World of Warcraft

As technical advisor for the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, I am of course quite aware of the world of gaming. Not that I've ever played any...unless you count Pong.

Since technology is evolving quite rapidly, new versions of these games come out frequently enough to keep teenager's parents in hock up to their ears. And teenagers glued to their computers. Like a lot. Like way, way too much.

So it comes as no surprise that when you Google one of the more popular games, certain ads come up:

Seriously, where were those ads when I was a kid?

Polish This

You will recall I recently underwent that bane of all rightful-thinking people, a visit to the dentist. It, of course, comes with the prerequisite stop in the cleverly named "waiting room." Happily, they had a great magazine selection - a key factor in curmudgeons deciding which dentist to patronize.

However, I once again made the mistake of opening a yachting magazine. I reported in the past that the magazine was celebrating gallons if paint for "only" $190 each and had articles on "snotters" (last Sept. and Nov. by the way). This time I hit upon an article about the importance of polishing your fuel.

What little I know about engines includes some vague allusion to there being a fuel filter somewhere in there. But polishing fuel? That required a Google. And it turns out, of course there is such a thing. And of course various boaters swear by it and a number of manufacturers sell expensive (everything having to do with boats is apparently expensive) products that do it. Fine. Let them. That's one more reason I don't need a boat.

Next time I'm going for Road & Track. I'm pretty sure cars are free of the need for polished fuel.

Adult Clothing...Or Lack Thereof

I have made the Curmudgeon Societé Generale position on proper attire quite clear in the past. As loyal readers will remember, pajama pants, hats on in restaurants and low-slung trousers don't fare too well. I'm sure you remember this:

Since then, these egregious practices have - of course - continued unabated. Lobbying for good taste has proved to be a fool's errand. But there is a bright side - these sorts are being made fun of in many new ways. For instance, a recent Redditor shared that he had nearly laughed up a lung watching a "gangsta" start to run, wherein his low-slung pants promptly fell down around his ankles and he did a spectacular face-plant. Understandably, the reporting Redditor regretted not have his camera handy.

And then, during our recent cold weather, the following sign outside a bar was seen:

Love it!

March Madness III

I have been commenting on how "March Madness" rankles me for the last two years. I knew from the get-go that I wasn't about to turn people away from the spectacle of sports nor office pools. Unlike curmudgeons, the huddled masses are victims of these weaknesses.

As all faithful readers know, I was simply pleading my standard case: "there's a time and a place for everything." In this case, I don't particularly give a fig about the timing, but I clearly underestimated place: the draw of sporting event ratings was too strong for some stations seeking them and their ads, and normal programming was interrupted left and right.

This year, I got the last laugh: with so much good stuff on alternative viewing sources such as Netflix and Amazon Prime, I no longer miss my Matlock repeats. Hah! I showed them!

Cuban, Hold the Mustard

We curmudgeons know what we like, what we don't, and aren't especially shy about letting people know which is which.

Take a recent experience I had. Out with some close friends, we were at a fancy sandwich restaurant that took great pride in their creative sandwiches. I went for one called a "Cuban," which, as you may know, is stuffed with roasted pork, baked ham, Swiss cheese, and dill pickles with mustard. Fundamentally, delicious.

Not being a fan of dills or mustard, I very politely asked for it without the pickles and mustard (yes, I could have simply picked the pickles off, but once on, the mustard is there for good). You would have thought I asked the chef to shoot himself. It took him three tries to get it. I'm certain the final product also contained spit.

We're talking sandwiches here, not rocket science. Sheesh. Maybe the chef WAS a Cuban and I insulted his national sandwich.

Screamers

I don't watch American Idol - hey, I'm a curmudgeon - but that show seems to have popularized a particularly annoying brand of singing. We shall call them screamers.

Rather than belting out a tune because you have a good voice or even melodically crooning as talented singers have in the past, these er, 'performers' seem to be competing for pumping out the largest body part possible. It looks revolting and sounds awful.

To my endless dismay, fans seem to love it. I don't get it. Go figure, a curmudgeon "doesn't get it" yet again. Here's an idea: put the screamers on one of those deserted islands popularized on reality shows. They can scream all they want and we won't hear them!

There Will Always Be A Britain

I recently ran across this photo of some British folks whooping it up at a seaside resort as only they can.

I respect the Brits - after all, I am related, but come on, what is up with them? Going to the shore (or beach for those of you outside of New Jersey) is a time to have as much fun as you can. Not put on windbreakers and long pants and sit around sipping tea.

Unless that IS having as much fun as they can.

The Perils of Cable TV

Some time ago, I complained (big surprise) about America's tastes in TV shows. "Reality" shows seem to rule the airwaves in the few spots where vampires and zombies don't.

I recently saw in the NYTimes that the former leader in ratings on cable channels, WWE wrestling (a hideous testimony to American tastes in and of itself), was actually beaten out by three other shows. Unfortunately for America's future and all that is good and holy it was beaten by the Walking Dead, Duck Dynasty and Pawn Stars (not that it really matters, but in that order). And was followed by Talking Dead, whatever the hell THAT is.

It doesn't take a curmudgeon to fear for our future.

Google Facts of Life

As you all know, Google likes to try to predict what your query might be so you don't have to type the whole thing in. They're pretty good at this, even for curmudgeon-centric queries. (Curmudgeons are notoriously typing challenged, so every little bit helps).

As the following demonstrates, there appears to be a significant difference in what men and women seem to be asking Google:

As much as it pains me to say this (which, in actuality, isn't all that much), women seem to be needy, clingy whiners. And believe me, I'm not saying it - the hard facts of popular Google searches are saying it.


We Curmudgeons are crusty, not dumb - we can't argue with facts.

Kickboxing

What is it with the popularity of this "activity?" Kickboxing storefronts are opening as fast as nail salons were a few years ago, and their popularity seems to be following the same bizarro path. Unfathomable. Ridiculous.

Why such a harsh reaction you ask? Let me start by asking today's parents: why in the world would you send your kids to these places? Isn't today's over-emphasis on sports enough extracurricular activity? Trying to wear out your ADHD-riddled spawn? I trust you're not raising your kids to solve problems via physical confrontation.

I've checked around the Societé membership - we begrudgingly admit that with the reductions in the military, some semblance of physical training can only help. But these "studios" SHOULD include 5-mile hikes with 40 pound packs strapped to their backs.

Far more aerobic and far less barbaric.

St. Patty's Day

"Everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's day" I believe is the saying. At least that's the gist and we curmudgeons agree wholeheartedly with any opportunity to a) celebrate excessively and b) consume mass quantities of various elixirs.

I kid you not. We're curmudgeons, we're not dead. St. Patty's is a delightful tradition both for the ecclesiastical types and the secular folk. And a powerful one - why the church that INVENTED Lent gives everybody a one-day reprieve for celebrating happily on St. Patty's day. That Patrick must have been some guy. He campaigned on a snake-free society platform or some such, according to curmudgeonly lore.

Nonetheless, it has evolved into an astonishingly popular holiday. Parades galore and countries from Russia to Japan and even tiny Montserrat join in.

Not too shabby. The Irish know how to inspire us all.

Bottled Water

If there is anything that has risen to the level of abject stupidity, it is the use of bottled water. Otherwise intelligent people (I'm being generous here) buy this stuff by the carload despite tap water being ubiquitous and virtually indiscernible.

The comic Lewis Black, curmudgeon to the core, explained it perfectly: Coke and Pepsi now produce bottled water, but you can rest assured they wouldn't use that crap water in their soft drinks. Yet bozos drink it exclusively. City dwellers carry it on their commutes downtown as if they were crossing a desert. Idiots all.

Please note that we are already at idiot level for these folks and I haven't even factored in the unconscionable waste produced by the bottles themselves.

Although the fact remains that curmudgeons are way too cheap to BUY water, we are not so stupid that we actually would.

Even More Breakfasts With Tom

I have mentioned these before: economics lessons over eggs and bacon. A tough way to start the day, but curmudgeons are made of sterner stuff, so we can take it.

Today's lesson was on the dangers of raising the minimum wage. Long story short (and BOY was it long), it's a gamble: raise it too much and everybody up the wage food chain will expect more (cooks in diners don't make all that much more than busboys, etc.); raise it too little and nobody will notice the good deed.

For politicians, the choice is easy - raise it enough to get your vote. That's all the economics they need.

He nearly put me off my bacon. Now THAT'S a crime against all curmudgeonry.

Shopping for Wallpaper

It seems like just last week that I ended one of these missives with "And don't even start me on wallpaper shopping." OK, OK, it was two weeks. Picking out paint colors is nosebleed enough; picking out wallpaper is the curse of marriage death.

My Sainted wife recently pronounced that the wallpaper in the downstairs half bath was no longer deserving of existence. It has an inoffensive British garden quality that has mutely stood the test of time for 25 years. Suddenly, despite still clinging to the wall steadfastly, it must go.

Never mind that wallpapering a very small half bath with sinks and things protruding into it sorely tested our marriage 25 years ago when the two of us tackled wallpapering it - let's give it another go.
"Well, what does it now need?" I cleverly ask, fearing the answer that comes: "let's go look at patterns."

Shoot me now.

Changing Clocks

Oh goody, we got to change all our clocks this past weekend. I have made the Curmudgeon Societé Generale position clear on this in the past: it is stupid, perpetuated by a do-nothing-useful government.

If you missed the lesson last time (March of last year), there is actually a history here - there was absolutely no rhyme or reason for changing clocks until WW 1. Someone came up with the bright idea that changing the clocks would save coal during the winter for the war effort, so change the clocks we did. Despite sort of letting it go between wars, WW II and the 70s energy crisis brought it back (as ever, based on firmly held beliefs, rather than those nuisances known as facts), and it has remained...simply via ennui.

Last time I complained that 22 clocks had to be changed. What with cable boxes and smart clocks and phones, I only had to change 10 this time.

Oh joy.

Idiots.

Family Businesses

The stories of family businesses that go down the drain when the founder passes away are legion. There was a pleasant local ice cream business that was founded by an entrepreneur early last century and thrived under his tutelage.

Perhaps you've heard of Carvel ice cream. If you have, you no doubt remember that ole Tom himself did his own ads long, long after he should have retired. Who can forget Cookie Puss or Fudgie the Whale (try as we might)? But alas, when Tom left us things went south.

A few weeks ago, I was passing by one of his remaining outlets and thought I would try a new soft serve concoction with M&M candies in it. Made with vanilla soft serve, I was informed they were out of vanilla. Bear in mind, they only carry vanilla and chocolate. So last night, I was wandering by and thought I'd give it another shot. This time they had the vanilla. Great! But they were out of M&Ms.

Aaaand down the drain they go.

The Dentist

I have checked around with other guys in the Curmudgeon Societé Generale and all seem to be as one on the topic of going to the dentist - it sucks. There's just no way around it. My Sainted wife goes voluntarily three times a year.  Me? - only under duress.

The trouble with putting it off the way I do is that the dental people have to do that much more every time I go - new x-rays, a vigorous cleaning, extra admonitions about flossing and other things no sane person does, lies like "this won't hurt a bit" - it is no small wonder I dread the dentist.

A good friend of mine is a retired state employee, so his benefits are ridiculously generous. Dental coverage is part of his package. We in the private enterprise world have long done without such amenities, which means we PAY for the privilege of seeing dentists.

That certainly doesn't help their popularity.

Going To The Mall

Curmudgeons have little use for malls - or their creepy inhabitants. For reasons we can't fathom, women love malls. Where I live, we have one high-end and one low-end mall reasonably close by (any mall with Sears as an anchor store qualifies as low-end in my book).

The high-end one is useful for exercise: a bunch of us oldsters parade around it rather than confronting actual weather and traffic during these nasty winter months (and frankly, an air conditioned stroll in a heat wave is also quite refreshing). The stores in this mall are just fancy repositories of ridiculously expensive clothes that are to be avoided.

The low-end mall is useful for its food court. And maybe the kiosk with the iPhone covers.

So, as far as curmudgeons are concerned, like Red Lobster being popular for its cheddar biscuits rather than its seafood, malls are useful for everything OTHER THAN the stores.

Mud Season

In reading a number of regional publications, I have been reminded that Maine enjoys an extra season that the rest of us miss out on. Going on right now, it is called "mud season" and it is just as icky as the name implies.

Apparently there is some debate that it is more frost heave season, but as ugly as the name is, "mud" does imply warmer temperatures. This is the time of year that even the natives want to be elsewhere - even more than during the harsh, seemingly endless winter. Now THAT is saying something.

As I am a summer rusticator, I have never had the pleasure of experiencing mud season, and the more I hear about it the less likely I am to ever experience it.

Fine by me. Curmudgeons don't need something else to complain about.

The Red Carpet

I have commented on "awards" shows for actors in the past. In summary, curmudgeons - to a man - have no use for them and we are joined in this by most intelligent people.

As proof, there was apparently yet another awards show over the weekend that - astonishingly - resulted in awards being given out. As scintillating as that alone is as entertainment value, the promoters (and of course advertisers) have found that what goes on outside the ceremonies is way more popular than the actual awards.

This does not surprise. Beyond the top 8 awards, no one - but no one - outside the participants in this pageant care who wins what.

And so it goes. The actors preen, their egos are stroked, grocery store checkout lane rags get some juicy cover pictures, and life goes on. Acting awards. Quelle dommage, n'est pas?

Stealing Sweet'n Low

This is not a curmudgeon thing - it's part of being old. It is in the rule book. When you're old, you're free to purloin small items. For those Seinfeld fans among you, his parents stole batteries under the assumption "it's expected of us."

Sweet'n Low is no different. Why, in my Sainted wife's hometown outside of Chicago, waitresses carried the stuff WITH them to prevent oldsters wandering off with it. You had to beg for each packet. At the diners here in New Jersey, it is out in the open on the tables, but with a twist: very few on each. There are like a dozen each of all the other sweeteners and only two or three Sweet'n Lows.

I have to gather my stash from other tables. I WORK for my free Sweet'n Low.