Ride!

A few weeks ago I was camping. It wasn’t very cold for February. Rather than a battle against the elements my campout was mostly happy hours sitting by the fire in 30-40 degree weather. Overnight lows were around 13, which my hot tent handles well.

Could it get any better? Yes it can get better!

I worked in my home office watching the outdoor thermometer. It inched up. Higher. Higher. The sun was brilliant. By noon it had broken 50. It might go a few degrees higher before the late afternoon rays slanted too much and the temperature began to drop again. Each night, the roads freeze, each day they thaw. As does my heart.


“Suit up Poindexter!” The spirit of the road manifested itself and kicked in my door.

“I’ve got… a meeting tomorrow. Need to be prepared.” I argued, lamely and with terrible grammar.

“Shut the fuck up. Ride! Now!” The road calls stronger to some than others. To me, it pulls like a chain.

“It’s only March. Spring will come. The roads will progress through break up. Then I will carefully fire up each of my motorcycles, give them a safety check, and…”

“Shut up! You’re boring me!”

“Why are all the manifestations of my imagination hard asses?”

Having received a legitimate question, it listened. The response was heartfelt. “You know how Jim Henson made Kermit the Frog?”

I nodded.

“Kermit is filled with kindness. A special gentleness of soul that makes everyone like Kermit. Right?”

I nodded again.

“Well you’re not Jim Henson! You’re an asshole and I’m not Kermit! Put this on!” He tossed a helmet at me.

I paused, gathering my thoughts. Remember when you were a kid and you were stuck in school. Ignoring some half-sentient mid-level graduate of teacher-ology rambling on about adverbs and algebra. Shit you knew years ago. She tuned her pitch for the dumbest fuckstick in the class and you just had to take it. Year after year. Even after she led the dumbest invertebrate in class to the promised land of finding X, the blithering moron wouldn’t get it. Then, the same crap would be assigned as homework, as if repeating Shakespeare to a toad makes a toad literate. And when you didn’t hand in that damn homework, because you didn’t do it, because it was stupid and repetitive, all the adults in the vicinity would piss and moan about how you needed to do this dumb shit another dozen times. For some reason it was for your own good. Remember that? Remember how you were a virtual prisoner. Remember how you thought you’d someday be an adult? Remember how you thought adults were free of all that?

Do you really remember? Or have you become the adult? Do you make those goofy wah wah noises of the adults in a Peanuts special?

My imagination paced back and forth angrily while I worked through my situation. I pondered life and its true meaning; looking at the sun over the muddy field and the birds flitting about and the tax forms on my desk. I haven’t done my taxes yet. I will have taxes to do every year. And then I will die.


Ten minutes later I was in my garage, clearing away junk that was between me and the bike. I am among the richest men on earth. I have three motorcycles!

The newest, a dirt bike, was out of the question. Given the freeze and thaw cycles of break up I’d tear a hole in the forest if I tried trails right now. I’d also get covered head to toe in icy mud and probably hit a tree.

The oldest, and my most recent acquisition, is a street bike, perfect for long hauls and carrying tons of gear. In a few months it’ll be filled with camping gear and rolling toward a horizon. But… Well it’s new to me. I’ve only had 1,500 miles to assess the bike. How reliable is it really? I’m sure it’ll run flawlessly for 100K but it hasn’t yet earned my trust for bad conditions.

That left my first bike; an old friend. A basic black and chrome cruiser, it was purchased only days after I’d earned my motorcycle endorsement. I learned on this bike. I put my first mile on this bike. The bike put the first mile on me.

Because I learned as an adult, I have a clear memory of that moment. I didn’t “evolve” with motorcycles gradually over time. I took the hit all at once and never let go. I remember rolling out of the dealership; wincing over the pain of monthly payments and wondering if I’d purchased far too much size and power for a novice. It took all I could do to wobble the beast out of the dealer’s lot and onto the road.

I’d rolled the dice on this bike after decades of longing. I’d wanted a motorcycle since Fonzie rolled across my family’s black and white TV. Like all GenX, I’ve been forced to endure stories dripping of nostalgia for a time that was dead before I was born. Ten year old me didn’t care. The society and the people and their stories meant nothing. All I wanted was Fonzie’s bike.

It took a whole human lifetime before I got my own motorcycle. When the time came I bought a motorcycle big enough to last me forever, or beat me to a pulp, and I didn’t even know if I’d really like it or not. All I really knew was that I’d grown up poor enough that I might only get one shot at it. Now you know why I’m giddy to have more than one motorcycle in the garage. And why the first one will never be for sale.

I have owned this bike so long that I recently installed “collectors” plates. Only old men can put collectors plates on a machine they bought new. I have earned that right. And the motorcycle has earned my trust. Unreasonably, stupidly, outlandishly reliable… if anything will wake from a frozen slumber months before schedule and roll it’s loyal owner to the next time zone, it is my first two wheeled love.


If you live up north you know that all sorts of shit can go wrong when you first bring a bike out of mothballs. For once, the odds were in my favor. Last fall I’d done myself a solid. I’d last gassed up with Sta-bil treated fuel. I’d run the carbs dry. I’d kept it on a battery maintainer. Even the shiny new “collector” plate had been lovingly installed in the middle of winter. Sometime around Christmas I think.

She turned over a couple of times; listening to me mutter prayer and encouragement under my breath. Then she caught. Yes!

Extraction was the next challenge. The air might be in the 50’s but the slope to the garage was shaded and frozen. It was slick with ice. I hacked at it ineffectually with a shovel. I sprinkled some salt to melt the ice. That was all I could do.

I suited up like I was going on the most dangerous ride of the year, which I was. There would be patches of gravel on paved roads. Dirt roads would be squishy and unreliable. There might be ice in shaded spots. The bike’s tires would be cold and sluggish, flexible fittings and hoses would be less supple. Plus cold is hard on the rider. Fifty degrees is tolerable but it’s not 70. I’d be out of practice and suited up in clunky heavy layers.

Living a thing takes more commitment than sitting inside imagining it.

Once I was suited up, head to toe, I rolled gently backwards out of the garage. I made it about 15′. The rear tire got into an area exposed to the sun and sunk into the mud’s warm embrace. The way to handle this is a delicate dance. Push forward which compresses the front forks. Then press the front brake when the forks are squeezed down. Hold it like that, adjust your footing, and then push back while letting go of the brake. The expanding front fork gives you a smidge more momentum and you’ll roll back harder than you could pulling on the handlebars alone. If the bike rolls free, go with it. If it rolls back a few inches and then starts to rock forward again, lock the front tire again before it rolls back to where you were. Shift weight and let it bounce forward on the front forks starting from a few inches backwards. Do the dance again. (This is why heavy Goldwings have reverse gear.)

I tried rocking back and forth and got about a foot but the rear tire had sunk into mud and the front tire was on a patch of ice about a foot square. I couldn’t compress the shock, it just slid back and forth across a dinner plate sized area. Hmmm.

Fuck it. I clicked her into gear and rolled forward. I took a wide gradual arc on a shaded part of my lawn, riding high on frozen grass and ice. I got it lined up and rolled straight as an arrow across the sun melted part. I squished down but through and rolled out to my driveway. I squished down the driveway. I squished down the dirt road. I found myself with muddy tires at the paved road. I waited for a nice big break in traffic before I rolled out in the gentlest of turns and held it in lane for a couple hundred yards.

Finally! I was on pavement, my tires were clean, the engine was warmed up, and I launched. It felt so good. Nothing is more glorious than a motorcycle and it’s especially glorious when you’ve been deprived for several months.

I do not have wings, but I have a motorcycle.


I planned only to ride to the nearest gas station and tank up on fresh fuel. But I the bike didn’t want to go home and neither did I. We rode from nowhere to nowhere, happier every mile. My warm gear was just right for the ambient air, I could ride indefinitely. I rode to a greasy spoon and ate a cheeseburger. I rode further. I found myself singing in my helmet.

I didn’t get home until sunset. It was a lot easier riding up across the ice to the garage than backing down out of it. I parked and smiled and haven’t stopped smiling. I still haven’t done my taxes. It may snow tomorrow. We’re all gonna’ die sooner or later. But that’s ok. I took wing when I had the chance and that’s all that matters.

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Camping! Part 4

I woke to the sound of a truck driving away. They’d unhitched and left their ice shack trailer behind. Unlike them, I was in no mood to go anywhere for any reason. I sat around percolating coffee on my camp stove.


Here’s where I mention another camping equipment “test”. I have a huge 5 gallon Igloo water cooler. The big ugly industrial version. I bought it over 20 years ago and used it on many brutal hot desert 4×4 rides. It’s still good as new! I haven’t been bringing it on campouts recently simply because I didn’t heed that much water. (I’m not camping in deserts.)

It was just a hunch to try it in freezing conditions. I wasn’t sure if the Park would have a water supply (turns out it didn’t!). So for winter camping, I brought liquid water in the cooler and hoped the cooler would keep the water from freezing. IT WORKED WELL!

I was impressed. I had some plastic water bottles and they froze solid. The cooler water didn’t freeze at all. Even the spigot stayed thawed. I sat it on the edge of the picnic table and it dispensed water just like a little faucet. I’m glad I didn’t have to fart around melting ice to make my coffee!

I highly recommend Igloo Water Coolers. You know the type I’m talking about. The big huge, expensive, industrial yellow and red cooler is almost a cliché. It’s the kind of thing you see strapped to truck boxes on construction sites. It’s too big for backpacking but in this instance it was perfect. It’s worth it to buy the more expensive but tougher one. Mine looks like new after 20 years and that’s the highest possible praise.


The long pleasant campfire the night before had used much more wood than I’d planned. I was nearly out. Regardless I was chilly so I started a fire. I could get more small form wood for the woodstove but I would be hard to keep a wasteful campfire going all day.

Another of my “neighbors” packed up his trailer and rolled out. I looked to be the only doofus who was going to stay put. I pondered this while cooking bacon and eggs and listening to some sort of opera on my shortwave.

The campsite abandoned by the truck and trailer had a lot of wood just sitting there. I’m more a wilderness camper than a Park guy. This was an ethical dilemma. It would be a serious asshole move to swipe all that fine (still shrink-wrapped!) wood if the guy was coming back. What were the odds he was coming back? It seemed small.

I thought about it for two full pots of coffee. But I did nothing. I’d come here to relax.

A little before noon a park ranger rolled by. She was doing a once daily patrol of the handful of sites that were open for weirdo winter campers. Aside from me and a few chickadees, the whole area was bereft of life. I felt sheepish. I probably looked like an idiot. I was dressed in a heavy blaze orange jacket and fur hat. I was sitting in a lawn chair by a fire that was almost out (and I only had one stick of wood left!). I was sipping coffee and reading my book while opera (played very quietly) burbled in the background.

She slowed down and I braced myself to get bitched out about parking passes. I got up, stretched, and walked toward her truck. I had a checkbook in a pocket in case I needed to buy a parking pass. Something about modern times, one forgets people are sometimes nice. She was all smiles and pleasantness. She wasn’t there to be Gestapo, just make sure the Park was secure. I’ve no idea how such a nice person got a job with the State.

I asked if the Park headquarters were open. (It’s a big park. I had entered from the least trafficked entrance and one with no services.) Would the headquarters have wood for sale?

She said they had wood but then motioned to the pile I’d been watching for hours. “It’s your lucky day, you could use that.”

“You think they’re gone and not coming back?”

“Nobody takes their trailer with them on a short outing.”

“Got it!” From my point of view all questions about ethics had been resolved. The universe had provided firewood. When I hadn’t been sure of etiquette, the universe had sent a Park Ranger to kick my ass into action. Thanks universe!

The Park Ranger was looking at my tent. Oh shit, what had I done now?

“I’ve always wanted to have a tent with a little stove. Is it nice?”

“Yes, it’s great. I can’t say it’s as nice as a travel trailer,” I waved at the abandoned trailer in the adjacent site, “but it’s a lot cheaper and definitely up to the task of winter conditions.”

“It’s a cute tent. I like it.” She smiled, then drove off.

Well how about that? The bearded goofball in a fur hat reading a paperback in sub-freezing temps with his little burbling opera and well used coffee percolator had crossed all the way from nerd to cool. Who knew?

I immediately absconded with all the wood. It seemed like a lot; at least 3 or 4 bundles. I promised myself to leave as much as I could for the next person. I also dedicated 30 minutes to replenishing my “sticks” supply. The sticks had heated my tent well, but being small, I’d burned most of my pile.

After that I basked in the heat as I built up the fire. Over the day a monster 30′ RV pulled up and backed into a spot like a boss. Another ice shack showed up. The fancy van drove off (I’d never seen anyone outside the van, for all I know the van is a robot). One guy’s dog ran off and came by my camp looking for food. I pet him “Good dog!” but was too lazy to rummage up a snack. Eventually the dog left.

During the night a grouse started drumming. I found the open outhouse and after sunset did an “comparison test”. Which is better, a Luggable Loo in a heated tent or carrying an old style lit lantern (which gives off some heat) into a cement outhouse? Luggable loo for the win!

I finished my book and started another. My shortwave radio battery gave out. My tent was as warm and comfortable as always. I woke to a fine dusting of snow and packed slowly, almost reluctantly. I meant to leave some firewood behind but wound up using almost all of it. (Thanks again universe!)

All in all, it was just what the doctor ordered. If you’re like me and want to go camping but have trouble finding the time, do it. You probably need it.

A.C.

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Camping! Part 3

I slept several hours like a happy little woods creature burrowed into a gigantic warm nest. If you haven’t been in a hot tent you don’t know what you’re missing. Winter camping is not for the faint of heart but a hot tent is a very inviting environment.

I conked out laying on my cot on top of a 0 degree sleeping bag with a thin little “adventure blanket” over my feet. Eventually the fire went out… which I slept through. As the temperature dropped, the adventure blanket got pulled up snugly. Then I burrowed into the sleeping bag. Just gradually nestling in as the temperature drops. This is how I adapt to a fabric shelter in winter temps. It works great.

I woke up long after the fire was out. My 0 degree bag was still toasty warm. I hadn’t even zipped it up. But those beers I’d drank had to go somewhere. So I stumbled out into the moonlight. It was gorgeous, as moonlight always is.

[Warning, camping is as much about uncouth necessity as it is moonlight poetics. Skip the next section if you wish.]

Back at the tent I decided to kindle the fire again. It’s not that I was cold, but that I knew a relit stove would heat the tent for several hours. Light something in the middle of the night and you’re less likely to wake up in a frozen tent at dawn. Of course my 0 degree bag is fine for sleeping but I like waking to boots and jacket and such thawed. I lit the woodstove again. As usual my tent was like a little oven within 15 minutes.

You almost have to let that initial heat wave die down before falling asleep. If you throttle back the airflow to the fuel too soon it might go out instead of maximizing the BTUs out of your limited fuel. I was glad I had all that nicely stacked wood right at hand instead of rummaging around in the night to find fuel.

Since I had time to kill, I thought about finding an outhouse. Earlier I’d seen a washhouse but the doors were locked. Makes sense to shut down water in unheated buildings over the winter. Surely there was a creaky old off grid outhouse somewhere? Maybe nobody needed one? Presumably, the other campsite people were using their self contained plumbing systems.

I decided it was time to test the final frontier.

Every camping trip should be a testing and training day for the next one. We must learn of stagnate! In this case, I was at a nearly abandoned State Park which surely had an outhouse somewhere but I also had my “Luggable Loo” (which I affectionately call “shitbucket”). I spring for expensive Mylar double bag waste bags (which have bio-gel and other features). Some marketer named them “Double Doodie“. Don’t blame me for dumb names.

I know the manly thing is to crap on a stump like the bears do but it’s not like a Park is the wilderness. Also, the pairing of “Luggable Loo” and “Double Doodie” is actually quite civilized. It’s easier on the knees. Not gross like you’d think. You don’t have to dig into frozen soil. I know people are resistant to the idea of a bucket, but it’s a big step above not having one. I heartily recommend a Luggable Loo for anyone who’s doing car camping (obviously it’s not an option for backpackers!)

Also, I was in a State Park. I think they’d frown on bearded bloggers taking unauthorized dumps. 🙂

I’d tried the paired bucket/bag system but never in freezing weather and never inside the tent. I always used them outdoors; behind a bush or something. It works very well. IT IS NOT YUCKY! Get over your biases!

There’s no cover in a State Park. I intended the system to be used “inside” in brutal winter blizzards so I might as well test it when it’s not mission critical. It worked very well. The biogel really does it’s job, plus I’d just fired the woodstove and it was easily 70 degrees in the tent. So much less physically challenging than squatting while wearing ten layers of jackets.

When I was done I put the bucket (with lid sealed tightly) outside the tent, where it promptly froze. It was more sanitary than almost any possible situation. I’d preformed the most non-yucky State Park dump ever. (Is there an award for that?)

So now you know a new technology. Creepy frozen State Park concrete outhouses (or trying to hammer a hole into frozen soil in the legitimate forest) can be replaced by a much more civilized approach.

Note: This is one of the advantages of solo camping. If there were two people in the tent I think the Luggable Loo would be fatally embarrassing.

[\Warning]

It was the middle of the night but I didn’t feel like sleeping. My tent was warm and cozy and I was happy. I sat by the stove in my lawnchair reading a Sci-Fi novel from the 1950’s. (I usually read from Kindle but this book was on dead tree.) Lately I’ve been reading less than usual. I think stress takes you away from reading for pleasure. I probably spent half the night reading by the little woodstove. Very peaceful.

More in my next post…

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Camping! Part 2

Having made it to camp, I patted myself on the back for attaining escape velocity. The gravity well of home is deep!

I setup my tent right away. My tent is a miracle of technology and toughness. If you want to go polar bear hunting on an ice floe in Greenland, this is the gear you need. It seemed stupid to deploy it in a frozen mostly abandoned park.

I was definitely over / well equipped like someone using a tactical nuke to kill a mosquito. But then again I will eventually (and already have) use them in much harsher conditions. Also you should practice using your gear in non-mission critical times so you’re experienced for when it really matters.

I’m providing Amazon links so you know about the psycho-tent I’m discussing. I get a tiny kickback if you buy anything off my links so thanks if you use them. All the stuff linked has served me well and I bought them with my own money. But be warned that these are very expensive tents. They’re overkill for many uses. If you’re an average beginner “3-season” camper you can buy something a lot cheaper. (Even I use a different and cheaper tent in the summer.) Here goes: Russian Bear Market UP 2, Caminus M Stove, Teton XXL Cot, Teton XXL Mattress.

Being exquisitely equipped for the ultimate worst conditions is fun but I was embarrased to be on a plain old campsite. Then again I learned something. The tent came with special ice stakes that will auger right into pure ice and also dig into frozen soil. You can anchor the tent like it’ll ride a hurricane (which I tend to do… I’d rather spend a few minutes drilling spikes than fret about conditions).

The ice stakes would work perfectly except the campsite had been plowed. The plow removed the snow/ice in which I would otherwise anchor. All I had was frozen heavily packed (nearly pavement) gravel. Frozen packed gravel isn’t the same as frozen soil. I couldn’t get a stake firmly into it. Finally I anchored a few points with very long guy lines going to a tree, a power pole, a hunk of cement, and one spot of green grass soil (where the ice spike worked great). Every trip you learn a little more.

My tent is supposedly a quick setup but in real world conditions, it seems like I dither about an hour before it’s done. Partly that’s me moving slow. Also I wasted far too much time on stakes.

Once the tent was up (including the woodstove and cot) I assessed my firewood bundle. Pure shit! It would burn, but for my little woodstove I wanted something better. I wandered off into the campsite adjacent forest and gathered up a bunch of small diameter wood. Think pool cue. I wanted it small and easy to light. It wasn’t a bitter cold blizzard so I was more worried about “easy to light” than “stay burning a long time”.

I brought my gatherings to the tent and broke everything up shorter than necessary. This made a big pile of small wood. I’d probably gone overboard with the little hunks of wood.

For bigger wood, I found a nice fallen log about 7″ diameter and was about to attack it with my little electric chainsaw. Chainsaws ain’t welcome in parks but an electric is almost silent and the log was dead. Alas, I’d forgotten my chainsaw. Rookie mistake! I’d also forgotten my splitting maul. Whoops.

Once the tent (and nighttime heat) was squared away, I lit a fire in the fire ring using the store bought wood. It mostly smoked. Shitty wood will do that. I separated out a couple of the smaller hunks that would fit well in the little woodstove and stored them in my tent. I probably wouldn’t need them but better safe than sorry.

Eventually I got the fire going enough for good coals and slapped a fat steak on a grill. (I’d brought a grill.) Finally everything was right with the world. I tuned my little shortwave to some oompa oompah Mexican style music. I have no idea where it came from but it had non-ironic tubas. I parked my ass in a lawn chair and cracked a beer that had chilled to near crystalline temps.

A friend texted me. How novel, cell service while camping! Modern conveniences are more welcome in cold conditions. I told him I was listening to shortwave and drinking beer by lantern light.

“What’s on shortwave?”

“I think it’s Radio Free Cuba. I don’t speak Spanish very well so I’m not sure.”

“You’re listening to propaganda.”

“I’m listening to tubas. Let’s do an experiment, click to NPR and tell me the first thing you hear.”

“Too lazy to go to radio. Checking web.” Pause. “Apparently there’s a drought in California and it’s associated with limited electrical power projected for the summer. Wait for it… yep, all this was caused by Republicans.”

“Propaganda!” I chuckled. “The people’s glorious electrical grid is a marvel of production efficiency but suffers at the hands of capitalist bastards who inexplicably choose to have heretical opinions.”

“And no tubas either.”

By this time the steak was done. I enjoyed it immensely.

The cold was definitely a thing. I had trouble eating with cold fingers but using a fork with gloves is a pain in the ass. My beer was cold enough it almost made my teeth hurt. Dinner was delicious anyway. It’s February so I expected some cold and I certainly can’t complain about tasty cold beer and grilled steak.

You’d think I retired to my tent early but I didn’t. I sat there, bundled in heavy jackets sipping nearly frozen beer by a smoldering fire… for hours. I expected the cycling propane furnaces of the stout ice trailers nearby to annoy me but the sound was soothing. I spent hours in the dark. Resting. It did me good.

Eventually the moon rose over the icy scene and it was bedtime. It occurred to me that I’d paid for an electric campsite even though I have a tent. Just another of those services that you pay for whether you want it or not. I’d planned for unwanted but pre-paid AC! I dug around in my truck and came up with a little electric heater. With some fiddling I routed the short cord and had a little 800 watt heater chugging away. I had a 20 amp 120V service that could easily run double that wattage. The little heater tried its best but it was just too small to make a difference under current conditions. Like the stakes that handle ice but not plowed packed gravel, I’d learned something. Also, it was just a little “heat your feet under your office desk” heater and it’s not rugged for camping. (I’ve already ordered a slightly chunkier 1500 watt heater. I’ll test it the next time I’m in a hot tent near AC power. Why not use whatever resources you’ve got?)

I’d considered not lighting the fire in my tent but the heater hadn’t done Jack shit. I know from experience it’s better to act in advance of getting chilled than get lazy and let the chill get in your bones. I lit the stove. Just as it always does, it blew me away. That overpriced little titanium box is like nothing I’ve even experienced. It turns a freezing (literally) tent into a cosy little mini-cabin. Soon I was sitting in my lawnchair (inside the tent) with just jeans and a t-shirt. It was in the high 70’s in 15 minutes. Ridiculously warm!

Basking in the heat, I fell into what might have been the deepest sleep I’ve had in months.

In case you’re wondering, my stove came with a Co2 detector and I do carry it with me. The 9 volt battery was dead. Calm down, I lived.

More in the next post…

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Camping! Part 1

FINALLY!

You’d think it would be no big deal to go camping. My kids are grown and I eliminated my livestock. What’s holding me back? Probably me. That gets into all sorts of metaphysics doesn’t it?

I hadn’t been camping for 4 months. That’s too long.

Granted, it’s  winter. Sane people don’t camp in winter. But I specifically equipped myself for winter camping and sane has never been my favorite adjective. I guess the war between “sit on the couch and turn to mulch by the warm fire” and “get out there and live” had been shaping up on the lazy side.

I can’t blame the weather. Aside from one spell in the -20s (during which I tried hiking while ill) it has been amazingly, happily, mild. One Thursday afternoon it was ridiculously, stupidly, spastically, unthinkably warm. Warm weather in February is not to be ignored. Like a hottie that wants to dance, when you get the option you go!

So I burned my own bridge. I called my boss. Lets me state this loud and clear, my boss is a nice guy. I don’t want him lumped in with some anti-boss complaining in the comments. He’s an actual human, he’s a good person to work with, he’s reasonable. I’m damn lucky he’s between me and the brass who happily pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining. In response, I do a good job (which comes naturally) and try as hard as I can to avoid rocking the boat (which does NOT come naturally). Nor does my boss know I have a blog. Since he didn’t sign up to be a blog persona I’ll mention my discussion with brief paraphrased generalities. I just want to highlight that there are still good people out there (even in the wasteland that is the modern workplace).

“Hey boss.”

“What is it Curmudgeon? Are you going to bitch about filling out the new 27b/6? Last time you complained you tied it in with the fall of the Western Roman Empire and you have to stop doing that. You confuse people! People don’t know you’re not referring to Italy, they don’t know an empire named Rome existed, they don’t know the sky is blue. Now everyone is wondering if we’ve got a customer in Italy. You’ve got to stop scaring the squares!”

“Sorry about that.”

“Have you considered some work life balance… maybe move to an island? Talk to coconuts?”

“Funny you should mention that. I’d like to take Friday off, I’ve got oodles of vacation saved up.”

“Sure.” A pause. “Are you OK?”

“I’m OK. It’s just too sunny out. I can’t work.”

“I get that. Take Monday off too if you need. Sand off the edges. We all know it’s going to be a long year.”

“Thanks. Will do.”

See what I mean? Good guy! I think he’s genuinely worried about me. For that matter I’m genuinely worried about him. The modern world of work is trying to crush everyone and neither of us deserve that. Also, I recognize it’s probably not the best news when your boss is delighted you’ll be gone but it is what it is. Last note, I really do a good job (not that doing a good job matters but I still do it).

Once I’d lined up vacation time, I made reservations at a (gasp!) State Park. I’m always a little embarrassed to be in a “park” but it’s better than sitting on the couch.

It was in the 40’s. It was so warm my driveway started thawing! Dirt roads around here are supposed to stay frozen rock solid until April or May. Then they turn to a quagmire for about 4 weeks. We call this “break up”. After “break up” the soil is thawed and the snow runoff has percolated to where it needs to go and everything is once again “driveable”. The thing to know is break up driving sucks! Sketchy steering on dirt that feels like a marshmallow is just one aspect of the hassles. It’s unusual to deal with this condition in February.

I didn’t pack until lunchtime on my vacation day. I just couldn’t get my ass in gear. As I packed I got a little shivery. It was mid-afternoon when I gingerly spun the truck across my marshmallow driveway to the dirt road out front. The county road had a hard crackly surface on top of a melted nougat interior; call it creme brulee.

I wondered why I was shivering. It turns out I was a dumbass. I’d been wearing a sweatshirt, which was ideal for previous day’s temperatures, but the truck’s dash told me it was 23 that day; too cold for a sweatshirt. (23 Fahrenheit is eleventy zillion degrees below zero in Metric.) Lucky for me I’d grabbed a warm jacket. I’d tossed it in the passenger seat (almost as an afterthought) and it turned out to be a key piece of camping gear.

I hate paying for campgrounds but if there’s a time to “wimp out” February is it. The last time I tried hiking to a free dispersed site (when it was -20f) had gone wrong. Also the roads were thawing. If that gets out of hand the mud will eat even a truck with excellent tires (which I don’t have). I’m deliberately procrastinating on the necessary purchase of better tires since I drive so little in the Bidenverse. Part of why I’d made reservations (!) at a State Park is that I’d stay on pavement most of the trip.

You can’t bring firewood into the State Park (for decent reasons). My earlier approach of bringing a garbage can full of processed kiln dried pallet wood wasn’t happening because my pallet supply dried up. I stopped at the only store. (Just outside of the park there’s one store… either the store has what you need or you go without.)

I bought a six pack of beer and two bundles of firewood. I paid a usurious $7 each for the bundles! There were 3 packs of wood at the store and I bought 2. It seemed too mean to buy the last one! I grumbled over the expense. I have several truck loads of firewood at my house. I paid $14 for a couple armloads of what I own in tons!

The wood was shitty too. I did my best Paulie Walnuts act:

“Yo! Dis wood bundle. It looks a little light. You’re holding out on me.”

This had absolutely no impact on the store guy. “No shit. My boss is lazy. Tell him not me.”

There was no boss to bitch at so I drove to the State Park. The front gate had a Checkpoint Charlie type booth. Theoretically they check if I’d paid my annual “vehicle pass” fee. I hadn’t. It had expired. Being a contrarian, the booths are never manned any season I’m out and about. Since nobody was at the booth, I drove through. I’ll probably buy a pass someday. On the one hand it goes to a service I value and I’m willing to pitch in for road service. On the other hand it goes into a bureaucracy that probably pisses it away on vegan poetry.

I’ve scouted this campground before. It was summer and I remembered a crowded campsite ghetto at the end of a ridiculously long access road that has yet another Checkpoint Charlie booth. In the summer it would take a couple miles excess driving just to sit cheek by jowl with 150 other dweebs. Winter is different. I passed a sign that said “winter camping” where I didn’t expect it. I made a quick turn and was on-site in no time. It was weirdly convenient.

Out of 150 odd sites, four were occupied. I found mine and now the count was five.

It’s a reflection on human nature (and the corresponding small minds of management) that out of well over 150 spots only about a dozen were even available and for no good reason whatsoever they were all clustered together. It’s as if the goal is to maintain highest possible people density. Given how bureaucracies work, that’s probably the exact goal. For that matter, most people are herd animals and maybe they like it that way too.

In a campsite like this, five occupied sites could be a quarter mile apart! That’s how I’d have done it.

My neighbors were; one camping trailer, an exotic looking camper van, and two ice shack trailers. Ice shack trailers are a subset of camper trailers. They’re built to be towed onto lake ice and spend anything from a weekend to an entire winter there. It’s impressive they can handle one of the world’s least hospitable environments. In my eyes, they’re the coolest type of RV out there. (Though they are rare in a lot of locales.) One weird feature is that the axles squat down on the ice so you can drill a hole through them to catch fish. On a State Park pad, they settle down and sit as rock solid as a little cabin. Originally conceived as crude boxes on wheels, they’re now full comfort travel trailer beasts that serve as super tough alternatives to the usual “summer camper” trailer. I want to own one soooooo bad! Probably the reason they were in the campground instead of a lake was the unusual warmth. The ice is just too sketchy for a heavy truck and trailer right now.

Only one guy was dumb enough to be out there in a tent. And that guy was grumping about being within 50 yards of other camping vehicles while also getting all giddy about how much he wants one. What else would you expect from a goofy blogger?

I needn’t worry. I had near perfect solitude. The excellent camping vehicles all kept their humans hermetically sealed within. I was the only one sitting at picnic tables and maintaining a campfire. As always, I’m an outlier.

More in the next installment…

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Curmudgeon’s Non-Vacation: Part 7: Social Capital

I’ve said many times before, I’m a bit of a loner. I’ve lived more or less everywhere without growing attached to any of it. I happily ride alone, hunt alone, camp alone, sail alone, and drink alone. Attachment to particular physical parts of society eludes me. People from where I grew up were all “Springfield is better than Shelbyville” but I was “this town is much like any other, adios”. I blew town as soon as humanly able.

This means I don’t have the deep well of social capital which comes from long residence and deep connection to any specific society. It’s a resource most people use to great impact; often without even knowing it.

Which brings me to my second point. I want people to be happy and fulfilled but I’m prickly. Even my best warmest thoughts come out like less like I’m a huggable Curmudgeon and more like I’m a serial killer who needs to switch to decaf. I’m not complaining. It has its benefits. Even vegans leave me alone.

Which is why Mrs. Curmudgeon was calling plumbers. She has social capital. People know her. She knows them. They know me too, but I’ve forgotten their name, have no idea who they are, and would rather talk to their dog.

Mrs. Curmudgeon is friendly in a way that I can’t manage. In my ideal world I’d call 1-800-PLUMBER, rattle off my Visa number, and a highly skilled plumber would arrive (possibly by helicopter) to bill me but also do a good job. Would I care who this plumber is? Nope. I wouldn’t care if the plumber is gay, missing a leg, is painted green, speaks only Swahili, likes disco, eats tofu, thinks Sanka is good coffee, or speaks to Martians. We don’t have to be friends or share a worldview. So long as the plumbing is good that’s all I’d want of a plumber. (I have some limits, if a plumber shows up in an AMC Gremlin and demands I use specific pronouns I’ll throw rocks at the car.)

What I really want is Harry Tuttle, Heating Engineer.

Back in reality Mrs. Curmudgeon was using that foreign magic that I’ll never understand, charm. Unlike me, she speaks human… fluently!

After a dozen plumbing companies didn’t answer their phones she called a guy we’d hired like a decade ago. Even back then he was older that dirt. I think he was working under the table part time… I didn’t ask. I don’t remember what he looked like or anything else. He helped me install a tub. Maybe he really was Harry Tuttle.

Anyway the nice old guy answered the phone, but explained he’d retired long ago and had debilitating illnesses and was very old. I, having the human interaction ability of a sea urchin, would have said “oh that’s a bummer, I hope you get better” and I’d have clicked off the phone instantly. I’d be halfway thorough the next call within 30 seconds. In my defense, I’d have meant good wishes, I don’t hate people, I just sound like it. But I also would have missed the opportunity to talk with a duffer who might need a conversation.

Mrs. Curmudgeon has a lot better human skills than I. She chatted with the old guy for a while and I think they both had a nice discussion. (I was in the basement fucking up pipes at this time. I only have a second hand idea how the conversation went.)

Anyway nice old geezer guy gave Mrs. Curmudgeon the name of not a plumber but a well driller. Like he’s got a drilling rig and cores into the ground installing wells. Calling him a plumber is like calling an Optometrist an Oncologist. Very different skill sets. I suspect the idea was that anyone who drills a well might work with new houses and thus know the number of a plumber who installs stuff in new houses. How would I know the train of logic involved? This is human stuff… I was in the basement thinking about wrenches.

Turns out well drilling guy was a very interesting fellow. In lieu of his actual name lets call him Bill. Bill is also as old as dirt but not yet debilitated by age as the Biden-esquely suffering retired plumber. He wasn’t busy drilling because it’s winter and things are frozen… and also I think he sold his drill equipment and is also retired.

Except men who are useful are never truly retired. His daughter runs a coffee shop in a little farm village a zillion miles away. She, like everyone, has staffing issues. So she calls Dad. Our stoic helpful heroic Bill, was stuck clearing tables and otherwise “waitressing” at the coffee shop. This meant he was busy until about sunset.

After a full shift at a totally important job (coffee is important!) Bill, who is not a plumber and is no longer a well driller and who is absolutely retired and who had worked slinging coffee and eggs all day, got in his truck and drove to my house.

God bless Bill!

Bill arrived while I was still glaring at my two new wrenches. I showed him my plumbing problem. He took one minute to assess the situation and pronounce his ruling:

“Meh.”

I take that to mean Bill gave me a solid C- on my workmanship. Which I deserve.

He removed everything I’d done, which wasn’t hard because nothing was tight. Then he looked at the 2′ extension I’d painstakingly installed some decade plus ago.

“This is shit.”

I agreed. It sucked. I explained that was the plastic pipe coming from the well and it’d been a stone cold bitch to install that 2′ extension many years ago. Before I finished this, Bill had whipped out a knife and cut it off. I remembered the struggle to install it and had organ failure… but I masked the symptoms. There was a real live Plumber on site and he surely knew what he was doing. Also, every second probably cost a fortune.

The crawl space is terrible and the pipe goes literally through the area of just one cinderblock. But Bill went to the nearest human sized access, and by human sized I mean a Chihuahua could get through it, and he plunged face first into God knows what. Soon there was nothing but his boots and ass crack visible in the land of the living. The rest of him was in the alternate universe of my inaccessible crawl space. I think plumbers are secretly shaped like Elastigirl.

Somehow, and I’m still wondering this myself, he got himself back out of there. Having verified whatever he verified, he attacked the scene of my battle from 10 years ago.

Bill heated the location of my battle with his Bernzomatic and SCHLORPED new pipe on the end like nobody’s business. I almost wanted to applaud!

Looking at the bits of leftover plumbing that he tossed aside, I realized the hunk of “plastic pipe” I’d installed back in the day was actually a rubberish material and slightly different than the hunk of plastic pipe that I’d bought at the hardware store that morning. The plastic pipe had been quite SCHLORP-ABLE and that was a big deal.

Finally! After all these years, I learned why the long ago battle had been so annoying.

Pipe ain’t pipe. I got the wrong stuff a decade ago. I’m still emotionally scarred from that mistake!

After that, Bill made short work of the stuff I’d been messing with. I noted with some satisfaction that his final act was to use two nice pipe wrenches, just like the one I’d bought, to reef shit together like Godzilla won’t be able to open that pickle jar. At least I’d been on the right track.

In fact, all the shit I’d bought at the hardware store that morning was used. I’d gotten the right stuff. I may have made mistakes but I wasn’t 100% clueless.

Having finished in just a few minutes, Bill assessed the maze of pipes that is the rest of that area of my house. I have EVERY plumbing era represented there. There’s copper from the old days when copper pipes and copper pennies roamed free. There’s PVC pipe, some very old, some installed by yours truly. I can do wonders with PVC. There’s PEX, installed by real modern plumbers who are pretty much all members of the one true faith of PEX.

“Where’s that go.” He pointed to an old copper pipe.

“Um, it’s embarrassing to say this, but nowhere.” It’s true. I think what I call a laundry room was built sometime after the core house and it served most of a human lifetime as some farmer’s introduction to the exciting world of indoor plumbing. It’s funny to think that some dude in America had to learn to flush in maybe the 1920’s or 1930’s when Rome had it figured out in 300 AD. I’m guessing indoor plumbing in my location came after Prohibition and before AM radio. The world advances unevenly.

After several decades, the old copper lines were de-activated and new PVC lines sent to newly built parts of the house. This was probably in the 1970’s.

“That pipe has no outlet?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been here a long time and I don’t know how to solder copper. It was done at least that long ago and probably before I was born.”

“It’s leaking.”

“What! Nah. The only leak is the input side of the pressure tank. At least today.”

“Leak.” He held a finger to the tiniest drop on the old copper line. It was wet, but so was everything in the vicinity.

“But…” I looked at the wall behind it. There was a rust stain on the concrete. It must have been an imperceptible leak but also it had been going on for a while. How long? Had that iron stain always been on the wall? I started scratching at the wall… as if it was forming stalactites in real time. Now that I think of it, at the very slow speed of stalactite, that’s exactly what was happening.

Bill beamed. “You see it. It’s leaking.”

Somehow I was pleased that Bill noticed that my simian brain was at least trying to catch up.

“You sure it goes nowhere?” Bill was reaching for a copper pipe cutter.

“Yes? Um… no. I’m not sure of anything today.”

Shrugging his shoulders Bill dove back into Chihuahua land. I held a flashlight and wondered if he’d find a dead skeleton or a live badger in there. He emerged covered with dirt but not badger eaten. “It goes nowhere. Man, your house is old. How old is this place?”

“Older than indoor plumbing. I know that.”

With that, Bill cut out the copper tubing, and about 3′ of PVC that was serving to link an obsolete old brass T fitting with mystery tubing to an otherwise functional house.

I was delighted! I like when leftover legacy shit is removed! My house’s utilities have as much cruft as Microsoft code and every foot of useless pipe removed is a cause of celebration.

It took both of us working together to remove the copper. It was about 9′ of bendable copper tubing that terminated in a gate valve that probably pre-dates the Reagan revolution. The gate valve, closed of course, had been lying in my crawlspace like a crusty old IED; charged with water, pressurized, just itching for an excuse to freeze and spring a leak. I’m lucky the old valve held that long!

I thanked Bill a thousand times and cut him a check for half what he was worth. Bill did not rake me over the coals. Bill is a hero.

Bill apparently sells water softeners as part of his defunct (?) well drilling business. I mentioned that my water softener is shot. I suggested I buy one from him in the summer when it’s warmer and easier to install stuff. Bill agreed, or I could buy one from anywhere else, he wasn’t trying to make a sale. He explained that he was retired.

“A man who knows how to fix stuff is never retired. He’s too valuable. I really appreciate you fixing this for me.”

Bill smiled, packed his wrenches and was about to go. “Well I can set you up with a water softener in the summer. I’ll sell one if you’ll buy one. But I’m retired.”

Then his phone rang. He glanced at it and shook his head gently.

“Slinging coffee tomorrow?”

“Yep, morning shift. My daughter can’t find decent help. Retirement is busy.”

With that, my personal version of Harry Tuttle drove away. I hope I can find him this summer. If he doesn’t answer, I know where to go get coffee. He’ll be there.

And that’s the story of my Non-vacation.

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Curmudgeon’s Non-Vacation: Part 6: The Loss

You know what happened next. I turned on the water and it leaked. I’ve experienced worse. It wasn’t a catastrophic WHOOSH of utter failure. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the leak I’d discovered that morning.

It was the steady drip, drip, drip of “nice try but you suck”.

The drip was small and I had a plumber coming in 3 hours. I thought about giving up.

But that’s not my style. I’d done what needed doing, I just hadn’t torqued down to a watertight fitment because my channel locks were shit. What I needed was a real pipe wrench… maybe two.

So tried again. I turned off the water, removed stuff, re-torqued stuff as best I could and wound up soaked again. Finally I realized you can’t “outthink” the lack of wrench. I went to the hardware store again.

So if I started agitated, progressed to hangry, and had drifted into the next level of hell what would that be? Depression. On the drive to the hardware store for the second time that day I flat out gave up on living.

At Mrs. Curmudgeon’s urging, I pulled into a coffee shop and ordered a sandwich and cup of hope. Half an hour and several ounces of caffeine later, I was willing to try again. I had mixed feelings. It boils down to the “three rules”:

  1. If your only idea is to do what you’ve been doing but harder.* You’re probably doing it wrong.

  2. If you’re getting bigger equipment to address #1, you’re probably still doing it wrong but now you will break more shit and spread devastation. Lessons of rule #2 cost lots of money.

  3. Sometimes #1 and #2 don’t apply. If all you really need is a cheater bar, then a cheater bar will work. The question is how do you know? If you know through experience, have at it. If you think this is true but don’t know a fucking thing, put the tools away and take a nap.

[Warning: Political rant about “do the same shit but harder”. Skip ahead if you wish.]

*”Do the same thing but do it harder” is the problem solving approach used in politics. It never works. It’s why problems never go away. Shit that’s got us in a panic in 2024 were problems 50 years ago too. They’ll stay problems until something changes the pattern. (If 350 Congressional incumbents and the top 20% of both parties all decided to run off and join the circus, old problems would vanish in a fortnight. A new crop of new idiots would use new ideas to create new problems but at least the problems would be interesting. Subsequently, they would work hard to cement their ass in the same elected offices and thus cement their asshole problems in place for forever too.) For example, most voters are too young to know illegal immigration was an issue during the Carter/Reagan election but it’s true. Now, 50 years and many million people later and it’s still the same fucking “urgent problem”. After 50 years of ignoring the will of the people instability is rampant. The State of Texas is in active revolt against the Federal Government which is using Federal resources specifically to break Federal law right in front of God and everybody. I’m confused about the Federal Government choosing to break Federal Law but it’s a half century old tradition now. That’s what “more and harder forever” looks like.

[/Rant]

I went back to the hardware store and bought two big ass wrenches.

The first was a gift to myself. I just plain wanted a nice wrench. It wasn’t cheap but if I’m going to waste a weekend afternoon fucking with pipes in the basement, the least I can do is get myself a good pipe wrench.

OK this is interesting. The photo is of the one I bought. I tried to link to one on Amazon and they’re sold out. Pipe wrenches… sold out. Can you imagine those two things in the same sentence?

“I wanted a good 14″ pipe wrench and tickets to a rock concert. Both were sold out. Also, we apparently live in an alternative universe where pipe wrenches are rare.”

Also, it makes my little gift to myself seem a lot nicer. I have a new pipe wrench and you can never have the tool that I bought! My plan for world domination is progressing! Bwa ha ha ha ha ha…

By now I was probably cracking up. The other wrench I bought was nothing special. Here it is next to a slightly smaller wrench I’ve owned forever (I probably found it in the dirt somewhere).

Back at home I eyed my two big wrenches and thought about the mistakes I’ve made in life that put me where I am now. I wanted to rush to get it done so I could cancel the plumber, who would justly rake me over the coals for a weekend “emergency” visit. But…

All I was going to do was reef on some fittings. Just bitch slapping components is never a good idea. Unless you’re Jeremy Clarkson fixing a BMW with a sledgehammer.

I poured a drink, sat on the couch, and rested. The plumber would come. I’d tried. I’d failed… though only a small failure. But failure is failure. And I’ve hit the stage in life where you cut a check when the fix it guy shows up and are glad to have the chance.

I waited. As I did, Mrs. Curmudgeon told me the story of the plumber. Stay with me…

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Curmudgeon’s Non-Vacation: Part 5: The Battle

I hadn’t eaten breakfast in anticipation of a yummy “city meal”. Several hour’s drive away there’s a Mongolian grill I like. To most people it’s just a form of fast food but for me it’s a once a year treat. This was the pre-plumbing plan but I hadn’t had time to deal with food. I was fighting a certain amount of “hangry” I dropped $130 at the hardware store.

The last time, that friction fit fitting had been pure hell. This time I was loaded for bear. I bought a tube of plumbing lube. I’ve never used that before. Also I always fuck up Teflon tape. I’ll twist it, wrap it backwards, just generally mess it up… so I bought pipe dope instead. Plus of course all the fittings and a couple feet of that damnable plastic pipe. Back at the basement I’d staged all the plumbing tools I own. My Bernzomatic torch is out of gas but I had a little heater I use for wiring and it was likely good enough.

I also bought a little 2 ½ gallon wet dry vac which became the day’s winning purchase. It was cheap and I think Craftsman tools (as a brand) have been swirling the drain since 1975 but this little pup saved my bacon. (Link to Amazon, and yes I get a kickback if you buy anything. But the little vac really did win my approval.)

I salute you little vac, not all heroes wear capes!

Back in the basement, I sucked up the water. This took several iterations of filling the little 2 ½ gallon vac to the brim. I dumped the water into the sump pump hole and nothing happened. WTF? After some confusion I found out it was on a GFCI outlet (I think that’s what it’s called). The fucking thing had tripped. How long ago had that happened?

I clicked reset and the sump pump surged to life. Fat lot of good an emergency sump pump would be if the damn outlet is unreliable! I’ll have to add “check the sump pump outlet” to the ten million things I need to remember.

I setup a stepladder in a few inches of standing water and started removing the shit I’d installed sometime in the early Obama administration. I had two hose clamps upstream and another two downstream of a valve. I loosened the clamps and nothing happened. I pulled it like Hulk lifting a boat anchor and nothing moved. So much for Plan A.

It’s never a good sign when you reach for the hacksaw but I didn’t have a better idea. Also when shit’s broke it’s not like you’re making it more broke. Luckily plastic pipe is easy to cut. I cut above the valve and a small bit of pressure sprayed my face. No biggie.

Then I cut below the valve and unleashed Old Faithful. DAMMIT!

I’d depressurizing the lines but hadn’t really done that at all. I hadn’t remembered that I was on the upstream side of the pressure tank and taking the pressure off the post-pressure tank faucets and stuff means nothing.

Eventually the chaos subsided. I stomped upstairs to get a fresh shirt, wipe down, and eat a granola bar (I was now ravenous). Mrs. Curmudgeon was full of sympathy. I was miserable.

Back in the basement, I redeployed the brave little Wet Vac and started all over.

Examining the mess, I could see that I’d mis-remembered the epic struggle of 15 years ago. There was a juncture about 2’ back from where I was messing… it was 6” deep in a pass-through busted into a cement block wall between one piece of house and the crawlspace of an adjacent addition. That had been the site of the epic struggle. We’d installed a nipple and added about 2 ½’ to that hellish unreachable spot to move the activity to a more sane location. That nipple, with four hose clamps (two in each direction) was still holding up. I swear I have nightmares about that inaccessible piece of hell.

I’d shortened the 2 ½’ to maybe 2’ so I still had plenty of room to work. I wasn’t going to touch the scene of misery and I didn’t have to!

I cleaned off the cut pipe with a utility knife and slathered a friction fit fitting with lube. Then I heated the pipe with a gadget I use for shrink tubing on wiring. I wasn’t feeling good about this. Last time I did this it was a clusterfuck. It was the kind of pain in the ass that makes you want to sell your farm and move into a condominium. I gritted my teeth…

SCHLORP! The thing slid in almost effortlessly; like it was meant to be there. Cool but also WTF?

I made a few jokes about my houses’ slutty loose fittings and how much I appreciated them. Keeping with dirty jokes, the deeper it went the tighter the fit.

I’m… I’m just gonna’ stop making jokes about such things while I still have a soul.

Anyway I managed the last bit with pliers and channel locks. I had a cheap ass set of slip joint pliers and one decent set of channel locks. It worked. Then I tightened on two new hose clamps. Easy peasy!

I did the same thing with the other side. Soon I had two ends of plastic pipe with nice threaded male ends. I didn’t ask for this job but I was doing it reasonably well. Good for me!

Then I slathered pipe dope on the male ends of the threaded fittings and stuck the brass valve fitting in the middle. I had this idea that spinning the valve would tighten both ends. I was wrong. If you spin one side the other can’t spin and so forth. Fine!

I took it off one side and spun it on the other. It seemed pretty tight. The fitting had flat sides to facilitate an open ended wrench so I dug around in my garage for one that was big enough for the job. I couldn’t find one. So I grabbed my biggest adjustable wrench… which was also too small.*

*(In retrospect it occurs to me that the spud wrench I keep in my tractor for arguing with three point hitch implements would have done the job. I didn’t think of that at the time. I was thinking with blinders on.)

The slip joint pliers weren’t up to the task but I found a second channel lock; this one probably made of Chinese pot metal in a back alley in Bangalore. Whatever I paid for it, it wasn’t much. Whatever I paid, was too much.

My tools from left to right: “useless”, “inadequate”, “barely adequate”.

Sure enough one channel lock gripped like the hand of Thor but the other was weak and uninspiring (like Woody Allen in the middle of a monologue about ennui). It did work, but not well.

I de-schlorped the friction fit on the opposite side, channel locked it onto the doped threads and spun it on. That looked OK too. Then I re-schlorped (insert joke here) into the plastic pipe and re-tightened the two pipe clamps.

I’d done it!

My God! It’s beautiful!

Intellectually; this was the easiest job ever. A fuckin’ monkey could figure out what needed doing. However, this particular monkey isn’t experienced or tooled up so it had taken a while. Regardless, it was done. I was so happy!

Just then Mrs. Curmudgeon called down (no way was she going to venture into our basement personally… too many spiders and icky things and also a wet grumpy husband).

“I found a plumber! He’s coming in 3 hours!”

Wow, just wow. I finish the job and a plumber manifests exactly then? God has an amazing sense of humor.

Rather than call him off, I let it ride. I had a few hours before arrival and when a plumber says they’re coming there’s a 70% chance they’re not anyway. Plus, I hadn’t tested the line.

I took a beautiful picture of my excellent work and turned on the water.

Stay tuned…

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Curmudgeon’s Non-Vacation: Part 4: The Joys Of Home Ownership

I’d felt like shit all week and then Biden took an intellectual (or rather an anti-intellectual) dump on my TV which really bummed me out. I needed a break in the cycle of suck. Also, all this negativity had me crapped out with the squirrels. I’d been making progress with the squirrel story but lately I’ve been doing naught but treading water.

It’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness so I decided to take a “mini-vacation”. A chance to rest, do no homestead chores whatsoever, and maybe get my groove back with the squirrels. It was a spur of the moment weekend morning idea but why the hell not? My plan was to drive several hours to a city of no particular interest and spend the night at a hotel that’s nobody’s idea of a destination resort. I’d maybe walk the dog inside a Cabela’s store. (It’s always fun to do an indoor dog walk.) Possibly I’d get some sushi. The next day I’d hammer a few thousand words of squirrel at a coffee shop and go home. It’s not a beach in Tahiti but even the lamest of vacations is better than nothing.

It’s surprising how quickly I perked up. I started having visions of an indoor shooting range. Mrs. Curmudgeon was on board with that! She started a web-search to see if one was available.

While she was Googling, I jammed a toothbrush and a handful of wadded clothes into a bag. I tossed it in the car. While I was there I might as well grab some junk that was cluttering the car. I decided to put the junk in the basement.

I walked to the basement and found an inch of water on the floor. BAM! My simple little plans took a headshot!

Adulting sucks.

Every hope, dream, positive vibe, and spring in my step evaporated. Game over man!

I alerted Mrs. Curmudgeon that there was a leak, that the mini-vacation was canceled, and also that life was a useless slog of misery. (I was not a happy camper.)

Now there are plumbing issues and there are plumbing ISSUES. This was definitely on the minor side of the spectrum. For one thing it’s an unfinished basement so the leak was spraying water on concrete. Technically, nothing was damaged… yet. My pissing and moaning was because I had things I’d rather do than standing on a ladder getting sprayed with funky water. Who doesn’t?

Unlike the dickheads in politics, I can’t talk problems out of existence. (They can’t either but they sure try.) When plumbing gives out I must drop everything until it’s fixed. There’s nobody else who’ll handle it for me. I’ve no landlord, authority figure, God, or roll of the dice that will heal a busted pipe without blowing a hole in my day. In particular, living in East Bumfuck nowhere meant I can’t easily call a plumber.

It was my job and mine alone. It’s just my “white male privilege” manifesting itself. Lucky me!

Lets start by saying this isn’t my first rodeo. My house, when I bought it, had barely functional plumbing. It froze often and catastrophically. I patched and replaced and rebuilt and insulated and fixed until it was much better. It does what it needs to do and it’s even reliable (well at least I thought so before the leak disabused me of that notion). I suppose the plumbing is “good enough for some definition of good” and today’s definition of “good enough” had stochastically failed. The long-term alternative is to tear everything out and replace it all, including the hard stuff behind drywall and in crawl spaces; an approach that’s prohibitively labor intensive and expensive.

This particular leak wasn’t rocket science. It was visible, obvious, and near a similar situation I’d battled about 15 years ago. There was a fair chance I’d fix it myself with minimal drama. But I’m no fool… I wouldn’t bet on an easy fix.

I live in reality. As a plumber, I am barely adequate. I know that. We are all human. Nobody can do everything. Unless it’s stupid simple, I’ll fix things temporarily and let the guys with professionally certified ass cracks handle the permanent situation.

We wisely decided on a two prong approach. Mrs. Curmudgeon grabbed the phone and started getting rejected by every plumber in the time zone. Simultaneously, I grabbed a wrench and started getting wet. In theory, either her phone calls or my struggles would work out. I doubted she’d get anyone on the phone. It feels like the last plumber in the county retired a decade ago.

Without going down a plumbing rabbit hole, the problem was the flexible hose that leaves my well pump and goes to my pressure tank. (Technically what I call “flexible hose” is “plastic pipe”. It’s the kind of shit that comes on big reels, is 1” diameter, and is not really flexible at all. I hate the stuff!)

Back in the day, that hose split causing a 1” pressurized hose blast from hell to flood the basement big time. At the time I didn’t have a way to drain the basement. I shut off the flow from the well pump, begged a handyman for help (not a plumber because those hardly exist), and we spent days unfucking the situation. $3500 later it was fixed.

We fixed it right, or as right as we could. After mucking out a billion gallons of water with an array of pumps I set out to make sure I’d never need to do it again. The solution included hammering a hole in my concrete floor! The handyman and I sunk a receptacle the size of a 5 gallon bucket below floor level and cemented it in place.

If you’ve never took a pickaxe and shovel to the concrete floor of a skeevy basement your life is good and you should offer thanks to the Gods of Plumbing. If you’ve never hauled endless 5 gallon buckets of rock and concrete up basement stairs you’ve no idea how much life can suck! It was exhausting and I never want to do it again.

Take my word for this, if some horror movie plot left a murder victim cemented under your floor… just leave it there!

Into this hard won “pit”, we installed a sump pump with float valve. Later I had an electrician wire a special circuit just for that pump. It’s plumbed to evacuate water into the septic system, complete with check valves that, should they fail and siphon from the septic, I’m going to move.

Since building that sturdy (and expensive) backup, I’ve never needed it. This particular leak had soaked everything in the vicinity like a mist irrigation system gone rogue. But it was still only a few inches deep and hadn’t flowed to the sump pump yet.

As for the flexible hose, it emerges from underneath one of my sketchier crawl spaces. Some parts of my house are well over 100 years old. Actually, my house isn’t really a single house at all. What I mean is it grew. When the farm family that lived in it popped out another kid or two, they built more space. They did that for nearly a century. I live in a mishmash of random unplanned additions glued to a decrepit core.

In case you’re wondering, the core pre-dates both indoor plumbing and electricity.

I don’t like where that hose comes from! I’d like to replace it. Unfortunately, someone in the 1970’s saw fit to build a floor directly over it. Short of taking a chainsaw to my laundry room floor there’s only so much I can do. The best solution I could come up with (15 years ago) was to cut the hose (pipe) at the failure point. From there I crammed a nipple (friction fit one side and male threads the other), added a valve (female both sides), and installed a second nipple on the other side to rejoin the undamaged portion of the hose (pipe) that goes to the pressure tank. It’s an ugly solution but it is what it is.

It worked fine right until it didn’t. I’m glad. I didn’t have many other options without hurling a bank loan at it. Such are the compromises between practicality (“it’s weird but it works”) and Utopian ideals (“nuke it from space and build a house that isn’t crap”) that rural folks (especially broke ones) have to face. I swear, half of our nation’s political divide is between people who’ve installed a “Sharkbite” fitting into a crappy old broken pipe and those who’d wave an entirely new plumbing system into being in their mind but never made a fitting water tight in physical reality.

Danger Will Rogers! Mid-stream bitch session to ensue!

As an aside, I once had a discussion with an urban dweller about how I don’t pay water OR septic bills. I explained that I maintain a well and pump and pressure tank and all the assorted things. I am literally my own independent water supply. The labor and capital to do this is all my burden. Regardless, he thought it was somehow “unfair” that he has a water bill and I don’t.

After that the conversation turned to “sewer bills”. I tried to explain my entirely privately financed independent owned septic tank and leach field. I think the guy had nightmares. He assumed that every dump taken by every human in every house in every nation is always piped to a municipal treatment plant. I explained that “leach field” and “treatment facility” are similar or related technology but it did no good. Municipalities are special because they employ magic elves which use the power of government to turn shit into rainbows.

What’s worse is that the fact that I live miles and miles from the nearest treatment plant. That true fact just didn’t fit with his world view. Nobody can run twenty or forty miles of pipe from just one house! If you live miles from the nearest town, your morning shit can’t be piped to an urban treatment at the crap spa.

(I once met a person who couldn’t drive at night where there were no streetlights… same thing.)

I tried to explain that’s just how it is. Many things can’t exist in a low population density. Many things are not provided to hinterland people. I can’t have light rail or subway service. There are no street lights. I haul my own garbage, pump my own water, and treat my own sewage. (He’d have a stroke if he knew I cut my own firewood and that I use FIRE as a form of heat.) Heck, I can’t even get pizza delivered.

The analogy never took hold. He refused all my explanations. His opinion is that I ought to pay for services like he does and it’s somehow immoral to simply provide them myself. If I can’t use a city bus that can’t come to my house I still ought to pay.

Sigh…

In his mind it was somehow “unfair” he had monthly bills. When I dropped ten large on a new septic tank and paid for the whole fucking thing in one shot that didn’t mean anything. It didn’t count, for reasons that aren’t clear. The gulf between urban and rural is larger than either side fully understands.

Back to today’s story, I was carefully remembering the last time this hose (pipe) broke. It was a stone cold bitch to insert the friction fit into the hose. I remember a big struggle.

I killed the power to the well pump and depressurized my house’s pipes. But the little pinhole leak was still pressurized and spraying. I closed the valve to isolate it from the pressure tank input. I don’t think that’s how pressure tanks work (I don’t even know if the valve I installed 15 years ago made sense. I just tend to prefer valves to avoid “there’s nothing I can do other than let it leak” locations.) At least it stopped spraying me in the face.

In the meantime, Mrs. Curmudgeon had gotten nowhere finding a plumber. Nobody would even answer the phone on a weekend. I shouted upstairs that the water was off. Just then I heard the toilet flush.

“I hope it was worth it, that’s the last one.” I thought.

There’s more to follow but it might not go live for a few days… After the plumbing event, I decided to run away and go camping. I’ll be back when I get back. See ya’ then…

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Curmudgeon’s Non-Vacation: Part 3: Invariably Making It Worse

Hur said Biden was non compos mentis. That’s not great news for Captain Corn Pop but it’s not a surprise or insurmountable. All Biden needed to do was hide (as he usually does). He could enjoy another “committed a crime but nobody will touch it with a ten foot pole” moment by simply doing the same thing he’s done for years.

Hur provided the perfect timing too. All Biden had to do was stay under a rock until the Super Bowl. Nothing does a mental reset to the masses like bread and circuses. If Biden was really lucky TayTay would have a wardrobe malfunction or something and make everyone forget. (Yes, that stupid thing also happened. It was another of THOSE days. During superbowl 2004 Janet Jackson flashed a tit at halftime. Otherwise adult humans pretended they’d never seen such a super inappropriate thing before. A boob? Heavens to Betsy, who could imagine such a thing! We were just sitting here reciting hymns about how threshing wheat is fun! Sixteen years later the society that pretended it was shocked that Janet Jackson had breasts made Wet Ass Pussy a hit. That’s exactly how a reasonable society of mature adults behaves. Right?)

Anyway if Biden hides long enough, something stupid and weird will happen and everyone will officially forget he’s simultaneously too mentally declined to stand trail and Commander in Chief of the biggest nuclear armed military on earth. (Isn’t that a great thing to ponder?)

Biden knows how to hide. His 2020 campaign was from a basement. The press informed me that serious leaders of major countries routinely hide in their basements while campaigning. It must be true because he got more votes than any other presidential candidate in history!

Because the wise thing to do was take the hit and then smile, Biden insisted on doing the exact opposite. He decided a live response would prove he’s a crack thinker at the top of his game. And that portion of THOSE days popped up on my feed.

I haven’t seen Biden live since… um… I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him perform live since he was sworn in behind a wall of concertina wire. He used to do live stuff as VP but that’s a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. His amazing, unquestionable, statistically astounding, and legally flawless record setting vote tally sure as hell didn’t come from live performances.

I was curious. I watched the whole 16 minute disaster and it was cringe”. Youths win on that slang. I normally wouldn’t say “cringe” but the 16 minute fuck up I watched was deeply uncomfortable to watch. I literally cringed watching him.

I don’t like seeing grown men having tantrums. I don’t like zombie level word salad mutterings. Alternating between rage and mumbling senescence is unnerving. It’s just not a good look.

You know how kids sometimes melt down on some hapless mom in the grocery store? The kid is screaming like a wild animal and flopping around in the canned goods aisle. Everyone is uncomfortable and embarrassed for the mom. They’re trying to pretend they’re not annoyed but they hate the situation. The mom is trying to contain her unholy offspring but the fucking kid is carrying on like a retarded banshee. We get that toddlers are toddlers. But it’s still awful for everyone involved… except the kid who’s too undeveloped to know how disgusting it is. That’s what a “cringe” press conference feels like.

At the grocery store the mom is miserable. Often just standing there, tear in her eye, thinking about how tired she is, wishing it were over. I wonder how Jill Biden felt?

I breathed a sigh of relief when Biden walked off stage. I really did. I’m not sure anyone enjoyed watching Biden fume (aside from maybe Trump). I was worried about the guy and I don’t even like Biden. I was relieved when he called it quits. He’d forgotten the location where he got his son’s rosary beads and that’s about it. The rest of the time he was mostly explaining he was “as sharp as a tack and the way you know it is because I’m shouting and angry”. I don’t associate shouting and angry with intellectual merit, but then again I didn’t get more votes than any other candidate in history.

Then, when a very ugly experience was almost over and all that was left for stunned staffers and “journalists” to spin away as much reputational damage as possible; he returned. He took the time to explain about Mexico’s border wall between Gaza and Egypt. Yep, he did that. He was at the finish line but he picked that moment to snatch defeat from the hands of… Well, it sure as hell wasn’t victory, but having a tantrum is one thing and confusing Mexico with Egypt is another. American’s aren’t great at geography but we know that Egypt borders Gaza, the Mexican border is with America, and the two aren’t even in the same hemisphere!

That gaffe doesn’t on it’s own prove he’s non compos mentis but it sure as hell doesn’t disprove it. The whole thing was embarrassing to watch. I feel like disinfecting my TV. Watching lizards fuck on the Discovery Channel is spiritually uplifting compared to Biden’s emotional incontinence.

Couch potatoing had NOT been a success. I wasn’t feeling good to start with and now I felt like Biden had peed on my leg.

Trying to save something sane for the last moment of the day, I tuned into Justin Johnson. Johnson playing Gravediggger Blues on his 3 string shovel guitar. He’s everything that bitchy decrepit political hacks aren’t. He’s got plain old excellence. It’s not country, it’s not heavy metal, it’s not WAP on the top 40 schlock radio, it’s not “performed” by TayTay, it’s pure blues essence. I encourage you to watch (listen!).

I have no formal education in music theory but there’s something about 3 string makeshift guitars and the blues. For blues (and I think it’s only blues?) 3 strings can sound fully soulful almost more perfectly than the usual 6 strings. I think there’s something in the root of blues that makes the 3 strings work just right. (I don’t know what bluegrass would sound like on 3 strings but I’m guessing it wouldn’t fit as well.)

I tried to master guitar and it wasn’t in the cards for me. I liked playing but I’ll never be anything but mediocre (or worse). What Johnson plays, I can almost understand but not really. It was a nice “recovery” from one of THOSE days, to witness excellence.

Anyway I encourage you to listen to Justin Johnson.

If I had known the future, I’d have known the blues was appropriate. Stay tuned for the rest of the story.

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