Tornadoes

Let's be clear on one thing: we don't DO tornadoes in New Jersey. My Sainted wife is from the Midwest, where tornadoes have apparently chosen to beleaguer. She even recalls tornado drills in addition to fire drills where she worked. (Apparently in one, you run and stand in a doorway and the other, you run outside - no matter; whatever the drill, half the people did each).

Out there, there are sirens that go off that, I am told, people actually listen to. If a siren went off here, we would 1) ignore it, thinking some nitwit down the block forgot to turn their security system off and opened a door, and 2) have no idea what to do anyway. 

But, the Weather Service actually announced a tornado watch, so currently, I am crouched in the Southwest corner of our basement (some bizarre Midwest requirement so we don't get sucked up into "we're not in Kansas anymore" land). News flash: we're NOT in Kansas. Tornadoes don't have the stones to tackle New Jersey. 

Tornadoes? Let them eat trailer parks. Luckily for me, I have cable down here in my man cave. AND Magnum P.I. is on. 

Fat Floats

As a kid, I was all skin & bones. When I was first introduced to a pool, I promptly sank like a stone. (BTW, quick way to learn how to swim).

In my twenties, a tad more filled out, I went for my Scuba certification. During the pool-length underwater swim, I expended as much effort trying to stay underwater as I did going forward. The instructor gave me extra credit for effort.

Now, in my robust maturity, I float like a bloated whale. You couldn't sink me if you tried. If floating on water was an Olympic sport, I would nail it. Birds have tried to nest on what I presume they saw as an island. 

Scuba?  Just a few more weights, please.

Princess Temperature

My Sainted wife convinced me, many years ago, to install a pool. "We'll love it" she cried. Actually, she was correct - it is a treat and we've had a great time with (and in) it. 

Then I learned about "Princess Temperature." This is the temperature the pool has to be such that said wife doesn't go "ooh" when she steps into the pool, but "oooh." BIG difference. It's in the tone, apparently. 

I quickly learned 84 degrees was the "Princess Tempurature." 84 degrees. Any sane engineer (such as moi) would quickly quail at the gas needed to fire 30,000 gallons of water to 84 degrees in this part of New Jersey - even in the height of summer.

Why, tonight, as a thunderstorm swept a cold front in, I am watching the pool emit STEAM into the air since 84 degree water is only too happy to give up its heat to 64 degree evenings.

All I see are dollar bills floating into the air, never to be seen again.

Mulch

Mulch: I had, of course, heard the word, and thought I generally understood its meaning. But it wasn't until I married a gardener that the full impact of what it actually was sank in. 

It turns out to be a gardening-related sinkhole for money. It is a ridiculously expensive thing you buy EVERY YEAR for your garden beds. The mulch people drive up in a dump truck full of the stuff (steaming, if that gives you any hint of what it might be - and smell like), liberally shovel it into your garden beds, and relieve you of something like $1000.

They then drive away laughing because they know that it will DISAPPEAR over the course of the year, forcing you to do it all over again next year! When I first encountered this, I fairly shrieked "You've got to be kidding me!"  Apparently gardeners don't understand what a SANE person could do with $1000 every year. Like, ANYTHING else.

And the smell - I mean, really?

Facebook

It had to happen at some point: the Executive Council of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale finally heard about Facebook and promptly called me in. "If being on the Facebook (their words) is the new thing, why aren't you, as our spokesperson, on it?"

I was prepared for this. Curmudgeons simply don't get doing charity work (do WORK and not get paid? Not bloody likely). I mean, I publish the Curmudgeon Societé philosophy and I keep them more or less aware of new technology (if not actually up-to-date on it). But taking the leap into a social network dealy was no trivial affair..I would have to check it all the time, post crap, READ crap, and try to make sense of it all. It was starting to sound like real work. 

So I pointed out that pictures might be included. THAT caused  some consternation. After all, a picture of a bunch of old, white-haired white guys might paint us as nothing more than Republicans. Not good. They offered a small stipend. 

I agreed before they heard about Twitter, too. Baby steps.

Madame Presidente

It was inevitable. My Sainted wife's enthusiasm for gardening outgrew our little patch of suburbia and led her to joining the local Garden Club, where her cheerful disposition recently got her elected president. "Good for her!" you may cry.

Not so good for me, however. I am being told to watch my manners in public around town, stop barking at neighborhood urchins, keep the car clean, and all manner of crap. She keeps blathering about how she must uphold an image. Ever seen Hyacinth Bucket ("Its Bouquet, not Bucket") on "Keeping Up Appearances?" I'm living her husband Richard's life. It's not pretty. 

And having to address her as "Madam President" when we're in public is really too much.

Tattoos, Not Tats

This is our 4th in an unfortunately growing series of Curmudgeon Societé observations about tattooing. The Societé has made its opinion patently clear on this pox upon modern times back in February of last year as well as follow-ups in November and March of this year. 

Tattooing, not unlike elongated necks or bound feet, is a primitive concept. And - curmudgeons are painfully realizing - especially suited to the primitive mentalities which seem to be on the upswing around here.

Anointing the dismal results of this practice with a cute name like "tats" only hides the sordid reality. Lets see what good marketing does to stuff like this: Chicken meat shavings artificially compressed into bite sized pieces? Lets call them "nuggets." Much friendlier. Kids resisting eating something made out of lobster claws? Lets call them "cuddlers." Hideous permanent coloring of human skin? We shall call them "tats."

The difference is that chicken nuggets are actually good, as are lobster cuddlers. Tattoos? Still hideous. And still there when you sober up. Good luck with that job interview. 

Going to the Movies

As much as I like watching movies, I never actually GO to that many. The skinflint curmudgeon in me waits for them to come to ME - I'm paying for cable, who cares if I don't see said movie when it first comes out?

Well, 3D IMAX pretty much changed all that.  If you go to the movies for escapism and entertainment, it can't be beat.  Avatar? I was on Pandora. The Hobbit? I was in Middle Earth.

Cup holder in the arm of the chair for my soda, popcorn in hand, I'm there.  But wait - no pause button, no rewind to catch that missed fleeting moment, no mute?  

Back to Command Central. Curmudgeons like to be in charge.

No Kids Allowed

An alert reader recently sent me an article on a new trend in restaurants - NO KIDS ALLOWED! Now, this is something a curmudgeon can embrace. 

It doesn't take too many screaming kids to ruin a meal out. It actually only takes one. And, of course, a pair of nitwit parents who 1) decided to take said kid to a public place before it was housebroken and 2) are too stupid to take it outside to calm it down. And, as with so many examples of parenting today, getting trapped in a restaurant with one of these creatures is becoming more and more likely, so having the choice to avoid this odious situation when dining out would indeed appeal.

Even better, the article went on to say that Malaysia Airlines is experimenting with kid-free zones on their flights. I can't applaud this initiative loudly enough. Regrettably, after a quick check of Google Earth to find out just where "Malaysia" is, it seems unlikely I will be taking advantage of their great service anytime soon.

I'm going to bring these enlightened businesses to the attention of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale - I'll be a hero.

Latvia

As the voice of a bunch of curmudgeons, I periodically have to prove that people are actually reading what I publish. Happily, Blogspot.com gives me statistics on just such things. Unfortunately, it pretty much shows how few people give a crap about curmudgeon thinking, but the Societé is quite impressed when I show them all the international interest in curmudgeonry.

Out of all the countries in the world, Latvia popped up. Latvia. I vaguely knew it was Scandinavian or Eastern Block-ish, but the details of where it was and such escaped me, so I consulted my trusty iPhone. My hopes were that I could prove to a pile of curmudgeons that this was an important emerging market. 

Regrettably, the numbers told a sad story of simply being bored when you live within spitting distance of the arctic circle. The entire country of Latvia is about the size of Wisconsin with a population of somewhere under half of it.

The good news for the Societé, I quickly pointed out, was that Latvia was indeed an old-world type place (perfect match for curmudgeons), and Estonia, Lithuania and - dare I hope - Belarus couldn't be far behind.

Whooee.

You Want FM Too?

As I've noted in the past, I first bought a BMW back in aught '79 for the performance. Fancy features were NOT on their minds when they designed it - windows? Roll your own. Seat adjustments? Manual. Automatic transmission? Not in these parts, sir. Radio? Begrudged.

Given some of my previous notes about my enthusiasm for good - and loud - music, you might expect that I would have popped for the premium sound system in my new BMW, but that extra $1000 seemed, err, ahh, a TAD usurious. Moths fly out of a curmudgeon's wallet, not money. So I went with the *sigh* factory standard system (apparently only 400 watts and a mere 10 speakers).

Recently, Eric Clapton was playing, so I turned him up. All the way. Sort of a "let's see what this baby can do" moment. My ears are still ringing as I write this - it was unbelievable. Eric rocked. The car rocked. Passers-by assumed it was the kids in the tricked-out Honda in front of me, not the old fart waving his head like Stevie Wonder. The experience was nothing short of spectacular. 

I'm going to BMW tomorrow to hear their UPSCALE sound system. I pray I return with my hearing intact and wallet moths undisturbed.

Today It's Great - Tomorrow, It's a Yawner

The Societé has entrusted me with the responsibility of keeping all us curmudgeons abreast of technology. I have assumed it was a testimony to my interest in technical things, my keen mind, my clear presentation of difficult topics, but alas, it was my nerd reputation.

Nonetheless, as I have mentioned in past entries in this oervre, this "technology" thing, taking into account curmudgeons, spans the invention of touch-tone phones to the nuances of internet-ready TVs. Frankly, it can get exhausting. Especially when technology moves so fast that today's "ultimate solution" is tomorrow's "that model is so yesterday." 

But I have a budget, so I can have some fun. I recently bought a "Sphero" on their dime. Clever little toy. Actually, a rather frustrating - but clever - little toy. It races about under the control of your phone! And you can change its color! My Sainted wife's observation: "is that all it does?" 

Good thing I could voucher it -- it will very shortly be reminding me of once having bought the game "Simon."

Outdoor Rooms

This time of year, we see all sorts of articles and ads for these "outdoor rooms." Why we do is what is so annoying. I live in the New Jersey-New York metropolitan area, and I can assure you the climate around here in no way, shape or form supports the cost of installing one of these things. 

California? No doubt. Arizona? Of course. New Jersey? Only if the servant wing of your estate can support the staff needed to race out and set it all up on a good day, and then quickly put cushions, dish ware, decorative froo-froos, throw pillows and all the other crap the ads show away before that afternoon thunderstorm hits. 

My Sainted wife and I have had an outdoor furniture set for quite some years. Let me be clear on this point: furniture, NOT a "room." Just keeping a furniture set clean is a nosebleed. This stuff gets dirty. Really dirty. Moldy. Bird-crapped-upon. Insects mating upon. Insect-crapped-upon. Even trees get into the act. We have to have a way to store all that stuff for the 6 months it isn't used AND that emergency area to hold the cushions when the weatherman gets things wrong on a supposedly GOOD day.

"Outdoor rooms" - pah. When saner heads prevailed, they were wherever you wanted to plant your picnic basket and blanket.

Fashion Trends

I am told that fashions come and go. As you might suspect, this phenomenon is quite foreign to curmudgeons. Give us a "look" and it is locked in for life. Hell, give us a set of clothes at 60, and THEY are locked in for life.

Leisure suits came and (deservedly) went.  But then came running shoes as everyday footwear (sneakers in my day, suitable for play only), T-shirts with some stupid message or other (UNDERshirts in my day, and free of advertising), hoodies (foul weather gear, not everyday attire) and pajama pants (I trust I needn't comment further on this scourge - I made the Societé position quite clear back in March 2012). 

No problem, I thought - these too shall pass.

Problem. These things are not only still with us, they are more pervasive than ever. You're probably thinking "yeah, you not only dress like it was 1980, you WEAR what you had in 1980, so who are YOU to complain?"

I'm a curmudgeon, nimrod, of COURSE I'll complain.

Curmudgeons Don't Dance

I have been bugged to address a fear near and dear to the heart (such as it is) of every curmudgeon: dancing. My difficulty has been that the article would be short - we don't. Period. Next question. 

Women, not unlike my Sainted wife, LOVE to dance. They are so desperate to dance that in high school, they danced with each other - a practice unlikely amongst guys.

My wife remembers the nuances of the Wah-Wah-Tussy vs. the Slide vs. the Swim vs. the Fly vs. the Mashed Potatoes, etc., etc. It fair boggles the mind that this knowledge actually still occupies her brain cells. It also boggles the minds of ALL curmudgeons that these dances actually differed.

When pressed, curmudgeons approach the dance floor with great trepidation and try to appear to be doing some sort of thing long enough to satisfy our mates. All the lessons we learned in Mrs. Claypool's dance classes are absolutely useless here.  She, along with my Mom, assumed there would be foxtrots and waltzes in my future. Clearly they missed the proverbial Macarena boat.

So did curmudgeons. "Gosh, honey, I would love to join you - do you suppose the band knows a good foxtrot?"

More New Jersey Driving Tips

I have mentioned before (as early as April 2012) that driving in New Jersey is not for the faint-of-heart. And it actually requires paying attention, unlike in Utah or other states with straight roads and no traffic.

For example, turning left. It shouldn't be all that hard. You signal your intention, you wait for a break in traffic, and you gosh, gee, turn left.

This simple procedure seems to escape many drivers here in our little, but densely-packed state. And, due to roads designed during the Revolution, there isn't room for too many left-turning lanes, so signaling your intention is pretty important. When you are innocently hanging out behind someone at a red light, the light turns green, and THEN they decide to turn their signal on, it is perfectly acceptable to jump out of your car and shoot them. 

My Sainted wife has lived here for 30 years and still won't tackle that part of Rt. 22 that has stores on both sides of the highway as well as in the island separating the opposing lanes of traffic. Into this fun mix are thrown U-turn lanes AND the Jersey shortcut of speeding through any handy parking lot in the island to make your U-ey. This marvel of the "toss your hands in the air and hope for the best" principle of traffic engineering has to be experienced to be believed.

In these challenging driving moments, you are tempted to just close your eyes and hit the gas. It must work - I've noticed that's what everyone does in Massachusetts.

Look Ma, No Windows

Sometime in the murky past, I mentioned to you, dear readers, that one of my jobs was fixing sick computer-controlled telephone offices for Ma Bell. These places, it turns out, didn't need windows - they were all electronics, so why give the computers a view?

A little history - this idea came about partly by accident. In an incident back when relays ruled electronic switching, an inadvertently open window admitted some ants, who, when walking across activating relays, were immolated on the spot, turning into formic acid and damaging the equipment.

So, bit by bit, windows were boarded up, and then eliminated. One particular office in NYC that I worked in for awhile was a 20-story windowless building.  When working inside this edifice of efficiency, one had NO idea what the weather was like outside.  So, the ever clever folks at Bell Labs did some (no doubt lengthy) study and installed a weather advisory system in the hallways: green light for "sunny," yellow for "eh" and red for "lousy."

I kid you not. The best and the brightest in action. Smart, but curmudgeons all. Not even a flashing "Have a Nice Day" sign.

Shattered Childhood Myths

Boy, back when I was a kid, things were different. You actually played outside - in a vaguely organized fashion without adult supervision - and loved it. Parents loved it too. "Go out and play" was the only direction a kid needed for a day of fun and parents needed for a day of peace. I refer you to ANY Calvin and Hobbes for a point of reference.

We also manned our way through childhood diseases like mumps, measles and chicken pox. Heck, if the kid across the street got chicken pox, your mother would send you over to play with him so you would get it and "get it over with." This is the stuff manly men were built upon. Kids today? Wusses with vaccines. No childhood suffering to overcome and grow stronger by.

As romantic as this all sounds, we DID manage to miss one small point: if you get chicken pox as a kid, you stand a 1 in 3 chance of getting shingles later in life. You really, really DON'T want to get shingles at any time in life.

Another childhood myth shattered.

Texting

My fellow batty old curmudgeons have barely grasped the concept of mobile phones, so it comes as no surprise that issues surrounding texting are pretty high on their list of confusing issues (a la "What's all the fuss about this phone texture thing?"). As their technology go-to guy, I've done some investigation. Apparently texting can be a useful adjunct to calling people. But, as with anything new, it has hatched its share of problems:

Auto-correct. Seeing what this feature has done to some messages, I swear it will inadvertently start a war some day. Texters are astonishingly inept at seeing what their message actually says before hitting "send."

Texting shorthand. The English language doesn't need a new form of degradation - it has quite enough already, thank you very much.

Texting while driving. This is no doubt the single stupidest cellphone-related thing someone can do. It is leaps ahead of applying makeup, setting your GPS, trying to dial a cell phone and similar things while driving, which are really stupid by themselves.

Texting while walking about in public. This has become a highly entertaining spectator sport, given how often these nitwits walk into things whilst texting.

Texting by teens. It has become such an epidemic among them (50-60 texts per day, AVERAGE) that the smarter ones tell their friends good night long before retiring so they can finally have some uninterrupted peace.

Texting by Curmudgeon. Not bloody likely.

Cicadas

As difficult as it is to admit, I am experiencing the East Coast 17-year Cicada invasion for the FOURTH time. The first one was the most memorable, no doubt because I was a mere prat at the time.

They were EVERYWHERE. They crunched underfoot, the air was filled with their romantic calls, you could collect more of the shed husks than the kid next door and wow, were they easy to catch as they flit about. It was heaven for a small boy. 

There was even a special about this year's invasion on the Science channel. I'm ready. So is Tiger the Wonder Cat - I've been talking up how scrumptiously crunchy and delicious they are, so he's primed as well.

So where the hell are they? I'm getting reports from all around, but apparently they are not permitted in our town or something. None. No crunch. No fun. I'm getting pretty grumpy. 

Imagine that - a grumpy curmudgeon.