Real Resorts

When we stay on Florida's east coast, in a real resort, our umbrella and lounge rental fees on the beach include surfer dude Nick helping us, dispensing laid back philosophy and raking up the beach flotsam. 

Over here on the west coast in a nature preserve, as noted last year, NOBODY RAKES A THING. Dead, stinking fish on the beach? Isn't Mother Nature wonderful! West coast Nicks turn out to be environmental nuts, more concerned about nesting turtles than your damn umbrella positioning. 

On the east coast, old guys stand around in a group in about 3' of water, beer and cigar in hand, hats on. On the west coast, there's shelling. You faithful readers will have little difficulty guessing which crowd I identify with. 

Real resorts have places to eat food and buy it right on the grounds. Here, we have a restaurant whose windows overlooking the Gulf turn into mirrors on the inside when it gets dark, so the restaurant lights won't disorient turtle hatchlings. 

On the east coast you have a life, on the west coast you are subjugated by the turtle overlords. 

Right Mind

Nobody in their right mind comes to Sanibel (where I am currently perspiring excessively) at this time of year. Except, it would seem, my Sainted wife. Unbeknownst to me, some years ago she acquired a timeshare here along with her arguably equally crazy sister. 

So here I am once again whining to you, dear readers, when I should be whining closer to home. Despite the fact that I am under an umbrella on a beach, waves crashing quietly in front of me, more or less at peace, it IS 90 humid degrees out. Worse, the weather app on my phone gleefully informs me that it feels like 98. 

I don't care how pleasant the breeze, knowing it SHOULD feel like 98 humid degrees makes it, dammit, FEEL like 98 humid degrees. 

And thus, no one in their right mind comes here this time of year. 

Technology

I am proud to say that in addition to authoring Chapter 22 (trash is the last resort) in the Curmudgeon Handbook, I have just finished a new one on technology. 

Now, I know technology is changing faster that any printed word in a handbook can keep up with, but bear in mind my primary audience is doing its damnest to still master cell phones and TV remotes. 

So a little out-of-date 3D printing information or, say, not mentioning how they can stream reruns of the Rockford files to their TVs or, perhaps the nuances of WiFi and Bluetooth are simply not in the chapter. 

But I DID tell them all about hooking up a DVD player and how to unplug things and plug them back in if they don't seem to be working. 

Hey, I'm a curmudgeon, I'm not mean. 

The Library

Because I'm cheap - as well as a curmudgeon - I get all my books from the library these days - no more buying the damn things. 

Boy are library book readers a bunch of slobs. You would expect they'd be erudite, ever so proper sorts (such as myself) but they border on criminal: they eat all manner of crap while reading and don't do an especially good job of cleaning up after themselves (i.e., they just turn the page and the mess goes away). 

Then you're innocently turning another page and apparently there's a very funny moment in the book on it, because some earlier reader, mouth full of god-knows-what burst out laughing and spewed. 

Finally, and most egregiously, they DOGEAR the pages. This is unforgivable in book circles. Only the basest sorts resort to dog earring pages rather than using a bookmark. Sheesh. It's like they never read a book before. 

Certainly not one about etiquette. 

Mallomars

What is up with these things? They are only available October through April. People hoard them. And 70% are sold in the NY metropolitan area. 

This is one weird cookie. Apparently, since back in 1913 (when they were invented) there were no refrigerated delivery trucks, the Mallomars produced in the summer melted before they ever reached your local grocer. Improbably, the Mallomar people elected to keep to their quaint production schedule and these cookies remain unavailable in the summer months to this day. 

And thus the sign here at my local grocer. 

Curmudgeons don't seem to particularly care for Mallomars - the hoopla is lost on us. 

Chicka Chicka

The sounds of summer are happy ones - kids playing cheerfully (please note that a curmudgeon actually used the words "kids" and "cheerfully" in the same sentence - a VERY rare thing), birds singing, crickets cricketing, etc., etc. 

In genteel neighborhoods, such as my own, there was also the happy chicka-chicka sound of sprinkler heads in all the in-ground lawn watering systems. Another comforting summer sound. 

Alas, no more. Turns out, worm drive sprinkler heads are much more reliable. Sadly, they are also silent. So the cheerful chicka-chicka sound has slowly disappeared as those sprinkler heads expired and were replaced by the silent ones. I should know - it happened to me. I held out as long as I could, but one by one, the old impact heads wore themselves out. 

Now all I hear are the damn kids. 

I 495

Interstate 495 is the highway we use to dodge around Boston on the trip to Maine. Massachusetts drivers are dangerous enough without encountering them in confined quarters like anywhere near Boston - hence the utility of 495 (despite the fact that we're still exposed to crazy Massachusetts drivers).

But, as with all of Massachusetts, I 495 lives by its own set of rules. Oh, it has those signs that advertise the various restaurants and gas stations at each exit, but beware: there is NO SUCH THING as easy off-easy on. 

Once you leave that highway, you're immediately immersed in some incomprehensible warren of narrow roads, circles and town squares that were designed during the Revolution. 

If you are lucky, you actually stumble across the fast food joint advertised back on the highway. The real trick turns out to be figuring out how to reverse all those twists and turns and get BACK to the highway. 

That's driving in Massachusetts - damned if you stay on the highway, damned if you don't. 

Beauty Buns

Curmudgeons live for these sorts of late night/early morning commercials on cable TV. 

Apparently "Beauty Buns" are some sort of clingy Lycra pants that give women with a flat tush a beautifully curvaceous tush. I kid you not. I kid you not because the commercial has to show these things in action - before and after pictures and such. Women showing off their newly rounded buns at the gym. Posing and strutting proudly about. 

And, as with all such things in similar ads, you get 2 for the price of one! 

Beauty. 

Don't You Dare Litter

What with the drive to Maine being such a long one and coffee having its usual bodily effects, our mercy stop at the Connecticut Welcome Center is always a, well, welcome one. 

There are the usual collection of signs at these sorts of places: "Head-In Parking Only," "Pick Up After Your Pet," etc.

It was only this year that I noticed a new no littering sign.  Amongst all the other signs, a no littering one is no particular surprise. The threat of a hefty fine, however, DID catch my eye: $219 fine for littering. 

Now THERE'S a deterrent - if the fine were merely, say, $210 or $215, I would litter with abandon. But $219? Why that just breaks the bank, that one. 

One can imagine the debate in the Connecticut Legislature when this number was being set: "Make it $1000" the passionate anti-littering forces cried. "How about $100?" more rational voices offered. So a committee was set up, arguments, counter-arguments and such ensued at great length and out popped the compromise: $219. Not $200, not $250, but $219. 

Welcome to Connecticut. Where fines don't make a particle of sense. 

Cosmic Gyro Relativator

As I've often mentioned, the ride to Maine is a long one, and often dangerous, seeing as how we have to traverse Massachusetts and artfully dodge their crazy drivers. 

But these days, trusty iPhone aboard, I've got Pandora, iHeart radio and my own 900-odd tunes in addition to the car radio to keep us occupied. Not satisfied even with that astonishing collection, this year I added a web site that has a bunch of old timey (1940s) radio serials. 

One we had some fun with was Buck Rogers in the 25th century. Laughably lame (and arguably lacking an Erin Gray in skin-tight outfits to make you forget any plot holes as in the 1970s TV show), it nonetheless did have some nifty keeno sounding space-age devices. 

I can see the writers now at a blackboard with three columns of technical sounding gobbledygook that they can then use to string together each week's new space gadget. 

Hence the cosmic gyro relativator. 

Tiger Takes the Plunge

It has been quite some time since I have mentioned the escapades of Tiger, the wonder cat. The Curmudgeon Societé Generale thought such articles tended to humanize curmudgeons too much, and therefore discouraged them. However, his antics of today call for a reprieve. 

As ever, chipmunks remain his little buddies - he catches them, plays with them and they always get away - he has never hurt a one. Rabbits, on the other hand, don't stand a chance. 

"Oh the poor bunnies" you may decry. Get over it - they are just furry pests, and once in his grasp, quite doomed. Today's catch was entirely different, however - it broke free, ran (hopped, whatever) around a bit and promptly fell in the pool. This is where I usually come in - they can't get back out, so I have to fish them out. 

Not today - in the heat of the chase, Tiger himself leapt into the pool after the rabbit. 

Let me repeat that - he jumped into the pool, grabbed the rabbit and hauled it back out. 

Wonder cat, indeed.

Glasnost

We all know the Russkies are a hardy sort. After WW II, if Stalin wasn't killing off his own people, he was busily annexing unwilling countries. 

Despite each of the long histories of these countries, he crushed their spirits, erected all manner of statues to himself and that idiot Lenin, built hideous housing (to save money for a military that we now know was unsustainable). And similar sociopathic behavior. 

So when the USSR fell apart, the constituent countries took great pleasure in erasing any vestige of their former oppressors: toppling all those egregious soviet statues and re-declaring their new-found freedom. 

The above is one of my favorites: some formerly serious Soviet war memorial has now been gleefully redecorated. With American superheroes no less! (Ronald McDonald, too, but that only adds insult to injury.)

However, the Ruskies weren't done yet: they lodged a formal complaint to have the memorial restored to its former boring look. 

Fat chance of that happening.  

Chicago Beef Sandwiches

Have you ever had one of these things? They are the quintessential Chicago sandwich, adored by the locals. 

Essentially, they are composed of a thinly shaved beefish meat product that is somehow super-saturated with garlic. This is then dunked into a noxious equally garlic super-saturated warm ostensibly beef-based sort of broth. Then the whole soaking wet mess, along with a few peppers, is tossed into a bun. 

The end product is every bit as revolting as you would expect. The broth runs down your chin, the bun turns to mush, but those locals just love them. 

On the other hand, civilized diners aren't ready yet. 

Family Tree

Big brother Buzz has been doing A LOT of investigation into our family tree - for good, bad and indifferent. 

When your family tree stretches back to the Mayflower on both sides, good, bad and indifferent will each play a role. And you can imagine the daunting task he has had (400 years of blending). I think he's almost done - I certainly hope so since the details fill 300 pages. Hell, there are dukes in England that can do the same thing with few well-placed murals in the great hall. 

Sure, after 400 years, we're related to Presidents, founders of New England towns - even a 2-time mayor of NYC, river founders and namers and all manner of things. 

But today's story centers on the small peninsula we summer on. Turns out, we are related to virtually all of the families there. VIRTUALLY ALL of them. This is where things get really scary. 

Maine has long, cold, dark winter nights - I shudder to think who was cuddling with whom back in the day. It is a wonder I still have all my teeth and only the two eyes. 

I Watch a Lot of Period TV

And I watch a lot of TV, period. But with my Apple TV currently on the fritz, I've been catching up on old DVDs, like Perry Mason, the Avengers, Tales of the Gold Monkey, Brisco County and such. 

Boy do these guys devote a lot of opening airtime to theme songs and entertaining vignettes of the stars. Sheesh, you have to fast forward for about 10 minutes each show just to get the actual plot started. 

And when you're binge-watching them, this becomes tedious in the extreme. One more Perry Mason theme song and woe be the next dog-walker who happens by. 

Worse, just when you get to a turning point in the plot, they play some ridiculously loud music - way, way lounder than the dialog. Dramatic effect in the day no doubt, but loud enough to make my wife yell from another room just like Estelle Costanza "turn that crap down!"

It gets worse - and don't breath a word how I know this - the Gilligan's Island theme even names each cast member and their role in the show. 

Just shoot me. 

Lieutenant Tragg

Lieutenant Tragg, for those of you who haven't experienced Perry Mason's foil is the definitive definition of a curmudgeon. 

Take away the shortness, the hair and the hat, he could be me. 

Which means he's damn fine. The world could use a few more of him, and upon reflection, me as well. 

Manly Stuff

As a curmudgeon, I am a man of action. Why, my powered recliner gives me a real boost up. 

Once upright, get out of my way. Mostly because I really wobble and can inadvertently harm innocents nearby. 

My calves have the wounds to prove things. 

Be aware - be very aware: I spare no one. 

Cops

I live in a small northern NJ town. NJ is big on small towns. 

We have cops. Goodness knows why. Outside of fender-benders (which require absolutely no cops), things are a dead zone here. 

So are the brains in these "cops".

There is apparently some sort of promotion chain and we have detectives, too. 

As I understand things, in a small town, detectives sit behind some crappy desk for 20 years and retire at our expense without having had to do anything. 

No wonder my taxes are so poorly spent. 

WW2

We Curmudgeons are the sons of the greatest generation. These guys were the absolute greatest people - they went to war on purpose.On purpose. Geesh. 

Our idiot government has actually invented new wars. So we could die for no reason whatsoever. 

I came very close to being inducted in the Vietnam stupidity. Vietnam? Who gives a flying fuck? We needed to be there? 50,000 guys died. 50,000 for no reason?

Apparently a government thought so - oh, that's encouraging. 

Curmudgeons at home

At home, we Curmudgeons shoulder things like responsibilities and such.

 I have a Brown University degree and let me tell you, shouldering is something they didn't teach me. Who knew what was expected from Sainted wives?.

Fuse blown? Me. Downstairs. Stairs: 13, I've counted. I'm turning 65. Downstairs is not a good thing - it is the exact opposite. 

Going down is challenge enough - getting back up means a nap. 

At my age - crap - done. 

Being Bald

I, on the tradition of the Curmudgeon Associeté Generale am bald as a coot. (Whatever a coot is - ow, whoops - me).

A recent Axe "Clean Cut Look" ad: the bozo in the ad puts the gook in his hair, combs it (an astonishing achievement, given the look most idiots aspire to today) and is pronounced "clean cut" looking. Despite the fact that he has a 2-day beard growth unevenly crapping up his face. 

Clean cut look? I don't think so. 

Apple TV

I am what you might call an Apple groupie. 

I am a real fan of all things Apple. So when my little Apple TV just died, I was really pissed off. 

Oh, let me put that in a current form: I am still really pissed off. 

The damn thing is all of 4 years old. I'm 65. I still work (in a manner). 

Downton Abbey

I've just been watching Downton Abbey - catching up on my forbears and all - the servants IRONED THE MORNING PAPER for the master. I have to admit, I miss that sort of special touch - as in, missed it all my life. 

I have to have a chat with my Sainted wife. 

Toenail fungi

Got an email on laser toenail fungus remover. That is just disgusting. I mean, unwanted emails on penis enlargement or lonely housewives near you are expected, but the last thing I want to be greeted by in my morning mail is ANYTHING about toenail fungi. 

Can life be a tad more nice?

Shave or not.

Unshaven men. Can anything be more sickening?  We,  in the Curmudgeon Societé don't think so. These idiots are a pox on society. 

When did not shaving become fashionable? 

Never. 

Unions

Unions. WTF?

Union members are so stupid that they pay for money they never see again. And they hide behind "rules" that limit any intelligence. Any. 

We in the Curmudgeon Societé General have noted their monstrous stupidity. 

And they wonder why new arrival newcomers take their jobs away. 

Idiots all.