The Boston Brahman

Growing up in Boston, my mother was exposed to some of the snootiest people in America: the proper Boston Brahman.

Their accent alone talks down to you - the words that are included only twist the knife already embedded in you.  My mother, normally speaking in unaccented english, would summon up the Boston Brahman accent to deadly effect if she felt the occasion demanded.  I pitied the hapless phone salesman that got her on the phone - he would never forget THAT call (nor, of course, would he win the sale).

I recommend you to Katherine Hepburn's movies to get a sense for how this all works.

Commando

In my day - which, if you haven't noticed, includes today - "commando" stood for tough military types you sent in on impossible missions.

Apparently, today it also means going about without your underwear on. Now, I do this all the time WHEN I'M SWIMMING.  And, to my dismay, curmudgeons have been known to do this occasionally because they do forget things now and again.  

But on purpose?  How, err, painful.  I like to protect the boys.

Marcus Welby, M.D.

You know you're watching the wrong show when the advertisements consist of things like Pat Boone talking about walk-in bathtubs, Medicare supplemental insurance, "Help I've fallen and can't get up," portable oxygen systems and the Scooter Store.

It isn't a stretch - even for the reasonably clueless - to realize the target market for this show.  And let me assure my loyal readers, it isn't me.  A feel-good show from the early 70s helmed by the kindest, most caring doctor imaginable is not the "right stuff" for crusty, crabby curmudgeons.

But, I have to cut this short and scoot - Leave It To Beaver is on next.

How To Become A Curmudgeon

Alert readers often write to say "This curmudgeonry seems like the right way to go - how can I become a curmudgeon?" And not any old bat, but a member of the prestigious Curmudgeon Societé Generale.  

Of course, like any professional society, there are the usual raft of requirements - accomplishments, nomination by a member, etc., etc., but most importantly, it is the interviews that can make or break new members.

A glimmer of sympathy here, the wrong balance of intellectual disdain versus intellectual curiosity there and similar traps often throw curmudgeon wannabes.  And you're being interviewed by suspicious, cranky, cantankerous old guys, so there's no fooling them.

Face it - you're born to be a curmudgeon or not.  No courses, no advisors: we're naturals.

Chapter 22

We curmudgeons take our basements seriously: they serve an extremely important purpose - once you get the laundry upstairs, as I have, the wife never ventures down there.  It is my private space.  It is also warehouse central for various items that just might come in handy on some future project.

Chapter 22 of the handbook (for those souls strong enough to read that far) is entitled "Trash Is The Last Resort."  Whenever I do a project, there are always a few pieces left over.  I no doubt missed a step here or there during assembly, but if it works when I'm done, well, I'm done and the spare pieces go in the basement.

Regrettably, I don't take the time to label these parts, so I have thousands of little thingamabobs that I no longer have any idea what they were supposed to do. 

But I can't throw them out - Chapter 22 and all.  I'm sure they'll come in handy sometime.

Bonehead Bureaucrats

What boneheaded bureaucrat thought up "child-proof" prescription medicine caps?  And then proceeded to make IT the standard, rather than the option?  Young parents are already protecting their kids six ways from Sunday - government-required car seats, government-required helmets for speedy tricycles, they can cover their electrical outlets, pad coffee table corners - the list is endless.  

Those I don't give a damn about.  But struggling to get at my medicine is another thing altogether.  And I'M the one who has to remember to ask for it in a normal container, not one that is hellish, which, again, IS THE STANDARD.

Young parents with kids are ALREADY in "protect" mode - they can certainly request medications in hard-to-open-for-everyone containers, or better yet, buy aftermarket protective caps. 

Leave the rest of us alone.  

Natty Attire

A lot of guys are real clothes hounds - always nattily attired, outfits for every occasion and the like.  They sort of have a sixth sense that tells them what they look good in.

Then there are curmudgeons.  Attire is a chore.  Just throw any old things together.  And boy, do they.  They still believe that only woman's clothing styles change - with curmudgeons, you wear that stuff until it is in tatters.

Brooks Brothers exists for work clothes, L.L. Bean for everything else. Period.  Attire "life" should be simple and straightforward - no different than going to the hardware store for a 3" #8 brass flathead screw.

Of course, this tends to make Societé meetings a visual horror show.

Playboy vs. the New Yorker

As an engineer, I am quite the fan of M.C. Escher.  His mindbenders are simply fantastic.  But, today, I am using him to make an important point: how similar reading Playboy is to reading the New Yorker.

With both, you claim to read the articles, but you really only look at the pictures & cartoons. "Reading" Playboy consists of reading this Month's Playmate measurements and - occasionally - interests. Reading the New Yorker consists of reading the cartoon punch lines, and in the good old days, the little "There Will Always Be An England" jokes.

And you probably thought these magazines appealed to different audiences.

Too Much Stuff

My sainted wife has a lot of "stuff."  To name but a few of the collections, we have: sets of dishware, glassware of perhaps even more variety (as covered early on in these musings), shells, decorative plates, gardening paraphernalia, cookbooks, teddy bears, blankets and comforters, business supplies "freed" from an employer, small tables (yes, you read that right), the list actually goes on, but I think I made my point.

These collections necessarily take up space - especially when we're talking small furniture, vases and bags of shells, none of which are known for dense packing away.

We are currently doing construction in a room - not a major one, just a garage breezeway. But big enough to have formerly housed three of the "collections."  Since they have to find a new home, my dear wife is confronted with the fact that, over the years, I have efficiently salted all her OTHER collections in every imaginable cubbyhole (and more) that our little cape cod home offers up.

Whatever will she do?  For me, I will just play Delbert McClinton's "Too Much Stuff."  Loudly.  Floorboards beware.

Auto Insurance

You've all seen them - the Gecko, the Allstate guy with the deep voice, that distressingly ubiquitous Progressive chick, the "General" - there seems to be no end to insurance ads.

Must be an astoundingly profitable industry to afford such non-stop TV and print advertising.  My own benighted state once had some sort of government insurance regulator board that mostly served to drive insurers out of the state, rather than have to deal with clueless bureaucrats, but now that the board is deservedly gone, EVERY insurance company can save me an average of $1500 a year.

That's not particularly hard, given New Jersey's insurance rates, but the non-stop advertising has to stop.  I'm thinking of doing violence to someone - anyone will do - the next time I see Ms. Progressive, which will surely be within the next hour...

Yappy Dogs

I'm starting to feel beleaguered by neighborhood dogs.  A few years ago, Tiger, the Wonder cat was in charge of the neighborhood - no noise, no mice, no rabbits - a true leader.

Now we have howling hounds (1/31 Repor) and little yappy dogs.  The yappers yap at EVERYTHING from the mailman to dog walkers passing by to me going out to pick up the paper. So I have taken to trying to run them down when they're out and I'm driving home.  The owners, good friends, think its a game, so they get a chuckle out of it.  They don't realize I'm deadly serious.

But those little noisome creatures are quick and have successfully eluded me for years.  I need a better plan.

The Poopy Lady

When I was a mere prat, say some 50 or 60 years ago, we had a cute little dachshund and it was our job to take her out for her daily constitutional.  In those days, that meant letting her do whatever wherever - no pooper-scooper laws, no fuss.

Except for the poopy lady.  She would come tearing out of her house yelling at us not to let our dog poop anywhere near HER house.  We couldn't figure out what the fuss was all about, so we made sure we did it after dark.

Of course, she was just ahead of her time...by 50 or so years, but at the time, she was just the poopy lady.

And this name came from my proper Bostonian mother!

Panarama

Despite being a curmudgeon, I am no stranger to the kitchen - I can whip up some franks and beans or SPAM on a moment's notice.  So I know what's important in a good pan, and let me tell you, it's not because it looks good or appears on all the trendy TV shows.

But, to my chagrin, this household is fashionable pan-wise.  That's just so important - one should have pans that reflect good styling and current trends, rather than practicality.  And, fashionable pans let you pay a premium for their good looks.

Rather than practical cooking pans, you know, easy-to-clean, designed so the handles stay cool, non-stick, etc., we have to be fashionable.  I will admit I fell prey to harvest gold pans in the 70s, but I like to think I learned from that.  

Between Teflon pans and Corelle dishware, any curmudgeon would be a happy camper.

When Doorbells Ring

You're having a perfectly good day, reading a good book or maybe this month's Model Railroader, playing with the cat, munching a few Fritos, then it happens: the doorbell rings.

Doorbells don't ring that often anymore.  It used to be fun "I wonder who that could be coming by to visit?"  Now it's just a royal pain.  Even Tiger, the Wonder Cat growls (!) and runs off.  My Sainted wife, rather than opening the door, peeks out a nearby window to decide if she's home or not.

Its the 21st century - who rings doorbells?  Apparently because we live in a wealthy college town, we get a lot of kids selling magazines to work their way through school.  At $250,000 a crack, there isn't a person alive who could even make a dent in it selling magazines in a town of 9,000 households.

Just be honest - it's your beer and grass budget for the year.

Chinese Food at Apple Stores

I had to visit the "genius bar" at the Apple store today to resolve a few technical items for a presentation I'm giving to the Societé.  Without question, the Apple store is a stunning success.

Unfortunately, for an aging curmudgeon, there is a drawback. Visiting the Genius Bar is not unlike eating Chinese food:  it sounds real good, but a half hour later you have no idea what they were talking about.

Luckily, my presentation is at 2pm, and the few people actually still awake will be minimal, and will probably believe anything I make up.

Car Radios

Have you ever ripped out a car radio?  One of those high-end ones that fetch a pretty penny?  Well, I have.  It's not what you think - it wasn't for drug money (I grabbed little old lady's purses for that).

I was replacing the stereo that came with my car with a really nice new one.  My god there are a lot of wires back there.  And as you're ripping the old radio out, all those little signs that tell you what each wire does goes flying everywhichwhere.  The new radio, being way nicer than the old one had closer to 3 zillion wires, rather than the mere 1,000 or so of the old one.

Priding myself on my engineering prowess, I drove the whole shebang to the nearest auto stereo shop.  A masochist I'm not.

Old Salts

My father's sailboat was sinking.  I'm not making this up.  And you never, ever want to sink into Maine's refreshing waters.  Some sort of seal along the propeller thingamadoohicky appeared to be leaking.  A lot.

So what to do - a tiny fishing village and, because it was a Sunday, everyone in their Sunday best to boot, so it's not like some fancy boatyard is handy to airlift you and your boat to safety. But there ARE old salts about.  A bunch came by to check in with my father - it really warmed my heart to think they cared...until I realized they were just there shooting the breeze.

Now follow me here - one came by and shoveled sawdust into the water behind the boat. I quickly looked around to see if a Coast Guard Cutter was steaming towards us to return the old salt to the happy home.

THE LEAK STOPPED.  Apparently, sawdust swells up as it gets wet, and it plugged the leak.  The broken seal was busily sucking water past it and it simply sucked the wet sawdust into the breach.

These old salts.

Dining Etiquette

New Jersey has lots of restaurant dress codes - from no shoes, no shirts, no service all the way up to the no caps one I recently spoke about (although an idiot dining on a $50 steak in a sweatshirt was perfectly OK).  

But this is a new one for me.  You see, the sleeveless tank tops are perfectly OK in the adjoining pizzeria which is in full view of the dining room, but woe be the hapless yutz that crosses that line.

Gardening Tedium vs. The Excitement of Electrical Projects

I have a natural proclivity for all things electric.   Somtimes I suspect that my siblings are jealous because they have other interests that rage all the way from gardening (yawn) to gardening.

But give me an electric project and I solve it, usually accompanied by 10 or 12 soldering accidents, a discrete shock 5 or 6 times with 110 volts and discovering, much to my regret, just how much juice a capacitor can store.  Good times, good times.

Why, just yesterday I was troubleshooting an outdoor electrical fixture that was acting up.  One may argue that wearing leather-based sandals on wet ground was a tad ill-conceived, but when I woke up 15 feet away, my only thought was gardening is no where near as fun!

Curmudgeons Grumble?

The Curmudgeon Society Generalé has appointed a safety director, Bob. The thinking was that too many members just cross streets at will assuming others will brake for them, drive their 3-ton vehicles as if they are alone on the roadways, and worst of all, drive in the snow.

As you might imagine, his task is a daunting one: "I"ve been driving since before you were born"  "those nice drivers always brake for a slow-moving old lady: (we will ignore the squeeling of brakes, honks and the occasional rear-ender for the nonce) "my car can drive through any snowstorm", etc. etc.

So Bob patiently explains, NOT for a loaf of bread.  Essentials only.  The roads are essentially clear within a day; then you can buy as much bread as you wish.  Oh the grumbling. 

Liberating Decorative Plates

Dear readers, I think I have discovered why decorative plates keep leaping off my kitchen wall and plunging to their death.   I'm convinced a little Silly Putty will do the trick.

Changing the volume level is out of the question.

Of Mice And Women

In Hollwood, when some femme fatale sees a spider - or worse a mouse - she screams and jumps up on the toilet.

Let's review here:

Thing 1:  What actually does the scream accomplish?

Thing 2:  Did anyone actually SEE Dr. No?  Three whacks and the spider is as flat as a pancake.

Thing 3: Most women these days carry those 20,000 volt stun guns.  One well-aimed blast and the mouse would be a chunk of carbon.

I think Hollywood needs a technical advisor - perhaps one from the Curmudgeon Societé Generale...

Movie Credits Pt. II

I have just learned from an alert reader in southern California that polite movie-watchers out there actually SIT THROUGH THE CREDITS at the end of movies.  No doubt to catch a mention of Uncle Finster as a boom operator or Auntie Petunia as a seamstress.

How civilized.  They probably exit the theater in an orderly manner as well.

They clearly haven't been to a movie in New Jersey.  The race for the exits as the credits start to roll is nothing short of a melee.  Little old ladies bring their umbrellas rain or shine to prod slow small children forward and whack anyone who even appears to be going after that last box of jujubes at the concession stand (see the 1/30 Repor).

I do believe the credits were still running in Avatar after I was half-way through the Lincoln Tunnel on my way home.

Being Vexed

I run a tight ship here at home - I'm a curmudgeon, dammit.

So when it comes to cat...stuff, I've devised a startlingly clever system (the clever part should come as no surprise to my regular readers): cat boxes in the basement - out of sight, out of smell, etc.  

Then there is the free access to the basement issue - a clever closing spring on the basement door does the trick. 

It is the way to "gap" the almost closed door that has really vexed me.  It must stop at about, oh, I don't know, the width of a cat? Given that Scruffy and Tiger, the Wonder Cat have been here for 10 years, this clearly has vexed me for some time.

Time for another nap.  I'm certain I'll resolve it this time.

French Onion Soup

I like a good French onion soup.  Apparently, so do restaurants, because they charge a pretty penny for it.

My Sainted wife and I thought "How hard can this be - throw some grilled onions into beef broth, a little bread on top, and cover with Gruyere."

A lousy 4 ingredients - what could go wrong?  Well, as it turns out, lots.  The cheese sank out of sight before we could even stick the soup bowls under the broiler, the bread sucked up all the soup, all hell seemed to break loose (culinarily speaking).

Those restaurant soups aren't looking so bad anymore.