A Master Curmudgeon

No hospital stay story is complete without some sort of roommate angle, and mine was truly inspirational.  I was next to a 90-year-old first-class cantankerous complainer whose hearing-aid batteries were shot.  Did I, convalescing as I was, despair?  Of course not!  I couldn't take notes fast enough.

You couldn't make this stuff up.  "Why isn't my wife here - she knows she has to pick me up."  Well, Dad, she's home dressing that open wound on her leg.  "She should be here to pick me up!"  Stuff like this went on for what seemed like hours, and I heard each exchange at least three times (the combined effects of the 90-year-old part, the proper level of shouting to overcome the dead battery, and a true genius at curmudgeonry).

Alas, he was gone before I could ask if his curmudgeonry was a gift or he trained somewhere - he was a master.  I want him as a speaker at the next Societé Generale meeting.

Hospital Food

We hear a LOT of whining from recently-released hospital patients about the food.  "Inedible"! "Every dish was gray" "typically institutional" and the like.  And, being such a critical matter, it often comes up before the quality of, oh I don't know, the actual health care.

I, on the other hand, was most impressed with the food service during my recent stay - prompt, delivered to you, just what you ordered by circling whatever meal menu options you chose, and magically cleared away with no muss, no fuss, and no dishes to do.  Not gray.  Grilled chicken breast Caesar salad.  Hamburgers.  Ice cream.  Good stuff.

Frankly, I liked the "gets delivered, you eat, it goes away" bit.  I'm going to ask my Sainted wife to try this system here at home.

Modern Medicine

When one goes to the hospital to have something REMOVED, one generally does not expect to come out looking like Martin Short as Jiminy Glick.  But, in a nutshell, this is essentially what happened to me this week.

Yes, dear readers, your curmudgeon had an emergency appendectomy this week.  Using modern laparoscopic methods, snip, snip and we were done.  Oddly, that also means three scars rather than one, but apparently that, too, is the modern way.

But, to my point - it turns out that the biggest issue in recovery was NOT pain management and the like, but GAS management!  It was like they inflated me to check for leaks or something.  And no Gas-X to get rid of it - oh,no - "walk it out."

Modern medicine: may the gas be with you!

Hot Off The Press

Goodness knows why we, in a quiet - and small - New Jersey town have a local paper, but we do.  It captures all manner of late-breaking town news, as long as you like publicly-available town meeting minutes.  But its key feature is the "Police Blotter."  This is where we retired people, desperate for any salacious news, get our fix of who's been arrested for what.

"Patrolman (pick a name you've never heard), pulled over a vehicle with an expired inspection sticker only to find drug paraphernalia" and the like.  "He was processed and released into the custody of a family member."  This is greatness in local news!  Who cares if councilman X asked how we're going to afford paving the town fields with AstroTurf or why councilwoman Y wants senior parking for the Farmer's Market - what cool crimes did our crack police force thwart?

To my dismay, our local rag just discontinued the Police Blotter.  What is a nosy retired curmudgeon to do?

Greatness by Putting Yourself Out of Business

You may not be aware of this, but Dentists should be viewed as selfless heroes.  They are furiously trying to put themselves out of business.  They have been for years - getting fluoride in water, improving preventative care, etc.  And theirs isn't the only occupation that behaves like this. 

I recently had a procedure that went so well I told the doctor he was too good - he was going to put himself out of business.  He said he has to try to put himself out of business - if he doesn't, someone else will.  That statement pretty much captured the essence of the stunning success of capitalism.

This, of course, is the complete opposite of how government employees work.

It's a Fork, Not a Shovel

Have you WATCHED how people around you eat in public?  Is it possible so many people haven't a clue about how to hold their utensils?  I hate to be the bearer of bad news (that's a Cassandra, not a Curmudgeon) but there is little that makes a person look stupider than not holding silverware properly.

Yes, pajama pants and tattoos make you look pretty stupid, but I see this ape-like handling of utensils far too often.  And I find it way scarier when a father is out with his family and HE is the offender, too backward to realize he is busily training a new generation to eat like Neanderthals.  

And much to my chagrin, I've seen it on TV - some bonehead films a kid in a commercial holding his spoon as if it's the first time he's ever used one because the director thinks it's says "cute."  News flash: it doesn't. 

It says "look at me!  I was brought up poorly!  Keep watching and I will chew with my mouth open, too!"  Yes, dear readers, it can even get worse.

Joan (Groan) Crawford

By now, surely you know I am an old movie fan.  Actually, you know I have rarely met a movie - old or new - that I didn't like, as long as it wasn't a musical, vampire movie, post-apocalyptic movie, etc. (as I've mentioned in the past).  But ANY movie that includes Joan Crawford deserves special mention and a place in the pantheon of terrible movies, which, of course, considering they include Joan Crawford, are old as well.

The eyebrows and eyelashes alone are enough to turn normal humans into mass murderers, but add the copiously applied lipstick and the overacting and her movies become a danger to society at large.

The scariest part is that she was HUGELY popular...with the very people we call "the greatest generation."

Be afraid, be very afraid.

Shipping & Handling

I recently ran across an old bill for something I had ordered by mail.  It was a $29.95 item from Heathkit (the go-to place for nerd do-it-yourself electronics), but my point here is the Shipping & Handling was $1.58.  Yes, you read that right: $1.58.  

Granted, it was purchased in 1980 and times were different.  Different in that Shipping & Handling was actually the cost of Shipping & Handling, rather than a fee created out of thin air, as it is today.

Today, the fee often pays for that $19.99 special whatsis you just got from an advertisement on TV, leaving the $19.99 as sheer profit.  A second one free, just pay S&H?  Right.  I'll believe that when the second one is $1.58.

The National Economic Scene

I had one of my periodic breakfasts with my friend Tom, the Economist.  He likes to expound upon our nation's economic situation and such, which essentially means he never makes a particle of sense.

Economists are an odd bunch - they actually believe that their field is a science when we all know that it's a bunch of made-up words to make them sound smart, to make economics seem very complicated, and to make it impossible to explain anything to normal people.  This is so that when everything goes down the toilet - as it inevitably does - their explanation is lengthy, full of jargon that SOUNDS impressive, while all along they are really as clueless as the rest of us.

When Tom gets going, throwing terms like  "hurdle rates" and "EVA" at me in the middle of otherwise innocent declarative sentences, I just get a headache.

Mercifully, these breakfasts are rare.

Rain - What, Me Worry?

On my first business trip to Southern California (this would, of course, be many years ago) I was thrilled to escape the wintry mess here in NJ - snow, black ice and really tedious driving.  SoCal, of course, was warm and sunny - no slush, no skidding on ice sheets - a real dream.

Hah!  The next morning, there was a little rain, and the news was going nuts over car accidents all over the place.  I was floored - I had just come from roads that were snow-covered and demanded the greatest skills to navigate and these idiots couldn't deal with a little rain!  WTF??, to use the vernacular.

Turns out, it rains so infrequently there that road dust and oils turn to grease when they first get wet, making the roads quite treacherous when it rains.  So, do they know enough to be careful all these years later?  Of course not!  An alert reader has just informed me that they drive like idiots still, trucks jackknifing, accidents galore EVERY TIME IT RAINS.

Back in a Minute

I'm sure you've encountered one of these "Back in 20 Minutes" signs hanging on the door of someplace you wanted to get into while out shopping.  Do these things annoy you as much as they do me?  20 minutes from WHEN?  Is that 20 minutes perhaps almost over?  Do you wait?

The shopkeeper took the time to put a sign up that tells you virtually nothing.  And many of these signs are purchased!  Some brainiac actually thought these worthless things up!  At least there is hope - someone smarter came up with the clock sign that says WHEN they'll be back.

There ought to be a law.

A Curmudgeon's Christmas Letter

It has recently come to my attention that a caring father made public a smashing Christmas letter he sent to his grown (married with children of their own) children.   

The gist was "I would prefer not to hear from you again, unless you have a success or accomplishment to share.  Your Mother and I have had enough of you bringing us down by complaining about your problems, failures, and general inability to take what we gave you and make a life of your own."

Being British, he had a nicer way of saying it all, but a curmudgeon cannot help but admire his courageous stand.  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/9686219/I-am-bitterly-bitterly-disappointed-retired-naval-officers-email-to-children-in-full.html will fill you in on the delicious details.

I'm going to recruit that man into our Societé!

Camping

The Curmudgeon Societé Generale attempts to address the needs and concerns of, well, curmudgeons.  Since these are pretty much a bunch of whiners, you can imagine the strange topics that appear in the Curmudgeon Handbook.

Camping is one.  A perfect endeavor for the gung-ho back-to-nature sect, it comprises a Handbook chapter that this curmudgeon ignores completely.

My experiences with camping merely proved to me that there are essential attributes to civilized life.  It was some combination, no doubt, of a flooded tent, losing the air in my air mattress in the middle of the night, an early frost and the sounds of wild beasts crashing through the underbrush in the dark that pretty much ended any interest I may have had in this ridiculous activity.  And I'm not even touching upon locking the keys in the car trunk, discovering that NJ campgrounds are packed on weekends (go figure), and Port-a-Potty delights.

Give me my slippers, a good book, and a snifter of port before the fire or give me death.

The Dirty Truth Behind Hurricanes

When someone mentions cleaning up after a hurricane, one would normally think drying things out, picking up tree branches and chasing down lawn furniture that took flight.  Cleaning windows does not spring to mind.

But boy, are hurricanes dirty - they pick up stuff, stir it all around and fling it everywhere - things like dust, dirt, leaf shreds, hapless bugs and more dust, which when soaked for awhile in the wet part of a hurricane, plaster all over everything, especially windows.

For some bizarre reason, it is up to the man of the house to clean this up (at least, so I am informed).  So here it is, three weeks after a hurricane hit, and having hoped said dirt would sort of fall off the windows on its own, I am, instead, glumly washing them.

Tattoos Part 2

I've just run across a TV show called "Tattoo Nightmares."  My first reaction was to laugh - after all, as I mentioned in my previous post on this matter in February, aren't ALL tattoos nightmares?  I can readily imagine what's on the show - the tattooer misspelling names, the tattooee misspelling names, a picture of Jimmy Buffet instead of Warren Buffet - this TV show could run for years!

And what's with the article on the front page of this Sunday's Times about tattooing?  All curmudgeons know the Times is just a liberal rag, but this really is going too far.  Maybe its new motto is "All the news that's fit to ink."

Clearly, if this topic is making it to the front page of the Times, my fears are coming true - tattooing is creeping into the mainstream.  But be honest - it still has a horrible reputation -why else did it attract such a complimentary name for one of its signature pieces - "tramp stamp"?

One Year!

Yes, dear readers, the Repor is one year old today.  Thanks to your unflinching support I have courageously tackled the pressing issues of our time, be they the dangers of redecorating, Piffle valves, penny races, or pajama pants in public.

Looking back over my oeuvre, even a curmudgeoun cannot help but be impressed with the breadth of my narrowmindedness.  

Oh, but I do go on.

Black Friday

What in the world is going on this year?  There seems to be WAY more advertising for Black Friday, there are all manner of stores opening on Thanksgiving, and there is a rash of resulting call-in radio shows about the decay of America.  Sheesh.

As a curmudgeon, I have, naturally, ignored "Black Friday" for obvious reasons.  Like I'm about to join the frenzied masses to do battle for that deal on this year's hot toy.  Crushed by the mob at Walmart jamming into their 6am opening.  I don't think so.

But with some $50 BILLION in sales for the one day at stake, I can understand a tad of advertising enthusiasm.  Just don't expect any curmudgeons to turn out.

A Curmudgeon's Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is many things: a traditional American holiday for families to get together and give thanks, a turkey dinner with all the fixins, the kickoff of the Christmas shopping season, and, for reasons only Classic Rock FM stations seem to know, time to play "Alice's Restaurant."

Alice's Restaurant is yes, a happy, folksy song about some adventures surrounding a Thanksgiving dinner among friends, but in reality is an anti-Vietnam War song.  Back when R&R was coming to FM, the draft weighed rather heavily on the minds of all able-bodied male listeners (like, for instance, moi), so there was a natural connection to the song.

And it's way more fun than Christmas shopping.

Free Wi-Fi

Being on the road to Chicago, I was away from my home Wi-Fi.  So as not to disappoint my dear readers, I was ever on the alert for places with free Wi-Fi.  This being 2012 and all, they were EVERYWHERE.  My hotel, shopping centers, restaurants - heck, even a skanky taco stand had one.

But my in-laws?  Not so easy.  One, living in an apartment building, had cleverly found the Wi-Fi of a clueless neighbor who had neglected to administer a password.  Great plan - until said neighbor mysteriously decides to turn OFF the Wi-Fi.  The result?  I was, as they say, "sucking wind."

So, with tears in my eyes, and thinking only of my dear readers, I zipped over to another in-law's place (there are quite a few of these in-laws) who said they had Wi-Fi.  They did!  Unfortunately, someone had set their system up for them and the password, embedded in the system, was lost at the bottom of some forgotten file.

Aah, but there's always Mr. Taco.  Not so good for the waistline, but the Wi-Fi was free! 

Hotel 6...Or Is It 8?

You have to admit, Americans are a clever bunch.  And they often use that cleverness to put names on their stuff.  

In my travels I have noticed: Give a Mainer a license plate with seven spaces and they will spend those long winter nights inventing all manner of vanity plates.  And people who own hair salons seem to be in some sort of nationwide competition for the cleverest play on words for "haircut."

Of course, trying to be clever can turn on you.  What the heck is a Hotel 6 or Motel 8 (or is it the other way around - I can never remember).  Some banks are no better.  The Fifth Third Bank?  If you're struggling to decide if you're going to be fifth or third in some field, TRY A NEW FIELD.

Chicago Cuisine

One of the delights of visiting Chicago is indulging in their cuisine.  And indulge I did.  One would not be amiss in suggesting I OVER-indulged.

You start with a Denny's Grand Slam breakfast, hit Portillo's for a couple jumbo chili cheese dogs for lunch and back again when there's room for a dinner of Chicago beef sandwiches and tamales.  For day 2, there's Bob Evan's sausage biscuit bowl - an actual bowl made out of biscuit filled with scrambled eggs, crumbled sausage, home fries, topped with sausage gravy and shredded cheese, followed by Mr. Taco's greasiest and finest for lunch, and Chicago deep-dish pizza for dinner.

Time to take a break?  Hell, no.  They've got Perkins restaurants, Cracker Barrels galore, polish sausage emporiums, Maxwell Street bone-in pork chop sandwiches, sheesh - I wasn't there long enough to do justice to it all.   

And looky - when I got home, I'd only gained 2 pounds.  Chicago's cuisine rules!

Toy Dogs

The Curmudgeon Handbook, as a paragon of propriety, sets some pretty high standards of taste and behavior, but generally steers clear of opining about people's tastes in pets.  I have naturally interpreted that to mean I am free to comment on whatever stupid pet behavior I choose.

And so we come to toy dogs (the live variety, that is).  These are quite popular as companions for single women, the elderly, and gays.  For the rest of us, they are to be avoided.  Noxious, furry nuisances, they are small - yet loud - and live in some weird sped-up world where they are prone to wetting themselves when excited.

They are also prone to be being dressed up by their owners.  In many outfits.  Seasonal getups.  Occasion-related attire.  I shudder to think just what kind of store carries clothing for small dogs, but happily, they have escaped my notice.

I just wish toy dogs would.

Energy Drinks

As traveling older people, my wife and I often took advantage of the various rest stops along the way during our recent trip to Chicago.  A coffee break here, a mercy break there, we availed ourselves of all the conveniences that our modern interstate highway system has to offer.

However, in keeping with modern times, in addition to coffee and sodas, the stops were loaded with those new-fangled "energy drinks."  A great profusion of them with names like Monster, Rockstar, Red Bull, and AMP promised many hours of sleep-free driving.

But mine is a finely-tuned body - these over-caffeinated, over-priced fad drinks would greatly upset my carefully balanced constitution.  We manly men need nothing more than a good ole cup of Joe.

A Woman's Home

Following my idyllic stay in Elyria, I stayed at a single woman's home.  It's not what you think - we were visiting my sainted wife's family.  There is something unique about such a home - namely, it is filled with femaleosity.  Everywhere I turn, there is a little throw, a decorative frou-frou, plates hanging on walls, a seasonal touch - the things a curmudgeon NEVER thinks about.  Places are artfully set at the table, the decorative fruit bowl actually contains fruit, not wax - essentially, it is a foreign land.

And the beds!  I wish I knew what female button the designer who said "no bed can have too many pillows" pushed - he really struck gold.  I had to wade through a dozen or so just to catch a nap.  

This is not to suggest my wife doesn't add feminine touches to our house, but she DOES live with a curmudgeon and there's a limit to what she can get away with.  

Elyrian Fields

I will always remember Elyria, Ohio.  Smack dab in the middle of a trip to Chicago from New Jersey, it is an ideal stopover for tired travelers.

First off, the restaurants!  A Denny's RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET from a Bob Evans.  My brain nearly froze up, the choice was so hard during my brief stay.  And the hotels!  Red Roof Inn, Quality Inn, Best Western, Hotel 8 - how is one to choose?

But it IS Elyria, and at $63 a night, who cares?  I chose because I found one that cares about the planet - in the bathroom was a placard: You make the choice - a towel on the rack means "I will use again," one on the floor, "Please replace."

I'm going to try this at home...

The Kitty Cam

Have you heard about these handy little cameras that you wear around your neck and they take a picture every 30 seconds to record your daily wanderings?  Who on earth would wear such a thing?

Well, I have an answer - Tiger the Wonder Cat.  I have always wanted to know where he goes all day and what he does.  Reports from the neighbors suggest that rather than being ever-watchful and on the hunt keeping us safe from marauding rodents (as I had long assumed) he actually hangs out on a warm front stoop somewhere and naps.

WHAT!?!!  Wonder cats DO NOT sleep on the job of prowling and being king of the neighborhood.  This cannot be.

I need my kitty cam.

Jury Duty

Have you ever actually served on a jury?  The deal where I live is "one day or one trial" which means you show up on your scheduled day, and if you aren't called (like when the desperado makes a last-minute deal in the hall), that's it.  You're off.  A crap shoot to be sure, since you might be trapped for an entire trial, but so far it has worked for me.  No jury duty yet.

But I HAVE given it some thought.  Being a card-carrying curmudgeon, it occurs to me that I would be a pretty bad choice as a juror.  After all, a juror is expected to listen carefully to "testimony" and probably care about the outcome.  And let's be honest, THAT isn't about to happen with a curmudgeon on the jury.

I'll have to have a word with the Curmudgeon Societé - we should probably argue that curmudgeonry is cause for permanent jury duty exemption.

Election Results

I can't let this election go by without comment.  Frankly, it was all I could do not to make a LOT of comments throughout this overlong and tedious campaign, politics being so rich in source material and all.  However, I'll leave that to political comedy outlets like The Daily Show and FOX news.  But you have to wonder:

Obama won by, like, 2% of the vote.  As is not uncommon these days, America is essentially saying "whichever."  Pundits may have busily proved - yet again - that they are essentially idiots, and Americans may have argued passionately, but 2% is a squeaker in my book.

But on to my point - we, the people, barely elected one over the other.  This electoral "college" did ITS math and arrived at the stunning conclusion that it was a 60-40 split.

What kind of college is that bad at math?

Halloween - The Resurrection

For reasons that, once again, escape me, gas lines have appeared in New Jersey.  Heck, I hadn't seen them since 1974.  Back then, I was commuting by train and could walk to the grocery store, so I never actually experienced one.

The reason I bring this up is that an alert reader brought to my attention that I could combine the gas situation now with an activity I loath, namely handing out free candy to small children. This Halloween, I should give each of the little monsters a can of gas!  

Who wants to bet that their parents wouldn't complain?  NOBODY likes gas lines.  

Halloween IV

Halloween in New Jersey was postponed by the Governor - for reasons that escape me - to tonight.  No matter: I am hunkered down in my "safe room," (by which I mean the basement rec room), fully prepared to ignore all entreaties for free candy.  My sainted wife is NOT standing by the front door in anticipation of the little darlings shouting "trick or treat!" and cooing over whether it is a boy or girl and what little-known elf he/she is.  No, my wife - along with Tiger the Wonder Cat - is holed up here as well.

We hear the sporadic sounds of approaching small creatures, falsely hoping that this dark house is occupied.  Being too cheap, er, frugal, er, careful with money, I haven't rented a hotel room.  And who knows, the little demons could show up there for all I know.

For me, I've taped "fright night" on Turner Classics, and I'm bringing the popcorn.  Saay, Halloween isn't so bad after all.

Halloween III

My view of lawn decorations is a matter of record (see the May 1 entry).  So this recent explosion of decorating excessively for every freaking holiday Hallmark can think up - let alone Halloween - is really getting out of hand.

Halloween was a kid's delight when I was a youngster.  You helped your Dad carve a pumpkin and were thrilled when the big day came and you lit up the candle inside.  Then it was off to collect your booty.  Good times, good times.

Well, rip that image right out of your mind.  For today's ADD-addled world, we need mock graveyards on the front lawn, huge spiders climbing up the house, ghosts - that laugh ghoulishly when you approach, no less - hanging from trees, and blow-up dolls.  Every house must be some sort of amusement park.  As if the candy sugar rushes didn't do enough.

And I'll try to ignore that I was hearing Christmas music in the store last night as I purchased my Halloween blackmail candy.

Halloween II

Let's face it, whoever thought up this get-free-candy thing was a child's god.  All you had to do was slap on some semblance of a costume and shout "trick or treat" now and again, and the goodies were yours.  Heck, you could run home, change your disguise and hit the same houses all over again.  This had to be pretty close to heaven.

As a fully realized Curmudgeon, I see Halloween for what it is - a pox upon society.  That 9-year old sociopath-in-the-making down the street has plagued me since he moved in and I'm supposed to give him free candy because he paused in his daily haunting of the neighborhood long enough to slap on a mask?

And here's the real twist - if I DON'T he's free to trick me!  And that's assuming he didn't do that toilet paper bit the night before as well!

I'm putting my hose away later next year.  I need to be armed and ready.

Halloween

The Curmudgeon, believe it or not, was once a kid.  And like all kids, at this time of year I looked forward to that eminently kid occasion - Halloween.

But now, as you might suspect, I don't look quite so favorably upon this incredibly tedious event.  This is not a kid-friendly household, more an occasionally kid-tolerant one.  Read "an" and "a" kid there - not a bunch of them all grubbing for candy.

And what is with this "let's escort our kids around before dark" bit?   Yeah, let's make this annoyance start earlier and last longer than before.  If you're big enough to grub for candy, man up and do it after dark.  What's spooky about doing it while it's still light out?

There ought to be a law.

Man Caves

I've heard a lot about how manly men should have a "man cave" in their house these days.  As you might imagine, the Curmudgeon Handbook is silent on this matter.  In my day, the  successful man had a "den" to himself.  Dens had bookcases, a fireplace, a regal desk, leather furniture and raised panel walls.  They were for reading, paperwork, smoking pipes, and other important manly matters.

These "man cave" things lean towards wall-sized TVs, seating and speaker systems suitable for movie theaters, and lots & lots of insulation.  They are for watching sports, guzzling beer and making noise.

As a Curmudgeon, I embrace the need to separate oneself from noisy household denizens, but at least I do it with dignity intact.

Saving the Suburban Bear

It is remarkable, that after millennia of working to tame our surroundings - animal, plant, weather, etc. - there are those benighted souls who take protecting those things to extremes.

Feeding bears in suburban New Jersey?  Can any rational person THINK of a stupider thing to do?  Don't shoot deer to reduce their number? Do you LIKE the ticks that infect you with Lyme disease or that special look in their eyes as your car makes contact with them?  

And don't get me started on rabid environmentalists.  Although I actually applaud Greenpeace chasing whalers, you can take PETA and the EPA aside and shoot them.  Neither seems to know the meaning of "point well made" or "job well done." Their mission is apparently endless intrusion, not realistic goals.

There are even Curmudgeons who respect wildlife and care about the environment.  But we differ in that we have the common sense to draw reasonable lines - after all, we are all part of the formula.  Get used to it.

I know - let's tell the EPA that PETA uses red dye #2 in the paint they throw at fur coats.

More Movie Reviews

One of the joys of watching Science Fiction movies from the 50's is seeing the creative use to which directors could put big budgets like $60,000.  Another is the extraordinary reviews.  In the case of the classic "Frankenstein Meets the Space Monster" (where, incidentally, Frankenstein does not even appear) the reviewers raved:

"Due to its lack of inclusion in a Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode, this movie is not well known."

"As in many 50's sci-fi movies, NASA is apparently run by 3 or 4 people."

"Has to be seen only for realizing how bad b-movie sci-fi can actually be."

"This movie was expressly written for struggling actors who would take any work."

"The invaders apparently kept a space monster locked up on board just in case of emergencies."

"The space monster?  Well, let's just say that there were apparently a lot of well-stocked dumpsters handy to the studio."

Sci-fi movies from the 50's - so bad, they're great!

Crust-to-Crust Is A Must

Growing up in a New England household, there was a proper dining etiquette.  Of course, in those days, the family sat down and ate together: Father carved the meat, mother served the rest of the goop, and polite dinner conversation followed.  There was a balanced meal every evening - meat, starch, vegetable, and - without fail - dessert.  Every schoolday,  a lunchbox with a sandwich, a cookie or two, an apple and a thermos of milk.  Reliable.  Comfort food on a daily basis.

As such, there were certain expectations.  Toast was carefully and uniformly buttered crust-to-crust.  Hot dog rolls were New England style and had to be buttered on the exposed sides for proper grilling.  Grilled cheese (American, of course) sandwiches were on white bread (buttered, again, crust-to-etc.).  There was pride involved.

Spam was scored in a diagonal pattern, given a brown sugar glaze, dotted with cloves and lovingly baked.  You declared how many franks you wanted for franks and beans every Saturday so none would be wasted.  Pancakes were in the shape of your initials.

The little things counted.

Where's My Poison?

My little slice of the American dream is a 70-year old house.  Built  sturdily, back when men were men and quaint tools like a "hammer" and a "handsaw" were used, it has weathered the years well.

A little while back, we discovered evidence of termites, so we hired one of those guys who drills deep holes every 3 feet around your foundation and pours in, what I thought at the time, a really, really deadly poison to kill them and all future generations.

Not so, I discovered.  Good poisons aren't what they used to be.  That is to say, they're hardly poison at all.  The environmental police have seen to that.  The best that the current treatments can do is "seriously dissuade" the termites from returning, rather than killing 'em good.

And they call that poison.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

I happen to read a lot - something, no doubt, that already says I'm not mainstream America - but I am compelled to comment on an item I recently read about what people are watching on TV.

Things like WWE on cable and Dancing with the Stars on network TV consistently appear at the top of the weekly "most watched" lists.  I periodically check these lists, waiting for good sense and taste to return, but I now suspect I'm kidding myself.

It is a little scary to realize that I could be so far removed from what appears to be the mainstream IN MY OWN COUNTRY, but there it is.

On second thought, MIGHTY scary.

Curmudgeons Saving Mankind

The Curmudgeon Society Generale exists primarily for the good of humanity, albeit serving as an excellent forum for the membership to let off steam about how daunting the task is, given the impediments certain elements of humanity place before us.

Remarkably stupid mothers are just such an element.  Let's focus on just one example: childhood vaccinations.  In my generation, they were a godsend, delivered by gods in the pharmaceutical field.  And we are a thankful bunch, seeing as how we are alive and healthy today.

But never mind two generations of evidence that these vaccinations are a wonder, let one obscure report in Britain suggest that they aren't and this class of mothers panics.  "No vaccinations for my kids!" they scream.  Never mind that the report is subsequently proved a fraud, these mothers remain steadfast.  And stupid.

Just don't let their spawn anywhere near the rest of us.

I Forgot

When I discovered, at a reasonably early age, that I had a lousy memory, I cleverly decided that engineering was my future - you simply applied engineering rules and equations that any idiot could look up and voila - something was engineered and money was earned.  A good memory?  Not really required.

A direct derivative (get it?) of that was I also became an excellent note-taker.  And I was guided by a simple principle: if I want to remember something, I write it down; everything else is part of a memory crapshoot.  This has become a delightful way to live - I have no fear of forgetting things, and I can claim, under cross-examination - say by my sainted wife, for example - that "it's not on my list."

When you think about it, it's also excellent training for when I get  Alzheimer's.  As Alfred E. Neuman told us - "What, me worry?"

Can You Spare a Spare?

When you buy something new, you are generally not thinking "Hey - I better stock up on spare parts in case this company goes out of business."

Apparently, one would be remiss, as I have discovered.  New, high-tech energy savings furnace from a well-known company - I should be OK, right?  Not if they discontinue that model, apparently.  Broken mounting clips on one of those fancy (read - expensive) "window treatment" shades I bought some years ago?  Apparently I should have thought 15 years ahead for spare parts in case the shade maker went out of business.  

What really got my ire (and honestly, you don't want to do that), my sainted wife bought me the fancy Mr. Clean auto washing system a few short years ago and the rats discontinued it already!  Now I'm an unwilling victim of eBay spares scalpers, who apparently KNEW the rats were discontinuing the product.

When it comes to sustaining products, we should take a cue from Cuban auto maintenance.  

Cup Holders

Having recently travelled by air, I am, of course, reassured that it is the safest way to travel (it was even before those Homeland "security" nincompoops got involved).  And it's nice that I can read, listen to music, snooze or even watch TV, but I am compelled to ask the burning question: where are the cup holders?  

We have become the cup holder nation - we have them in our furniture, they're in movie theaters, we even have them in our vehicles (more on this crisis to come).

But not planes. Seems like the perfect place - airlines don't serve food to the hoi polloi in coach anymore, but they do serve drinks.  And most anybody equipped with legs finds those drop-down trays a tad tedious.

So I ask you: where are the cup holders?

Veterinarians Strike Again

I know I shouldn't return to past topics too often, but so many are such rich sources of aggravation they deserve special attention - like bad driving, wretched excesses in attire and appearance, Buzz...and Veterinarians (see relevant observations back in March).

Yikes - there is simply no end to the ways they have to gouge you.  And, as I mentioned previously, they've got you - if you ever even contemplate boarding your pet, their vaccinations need to be up to date and they should have had a physical.  A cat.  A physical!

But here's the real kick in the teeth (quite literally): $460 TO $580 FOR TEETH CLEANING.  Not to mention the physical beforehand ($70), the blood test ($225), vaccinations, baba dis and baba dat.  Hell, they should have picked up my cat here at home and returned her afterwards for that kind of money.

And don't even ask about fecal floatations.  Just shoot me.

Canadian Geese

The Curmudgeon lives in an area that is gaily speckled with parks, ponds, golf courses and corporate parks.  As a result, he lives in an area that is gaily speckled with Canadian Geese.

Unlike Canadian PEOPLE, who have apparently come to terms with their climate, these pests have discovered that life is sweeter here south of the border.  And, apparently, VERY sweet - they have relocated en mass, gleefully enjoying our bounty...and then promptly excreting it.

I worked with a benighted woman (growing up in Jersey City, she had apparently never seen "wildlife") who FED the cute geese at our corporate pond at lunch.  Afterwards, due to their special way of saying "thank you" by excreting copiously in the adjoining parking lot, the company issued a rule that employees refrain from this practice.

I have a better idea - tell the geese that Jersey City would welcome them!

A Note on Bass

The curmudgeon has, he must admit, an affinity for a good bass line.   When my stereo pounds out the music it was bought for at the volume it was meant for, things bounce.  Give me good ole Rock & Roll at hearing-endangering volumes, and I am transported.

Perhaps the stereo show in NYC in 1984 helped - I was wandering through the Cerwin Vega showroom just as they hit the definitive moment in Emerson, Lake and Palmer's "Tank."  It was being played VERY loudly on a $1600 pair of speakers that were the size of a small car.  My chest compressed with each note.  I was never the same again.

My guiding principle: There is music that simply can't be played loud enough.

Especially when my sainted wife is trying to make some obscure point.

(This has been re-published with a favorite photo of me).

Farewell, Paradise

Today, I bid goodbye to this little corner of paradise.  I must admit it was grand, but when things look particularly good, the Curmudgeon Handbook always advises caution.  

And a good thing, too - every place has its seamy underbelly, and Sanibel is no exception.

I refer, of course, to the sudden availability of sweet potato fries all over the island.  This is clearly the handiwork of some powerful & organized effort, and that can only mean one thing:  organized crime has used this innocuous item to get a toehold here.

And it can only get worse: I see Kale Chips in Sanibel's future.  I'm getting out in the nick of time.

Thrills in Paradise

As I lounge here, watching the surf, birds keening and wheeling about, catching sight of the occasional dolphin, I am reminded of...Hooters, of course.

Over in Clearwater, they have Hooters contests ON THE BEACH.  The last time I was there, the contestants even came around to our lounges to campaign for our vote!  Very considerate.  But here on Sanibel?  Not bloody likely.

Oh, but hold on - I see some excitement - someone just found a shark's eye shell - gotta go over and check it out.

Nature: whoopdedoo.

Save the Humans

Sanibel Island is a nice enough place.  It is quite idyllic (at least in the off season), and is dedicated to wildlife welfare (a large section of the island is a nature preserve).

The place where the curmudgeon stays has an elegant restaurant (we'll skip the whole discussion of proper attire re: "elegant" dining in the spirit of brevity).  Being right on the beach, it has an uninterrupted view of the gulf and its beautiful sunsets.

But - and regrettably, there is a but - as darkness falls, the windows become mirrors SO THE DINING ROOM LIGHTING WON'T DISORIENT HATCHING TURTLES.  Needless to say, I'm all for the little guys finding their way to the sea, but at least tell a diner, before he drops a lot of money on a dinner and expecting a view, that he will be staring at himself after dark.

I've dined in a lot of places, but let me tell you, the mirror thing is really, really creepy.

The Sweet Smell of Paradise

I'm sure you're thinking salt air, pine needles and such.  Maybe the occasional whiff of Coppertone.  Well, you'd be right - to a degree.

After all, this is nature, and nature doesn't always supply the air with your choice of fragrances.  Take the fragrance of rotting flesh that now engulfs me here - who knew last week's storm would wash a bunch of sea life up to leisurely rot in the sun for me?  Sanibel being a nature preserve and all, you most certainly can't sweep the beach clear.  Oh no - let nature take its course.

Maybe if I imported a bunch of crabs - they eat this stuff, don't they?

Chilling in Paradise

So we're finally settled in here in paradise - time to rent that lounge and umbrella on the beach and chill, right?  Why else would one choose an out-of-the-way island that's mostly nature preserve, right?

Wrong - go shopping!  There must be all sorts of quaint shell and driftwood-filled places just waiting to gouge the gullible tourist.  Never mind that after coming here for 10 years, one pretty much knows the precise inventory of each shop.

There just seems to be this female imperative to shop.  If the island shops are exhausted, there's always Macy's or TJ Maxx on the mainland!  No doubt they're vastly different than the ones back home!

The water here in the Gulf is 84˚ - like I'm going shopping.

Cheeseburger in Paradise

The first thing we did, upon arriving here in paradise, was eat, of course.  We were in seafood heaven.  So did we hottail it to the nearest shack?  Of course not - once away from New Jersey, we could indulge in Denny's, Bob Evans, Cracker Barrel, Waffle House and other places that can't seem to make it to our home state.

So Bob Evans it was.  Great breakfasts - eggs with cheese, sausage gravy and biscuits, home fries with cheese, bacon and sour cream; huge bacon cheeseburgers for lunch, gravy-rich dinners - real Amurican stick-to-your-ribs stuff.

Just because that overweight woman at the next table was on an oxygen tank, she was still getting her biscuits & grits.

The Joy of Flying

In order to "whisk" myself away to this little slice of paradise, I had to endure quite the gauntlet.

Newark Airport is a reasonably modern airport and VERY busy.  That must be why they haven't had the time to put clocks in the concourses to keep harried travelers informed.

And, of course, there's Homeland Security.  The very definition of wretched excess. They steered me into the line with those twirling machines that show off your whole body, but typically, the line was at a standstill.  When their backs were turned, I simply slid over to the normal X-ray line and zipped through.  

In either line, it's still no shoes, no belt, no wallet, no combs even: just you & your clothes go through.  If these new machines are so good, do tell - WHY can't they tell a comb from a weapon?

But there's hope: if you're over 75, you don't have to take your shoes off!  

Far From the Madding Crowd

I have whisked myself away to a quiet, out-of-the-way place off the coast of Florida.  You know, the sort of place that would appeal to, well, a curmudgeon.

I'm staying at a place called "Casa Ybel," which, I am told, is Spanish for  "the  castle - it pretty."  Although no castle is in sight, neither are crowds, loud radios, overweight people in thongs nor vigorous beach ball or frisbee competitions that are commonly found on New Jersey beaches.  Mostly sun, shells, sand, wind & waves. 

A bit of alright.

The Unshaven Look Pt. II

Painful as it is, I return (see last February's in-depth coverage) to this pox upon civilized man.  As I mentioned back in February, I was hoping it was just a fad.  Unfortunately, it has shown a regrettable unwillingness to wither and die as it should.

In the meantime, I have been searching for more courageous people to speak up on behalf of we more fully evolved sorts.  The Curmudgeon Society Generale, despite fierce lobbying on my part, hasn't taken up the cause.

Well, I've found the definitive movie moment that should give pause to followers of this odious practice.  In a scene from To Have and Have Not, Bogey, just back from a few arduous days on the high seas, moves in to embrace and kiss Lauren Bacall.  Looking at his scraggly appearance, she stops him and says:  "Why don't you shave for me and we'll try it again?"

Classy lady.

Kale Chips

The Curmudgeon has been put on a diet.  This couch potato life does have a drawback, in that snacks are handy and marathons and other forms of vigorous exercise are unlikely.

So I agreed to a diet.  They all have names, apparently, and although I'm not quite sure why the names have no relation to any of their dietary details, I was given one with a nice-sounding name: the South Beach diet.

The principle feature of this diet is to separate me from virtually every foodstuff I have come to love.  It is rife with vegetables (something any sane red meat eater would assume was just the garnish on his medium-rare steak platter), myriad forms of lettuce (often looking more like weeds one often sees at the side of the road), and not just jello but SUGAR FREE jello for dessert (isn't that stuff fake enough?).  The list goes downhill from there.

Then my sainted wife brought home the coup de grace: Kale Chips.  They are easy to describe - Letterman did so recently - they look just like you scraped that grass accumulation from under your mower and boxed it up for $3 an ounce.

Pretty much tastes like it too.