A Good Whack

Back when I was living in my bachelor pad high atop beautiful downtown Cranford, NJ, there was still a small local A&P nearby (no wonder they went bankrupt).

But, as a budding curmudgeon, there were certain things I wouldn't put up with.  Once, in the checkout line, some sort of small rug rat was raising a fuss.  It was 4 or 5, so I couldn't quite understand why it's mother was trying to reason with it.

"Whack it" I thought.  Better yet, let ME whack it.  But no, she  continued to reason with it, with absolutely no results (as I suspected).

In my childhood, a good whack would have been delivered, and I grew up perfectly normal...as curmudgeons go.

Feeding Birds

I, being a good-hearted curmudgeon, have put a bird feeder out.  I presumed I would be treated to seeing the occasional nuthatch, titmouse, goldfinch or chickadee.

I sort of didn't figure on for every two birds that showed, Tiger, the Wonder Cat would eat one.

I think this has discouraged them.

Hounds

My next door neighbor has a hound.  Not any hound, but some evil variant that the moment he is released from the back door, bounds out, races about...and howls.

I have had heart-to-heart chats with Tiger, the Wonder Cat about leaping the fence (of course, nothing to him) and clawing the dog's neck out.  He prefers to taunt the creature from OUR side of the fence, causing all the more howling.

I am now thinking of exercising my second amendment rights and purchasing an assault rifle.

Tasty Sandwiches

My Grandmother meant well.  

It was late September, and Buzz, my Dad and I had popped up to Maine to pull all the boats, close the cottage, all the depressing chores of another end of a summer.

But we had a chance for one last sail, so we planned a long one.  My Grandmother immediately volunteered to make us sandwiches for the day.  

How darling, you would think.  Without us actually seeing them until we took off, she had decided on baked bean and pickle relish sandwiches.  I am not making this up.  You may, sitting in front of your computer, think "how revolting."

"Revolting" hardly covers it when you are rocking about on the high seas in a sailboat.

But, she meant well.

Painting Bottoms

Maine lobster men are a cantankerous bunch.  Their job isn't an easy one.  But they all used to have one thing in common: they needed to scrape and paint their boat bottoms every summer (back when their boats were wood, not today's plastic).

Simple - you run your boat up to the shore somewhere at high tide.  Then you wait for low tide.  With 10 foot tides, this completely exposes the hull, and voila, slap the bottom paint on.  The trick here is you all sit on one side of the boat to tilt it to starboard for one tide, then the other side to tilt it to port the next tide.

I had the pleasure of helping a great family friend do this one summer.  At 14 years of age, it was quite the adventure.

I have his thank-you letter to this day.

When Light Bulbs Explode

My Grandfather, as I have shared in the past, was quite the electrician.  In designing his systems, he was big on indicator lights.  

For the electric heat in our cottage for example, heat on, indicator lamp on, heat off, lamp out.  A simple way to alert you that you may have left the heat on inadvertently.

Well, bulbs burn out.  I, in budding geekdom, decided to take on the task of replacing the bulb.  Old burnt-out bulb out, new little standard 4 watt bulb back in.  Check operation by turning the heat on.  

The bulb exploded in my face.

I am very happy I still have my sight.  Turns out, my Grandfather had engineered for special 220 volt bulbs, and my little 110 was toast.

I actually would like the same system today here, but all the electricians I talk to look at me as if I was from Mars.

My Grandfather - ahead of his time.

"Jim, He's Dead"

You may, dear readers, suspect I watch a few too many Star Treks.  You may actually be right.

I just have to point out the plight of Dr. McCoy: his primary role was to jump down, inspecting that particular episode's hapless dead crewman and delivering a line to Kirk that is tough to vary.

"He's dead, Jim."  "Jim, he's dead."  

And he got paid for this.

Ferraris

When we were redoing our bathroom some 20 years ago, we were intent on making it timeless, but also trendy and gorgeous. 

A centerpiece was a huge mirror system with integrated lighting.  Dazzling.  Italian design.  Given Italy's reputation for quality products, I should have been suspect.  

It has two 3' long bulbs (vertically oriented) that really produce spectacular lighting.  But, being of Italian design, the heat from the bulbs fuses them into their Italian-designed plugs over time.

Dazzling beauty, but a 20-year maintenance headache.  Sort of like Ferraris.

Movie Credits

I have made no secret of enjoying a good movie.  Lots of them.

Left over from the early days of moviedom, 100 years ago, producers today seem to think that a single viewer in the entire viewing universe might still give a crap about credits.  It's 2013 for goodness sake - we talk through the opening credits, opening candy, shaking the salt down the bucket of popcorn, coughing at the exact moment we crack open our illegal beers, pretty much ANYTHING but watch the opening credits, and then race for the exits the moment the closing ones start up.

Like anyone in the known universe would care who the movie set caterer was.  What are these people thinking?  ARE these people thinking?

Doubtful.

An Organized Workshop

I believe it is very important to have an organized workshop.  You have to know exactly where to reach for that wrench or chisel, saving valuable time as you try to save projects that are inevitably going down the toilet.

But you must know where to reach, and after using whatever tool, goofing things up, throwing it somewhere in frustration, it needs to be returned to its place.

My system is simple: I trace their outline on the perfboard where they hang, and voila!  Everything in its place.

I may have a 1 in 50 record of successful projects, but boy is my workshop organized.

Jersey

New Jersey has a certain reputation.  Regrettably defined by tired New York comedians, the Sopranos, huge oil storage facilities along Route 95, the Parkway mantra "yeah, what exit," that abomination of a show "Jersey Shore," the list is tirelessly endless.

When my Sainted wife moved here in 1980, she feared the worst.  Except we are in the hills above all that tawdry stuff.  She once exclaimed that this was New Jersey's best kept secret - beautiful tree-lined streets, mansions, discreet behavior.  Heck, not more than a 20 minute drive, we are in fox-hunt horse country.

The trick is the keeping it on the down-low - can't have the hoi polloi discovering us.

Coyotes

I have been reading reports that suburban NJ sightings of coyotes are on the rise.  As if the damn deer weren't enough.

The reports go on to advise you never to let your cats out in the dark, lest they become prey to these ferocious predators (the coyotes, not the deer).  So you would think I might be concerned about letting Tiger, the Wonder Cat out.

Hah! I pity the hapless coyote that encounters him - he is more puma-sized than your average house cat.  And, if my own personal wounds are any indicator, a fighter with no remorse. 

Plus, in extremis, he can always beam himself back to his home planet.

High School Gym

When you are a geek in high school, gym class is loathsome.  There is wrestling, rope climbing and sadistic instructors.  Then, as if that wasn't enough, in the nice weather, there were outdoor tortures.

This is about one: the first time I saw stars.  We were playing soccer.  Racing around, moving the ball and such.  Actually, not to be immodest, but I was quite good.  As I was charging down the field, this guy strong armed me in the face.

I went down like a sack of potatoes.  I was only out for a minute, but as I recall, the gym teacher didn't even halt play.

As I said, sadists.

Fluid Dynamics

This is an important bit of science: fluid dynamics.  Fluids do not compress, hence the stunning things possible with hydraulic power - power generation, the operation of backhoes and other heavy equipment, ocean waves. 

Another example is that if a stream of fluid, say from a 3 foot height, is directed at a stationary body of fluid, there is splashing.

Do this day in and day out, for example, there is an inevitable buildup of said fluid in the patterned wallpaper of your, say, bathroom.

Simple fluid dynamics.

Bedside Manners

The bedside manner of all the doctors I am now seeing is important.  Like, you don't want to see a look of horror on their face as they finish checking you out.

Regrettably, a recent experience was even worse.  The idiot I was seeing had just finished checking something rather intimate and exclaimed "Oh my God!"  I was flat on my back at the time, and I do not believe I have sat up as quickly since my 20s.

What? What? Am I dying? What?  The moron was commenting on what the hospital staff had done the day before - nothing wrong at all, but beneath his high standards. 

Like I'm going to see this nitwit ever again - I'd sooner see a witch doctor.

Crushed Shells

The rocky coast of Maine is renowned for, well, being rocky.

So it was with some delight that while exploring around our little fishing harbor and its environs I came upon an island that was the stuff dreams are made of: pine-covered trails, moss dripping from tree branches, ocean waves crashing on the shore.  Yikes.

But it was the beach that I put into that was the killer - an entire beach of crushed shells.  I scooped up buckets.

I, of course, have them to this day.  They still brighten my mood.  Crushed shells.  Go figure.

Krypton Light Bulbs

Have you heard of these things?  As you well know, I am tasked with staying on top of technology for the Curmudgeon Societé.  When these things first came to my attention, I was transported back to my Superman comic days and every adolescent boy's dream: "Oh boy, x-ray vision - what DOES the inside of the girls room look like?"

Sadly, real life is more mundane.  As much as x-ray vision appeals, krypton light bulbs are NOT manufactured on Krypton and flown here through space.

Rats.

Burning Leaves

I miss the smell of burning leaves in the fall.  As a kid, it was part of life.  I don't for a minute believe all this balderdash about the pollution effects of all the smoke.

You stood with your Dad, just having raked the yard clear, and tossed a match.  Dry leaves do like to burn.  And you inhaled the fragrant smoke.  Plus, once done, the leaves are gone and life went on.

I think this whole no-burning-of-leaves thing was a plot by the airline pilots union because they had to work a tad harder on takeoff to see through all the smoke.

Truffles

The Curmudgeon Societé Generale, in a constant effort to keep members abreast of serious issues of the day, such as wearing pajama pants in public and such, issues bulletins to alert us. The latest one was "truffles: mushrooms or confections?"

This is serious.  How can the same name apply to such different foodstuffs?  Imagine the confusion when you are in your favorite gentlemen's club, having a coffee after dinner. And the waiter, after bringing you your coffee, politely inquires, "can I get you some truffles sir?"  You say yes, and get a plate of mushrooms rather than chocolates.

Hence the Societé bulletins to warn us of such awkward moments.

Monopoly

As kids summering in a tiny fishing village in Maine, we needed ways to wile the stunningly boring evenings away.  Monopoly was one.

It is tough for me to admit this, but I am a sore loser, and unfortunately, lose a lot I did.  Big brother Buzz had, and has, some otherworldly insight into money matters and crushed me repeatedly.

The poor Monopoly board would soar into the air each evening as I graciously accepted defeat.

My little sister also maintains that she learned many a new profanity.

Cantankerosity

I hate to actually have to say this, but curmudgeons can be cantankerous.  As I believe I have mentioned, I have been honored by the Societé Generale to help explain new technology to them.

Unfortunately, this ranges from explaining why touch-tone dialing is better than rotary dialing to "Should I be on the Facebook?"

It is a heavy responsibility, especially complicated because I am a curmudgeon and have understandably cantankerous views of my own.

Happily, I can fool them: "of course you should be on the Facebook - think of the legions of new friends you'll meet and by all means twitter - you'll have legions of followers."

Of course, these ARE curmudgeons - I may have stretched the definition of "legions" a bit...

Investing

The spectacular success of my investments range all the way from zip doodle to diddly squat.  We curmudgeons are conservative sorts, tending towards the stuff-cash-in-your-mattress financial system.

Frankly, the performance of banks today rather supports the practice.

I have a vastly superior system - bury my cash in Charles Chips cans.

Shut Up And Bail

I recently talked about bailing leaky boats.  I now realize that you may be thinking "Waah, waah, the Ivy League-to-be spoiled rich kid had to bail his fleet of boats."

Quite the contrary.  I'll give you the Ivy League-to-be part (which required a 766 on my SAT math, so there WAS a tad of work involved), but no spoiled.  No rich.  We're talking a 6' punt and an 8' rowboat that were apparently crafted in the last century and never touched since.

Our main strategy was to slap a thicker coat of paint on in the spring and hope for the best.

And bail a lot - builds character. And, apparently, curmudgeons.

Brownian Motion

I trust, dear readers, being of above-average intelligence, you know about Brownian motion.

One of my favorite bosses, also of above-average intelligence (actually, way, way above - MIT child prodigy and such) got promoted to run one of our factories.  Now, there were only 6 or so of these things, so this was a big deal.

Being a manufacturing concern of heroic proportions, there had developed quite a hierarchy - worker, section chiefs, department chiefs, assistant managers, managers, directors, and then the big guy - factory head.

He told me that historically, the big guy would only have carefully orchestrated tours of the factory floor - every one of those layers carefully planning every step, showing off only their favorite accomplishments on the factory floor (for their own personal promotion advantage, of course).

My old boss told me he would simply walk, unannounced, onto the factory floor and wander around to see stuff.  Five layers of management would be freaking out, rushing after him, fearing he may find one of them incompetent.

Brownian motion - who knew it was a management technique?

The Who

I believe I recently noted that I like my Rock and Roll music somewhat loud.  Due to an unfortunate breakage incident - a beautiful seashell-filled vase that my Sainted wife had put on top of a speaker in hopes of lessening the manliness of raw speaker power, sort of walked itself off the speaker, and plunged the 4 feet to its death.

Now, I blame The Who, but she had different thoughts on who was accountable.

We rebuilt - a handsome new vase, once again filled with seashells.  The next time I had a Who music moment at volumes that can't be beat, being no dummy, I carefully set it on the floor, lest the tragic incident be repeated.

How was I to know that decorative plates on the kitchen wall would leap into space?

I blame The Who.

Wall-To-Wall

When we were kids, to have wall-to-wall carpeting was seen as "having arrived."  The cat's meow.  The bees knees. The cream of the crop.  When we got ours, Buzz and I were thrilled (we were easily pleased).

Today, we can't seem to rip the stuff up fast enough.  It had a warming effect, it hid a lot of dirt plus the odd cat fur ball. Now, I realize styles change, but sitting here barefoot in Command Central and there being 16 degree weather outside, I really miss it.

Tiger, the Wonder Cat, wrapped around my feet, eases the pain.  Perchance time for socks.

Humor

I believe in a good sense of humor.  Seeing humor in things sparks a higher order of life.

Of course, we curmudgeons are restricted to a polite cough, or in the face of severe comic moments, a little chuckle.  The point is, people without a sense of humor are not quite as smart as anyone with one.

If you can't have a snicker now and again, it's a sad thing.  I myself, out of sight of any Societé eyes, actually permit myself guffaws and cackles.

But, mums the word.  Heh, heh.

Cat Attack

I like to bond with Tiger, the Wonder Cat.  You know, a little arm wrestling first thing in the morning.  The downside here is threefold: the sleeve of my robe has been shredded, when all ten claws come out, I lose a lot of blood, and then there is the biting.

When he is done having his way with me, he falls down at my feet purring.  As adorable as you might think this is, I really need to buy a toy here - I'm feeling a little weak from blood loss.

Maybe buy some nail clippers, too.

Pot Pies

Taking a break from my furious duties as a couch potato, I sometimes microwave a quick dinner.  To my great surprise, Banquet Chicken Pot Pies are quite good.  They each have at least 3 or 4 pieces of chicken in them.

Now, I realize YOUR arteries are clogging simply thinking about this, but there's more: Banquet has come up with something called a "Deep Dish Sausage & Gravy" pot pie.

In my Sainted wife's continual attempt to kill me, she recently exposed me to these.  Sausage? Gravy? Pot Pie?  I'm in.

Way more sausage than those lame chicken ones.

Bailing

Spending time in Maine in the summer, there were certain responsibilities  One was bail the boats before they sank.  

You would normally expect to dash out after heavy rains, bail a bit and done.  Hah!  If you had old wooden boats as we did, it wasn't water from above that was the only factor, it was water from below - they often leaked like sieves.

So bailing was a routine.  Like the ladies quietly enjoying a cup of tea every afternoon, you bailed.  Big difference - one was civilized, the other sucked.

Back To The Wall

The new room we recently rebuilt for my Sainted wife turns out to be behind me here in Command Central.

I was fully aware of the plans and everything, but never appreciated the changes in my lifestyle that could occur. Now she can sneak up behind me before I can flip from Star Trek to the History channel as before, when I could see her coming at me from the kitchen.  She might now realize what an idiot I am!

This is really, really upsetting my world - I am a back-to-the-wall guy. No one but no one sneaks up behind me.

I am a wreck.

Sailing

My Dad was a sailor.  Read the wind, the tide, the currents, and scoot where he knew breezes were the strongest.

In our tiny working fishing harbor, we were legends - because our sailboat (we're talking 40 feet here) HAD NO MOTOR.  You sailed off the mooring and you sailed back to it.  Ever try to stop a sleek boat without a braking function?

Day in, day out - hit that mooring and stop.  I suspect that it is the rare sailor today who has the skills we kids acquired from my Dad.

I brag, but I suspect this time it's justified.

Charles Chips

Do you remember Charles Chips?  They were a superior chip, came in large yellow cans instead of bags, and were a staple foodstuff at college.

My reason for bringing this all up is when my Sainted wife and I were doing some improvement projects in the front of our house, we changed the rotting old light post out.

Digging it up, what do you know!  It had been anchored in a cement-filled Charles Chips can.

You can't make this stuff up.

The Great Detective

Recently catching up on Poirots on Netflix, it struck me that, sad to say, I would not make a particularly good detective.  "Say it isn't so" you, dear readers, are no doubt crying.  But I must disappoint.

Engineers are lousy detectives - we plod along a path of analysis until things are discovered and such.  This is not detecting.  Add into the mix being a curmudgeon - I must maintain my air of superiority, so keen attention to details is not in the offing.

And there you have it - crimes could occur right under my upturned nose.  NOT good detecting.

Pulling All-Nighters

Back in college, guys pulled all-nighters to cram for exams.  The more advanced of us, having actually DONE the necessary work, pulled all-nighters to enjoy loud R&R, odd smelling tobacco, good beer and Pete's pizza.

These days, on the odd Saturday evening, I sometimes think - heck, have an all-nighter - there are some great B-movies on TCM tonight.

I carefully surround myself with chips, dip, nuts and well-chilled iced tea.  I also fall asleep by 10.  

I choose to declare that as the new definition of an all-nighter.

As You Wish

"My name is Inigo Montoya.  You killed my father.  Prepare to die."

The Princess Bride stands out as one of those rare movies that combines great acting by talents like Cary Elwes, Mandy Patinkin, Billy Crystal, Carol Kane, a delightful mix of adventure and a love story that can't be beat, great swordplay, a cute kid, and Andre the Giant.

It should be hard to wrap your brain around that mix.  See it when you can.

Slinky

I'm sure you, dear readers, being more intelligent than most, are familiar with slinkys. You may think of them as kid's toys, but they were way, way more.

Aside from watching them walk down stairs on their own, we used them in high school science class to demonstrate wave action.  We would all gather in the hall, stretch one out, and simply whack one end.  The energy would move a wave of compressions and expansions all along the 20 feet of the slinky. Wave action learned in a moment.

Toy indeed.

Tooth Care

In my youth, toothbrushes hung on some sort of porcelain fixture in the bathroom wall.  Grab yours in the a.m., have a quick brush and get on with your day.  Your parents bought 32 cent brushes, the only distinguishing feature being the color of the handle.

Today, as I suspect you are surely aware, things are a tad different.  You can stare at a wall of them in the supermarket, trying to figure out bristle count, which motorized direction is best, let alone color of handle.

Seriously, just brush the damn fangs and get on with your day.

Star Trek

I believe I may have mentioned I was a geek in high school.  Class A, highest order geek.  (Of course, this is no longer the case...)

So when the show Star Trek first came on, we geeks, trying not to wet our pants, got together every week for "the viewing."

In its day, Star Trek had more visual effects than any TV show before it.  Why, there must have been at least 10 or so each episode.  Regrettably, we now know those automatic doors were operated by guys right behind them, but that whoosh sound thrilled. At the time, this was watching the future come alive.  

Space, the final frontier.

First Loves

My first girlfriend in High School was the stuff guys only dream about - she was gorgeous, built like the proverbial.., AND aggressively pursued me.

This is not easy, but I was a geek.  I had no idea how to deal with a beautiful, energetic, forthright, free-spirited girl.  There is not a SINGLE thing in those attributes that could even remotely be applied to me.  I shyly held hands, visited the parents, went to parties and such, but was simply too stupid to understand what was next to me.

I'm 63. I still remember this.  And regret that maybe she really just wanted a shoulder to lean on, cry on, kiss.  

Woodworking

I have always been absolutely fascinated by fine woodworking - choosing the right wood, the stunning joinery, the final finish.

In my enthusiasm, I set up my own wood shop: a radial-arm saw, a router, sanders, chisels and other such tools carefully aligned on the pegboard.  I gave each tool a run.

That was 30 years ago.

Fried Chicken Virgin

My first experience with fried chicken was in North Carolina while on a camping trip with good friends.  At the time, I was something like 20. That's right - 20. Growing up in a New England household, I was more experienced with franks and beans and overcooked roast beef.

But at the North Carolina KFC I was transported.  Fried chicken became my closest friend.  Then I found Popeyes.  I couldn't imagine fried chicken could get any better, but at Popeyes, it did.  My arteries were really in trouble now.

Popeyes then upped the game - Cajun Sparkle to put on top of their chicken.  Just inject this all into my veins - sort of shortcut the artery clogging and all.