Adaptive Curmudgeon

After delaying as long as possible I faced the night of camping with a CPAP. Since I had a big ass battery I might as well use all the CPAP’s features. (I did run the CPAP off a 12v plug in instead of it’s regular AC plug. They say it reduces battery consumption to avoid the AC conversion. I’ve verified that is true.)

Night was colder than expected. The temp dropped probably 40 degrees. Snug in my sleeping bag I didn’t care.

The CPAP cared. It pulled in air, humidified it, then pushed humid air through a hose exposed to 45 degree conditions. That exceeded the hose’s heating capacity. It became filled with condensed water. People with more CPAP experience apparently call this a “rainout”.

It’s not fatal, but it’s annoying as hell. First it made dumb sounds, just enough to make me half awake. Then it spewed water all over my face! Nobody can sleep through that! It sucked being all wet and the hose kept making gross gurgling noises! Water was all over my sleeping bag. It was in my hair and all over the tent. It was like a thirty foot Labrador Retriever had ducked into the tent and slobbered on me.

It was condensed distilled water, the cleanest water ever to get thrown in my face. But I’ve had better nights.

I set the heated hose to a higher setting and the humidity to a lower setting. I cleared out the hose (which spilled even more water on everything) and tried to go back to sleep. I fell asleep. I’d solved it! Nope. Two hours later the Labrador Retriever of doom returned.

Dammit! I sat there in the bad lighting of a flashlight trying to dry off and tweaking CPAP settings. Then I heard the neighbors launch into commotion. I heard someone say “Eek, a raccoon!” The exact words I’d imagined. You can’t make this shit up! Other voices joined the commotion. There was the clatter of a campsite being hastily cleaned. I felt pretty smug. I keep a clean camp. All my food is locked in a raccoon proof (not bear proof) cooler or a Milwaukee Packout that could stop a rhino.

I felt smug about my clean camp, and that I’d been willing to go full Thunderdome on raccoons. I like to think that’s why they left me alone. (It’s not, but it’s a nice thought.)

I drifted off to sleep. Then the hose did another “rainout”. Now I didn’t feel smug about anything. It happened several times in the night.

This is probably a good thing. Just as I’m touchy about the CPAP, I’m uptight about sleep. Most people accept that an occasional bad night’s sleep is no big deal. I was that way myself for my whole life until I wasn’t. Last year it got in my head that if I miss a nights sleep I’ll rebound into a state somewhere on the spectrum of between death and exhaustion. Mock me if you want but we’re made by the things we experience. I ain’t afraid to throw down with a raccoon but missing sleep had me worried.

The point is, I got up sleepy and unrested at the ass crack of dawn and… nothing. I was fine. Like a normal healthy person.

Wow! I don’t know what I was expecting, but mildly groggy was better than all imagined outcomes. I was almost giddy with relief. That’s what recovery is all about!

I forgot the brats but sure as hell didn’t forget the coffee. While that was percolating I found out I’d also forgot my toothbrush and toothpaste. In the chuckbox, I found dehydrated toothpaste pellets and a travel toothbrush. They worked fine. I think I tossed that junk in there in 2024? Past me was a stand up guy!

I percolated several cups of coffee and drank them happily. Then I tried to go back to bed and sleep a bit more. I was defeated by another “rainout”. The CPAP was self identifying as a lawn sprinkler. I thought about the guys motocamping. I have things to figure out with the CPAP before I can go motocamping.

No complaints, it is what it is. Rather than sit there all moody, I cooked half my bacon and eggs. Delicious. The rest I saved for later.

After that it was time for a new gadget test. I’d borrowed a cellular WiFi hotspot and was (uncommon for me) camping in geography with (weak) cell service. I turned it on, then turned on my old decrepit MacBook Air that’s now a Linux box. This was going to be awesome! It wasn’t. The WiFi hotspot didn’t give me internet. My cell phone can be a WiFi hotspot too but I don’t like to use it too much. However, it did work. Different carriers? I used my old cracked iPad to post a short message to my blog. It was proof of concept if nothing else.

I was looking forward to another advantage of campgrounds over dispersed camping. This campground (like most) has showers. How civilized! More dumb mistakes ensued. I forgot to pack soap. I forgot shampoo. I had a towel and that’s the only thing my dumb ass had remembered. I stood under the water and called it good. Getting sprayed with water was the theme of this trip.

With my CPAP’s heater and humidifier running as normal but also air leaks and general mayhem, I’d used a lot of battery. I was at 53%. In theory, anything over 50% means I’d done one day and was set for a second day. But 53% is too close!

I have a 12v charge line for my battery box. I plugged it in to the cigarette lighter of my truck. The truck pushes 20 amps, the box pulls 10 amps. So long as I run the motor, it’ll be fine. It was already lunchtime so I set out to drive to a burger place for lunch. Then I remembered I’m broke. I’m not complaining, I made decisions I don’t regret but which do have repercussions. There was no burger budget.

I really wished I had those brats! Instead of the longer trip to a country bar I made a short one to the nearest (and only) gas station / convenience store. When I stopped, the charge cable felt warm to the touch. That’s not good. I unplugged it. I was at 56%.

I bought a pack of brats and an ice cream sandwich. Nine bucks total. Frugal me! I started the truck and plugged the line back in but now it wouldn’t charge. Did I fry my truck’s cigarette lighter? Seems like I might have.

I’d only reserved the campsite for one night. I’d planned all along to extend another night but hadn’t committed until I’d found food and verified I had slightly more than half a battery left. OK Curmudgeon, lets try a second CPAP camping night.

More in part 5.

This is the part of the story where I consider doing something incredibly stupid but, through some miracle of self control and/or divine intervention, refrain.

I was sitting in the dark by a campfire when a raccoon appeared. The little bastard walked right up to me, as if I weren’t a big scary human hunter. The nerve! It eyed the bag of chips in my hand.

“Buzz off Ranger Rick!” I warned. I loathe “welfare animals”. Wildlife ought to be shy around humans. In a perfect world, all wildlife would understand that messing with people is bad juju. In a perfect world, all humans would get that too.

The raccoon approached closer. His posture was aggressive. Whoa! Aggressive to me?!? Talk about a bad decision!

I had an ax on my picnic table. Not far out of reach. I shifted ever so slightly in my chair, it was closer to my grasp now. It’s small and impressively sharp. A hatchet really. It has a tiny handle that fits in the palm like a musical instrument. It was a gift from a good friend, one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received. It’s meant for carving and woodcraft. It’s underutilized splitting scrapwood for a campfire but the little object had served that purpose admirably.

There’s another option. The sweet little hatchet could also be a wicked weapon! It would be unbalanced for throwing but for the hand its size is perfect. It sat there on the picnic table like Satan’s own brass knuckles. If you’d have seen me then… you’d have seen one of those huge evil grins that made old school Disney villains so delicious.

The raccoon missed every part of what I was thinking. It approached boldly, thinking to bully me away from the chips; as if to say “Do you even lift bro!”

I reminded myself that I was in a campground. This isn’t the forest primeval, red of tooth and claw. It’s a playground for normal civilized people. Kids and people and pets play here. Being awakened by a crazed woodsman hacking wildlife to death would not fit into their world view. Also, what kind of lunatic will engage in armed melee with an animal over half a bag of chips?

Me. I am exactly that kind of lunatic.

“I’ll throw down just like a guy with no standards.” I warned the raccoon. I said this quietly so as not to wake the other campers but in my deepest most menacing growl.

The raccoon looked at the potato chip bag, then at me. Animals may be primitive but they’re not dumb. Something in his little head clicked. He dropped down to all fours and dashed away. Probably he hadn’t been entirely sure I was human? Likely the usual response is someone shrieking; “eek a raccoon!” Maybe he’s seen people jump on the picnic table like Betty Boop cartoon? Perhaps drunk dudes chuck a chip and laugh. But a guy like me sitting in a chair in the dark icily plotting his demise? Not something the little beast expected.

I’m very glad he left.

The whole thing lasted maybe a minute. Was I really willing to get bit in twenty places and scratched everywhere else over a bag of chips? I dunno’. Presumably I’m not that dumb. Then again they were MY chips. Is any man ever really sure just how dumb he might be? I pictured Mrs. Curmudgeon getting a call from the cops. “Mrs. Curmudgeon? Your dipshit husband was arrested beating raccoons to death at a recreational facility. Could you come post bail? You’ll have to take him to the ER for stitches. Also, you need to get that man a hobby, the people at the campground will have nightmares after what they’ve seen.”

I ate another potato chip. It was delicious. The best and most well earned potato chip I’ve ever had.

More in Part 4.

I was sitting at my campsite minding my own business when a couple ADV bikes rolled by. I died with jealousy. OK, I didn’t actually fall out of my lawn chair and croak; but I sure felt it. I was struck with deep longing. It’s pathetic really, my life is pretty good and yet there’s always something you aren’t doing that you wish you were. I’ve been behind the eight ball for a while but I have camped from motorcycle and will surely be able once again. I’m feeling healthy and already have the equipment. Alas, my trusty Yamaha TW200 (Honey Badger) has been neglected almost a year and a half. Same with my road bikes; including an old Honda PC800 which is uniquely suited for and was purchased for the purpose of “motocamping”.

Glancing at their bikes like a creepy stalker, I thought of my huge battery and the delicate CPAP. The mass and volume hold me back from motocamping. But it’s solvable logistics. I just need to adapt. Many (most?) campsites have AC power; this being a “normal campground” calibrated for “normal” Americans. Dorks who still use a tent (like me) are the dwindling minority. Perhaps I could forgo the battery pack and pay an extra $10 for a site with AC?

I made a promise to myself. If this night with the CPAP went well, I’d come back with my mild Honda PC800 and an extension cord. I’d do it! As. Soon. As. Possible.

I got a fire going but the bratwurst were nowhere to be found. Shit! Did I leave meat to rot in the kitchen? Did they fly off the tailgate? To waste food is a horrible sin! Plus I was hungry. I looked at the mustard and bag of buns. Dammit! (Update: No brats were harmed in the writing of this story. Mrs. Curmudgeon found them on the kitchen table and put them back in the fridge.)

The food on my menu was AWOL but past me had prepared for just such a situation. I picked through my chuckbox looking for “backup food”. I found a can of Vienna sausages and a small can of baked beans. Beans and dogs would be fine. Then I realized the sausages expired in 2024. No! I don’t really trust canned mini-hotdog meat and two years expired is just too sketchy. For the greater safety of all humanity I disposed of the can.

I still had options. Should I eat my last MRE? Then I found a Mountain House buried in the box! I boiled water and re-hydrated it. It tasted… adequate. Completely not awful. It was absolutely digestible. The calories were usable.

I figured I could do better than that. In the recesses of the chuckbox I found a half sleeve of Ritz crackers. I crushed them up and tossed them in. Dinner went from “meh” to “quite tasty”. Amazing transformation!

I’d probably overworked myself hiking because the second beer had me tipsy. That’s OK. It had been a busy day and it only made sense to be fried at the end of it. Making sure I wasn’t dehydrated, I sat by the fire for hours in the dark; drinking water and soda. I felt the recharge of mental batteries. I was too tired for deep thoughts. I indulged in an audio book. I’d borrowed it (electronically), downloaded it to my Kindle, and routed it to noise canceling headphones I use with my tractor (via Bluetooth). It was too much technology, but it did work.

The CPAP lurked in my mind. Some people like them. Some people hate them. I think mine saved my damn life. I’m ever so grateful they exist. Unfortunately, I take the gadget way too seriously. I fear to break the spell it cast when it dragged my ass up from the ground.

Back to logistics, there are special CPAP batteries. They’re small and meant for the purpose. There are special CPAPs. They’re also small and meant to easily travel. They also consume less power.

I don’t have either. But I have all the power I need for two days. With intelligent management I should be able to extend that. Experimentation with the power setup was one of this trip’s goals.

A CPAP’s main power consumption is an air pump (duh), but a close second is a water reservoir which is heated to add humidity, and right behind that is a hose that’s also heated. It’s easy to turn off the humidifier and the hose. This is said to reduce load on the battery. It makes sense that it would.

I chickened out. The settings I’ve been using work from a health standpoint. I’m reluctant to explore the CPAP’s limits lest they are discovered to be my limits.

I ruminated on the situation. I wondered how “clean” the AC on those campsite outlets were? Could the best short term solution be an extension cord?

The night got dark. I like sitting quietly in the dark. It was just me and my thoughts, a lantern on low, and a small fire. It’s a time of oneness with nature. A moment to ponder infinity. Instead of spiritual revelation I got a raccoon. Some days are like that.

More in part 3.

It’s my second camping trip of the summer. That’s twice the zero I managed last year! Refrain from going “ackchyually”, I know about multiples of zero. What I typed is a perfectly cromulent statement.

I’m happy to be “mobile”. I’m composing this (at least part of it) on an old Linux laptop at a picnic table in a campground. I camped a few nights in 2025 but it was in my yard so they don’t count. My backyard faffing about is vastly wilder and more “natureiffic” than nearly any campground, but if you’re not away from home you don’t really shed the feeling (good and bad) of home.

My camping skills are rusty. Fortunately, I chose to camp at a tame park in the middle of summer in good weather. That’s not my usual first choice. It makes sense for now. Even if shit goes sideways, life is easy in such a playground.

Reservations were key! Without firm commitment (such as reservations), camping gets postponed. Fortunately, Mrs. Curmudgeon is wildly supportive of me going camping. (She rocks!) At her urging, I wound up abandoning my semi-fixed tractor on my not quite mowed lawn. A mowed lawn is never really that important (to me).

Trying to knock out errands, I drove initially in the wrong direction to buy fuel and send mail. Then I backtracked but also made an impulse buy of bacon (and a bag of ice). I also grabbed an impulse bag of chips. I try to avoid junk food but I’m only human.

It all wound up haphazardly flung into a cooler in my truck bed. I’d already grabbed bratwurst and whatever else I found in the kitchen. I absconded with the ketchup, mustard, and bag of buns. I also had 4 eggs. I wasn’t very organized but it was surely “good enough”.

I arrived at my campsite late. That’s fine because I was at a campground, not on a wilderness trek! It was almost literally the longest day of the year so I had plenty of leeway. As always, my combination of tent, cot, mattress, sleeping bag worked flawlessly. Time elapsed from parking the truck to “set up” was 16 minutes. Yay me!

I dithered a bit over my CPAP. It’s a new (to me) superstition. I can’t help being paranoid about the damn thing. For power, I have an Anker C1000 which seems like overkill. It weighs like a bowling ball and I feel like it ought to support three arc welders and a Vegas casino. Yet, without any particular effort on my part, it’s enough for 2 days and 2 days only with the CPAP. Surely I can improve on that.

As a form of procrastination, I did some “exercise hiking”. I have new trekking poles and something about those things motivates me. The poles reject a lifetime of “saunter”, walk carefully and observantly, and “stop to smell the roses”. They induce what I call “sled dog mode”. Normally, I hate marching around like an automaton but for this specific purpose, it’s probably ideal. It’s good exercise. I wore my ass out in a mere hour. It would be nice to go longer but it is what it is. Back at camp I flopped in a lawnchair with a cold beer. I was cooked and sweaty but the day was basically over.

More in Part 2.

Yesterday a reader sent me a comment with a question:

Please tell me more about your 3D printer.

I have a 13 year old son who is interested in getting a printer… [clipped for brevity]… suffer analysis paralysis over electronic do dads… [more clipped]

Please set me on a path to learn what to throw money at so the boy can make stuff with melty plastic, metal infused melty plastic, and electronic do dads.

Nerd bloggers like me live for questions like this! I can’t help but make a whole post. I hope it helps.

First of all dispense with analysis paralysis by just getting a printer. Buy it today. No printer is perfect so quit seeking perfection. The good news is basic printers are pretty damn cool. A 13 year old probably isn’t even going to imagine exotic print scenarios they can’t handle.

So just chill out and get a basic user friendly 3d printer. Which printer do I recommend?

I suggest Bambulab A1 Mini Combo or a Bambulab A1 Combo.

There are better printers, there are worse printers. The Bambulab A1 Combo is (in my humble opinion) the sweet spot of “damn good but still not as expensive as more extra gooderer”. Mine has kept me busy for almost 2 years. Your kid won’t outgrow it right away (or ever).

The only difference between the A1 Mini and the A1 is build envelope. That one sided cantilever design looks hinky to me but (aside from build envelope) I’ve never heard complaints about the mini.

If you care most about being cheap and saving desk space the Mini is fine. The regular A1 is better. (Update… I just found out the difference is like $20… don’t even bother with the mini.) You can never ever upgrade the build envelope! (There’s a jumbo sized A2L. Don’t bother, you’re not going to need it.)

Here’s a photo of the Bambulab A1. All images are copied from the Bambulab website:

The photos show the base printer, not the COMBO. I absolutely recommend the “combo”. The combo includes an AMS Lite. Do NOT get a printer without the AMS Lite. (AMS means automatic material system.)

Here’s a photo of the AMS Lite. This is what it looks like with no filament. It will almost always have 4 spools loaded when it’s sitting on your desk. It’ll probably be cheaper to buy it with the printer instead of as an accessory later. If you don’t get it, you’ll wish you had.

The AMS Lite allows the printer to switch between up to 4 filaments in one print. In practice this usually means switching colors. (I mess around with alternate support materials and other nerd things too.) It also means your printer will “poop”. I’m not making that up.

Multiple colors is way cool. It’s a big improvement in printing fun. Don’t buy any printer that doesn’t have multiple filament capacity. Multiple filament stuff like embedding text into an object or adding racing stripes; that’s the shit that a n00b will most notice and appreciate.

I have to admit, Bambulab’s AMS Lite is the dumbest looking AMS I’ve ever seen. But they work, and very reliably so. They also take up a bunch of desk space but it’s worth it! If you want to make a white snowman with black boots and a red hat… AMS is the bomb!

Here’s the links on Amazon: Bambulab A1 Mini Combo (clocking in at $350) and Bambulab A1 Combo (clocking in at $379 on Amazon). Wait… it’s only $20 difference? Forget about the Mini, it’s dumb that it’s only $20 difference. Unless you’re Harry Potter and live in a closet under the stairway get the full sized A1.

You’re almost done with analysis paralysis but there’s a few more hurdles.

First of all, I offered links to Amazon. Check with https://us.store.bambulab.com/ too. You might get a better deal or you might not. Compare both sources and see if you get free shipping or whatever. MAKE SURE YOU’RE LOOKING AT THE COMBO.

One last decision, filament. A printer without filament can’t do a damn thing!

There are a thousand filaments to choose from… all are awesome. You can never have too much filament. Sweet sweet filament…

Where was I? Oh yeah, you have no idea what you want to do so you have no idea what filament to buy. I suggest PLA. It’s the easiest and doesn’t require a dryer. (If you like the printer and want to “expand” to PETG and other neat filaments your next purchase will be a filament dryer. Don’t worry, it won’t be overly expensive.)

I recommend you buy Bambulab brand filament because the spool has an RFID chip that will “tell” the printer what the filament settings ought to be. (Other brands are fine in the future, I don’t recommend it for a beginner.)

Buy at least $100 worth of PLA filament in whatever colors your kid likes. Make sure at least one color is something your wife likes. Filament comes as “refill” or “on the spool”. Buy “on the spool” at first. Save those spools and reuse them with “refills” later.

Filament is addictive. As soon as you buy red to make a racecar, you’re going to wish you’d bought green to make an army jeep. Bambulab uses the “get them addicted” pricing plan. If you buy 4 items you get a 25% discount, buy 6 and you get 30%. Accept your fate and buy no less than 4 spools to get that sweet 25% discount.

You’ll be happy with PLA Basic. That’s not as limiting as it sounds. Maybe buy one in PLA Translucent because translucent is cool. There’s a new thing called PLA Pure which I haven’t tried. It’s (with caveats that are more legal than real) food safe-ish. I wouldn’t bother unless your kid is going to chew on his creations.

Some filaments like PLA Wood and PLA Glow will require swapping nozzles. Don’t go there at first. Stick with the nozzle you’ve got.

4-6 spools is plenty to get started but don’t hesitate to buy more filament in the future. If you print a lot you’ll crave it like Scooby Snacks. Also, when I started I thought PLA was “weak” and I immediately branched into slightly more difficult to use PETG. I’ve since tested PLA and it’s surprisingly tough. Don’t assume PLA is wimpy “beginner junk”.

Exhausted yet? Almost done. Either you or your kid should make an account on https://makerworld.com/. If possible do this before or in conjunction with buying the printer itself and your first hit of crack… I mean filament… Maybe you’ll get extra discounts, maybe not.

Your Bambulab product will want to “phone home” (to the horror of libertarians everywhere). Relax, go with it at first and unplug later if you want. Your kid is not an international expert in engineering who’s building ICBMs in the living room. You can fret about privacy later. Your account in https://us.store.bambulab.com/ and https://makerworld.com/ will get along together. There is also a cell phone software called Handy that your son will have setup faster than you, as a dad, will be able to do.

I recommend having a computer nearby. Any computer will do at first. (Later when your kid is making his own stuff you might want a “good” computer.) Running from cell phone is lame and limiting; even if your kid loves his phone running from a real computer is a better experience. Everything goes through Wi-Fi. There’s no cable connection needed. It’s wise to put the computer where you can babysit the printer while you’re sending it data from the computer. It does have a camera, you can turn it off and/or cover it if you wish.

When the printer arrives give yourself an hour or two to get it set up. It’s easy but don’t rush. The software (on your computer) called Bambu Studio will take 15 minutes or so, assuming you remember the login & password.

After that your son can surf to https://makerworld.com/ to select from a zillion “models”. It’s a nice glide path into the hobby. You can select models that match your printer (A1) and your filament (PLA) and most (not all) are pretty sweet. Start with something small and simple. Don’t freak if something goes wrong, though the simple stuff might work right away.

You are required by law, custom, and etiquette to print a Benchy. Don’t worry if it sucks, you’ll figure it out as you go. You’ll get better with time. Print it, examine it like you know what you’re looking at (even though you don’t), and if you ever get bored… print another.

That’ll overcome analysis paralysis. If your kid turns into Tony Stark you can always upgrade. But that’s probably not going to happen and he will likely be happy with something that’s easy enough to use and good enough to reliably work. (I haven’t gotten bored of mine and I work it like a rented mule.)

I hope that helps.

A.C.

P.S. If your kid is specifically and hard core interested in minifigs (and nothing else), you may have to deal with a different technology called “resin printing”. That’s a whole different animal involving vats of messy fluids. Don’t go there unless he’s limiting his world to minifigs. Ask him if he wants a Warhammer 40K tattoo and seems obsessed with teeny tiny paintbrushes… if so, you may have to consider resin.

P.S. After you’ve had the printer for 1-6 months, take a look at CyberBrick. I built the remote control forklift. I had absurd levels of fun making it. You, as an adult, might be more interested in CyberBrick than your son. Or not. You two can make remote control devices and have friendly in-home robot wars… good clean nerd fun. But wait until your son has had a while to 3d print simple things like keychains and fidget spinners.

I run a 3d printer for fun. I need 3d modeling software to go with it. The two work together.

I make things which never before existed. Even if it’s just a sawhorse jig it’s something I created. Evil cannot create. Good loves to create. That’s a key to understanding life!

A year and a half ago I picked Autodesk Fusion 360 more or less at random for my 3d modeling software. Technically I’m using “Autodesk Fusion 360 For Personal Use”. It’s massive overkill but that’s where I landed after escaping analysis paralysis.

I suffered through the learning curve. Brutal! But I was more or less happy with the software.

My use is well within the “free” personal use category. I’d be willing to upgrade if they had a cheap low end variant. They don’t. Pricing goes from zero to nosebleed in the blink of an eye.

They don’t want small fry like me. They’ve got Microsoft syndrome… chasing offices and schools and “business to business” until they’re intolerable for a normal human. I consider this a red flag. The company either is or wants to be a ward of the State; ask Northrop Grumman and Lockheed Martin about their consumer divisions.

I soon  encountered another complaint. It’s ridiculously cloud based. It’s an absolute bitch if my internet slows (which was happening with some frequency). I’d do something that shouldn’t be hard, like draft a circle, and the whole system would creak like a Soviet field commander dealing with a mandatory meeting of commissars to discuss the monthly toilet paper ration. Drawing a circle does not need to be cloud based!

I was still willing to put up with it. I even updated my broadband with Starlink.

Meanwhile, Microsoft (the ultimate planetary enshittification kings!) phased out Win10. My hardware can’t easily upgrade and more importantly I don’t want to upgrade to WinEnshittify. I don’t need or want anything new from Microsoft but Fusion 360 seems addicted to it for no clear reason. It started whining that my OS was “out of date”. This had no affect on anything; just a warning that warned me about nothing. I got a Mac laptop running as a backup and tried that. It worked fine with Fusion 360 but didn’t fix my underlying situation.

Mac is just like Win, in both instances my hardware is limited to an unsupported OS level. I got a Linux box running but Fusion 360 (with some caveats) is allergic to Linux. I’m not sure why. Fusion 360 is so cloud based it shouldn’t matter how I’m logging on. But… enshittify.

I’ve been busy with real life. I’m not using Fusion 360 much lately. I just started a very simple little project. So of course just now it needed an urgent software upgrade. Predictably the upgrade was convoluted and annoying. Why? Enshittification.

Meanwhile, other parts of the world seem intent on sucking. I keep reading news that Washington State, or perhaps New York, or some other ninnies out there are trying to get their nose into the 3d tent. They’ve been trying to regulate 3d printing since it was invented, as if every machine shop in every town can’t do the equivalent in metal. People who don’t own a drill press have opinions. They don’t like the peasants having 3d printers. Honestly they don’t like peasants having cars, hobbies, families, religion, or fun either. The current general idea is that a magic unicorn verification system will scan all print files lest a printer do crimethink. Sooner or later one of these nimrods will succeed in their unworkable bullshit. Of course they’ll also kneecap their own State’s industry but that never bothers a commie. To commies, failure isn’t just an option, it’s the goal. Look what they’ve done to education.

Putting aside concerns over civil liberties, it’s a huge foolish hassle. Running all files past a grand inquisitor which doesn’t yet exist and probably never will is just plain unworkable. Software will never truly be able to identify if my home designed combination flower pot and carburetor wash basin with add on sexual toy and D&D barbarian mini-fig is or is not crimethink. The ill defined limits of what the hopeless subject is allowed by his overlords is not a solvable geometry problem.

You can’t censor a tool’s ability to do stupid shit and still preserve it’s ability to do useful shit. People who use tools know this. People who can’t do real world things don’t care what they’re doing when they nuke their own societies capabilities. Sorry folks, you can’t auto-detect a CNC machine or a 3d Printer into harmlessness any more than you can detect an equation in a spreadsheet cell and decide its moral content.

None of this hypothetical regulation should affect me. I make simple things like sawhorses in a State that hasn’t (yet?) gone full retard. But Fusion 360 is hopelessly cloud based and some of their customers are in prison states… so then what. Surely there will be some sort of hoop jumping to determine who is and who isn’t within that state; even if it’s just to disallow export to 3d machines for beings of lesser rights. Who knows where it’ll go?

I don’t want to deal with it. The software is already making itself annoying. It’s not inconceivable a cloud based system will eventually bend over and let my designs get probed. If some dweeb in New York thinks my diy trekking pole handle looks like a trigger, I’ll have a whole different level of enshittification.

Time to adapt.

So here I am, downloading new and different software. All because Fusion 360 couldn’t keep it in its pants and neither can government. I predict more bullshit in the future so I might as well switch to local and Linux now. I don’t want to relearn new software but such is the invisible tax of enshittification.

Wish me luck finding something new to run locally on my computer without a Microsoft upgrade. I hope the learning curve isn’t so hard the second time.

A.C.

[This is part 2 of the story of Curmudgeon’s hike. If you’re too lazy to read part 1, the story began when the Curmudgeon got himself a pair of hiking poles and unleashed his presence on an urban park, a place far too civilized for a free thinker such as himself.]

Before he’d completely worn himself out but well after he’d already “overdone it” (many of the Curmudgeon’s exercise schemes alternated between “nothing” and “way too much”) the walking/bike path changed its nature. It dumped him into an upscale urban sector.

This was another alien world to the Curmudgeon. There were delicatessens, microbreweries, and various other businesses that used too many syllables in their name. The Curmudgeon patted his pocket to check his wallet. It was in place and unopened, and he intended to keep it that way. He was in danger! This was a zone where two beers and an appetizer would blow a week’s budget.

The many microbreweries were open for business, yet nobody was coming or going. In the heat of the midday, an oppressive miasma hung over the concrete courtyards. As the Curmudgeon traversed the burning expanses he caught glimpses of hipsters peering from the dark recesses of their air conditioned artificial caverns. Out in the blazing sun, the Curmudgeon hiked alone. He still heard blaring trumpets in his mind; “Gettin’ strong now, gonna’ fly now…”

The Curmudgeon’s idea of an ideal population density was somewhere around that of Death Valley. The dense urban core would’ve freaked him out except for the hot sun. Protected by the harsh conditions, he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.

Everyone, including the Curmudgeon, knows hipsters cannot bear direct sunlight. It’s an observable fact. Perhaps, as a variant of nerd, their pasty skin never spent enough time outside to acclimate to the environment? The Curmudgeon’s theory was that hipsters are undead; possibly turned that way by over-consumption of social media and expensive IPAs. Despite their position on a scale that included vampires and zombies, they weren’t particularly fearsome. Hipsters seemed about as masculine as a lace doily and they were probably vegan. If a hipster was a vampire, it would just be a sparkly Chad analog swooning over some forgettable girl. A being of immense power and dark knowledge? Impossible!

The Curmudgeon, still living the Rocky montage, wanted nothing to do with them. He presumed the feeling was mutual. The worst risk was that undead hipster traits might be communicable. He’d rather kill and eat one than endure a lecture about recycling only to find himself converted into “the lifestyle”. He shuddered pondering a fate worse than death; desperately fretting over student loans taken out for ill defined purposes, emoting over avocado toast, and putting “product” in his beard!

Alas, he was tempted. The microbreweries had excellent AC. He could feel cool breezes wafting through open doors. It was hot and he’d been moving at a fair clip for a long time. Maybe he needed a drink? The interiors looked so chill and shaded.

No! Don’t give in, climb that next stair!

Sighing, the Curmudgeon encountered actual stairs. He slowed to a walk. He began trudging up.

The trumpets from Rocky began to fade. A new sound emerged.

It was Chuck Mangione, playing Feels So Good. The siren of the hipsters sent sweet, dulcet notes floating toward the Curmudgeon’s cooked mind.

Chuck Mangione didn’t want you to punch a side of beef. He wanted to hand you a glass of sangria. He had air conditioning.

“Join us. It’s cool inside. The seats are padded.”

“Never!” Hissed the Curmudgeon.

“We have WiFi.”

The Curmudgeon began to slow.

On a landing between flights of stairs, he shrugged off his day pack. He slurped lukewarm water greedily. They had ice in there. He wanted ice! The brand new trekking poles slipped from his grip and clattered to the pavement. Stairs continued in two directions. He could go left or right but the only way out was up.

Maybe it was time for a break? He could afford a few drinks. It was so damn hot out. Chuck’s unhurried trumpet called from a microbrew on the left. “Take a load off…” the trumpet soothed.

To the right Maynard Ferguson stepped into the sun. He had seized Gonna Fly Now from Bill Conti! Expanding on the high energy source material he’d turned the dial to eleven. He was doing unnatural things to his trumpet and it responded with notes no trumpet expected to make. He bent the air around him; shattering Mangione’s relaxed vibe.

Maynard wasn’t just doing the Rocky montage, he was doing it hard! Maynard didn’t need to punch a side of beef, because when he blew a note the beef knew it was already pummeled.

The Curmudgeon was momentarily caught between two worlds.

The air conditioned brewery beckoned. Ease and rest and cold beer. “You can always be awesome tomorrow, today you can be just enough.” The hipster trumpet soothed.

The longer cement stairway with Maynard was the opposite. “Do it! Do it now! Get so awesome the antelope have a heart attack when they see you coming!”

The Curmudgeon blinked; sweat stinging his eyes.

“Climb the stair you lazy bitch!” Maynard’s trumpet shrieked.

This was it. The choice we all face. The way we are is the way we do the things we do. The Curmudgeon understood this.

The Curmudgeon scooped up his trekking poles. “Yeeeaaaarrrghhh!” He charged up the stairway; poles held high, aiming right at Maynard’s curly head of hair.

External to his inner thoughts, the Curmudgeon’s exhausted sweaty charge at imaginary soundtracks wasn’t quite so impressive. Within the brew pub, which had no music at all, a hipster looked up from his phone. What he saw worried him. “You think that dude out there is dehydrated?”

Another hipster glanced up from his phone, “Looks like he’s training for an antelope hunt.”

The first shuddered, “Ew.”

They both nodded and returned to doomscrolling.

Outside, the Curmudgeon had worked himself into a real life Rocky montage frenzy. He charged up yet another flight of concrete stairs. He found himself at a train trestle that had been converted to a walking path. He swung his mighty trekking poles at the wooden planks and double-timed across the river. From there he plunged back into the hipsteriffic maze.

Occasionally sighting the river to assure himself he was going toward rather than away from his truck, he blasted through the unknown. He skirted the perimeter of a playground, infested as it was with children, and still hearing trumpets, barged into a construction zone.

There was a chain link fence with a sign; “sidewalk closed”. It was less than concertina wire so the Curmudgeon squeezed himself through a gap in the fencing. Well aware everyone in the city could see him in a blocked off zone, he click clacked his trekking poles straight past heavy equipment, around survey stakes, and down a graded but not yet paved slope. At the end, another section of chain link was strapped to a waist high antique wrought iron railing.

Without pause, the trekking poles were flung over.

Curmudgeon vaulted the wrought iron; exactly like a man his age shouldn’t.

He landed well. He knew he would. The frenzy of Maynard’s trumpet gave him advantage on all athletics checks.

From there he click clacked around a bend and swished right past the other “sidewalk closed” sign. He could see his truck. He was home. The energy surge began to ebb. Bluetooth speakers playing bullshit began to once again penetrate the Curmudgeon’s mental armor.

A young man and his wife, awkwardly managing a toddler and a stroller, watched the Curmudgeon come around the corner from the forbidden zone. The man asked “Can we…”

“Nope.” The Curmudgeon cut the question short. “I did it, but I don’t recommend it.” He waved a pole at the stroller. “Won’t make it.” The Curmudgeon’s breath was coming in deep gasps… he’d be taking an Ibuprofen tonight.

The young dad smiled. “I get it.” His smile showed wisdom surprising in his youth. There’s a lot of things a young dad will soon learn he can no longer do and he seemed ready for it.

He made a little joke. “Gotta’ have trekking poles for the closed section right?”

The Curmudgeon nodded. “Yep, and trumpets.”

He was already halfway to the truck before he realized the trumpet comment would make no sense. He looked back but the young couple was already headed for the little walking bridge. They’d be fine.

Back in the truck, the AC was turned on max and a stashed bottle of cold water was immediately consumed. By the time the Curmudgeon was rolling out of the parking lot and past the Bluetooth speakers, he was already thinking of his next hike.

It was going to be a grand summer.

The Curmudgeon was too easily motivated. His doctor lit a fuse when he innocently mumbled something about “mild walking exercise”. The Curmudgeon ran with it. “Got it doc! Hike a million miles a week or die trying!” The befuddled doctor tried to backpedal. He stammered that “or die trying” was not a phrase spoken in medical facilities. It was pointless. The Curmudgeon was already out the door; a man with a new mission in life.

Weeks later and hundreds of miles away, the Curmudgeon’s truck ground to a halt. He was in a “big city”. He’d availed himself of commercial delights unavailable in his usual rural world. He’d purchased something he’d never seen in an actual store (or real life), had been too uncertain to buy online, and yet had been pondering for years; trekking poles. He’d wanted a set since, years ago, he’d seen an ultralight tent pitched with a pair on a YouTube video. He’d refused the expense until a doctor explained (in the Curmudgeon’s mind) that trekking poles were vital medical equipment.

He stepped out of the truck. Like a kid on Christmas, he stripped the packaging from his new toys. He hefted the poles. Pointy! You could spear a chipmunk with these things! He grabbed his day pack and, ignoring paved walking trails, set out in a straight line directly across the groomed grass of an inner city park.

He belonged in the park like a water buffalo fits belongs in a roller rink. It was a pretty river with steep rocky banks. It was flanked by hiking/biking trails on either side. Assorted rabble clustered around the parking lot near a charming walking bridge over the water. The only one carrying a pack, wielding trekking poles, or carrying water and “supplies” was the Curmudgeon.

The rabble was making noise; plenty of it. The Curmudgeon fumed that “cultural diversity” seems sparse on “cultural” and lacks in “diversity”. He’d give his left nut to hear Handel emitting from one of the many Bluetooth speakers blaring in the vicinity. Would Baroque kill ‘em? Or maybe Amalia Rodrigues singing in beautiful, yet incomprehensible, Portuguese? Why not an instrument or three to slice the air with a pentatonic or even a major scale? Heck, the Curmudgeon would even smile to see some theater kid role playing Diogenes of Sinope. Perhaps the august persona encountering a Big Mac and (being Diogenes) bitching about it? That would be unexpected and therefore diverse! But no, everyone was dressed the same and the music was uniform rhythmic yammering.

Swinging his trekking pooles like a Nordic skier he’d worked up a righteous head of steam only to encounter a sign that said “sidewalk closed”. Was it truly blocked? The Curmudgeon considered anything short of concertina wire to be “wide open for walking”. Then again, he was in a foreign environment. He’d promised himself he’d behave as a guest and avoid anything dramatic. He refrained from tossing the sign in the river, executed a pole assisted about face, and marched for the walking bridge.

On the other side, the blaring music faded in the distance. Electric bicycles of every shape and size zoomed silently by. None were being peddled because, as far as the Curmudgeon was concerned, electric bikes are just scooters without the efficient and cheap gas motors God intended. Meanwhile he was the only walker with trekking poles. He fretted that he stood out. Maybe trekking poles were only appropriate for athletic women wearing spandex? As a bearded geezer, the poles probably made him look pretentious. The nerve of him! He had an urge to kick his own ass.

Then he passed a section of slow moving water and saw his reflection. Instead of a paranoid beardo doofus poser, he saw a man striding like he was doing the Rocky montage. He didn’t look fake and gay, he looked like an aging but motivated persistence hunter working up to running a gazelle to the ground… an act which was absolutely on the Curmudgeon’s bucket list if not probable for him to actually attain.

It was hot and he was sweating more than anyone there (especially the breezy electric bike riders). A spandex clad pair, a man and woman (both built like a sports catalog) jogged by. They gave him a wide berth but didn’t look at him funny. Maybe he was fitting in!

His imagination fired, he began to hear the Rocky theme, Gonna Fly Now. A blaring trumpet section became counterpoint to the click click click of his poles. He strode harder. He was in the zone. He wished there was a side of beef to punch.

More in part 2.

I’m camping. It happens to be in a place that has “some” cell service. I borrowed a WiFi hotspot to see if I could blog from here. If you see this post the answer is technically “yes” but it’s moving like dial up from two decades ago. Oh well, I gave it a shot.

Mrs. Curmudgeon corrects me that I forgot the most America song ever. How did that happen?

Hank Williams Jr.: A Country Boy Can Survive: