Deep Thoughts for 2013

Important Mail

I recently got a very important-looking envelope in the mail. In big letters it said "Notice of Intent to Deliver" with "Personal and Confidential" stamped on it, PLUS a huge product code thingie - with a 20-digit number, no less (!).

Wow! Did it ever look official! What urgent matter must it contain? Well, we'll never know - I promptly threw it out.

NOTHING important ever comes in an envelope plastered with crap like that. Simple arithmetic aside (my Social Security number is only 9 digits and credit cards are 16 - what on this earth could possibly warrant 20?), it was obvious that the "notice" was abject BS, seeing as how it WAS delivered.

They also really goofed it up by putting a return address - that of my fancy Amish fireplace (with the look of real fire) that I got last year - on it.

Man, those Amish are tenacious.

Only In Japan

I had almost become inured to the oddities that occur in Japan. They seem to always have been, and still are, really an odd people.

But a new movie about a Japanese legend starring that most Japanese of actors, Keanu Reeves (??), just came out. Called "47 Ronin," it moved me to look up what the heck a ronin was. The last time I heard the word, I associated it with a Robert De Niro movie of some sort.

A ronin is your everyday samurai who leaves or loses his master. So, OK, we got the 'ronin' part. Why 47? Because of a famous legend in Japan where 47 samurai lost their master because he honorably committed harakiri for assaulting a court officer. So what did these 47 samurai - now ronin - do? They plotted for two years, killed the court officer for causing their master to kill himself, and then promptly committed harakiri themselves.

This legend is apparently about honor and such. Of a very odd people.

Keanu should be just right for the 'odd' angle.

Poets

Like economists (see earlier rants on their uselessness), poets make stuff up to make their "profession" sound impressively full of fancy words and themselves sound knowledgeable.

As a curmudgeon, I certainly don't go out of my way to run across this stuff, but as a well read curmudgeon, I periodically encounter words whose definition I need to brush up on. And thus, I recently encountered elegiac.

It was vaguely familiar, but what the hey, the Mirriam-Webster app on my iPhone was handy. First surprise was that it is eleJEYEac, apparently, not elEEgiac, as I had always thought. Worse, the definition was of absolutely no help: "consisting of two dactylic hexameter lines the second of which lacks the arsis in the third and sixth feet."

I knew poetry was dumb, I just never appreciated HOW dumb. Who could possibly give a fig enough to even come up with one of the terms used in this definition, let alone stringing so many weird words together FOR A DEFINITION?

Poets. Instant headaches.

Tis The Season

Christmas - 'tis the season to be jolly. Yeah, THAT'S going to happen with curmudgeons. We'd be all "Bah, humbug" and "Let them eat cake" and the like, but it's been overdone.

The Christmas season is a rough one for curmudgeons. Kids are off school, so they're all over the place. All manner of nitwits are out and about shopping, so the roads and stores and gas stations and parking lots are nightmares. Yeah, you can imagine how curmudgeons really go for this time of year.

We did get Bing Crosby to popularize "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" in hopes of a good snow keeping the riffraff at home and out of sight.

Plus we consume mass quantities of "doctored" eggnog.

Tweeting

Some of us curmudgeons had a little huddle and decided that in addition to regular old in-person conversation, the phone, the US mail and email, the curmudgeon world didn't need yet some other communication thingy. Curmudgeons already drive off the road when their cell phones ring, so avoiding yet another distraction seemed prudent.

Twitter seems aptly named - a service for twits - like chatty 13-year-old girls, politicians, actors and Donald Trump. So we decided to keep the Twitterverse where it belonged - as with small children, out of sight and out of mind.

Then the Twitterverse graduated from this image to recording the Arab Spring. Crap. Suddenly the Twitter thingamabob was big news. The rest of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale members started asking me about it. "Should we be on this Twitter thing?" "How does one GET 'on' Twitter'?" "Do I have to remember to type '.com'?" "What button on my TV remote control do I hit?" "Why didn't you tell us about this back when we could have profited obscenely when it went public?"

I had to think fast. Turns out, all my TV watching came to my rescue. I used Brisco County Jr's tag line: wait for the "next big thing" - that's where the smart money is. They're thrilled. My term as Societé technical expert expires shortly - I will be long gone if the shit actually hits the fan, but I'm betting on Brisco - something else will come along.

Drive-Thrus

I've made curmudgeonly observations on this topic as far back as March of 2012: drive-thru customers at fast food restaurants are given preferential treatment over in-restaurant customers. If you haven't noticed this, you are clearly among us lazy sorts who frequent said drive-thru.

Why, even back then an alert reader wrote to say she orders in the drive-thru and then takes her food inside to eat since it goes that much faster.

Recently, I was approaching the drive-thru at a favorite fast food place that was happily unoccupied. Zipped in, ordered, and then something fascinating happened: they, very politely, asked me to drive on to the parking area and they would bring my order to me.

There was nobody behind me - I said I could just wait there at the window. But no - if I did, their system would record my actual wait for my lunch and the manager was SCAMMING THE MEASURING SYSTEM.

That guy is probably the president by now.

Mockbusters

This is a term that I'm seeing more and more of these days. It is used to describe those incredibly awful - yet oddly compelling - movies on the Syfy channel that mimic real blockbusters (think The Da Vinci Treasure, Transmorphers, Alien vs. Hunter, Invasion of the Pod People, The Day The Earth Stopped, Almighty Thor, etc.).

These are the movies that make you wonder how the producers ever got the funding to make them other than the draw of their near-to-famous-movie titles. But it is a boring, rainy Friday night, so you'll take a risk with hackneyed scripts, stereotyped characters, unknown actors and the cheesiest of special effects (similar to those you or I could produce on our laptops).

You want to change the channel, but you can't. You long for a commercial break, but know you'll return with a new beer and popcorn for more of the mockbuster. You are ashamed of yourself, but you are entranced, beholding its awfulness.

We'll just call it the *sigh* fy channel.

Vegetarians

Vegans are, to be blunt, idiots. Yes, mankind can survive on grass and the like. Obviously we did for eons, otherwise we would not be here, would we? History is clear: back when we were plant eaters, we had to have much larger stomachs, since it took so much more volume of plant material to get enough energy to live by. As a result, the body blood was racing around the stomach trying to extract as much energy as it could. With a finite amount of blood, very little was left to operate much of a brain.

Then mankind became a meat eater - much more concentrated energy, didn't need all that digestive power, and so the stomach shrank and the brain had a chance to grow into what it is today.

Now, this happened millenia ago, but every time someone brags "I'm a vegan," my mind cannot help envisioning a return to large-stomached pea brains.

They've got the pea-brained bit nailed already.

Dallas

I've been there. I travelled a lot when I was working. Dallas was included.

You may think that that there city is way down south there, hot and filled with cowpokes. Hah! We've all seen the TV show - it's crawling with oil money. It is quite the metropolis. And if you've been watching the news recently, it is completely unequipped for snow and ice. I know - I've experienced it.

I was in some sort of high-rise hotel, and there was an ice storm. The entertainment was wonderful - people would drive into the multilevel parking area - just below me- and hit a solid sheet of ice. You could have set music to the pirouettes and bounces these cars made off each other as they skidded slowly around the parking deck. And they kept on coming.

Hit a car, bounce, hit another, twist, float around, hit a car. It was mesmerizing.

Dallas. Endlessly entertaining.

Much Ado About Nothing

In our new world of "news" 24/7, anything - (and we all know our trusty "news reporters" manufacture most of this stuff) - becomes newsworthy. This has become the modern norm...and the modern curse.

Unlike trusted newsmen of old (Walter Cronkite springs to mind), modern "newscasters" work with a very different objective in mind. For Walter, it was: "I've only got 20 minutes today, what are the most important things people need to know?" For today's crop of newsmen/entertainers it is "I've got 24 HOURS to fill, how do I make all these non-newsworthy things sound important?"

And thus, nothing becomes something.

Volunteer Work

It is my understanding, from the good efforts of my Sainted wife, that there is something called "volunteer work." I ran this concept by a bunch of the guys at a recent Curmudgeon Societé Generale meeting and was greeted with curmudgeonly enthusiasm - more commonly known as derision.

The very idea of working on a volunteer basis (you know - out of the goodness of your heart) completely escapes curmudgeons. Real work was bad enough. At least when we were engaged in it we were mollified by getting paid.

One great thing about being a curmudgeon is our know-it-all attitude and given right to complain enthusiastically about things to like-minded folks. This, of course, is a sacred responsibility and leaves little time for such altruistic endeavors as volunteer work.

Oddly, however, plenty of time for golf. Isn't tipping the caddy altruistic?

Toughs

To most of us, toughs were those idiots who threatened good-hearted souls (such as myself) in high school, amounted to nothing, got an assembly line job right out of high school and then YOU had to manage them as their boss when you got back from college.

Toughs are an entirely different thing in Russia - they run the show. Why, in space exploration alone, they were the toughest of the tough. Here in the good ole U.S. of A., we sent monkeys and things up before we risked humans. Russia? Off you go - if you live, let us know what we could do better.

Russian cosmonauts were simply crazy tough. Landing back on earth? Don't mind that hard bump into actual earth. Us? A soft water splash, thank you very much.

Russians scare me.

Microwave Ovens

I first encountered a microwave oven in college. "What!?" you cry - "they are a kitchen staple!" you cry. Not in the late sixties. Yes, last century. When even curmudgeons were young.

It was magic - it cooked my hot dog in a few seconds! What wizardry was this? Little did I (let's face it, any of us) know. We grew up with stoves, ovens, burners and such. These days, you grab a plate out of the cupboard, throw a few leftovers on it, nuke it and voila! Dinner.

Hah! Not so fast. Not in a household where some china is so old that it isn't "microwaveable." If you microwave it, the glaze will craze.

Who would have such things in their cupboard in this day and age when Corelle and other fine products are at hand? Sainted wives, of course. What guy alive would know such nuances? None, of course.

Into the doghouse I go.

Yikes, More Catalogs

This is the time of year when some one or two hundred million catalogs come zinging through the mail slot in our front door. It is pretty much the only time of year I pity postal workers. As a retired sort, I am often here at home for the endless noise of catalogs plopping to the floor.

And, as a curmudgeon, these things are gold - you will not catch ME actually venturing out amongst the Christmas shopping rabble to wrestle for that last who-gives-a-#@%$ in stock. No, I shop by catalog.

And phone. Sure, you can idiotically type your credit card number into every catalog web site and such, but most places code off of your catalog when you call - "what are the numbers on the back cover in the blue box?" followed by "Is this indeed the curmudgeon?" It is a relaxing, pleasant holiday shopping ritual.

Except for this year. Now the catalog dweebs don't let you start with a human - nooo - you call the number and get an automated answering system rather than some nice person for starts.

Just connect me to a human, dammit.

Parts Unintended

As a curmudgeon, it is my duty to read our town's local rag for the "police blotter." This is where we retired sorts get all our salacious news for gossip.

I recently ran across an arrest report on some poor soul who, in addition to being arrested for like 6 things (fictitious plates, uninsured, improper registration, being an unlicensed driver, driving while his license was suspended AND no name on a commercial vehicle), he was also charged with...wait for it..."riding on parts unintended."

Now, I get the rest of them (this is New Jersey and we love to pile on as many offenses as we can), but the "parts unintended" was a new one on me. There had to be more to the story, and it turned out to be two words left out of the article: "for passengers."

Leave it to NJ to create a violation for people riding on parts unintended for passengers (e.g. pickup truck bed or van area without a seat) just so we can really stick it to someone when we're in a foul mood. Which is often - this IS New Jersey.

Poetry

Let's be honest here - who the hell really needs poetry? We all know its history - it was something our high school english teacher dreamed up just to torture us. Although sometimes poems can be cute (childhood rhymes we still remember) or meaningful (There once was a man from Nantucket...), mostly poems are like babies: they're beautiful to their creator, but to other people they are just irritating.

Back in the days after the Revolution, our nation was busily forming its identity as the complete opposite of evil Britain (driving on the right side of the street, using eating utensils differently, preferring coffee and dumping their precious tea in the drink, etc.). Despite all this revolutionary zeal, we then proceeded to borrow a tradition of theirs and created the stunningly useless office of "Poet Laureate."

What a load of unmitigated crap.

More From NJ drivers

I have commented in the past that driving here in New Jersey is not for the faint of heart. (According to my fantastic record-keeping, I've made pithy observations on this as recently as this past June and as far back as April 2012). Anyway, we're a very densely populated state and many of our roads were laid out with care IN THE 1700s, so it takes special talents to negotiate them today.

Insulting other drivers is commonplace. Frankly, for years even I promptly gave other drivers the finger when they didn't use their directional signal properly. Out of 100s of these "correctional suggestions," less than a handful of drivers actually took umbrage. We've got thick skins here in NJ. So the sign shown here should come as no surprise to any NJ driver - all part of the rich experience of driving here.

A curmudgeon wouldn't have it any other way.

Speedos

In an off-handed remark, I recently mentioned to some fellow Curmudgeon Societé members that I had read an article on this apparently extant fashion issue in a recent Vanity Fair. They looked at me like I had just revealed I came from Mars.

Not because I had mentioned "fashion" or "swim attire," but because I had read a Vanity Fair. After all, Vanity Fair is one of those magazines that devotes the first 100 or so pages to fashion ads - not exactly curmudgeon turf. Nonetheless, it actually has some good articles, even when they touch on things we never knew existed, like men's bathing fashions.

According to the research in this article, no rational American male would be caught dead in a Speedo. Any curmudgeon could have told them this, seeing as how we are a pleasantly overweight lot.

If a curmudgeon were ever to appear in a Speedo, I doubt there is enough Valium on the planet to numb the memory of anyone beholding it.

Nor'easters

As a kid summering in Maine (about as Nor'east as you can get), these were indeed nasty storms. We knew what to do - make sure the boats were tied up securely, hunker down, and wait it out putting a jigsaw puzzle together. No sweat.

But with blithering sorts giving all manner of weather "reports," to our ever panicky public, the message becomes translated as "the sky is falling! the sky is falling!" and all go into hoarding overdrive, as we did on Thanksgiving this year.

Now, I recognize Hurricane Sandy was a hard hit, but Nor'easters have been wary foes for generations. Today, panic ensues (a ratings bonanza for weather people), videos of panic show up on TV and YouTube, and lines form immediately at gas stations. "Hunkering down" is apparently unacceptable - there is shopping to be done.

Curmudgeons? Kings of the hunkering.

Purity Rings

I know I'm what one might aver a tad out of touch, but let's face it: it's the curmudgeon way to be proudly "out of touch."

While recently catching up on current events (by watching South Park) I heard about "purity rings." Because I am a curious sort, I googled "purity rings." Turns out, they are true to their appellation: teenagers wear them to promise chastity. Since such, ahh, lofty intentions are in keeping with the former Presidential administration's beliefs, the program to promote said rings got a hefty government grant.

I like to think my tax dollars are going to things that our country needs, like roads, bridges (the Pulaski skyway, near and dear to both New Jerseyites and NYC comes to mind) and such. But I fail to see where giving money to the promotion of purity rings is in any way, shape, or form one of them.

Decaf

We all know who suggested the development of decaffeinated coffee: some female. Guys don't drink that dreck. Give us the real deal. No caffeine? No point.

Back in my heady single days, I would drink some Celestial Seasonings Morning Thunder tea of a Saturday morning. It was a manly tea - overstuffed with caffeine to the extent it jump-started my day like nothing else. Promptly propelled into overdrive, I would race around and clean the entire apartment, or take a 10-mile bike ride, or go for a sail - heck, sometimes all three. Ahh, the good ole caffeine-filled days of my youth.

Now, THAT'S what I'm talking about - not any namby-pamby stuff without the special sauce. You want coffee? You want caffeine. End of discussion.

First Names

As I understand these things (and that is probably a stretch for a childless curmudgeon), there has been an explosion of rather unusual first names for kids. Given what I remember of how gym teachers could stumble over pronouncing NORMAL names when I was a kid, I really can't imagine what's going on today, but I do suspect it is quite amusing.

Here in the U.S. of A., I just read with some relief that simple names still reign (Jacob has been #1 for no less than 14 years while Sophia has for two).

However, over in New Zealand, the government is actually banning the use of certain names. Now, I am not surprised they do this considering some of the names that their citizens have proposed: 4real, Anal, M, . (for "Full Stop") and Sex Fruit.

I find it odd that parents voluntarily curse their offspring with such names. Here in the U.S., I leave that to actors.

The Snotter

I was reading a yachting magazine recently. Normally, this is a pleasant & diverting way to while away a cold winter afternoon. Then I ran across:

"This simple sling held to the mast by a thumb cleat has a thimble in the end to receive the snotter, which passes through the thimble and down to a belaying pin. The mizzen brailing line reeves through a thimble on the boom."

Despite sailing for over 50 years, all I could think was what the hell are they talking about?

As if that weren't enough to make one's head explode, they went on to proclaim: "The holy grail of rigging is protecting the wires with parceling and service plus a good coat of Stockholm tar and boiled linseed oil."

I promptly threw the magazine away.

Fall Colorage

This is not about how pretty the fall foliage is here in the Northeast - as many of you know it is gorgeous. Despite that, nitwits actually take long drives further northeast to "capture" the beauty, missing the fact that we are surrounded by it.

In our little yard, my Sainted wife has carefully located a variety of plants to keep the garden spiffy in each season (this according to her - as ever, lost on me). In the fall, the leaves of something called a "burning bush" are supposed to turn a bright red. Turns out this happens only when these bushes get a lot of sun, so the brightness of the red can be dimmed by overshadowing trees, like for example, the zillion oaks we have out back.

So every year around this time, I get the "you should have those oak trees trimmed back" speech. I have made my philosophy on gardening patently clear in the Repor here: if it's green, don't intervene.

Nothing about red.

Our FAA

It has not been hard to make fun of the FAA. Wherever bureaucracy meets a technology-aware public, amusement will abound.

These folks still insist that cabin attendants demonstrate how to work seat belts to a public that has been around them for over 40 years. This is not being cautious - this is stunningly hidebound procedure, for which all we taxpayers gleefully pay salaries to support.

So it was with some surprise that I read they just approved the use of phones and tablets in planes - gosh, THAT technology is a mere 15 years old. Even curmudgeons embrace technology faster - what could be a more damning indictment?

I am firmly convinced the FAA was simply embarrassed into making a move - and that isn't easy when we're talking about a government bureaucracy.

Today's Hairdos

What is with guy hairdos these days? Look at these examples of the modern hair styles. Sorry guys, I'm not following the alleged "style." You sort of spike your hair on top, somehow look at it in the mirror and say "oh yeah, that's it?"

How do you know? It's a disheveled mess. How can you tell when you're done "styling" it? And clearly, it is not what you would call a repeatable "do," so where do you draw the "there, I'm done" line?

At least the Fonz and his contemporaries could actually see if things were organized correctly. Today? Not so much. No wonder young guys' lives are a mess - they can't even manage their own hairdos.

Roomba

In my ongoing efforts to stay on top of technology for the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, I recently used their money to study the effectiveness of one of those robot vacuum cleaners by buying one for myself.

As it happily skittered about, picking up all manner of cat hair and other noxious things, I was struck by wonder - I wondered why in hell it was making so much damned noise. I suspect that in keeping with the code of vacuum design, it was compelled to make a lot of noise like they all do.

People, it's the 21st century. I think it's high time we put a couple engineers on this and develop a quiet vacuum. This little robotic sucker pops awake and disturbs my naps! This simply won't do.

Shopping With Your Wife

Don't ever do this. Just don't. There is a fundamental, irreconcilable difference between the manner in which men and women shop.

Men approach shopping as a chore. "Damn, I need a new Forstner bit - better suit up and go get one." We walk in the appropriate store, approach the Forstner bit area, make the choice, buy it and walk out. Simple. Straightforward.

Women? An entirely different approach. Shopping is a pastime, to be enjoyed at length. "Better grab a cart, we may see other things we didn't realize we wanted AS WE WANDER ABOUT THE ENTIRE STORE."

This doesn't - and never will - fly with a guy, let alone a curmudgeon. Just don't even try it.

Water, Water, Everywhere

Whilst recently on vacation, a dear family member I was with managed to drop her phone into a glass of water. The logistics of such a feat aside (we were beside a pool that was just begging for her to drop it there, but she managed to hit a small glass), we all know the result - a non-working device, sometimes temporarily, but more often forever.

This sort of accident - dropping your phone in water - is so common that phone manufacturers have taken to putting a little telltale inside them that indicates water immersion. This proves that the hapless owner who is trying to exchange said non-working phone as defective has actually voided the warranty by attempting to continue a conversation over a body of water.

However, my point today is that our happy home planet is 70% covered with water. So why aren't such valuable goodies waterproof? The odds of the inadvertant slip finding dry earth are clearly NOT in our favor.

Don't Cross a Curmudgeon

A loyal Curmudgeon Societé Generale member came across this billboard lurking at the side of a public road recently. Incensed, he promptly popped over to a nearby hardware store and edited things to our mutual satisfaction.

Apparently some do-gooder arm of an overly concerned mommy government is to blame for this blasphemous excess. Fortunately, there was a curmudgeon handy to save us all from this public mollycoddling.

This is America, dammit. We are free to anger, worry, rail at things, bitch, moan AND be stubborn to our (albeit small) heart's content. We won't stand for these namby-pamby bleeding hearts trying to get in our way, by golly!

A Gauntlet Thrown!

I was recently out with some old friends, and we got to chatting about my blog here. Full of writer's pride, I was very interested in their thoughts. (By the way, lest you think less of me, I always test people by mentioning a topic I've already covered to make sure they read it - pride has its limits).

What I WASN'T expecting was the observation: "you're not very curmudgeony for a curmudgeon." WHAT!?!! THAT certainly bowled me over. I couldn't very well share that observation back with the Societé - they would think I don't represent them well in my writings. I mean, I replaced a guy (well-respected for his curmudgeonly views within the Societé) because it was felt he was TOO crusty.

Well, a gauntlet has been thrown, by gum. No more Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Understanding. The kid gloves come off. All I can say is beware. I have no clue where I will take this, but we're on, bitch.

Bobbleheads

The Sunday morning TV landscape has become the universe of the bobbleheads. These are the idiots who think talking about politics holds any interest whatsoever to rational humans. What they believe (in the spirit of full disclosure along with some of my closest friends) is that politics is somehow an interesting topic for discussion.

I will grant you that every Tom, Dick and Harry has an opinion on this "topic," generally gleefully voices it to a largely "likes to pose as well-informed" audience, and gains credibility simply through the time-tested device of talking sh*tola to grab attention. Politics is easily researched because it is largely in the public domain so the laziest of all can weigh in. "In depth reporting" adds up to courageously reading memos laying about.

This is why London confines the speakers corner in Hyde park so the weirdos can concentrate in one (very non-televised - good move, Britain) spot, rather than inflict it upon the public at large as here in the US by putting it on TV.

At least it is done on Sunday mornings, when virtually nobody watches TV, and happily, some more progressive channels are showing a good flick or a 'Friends' rerun.

CMA

The CMA awards show was just on TV. My opinion of any awards show should be clear (see my observations on such awards back in 2/18/12 and just recently on 10/24), but the CMA (that's 'Country Music Awards' for those of you who share my absolute distain for country music) event is totally lost on me.

I inadvertantly tuned in, looking for Modern Family which is SUPPOSED to be on at 9pm on Wednesdays, and this thing shows up. I didn't know who the hell was singing, I didn't recognize the audience members they kept flashing to and the hosts were a mystery to me - I didn't know what the hell was going on.

Fine by me.

Dr. Bose

I first met Dr. Bose in a dorm room at Brown my freshman year. Needless to say, it was through one of his stereos, a KLH system with those newfangled smaller "bookshelf" speakers. It sounded great.

Turns out, the speakers housed 3 little 3" speakers each. 3" speakers. You had to be joking. But it was pounding out the music. I'm a freaking engineer. I know for "pounding" bass, you have to move a lot of air, hence the 10" woofers in Command Central here that you can SEE move air.

What alchemy was this? Turns out it was the good doctor realizing that if you let one little guy be responsible for the high frequencies, the other little guys can get together and make like they are way bigger - and sound super. And they did.

Many years later, the good doctor is still at it - my battery-operated Bose portable, all 10"x2"x6" of it, is sitting in my back yard thrilling me with Jimi Hendrix's wall of sound.

I no longer care how he does this - I'm just happy he does. Jimi would be too.

Movie Explosions

Have you noticed this crap? Every time something explodes in the movies, it explodes 3 times. Cars, bridges, buildings, whatever. Not once, not twice, 3 times. And each explosion is from a different perspective to help us all think the explosion was WAY bigger than it was, plus lasted an unearthly amount of time. And, of course, no explosion is complete without a stunning fireball, however unlikely in real life.

The first few times I saw this technique, it was indeed quite impressive. These days it is starting to get rather tedious. Things explode once. And very quickly. Unfortunately, reality sometimes makes for lousy special effects.

Answering Machines

Our traditional telephone service has become more nuisance than benefit. We here in curmudgeon central are pestered by so many unsolicited solicitation robocalls, we now let our answering machine take first run at all calls. People we know call us on our cellphones, not the "landline." And it's not like there are any surprises - the phone displays who's calling, the TV displays who's calling and there's a special ring for everyone in our personal phone directory.

Of course, in the old days, such features didn't exist. So back in my gay single days, since I didn't want to miss an important call from a potential date, I invested in an answering machine - the hottest new phone technology of the mid-70s. Being a new technology and all, your message had to coach people to "wait for the beep."

I believe I have made it clear that curmudgeons aren't living at the forefront of technology, but 35 years into the technology of answering machines, I think we can dispense with the "wait for the beep" advice, don't you?

Dollar Glasses

I have confronted my age: I need reading glasses. Since I'm a curmudgeon, and about as cheap as they come, I buy glasses at the dollar store. Dollar glasses have what you would expect - a virtual zero half life. But when you can walk out of the store with 5 pairs for 5 bucks, you smile a lot.

And the very concept allows me to have a pair EVERYWHERE, rather than strapping them to my person in some fashion. I even have a pair that lives on the outdoor patio table.

These things break like it is a personal mission. I am currently staring at 5 pairs of glasses that are broken (my Sainted wife contributes her fair share). Trash being the last resort (Handbook chapter 22, as explained in the 2/22 and 3/6/13 entries), I have difficulty throwing them out without even trying to fix them once.

But I got smart - just tell my wife I attempted a fix, it didn't work, and toss 'em. Conscience clear. Moving on - back to the dollar store.

Why Was I Surprised?

I just don't get it. I know it's not the job of a lifetime working in a fast-food joint, but I (apparently naively) like to think someone working inside such an establishment at any given point in time feels at least a vague sense of reponsibility.

So here I am in Popeyes today. Since they have a deliciously spicy take on fried chicken (good cajun seasonings, red beans and rice - great stuff), I pop in now and again. In addition, they have a fantastic spice called "cajun sparkle" that really does add sparkle to their chicken. Sadly, my local place never seems to have it.

But today was different! They had a hastily scrawled piece of paper taped to the wall proclaiming "we have cajun sparkle! Ask." So I did. Aaaand they were out of it.

Give me a break - an obviously temporary sign taped up FOR THE VERY PURPOSE to say they had it, but they were out. Idiots.

The Bright Side of Halloween

What's this? A curmudgeon talking about "the bright side" of something? Maybe it's the overall spookiness of this holiday season that has brought me to such a crossroad. Or maybe it's because I've gotten some, how you say, "feedback" to the effect of "shut up, get over it, it's Halloween." Valid point. Can't say I like it, but valid nonetheless.

So I searched around for something nice to say about Halloween and lo, the answer was staring me in the face. Literally. TV! Horror movies! Of course! Every station imaginable runs a good ole horror movie or two this time of year. Love the genre. I do believe I missed a great opportunity - project a great horror movie like Nosferatu or a good gorefest like Final Destination on the outside of the front door!

That should scare the little buggers away. A win-win, as we curmudgeons like to call it.

Halloween 2013

I spent a lot of time last year with you reviewing my thinking on and approach to Halloween. Needless to say, things haven't changed any this year - I still hate the holiday, have absolutely no motivation to involve myself and are probably doing the little urchins a favor by not exposing them to me.

But (and isn't there always a but?) my Sainted wife feels a "responsibility" to the new neighborhood mini-cretins that have moved in. Needless to say, me? - not so much. Actually, more like "not by a long shot."

Time for the Curmudgeon Societé Generale to give us a clubhouse. We need our safe haven from the huddled, costumed masses.

Pumpkinalia

What the hell is going on with all these pumpkin-themed things this year? It is really getting out of hand - pumpkin lattes, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin M&Ms, Pumpkin Eggos, Pumpkin Pringles - heck, Trader Joe's had an entire 20-page flyer filled with pumpkin-flavored crap.

I like pumpkin as much as the next guy, but that is pretty much due to its specialness in that it generally appears on my table as a delicious pie a couple times a year, NOT as a bewildering variety of crapola for a month.

But hey, that's just me. And that's about all that matters to a curmudgeon.

When Good Restaurants Go bad

I recently dined with friends at a well-known seafood restaurant that we had dined in quite a few times before. To my eternal dismay, this night they had decided to BLARE their music. Worse, periodically they would turn it up even louder AND DANCE between the tables.

Now, I'm prepared for such stuff when I go to say, a Johnny Rockets - a burger, a milk shake and a 60s-themed floor show. Fine. But at a seafood place that charges $25 a bucket?

The music was so loud that conversation was virtually impossible. So after the meal (which was actually quite good), we retreated to the parking lot outside for peace, quiet and conversation. To our astonished dismay, they were blaring it out there for the "benefit" of people waiting for tables.

I'm still trying to figure out what the diner on his phone in the restaurant was trying to accomplish over the din.

Oktoberfest

My good friends and I found the Oktoberfest holiday to be a delightful way to get together in the fall. The fact that I was unalterably a pilgrim, and two of us were of Italian descent didn't deter us from gleefully celebrating a German holiday.

Then the German restaurants started to disappear. German beer gardens (with zillions of TVs playing a noisome quantity of sporting events) are of course doing fine, but not so much the traditional food bit. We pined for sauerbraten, spaetzle, potato pancakes and wiener schnitzel.

Well, heck - why couldn't WE make German food! Then we discovered what it involved. Daylong marinades. And remember, these are German recipes: 23 hours doesn't cut it - daylong means 24 hours, not a minute less. And after that, you still have to COOK the damn stuff, so this option was definitely out.

For once in my life, my gastronomical genius came to the rescue: tubular meat products, of course. Readily available, easy to cook, and quite delicious. Most importantly, very German.

A good time was had by all.

Awards

We are an award-obsessed nation. Good grief, it seems any breathing person ends up with some sort of an award. If you're a kid and actually show up for a kid-related sporting event, you get some kind of award. If you're a new music person or group, there are like so many awards floating around looking for a new home that one is bound to stick. And given the level of crap that is modern "music" that manages to win one of these obscure awards merely serves as proof of this.

If you're an actor, you have dozens of award programs that can find a way for their award to land on you. Heck, if you're in an Olympic-type sport, a few 100ths of a second can make the difference between gold and silver. This simply proves that there is absolutely NO difference between these competitors, yet the idiots involved insist on proclaiming a winner.

And don't get me started on college and professional sports, seeing as how our society seems to have elevated sports to a plateau that is more respected than any other profession. As abominable as this is, no one seems to remember the parallels with the fall of the Roman empire.

The Curmudgeon Societé finds this whole turn of events simply nauseating. If there were an Einstein among us, he would probably be lost among basketball heroes. Well done, America.

Pity Casting

Since curmudgeons tend to live in the past, TV shows like Matlock, Murder, She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder appeal to us. They not only star "experienced" actors, i.e., actors that are well beyond the shows or movies that made them famous, but the guest stars are often equally beyond-their-prime sorts (just like curmudgeons - hence the appeal).

Let me prove my case: while catching up on a Diagnosis Murder one recent morning, the guest stars were Martin Milner (and his old "Adam 12" partner Kent McCord), James Darren (who will always be fondly remembered as Moondoggie in the Gidget movies), Fred Dryer (formerly "Hunter"), and Angie Dickinson! Five in one show! That has to be some kind of record.

And I enjoyed every minute of it. I spit on your modern day "actors."

Raking Leaves

When I bought my house, back when life was simple - and I was young - I thought I would rake my own leaves. I did this once...and promptly hired a "guy" to do it thenceforth.

We have like dozens of oak trees looming over the back lawn, and in the fall, I found I was knee deep in huge piles of raked leaves. Then I had to put them someplace.

You can see how this got old really quick.

Solution? Hire a "guy." End of discussion. Heck, he even cleans gutters. This curmudgeon calls that a win-win.

I'm Bad

As a curmudgeon, being "bad" is pretty much the normal course of affairs. My Sainted wife is out on one of her many endless shopping trips and I am doing what comes naturally to repressed husbands everywhere: popping plates off walls all through the house (see the 8/27 and 1/28 Repors) by playing Michael Jackson's "I'm Bad" at the volumes I presume he intended. (Very decent bass line, BTW).

Today, I'm thinking I will blame it on Tiger, the Wonder cat, rather than the Who (my usual scapegoats). Tiger gets away with anything because when you go to reprimand him, he turns upside down and purrs. In 9 years, neither of us have had the fortitude to follow through and reprimand him, so he's an easy scapegoat. 

Anyway, this is all in lieu of doing the various little fix-it projects I had promised to tackle. Funny how loud music really doesn't permit concentrating on anything else. No doubt why I like it so much. I'm bad.

 

What's For Lunch?

As a retired person, one of every day's more important issues is what is on the menu for the next meal. So, as I finish up my breakfast, topmost on my mind is: what's for lunch? 

One would expect that two people our age could lay out a week's meals in our sleep. Sadly, that is pretty much what we do, and then forget it when we wake up. Despite years of practice, the answer to "What's for lunch?" or "What's for dinner?" isn't readily at hand.

Hence the popularity of diners.

Waterworld

Water softeners are big business. They are sold to first-time home buyers because soft water is kind to pipes and other plumbing-related things. The sales guys are careful to omit mention that the monthly salt sacks weigh 50 pounds, seeing what a great selling point it becomes later for their salt delivery service.

We curmudgeons will have none of this. The harder the water, the better. You emerge from a shower squeaky clean. The clear glass shower walls may not be all that clear anymore, but we'll just call it "patina."

Now, hard water systems aren't perfect. All manner of minerals build up in the pipes, so if your house is oh, say, 70 years old (like mine), certain precautions must be taken:

1) Don't flush a toilet while someone is taking a shower.

2) Don't start the dishwasher while a shower is underway.

3) Nor the laundry.

And most importantly: 4) Don't set the lawn watering system to go on during peak shower times. That sucker pulls ALL the water out of the water main.

Four simple rules.  And, frankly, on boring days, only guidelines. Loud cursing and pounding on shower walls has its entertainment value.

Diction

One key attribute necessary for a career in acting is the ability to clearly say your lines. Gargling them or goofing them up isn't a path to being called back for future roles. So, you can readily see the obstacles that the likes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone overcame to enjoy such success despite their well-known verbal challenges.

It is therefore with some astonishment that I recently saw an ad for a new movie that stars the two together. As an english-speaking American, it takes a goodly portion of any movie starring ONE of them to get into their verbal "groove," so the thought of a movie requiring me to translate the two of them simultaneously simply gives me a headache.

And this is without actually having to watch it - can you imagine the mental damage THAT would do?

Pre-Emergent

This is a product that is sold to gardeners (I am compelled to point out they are generally nice people, seeing as how my Sainted wife is one), who seem to have a yen for trying out all manner of gardening products in a largely trial-by-error fashion.

Anyway, pre-emergent is a product applied in the late fall or early spring intended to prevent the growth of scummy weeds where you don't want them. Gardeners fall for this. So hapless curmudgeons, furiously power washing brick patios, are convinced by these "experts" to mix a pre-emergent in the sand between bricks. 

The next spring? Weeds. Big surprise. 

Space, the Final Frontier

I have many alert readers - smart, too. One is in the aerospace world, and recently sent me news that the Voyager spacecraft just left the solar system after travelling nearly 12 billion miles in 36 years.

This is astounding for the uninformed (like me). And curmudgeons don't get impressed all that often (a condition of the job). It is even more astounding that Voyager still faithfully sends pictures back using the most modern memory system of the day: an 8-track tape machine with 1/240,000th the memory of my iPhone and a 23-watt transmitter (think 3 nitelights).

Voyager was designed for a 4-year trip to Saturn with anything after that "gravy." That's certainly a lot of gravy.

Spy Birds

When someone here in the good ole U. S. of A. talks about spy birds, we all know what they're talking about: spy planes like the U2 and the Blackhawk or satellites.  However, overseas they apparently turn out to be actual birds.

An alert reader sent me the details of this nefarious plot. Ever watchful for evil spies, Egypt recently detained a Stork under the suspicion it was spying for an enemy. The Stork had a suspicious electronic device on it.

Of course, it turns out the "spy device" was an electronic tracker that naturalists had attached to monitor Stork migration details. 

Better safe than sorry, eh Egypt? Given their current political situation, that spying Stork could really have posed a threat!

The Mod Squad

Regrettably, I am old enough to remember this putrid show. Not unlike the idiots at GM in those days trying to become hip by hatching the poorest excuses known to mankind for smaller cars to attract a younger audience, ABC was trying to do the same by hatching incredibly poor excuses for TV shows. In this instance, they somehow found not one, but three people who had no concept of "acting" and put them in "hip" 70s clothes and lame plots attempting to appeal to youths.

How could it miss? Well, it didn't, primarily by appealing to the lowest common denominator - the viewing public. A can't miss tactic (still used today for reality TV shows). Anyway, 5 years and 173 tedious episodes later, we were finally spared any more of this Hollywood "hipness."

Yet, 45 years later, I am still cursed with the memory of it. Worse, these incapable-of-acting "actors" sometimes appear in more modern shows. And what a surprise - they still can't act.

There is no justice.

Gyros

Who the heck ever heard of these things? Since New Jersey is diner central and our diners are run by Greeks, Gyros are on the menu. Everywhere. 

I don't even know how to pronounce the damn word - hard 'G' or more like 'Heros?'  "Gy" like in gyrate or gee as in jeero? Is the damned 's' silent or not? Why is it plural if you only want one?

There isn't a curmudgeon alive who needs this sort of crap. 

Just give me a cheeseburger, please. Keep your gyros to yourself. 

Going Out? I'll Go With

My Sainted wife is a mid-west gal. The mid-west has its own take on the American language. A roof, for example, is a ruf. They say "wit" rather than "with." Broad a's are a vocal staple.

I am happy to say my wife lost her quaint regional accent rather quickly, but regional idioms seem to endure. One still threatens proper english: the type that ends with a preposition. "Want to come with me?" becomes "Want to come with?" "I'll go with you" becomes "I'll go with." 

I thought it was just the mid-west, but I've heard it from Hollywood on TV, too. Is it spreading or do all people west of the Mississippi not know proper english?

I am not encouraged.

Diner Heaven

Well, we're back in New Jersey, so we promptly went to a diner for food (as I've mentioned previously, Denny's is just too far away). NJ being the diner capital of the world, you pretty much have your pick of half a dozen or so within just a few miles of home. 

There are diners...and there are diners. They each have a personality - strengths and weaknesses that you use to your advantage, depending on your dining pleasure at the moment - good breakfasts? Best coffee? Great burgers? Diners are NOT all about the disco fries.

Our little diner here in town appeals to the affluent clientele around here. These are last night's dinner specials:

• Five cheese Tortellini with pink vodka sauce

• Octoberfest platter with knockwurst, weiswurst, 

   bratwurst and spaetzle

• Coho salmon stuffed with crabmeat

This is in addition to the ridiculously large number of other dinner offerings available every night. I don't know how they manage it, but I'm not complaining - and THAT from a curmudgeon!

Paradise Plus

I'm starting to think I've complained a little to much about this slice of "paradise." Why just today, I rented a lounge and umbrella on the beach. 

Suddenly I'm out of the hot, merciless sun in the shade with a freshening breeze off the gulf - not too shabby. Birds keen, Pelicans dive for fish and Dolphins surface nearby. Actually, it is quite pleasant. 

This, as you can imagine, is very difficult for a curmudgeon to admit - I'm actually enjoying myself. Could it also have to do with the peace and quiet of my Sainted wife being off shopping?

I guess I shouldn't have waited until my last day here to try this.

Paradise has its Benefits

One thing about a vacation in Florida is Publix supermarkets. They have everything - and then some - the workers are knowledgeable, friendly, and they even pack your bags!

In New Jersey's grocery stores, these are each begrudged and you'd better expect to pack your own damned bags, thank you very much.

Of course, we New Jersey types don't exactly help the situation - as a curmudgeon, I am constantly having to strive to be crankier and haughtier than your typical Jerseyite.

Let's face it, New Jersey is a tough town. However, here in Florida, politeness sort of whacks you in the face - being a curmudgeon here, you actually regret asking a waitress for that extra butter, she's been so nice. 

For the Birds

When you vacation in a nature preserve in Florida, you can expect all manner of beasties - swarming, annoying no-seeums, alligators, snakes and the like. Wretched, but expected. 

The birds? Turns out they're just as annoying. They've learned that you are a great meal ticket. Crows and seagulls lurk noisily nearby, waiting to attack if foodstuffs are sensed. 

This place is like the Hitchcock movie, except they attack you with well-aimed bodily wastes instead of beaks. At this very moment, I recline on the beach with seagulls by the dozens warily regarding me from 10-15 feet away while crows leer from the trees behind me. 

This place is host to more of a battle of wills than the billed "relaxing nature preserve." Well, these effluvium-producing creatures didn't count on running into a cranky curmudgeon. War is about to break out, and I don't think they know what they're up against.

Nature Preserves

It's not that I have anything against nature preserves, but I do draw the line when they come between me and my vacation. We are vacationing on a Florida island that also sees itself as a natural preserve (despite the stores, condos, etc.).

So we are told to respect our natural surroundings. A bunch of beached fish gaily rotting and stinking up the beach? Mother Nature's way - can't clean them up. Lights on the resort's paths at night? Oh, no - might confuse the hatching turtles.

Bah. Give me a beach raked daily and lively beach bars at night. This nature crapola has its place, but it certainly isn't around a curmudgeon.

This is Vacation?

Normally, I like warm weather. I'm old, I'm crotchety, I hate the cold. But this 90 degree weather here off the southern gulf coast of Florida is for the birds. 

Literally - let 'em have it to themselves. How I got suckered into a week of this oven-like life is a testimony to the persuasive powers of my Sainted wife.

"Yes, but there's a pool, and the gulf is warm, too!" she cries. So I'm either sweating bullets in the sun or soaking in water - frankly, I'm taking a long lunch - indoors with air conditioning. I'm sure I can find a comforting Murder, She Wrote.

New Jersey

There have been many jokes aimed at NJ from NYC and Hollywood. Actually, some are well-deserved. Not because we citizens aren't hard-working sorts (don't forget, we made like 100 Destroyers for WW II in record time, have most of the leading pharmaceutical companies in the country here and such).

But we also have our politicians. All deserving every NJ joke you can invent.  Democrats mostly, and idiots mostly. They have been stealing from our wallets since before I was born. Pretty good track record. Somehow, all the dying cities around here which lost their manufacturing skills to lower cost, equally competent workers elsewhere (sort of the definition of competition), looked up to their Democrat congressman to save them, rather than save themselves.

And save them they did. For no conscionable reason, just because they had the power to steal money from the rest of us they did it with extraordinary enthusiasm. Not only for the dead cities despite being deservedly dead and too stupid to reinvent themselves, but because the efforts to revive them could help the politicians personally pocket a huge hunk of the proceeds.

Ever heard of retirement "double dipping?" This is where a New Jersey politician finished with one career in public office moves on to another, which has its own medical and retirement package. So he gets to pocket two entire retirement plans at public expense.

You wonder why we are in financial difficulties?

Driving When You're NOT Driving

You've probably, more than once in your life, driven with one of these people. In a normal setting, they are like you or me - pleasant company, normal conversationalists, good humor and such.

But put them behind the wheel of a car and a change comes over them. There is suddenly tension in the air. You are instantly less relaxed than you were just moments ago.  Rather than being a mere passenger, you are thrust into the "assistant driver" role - every slowpoke, errant driver or knucklehead maneuverer is called to YOUR attention.  

You can't simply relax and be a passenger since you are being involved in all the driving decisions this person is making. You might as well do the driving yourself since if you do, at least you have a modicum of control.

As the passenger, you are simply a hapless victim. That's why we curmudgeons do our own driving.

Pooper-Scooper Laws

There was quite a divide amongst the ranks of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale when these laws first appeared. As you can imagine, dog-owning curmudgeons were outraged while we cat owners smiled contentedly. For this curmudgeon, I was all for it, given the dangers of stepping off the curb when visiting big brother Buzz in NYC and soiling a perfectly good pair of Florsheims was still fresh in my mind.

Yet all is not well. Since we live on a quiet street, dog walkers from everywhere walk along our street. Being responsible, civilized sorts, they do pick up, but one apparently spies our trash bins curbside on trash days and promptly tosses their little baggy in it. The garbage guys come, reach in, grab our big bag, inadvertantly leaving the little dog-poop-filled one behind for me. Just great.

I'm setting up my webcam.  I'll get the miscreant.

Femme Fatales

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

Let's review here:

Thing 1:  I'll give her the scream - even manly curmudgeons have been known to express surprise with a loud cry.

Thing 2:  Did anyone actually SEE Dr. No?  If it is indeed a spider, three whacks with her shoe and the spider is as flat as a pancake.

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

I think these femmes need better technical advisors - perhaps one from the Curmudgeon Societé Generale...