ATMs

I have very little reason to go into banks these days, what with ATM machines, depositing checks with my phone, and whatnot.

Yet here in the odd land of New Jersey, banks in our small downtown villages all have parking lots while restaurants don't. It's a real puzzler.

However, today's topic is the safety of ATMs. Although out here in the suburbs we did have a proud curmudgeon complain once about having an ATM installed near his house (concerns of attracting the criminal element to their quiet neighborhood and such), it is happily not much of a problem.

Nonetheless, it is clear that this young lady's grandmother has things well in hand.

View to a Sunrise

Believe it or not, here in our picturesque corner of NJ we are surrounded by trees. I live at the top of a hill and we've never seen a sunrise or sunset from here because of dense, tall trees. There are so many that when Hurricane Sandy gleefully blew down like every other tree (each making it a personal mission to take out electrical wires on the way down), things look hardly any different here.

Recently, our neighbors were having some trees taken down for an addition. These aren't the kid climbing-friendly sort either - we're talking 60 foot oaks. Huge. These tree guys CLIMB TO THE TOP and lower the tree chunk by chunk, chain saw dangling from their belt. Then the final 12-15 feet of trunk is felled all at once; my Sainted wife and I fair bounce out of our comfy couch seats.

$8,000 to take down a tree suddenly doesn't seem like too much, except when I consider how many trees are between me and a good view of sunrise and/or sunset. Way too expensive for curmudgeons.

Housecleaning

My Sainted wife and I happen to use a house cleaning service. We tried Mabel down the street AND Esmerelda across town, but service companies seem to be more reliable. Plus we're very happy with their work.

Before they show up, I sort of clear the decks so they can dust, hiding the sex toys, off-color DVDs and such.

My wife? She pre-cleans the whole damn house. I don't get it - the CLEANING people are coming for god's sake. But she'll rinse out sinks, make beds and all manner of nonsense. She's not alone! I personally know of others who also engage in this extraordinarily bizarre practice.

Curmudgeons are the sort who unselfishly give "the help" meaningful work that they can sink their teeth into. Hence, if you're the cleaners, there's stuff for you to clean. And as we're the paying customer, we let you.

Simple.

Sandals

As the weather warms, people and things ooze out of dark crevices where they have been happily hidden during the winter. Sandals on men are some of the things that inevitably appear.

Sadly, they should not. Unless accompanied by a toga, they really have no place on men's feet in public in this day and age. They may have looked good on Steve Reeves in Hercules movies from the 50s, but they don't look good on ANY guy in the 21st century.

Try as guys might, the above picture captures the dilemma: no sandal design makes it OK.

The American Section

This one sort of blew my mind, then I realized "Oh, of course". Outside the US, grocery stores have "American" food sections just like we have "Asian" and "Mexican" sections.

The real insight comes from what this particular British store stocked the "American" section with. I see maple syrup, marshmallows, marshmallow Fluff, ridiculously sweet cereals, Pop-Tarts, and mucho candy amply represented, along with an odd assortment of drinks (bottled, flavored, sweetened iced teas it seems). There are even Twinkies (RIP).

Pretty much the only non-sweet thing there is the A1 steak sauce.

I don't think I care for our portrayal.

Bad Wordplay

When Twittering, messaging and whatnot, kids have apparently moved beyond the Internet shorthand we're still not familiar with. Now they write subordinate clauses without the normally expected sentence bit that completes the thought. They expect YOU to complete the thought.

I realize that written history is filled with overly complete thoughts. For example, old books with chapter headings that go on and on: "Chapter 2: In which our hero finds that disagreeable occurrences will take place on a Cruise."  I grant you this is overdone, but at least it is a sentence with a subject in it.

The Internet and early mobile phones spawned those awful shortcuts ("LOL" and such) and emoticons (😃, etc.). Now they are messing with syntax. They're making you figure out what they are writing about (e.g., "When you cross the street, but your friend waits for the oncoming car".)  Neither a sentence nor a complete thought. You have to figure those bits out.

Sheesh. Curmudgeons have enough to complain about. Just write in plain old English. Works for me.

Turning Left

I can't emphasize this enough: New Jersey has been, and is, run by idiots.

You're here in one of the most crowded states in the union and you're at a red light wanting to turn left. Turns out, it is a driving "sport" to try to beat oncoming traffic attempting to go straight when the light turns green. This is just stupid...and entirely legal.

As I've mentioned in the past, we have old winding roads sized inappropriately for today's traffic. Turning lanes? No room. Timed turning lights? Hey, paying for them might cut into our graft. A law that forbids it, as in California? Apparently our dear leaders don't have the brains for it.

And so the "sport" goes on.

Key Fobs

Many cars don't come with keys anymore - they have key fobs, a thingie with buttons to lock/unlock your car, open the tailgate, start it, etc. Very handy. And easy to misuse.

As a curmudgeon, I open the local paper to the "police blotter" every week to see what evildoers are up to. Apparently of late, they are up to stealing cars where idiots have left their key fobs IN the car.

Apparently some car owners have decided it was quite convenient to leave the fob in the car when at home - one less thing to worry about remembering when they go out. Well, they're idiots. The criminal element has got ahold of simple devices that can detect when a car is "talking" to its fob, which shouts "jump in and steal me - I'm for the taking!"

And so, they do.

Crack Awareness

Curmudgeons are not big on transportation by bus, and we certainly don't need to see this sort of public awareness program to remind us why.

If you're over 10 years old, you have no doubt seen the Dan Ackroyd skit on Saturday Night Live when a crack was first exposed on TV. But unless you're 50-plus, you may be missing the context. Stuff like that just didn't appear on TV in those days. Hell, the censors had only just permitted married people to be in the same bed at night.

So it was a monumental moment for TV. Funny and surprising. However, seeing these things repeatedly in public is neither funny nor enjoyable in any sense. And it is all too common.

Something is very wrong with such people.

The Approaching Singularity

Curmudgeons don't spend all their time in the past - we try to look ahead as well.

You've all heard about the approaching singularity - when computers start thinking for themselves. They will, of course, think much faster than we do, and may do things we don't expect and can no longer control.

I'm sure you've already thought about this. The perfect statement on this topic that I've seen is:

"The talents that distinguish humans from machines might not be what we had hoped."

We may not end up the dreamers, the inventors, the idea creators that we thought we would be when machines did all those little things for us because after the singularity they may very well run the show and WE'LL be the blivits doing the menial stuff.

Just ask Steven Hawkings.

Mimes

I am struggling to figure out how mimes came about and how they are still a thing. It doesn't come as any surprise that they still haunt the streets of Paris - the French have proved over and over again that their sense of entertainment is quite bizarre  - hell, they liked Jerry Lewis for goodness sakes.

According to Wikipedia, mimes have enjoyed an even longer history than those awful Punch & Judy shows I mentioned a couple weeks ago, and despite being silent, are every bit as annoying.

But this fellow has tweeted the perfect mime act: fantastically entertaining and we get to do away with a mime. Sort of a win-win in this curmudgeon's view.

Doors

We are, of course, all familiar with doors. We never give them a second thought. We wonder at the 10 foot tall ones in old homes that were built by millionaires "back in the day".  At least we do around here, where millionaires "in the day" took their private rail cars out here to their country estates to escape the NY city heat.

On the other end of the scale, we more normal folk live with doors squeezed in where needed. I first encountered this sort of clipped door in my penthouse suite high atop Cranford, NJ. They couldn't fit a real door under the roof line for the bathroom. So they cut the top corner of the door off. No real problem - just a quaint little quirk. Also an indicator of the luxuriousness of my "suite."

Well, as evidenced from spending the entire month of February binge-watching Midsomer Murders, these clipped doors appear to be in cottages all over England. Outside of country estates, virtually every cottage has a clipped door somewhere upstairs. Who knew?

My penthouse suite had a proud history.

Trooper vs. Trouper

Are you a trooper or a trouper?

The English language is rife with vast confusion when it comes to its, well, words. I was recently trying to categorize Tiger, the Wonder cat as a "real trooper" and had to pause and look up both words to see if I got it right.

The operating principle in this particular case seems to be that if you're trying to describe courage and the like, you're a trooper (origin 1500s and war stuff). If you're trying to describe cooperation, dependability, "the show must go on" it's trouper (origin 1800s show business).

So with regard to Tiger, both happen to work.

We need to clean up this damn language.

State Lotteries

Many states in our delightful Union have hatched lotteries for their more clueless residents. These states have decided to prey on their constituents by getting them to buy into a casino that lays out worse odds than you or I getting attacked by a shark whilst being struck by lightning.

So, in essence, your elected representatives are asking you to throw your money away. More precisely, throw it AT THEM, and we all know what happens to it after they get their grubby hands on it.

We curmudgeons watch you enthusiastically piss your money away. We weep. (Actually, we fume because you hold up the line at the Quicky Mart). Your elected representatives are literally hoping you are idiots. There is no way around it: who else would just throw money away? They even mount advertisements that essentially lie to you by suggesting a return is likely.

Gamble away! Bear in mind, your government is encouraging you to be foolish with your money.

Think about it.

Senior Drivers

Lets face it. The older we get, the lazier we drive. We curmudgeons have been driving since the 1960s, so our basic driving mode is "get the hell out of my way." We cruise along at whatever speed the mood strikes.

Turning signals require actually doing something in addition to steering. This can be quite the challenge. As it turns out, this is ALWAYS a challenge, so we just skip the turn signal bit.

Oh, people honk and use a variety of hand gestures, but we make our turn, return home and the trip is deemed a success.

Get over it: we're old, cranky and turn whenever we damned well please.

Slovenly

Why is it that people tend towards the slovenly? They don't shave, they think T-shirts are proper shirts, and worse.

It wasn't that long ago that putting on a real shirt, tie, and jacket was perfectly normal. Why in a small town near here (and remember, New Jersey is overflowing with small towns) a seedy bar/restaurant (as close to an English pub the US could get) required a jacket. A bar!

Upscale restaurants had the courage to put up signs like "no shoes, no collar, no service". So even if you weren't good-looking, you looked good.

Not anymore - you have money? Come on in! Sure, leave that stupid baseball cap on. Wear your sweat pants. Collars? Who cares?

Your nearby dining curmudgeon with his tie and jacket does. And doesn't like it one single bit.

The Oxford Comma

Any curmudgeon of English descent is a serious user of the Oxford comma. As you, being smart enough to read this blog, no doubt do as well.

Using the Oxford comma is no trivial thing.

When I write a list of this, that, and the other thing, I use the Oxford comma. It is the last comma in the series clarifying just what your list is. Many omit that last comma and their lists become unintentionally confusing. To wit:

No Oxford comma: We invited the strippers, Bill Clinton and his wife. This, clearly suggests that the Clintons are the strippers. Ick.

With Oxford comma:  We invited the strippers, Bill Clinton, and his wife. Still ick as a social occasion, but much clearer.

Also known as the serial comma since the more commas, the better.

The Oxford comma rules.

Twitchers

What you're looking at is a bunch of twitchers. Twitchers are that rare breed of humans that will travel miles and miles for a glimpse of a rare breed of bird.

That's right, all these people have travelled from far and wide to this one spot where some rare bird is expected to make an appearance. They've brought their tripods, telephoto lenses, binoculars and whatnot hoping their special seagull - or whatever - will grace them with a photo opp.

I presume these are sentient humans, capable of feeding themselves and otherwise leading what would be known as a normal life, but when the bird word goes out, twitchers spring into action.

Why, look at all the action depicted here. Mind boggling.

Emergency Blinkers

Emergency blinkers were made standard on American cars in 1967. No doubt they have saved many accidents, not to mention lives.

Out here in the suburbs, safety is the last thing they're used for. There is one, and only one thing they are used for. For idiots to park in an illegal spot and communicate "I'll just be here a minute, so it's really OK for me not to waste my personal time finding a legal parking spot".

Fine. There are lazy people everywhere. But these idiots often perform these antics in places that impact other drivers. This goes beyond lazy and straight into rude, arrogant AND lazy.

And once one idiot starts doing it, it essentially opens the door for all idiots to follow suit - and good god, there are a lot of them. Negotiating parking lots becomes a nightmare.

And like the boy who cried wolf, you no longer think of them as signaling a problem and you just drive on.

Hyphenated Americans

What is all this crap with hyphenated Americans?

Irish-American, Jewish-American, Afro-American, Mexican-American, they go on and on.

STOP IT. You are all Americans. I neither want, nor need to know where you came from. We all came here from somewhere else and killed off or moved the Americans that were here. Remember?

You are Americans. You've moved to a new place and set up home. You are here. You are one of us.

You are NOT hyphenated. If you think you need to hyphenate, just do it in private. Publicly, you are AN AMERICAN.

Jeeze.

Frye Boots

Back in the groovy 70's, I bought myself a pair of frye boots.

"Oh, these will last forever" the salesperson averred. Well, 45 years later, I still use them in the snow.

My waist has perchance changed in size in those years, but my feet haven't. So I can still strap them on. And I forge out in the snowdrifts to shovel the walk, even refill the bird feeder. (I may be a curmudgeon, but surprisingly I have a heart.)

Frye boots. Sure footed, and clamped to my feet like there's no tomorrow.

I now know why catalogues offer those boot puller-offers.

Fast Talkers

This is getting ridiculous. For those of you who don't tape every TV show so you can fast forward through commercials, you're innocently listening to an ad (with, typically, a minimum of attention) and then at the end, they put this fast talker on to race through all the conditions that surround the "deal" being advertised. With minimal attention, you barely internalized what the product was and maybe - maybe - hear one or two words the fast talker said.

But somewhere, someone (a nervous lawyer) convinced them that by doing this, they would be magically protected from idiots who would go ballistic if they found out the conditions of the deal at the time of purchase.

Drug ads in magazines are worse - a full page ad about some wondrous drug followed by TWO pages of warnings and conditions. And these are prescription drugs - you would have to consult your doctor about them anyway, and you should get the scoop directly from him or her, not some ad. On TV, these, too, use the fast talkers.

I'm all for "deals" on products and wondrous drugs, but watching these guys kowtow to idiot mentalities is just depressing.

Priest Holes

Back in the day, with England having a functioning monarchy and such, the Church of England (Episcopal) was decreed as THE church by the monarchy. Anyone following the Catholic faith (having been promulgated by Rome for a thousand years) was outlawed.

This was, of course, back when the Christian religion was gleefully at the heart of most wars (Crusades, Spanish Inquisition, anyone?).

So "Priest holes" became a big thing in English country homes. They were carefully hidden hidey-holes somewhere in the house, often leading to tunnels that allowed escape. The priest would grab his Catholic tokens and dodge into the hole while the King's troops looked for evidence of evil Catholic influence in the house above.

If any of you have attended Catholic and Episcopal services, you will immediately realize there is essentially no describable difference between them. No matter - the King made a decree and the troops enforced it.

And thus, priest holes.

But Wait, There's More

As mentioned last week, I have been what they call "binge watching" the British show Midsomer Murders. 

I had no idea what I was getting into. 105 episodes, each 90 minutes long. I think I missed February entirely.

This show is filled with local English colloquialisms. I had to pause it each time to look up the odd word or phrase. Sheesh, they spout colloquialisms left and right. "Pop a clog" "do a bunk" "oik" "just having a sarnie" "yonks" "kip" "yob". They never stop. So each show may be BILLED as 90 minutes, but pausing it to look these things up to find out what the hell they're saying stretches that 90 minutes by a lot.

They may be our forebears, they may speak our language, but with enough of a twist to confuse the best of us.

Winter Projects

Avoiding my winter projects, I have been binge watching the English series "Midsomer Murders". An excellent show. And way, way less energy consuming than winter projects.

I have had past thoughts about living there in England. Then the always wet, always slightly cold, and always uninhabitable stuff quashed that thinking.

No wonder they ran around and tried to declare most of the rest of the Earth their's. England is a tough go. Even their beaches are filled with stone rather than sand, like any beach you would want to visit.

Castles. Pretty much all they have going for them.

Fast Food Joy

The new McDonalds menu.

Fried chicken, cheese, bacon, and special sauce in a wrap.

Can anything kill me quicker? Can anything taste more delicious?

If I don't finish this humble entry, the fried chicken will have gotten its way. Or the cheese. Or the bacon. Or me passing out as I write...

Spring

Spring has apparently  sprung. I have observed this by the sight of grass.

This sucks. I now have to review my list of uncompleted winter projects, weep because I've tackled so few, and promptly take a nap.

Such is the horrific life of a curmudgeon.

Getting Old And Lame

Recently, good friends came back from a trip to Italy.

Milan, Florence, Venice, Rome and such.

They came back...lame. They had been wabbling about on 2000-year old cobblestones.

Not promoted by the tour material, these cities are not the smooth macadam roads like roads here in the US. Dodge a pothole here and there, your car survives. Walk a 2000-year old cobblestone street for a day and you are lamed.

Your ankles aren't what they used to be.

The lesson is:  Do you want to go? Go soon. Your ankles are not getting any younger.

Bear

Life goes on. Such is the mantle a curmudgeon must bear.

I'm a curmudgeon, through and through. My father is not - a gentle, smart, successfull sort, and big brother Buzz is as far from being a curmudgeon that he defines his own space.

I'm a curmudgeon. I observe and recount. A lot. It's actually my thing. I observe things that make you want to puke but I write about them pleasantly enough that you just go "yew".

I know, I know, this is my cross to bear. You can thank me anytime.

P.S.  "Bear" is a really, really big beast that can kill you in an instant. It is also the word used to hold up parts of your house - bearing walls and such. I've used it here in another common way. The English language can get a tad confusing....by a lot.

Cheerful Curmudgeons

There is apparently a scientific reason why curmudgeons are a crusty, grumpy lot. I recently read an article on the web (so it has to be true) that laid it all out.

The article mentioned 10 things that will make one happier. It included balderdash like going to museums, keeping a diary, "looking at beautiful things" and similar tropes, but the clinchers as to why curmudgeons will never "be happier" were recommendations 6 and 10.

#6: Listen to sad music. Apparently the emotional catharsis is beneficial. I can think of no sadder music than Country & Western (whine, whine, lost loves, whine, etc.) and there isn't a curmudgeon alive who will listen to that crap, so that solution is out.

#10: Eat more fruits and veggies. This, of course, is a non-starter seeing as we don't eat any of that swill to begin with.

So there you have it: we are destined to remain curmudgeons.

Competitive Church Bell Ringing

This is apparently a thing in England. Some churches have so many bells that it takes upwards of six people to operate them. So, inevitably, contests have arisen.

They have what are called "striking competitions" where competing teams of bell ringers make a fearful amount of noise in hopes of appropriate recognition by the Central Council of Church Bell Ringers or some other bell ringing authority. Derided in some circles (unsurprisingly) as the ding-dong parade.

Now bear in mind - these "teams" have to practice. And you thought your kid practicing his drumming was loud and annoying.

There are clubs, newsletters, and even critics.Why, one is "well known in bell ringing circles for his wit, humour and cynicism."

Bell ringing authorities - the oddness of the very concept brings a smile to one's lips.

Spring is Springing

Melting snow is usually associated with a delightful hint of spring as spots of greenery emerge.

This year, between snow, freeze, snow again, rain, freeze, we here on the east coast got infernal house leaks from snow/ice dams. Hell, big brother Buzz had the insurance guy by, his falling plaster was so serious. I live in a simple cape cod, as I have noted before. Nonetheless, I still have 11 roof surfaces, each joint anxious to leak.

Talk about damn. Curmudgeons don't need yet another thing to damn. But this year it is these ice dams. They formed, thanks to these vagaries of Mother Nature and we leaked. Buckets full. Here and there. These leaks pride themselves on being where you're not looking. Sneaky little shits. Suddenly your brand new roof is leaking water on your multi-thousand dollar stereo. What a thrill!

My contractor had dozens of angry calls, not just mine. He was guiltless - he did the jobs properly; this winter just took a really nasty turn.

And the next day? Leaks gone. Mother Nature is a gift....and a curse, but she still rules. Even curmudgeons.

Carrying Coal to Newcastle

You're no doubt familiar with the saying "carrying coal to Newcastle." Since Newcastle, England was a coal mining center, the saying clearly arose to indicate uselessly unnecessary work.

I was recently watching one of those endless British murder mysteries so often found on Masterpiece Mysteries (Poirot, Miss Marple, etc.) and in one scene, a lady uses a watering can to water some outdoor potted plants.

Talk about carrying coals to Newcastle: watering plants in soaking wet England seems to be one of the most redundant things imaginable. I would think draining potted plants would be quite a bit higher on the list, given England's delightfully moist climate.

But, there's your touch of the dramatic for the show.

Daylight Savings Time

It has to be said, and who better than a curmudgeon to say it: What is all this horseshit with daylight savings time? Like all curmudgeons, I've been through this pointlessly stupid cycle more than 100 times and have found it useful exactly zero times.

There is no known point to it. There is no known benefit to it, but we persevere because, well, congress.

At least most of my newer timepieces (even my car!) change on their own, but there are always older clocks and things like my thermostat lurking about that need to be changed manually. And with digital timepieces, each one is, apparently by law, required to work differently.

So we go through a pointless exercise twice a year, do unnecessary work, and reap nothing but frustration.

Well done, all!

P.S.  I have never done this before, but here's an adder: Sunday's John Oliver show used their "Why is this still a thing?" to expose the stupidity of Daylight Savings Time. You can thank Kaiser Wilhelm from WW 1 for inventing it; you can thank your current congress for continuing it without a clue as to why.

Punch & Judy

When I first encountered one of these awful shows, I was astonished to discover that they'd survived, like, forever. One was more than enough for me. Actually, it was one too many.

The operating principle seems to be that Punch and Judy more or less spend 10 minutes (that manage to seem like 10 hours) whacking each other with sticks (a wonderful behavior model for children) while screeching at each other in a falsetto that makes your skin crawl.

I'm probably not doing the abject awfulness of these puppet shows their due, but the worst news is yet to come:

They still seem to be popular.

Suddenly Reality TV watchers aren't looking so bad to me.

Pheasant Hunting

This is apparently a pretty big deal in England. "Oh I bagged two just today" some wanker will pronounce.

Have you ever seen a pheasant? "Bagging" one or two is NO big deal. Just aim your shotgun somewhere in the general vicinity of the bird and you have yourself dinner. They're big. Impossible to miss.

And slow. They take forever to take off. Again, a shotgun fired in the general direction of the bird (your eyes open or closed) and you've got yourself dinner.

This is not a sport. It's a cake walk. With bragging rights.

"Reality" TV

Last time I checked, I live in the "real world" and it doesn't resemble what I see as "reality TV" in the least.

And it just seems to we curmudgeons that "reality" TV is spearheading the moral decline of civilization as we know it.

What demented people decide to make these shows and worse, what demented people watch them? Swamp gator wrestlers, stick your arm in the mouths of catfishers, duck whatevers, "colorful" you-would-never-want-this-for-a-wife shows.

And sadly, money makers all because we know braindead Americans will watch this stuff. Excessively. And buy the stuff advertised, because they are very, very stupid.

These are your fellow citizens - and they vote. Hell, in some states they can wander about carrying a gun. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Pneumatic Tubes

We old farts fondly remember those magical vacuum tube systems in department stores. The kindly sales lady filled out your purchase form, took your money, placed it in a space-age doohickey and whoosh it would zip away. 

I never thought much of where it zipped. All I knew was that your change would come whizzing back and off you'd go. 

For a kid, it was magic. Clearly, for the central operator, it was Frankenstein. 

Monkeys

I've been on the web again. Apparently, these twins ordered monkeys, having collected the right amount of cereal box tops. 

The poor monkeys arrived in plain cardboard boxes, apparently an acceptable packaging scheme of the day. Astonishingly they do seem in generally good health. 

The kid on the right is rightly happy with his monkey, which looks robust. The kid on the left got one that seems to be  clinging to life. But these little guys were tossed in packages, thrown on a ship aimed for the U.S. of A. 

These were the 20s. Anything goes. 

Tickety-boo

Tickety-boo. People in England say this thing to mean everything is OK.

I'm somewhat embarrassed by my heritage.

Tiger, the Wonder Cat

Curmudgeons aren't big on feelings 
and emotions and all that crap.

But there is Tiger, the Wonder cat. He is 10 years old today. He rules the universe, he commands the neighborhood, indoors he plays like a kitten. 

He is beyond belief. The local vet can't get him to stop purring long enough for a heart test. 

Heart test? This little guy is beyond that. He's a trooper, and, like we curmudgeons, not about to quit. 

They Still Permit Massachusetts Driving

Although I ran across this picture wandering the Internet and its location wasn't specified, I just know, deep down in my soul, that it was taken in Massachusetts. 

Last week I revealed the secret instructions all Massachusetts drivers receive, so it would come as no surprise whatsoever that some enterprising driver managed this feat. 

There is just no way to hide from them. 

Stadium Sound

It's the sixties. You are the most popular rock & roll group in the world. You are playing Shea stadium in New York. Apparently a big thing in the 60s.

I'm talking about, of course, the Beatles. They played their hearts out. And they couldn't hear each other over the screaming fans.

Re-read that last bit: they couldn't hear each other.

They, before "wall of sound" technology, had guitars plugged into those little speaker boxes. And used them to the max. But, we're talking a stadium filled with screaming fans, and the band's sound couldn't drown out the fan's sound.

Ringo once said he just smiled and banged away, hoping he was at least close to the singing. 

Beautiful. 

Baiting Siri

Anybody with a reasonably modern iPhone now has Siri standing at the ready to help. For those of you who have actually mastered the use of Siri - well done!

I find Siri somewhat limited. Half my queries go right over her head and I end up having to type my questions in as if she wasn't there. And you don't want to piss her off by insulting her capabilities because the next time you say "set the alarm for 6am tomorrow" she will probably quietly set it for 7pm a week from Thursday just to get even. 

And it's remarkably easy to confuse Siri. I mostly do it by simply asking her to search for something - the answers she comes up with! Hilarious. And wrong virtually every time (the Google lady is much more accurate). 

So, I spend my time baiting Siri. Like asking her to tell me the name of a song on the car radio while she is watching the phone line. She sort of smokes a little and dials a random number. 

Always good for a laugh while driving. 

The Visiminder

You are looking at a still from that grand scifi movie The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. A surprisingly domestic scene for a movie about alien invaders, I just had to take this shot for the stove. 

Yes, the stove. It was 1956. Tappan had just introduced this fine stove, the Visiminder. You'll note the burners are to the back, affording some convenient workspace up front for utensils and such. And unlike way too many modern stoves, the controls are up front, not on the back panel where you have to reach over whatever is cooking to adjust them. 

In addition, the stove had two ovens, a broiler, a "Visitimer," a "Visiguide" (a quick reference guide right there on the stove for the correct temperature for various meats) and 5 (count 'em) pilots. 

How do I know all this? You're no doubt thinking my family had one while I was growing up. Not so!

It was the stove in my current home in 1985 when we bought it. It was still going strong. 

You Rang, Sir

I miss this. The butler - no doubt named Jeeves or Hobson or some such - appearing 'on your six' quietly wondering what he could do to satisfy your current whim. Or you giving the bellpull in the drawing room a quick tug for a refill of your postprandial brandy. 

I say I miss that, but of course, 'missing' suggests I ever had it. Sadly, only in my dreams. Many curmudgeons WISH we had faithful butlers, but we do not. We are way too cheap. 

And thus, Sainted wives - a tad mercurial, but they have their moments. 

There Will Always Be The New Yorker

When Pictures Say 1,000 Words

Cowboys & Indians

You no doubt suspect that, because of our age, we old fart curmudgeons are fans of classic 1950s Cowboy & Indian movies. Nothing could be further from the truth.

In addition to being incredibly lame, these movies merely serve to remind us of a very sorry chapter in our history...unless you're into manifest destiny and ethnic cleansing and all.

To see them pop up on TV - with or without John Wayne - is just an unpleasant reminder of how insensitive American thinking was even in the 1950s: Cowboys were always the good guys and those pesky Indians the bad guys.
       

Let's face it - the only worthy Cowboys & Indians show was F Troop.

They Still "Drive" In Massachusetts

Lest we ever forget what it is to drive in Massachusetts, I have obtained a top-secret instructional document from their driving test.

It speaks for itself.

So, should you be innocently driving about and you encounter this sign:

                   

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Math

Let's face it, not everyone is cut out for mathematics. Infamously, even the talking Barbie doll once proclaimed "math is HARD."

Back in my school days - when men were men and brains were required - it was a lucky day if we could bring our slide rules to a test. Today, you can bring calculators, textbooks and your personal math coaches along.

For this doomed math student, there is no hope. Fancy calculator in hand, he has arrived at that point in time when he should consider switching majors. Or maybe think about a vocational school.

The Ben Matlock Legal Degree

There are people who scoff at how much Matlock I watch. Hah! They scoff. Well, I now have the last, er, scoff.

I just received my official Matlock legal aid degree. Hah! I scoff back. Granted it has absolutely no courtroom standing, but requires only 50 Captain Crunch box tops, and looks real impressive mounted on the wall of my office in the provided frame with the look of real wood. People who used to ignore me now seek my "professional" legal advice.

You are taught how to claim never having lost a case (one of the key Matlock tenets), especially seeing as how you never really take up what might be called a "case." The course also instructs you on how to acquire a good ole boy southern accent AND how best to dye your hair silver. You make sure the TV in the waiting room runs a loop of Matlocks and the money just pours in. 

Beautiful.

Shopping? Let's Go - Chop Chop

The other day I heard those words dreaded by men of all ages:  "Dear, would you like to go shopping with me?"

Who does this? When a guy needs a few more #8 flat head Phillips screws, he doesn't call a close friend to ask if they want to go shopping. First off, guys don't go "shopping;" they go buying. They know the store they need, the area where such parts are and poof poof, the necessary things are bought and promptly brought home.

Women? It is "shopping." It is a social occasion since you're about to wander about a store (virtually any store will do) checking everything out.

This disparity has produced that sad, emasculated class of "men" who sit in malls holding on to their wife's purses while she and her dearest friends "shop."

You will NEVER catch a curmudgeon doing anything of the sort. We prefer turning it all into a useful sport.

Loose Ends....Literally

As you can see here, I have been obsessing over people who should be able to easily comment on any given post for the past 3 years. Turns out, my late December research paid off as I got more comments on the last week of the Repor than any other issue ever.

And as the New Yorker points out, I'm not alone.




But wait, there's more. The New Yorker illuminates the  curmudgeon philosophy quite often.  Frankly, as seen here, we think ALL vegetarians are idiots. It takes the New Yorker, however, to perfectly capture the sentiments of idiot vegetarians all around us. People who make ordering lunch a cringeworthy experience.




Finally, not part of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale Handbook, but admirably illustrating our métier:

It's Alive...

All of a week ago, a bunch of us youthful type curmudgeons (recently retired, new to Medicare, etc.) declared the Curmudgeon Societé Generale dead.

To seal the deal, we mounted a ceremonial Curmudgeon Handbook book burning party. I even let them burn my own humble chapter - Trash is the Last Resort.  We were on a youth-related tear, the youngest of us, at 55, reminding us what pre-retirement desk sitting resilience used to be.

Oddly, the following morning I got a visit from two esteemed former Curmudgeon Societé Generale representatives.  As I seem to recall, they had convenient single syllable names that could be suitably approximated by the odd grunt. They also had a certain economy of movement, seeing as how they were unencumbered by necks.

The message was simple: publish the final few articles "in the can" and I would be permitted continued use of my extremities.  And thus, "the Repor That Wouldn't Die" series has been born. Happily, Hanz and Franz can't read, so I may wander from strict Societé Generale regulations now and again.

Hey, we're young and we're passionate (mostly about our next meal, but it's a start).

Sad News

Today, the Curmudgeon Societé Generale disbanded.

We sort of ran out of old coots. They have the nasty habit of K'ing the B, and a few too many did so.

Sadly, I'm not going to pick up the reigns of those crusty old overly opinionated types. I was merely recording secretary. I took it upon myself to soften their antiquated views, but that ends today.

I've toiled for the past 3 years on over 1300 entries, some 16,000 page views by loyal readers, and support from a dozen countries.

But there comes a time to move on - to where, we shall see.

I want to thank all my loyal readers for their support, without which I wouldn't have made it this far.

Technology Officer - Official Idiot

As the Technology officer of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, I am bereft. I have misplaced my iPhone.

I know, I know, I have an iPhone finder in my computer and all (technology officer) but it would only say it was here.

As a retired curmudgeon I am "here" a whole, whole lot. It is not telling me what room, what coat pocket, what floor. It is merely telling me what an idiot I am.

As if I didn't already know. ,  

Blue

As the technology officer of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale, I rush (as fast as any curmudgeon can) to embrace new technology.

Bluetooth. What a pile of crap. Leave the room and it disappears. Wander about your house and it resets to its favorite condition: ignoring you and your fancy dancy phone.

I suffer for technology.

There Will Always be a Mr. Tudball

We shall call him Mr. Tudball. As this candid picture shows, not everyone is cut out for a smartphone. Hell, adding a camera to a flip phone was clearly a trial for Mr. Tudball.

We all know one or two close friends who, like Mr. Tudball here, haven't taken a shine to plain old cell phones, let alone smartphones. Hell, here in the Curmudgeon fraternity, there are a LOT of such Luddites. They completely miss how quickly one gets to appreciate rapid communications with people, and as a corollary, how much they miss by not being able to stay in the loop with family and friends.

There will always be the Tudballs of the world...and thus, chortles for the rest of us.

Closed Captions

My Sainted wife and I have taken to using closed captioning when watching TV, and not for the reason you're probably thinking:  "they're old, they're going deaf." No, as suggested by an alert reader, we use it so we can understand the dialog in British shows.

Yes, yes, I know they too are speaking English, but let's face it - when the British get to talking fast it can be a struggle to keep up. Plus they have this habit of pronouncing everything differently if they don't have an entirely different word handy (e.g., chemist is pharmacist) which really puts a spanner in the gubbins.

Which brings up a troubling observation: closed captioning is always there when you need it. That means it is there on even the absolute WORST movies imaginable (Plan 9 From Outer Space and its ilk). I assume that means someone actually had to sit through these awful things typing up the, for want of a better word, dialog.

I hope the dialog typing union is good enough to get them some kind of combat pay for being exposed to these horrid things.

Kids Today (Slight Return)

My fellow curmudgeons are forever whining about "kids today" being on their phones all the time. Followed, generally, by some creative mangling of the names 'Facebook' or 'Twitter'. I touched upon this last April.

Kids spending too much time on their smartphones is really a tired trope these days. When I think of what I spent too much time on when I was that age, I cringe. So kids walking around with a computer in their pocket and commu-
nicating with each other excessively doesn't even appear on my radar.

And, according to this picture, we old farts are just as guilty.

Curmudgeons Abroad

Let's face it, foreign travel is not for curmudgeons. Even if we could tolerate the actual getting there bit, we would probably starve once there.

There is no safe haven abroad - England? They boil EVERYTHING. Scandinavia? Do you KNOW what gravlax or finnan haddie are? Greece? Yeah, we're going to eat yogurt and figs. Pressing on, un-Americanized Italian or Mexican would no doubt be deadly, and let's just cross India (how spoiled IS this curried meat?) and Japan (you didn't COOK this fish?) and China (why is my dinner moving?) right off the list.

Aah, give us good old American cooking. Like Denny's...or Taco Bell. Beautiful!

Start the New Year Right - Comment!

For my devoted readers who are just as confused as me about how to send comments on this blog, I have, mostly, good news.

The good news - IT CAN BE DONE!

- Tap "No Comments" (for bizarre reasons that have yet to be explained).
- Enter your comment in the cute box provided.
- Selecting "anonymous" in "Comment as" is fine.
- Tap "Publish"
- Tap "I'm not a robot" to get one of those (damned) CAPTCHAs. Solve it, hit "verify" and it checks off that you're not a robot - that's a good thing, isn't it?
- Tap "publish" because you've been verified as human by the Blogspot computer (a tad meta, no?).
- You're back to your comment - but with "Your comment was published" proudly displayed!

Easy, no? I agree - no. But don't let that stop you! Comment away!