Adaptive Curmudgeon

Sometimes life comes at ya’ fast. Sometimes it comes at ya’ faster. Sometimes events fuckin’ avalanche your position. Your plans and rational thoughts are buried, burned, shredded, churned like a roto-tiller, hurled it into the void, bent, folded, spindled, and at some point in time they no longer represent roadmarks so much as you stand there punch drunk and wobbly; thinking… “what just happened?”

It is the fifth month of 2025. The most eventful of an exceptionally spastic year. It shuffles toward the exit. I remain. Still standing. Not only standing, but absolutely astounded at how well things have worked out.

Any of that make sense? Don’t worry, all lives are occasionally out of control, the specifics of my chaos are boring. I’m only logging on to say:

1. I’m here and haven’t forgotten ya’ll.
2. Despite eleven zillion things happening, it’s all for the good.
3. Sometimes one must drop the optional (including a much loved blog) simply to grasp at the shore. When this happens, it’s only temporary.

As thanks for your patience, here’s a little story:

I mentioned, almost a month ago, that I was in Hawaii. I also suggested I’m the sort that considered Hawaii only slightly less attainable or realistic than Nirvana. (I’m referring to the Buddhist state of enlightenment and not a defunct grunge band from the 1990’s. Incidentally, I’ve been to Portland; the place where the young go to retire. Nothing about Portland or grunge music or anything in the vicinity is mystically unattainable to anyone.)

Let’s pick up my story with an interesting moment in time.

There I was. I stepped out of my room onto a little porch. I was on the 12th floor of a hotel the sort losers like me can’t afford. The waves lapped slow and steady, relaxing even at the remove of 12 floors. The sun was setting. The tropical air smelled sweeter than any ocean breeze I’ve ever experienced.

I was completely and thoroughly jet lagged. I’d left a bit of my soul behind in the claustrophobic tubes of commercial flight. I didn’t know what time it was, or how long I’d been flying, or when I’d last ate.

I remembered there’d been three planes. I remembered dumping $120 on a taxi ride. (I’m not complaining, the plane had been free-ish to me!) Beyond that, I was thoroughly disoriented.

I didn’t know what time zone I was in. I vaguely grasped enough mental state to remind myself this gentle sweet rocking caressing ocean was the mid (or south?) Pacific, which explains why it seemed so unlike times I’d gazed on the angry surging hypothermic misery of the Puritan’s North Atlantic.

My phone chirped. It was a text from Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“Where are you?”

This is what I know now.

I know that Hawaii is not merely a state, it is an archipelago. The thoroughly modern city of Honolulu is on the island of Oahu. If you say of Honolulu, “it’s in Hawaii”, you just said something stupid. Another, and my favorite of the small number I sampled, is Maui. Say it with me… Maui is an island and not a city. You aren’t on Maui so much as you are in a town that is located on Maui. Ironically, the biggest island, which is clearly and reasonably named Big Island, is not where the action is.

Maui has dozens of places and they all have unpronounceable names. This includes the airport’s home town of Kahului, which lay $120 to the east of where my hotel was located. I dimly registered riding past Lahaina, the scene of a terrible fire two years ago. My hotel was nestled just short of Kapalua in the equally confusingly named Ka’anapali.

I know all of this now. Then, I couldn’t count to ten without six cats and a monkey to help me. I was utterly confused.

“Not the plane. Taxi. But then done.” I texted, capturing the true nature of my mental state.

Then I had another thought. I could neither spell nor pronounce Ka’anapali and had no real proof I was anywhere. I’d had no idea what plane was where. I had retrieved my luggage in a daze. I hadn’t the slightest clue where the taxi had driven me.

I could be on any island anywhere.

How was I to know I wasn’t, for example, on Puerto Rico? My addled mind would probably have better luck piecing together Spanglish than something originating from entirely unfamiliar Polynesian roots. Clutching my cell phone, I looked out at the darkening horizon. Not a written word to be found. Just the ocean breezes and strange Polynesian syntax. I could be anywhere! I could be in Tahiti, or Fiji, or American Samoa. I had a passport in my pocket. Had I used it?

For a man like me, who navigates the emptiest wilderness with considerable confidence, I was adrift. I’d gotten on a plane, I went wherever the fuck the plane went… and I was so very tired.

I looked at the phone. Mrs. Curmudgeon was probably getting worried. I ought to say something.

“I have not the slightest idea where I am.” I texted, truthfully.

“Enjoy your vacation.” Mrs. Curmudgeon texted back, but I didn’t get a chance to read it.

I was already asleep.

Gen-X, the oft hated, always ignored, rounding error of a lost generation, had Magnum PI. That was our window on the mysterious world of tropical islands and excellent moustaches.

Boomers, don’t think I forgot you. Y’all had Hawaii Five-O. It was a little earlier, starting in 1968, and played mostly after my bedtime. (How odd to think I was once young enough to have a mandatory “bedtime”.) Whenever I watched the show it bored me… but I think the theme is better than even Magnum’s.

Book ’em, Danno!

We walk our own path; often while hearing the fading echoes of the canyon where we started.

If you start out poor, or with small horizons, or behind the eight ball, you don’t have to stay that way. But it matters. Statistically, what’s initially unattainable, tends to remain unlikely. I never let that bother me. Indeed I’ve done tons of shit that seemed impossible right up until I did it.

Where I’m going with this is that I was born to a world where Hawaii might as well be on Mars. It simply didn’t exist for me. It didn’t exist for anyone I knew. I expected it to always be that way.

Then, I was there.

God it was beautiful! I’m shocked and deeply grateful for my good fortune.

I was in unofficial recuperation. Mrs. Curmudgeon, who wasn’t there to properly monitor me, deeply stressed that normal people “vacation” while I “adventure”. Given I’d been sicker than a dog could I just “calm the fuck down and not go fight sharks or whatever“? She’s a wise woman. I did my best to “vacation”; texting silly things like “still no sharks, snoozing in shade of palm tree“.

It worked. I needed a break and the rest did me good. I’ll be back to my old self “fighting sharks” some other day.

Thinking about how Hawaii seemed so exotic and unattainable reminded me of my only real connection with the place… Magnum PI! Back when TV was TV, and people watched TV, and America had a shared culture, there was one moustache that ruled all.

Magnum PI was pure prime-time fun. My young Gen-X future-Curmudgeon self gleefully watched every episode. Pre-Quigley Tom Sellek was perpetually awesome. He lived in paradise. He never had to shovel snow. The writers came up with a ridiculous work-around so boy-ish Sellek could drive the hottest car of the time and still claim to be broke. He flounced around with bikinis and Berettas and got free rides on T.C.’s colorful helicopter. Seriously, he was even named “Magnum”. Who has a name that cool?

I fuckin’ loved Magnum’s frenemy Higgins too! Dude was uptight and boring but smarter than shit. The plot hinted he had a bad ass backstory, possibly even being the super rich Robin Masters who supposedly owned everything. (This was an afterthought and the writers couldn’t quite paper over a few plot holes, but what would be cooler than a wealthy nerd pretending to be his own employee?) Higgins had exquisitely trained death dogs (Zeus and Apollo) and randomly turned them loose on Magnum! Why? Because, just look at him! Magnum had it coming.

It all worked out in perfect balance; Magnum had a +2 moustache of persuasion but Higgins kindly kept the freeloading hippie humble. Glorious.

Anyway, here’s to the fun show that all kids of a certain age (Gen X) fondly remember.

This post will be vague because I’m more privacy oriented than any blogger ought to be. Also, I’m a little more “along for the ride” than my usual “grab the steering wheel” self. So I barely know what hit me.

Late winter / spring kicked my ass. Bronchitis harpooned me and was reeling me in. Bitter, bone-dry, arctic, dehydrated air just wouldn’t let up and I suffered. Even my woodstove, which is a good friend to me, couldn’t bring my health or spirits up.

That doesn’t mean all was bad. I got my motorcycles running (though it was too cold to ride them much). I survived tax day (which I never take for granted). All in all it was just an ebb in the flow. The usual struggles of life continued through a “rough patch” and I sought to persevere.

Completely unrelated to the mundane, a hand up reached out for me. I caught a ride with someone else’s wave. My kid, who is full grown and an absolute boss in his own right, showed up with super discount plane tickets. He was going somewhere. Would I like to go too?

I’m never one to leave options on the table! I agreed, marked a calendar, and forgot about hazy futures. I went back to daily struggles… which seemed to never end. Infuriating bits of snow still lingers in pockets. Mud oozed. Nothing much was getting done. I gave up on the woodstove. I allowed myself to get pissed with the seasonal slog. There comes a time when a vacation will do me more good than the regular “self care”. I’d sunk below a threshold.

But time happens even when you feel locked in a loop. Thus it came to be that I am on vacation. Yesterday, my sleep deprived, weary, and bronchitis battered self climbed into a claustrophobic tube, then another, then another. I grumbled the rough the trip; packed like sardines, my ass hurt, I was unable to sleep. Time zones were crossed. Jet lag was banked for further misery.

But then it happened.

Paradise.

Right now, as I type this, I am in a tropical paradise!

I can scarcely believe my luck. As I breathe warm thawing air, humid from the ocean, warm but not too hot, I am simply awash with gratitude. And also shock. I, who have done “the trip of a lifetime” (within my expectations) so many times, have lucked into it again! I’ve been plucked from spring breakup / mud season to a sandy tropical beach.

What an amazing experience!

[When you get a 3d printer, people have two reactions. “That’s cool… nerd” and “there’s no point to that useless gizmo”. The latter can get brutally negative. I’m not sure why, but 3d printers freak out the squares.

The answer seems obvious to me. What will I make? Anything!

An “anything maker” has greater variety than almost any other tool you’ll find. A socket set is a one trick pony by comparison. But you have to get past the “only a factory can make things” mindset. Everyone and their dog has a house full of cheap plastic shit from Wal-Mart. People bought that stuff so clearly they must have wanted it at some point. Yet people act like plastic is the work of Satan. Apparently, the only socially acceptable DIY outlet is to lovingly carve heirloom rocking chairs out of salvaged oak?

Also, I’ll admit there’s a learning curve to 3d printers. The gadget isn’t magic. You’ll crank out keychains and toys for a bit while you learn.

I ponder the resistance. Folks fill freezers in a world with grocery stores. They stack ammo like dragons even though the sporting goods store is nearby. It’s odd that “anything in plastic” is particularly alien.

“Anything you’d find at Wal-Mart” at a cost of around $10 a pound is a pretty good deal.  Yeah, I’m oversimplifying: printing a Lego is easy, printing a TV is hard, and printing a grapefruit ain’t gonna’ happen. Even so, I see the potential.]

This among my first “fixed a real problem with 3D” challenges. In 2011 I installed a telescoping aluminum flagpole. Over time, some parts broke. I used 3D printing to fix it.

Plastic parts encircle the aluminum tubes. They’re little “gizmos” to which I clip the flag (including a second lower flag if I want). I didn’t know what these were called. Google suggests they’re top, double (in the middle), and bottom “swivels”. Because the flagpole is retractable, I don’t have a rope and pulley. I just reduce the flagpole’s height until the “swivel” is within reach.

It’s a rough environment. I’m not upset that the plastic swivels are shot. They lasted about 10 years and that’s not too bad. I ignored them until a windstorm got out of hand in February. I retracted the pole, consigned the torn flag for proper disposal and was like “where the heck will I find plastic parts for a 14 year old flagpole?”

I didn’t really even look for the parts. I knew they’d be unavailable locally and I didn’t feel like hurling any more money at Amazon.

Instead, I “designed” a solution completely from scratch. I “drew” it in Fusion360 (free) software. This is an entirely new thing. I didn’t download some dude’s plans, or Google “how to make flagpole do-hickeys”, or take instruction from anywhere. Nor did I carefully copy the broken parts. I took a few measurements and created a 3d dimensional object that was bulkier and chunkier to my personal specifications. How can that not be cool?

Then I fed the design into my 3d printer’s “slicer”. Without going into the weeds, the slicer has settings your 3d printer uses to turn the pristine mathematical construct you created in cyberspace to a physical object in the dirty, stochastic, gravitationally pulled, climate uncontrolled, real world.

There’s about a million things you can do in a slicer. They matter (or not) based on the specific “never before in existence” thing you’re making. There’s a lot of room for experience. Luckily, a Bambu Lab A1 is pretty forgiving and I wasn’t exactly making a complex object. I tuned a bunch of nerdy stuff to make it extra strong and hoped for the best.

It seemed to work.

3D filament comes in all sorts of “material”. Plastics of every sort and chemical structure have different features. The easiest to use, (in my opinion) is PLA. A small step up (also in my opinion) is PETG. PETG has much greater resilience. (It costs about the same.)

I’m going to seriously stress the material. My flagpole gadgets will be UV exposed in the sun, rained on, cooked dry, froze to well under -40, blown in blizzards, shit on by birds, etc… Here’s the cool part, I don’t need to freak out. If the part fails it’s just a thing to replace, not the nose cone of an F-14.

I made it thicker, beefed up the infill and other slicer settings, and so forth. I think it looks better than store bought.

The “top anchor” is good. I didn’t bother replacing it.

I started with the “middle anchor” which is for the bottom of the top flag and also the top of the lower flag, it has two anchor points. Here it is in Fusion 360.

Here it is in the slicer. (Notice the “tree” supports that hold up the “overhang” on the two loops.)

Here it is in real life.

Here it is in real life next to the broken part.

Then I realized the bottom anchor was shot too.

It took measurements off the broken part and made a bottom.

Here’s the set of two objects.

Here’s the new part next to the old broken part.

Fusion 360 can send things directly to the slicer or via an interim file. The interim file (which I used on the second part) changes perfectly smooth arcs into an approximation. The direct process doesn’t do that. See the “ridges” on the print? They’re so small you can hardly feel them and there’s no way it would matter on a flagpole, but I didn’t like it so I went back to direct uploads. There’s a lot of such things to learn.

I also made a rookie mistake! Never measure the part that broke, measure the environment into which it must fit! The part came out about 1 mm too small to slide onto the flagpole.

All the cursing in the world wont add a millimeter so I redrafted with a generous 3.5mm tolerance and reprinted. This isn’t exactly a tragedy. According to my slicer, the “bad part” cost about $1.41 to make. Tossing a buck fifty ain’t my favorite thing but it’s not the end of the world. It also means the total repair was a little under $4.50 even with my rookie mistake.

Here’s what the flagpole looks like with the new parts installed.

I got my motorcycle running and was going to ride to town to buy a new flag, but I’m still fighting some ailments. I wasn’t feeling up to it. I rode to the nearest gas station, bought a tank of gas for the bike, and scampered home.

A few days later I was in better shape. I went to town and bought myself a super nice flag. (I bought mine locally and not on Amazon, but I spent about that much on it.)

I think it looks glorious. (Note the lower “swivel”. I’ll put it to use when I get my next “lower” flag.)

Epilogue:

Naysayers abound. IRL I had a bunch of people insist my $4.50 worth of plastic ingenuity is surely more expensive than buying parts. I did a search and found this:

Ha! I’d have paid $58 (plus shipping). It does look like an exact replacement. Now I’m extra special ultra mega pleased with my <$5 construction.

Printing hardware ain’t free, but saving $50 on a small job is pretty sweet. I imagine it’ll pay for itself in due time.

I have a 1989 Honda Pacific Coast (PC800) motorcycle. I named it Marshmallow Fluff. I love that oddball bike. I bought it in 2023 with the intention of motocamping/touring; ideally far from Interstates but still pavement based.

The PC800 won’t be my first motorcycle for long distance road trips. I’ve gone cross country many times with my beloved vibrating chrome and black Harley-ripoff 1999 Honda Shadow. I’ve done it enough that I can’t recall how many times. However, I… well the word isn’t “grow out” because I still love my Shadow… but something happened.

The Shadow is a cruiser and cruisers are awesome… until they’re not. When I bought it (26 years ago) there was nothing in my mind but black and chrome cruisers. Non-cruiser bikes didn’t really exist in my mind. Now, decades later, I’m a little “cruisered out”.

Maybe it’s an age thing? Does there come a time in your life when you realize you’re rumbling around in a chromed up contraption that is stylistically based on a 1940’s machine and say “why“? Why are we all acting like a 1940’s V-twin the apex of human achievement? What seemed like the ultimate option now seems like a Boomerific time warp. The 1940’s were OK but not every vehicle has to look like a Studebaker. Imagine if every car out there, from Honda Civics to GMC SUVs to Toyota trucks all had stylistic cues from a Chevy Bel Aire. It would be cool at first, but then weird.

I don’t know why my tastes changed. It’s just something that happened. First I bought a dirt bike and then I bought the oddball PC800. I also stopped drinking beer and gained a taste for bourbon. Is it an old-guy thing? Lord help me!

Anyway, the PC800’s weirdly engineered and super-huge waterproof saddlebags are what I really wanted. (I call it a “bedonkadonk”.) The strange trunk is so damn handy! Much less hassle than strapping shit down on the Shadow (or any standard cruiser).

Also, I find it amusing that the “underpowered” 800 cubic centimeter PC800 is zippier than the beefy rumbling 1,100 cubic centimeters of my “generic cruiser”. It even gets better MPG (just a hair under 50 MPG which ain’t bad). (For comparison, an 1800CC Goldwing, which is what I was originally planning to buy gets MPG in the low 30’s.)

Small engines (on motorcycles!) aren’t boring. Who knew?!? This is a thing learned late in life. It’s my archaic single cylinder 200cc dirt bike that taught me the truth. Displacement ain’t all that and a bag of chips. My tiny dirt bike with its ridiculously huge traction monster of a rear wheel will gladly drag my ass through, over, around, and directly into anywhere I point it. The limit is not power, it’s if I can hang on. (Notice, I’m not talking about speed so much as brawn.)

Similarly, my 800 weirdmobile zips along at 80 MPH like it’s not breaking a sweat; because it isn’t. It won’t smoke a sportbike and that’s not what it’s for, but that mildly tuned 800cc will readily move your ass down the road like a magic carpet.

I wonder sometimes what my cruiser is doing with all its spare displacement? Is it all for rumble and roar? It sounds awesome and feels great… so maybe that’s exactly what it’s doing.

(Side note: The Goldwing’s flat opposed 6 cylinder engine is less “yet another motorcycle engine” than “such a marvel of technology that it’s a joy knowing they exist”. The power delivery is less “zippy zoom” than the silent, inexorable, soul-rending, might of a nuclear reactor. I can’t mock the Goldwing’s massive overkill 1,800cc powerplant because it’s so goddamn perfectly engineered. Goldwings might have the best engine to exist on planet earth.)

2023 was a hard year so no motorcycle trips happened. In 2024, I didn’t get do many road trips but I rode my tiny Yamaha TW200 halfway across Wyoming on trails; camping as I traveled. (The WYBDR.) The TW200 (Honey Badger) is slow, cheap, and uncomfortable… so of course I had the time of my life! (The whole story is under Walkabouts: 2024 Summer. Here are a few random photos.)

I only took the PC800 motocamping once. I did a late fall overnight at a tame State Park just to test the idea. It performed flawlessly.

When snow hit the bikes were parked and life slowed down. I wanted to winter camp but it just wasn’t in the cards. I’m glad I didn’t go because I got sicker than a dog. I would’ve blamed it on the campout. Getting sick without a campout spares me blaming myself.

Gradually, my health has improved. Spring hints it’ll arrive (late as usual). I’m impatient; a dog pulling on the leash, cabin fever bouncing around my head, flat out desperate to be not-indoors. Unfortunately, even though it’s mid-April, it’s thoroughly mud season. Everything is wet and slimy. It’s a terrible time to play outdoors. Dammit!

Rather than bitch about the weather, I tweaked my little PC800 to make it more “travel worthy”. (BTW: I call it “little” because the bike is unassuming but it’s actually quite porky. In the garage, it’s both bigger and heavier than it “feels” when you’re riding. Maybe it seems “little” to me because I compare it to Goldwings, the ultimate “Imperial Starcruiser” scaled road ham. I test rode several used Goldwings before selecting the PC800. Goldwings are awesome but I preferred the PC800 for strange reasons. I wanted something simpler, liked the trunk, and was smitten by the “button free” interface.)

For my “test camp” last year. I strapped a sleeping bag and tent to the rear passenger seat. Everything else rode in the funky, one of a kind, trunk. My stuff rode like it was welded to the frame. Nice!

I have a non-OEM Corbin Seat with an add-on passenger backrest. The driver’s seat is old and a little hard. I’d like to replace it but it’s not like I’ll find a custom seat for a 36 year old bike at Wal-Mart. The rear seat is irrelevant. I don’t have passengers on my bike. Mrs. Curmudgeon announced her motorcycle days are over. I can respect that.

If you’re gonna’ ride solo, why have a passenger backrest? So, I removed it.

That part you just removed? Put it up against the wall!

My goal was to install a cargo rack. Cargo racks extend behind the (in my case non-existent) passenger. Lots of people put a trunk there. Most fat touring bikes have a trunk waaaaay back there. Check out any Goldwing “Superslab Computer”, Harley “Untriked Bagger”, or BMW “Megapayment”. (Don’t hate me for mocking perfectly good bikes. It’s all in good fun.)

I don’t know if I want a trunk, but I want a rack that could support one. I found one on Ebay and it was cheap! I bought it fast. You don’t find accessories for 36 year old bikes just hanging around.

So I uninstalled the rear seat and popped off the passenger’s backrest. Easy peasy. I was going to slap on the cargo rack but a wing was in the way. WTF?!?

My PC800 came with a “wing”. Why? I have no idea! It just sits there doing fuck-all. Someone somewhere must have thought it was cool. The 1980’s was a weird time. I was there and a whole lotta’ stupid was going on. It’s not aerodynamically necessary so I never liked it.

Also, it’s right where you’d put your hands when you lift the trunk yet it’s not rugged enough to serve that purpose. Some previous owner made that mistake and damaged the wing. The subsequently “fixed” wing is good enough for a non-essential farkle. I still think it’s  silly. Check out the repairs. Could be a few years old, could be decades. I’ve no idea. Regardless, now it’s gone.

The biggest drawback to a PC800 is all the acres of “plastic” Honda wrapped around the engine. (It’s probably fiberglass but PC800 owners call it “Tupperwear”).

I see what Honda was trying to do and it was a reasonable idea. Unfortunately, all that “Tupperwear” scared regular motorcycle people away. There’s an irony in this. Every car on the road is sheathed in plastics and body panels. Do the same on a motorcycle and it’s “too hard to work on”. I don’t know why.

Indeed it was a bit of a puzzle. I had to pull literally a dozen screws to get to a secondary thing that didn’t seem to interact with anything else. I did this to access the back of 2 of the 4 mounts for the completely unnecessary wing.

Nothing was too hard. Nothing was impossible. But with 36 year old plastics, one must move with caution. I’ve seen PC800’s that have been owned by impatient gorillas who just couldn’t grok the subtlety. One guy attacked the battery compartment with a hacksaw. The proper access to the battery is not immediately obvious and it’s somewhat involved. On the other hand, what kind of moron will literally cut away materials rather than use his monkey brain to figure out the factory intended installation process? (I test drove that bike but didn’t buy it. Any owner who’ll hacksaw his way to a battery has surely done abusive things to the rest of the bike.)

Unlike the gorilla owner, I invested in a shop manual. I got it when (because!) I chose to buy a weird bike. I also have oodles of patience. I figured it out.

Soon I’d removed the wing. There are holes where mounting bolts went. There are many ways to solve that problem (including flat out ignoring it). I went with the simplest and only a few steps above ignoring it.

I bought bolts to fit that spot and nice rubber washers. In a fit of vanity, I bought $4 chrome round topped hex head bolts instead of $0.20 pot metal. They look absolutely adequate. I could patch and sand and paint but fuck that. This is a riding bike, not Orange County Choppers. Assuming the bolt holes don’t leak (and I think they won’t) I’ll soon forget they exist.

I got everything buttoned back up and it didn’t look half bad. I’m pleased with what I’ve done. My moron level mechanical skills interacted with the PC800’s fearsome Tupperware and nothing wound up broke!

I think the rack will be perfect for strapping down tents and sleeping bags and such. I planned a “shakeout” ride for the next day. I decided to strap down the tent & sleeping bag for a full test.

Overnight, it snowed! The bike and I are grounded once again.

Sigh…

Shit happens. Here’s a story about shit and the happening thereof.

The oven broke. Don’t fret deducing the cause. Sometimes shit happens. I bought it 20+ years ago and it’s the cheapest electric oven on the market. Be reminded that the appliances of yore, which would last generations, are long gone. In 2025, an appliance kicking off for no good reason despite being merely 2 decades old is pretty common.

Mrs. Curmudgeon announced the oven wasn’t getting hot. I was sicker than a dog. I lumbered into the kitchen, pressed the same damn buttons she had and got the same results. “Yep, broke.” I went back to bed.

The next day I tried to crawl around the oven and deduce what might have caused the situation. I figured I had about a 20% chance of fixing the thing. Odds were that it was something buried in an integrated circuit board that would be unavailable, soldered on, cost so much it was pointless… or all three. But I always give it a shot.

Except this time I was super sick. I got dizzy trying to poke around in the beast. I called it a day.

Weeks passed and I haven’t died so I guess I’m getting better. This weekend I poked around the device again. I finally extracted the heating element and (after considerable consternation) the thermostat. I was still pretty weak. I moved a lot slower than I normally would.

Then, because these things happen, a bit of the sheet metal housing slipped and cut a considerable divot out of my thumb. This is where men and women are different. I was like “damn this is going to slow me up”. Mrs. Curmudgeon was like “he’s lost a fuckin’ finger!”

I administered first aid and assessed the situation. I still had a bit of a cold and now my thumb hurt. I decided I didn’t care about ovens anymore.

The decision tree of “do I go to the ER or not” is a drag. Like most men, I won’t go to the ER if I can possibly find any excuse to avoid it. If I’ve lost at least 50% of my body weight in an explosion or a live crocodile bit off my leg at the knee… I’ll consider it. Even then I’d rather try gauze and tape to patch a missing femur than fill out paperwork at an ER.

I recognize this and I recognize it’s stupid. I do a lot of stuff solo and because of that I’ve “trained” my inner lunkhead to avoid letting my stupid attitude get the best of me. I’ve created heuristics that I’ve beaten into my head. When shit gets serious and the wolves are circling I remind myself to stick with the heuristics.

If I seriously think I might need the ER I’ll go the ER immediately. I’m probably damn near dead! If someone else sees my wound and passes out, that’s another red flag. OK fine I’ll go to the ER. And, most importantly, if Mrs. Curmudgeon wants me to go to the ER I’ll go. I’ll even try to go without complaining.

We’ve been married forever. She’s the love of my life. She has my best interest at heart. Men will childishly bleed out bitching about a $50 insurance co-pay. There’s a time to listen to women.

We found ourselves en route to the ER. Not the medical monopoly at the nearest city. Around the time Obamacare took over, a heartless corporate monolith bought every hospital for miles and subsequently reduced the quality of service until it’s abysmal. It went from “modern well delivered medicine” to “pretty OK for Pakistan” so fast it’ll spin your head. Last time I was there (for a very serious emergency) I asked for pain meds, was given an Rx for pain meds, was billed for pain meds, and suffered needlessly as the pain meds mysteriously vanished (presumably to be sold in a parking lot somewhere). A place that’ll let you suffer to make a few bucks on the street is a place to avoid.

Since my thumb was pretty well taped up I was in no hurry. We drove the opposite direction to a rural ER. I didn’t have a serious injury so there’s no advantage to a city hospital (and many drawbacks)? A small town rural ER can put in a few stitches much faster and easier than the big city ER which will infect me with something exotic while overbilling me.

I checked in. Someone else in the tiny hospital was having a bad day. The staff was busy. I apologized for adding to their burden and said I was more than willing to be patient. I’d brought a book! Then I stretched out on the bed and happily fell deep asleep. Like I said, I’ve been sick lately. I’m low on energy down to the molecular level. Even with the hustle and bustle all around me, I slept like a baby.

In the middle of a long period of waiting I heard some nurses talking.

“No, take that to #1.”

“Then who’s in #2?”

“Some farmer. Probably nicked his finger on barbed wire. Dude’s got zero fucks to give and is taking a nap. He can wait until we’ve got #1 handled.”

Indeed I could. I drifted off again wondering how “sheet metal oven” turned into “barbed wire”. I was pleased they assumed I’m a farmer. I’ll take it as a compliment.

Eventually they got to me. I was patched up in a jiffy with Dermabond. I definitely preferred that to stitches! It worked slick as a mitten. I carry super glue in my first aid kit but I’m thinking of spending $25 a shot for real Dermabond.

There was no avoiding the requisite Tetanus shot. I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I was yoinked back to reality. The fuckin’ shot hurt more than the cut that started all this. I feel like it wiped me out for the rest of the day too!

We went back home to a house without an oven. The next day I crawled all over the infernal thing with my multimeter. I isolated the problem as coming from “that thing there that’s all soldered and shit”.

I’m sure I could go further but I won’t. I’m not going to go overboard trying to rescue a 20 year old bottom of the line appliance. It broke and the fix ain’t obvious. Let it go.

We’ll ride out a bit of time with hot plates and a microwave… it’s really not that big of a deal. Ideally (after we get some ducks in a row) I’ll get Mrs. Curmudgeon a nice gas powered appliance (the delay involves chasing down a LP installation person)*.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

A.C.

*We could replace with electric in a few hours. Gas will take weeks due to retrofitting things. But it’s the plan. Mrs. Curmudgeon watches cooking shows and reads cookbooks. Both things baffle me but to each his or her own. I notice all cooking shows have gas stoves. It’s apparently a thing. We’ve got 220V electric appliances not because they’re superior but because that’s how our shitty house was setup when we bought it. It’s simple to install the next replacement and continue the annoyance (to Mrs. Curmudgeon) of glass topped electric stovetops. This time I want to get her something better. Now is just as convenient as anytime for installing gas. Dropping $600 on a new electric stove in a big rush won’t motivate us to upgrade… ever. I may have to stalk and kidnap an LP technician to get it setup but that’s life. Maybe I’ll finally be able to use my cast iron frying pan in the kitchen too? Who am I kidding? She’ll probably keep chasing me out of the kitchen no matter what gets installed.

I’m heading out to pay taxes. It won’t be cheap but I’ve got money stashed. It’ll be enough… probably. The only uncertainty is how much of my money will remain for my use. I need home repairs. A local carpenter awaits the verdict. Will he get the money or DC?

The point is, once you get over the fiscal hump, tragedy eases into farce. It’s hard to know exactly when it happened (it varies by person and some people never get over the hump) but somewhere in the rear view mirror is the hill I crested. I like to appreciate a good thing when I see it. I’m so very grateful. Life’s endless financial setbacks are nearly background noise.

For example, my 17 year old truck is rusting. Occasionally I get walloped with mechanic’s bills. Then again I haven’t made a car payment in years. Every “unexpected” repair is as much as 2 or 3 regular auto loan payments. Every month without a repair costs $0. On average it balances out in my favor. I bought six new tires in December; OUCH. I paid nothing at all in January, February, and March. I’ll take that trade every time!

There is no guarantee in life. We have free will and must use it. I created the future in which I now rest. For example, in my early 20’s I was poleaxed by a $300 tax bill. That measly three hundred might as well have been three million. It was crushing.

However, the young man facing that $300 bill was an absolute hard ass. He somehow took on a third (!) job (full time college student) and pushed through. No debt, no whining, no kicking the can down the road.

If you start hard (and avoid traps), there will come a time when you can let off the gas. It’s nice. I wish I could gift such peace to everyone. But of course I can’t. You can’t grant a thing that can only be earned. That young man and his third job was an absolute beast. His sacrifice earned my present situation and its somewhat mellow attitude.

I never had shorthand to explain my theory of “hit it hard when you’re young and chill later on”. But Captain Capitalism has it well in hand. One of his ideas (and I’m sure it’s far more fleshed out than mine) is an inversion of the classic phrase “going through life on easy mode”.

CC was talking about a young man who’d hit the world of work hard. Said fellow was knocking out overtime, living frugally, doing all the right things. Nose to the grindstone, eyes on the prize. All the things modern society discourages.

CC went out of his way to call this fellow’s life “easy mode”. The idea being, if you knock out a bunch of life’s fiscal challenges fast and early you have a long, slow, mellow, glide path from the peak you so aggressively scaled. I agree 100% with CC’s logic.

Life is hard. For the young, it’s sometimes absurdly cruel. Don’t bitch about it; deal with it. Do it young. Do it fast. Don’t wimp out. Do it hard. Do it for real. If your early 20s have you eating shit, well that sucks but life sucks. Get it done and over with as soon as you can. Ideally you’ll level up and (in due time) chill.

Life is longer than you think (at least if you’re lucky). The life and career building shit you endured when you were in your 20’s doesn’t vanish. It pays dividends (monetary and otherwise).

Consider the opposite, “living on hard mode”. We see it all around us. Most of the masses chose to do things the hard way. They start out lazy and wind up treading water until they die.

Examples are many. Folks clinging to extended childhood far too long. College that’s not a career investment but a way of avoiding real jobs. Deliberate extended unemployment. Racking up debt beyond one’s means to pay. Living beyond one’s means, etc. They’re self- destructive acts. Piling life’s problems into a taller and taller pile just makes the eventual reckoning brutal and possibly life long.

As CC explains (and I concur) “easy mode man” gets to his 30’s with some solid accomplishments. He’s racked up a decade of experience, he’s paid his way as best he can, he’s good at whatever he does for a job, he’s out of debt or at least kept things under control. It sounds boring, and it is, but that’s the baseline of keeping your shit together.

In his 30’s, a man who ate shit in his 20’s but did so deliberately, has already knocked out  a decade. He’s already seeing the benefits of “easy mode”. He’s steadily pulling ahead of his dipshit, wastrel, over-educated/under-skilled age cohort. Fiscally (and perhaps spiritually) he’s living better; because he’s got a decade’s experience as a full grown functioning adult. He’s already established. He’s starting to shed undue drama. It gets better and better from now on.

For fun I made up two illustrative characters, Hank and Biff.

Hank could weld a pipe at 25. Now he’s age 35. He doesn’t lose his shit when his vehicle drops a transmission. He doesn’t have to. He’s got savings. He’ll attend to the vehicle situation like a man with life experience. The vehicle was old and cheap and well used and has served him well. As a rational man, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Showing wisdom, he’s been preparing. Hank handles a blown transmission on easy mode.

Biff was chasing pussy at Daytona Beach at 25 and used a Visa card to pay for it. He majored in “work avoidance 101”. He’s absolutely fucked if his vehicle conks out. Biff has no way to take the hit and get back off the mat like a true competitor.

Biff also has student loan bills coming out of his ass. Biff desperately hopes Biden, or Bernie, or some other political shill will erase his student loans. Here’s the secret. When you’re on “hard mode” no one thing can save you. If the government inexplicably eliminated Biff’s college debt, it would do him no good. If the government cut him a COVID stimulation check or a windfall fell in his hands it too won’t help. Not for long.

Biff’s life will still suck because he never learned to overcome suck. Cash will flow through his hands before he can grasp it. His credit card debt will always be too much. His earnings will always be too low. He has no savings and he never will. He probably has a car payment he can’t handle. His biggest asset is an iPhone. Dude’s fucked and he’s going to stay that way.

That’s “hard mode”. Biff entered the workforce late and reluctantly. Ten years behind Hank and always falling he’s a barely paid intern at age 35. He chose a “job which makes his heart sing” and it’ll never pay well. He’s not particularly good at it, has only a few years under his belt, and it’s going to be a treadmill possibly forever. That’s hard mode.

I never thought about it until CC smacked me with the obvious. Here’s the thing I never considered: hard mode never ends. The dude who’s struggling to handle a jacked up car at 35 is less likely to be better at the same challenge 45. He struggles on, never quite handling his shit enough to graduate to easy mode. He’s locked into the cycle of Sisyphus; avoiding the path which he perceives as hard but forever struggling through the friction of his own weakness. We’ve all seen it. The guy who took a couple extra years in college is the guy who’s barely making rent at 55. He becomes the guy who’d like to retire at 65 but just never put money away. Too many problems were pushed too far down the calendar.

I know that some people hit retirement age having failed to pay off their student loans. Imagine that! A decision made at age 21 still punching you in the gut monthly four decades later. Four decades is forever! It’s enough time to raise a family and then raise a whole second family (which a shocking large number of people do). All that time student debt sat their on their shoulders. Such a long time! They bitch when their social security is garnished but they really did have 40 years to do something about it.

I don’t want to make light about the hard part of “easy mode”. It very much sucked at first. Absolute poverty leaves scars. Hard work breaks backs. But it isn’t easier when you’re older. I glad I did it and I’m super relieved the tough part is over!

Note, aging into “easy mode” doesn’t mean wealthy. It means lifestyle and capacity are well in hand. I’m not wealthy but I have absurdly low expectations. I might very well wind up living in a van down by the river! If that happens I won’t bitch. If I’m in a van by the river, I’ll own the fucking van!

It sounds silly but I want to salute the brave, hearty, stupid, hard working, absolutely mercenary, young man I was. That dude ate shit like a champ.

Were you like that as a young man? If so, take time to thank yourself. Seriously, give yourself a good pat on the back. You took the hit early and fast and shook it off. Well done.

That early version of me was always on the hunt for any chance to level up… and he did. He bought me a ticket on “easy mode”. It paid off (slowly) but comprehensively. I didn’t get wealth so much as peace. I’m never as rich as I’d like, but I can pay my taxes without freaking out. There are worse fates.

If I could go back in time, I’d buy myself a cold beer. Of course, my past self was a complete hard ass. He wouldn’t take charity from anyone, even his future self. So I’ll drink a cold beer right now… before I pay taxes.

Psst. I’ve got a secret. I’ve been doing cool shit off line. Crazy eh?

In our overly-connected world it’s inconceivable that a blogger would do his own thing and give (almost) no on-line mention. Right? Wrong! I wanted to enjoy the time to myself as I started a new “thing”. I have.

My little adventure was to “explore” 3d printing. I bought one about a month before Christmas. I did mention it, only once, as “My Outlandish Christmas Toy“.

I can’t overstate how much fun I’ve had. I was expecting a lot and got more than I expected. It was an extra-special fun Christmas. Sometimes one has earned a treat.

I dithered a bit because I’m a cheapskate to the molecular level. I worked myself up to it. I’m an adult and I’ve been sufficiently fiscally responsible that I’d literally earned it.

I just can’t overstate the fun involved. I remember as a kid thinking “someday I’ll be a grown-ass man with a checkbook and won’t that be awesome?”

It is!

I went apeshit with the thing. For 3 months straight I was printing this and that like it was my life’s goal to wear the poor thing out. (Which ain’t gonna’ happen, they’re more reliable than in the old days.)

My idea was that I’d wade through all the N00b bullshit and only write something up when I’d ironed out the details. It was a good plan. Then again plans have a way of not happening. I got sick. I’m still sick. I’m probably going to be sick for a little longer. Shit happens.

All that not-healthy time took away some inertia. I stopped experimenting and settled into a routine of sleeping much and grumbling a lot. It blew a month off my calendar and it ain’t over yet! (Don’t panic. I’m sick but not desperately so. If and when I’m “pining for the fjords” I’ll shoot ya’ a note.)

Then, to further change my plans, there’s been some changes with the technology. I feel an urge to address it. So here I am. Instead of the well reasoned, carefully considered, multi-part exploration of an interesting (to me) topic, which I’ve been planning since early December, you’re getting this. Life happens.

Technology grows in fits and starts. For many technologies there’s a “golden age” where it’s the most fun. I think with 3d printers that time is (roughly) now.

With all neato keen new things, it starts in the domain of the nerds, geniuses, crackpots, and early adopters. These are a special breed; hard core people who understand calculus, can properly define “anode”, speak Latin, and so forth. We owe these folks a debt of gratitude for making trails that’ll be roads for tamer/lamer users.

The early phases are a hassle. I remember 9,600 baud modems making local calls to bulletin boards. I did it a little bit myself. It was neat. But it was also a pain in the ass.

Then, times shift and the technology gains wider appeal as it “matures”. I can almost pinpoint the moment when “cyberspace” (as it was called then) went from “fringe nerditry” to “normal people stuff”. It happened gradually over many years but also all in one summer. I dropped off the bulletin board world and literally off grid (in a time before cell phones) and returned to a world that had popularized a thing called “browser” over the summer.

Nobody was paying attention. Because people are herd beings, 99% of America was wasting time all summer reading newspapers (remember them?) about OJ Simpson. Meanwhile a dedicated tiny sliver of humanity nudged unwieldy bulletin boards into “user friendly” browsers. It all happened while I was rambling about the forest completely disconnected from society. What were you doing in the summer of ’95?

The ensuing “golden age” is a time of peak amazement. Shit happens fast and it’s awesome. I can’t be certain, but I think right now is the moment for 3D printing.

After the golden age, the dipshits show up; normies break chairs, Karens pee in the corners, and people who were formerly too dumb to access the technology lower it to their level. Early adopters and nerds can do naught but slink away to better pastures. Right around ’95, slow crappy bulletin boards gave way to neat forums like Usenet, but it wasn’t long before everything turned to shit. It seems like only a few hours of “golden age” passed before Grandma was spamming you on Facebook and things were never quite as cool again.

Every technology has it’s own Facebook. You can’t stop it. You can only adapt. Bulletin boards blossomed into something awesome but now your TV is spying on you and a scorched earth landscape of lies smolders where reasonable political discourse once actually existed. By now smart phones have fuckwits cutting off their dick off and imbeciles attack Teslas because X in the last few years has less censorship than Twitter’s excellent mimicry of Soviet intellectual theory. And all I wanted was networked dissemination of knowledge.

Yeah… that sums up technology. Did I mention I’m taking a dozen random meds?

Where was I? Something something golden age? Right! 3D printing isn’t for everyone. Most people would prefer to buy cheap plastic shit from Wal-Mart than master the universe but that’s a them problem. I don’t have to live in life’s short bus. You don’t either. I’m slowly learning to make plastic anything. There’s a big difference between “you’ll eat what we shove in your face” and “I shall make my imagination a reality”. 

At some level, a 3d printer is damn near magic.

Only recently they emerged from the world of tinkery complex frustrating g-code. Bask in the now of having fun without needing to know all the details. Be aware it’ll sooner or later fade. I can’t buy a car with a stick shift because monkeys in my society can’t use clutches. I’m sure this will happen with filament and deposition. Don’t fret that it’s not forever. Just have fun when it’s a good time to have fun.

Some jackass with an MBA is right now trying to ruin it. They’ll load a perfectly good 3D printer with Siri, AI, spybots, social media, and monthly payments. They’ll limit filament choices to vegan… for reasons. They’ll scan everything you make in case it’s a copyright infringement. Some virus will make dildos explode out of the model jeep your making. It’ll suck, but not yet.

Which brings me to the thing that happened. I purchased a I purchased a Bambu Lab A1 Combo. (The link goes to Amazon, if you buy anything from the link I get a few bucks and it costs you nothing.)

The A1 is out of stock… probably pending a new 2025 printer release.

I got in at the right time. There was a pretty good sale. I was happy with the price. I like the device.

The A1 Combo is the right balance between “can do lots of shit” and “it’s a bitch to make it go”. So of course Bambu Lab is going to improve it. Will it be better? Who knows. It might suck. I wanted “sweet spot” not “finalized mature technology”. Ford’s Model T wasn’t perfect… but it was a sweet spot.

By the way the only difference between A1 and A1 Mini is you save couple hundred bucks and get a smaller “build envelope”. I thought that would be important but I almost never push the 10″ cube of the larger A1. I’d have been just as happy with the Mini. The A1 Mini Combo (with AMS Lite) is still available and I wouldn’t kick it to the curb.

With a smaller “build envelope” the A1 Mini is pretty cute. In retrospect, I haven’t needed the larger build envelope of the full sized A1.

But wait! There’s corporate douchebaggery afoot!

In December I wrote:

Bambulabs feels a lot like Apple. The machine is easy to use but absolutely bad in terms of privacy, just like that infernal cell phone in your pocket. Other printers may be more private. Just like Apple, Babmulabs wants to merge everything and you gain all sorts of convenience that way. I can monitor my printer from my cell phone! I can even launch prints from cell phone. I can pick from a bazillion free and (so far) reliable prints on the “makerworld.com” site. I see a cool thing, click on it, and boom it’s printing. The “nerd index” is greatly reduced. On the other hand, I can also see what’s in the background of the printer’s camera. I also assume the People’s Republic of China and the FBI know what I’m printing. There are things you can do about privacy but it’s not the default. For the Bambulabs “environment” just assume James Comey and Xi Jinping are watching the printer like creepy privacy violating perverts.

If a corporation can be an evil, rotten, spying, douchebag…. it will do so.

Such is the sudden yet inevitable betrayal of Bambu Lab. A couple months after I got it, they announced a new “software upgrade”. It might interfere with privacy between you and your property.

Because of course they did.

Everyone went apeshit. Because of course they did.

There are people in 2025 who do expect corporate fucknuts to behave with decorum. Why? How can they possibly think that way?

Anyway, the “upgrade” might, possibly, under certain circumstances fuck with you. It could interrupt sending files to your printer from your computer during that period of time when it is in the taint of the internet… the cloud.

Should I run around in circles screaming and shouting? Should I take a shit on a Tesla? Maybe cry? Of course not! Smart monkeys see these things coming and adapt.

Put on your big boy pants and disable the cloud portion of the Bambu Studio software. It’s not hard. Get over yourself. The cloud approach worked great but I knew it wouldn’t last. Some golden ages are shorter than others.

It took 20 minutes of dicking around to kill cloud access and switch to LAN Only. Now it works exactly the same as before (except the cell phone parts, which had already lost their novelty).

Then I started thinking. What shall I do when they do the next insufferable thing?

So I swapped entirely out of the Bambu Lab Studio. I just made a print with Orca Slicer. Orca Slicer is totally open source. It too is running on my LAN. So I’ve got two methods proven to work without reporting to spybot central.

Nice.

Finally, it can run off an SD card. It wouldn’t kill me to walk across my shop and stuff the card in… manually… like a caveman.

The point is, the slow gradual progression from “golden age” to “shitshow” is incremental and certainly no big deal… yet. I still recommend the Bambu Lab A1 with AMS lite (if you can find it). Or the A1 mini with AMS Lite (which would take up less space).

The fat lady hasn’t sung. Bambu Lab has not shit the bed yet. They’ll come out with something more awesome than my A1 and they’ll probably do so in 2025. Or not. If whatever they release includes the mandatory proctology examination add-on with AI driven supports, SIRI audio suggestions, and glowing pinstripes I’ll be even more happy with my LAN-locked A1.

For a basic, uninformed n00b, who wants to get in on the fun without joining a technological cult there may never be a better time. Betamax has passed. VHS isn’t perfect but it’s good enough. Only a tool would wait for Blue Ray. And some asshole already put a Pepsi in on the VHS of Top Gun.

Act (or not) as you wish.

Possibly the best two paragraphs written since the fall of the Bidenverse.

In my quiet backwater of the Hudson Valley, an early spring drives all creation violently. The peaceful sleep of winter ends in twitches and spasms. The ground breaks open like one big egg and all living things emerge: green shafts of the crocus, scuttling sowbugs, slithering snakes, sleek garlic shoots, ‘possums in the compost bucket, ticks are back on the cat’s face, the ice in the river cracks in frightening booms, hungry songbirds infest the bare roadside lilacs, tiny voices trill darkly in the woods, a lone early moth in its first rapture of flight meets the pitiless windshield.

You can feel it. The northern hemisphere of this planet shudders, rattles, and rolls into the most tumultuous spring in memory. Everything is in play, turning, turning, while forgotten consequence rises on vengeful wings like an aggrieved god of yore. Nothing will be as it was. A most wicked spell has been broken. What does it feel like to be able to think again?