1,000!!

Well, folks, this is a milestone. Your humble chronicler, curmudgeon to the core, has taken no less than 1,000 opportunities to warn you of bad behavior, bad manners, bad dress, bad movies, just about everything else bad that the Curmudgeon Societé Generale hopes to see change. Yes, this is my 1,000th post.

Three years ago I took up the challenge to communicate our philosophy to a broad audience. Who could have guessed that I would be so successful? In addition to our local readers here in the U.S. I want to give a special shoutout to Latvia, Ukraine, Malaysia and Serbia for their enthusiastic embracement of the Curmudgeon way.

And the Societé wants me to press on, so buckle your seatbelts, folks, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Holy Crap, Marie

You know another thing that really grinds my gears? You're innocently watching a TV show or lousy movie and a long lost father meets up with his kid and calls him "son".

Who does that? Let me take a stab at an answer - NOBODY. Fathers don't go around addressing their kid as "son." That's pretty much why they give the things names. You know, to avoid confusion in public when they call out their name, they sort of want one kid to respond, not every one within earshot.

It's not like mothers go about calling their girls "daughter". I may be a curmudgeon but I at least use people's names.

Space, the Final Frontier

In this curmudgeon's life, space is indeed the final frontier. Storage space, that is. Even more specifically, the storage space my Sainted wife needs for all the "stuff" she insists on accumulating.

"Just put it in the basement" she will aver. "The basement is full" I counter. "OK, over the garage" she will then suggest. Sadly, that, too, is at capacity. All her china cabinets are full to bursting as are her closets. Is this some sort of insidious sickness?

In desperation I talk to other curmudgeons in the Curmudgeon Societé Generale. They are no help...mostly because THEY suffer from the same malady. Alas, at our age, and after a lifetime of following Chapter 22 in the Curmudgeon Handbook (Trash is the Last Resort), we all have too much "stuff".

Delbert McClinton got it right in his great song "Too Much Stuff".

Paul Drake

"Perry, vanish!"

This from Paul Drake, operative, warning Perry Mason to get away from the murder scene up in the building behind him as Lieutenant Tragg approaches there in the background.

Of course, it took Paul a while to accomplish this as he had to find a phone booth and then literally dial the phone number.

Life was not only simple back then, but the dialogue was snappy.

Where Are My Keys?

Here in curmudgeon central, we are about to go out. I hear my Sainted wife - "Where are my keys?" With hundreds of purses that are changed out AT LEAST once a day, in her world, they could be anywhere.

Even she will accede that putting things away is not her strong suit. Otherwise, she would have to deny how she spends a large part of each day - looking for her keys, that day's purse, various kitchen implements - seeing as how she seems to have a policy never to put things away in the same place twice. To her credit, she often remembers where things are on the fly, which is quite impressive.

I grew up in a "there's a place for everything and everything in its place" kind of world. Hence I spend a large part of each day putting her things away properly.

Oddly, this only seems to aggravate the situation.

Details at Eleven

I think I've unearthed the worst job on television. It is the so-called "journalists" on the 11pm "news."

These poor slobs have to find something - let's face it, they have to make anything do - and make it sound compelling enough to make you watch what will inevitably be a waste of your time. Even the ads leading up to the show must sound compelling, as I've noted in the past. So these "journalists" are merely actors - making nothings sound like you-can't-afford-to-misses. All the while knowing their audience can access the web to get the same information whenever it is convenient for them, not the TV station programmers.

I've had to look for quite some time to unearth a TV job lower on the "worthy" scale than cable "news" "experts."

I've also never had to use so many quote marks in an article.

Our Wonderful Post Office

It just seems like the US Postal Service always seems to find a way to disappoint. Their delivery times are finally first class, but step foot in a post office (at least the sad excuse for one here in my small town) and just throw all rules of doing business out the window.

Just today I had to venture inside this guaranteed-to-disappoint facility. I do this as rarely as possible. The delivery side of the house, as I mentioned, is first-rate: things get here & there fast, my mailman picks up outgoing mail from my front door and shoves today's mail inside (can't beat that for service), stamps are finally available all over the place, so I rarely have cause to use the actual post office...mercifully.

However, I had a small package, so off I trundled. Surprisingly, there was no one in line, one confused person with an unwrapped package being helped and two agents. Great! Well, heh, heh, not so great - the other agent was lazily reaching into a large black plastic garbage bag and weighing small packages. Did not acknowledge that a customer was waiting (our philosophy - you're here, you're stuck, you can wait) and went on with her weighing.

Sooo, wait I did as the line built up behind me and the confused young woman with the package in a shopping bag was sold a box, etc., etc. until THAT agent was finally free. Brilliant business model!

And then you get this foot-long receipt for your tiny package and there's no trash bucket in sight. They just never miss a chance to annoy.

Turning 38

Many a curmudgeon can remember turning 38. Waist size, that is.

Given the nature of the membership of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, there is no shortage of those of us who are 38 or over. Something changes when one turns 38 - you no longer need to "drop a few (pounds)" - you need to drop a LOT. Stairs become the enemy in a much more visceral way. You realize you are much happier you bought the motorized recliner rather than the mechanical one.

And in that pleased state, one would sooner queue up a Matlock rerun than actually go outside and exercise.

Shaking Hands

It is astonishing how many people don't know how to properly shake hands. As we all know, there are really only three essentials - hands fully engaged, a firm grip and looking the person in the eye.

Three things. And yet, so many people screw it up. As I'm sure you will agree, this is not trivial stuff - mastering social basics still shouts whether your brain is working or not.

And let me be absolutely clear hear - I'm talking proper hand shaking - there isn't a curmudgeon alive who thinks much of all this fist bumping or fancy hand maneuvers. That stuff just shouts "idiot."

Flip Phones

As I have worked on the Curmudgeon Societé Generale crowd to understand and adopt new technology - and I have to be honest here as this may sound heretical - I often suggest they just get a flip phone.

You, dear readers, are no doubt aghast. "Those relics!?" you may cry. I agree - nothing makes a person look more out of touch than hauling their flip phone out while everyone around them is doing all manner of magic with their smart phones.

Ah, but there is method to my madness. Flip phones are indeed simple devices - like, essentially, phones. Uncomplicated, intuitive: flip open - phone on, flip closed - phone off.

I'm letting these folks "get their feet wet." They can say things like "call me on my cell phone" and return important calls in real time and all manner of impressive things without fussing with a pocket-sized computer that is ALSO a phone.

Some start to realize they want to do more things with their device - messaging is usually first - and the graduation to a smart phone is way smoother than taking the plunge right off. Others are fine with just packing a cell phone and don't need the added complications a smart phone entails (despite what most of us consider essential requirements of life).

They simply want a phone in their pocket - not necessarily a computer. You can pity them, but you can't blame them.

Comment? Just Say No

An alert reader noted that commenting back to Repor central here is not as straightforward as it should be.

Looking at my Blogspot control page, I can see the dilemma. The little bar that says "no comment" ACTUALLY means "please comment" in Blogspotspeak. Don't hit the little pencil - that would make too much sense.

Confused? I sure am. I'm going to chat up Blogspot central and sort this out. Especially since it might be mostly my fault in programming, and as the Curmudgeon Societé Generale technology guy, this could be pretty embarrassing.

So until further notice, where you see "no comment", comment away. That little pencil thing does appear to be useless, but study continues on this topic.

Despite what my predecessor, a grumbler of some note, constructed, I shall endeavor to resolve this conundrum, dear readers.

Thanks for the feedback, and keep those comments coming!

Pavers

There is some sort of demented driveway design thinking going on around here. For nothing other than perfectly bizarre reasoning, people are putting pavers on the last 10 feet of their driveways.

Presumably, this is so snow plows can catch on them, weeds can grow between them and other stuff they missed with their old driveway.

It is hard to wrap one's head around such self-involvement: let's invest (1) in a new driveway addition that will (2) heave more than our existing driveway, (3) grow weeds so that we have to spray deadly pesticides, and (4) does absolutely nothing new.

This is my neighborhood. Time to bolt

Diesels

As the technology ghuru of the curmudgeon Societé Generale, I get asked all manner of questions. A relevant one recently was "Why aren't all engines Diesel?" Lower fuel costs, simpler engine, etc.

Good question! I actually happen to have family relations involved with Herr Diesel's work, although Uncle Hammy left Germany for the US to escape "the chews." Uncle Hammy must have had more than one screw loose since he relocated to Queens, NYC in his efforts to escape "the chews."

But I digress - yes diesel engines are more efficient, but the cost is they weigh a ton, and few auto builders think the average car buyer will bear the added cost. Plus they lack the "zip" consumers expect in their cars. hence, no retail market.

But keep those cards and letters coming!

Mids

OK, OK, remember those carefree, happy days in college in the fall? Those rhapsodian days running through the leaves, sniffing the fall air whilst trying to hook-up with coeds and "stuff" at the University? Swinging those wear-once-a-lifetime scarves?

Word from the Curmudgeon Societé Generale is that this is still going on. Hot she still connects with hot he (never one of us) and behind-the-scenes hoopla apparently ensues.

Hold on - an update here - apparently I'm referring to some sort of "mid-term election" that just occurred.

Same thing. Even the scarves.

Same result: sex for the non-us.