On a wheeled horse I ride. i.am.rollerman

Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

You Can’t Kill Me, You Don’t Have the Paperwork

In Life, spinal cord injury, wheelchair on November 6, 2010 at 9:22 pm

Since no "paperwork" was filed that the dog on the left might have been dangerous, please ignore the picture of said dog knawing on a human leg while a man on crutches passes to the right.

Wait, did I just read that?

An Ulster Dutchess County NY man has been sentenced to six months in jail for killing a dog.   PLEASE: I am in no way condoning this guy’s behavior, but the Judge’s “key point” (his words, not mine) on his verdict in this trial was whether the dog was dangerous.

Quote  from the Kingston Daily Freeman:

“…The justice said that, while there was ample testimony that the dog was mean and aggressive, there was no finding by the court that the dog posed any danger.

Earlier in the article, the dog’s owner states:

“…Humphrey (the deceased) was kept chained in a garage on the property because Sturgess (the dog’s OWNER) had said the dog was aggressive.

Further from the Judge:

“The fact is there was no complaint, no paperwork filed on that dog,” Smith said. “A citizen cannot say, ‘That’s a dangerous dog.’  …”  

So,  since no one saw a rationale need to report this to the authorities, thus their justification is baseless?

“Hello, I’d like to report an angry dog.”   Authorities: “You’re calling…why, Sir are you high?”

“Hello, I’d like to report an angry dog.”   Authorities: “Sir, did you realize calling on a frivolous matter is a felony?”

“Hello, I’d like to report an angry dog.”   Authorities: “Tell him to lick himself, I do that when I’m angry…or I wish I could, at least”

Maybe I should have fallen on the pavement

After five years with the same wheelchair cushion (aka “fart magnet”) and seat back, it finally needs to be replaced.  I receive an email from my wheelchair supplier, “…the new cushion and seat back will be $365.00.”

Now, i’ve already met my annual $2K out of pocket deductible AND $2K out of pocket medical durable goods deductible (yes that’s $4K in ADDITION to my $6.5K premium, so I’m well past $11K, that just ME individually) so I’m thinking this most likely be covered at 100%

Silly man!  Up charge! I must pay a premium of $365 in order to get the item prescribed to me.

You see I apparently made a poor decision six years ago to get a higher end more durable wheelchair than the insurance company felt necessary.   I figured, I’m only going to be in the thing ALL DAY, that I’ll spend $4K of my OWN money to UPGHARGE to a better model. (Finally tally: insurance company $1.8K + me: $4.5K = Wheelchair: $5.3K)

So the same hypocrites that stress preventative care want to fiscally punish me again for having selected a chair that has most likely prevented a $20K surgery on my clickety-click clavicles?    Throw me a bone, as in two clavicle replacements.

Ignore the Man behind the curtain in the wheelchair

I’m not supposed to be in the blustery NY MSA this week.  I’m supposed to be in Southwest Florida.  Back in the business travel saddle again after a six year hiatus.

It was not in the cards.  My mind the victim of a vicious slap flight with my bodies’ auto immune system.  My Left Foot?  Hell, my entire left leg, bigger than Oprah’s during season three.   My left heel currently playing fresh air parent to a tennis ball sized blister.

I’m on the mend.  3X daily hits of Keflex and Carnation Instant Breakfast taken orally, not topically you big silly.

Fun Paraplegic Factoid

You can take an air gun and drive a nail through my leg, no pain here. Run a 747 over my foot, nope, can’t feel it.

It’s cold and blustery out, I can feel the cold, so shut the f’in door already!

Four Festering Future Posts

I’ve got four topics that I’m now working on now that warrant dedicated blog posts.   Tell me which one first:

Hair-icuda.  My home is overrun with them.

Sallie Mae. No, not a mentally challenged former girlfriend, rather Freddie Mac’s stalker sister.

The Land of Tat: The magical final destination of many household items

WTF with all the packaging? I’m congested.  Now I’m congested, have a gash on my thumb and think I have carpal tunnel syndrome.

Scratch a dog behind the ears, they love it.  Send me A COMMENT below.  C”mon it only takes a minute and you don’t have the paperwork to put me down.


New Format, Same Old Crap

In Family, Life on November 4, 2010 at 12:46 am
NYS Gov-elect Andrew Cuomo’s new ladyfriend looks like Mandy Pepperidge from “Animal House.” Cuomo claims not to be an “Albany Insider,” so does that make him a…wait for itwait for it.

Thought I’d mix things up a bit this week.   Instead of a well crafted single topic posting, I thought I’d opt for  “poop-ettes”instead of a single subject stool. (I know, I had you at “stool“)

Note for the readers of this blog,  this is an interactive forum.  Laugh out loud, and LEAVE A COMMENT on the thing that made you launch.   Object to something, LEAVE A COMMENT.    This is a hard gig, it’s like playing to a room of one-armed people. Do they want to clap and just can’t?, or do I really suck.   LEAVE A COMMENT!

Mystery Solved: After 30+ years I finally realized that I was “mis-informed.”   Watching the Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert rally on DC, they had Cat Stevens playing.   For so many years I thought the song was “Ride on the Pizza Train.” True, an unusual vehicle to deliver pizzas, I thought he might have been c0-sponsored by Pizza Hut and AmTrak.

In the “Shut Your Pie Hole” department

Brett Favre, please shut up.   New additions: Brad Childress, coach of the Minnesota Vikings,  Randy Moss, temporary team-mate of the pant filled one.

Any sports announcer extolling Brett or his streak: case in point  Troy Aikman.   I remember Aikman getting hit in the head too many times which forced his retirement, perhaps proof that too many concussions do cause brain damage.

Good Old Boys “..drink whiskey and rye and sing about this will be the day that I die…?, not f*ck around on their Wives

In the “I Didn’t Realize I had so many Friends” Department

I’m the kid with the full keg again and everyone wants to be my friend.   “This is George Pataki calling…”  “This is former NYC Mayor Rudy G calling…”  This is “still Dead President Reagan calling”   I’m suddenly the guy on everyone’s short list to call.  Funny, that phone wasn’t ringing today.

Please, ” Put Carl Paladino back in My Pants” department

NYS candidate for Gov, and dead twin for my (rhymes with “wrote’em”), with all its characteristics and hue.  If you look like a “wrote’em” you need an image makeover.   I felt the message, but I also felt the urge to scratch.  Harry Reid not too far down that list either.

Did He Just Say That?

Andrew Cuomo denies he’s an Albany-insider.  His Father was NYS governor for three consecutive terms.  Was Andrew kept in an idling car on the Quebec border for those 12 years?  Please…   One positive:  His girlfriend reminds of “Mandy Pepperidge” from Animal House.

I Know Why the call it the Blackberry Storm

Cause the thing makes me stormin mad!  I don’t use it as a phone, rather a glorified MP3 player and camera.   I can finally say what most men wish they could “yes, I’m hung…or at least my Blackberry Storm is.” It’s got one more week before I switch back to my circa 2002 Sansa “Hung like a flea” E200.

Attention Family Members

I know that all of you think you know more than me, but quicker than I can say “I was never NOT on the Dean’s List” listen up anyhow:   The answer is not always to “crank up that thermostat.”

Try the following first:

Closing the door keeps the cold out. Not placing a laundry basket on a heating vent lets the warm air in.

Try a sweatshirt first, you only have 15 on your bedroom floor.  Don’t insulate your floor, insulate your body.

If I’m cold, that is different.  I am a SCI living cadaver, we don’t have the ability to regulate our body heat like you do.

Given that, I pay the heating bill so I should choose when I want to piss my money away.  Don’t like it?  Buy another sweatshirt to insulate your floor with.


TimeWarner Cable, my name is Satan, go ahead please.

In Life on October 31, 2010 at 7:45 pm

"Thank you for calling Time Warner Customer service, My name is Satan, go ahead please."

It had been a SRU* week as they say in the trade, until 12:14 p.m. on Thursday.  (* Sunshine, Rainbows and Unicorns — meaning no problems)

Without warning an app that I had been troubleshooting for three weeks and had just pinpointed the fix loses its connection to the big boxes outside of DC and promptly sh*ts the bed. Then a second sign “VPN connection has failed.”  You just sunk my battleship.

I duck my head under my desk and sure enough the broadband modem lights are not their normal solid Christmas tree green.  “Must be the cable is out,” I innocently think so I wheel my fat a** into the family room and attempt to fire up the cable box. “This cable box is not authorized.”  That’s disrespectful, but since it is blustery out I still think that the physical cable might be down.

I roll out to the back porch to see if my sales manager telecommuter neighbor is home. He’s not home so I dig the old cable statement out of the bill box to look for a customer service contact.

As requested I “enter in the main phone number of the house.”   Satan then speaks; his recorded message is foreboding “You have an outstanding balance of $606. In order to receive any service today you must pay a minimum of $193.00.”

They’ve got me by the boys. I need the internet to work and the hospital monitors my ticker over it  so I tap in my AMEX #.   No less then TEN seconds of the last number being tapped into the phone my broadband modem comes to life.   The Christmas tree is back to full green I’m back online, only five minutes late for a meeting that I’m playing safety net on.

I’m online but TIME WARNER is on my mind, having just released a large bug up my a**. During the meeting I connect to my credit union’s home banking system. Apparently within the past 35 days I’ve paid TIME WARNER over $440 in addition to the$193 just paid minutes earlier.

Due to the labyrinth of meetings on all days called Thursday I must put off my call until the evening. Good thing, I’m sure I avoided having a stroke or blowing a blood vessel in my neck.

It’s now 9:15 p.m. and I reach Tessa. I explain the situation, tell her that I’ve made two payments, both with bank confirmation numbers and that I would like a phone call tomorrow morning on my 703 line to discuss why you folks thought it necessary to turn off my cable service instead of, hmmm, maybe calling or emailing me. You do have my email address; I get a new TIME WARNER promotion every other day via email.

Tessa is apologetic yet cheerful, and I feel, as I lay my dented skull down on my pillow that tomorrow will continue in the “Sunshine, Rainbow & Unicorns” mod us operand i of earlier that week.

Fast forward to Friday morning at 11:30, still no phone call on my 703 line from Time Warner. I leave my office passing through the family room. The house phone is ringing. It’s Time Warner. Hmmm, why are they calling me on this line?   Sure enough it’s someone with a pissy attitude to discuss a “work order” she is following up on.  Since when is returning a customer’s call considered a “work order?” Satan has returned and I am now prepared for the worst.

She’s not calling me on the number that I requested they please call the night before.   A simple request, not a power play on my part. I have all the call materials already assembled at my desk. My 703 line is a speakerphone, which I need in order to keep conversation notes entered in via my keyboard. They probably didn’t understand my request since I only repeated three separate times and didn’t have a “select # button”  associated with it.

Satan bellows: “You claim you made your last payment xx days ago, but I only received it this morning…” “In addition you claim that you paid us $xxx 50 days ago, but according to my records that payment was $1 short, so we consider your entire account 60 days past due.” C’mon Satan, keep poking that unchained dog with a stick and see what happens. 

“In addition, since we were forced to shut your account off you must now pay a $7 service fee.”

Fido has taken his last poke. My back fur is standing on end and my less than straight teeth are bared to the gums. I am now in the squatting position pushing out these stool shaped payment factoids for Ms Satan:

– My typical TM bill is in excess of $225.

-On all of my payments this year I’ve round up to the next dollar, except for this particular one.

It doesn’t matter, I am considered totally in the arrears on the entire bill, not just .0044% of the entire bill (notice it all begins on the third decimal point.   It’s not even 1%).
So Ms Satan you just turned off the service of a $2,700 per year customer because they owe you less than a dollar for 60 days? It get’s better.

Mr Satan: “Sir, you claim you made your last payment to us xx days ago. I only received it this morning.

I make all of my payments via a bill paying service offered by my credit union. As is my norm with TM, I set up their payment the day I received their paper  bill, to be received by TM three days before the bill is due.

NOTE: I’m not putting a stamp on an envelope and mailing it three days before it’s due, I’m setting up an electronic funds transfer to take place three days before it’s actually required.

Wait for it, wait for it…

“Sir, just because you have a bank confirmation saying that you paid us doesn’t mean I have the money. It can take up to xx days internally for me to receive the money. Until I receive and credit the money your account is considered delinquent.”

Here it comes Satan, it’s my turn to speak.

Even though you’ve been rude and abrasive and did not call me on the number that I requested three times, only 12 hours earlier, I have selected to simply ignore your faulty logic of turning off a $ 2.7K annual account for a less than a dollar oversight. You have now entered the area of absurd.
Just 13 hours earlier TM remotely and automatically turned off my cable and broadband connection


within ten seconds of me entering the last digit of my AMEX account into an automated remote attendant to “regain services” (a queer us of the word services) my broadband modem lights flicker back on and the haunting voice of Doctor Phil returns to the house,

You are telling me that it take XX in office days for you to apply an electronic payment that you received in-office over XX days ago?
I have a lot more that I wish to say, but I don’t. I tell Satan that I am now far beyond angry and I am going to hang up now, for their benefit and mine.

Before hanging up I tell Satan  “…I expect and would appreciate a follow up phone call on this matter on my 703 number…”
Just like “all of the nice girls” on prom night, I sit by the phone waiting for a call that I know I won’t come.

Dear Penthouse Forum…

In Life on October 21, 2010 at 4:31 pm

Excuse me, but is that a golf ball in your front pocket?

Another bit of my childhood died today in the passing of Bob Guccione, the former publisher of the now defunct Penthouse magazine.   What teenage boy of my era doesn’t remember the phrase “Dear Penthouse Forum…”

I haven’t read a Penthouse in years, and who remembers ever buying one?   My buddies and I would always snitch our Father’s copy knowing that we would never get called on the carpet for it.

...and speaking of the carpet not matching the drapes.

My last memory of Bob Guiccione was back in 1986.  Back before I became a Father I was an avid (but poor) golfer.  I was playing the back nine at the Dinsmore public course in Staatsburg, NY.

Coming down the fairway on one of the final holes I shank my drive over a rock wall of a private residence that borders the course.  The residence of none other than Mr. Bob Guiccione. (Prior to Uma Thurman purchasing the place after catching Ethan Hawke playing holes on another course.)

Neighbors remember Ethan as a regular court jester. "Go on Uma, pull my finger..."

I grab my long rough wedge from my bag, as it lay on the lip of the fairway.   As I stride toward the back gate of the rock wall I can’t help but think:

“Dear Penthouse Forum, I was golfing the back nine at my local course when my errant drive ended up beneath a chaise lounge  in the backyard of a young blonde who was sunbathing nude.

She got up from the chair, her ample pert bosoms heaving and dripping of sweat and sun tan oil.  I couldn’t match the carpet with the drapes, because this apartment has no rug.

She sees me and fawns “come and get your ball stud, and leave your wedge there.  You need to bring your wood to play in my rough…”

Rest in Peace Mr. Guccione.

P.S. I did get my ball back that day.

This looked like the woman who retrieved my ball that day, except this woman is 50 years younger.

A willowy woman clothed in only a clingy sun dress had found my ball.   With the body of a well toned athlete and the mouth of a long shoreman, she threw me the ball yelling “keep ya f*ckin ball out of my garden…”

Crusader for the Non Bi-Pedal, On a Wheeled Horse I Ride.

In Life, wheelchair on October 9, 2010 at 6:28 pm

I am out on my weekly self appointed crusade to patrol the parking spots deemed worthy only for us wheeled class.

My first three stops: CVS, Staples and Wal-Mart.   Wal-Mart, normally a Hedin of faux parkers is unusually quiet.  With ample parking and no gawkers in sight, I decide to dismount.

Backing into a van accessible spot, out of nowhere, an unmanned shopping cart meanders in to my line of sight.   I have now backed my van into the shopping cart which is now sandwiched between a concrete post and the back of my van.  I have wounded my mount.

Unlike the other dents, caused by anonymous idiots who didn’t feel it their responsibility to stop and report their sin or at least leave a note on my window shield (which of course I am not able to reach.)

If they were literate and had the common courtesy to leave a note, it would most likely read:

“Dear Handicapped Van Driver,

I am sure that you are most likely already bitter, having to still drive a pimped out MiniVan with your children all raised.  True, most men of your socio- demo and economic class are driving Cobalt Blue Audi A2 convertibles. (Me, I drive a Benz.)

So me saying “sorry” is a waste of both of our time.  You see, I need that time since I now must waddle into the store and stand in line to purchase the new “Gears of War” video game.   It looks amazing on my 50 inch flat panel.  You can’t believe what you can afford when you’re on public assistance.  Now excuse me while I can still go and purchase a soda with my food stamps.

P.S. OK, I did hit your car, but don’t be a hater.

Signed: A large majority of today’s population

True, I am pissed, but I am also amazed that this individual could fit all this with no misspellings on a Popeye’s Chicken store receipt.

My final stop, Sam’s Club.    The parking lot is three quarters empty.  None of the handicapped spots are occupied, except for one.  Parked DIAGONALLY across a Van accessible Handicapped Spot, clearly marked “FOR VANS ONLY,” is a 2009 Cobalt Blue Audi A2 Convertible.

The plate has none of the required handicapped logos.  It’s a New Jersey Veterans of Foreign War’s Plate with a Purple Heart Insignia.   There is also a sticker on the car’s bumper that reads, verbatim “Recipient of a Purple Heart.”  Just to give them the benefit of the doubt, I wheel around to the front of the car.  Bingo! No placard hanging from the front window either.

In Rehab and in life I’ve met several veterans and police officers who have been wounded while servicing duty.  None of these individuals wanted to talk of their experiences or injuries without ample prodding. Even after much prodding these individuals still down play their contributions and hope to once again hide their wounds.

Now fuming,  (I would also be frothing at the mouth too, but I was dehydrated from my dosage of Lasix)  I retreat back into Crip Force One, disguising myself as one of the bucket seats, hoping to catch a glimpse of this individual.    I wait about an hour.  The parking lot empties and then once again fills, but still the Audi A2 convertible remains.

I decide to take this recon mission mobile, exiting the van and entering the store, hoping to locate Commander Pant Load.

The smooth polished concrete floors of Sam’s Club are my license to thrill, allowing me to scour the store in under five minutes.   Apparently I am traveling so fast that one my Wife’s friends, shopping at that time found it necessary to report me and to let her know of my “recklessness.” (a topic of several upcoming blog posts.)

Little does my the Mrs know, but I wasn’t even in my motorized chair, I was in my manual chair, propelling myself.  There is a difference.

Having searched all of the aisles and discovering no one I exit the store  As I make my way through the gauntlet of can shaking children in their various school paraphernalia cluttering the front exit (the norm at most stores), I have, who I believe is the perp in my sight.

An older gentleman with a full head of gray hair topped off with a VFW purple sidehat.  He’s wearing a purple VFW jacket as well with a Purple Heart Insignia.  Around his neck is an Italian Horn pendant hanging from a gold chain.   He reminds me more of an Atlantic City Casino worker than an honored war veteran.

I’ve seen this guy before, as a matter of fact, every time I’ve been to this Sam’s Club.  He is sitting at a card table selling chances to win $100K in a raffle to benefit Veterans of Foreign Wars.

A young Mother with two in tow approaches the card table, reaching into her purse.  Without warning her young  Son stumbles and falls into the card table.   Quicker than I can say “I smell a fraud” this former Rambo, is able to launch from his chair and prevent the card table from toppling.

Something smells bad at Sam’s Club, and this time that smell is not coming from me.    I could be wrong; he might have fought in the “Sham Offensive.

Rauf and Emory: A Queens Love Story

In Life on October 6, 2010 at 11:25 pm


In Queens, you can EAT a goat, MEET a goat and BEAT a goat, all in one day!


Back when I and the future Mrs. worked in Manhattan, we both shared a one room apartment in a subdivided home in Astoria Queen.

Our landlords, Rauf and Emory, were a young couple who owned the home and lived on the second floor. Rauf was a jail guard working down the street at Riker’s Island. Emory was several months pregnant and planned on being a stay home Mother. My only interaction with them was exchanging pleasantries when I paid the rent.

I enjoyed our time on 145th St, considering it a major upgrade from our former apartment, a third-floor walkup in Flushing’s Korea town. The Flushing apartment was modern and less expensive, but our digs in Little Athens offered three things not available in Flushing: fewer cockroaches, dead goats in every store front window and a shorter commute.

That first year flew by. Emory had her baby (a girl), the Mets won the World Series and I had landed a higher paying gig in Westchester. For a while I commuted by car from Astoria to Westchester while the future Mrs. continued to ride the subway into Manhattan, but we both knew we had to move.

We found a great place in Harrison, NY. A bottom floor of a newly constructed two family home within walking distance of the train station. We had so little back then, packing the car with all of our belongings. We determined we would leave Astoria that Friday evening after work.

I still remember climbing the stairs that night to Rauf & Emory’s apartment, needing to turn in my keys. Rauf as usual answered the door. He called for Emory to bring the baby and to come and say goodbye.

I spoke first. “Rauf, Emory, we really enjoyed our time here. You both were great landlords and we’ll miss and the baby.”

Rauf then spoke. “Rauf?” …Emory? My name is Ralph and her name is Ann Marie.” I do miss them both but not their Queens accent.

30th Reunion

In Life on August 29, 2009 at 6:23 pm

I haven’t until now been able to collect my thoughts and write a Facebook message after the 30th Canandaigua Academy Class reunion. As I anticipated, I cried the entire way home, as my Wife drove and I scheduled the online banking payments for two fall tuitions as well as locating and paying for textbooks on Amazon.

All of you have changed in my eyes. Why did everyone get so tall all of a sudden? For the ladies that felt that I was staring at your chests, I’m sorry, I wasn’t. For me, that’s called “eye level” now. So do you see I do find the positives in a bad situation?

For those of you who believed my pre-reunion post, that my Wife was a Russian Mail Order Bride and that you couldn’t understand her that was an obvious lie. But what’s the difference, I can’t understand her anyway or what woman for that matter.

I missed some of you who couldn’t make it. Mike Falk, what the Falk? Chris Baker, was there a Rush concert that night? David Spanagel, the Doctor didn’t let you out for the evening? Mark Hogan (I wanted to taunt him, now that I don’t need new shoes). Tom Crawford, c’mon quarterly filings, what a lame excuse. Doug Bolger, anybody? Doug Bolger? And for the second consecutive reunion where the hell was Phil Petti?

Take-aways from the reunion:

-Yes I do have the hots for John Scharr, that’s why we’re always together. Did you see he pushed my wheelchair in for me?
-Jeff Haag, c’mon you’re bigger than them, time to kick their butts
-Barb Radak, wow she is actually a nice person and a looker. Who knew?
-Jeff Wolfanger thanks for the blasts.
-Steve Steinberger, c’mon you promised to dump me out of my chair.
-Randy Mabie, thanks for not coming, it would have been hard not to look at your junk all evening.
-Can we no longer call Fuzz, Fuzz?
– I still can’t keep the Brown’s apart, but one of them does have a purty mouth
-Deb Como, you are right, he is hot.
-Liz, Shawn, Ladies, cross-dressers (did I leave anyone out?) thanks for organizing it.

I did not want to comment on the ladies in our class (with the exception of Barb Radak above), because that would be a far too long, far too complicated and most likely a far too vulgar posting. I’m sure over the course of the remainder of this year this will seep out of my head and it’s onto my keyboard. I must tell you that it is a dangerous area to enter with most of us in relationships, and some with farm animals.

I was however happy to see Winnie Cooper, still looking the same as she did 30 years ago. I’m sorry that our bond today is Wheelchairs.

One truth be told from all this. My thirty years later reference in the Cannon had me as a gynecologist. CLOSE, very CLOSE. My neighbor (Dr Andrew *******) is gynecologist AND the only one in town. Try being my Wife and two Daughters.

Yours Truly, Douglas T. Neidermeyer