the missus went out the other mornin’ for our constitutional walk. Musta been about eight o’clock or so. We was hikin’ along, mindin’ our own business an’ takin’ in the fresh air. Well, we wasn’t the only ones on the path neither. A couple’a old biddies come walkin’ toward us, focused on keepin’ their deterioratin’ bodies propelled forward instead o’ fallin’ down, determined looks on their faces.  “Good Morning!” the say, their faces suddenly lightin’ up like Christmas trees. “Lovely morning for a walk.”

What the . . . . We reply in kind, somewhat stunned by the friendly gesture at that hour o’ the day. Stuff like that don’t happen in Winnipeg, especially lately with the cold winter we been havin’. Then a guy comes wizzin’ by on a bicycle. “Mornin’” he chirps and carries on. We barely got time to say good mornin’ back before he disappears down the path. Well it carried on that way all the way home until we were convinced it WAS a good mornin’.

I kinda’ figured that was sort of a one off. Maybe people were just happy to be able to walk outside in some comfort instead of on icy walkways in the freezin’ cold. But no, it even continued on to the next day when I had to go out to get a prescription filled. I was in a sour mood cause it was quite a hike to the pharmacy and I was determined not to take the car. Walkin’ back, grumblin to myself for not drivin’, a six or seven year old girl passed me by. She looked up an’ said “Hi” as she passed. Well, I’ll be, if my mood didn’t brighten right up. The trip home suddenly wasn’t so long any more. Even when I went by the yard with that puny wire haired terrier barkin’ his fool head off like he was the boss of me, I said good mornin’ to him an’ kept on walkin’. Well I didn’t exactly say good mornin’, but rather likened him to some unmentionable body parts as I passed by. I kinda’ thought he got the drift of what I called him because he barked so hard that all four feet left the ground with every yelp, but he looked to have a smile on his face, like I’d complimented him.

That brings me to the point o’ the whole story. The power o’ dialogue is a mighty force. If them Ukrainians an’ the Russians could walk by one another an’ just say good mornin’ to each other, they’d be in a whole lot better mood to solve their differences. Look at what the Pope just accomplished by the very same means with them Israelites and the Palestinians. He went to visit them, said hello nicely an’ then invited them over to his place for tea. They both accepted. An’ what do you think they’re gonna do at the Pope’s house, bring guns an’ bombs? I don’t think so. They’re probably gonna talk to each other which is a whole lot better’n blowin’ each other’s heads off. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

 

Oh Danny Boy

Oh Danny Boy

 

Woke up this morning with the song “Danny Boy” swirlin ‘round in my head. What the H E double hockey sticks was that all about? Thankfully, it was John McDermott singin’ it, so it was a nice rendition. Turns out to have been a harbinger for how the day would turn out. The sky, when I went out for my morning meditation was spotted with wispy clouds, brilliantly back-lighted by the risin’ sun. A meadowlark was chirpin’ at the top o’ his lungs, makin’ himself heard overtop of the honking of geese and the squawkin’ of a lone crow.

Sure enough, I went out an hour later for a smoke an’ the wind had blown the definition outa the clouds to overcast; hidin’ the sun an’ the only thing left of an otherwise promisin’ mornin’ was the meadowlark who just wouldn’t quit. Then the refrain came into my mind “. . . the summer’s gone and all the flowers are dying. . .” Well, that’s about how it would turn out. Even Queen Victoria was in a sour mood. This is the weekend we’re supposed to be celebratin’ her birthday. We’re gonna blow up some fireworks an’ shout “Long may she reign!” We should rather say, “Long may she rain” an’ we wouldn’t be far off. Don’t matter much though. She’s been dead a long time anyways. Even the meadowlark ain’t no meadowlark neither. It’s a blasted killdeer that had no intention of shuttin’ up ‘til about twenty or so crows showed up to chase it away. They’d a done it too except the garbage truck came by, makin’ all kinds o’ racket an’ scared ‘em all off.

“. . . . But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow. Or when the valley’s white and hushed with snow . . .” We’re in Winnipeg, not some Scottish meadow for cryin’ out loud! AND the twenty-fourth o’May aint ‘til next Saturday!

What’s goin’ on with them folks who set the dates for holidays anyways? You’d think they’d know better by now. They obviously never been to Winnipeg. “. . . . And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.”  You think? After a miserable cold winter of storms, freezin’ water pipes, pot holes an’ sink holes, mother nature needs a little time to recover. Ya can’t just say one day “Now it’s the May long weekend so let’s plant stuff an’ get the summer underway.” You gotta wait for the right long weekend to do that an’ it ain’t the eighteenth o’ the month. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin.

 

 

George Orwell Was Right After All!

George Orwell Was Right After All!

 

              George Orwell’s timing might have been off a little bit, but the whole concept of “1984” is playing out more or less as he had envisioned it. A Psychology professor once told us that if one wanted to see what the world would be like ten years into the future, one just had to read today’s poetry (well he could have meant prose too). His timing was also off, but here we are in 2014, looking at robotic wars for heaven’s sakes! Killer robots are on the horizon to fight wars in place of armies. No, I’m not kidding. Even the United Nations is meeting in Geneva for a serious discussion on the matter.

Mr. Cook’ll be turning over in his grave at this point. This whole robotic thing is a far cry from “The Charge of the Light Brigade” that he loved to read to his students with such gusto! And when Jesus said “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”, I’m sure the last thing he had on his mind was a bunch of engineering and science nerds taking over! He’d be totally shocked.

Can you imagine a robotic army having the intelligence to go out into the field and make up it’s own mind as to who will be killed and who won’t be? Well maybe. Israel and South Korea are already using a form of these killer robots to defend their borders. But somebody has to be able to put the intelligence and whatever else it takes into them for these machines to operate independently, right? So the question is:  Who?

Well THAT”S the sixty-four dollar question isn’t it? You can’t tell me that there’s anybody with any kind of moral judgment gonna be in charge of THAT! The very fact that the U. N. is discussing it is an indicator. If you want to know about THEIR moral judgment, just ask Romeo D’Allaire. That’ll give you an idea of what this Geneva summit is worth. It’s just another one o’ those fireside chats meant to bamboozle the world an’ have no particular consequence.

Of course, these killer robots an’ their usage have dire implications and unimaginable consequences. For opposing forces and ideologies to sit down together in the first place is unseemly. And then to lay the ground rules down for the use of these things is even more remote, especially in a forthright and honest manner. It seems to me to be more of a setup for a spy mission.

The thing I keep thinking about though is that, supposing these free thinking robots develop a conscience of their own and turn on their creators, wiping out say, the U.S. congress or the Canadian senate or the British House of Lords.

Hey, wait a minute! Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all! At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin’.

The Taser Debate

The Taser Debate

 

Watchin’ the nature channel on the TV the other night got me to thinkin’ about Tasers of all things. I mean here they was, tranquilizin’ great monstrous elephants an’ rhinoceroses an’ lions an’ stuff. They shoot a little dart into the animal’s rump an’ after it runs around a little bit, the critter lays down an’ falls asleep. They throw a towel over it’s head an’ haul it off to wherever to do what they need to do. Then to wake it up, they give it an antidote an run for cover. Them elephants can weigh up to four tons!

Well I figured if they can do that with all them ferocious giant animals that can crush your skull in a split second, why can’t they do that with them alleged criminals? I was thinkin’ in particular about that young man on a Toronto bus who got riddled with about nine bullet holes before he succumbed. Of course there was many others, but he stands out. I mean, one simple dart in his arse an’ he’d a been sound asleep. No need to turn the guy into a sieve for everything to leak out!

During WWII the Japanese had invaded Borneo (I think) and were using the men for forced labor and the women for their sexual pleasures. To say the natives were unhappy is a bit of an understatement. They had long ago been talked out of their traditional head hunting practices by missionaries before the war and now felt hopeless. But when a British officer secretly landed on the island, he gave them permission to resume the ancient practice (on the Japanese). He even offered to arm them but they turned him down. They had much more effective weapons – blow guns an’ poison darts. As one of them said, you could hit the enemy in his little finger and he was as good as dead. It didn’t have to be a targeted fatal shot.

Well that’s history now anyways, but it makes my point I think. There’s ways to subdue people without a lot o’ O. K. Corral dramatics an’ deadly force. An’ don’t tell me them scientists can’t figure out a safe dosage to inflict on human targets neither. Mind you, they gotta consider drug an’ alcohol consumption with humans but with the tools they got to modify this, that an’ the other, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Mind you, the media will be upset ‘cause it’ll cut down on the amount o’ drama they can sensationalize on the TV. At least that’s how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin.