New Year's Eve 2014

According to the calendar, another year is coming to a close. As far as curmudgeons are concerned, BFD. When lots and lots of years have come and gone, the thrill of the year end/New Year celebration is a tad reduced.

Not that curmudgeons don't enjoy a good reason to get together, drink profusely and trash other people. We ARE human. And celebrating a new year is as good a reason as any.

Resolutions? Ha! At our age, it's all about the celebration.

Wings, Beer, Sports

This is all a bar needs to advertise these days. With those three words, they'll attract sufficient quantities of mental geniuses to make for a successful business.

Curmudgeons everywhere have observed that our hot-shot society is turning into the decline of the Roman Empire and their enthusiasm for blood sport spectacles. Set up a spectacle that is fast-moving with a hint of injury today and you've got a winning formula. This is why NASCAR and hockey are so popular. And why a good football hit on the field where, say, a helmet pops off or a player is carried off gets people going, but long-term mental problems as a result get a yawn.

We are gleefully devolving. And the lowest common denominator, like "wings, beer, sports" succeeds.

Well done.

Pretention

I live in a town that is rife with Italian restaurants. For a town of less than 15,000 folks (rug-rats included), we've got over a dozen (local - not chain) Italian pizzerias and restaurants. Yikes.

So how do you differentiate yourself? You become a pretentious Italian restaurant. You put olive oil on the table for your bread instead of good ole American butter. And in so doing, piss off crotchety old curmudgeons who like their butter.

The situation is not unlike everybody being cursed with childproof medicine bottles rather than just those who want them (see 2/21/13 post on this topic) - you are forced to ask specially for what is normal.

For Italian restaurants, it is caused by pretention; for medicine, it is our delightful nanny state. Either way, curmudgeons get rankled.

Self Storage

Some people make a rather odd use of those rentable self storage units you see cropping up all over the landscape - they put stuff that doesn't fit at their residence in them on a long-term basis. Normal folks use these things for things like temporarily living in a small apartment during renovations being made to their home, or between residences because of a move, a lengthy overseas assignment, etc.

The former crowd is spending money on stuff they value so little they are not using it. Yet they "can't bear" to part with it. It is the very subject of the reality show "Auction Hunters" since at any given time, some 10,000 of these things are sitting abandoned across the U.S.

What are these people thinking? They're paying money for no return. Moreover, the storage unit place can raise their prices pretty much at will because it is highly doubtful that the unit renter will gather up and move all that crap to a cheaper place.

So I say again - what are these people thinking?

Family Trees

An enthusiastic Curmudgeon Repor field operative (who prefers to remain nameless, for reasons you will soon see) has been doing some research into his family tree. This person's ancestors - like many - came through Ellis Island where bureaucrats butchered their names for posterity. (Descendants of these bureaucrats can still be heard making the unintelligible announcements in the NYC subway today.)

Apparently other Ellis Island bureaucrats administered some sort of mental evaluation of these immigrants (deciding if they were competent enough to keep or something). This poor descendent discovered that the 'idiot' box had been checked next to his ancestor's name. At first quite discouraged, he was somewhat relieved to see that 'idiot' wasn't the worst box - 'imbecile' was.

At least that wasn't checked.

Self-Defeating Idiots

As a curmudgeon, I see these sorts all around me. As a member of a larger organization composed entirely of curmudgeons - the Curmudgeon Societé Generale - I am surrounded by other observers of idiot behavior, so we hear about a lot.

Here, for example, we have an idiot who had nefariously decided to defile public property AND apparently conjure up the devil at the same time. Unfortunately, being an idiot, all that was conjured was a piece of fabric.

Ooh, scary.  

Vinyl

You young'uns have no idea how difficult it used to be to surprise someone at Christmas with the gift of music. We curmudgeons remember only too well.

LPs were the only medium for music that was available (gifting a 45 just shouted cheapskate). Nearly a foot square - and flat - it was virtually impossible to camouflage LPs. The only remaining guesswork for the giftee was "which album might this be?" You see, cassette tape, the sorry 8-track and CDs had yet to be invented

Today? We curmudgeons have no idea whatsoever how you kids give music to each other. And I'm the Curmudgeon Societé Generale technology guy.

So don't expect any misguided, bad music from some crotchety old coot this Christmas. Unless you have a record player - I still have "Meet the Beatles" on vinyl.

Love Locks

Because of my Maine connection (see many posts from past summers in this regard), I get their great little monthly magazine, Down East. Recently, they proudly showed off their (apparently singular) location of love padlocks.

Most of my fellow curmudgeons went "Whaa?" Yes, dear readers, attaching a padlock on a bridge is a thing that apparently attests a couple's love. It is such a big thing that all the numbskulls who have done it at the Pont des Arts pedestrian bridge in Paris have caused the bridge walls to start to collapse from the sheer weight of them.

Portland, Maine clearly isn't this far gone yet, but they better keep an eye on things - they could yet be attacked by hoards of roving lover idiots who succeed in destroying the very thing they were attempting to enshrine.

Tree Topper

I couldn't resist publishing this. The Curmudgeon Societé Generale' s Executive Committee may have a conniption, but I'll argue that the web is full of cute cat pictures.

This is Tiger, the Wonder cat in all his majesty. In this particular instance, his majesty led him to immediately climb to the top of our Christmas tree the moment I put it up. And look very satisfied upon completion.

This from a 10-year old cat that shows NO sign of slowing down.

Really - Who Cares?

Since when is it something interesting to take a photo of the food you're eating? Even my Sainted wife does it for her sisters. I don't get it.

Why food? You eat it 3 times a day - it's not like it's a special occasion or something. More to the point - who the hell cares (besides you) what you're eating?

Curmudgeons come from an era when photos meant something. There was a determined amount of effort and cost associated with them, so they weren't frivolous. Today? Not so much. The more frivolous the merrier. I don't buy it - if it's clever? Grand. Memorable? Of course. Your meal? No. Just no.

Lost Smells

Last week, I bemoaned the loss of that indelibly fall smell, burning leaves. At a recent Curmudgeon Societé Generale meeting, my fellow curmudgeons started in on me about a world of lost smells.

To wit: Ditto machines, vacuum tube electronics, telephone books, chalk dust, Polaroid film, Magic Markers, cap gun caps, and the old "new car smell."  Even the morning coffee smells pale in comparison to the old days when coffee was perked and filled the house with the smell of coffee.

And these are just from OUR generation. Our noses weep for their loss...which is pretty gross.

Pool Sheds

My fellow curmudgeons taunt me - "Oh, you have a shed - hah, you can just TOSS your outdoor furniture in there, and you're done for the season." This scenario couldn't be further from the truth.

These are guys whose last "toss" was the crumpled piece of paper that missed the wastebasket. Putting expensive outdoor furniture away involves carrying and then arranging - quite carefully - a pile (10 large pieces, for you detail-oriented sorts) of furniture to a shed at at the back of the property. There is no "tossing."

There IS, however, a lot of sweating and cursing. And with each passing year, the latter has occupied much, much more of the adventure.

'Tis the Season

Yes, dear readers, I actually ventured out to do some Christmas shopping recently. I was expecting crowded parking lots, cold weather, and the usual hustle and bustle of the season.

I was not expecting this. Big brother. Looking VERY menacing. Here in a quiet Northern NJ suburban mall. Now, I realize that a lot of local police forces have acquired government surplus tanks, armored vehicles and such, but this is really over the top - actually literally so, seeing as how it looks down upon we mere mortals going about our meek existence.

This really changes the face of "getting in the Christmas spirit" -  even for curmudgeons.

More Movie Reviews

So I finally went to see Interstellar over the weekend. I never turn down the chance to go to a super outer space film in IMAX 3D - Avatar, Gravity, Guardians of the Galaxy, etc.

So here I was, all pumped up for Interstellar in 3D. Except it WASN'T in 3D. The director "didn't believe in the medium." Well, the hell with him - I do. So 2D it was. And long it was. Really, really long. I left the house at 10am and got back at 3. That's no movie - that' s an entire day at the county college.

And it was just about as much fun. If you can't blow me away with science fiction - IN SPACE AND WITH IMAX no less - you've really blown it.

Interstellar blew it.

A Quick Wit

Despite being a card carrying member of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, a group not widely viewed as a laugh riot, I have some very witty, clever, funny friends who have helped sustain me lo these many years.

Sadly, they too have aged along with me. And are suffering from a variety of old age ills...along with me. In past Repors, I have mentioned how conversations too often veer towards shared medical maladies and comparing medications and the like. Such are the joys of aging.

I've also noticed that words don't come to me as quickly as they used to - one often pauses in the middle of a conversation while our addled brain searches for the word we were intending to use.

For these witty friends, they find it's hard to be funny when they can't remember the right words for the punch line in real time.

Bench Seats

What's all this crap I hear about bench seats no longer being available in cars? Even in Buicks! Curmudgeons are up in arms over this development - or should I say regression?

Many curmudgeons have had dates in their life, and therefore fond memories of bench seats in cars. Your date could slide in close and you could surreptitiously sneak your arm around her while you acted cool driving her to the movies. Sadly, she could also cower in the far corner of that seat just as easily.

Nonetheless, bench seats were an essential part of growing up. And now? Shift knobs, consoles, cup holders and all manner of crap gets in the way. Probably some insidious plot by the Japanese because their cars were always too small.

Burning Leaves

As the beauty of fall (we say that despite the overwhelming depression we feel that summer is over) envelopes us, we curmudgeons are all agreed - where the hell is the smell of burning leaves? That was the core of fall - it surrounded high school football games, Halloween and sustained us on into Thanksgiving.

Today? Nada. Loud town vacuum trucks poking along the roadside at a snails pace mucking up traffic. Back in the day, leaf piles would shrink roads just like heavy snowstorms plowed to the sides still do. But the namby-pamby tree hugger crowd whined about pollution and such and in one fell swoop eradicated an incredibly indelible association with fall and youth.

And, Lord knows, curmudgeons can always use a dose of youth.

Leftovers

Thanksgiving leftovers are apparently a big deal - after eating your food, your relatives gleefully accept doggie bags, and you end up going through nearly a week of similar dinners, turkey sandwiches, and finally turkey soup. At least, that's what transpires in this curmudgeon's home.

And I'm not alone. Despite awe-inspiring waistlines, curmudgeon's are, in general, quite picky eaters. And a week of turkey-related dining is not high on our lists.

Especially when our local grocery store gives us a free turkey if we spend a certain amount there during November, which isn't too difficult when you're buying Thanksgiving dinner for all your relatives.

Today, it's Turkey à la King. Oh joy.

Thanksgiving

I read a lot of science fiction. It's not Curmudgeon Handbook required reading, I happen to enjoy perceptive and creative views of the future, alternate realities, and alien life. It can be quite illuminating.

Take a short story - set in the future - I once read about the Christmas season. It was starting with its usual bang just after Labor Day. And guess what? We're on that very path as I speak.

When I read that story, Black Friday was yet to be born. Stores started stocking Christmas decorations and playing Christmas music sometime after Thanksgiving. Black Friday, of course, changed all that. Today we have the initial rush Thanksgiving evening (the idiots are done with our meal, nodding off in front of the big game, let's go shopping).

We are on the march to a September start of the season - mark my words, and those of a perceptive science fiction writer. . And guess what? We're on that very path as I speak.

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.

Eggs Benedict

For those of you unfortunate culinary-challenged types, Eggs Benedict are literally worthy of dying. 

Eggs Benedict are the creation of some culinary God, and each slice of that buttery, egg-yolk-soaked butter sauce simply transports. 

Then there is the Canadian Bacon. Canadians are nice enough people, but anything in America with "bacon" attached, means bacon. Fatty, salty, stuff that make bacon cheeseburgers and things that Denny's can only invent in our dreams.  

NOT the Canadian stuff in the slightest. Fat-free, flavor-free, tough as any Canuck, it is an abomination.  

Now, American bacon eggs Benedict - one is transported: primarily to the nearest hospital. 

But, boy, was it good. 

Luther Gillis

This is for you Magnum, PI, err "Private Investigator" fans:  a recurring character, Luther Gillis, a hard-boiled, old school (let's be honest here: beat up lots) detective from St. Louis. 

"Character" hardly does him justice. In all of his three Magnum episodes, he is, well, Luther Gillis, and never disappoints. Curmudgeons love a good hard-boiled detective. Mickey Spillane, Sam Spade, Matt Hammer. All hard-boiled... and all beat up a lot. Better them than us; we're not idiots, just crotchety old curmudgeons living in la-la land.

A favorite moment: Magnum is reading something from a computer printer (these were the 80s). "I got it" he exclaims - "the same dot printer!"

Luther: "Who is this Dot Printer and what does she have to do with things?"

Give me my laughs.

So, if watching a georgeous hunk in Hawaii appeals to you, Luther Gillis episodes (clearly NOT the hunk) episodes 4/2, 4/16, and 5/10 for you Google challenged (my primary audience - they're still trying to figure out where to find this "Google" thingie) are a delight. 

Enjoy. 

Technology Fatigue

As the technology guy for the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, I'm expected to answer all manner of technological questions. Luckily, they mostly have to do with how flip phones work. 

But here on the home front, I test everything. Since the Societé is paying, I test everything you can imagine. TiVo, Roku, Chromecast, Sony DVRs, you name it. What the hell do they know?

One technology I use is my iPhone sending TV shows through my Apple TV. Works flawlessly. You dial up the show on your phone, push this little transmit button, and voilá! TV. 

Worked flawlessly. Now there's AirPlay, and as convenient as it may be, I'm used to pushing the little icon on my phone that gets the show going. No more. The icon is missing, I panic, and the show doesn't do diddlysquat until I go into a push up menu and push "AirPlay". It works fine, but heeby jeebies, I'm 65 and changing comfortable thingies can be annoying. 

Like deciphering the buttons on your new microwave. Were these invented by sadists?

This must stop. Either these things should tell you in plain English what is expected (remember, I'm the technology guy and this is simple stuff), or the warranty should cover you tossing the entire device into the stream in the backyard. Simple. Effective. 

You don't ever want to cross an angry curmudgeon. 

It Would Now Appear I Have No Appreciative Readers

Despite being a technology-challenged curmudgeon, I do get to see what countries like to read my blog. BTW, the US rules!

I am always pleased when new ones appear - maybe I resonate here and there. (Thank you, France). 

But way more importantly: I get zero comments, people, from any of you - zero. On target? I don't know. Vaguely humorous? I don't know. Hitting a resonating topic? I don't know. I get zero feedback, which shouts a clear message: nobody really cares and no point in continuing. 

I don't even have a clue that I'm furthering the curmudgeon philosophy (which I invented for fun).

I will hit 1000 blogs next month. Even an idiot like me knows when to stop. That will be it. For those of you that enjoyed my musings, it makes me glad (despite absolutely zero feedback), but it seems I've made no difference nor made anyone feel any better, so it is time to quit. 

I sigh. I did try. 

23

My man cave is equipped with a 48" TV. Some of you (my fellow Curmudgeon Societé Generale members not so much) might not think that is very big. Let me assure you, from 6' away, it is nearly IMAX. 

It was an early model. Surprise of all surprises, the speakers are in the front. Wonders of wonders, you can HEAR things, like dialog and such. A TV-wide built-in speaker bar where sounds from the left sound like they're coming from outside the house are included. 

When I got it, volume setting 23 was perfectly adequate - enough to hear everything and not so much that certain Sainted wives would yell from adjacent rooms. 

These days, 23 doesn't cut it. Neither 26, 28 nor any of the 20s. I think the amp must be going bad...can't be my aging hearing. 

The Bliss of Fall

Here I am, a happy curmudgeon, napping on a quiet fall afternoon, as is my afternoon wont, and suddenly a solid wall of noise erupts. 

I speak, as you can imagine, of some lawn service nearby. They start up three or four loud machines - mowers, blowers, trimmers and such. 

You can imagine, I am not a happy camper. These bozos are blowing my neighbor's leaves into the air, apparently assuming that they are being blown into the ether, never to be seen again. 

They are not. They are being blown into my yard. Many onto me as I recline in my hammock. Of course, they will shortly be blown back again when my guys show up. 

The main difference is I give my guys very specific aiming directions. 

You don't mess with a curmudgeon. 

Ditsy Bees

Well, it's that time of year again. This is when bees start to get ditsy. They fly into you, they hang around being a real nuisance. Any fall picnics are disaster-prone, as the bees take a special interest in glasses of punch and such. The more adventurous even find their way into beer cans, so as to provide endless fun for unsuspecting beer drinkers 

The worst are the yellow jackets. They seem to know their days are numbered and they are going to take it out on anything handy - like you, no matter what you're doing. 

Repairing things and preparing stuff for the winter months outside? They're there. Pleasant fall picnic? Forget it. Lunch on the back deck? Hornet magnet. Swat at them? They wander back for more: "Hit me, big boy, I'm just slowly dying here, hit me with your best shot you bully."  It's really annoying - and depressing. 

Go inside. 

Toenails

Like many of the common folk, curmudgeons have toenails. Most of us can actually reach them in addition to  seeing them. 

So we prune. It is neither easy nor straightforward - toenail pruning requires contorting the body in ways it hasn't for years. And, frankly, doesn't want to know. 

But we're a proud group - we suit up appropriately when going out, we shave, we tend to the bath niceties. We are as far away from the unshaven, slovenly attired, unwashed nitwits that wander about these days as one can imagine. 

There was pride in our public appearance. Apparently, no more. 

Storage

Stick with me here. All curmudgeons (Handbook Chapter 22 - "Trash is the last Resort") have places held in reserve for stowing away seasonal stuff. Of course, this "stuff" is often summer furniture, which eats up a LOT of space. 

But we are prepared: we have the pool shed ready for being the 'winter' pool shed. Packed. To the rafters. Good use of space. Huge storage fees avoided. 

But wait, there's more.  If you just heard a gunshot, it was me and aimed at me. "Let's just put this in the shed! " is proclaimed about yet another space-consuming unauthorized purchase with NO future seasonal home in mind. What, are guys somehow the storage magicians? 

Sorry, wife, Sainted or otherwise, you bought it, you deal with it. And no, I won't fix it next spring, 

Which to my endless dismay, I do.  

Sports Attire

There are apparently actual, breathing, sentient (we curmudgeons question), humans who feel basketball attire is OK for wandering about in public. Or, worse yet, basketball attire smoothed by a hoodie. 

Any thinking human would never allow this in public, nor be seen in this condition in public. Never. If they did, they would be admitting that they themselves are bereft of any values or pride. Attire like this - and wearing pajamas and slippers - shouts "I am a profoundly lazy AND stupid being, AND PROUD OF IT." 

Sadly, being proudly and profoundly stupid seems to be catching on amongst today's idiots masquerading as parents and therefore role models. 

Stupidity is suddenly unstoppable. 

Columbus Day

"Why is this still a thing?" John Oliver posited on his show Sunday. Damned good question. I had mail out to be picked up yesterday, and I was getting pretty teed off by 4:30 that the mailman hadn't come around. Oh yea, turned out it was some kind of jerkimo holiday. 

Columbus Day? A day for the idiot who got lost on his way to India? The guy who "discovered" a "new" land that was already discovered AND occupied? That guy? We celebrate this hapless Johnny-come-lately? Why, exactly?

Curmudgeons enjoy celebrating mankind's accomplishments as much as the next guy. Idiots stumbling upon unintented things and then ruining them, not so much. 

Columbus? A mass murderer second only to the Spanish in Mexico. Hero holiday indeed. 

Newspapers

Curmudgeons are fond of their newspapers. Being older sorts, they actually still purchase and read these quaint relics of the past. Some actually read the NYTimes, that whiny liberal rag. 

The NYTimes is the grocery store checkout lane National Enquirer for the NY bleeding heart crowd. They think they are the leading edge, but in reality they are just a bunch of whiners. The Curmudgeon Societé Generale doesn't have a single chapter located in that den of deluded idiots, NYC. 

But we still read our local rags, and love them, despite the fact that classifieds are a thing of the past. Instead, we suffer through kids getting awards for doing diddlysquat, adults getting awards for even more obscure things, what roads are being paved, the "police blotter" - a careful selection of police activities that are supposed to make us believe they actually do useful stuff, and school sports news - the benighted obsession of the current generation. 

We curmudgeons also toss a lot of newspaper sections. 

Mont Blanc Pens

At a recent Curmudgeon Societé Generale meeting, someone was complaining about their fancy pen leaking. Being experienced in these matters, I promptly asked "Was it a Mont Blanc?" Surprised, he blurted "How did you know?" 

Alas, back in the roaring '80s I had a Mont Blanc fountain pen. New Mont Blanc owners quickly learn you can't take them flying on business trips with you as they take great pleasure in leaking aloft. Sooner or later, you also discover that you can't really take them anywhere because they are really equal opportunity leakers: they leak anywhere and everywhere. They also cost an arm and a leg for this pleasure. 

Most of us hotshots with our Mont Blancs came to realize that for all that money they simply came with their own patented "guaranteed to leak like a sieve " feature, and returned to our reliable Bic ballpoints. 

And of course, Mont Blancs leaked nothing less than Mont Blanc's own special waterproof/cleanproof ink. Mont Blanc, you suck. And you owe me a dress shirt. 

U2

The U2/Apple debacle wasn't hard to anticipate. For those of you, dear readers, who are still in the darkness and don't have an iPhone or iPad, along with Apple's recent Operating System upgrade (iOS 8 - upgrades are still free, with still more features!) everyone got a free copy of U2's newest album. Apple quickly discovered how few people care for U2. 

For example, I am Mr. Rock 'n Roll, and out of over 950 songs in my carefully curated collection, I have exactly ONE U2 song. Not counting the one hit wonder groups, one out of 950 does not a particularly well-liked rock group make. Let's be honest. 

And so, "how to remove U2" help sites sprouted up like weeds on the web. And damned helpful they were, too. 

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

I refer, of course, to tattoos - they provide endless opportunities for derision. You know only too well the dim view the Curmudgeon Societé Generale takes of today's enthusiasm for tattoos. This visual makes clear a large share of the reason why they are apparently so popular. 

One can forgive boys going to war that they get something tattooed their last night before the big offensive, but for the broader group of people living in a civilized society, there is no excuse for tattoos that show in public. 

None. Zip. Nada. 

Country Music

I hate country music.  Actually, all members of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale are sworn to hate country music. If I lived in a part of the U.S. that lives and breathes country music, I would have to shoot myself. From what I know of these places, there's a lot of shooting going on anyway. 

Country music is always whining about lost loves, loneliness and whatnot. Depressing crap. 

Compare that to the Beach Boys or the Beatles - happy, aspirational music. Music that leaves you feeling upbeat and ready for anything. No whining. 

Hell, compare it to most any music and country comes up short. 

Right Mind (Slight Return)

Nobody in their right mind comes to Sanibel in "high season" either (i.e. the winter).

Despite being warm and having what many consider a wonderful overabundance of nature, it also has exactly one main road stretching the length of the island. One. No traffic lights. 15,000 people on top of the 8,000 here now. Not pretty. 

I suspect left turns are simply out of the question. 

No Seeums

As part nature preserve, Sanibel is host to a slew of critters. Outside of household pets - excluding dogs - curmudgeons don't do well with critters. 

One of Sanibel's critter plagues is the humble - and aptly named - no seeum. These flying, biting pests can even fit through screening. And let me tell you, their bite leaves a nasty welt. 

You would think a mosquito got you, but as we all know, there is enough residual DDT from the early 20th century spraying floating around in the ground water to prevent THAT!

These damned no seeums must have evolved a resistance to the stuff - the wind dies down and they're all over you. 

Paradise, my eye. 

Island Pricing

Understandably, things cost more here on an island than on the mainland. In the past, we could sneak over the bridge to a Publix to save a few bucks, but they built a new bridge and now charge us $6 for the pleasure. 

So I understand captive markets. Nonetheless, I still am struggling to understand how a burger and a breakfast sandwich at Newark Airport cost about the same as an entire dinner for two here on Sanibel, a place not known for good deals. 

I'm guessing it's time to wake up and smell the roses - New Jersey is not worth the money. 

In the interests of fairness, I will admit that I also had a root beer float in Newark, but, come on. 

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. 

Sabbatical

To all my loyal readers:

The Curmudgeon Societé Generale Executive Council reports that they are quite pleased with how, through my work, I have actually managed to humanize curmudgeonry. They had nearly given up hope that our thinking could be effectively communicated to you "normals."

As a reward for all my hard work, they have granted my request for a little sabbatical this summer. As my loyal readers well know, I haven't taken a break for 2 years now. 

Stay strong: I will return to the task at hand in a few short weeks. 

Knees

Looks like this spring was the tipping point - I finally broke down and bought a pair of knee pads. Sure, the need for these things has been sneaking up on me - I've found myself grabbing my Sainted wife's "gardening aids" for kneeling-related work outside. 

And at my age, getting down on one's knees - and worse, getting back up off them - is quite a production, so any assistance in this department is most welcome. 

Knee pads it was. 

Put those suckers on and you can prance about like a pro. Actually, they sort of give me a sailor's swagger. AND I cut quite the figure of "I'm doing manly stuff" with the women. 

Still waiting for that last bit to kick in. 

Prom Night

Yes I'm a curmudgeon, but like most humans, I did go to my senior prom. Actually, way back in high school I was, er, affable. 

Back then the "girls" decorated the gym up real nice - none of this renting hotel ballrooms I see so much of around here these days. I washed the family station wagon to whisk my date to the prom in style - albeit not the same as today's de rigueur limo rental. 

It is nice to see that kids today take prom night as seriously as we did, even though Taco Bell hadn't made it to the east coast back then. But these kids are doing it in style.