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.