Adaptive Curmudgeon

[This post is a smattering of topics. I like a well thought out thesis but today’s post is what it is.]

Topic 1: WordPress Is Fucking With Me

WordPress has followed the Microsoft format for software development: “People (or at least Curmudgeons) are using our software like a generic, uninteresting, useful, and reliable tool. It gets the job done and otherwise leaves them alone. It’s a hammer in world full of nails. It’s nothing but an appliance. This cannot stand. WE MUST UPGRADE!”

So, now WordPress is actively annoying. It fucks with your train of thought, interferes with mundane tasks, and generally gets in your face. It’s as if the most important thing about a blog is the software and not the content. Which, sadly, might reflect on society as a whole even if it seems foreign to me.

I shouted at WordPress “Fuckin’ leave me alone!” It responded: “No need to thank us. We’re here to help. We can’t wait to get into the business of censoring content and maybe branch out into self driving cars! In the meantime would you like New Coke and a talking paperclip?”

Ah well. These things happen. Software companies get bored and step on their own dick from time to time… it’s what they do. I’ll either get used to it or dump it. For the moment this blog post looks like it was typeset by a monkey on Adderall and I’ll let it stand as such.

Topic #2: Generic Whining:

I expected by now to be knee deep in crumpled drafts of squirrel stories; honing the final touches on my magnum opus. Alas, it’s not yet happening. You know what they say: If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

My plans aren’t yet coming to fruition. They will eventually. I’m treading water plenty fine and sometimes that’s good enough. Thanks for your patience with no-squirrels and light posting. 

Topic #3: PredictIt

I promised to keep y’all up to date so here goes:

I risked a pittance on the November elections and lost a pittance. I learned from that. Good! That’s what prediction markets are all about. (I’m less a gambler than an observational amateur economist… if such a thing exists.)

I’d already picked a few other markets to keep the game going. But I was loathe to throw more money into the maw. The idea here is to make money, not lose it. So I sold out a micro-pittance in another market to free up some “cash” for a more likely market. This came at a small (sub-atomic?) profit.

Ta da! My user icon or whatever the heck you call it clicked up from whatever it was to “Novice”. There was some modest graphical fanfare. Apparently there are social media style ranks to the user account? Who knew?

First of all I’m a bit insulted to see “nudging” so obvious. The idea with mass manipulation is to be subtle. But there you have it, the instant you make a profit on even one market you’re automatically raised a level.

Not that “Novice” is impressive but it’s mathematically incorrect. I expected so long as my losses outweigh my gains I’d be labeled (quite properly) “Loser”. But it looks like only wins count. You can keep throwing bets willy nilly until you luck out and make a win? Then bask in instant social networking stature? It probably matters in the forums I don’t read.

The next market of interest was “Next justice to leave the Supreme Court”. The unstoppable, unkillable, wildly popular and equally loathed Justice Ginsberg had fallen and broken some ribs. I sensed the press wouldn’t report the whole story even if she were decapitated by Godzilla. They’d report that she was jogging and wrestling alligators right until she unexpectedly takes a dirt nap last week.

I bought in, (at a pittance level of course). Alas the share price on “Ginsberg bails first” had already climbed and I locked in at the higher value. In case you’re wondering, the second banana in the “race to bail” is Clarence Thomas, the only other oldster in the same relative dimension as creaky Ginsberg. The rest are trading in very small values like a nickel or a few pennies on a “Pays $1 if they’re the one” market.

I have mixed feelings about this. Ginsberg is clearly very partisan. She will never leave the court under her own power. I theorize she overplayed her hand. She might have gracefully retired to hand the choice to fill her seat to Hillary (the anointed one). However, that didn’t happen (I pause to smile) and now she’s hell bent upon outlasting the Orange Menace. She’ll never retire for such mundane reasons as because she’s tired of working or wants to spend time with family.

From now until won 2020 or maybe 2024 the only thing that’ll get Ginsberg out of her job is the grim reaper. I’m mildly concerned I’m betting in a defacto dead pool. It’s unseemly.

As far as I can tell, the only risk that it’s not a dead pool is Clarence Thomas. He has a personality and seems to enjoy life (no sign of that from Ginsberg). Thomas doesn’t fear the Orange Menace so he won’t fret over his replacement should he retire. He might want to actually not work until he dies. I respect that. (There’s something extremely creepy about the Robert Byrd mentality of working to extreme old age death in a seat of power. It seems an earthly hell. Some sort of Faustian bargain for power. But what do I know? I’m just a blogger who never has nor ever wants power over anyone.)

At any rate, Thomas is trailing at around half the odds of “quitting” as Ginsberg. Whether the market is taking into account actuarial or personality traits is anyone’s guess.

I’m holding tight on Ginsberg. It’s unseemly to be in a dead pool but then again I’m a vicious profiteer at heart. Nobody lives forever and Ginsberg seems about as healthy as Hillary Clinton (they would’ve made an interesting pair). To her credit, the feisty Ginsberg has survived two different cancers and bounced back broken ribs like a champ. She’d probably enter the Olympic shot put if it would keep a strict constitutionalist out of “her” justice seat. But time stops for no-one. I wish her well but going toe to toe with mortality over politics sounds like a losing bet. Time will tell.

Another notable bet was on “Will OPM indicate government shut down at noon on December 10, 2018?” I bet “no” and then a few days later bought a few more shares of “no”. I rode it all the way to a $1 payout of “that shit didn’t happen”.

I was delighted! I have no special knowledge that anyone else lacks, but I read the tea leaves better. I cleared an after fees 44% profit! Nice!

This almost, but not quite, wipes out my losses from the election. Huzzah.

Keep in mind were talking pittances here. I just about earned enough to buy a six pack. But I’m also keeping “score” with real, after fees, percentages and not just throwing money into a nerdy Vegas slot machine. 

Also, for no apparent reason, I went from “Novice” to “Prognosticator”. This is irrelevant but it happened. You can shit in one hand and put a social media title in the other and see for yourself which weighs more. I thought I’d report it in the interst of completeness.

I have some micro micro sub compact bets that won’t play out until the end of calendar year. They’re not even large enough to buy a cup of coffee but I expect to win them both. I’ll report my failure or success then. 

(One last note: PredictIt servers have conked twice on me. Once during the elections and then again near 12/10. It’s possible that PredictIt is over its head in terms of IT. It’s also entirely possible that someone is playing games Clinton style. The damn thing freezes at a critical moment and then emerges on the other side? Really? Smells bad. If I had real money in PredictIt I’d wonder if I was subsidizing inside track day traders near the finish line. Then again it has no relevance to me; I bought at price $X and waited for it to go to $0 or $1 and it’s only tiny amounts. All the math has worked out for me properly. Just be warned if you’re taking this thing seriously that it’s shaky under load.)

… It’s a weird title but real life (as opposed to on-line) has me harried. I lack time to think of something better.

I’ve been meaning to put Eric Peter Autos on my links for a couple years. I finally got it done. Go there and waste half your day!

Eric Peters gets it!

If you read his site (and you should) you’ll find a fellow who’s got freedom’s interests at heart. Every year soul-less chickenshits continue draining the fun out of cars. We let it happen because we get so worn down. There are a thousand multiple fronts. It’s an endless 360 degree hassle of purse lipped nanny state dipshits pecking at the ankles of a dwindling core of red blooded freedom lovers.

We retreat to our particular interests but it’s all related. It can be about anything; Halloween costumes, incandescent lights, literature, posting on Facebook without getting banned (or fired), bump stocks, vaping, medicine, watching football without being lectured, or attending college without a walking human deflation bitching that you’re personally responsible for slavery in 1830, etc… It all boils down to our problematic insistence on doing what we want. We’re deplorably failing to worship each day’s particular flavor of moral superiority. It’s a lifetime’s push against the plain joy of being left alone. In that endless tug of war, fun cars get washed away in the tide. It’s good to hear a like minded voice. We need that.

Doubt me? Look at a parking lot. Any cars out there look like Americans are a wild and crazy bunch? Do the cars look like sex on wheels? Are there rustbuckets a zillion years old for the poor people and the broke teenagers? Is there a gold plated Rolls Royce out there? Do some of the cars look like six rednecks and a welder had too many beers? Any of them have huge tailfins? Are they painted gloss yellow metalflake? Racing stripes and flames? Nope.

Yes, there’s personality here and there but mostly what you’ll see is a lineup of newish, bone stock, grey-metallic jellybeans on wheels. SUVs and minivans that drive like a potato and have the individuality of a clone. They’re regulated by, built for, and purchased en mass by dull soccer moms careening between the painted lines while jabbering on their tracking devices phones.

Cars once had (and still should have) personality. Even shitty cars had flavor. If I drive around in a cheeseball shitbox from the past; folks will come unhinged with joy. An uncomfortable Model T, a difficult to manage 70’s muscle car, or a spartan old VW Beetle will make anyone smile. Will anyone in in 2080 preserve and enjoy a 2018 Chrysler Pacifica? Of course not, it’ll be trashed as soon as the Bluetooth link dies due to expensive software gremlins. Why? Because it was never anything but weak tea in the first place. Nobody wants and lusts for a Chrysler Pacifica. It’s what we’re locked into by CAFE standards and an increasing straitjacket of regulation. It’s just not enough. I’m a man who wishes to pilot a powerful machine with skill.

I drive machines. I don’t sit in appliances. I actually drive them. Commuters morph into catatonic asses half asleep in a safety cage, but I still hear Red Barchetta in my heart.

Improbable vehicles make me happy. My daily driver moves like an imperial starcruiser. A Prius looks like Alderaan to me. If you want a tiny hybrid that’s fine, but don’t regulate me into your wheeled cubicle. In fact, regulation and policy is why my diesel lust led to a beefy expensive Dodge instead of something older or smaller. I wanted diesel torque right as cash for clunkers raped the used market and California killed small diesels in their crib.

No regrets! I love that monster engine when it’s fully laden. The turbo whine, the exhaust brakes snorting like a furious bull, the remapped shift points on the transmission, it’s music. There are drawbacks. When it’s empty, it’s weird. So what? I’m weird too. When I bleed out the cash for six tires at a time (!) I shrug my shoulders and remind myself that nothing’s free, including freedom.

My other daily driver is a motorcycle. No air bags, no AC, no roof, no doors. If I fuck up, I die. Is that not a fair way to live? Most people can’t operate a motorcycle. They point the lever at “D” and hope the magic elves keep the traction control working. I ride among them like a hummingbird among rhinos. So far, I’m still in one piece.

So there you have it, if your flavor of freedom leans toward guns, or online posting, or eating steak in our vegan world… keep an eye out for kindred spirits. They might just be bitching about CAFE regulations and crappy dash layouts. Happy reading.

This seemed appropriate for events of the last several months:

Hat tip to Theo Spark.

There’s a reason the phrase “Fake News” resonates:

Hat tip to Powerline and Maggie’s Farm.

Some of my recent posts have been deliberately (obtusely?) vague. I face an inherent contradiction in blogging despite my desire for privacy. I straddle the fence and sometimes faceplant on it. Certainly I’m out of sync with the zeitgeist. I fret that mentioning that my truck is a Dodge and not a Ford is too personal; meanwhile the rest of the world broadcasts the particulars on social media every time they take a dump.

At any rate, lack of information may make my troubles seem more exotic than they are. I was reminded of an outtake from Sealab 2021 where bleeping out details made a funny story into an epic one.

…since some unplanned shit went down. At the time (give or take) I wrote Survivalism On The Small Scale. Speaking only in generalities (not all things are fodder for public rumination) I explained that “all hell has broken loose” and I was working on a “new normal”.

It has been a busy month. Time steamrolls the uncertain. I was certain. I bobbed and weaved. I did OK. So here I am, once again blathering with his OPSEC mandated fuzzy generalities and all I can say is “one can adapt to a lot but it takes effort”.

At some point my plate got full. I mentally drew up a list of shit to do and crossed many items off the top. This includes, to some extent, my blog. It has been partly ignored, and partly managed in half assed dribs and drabs. Meanwhile, real life extruded me through the Technicolor funhouse of harried transition. Perhaps all this is a complicated way of saying “light posting y’all”?

But it’s also something optimistic. “Hey cruel fate, I’m still here. I’m coming up for air, checking that all is well, and diving back under. Ya’ haven’t beaten me yet. Peace out bitch.”

Another iron withdrawn from the fire is awareness, at least about the national political stage. It fell prey to personal and far more urgent endeavors. For example, I know, vaguely, how the mid-term election went (and my PredictIt losses) but I know nothing of the inevitable end game of Calvinball and skeevy recounts. Last I knew, election night, the Stupid party had a solid lead in the Senate. With occasional and brief peering over the foxhole edge I know the Evil party is playing the same old multiple recount song and dance and the Stupid party is (as usual) completely inept at countering it. However, I don’t know if it amounted to anything. (The one thing that’s without question? I’d never buy a used car from a Floridian ballot counter!)

So… after the lawyers take their cut… who won? Has the dust settled? Was the margin of cheat exceeded? Is it still ongoing? I haven’t excess time or heart to find out. Plus, “win” is the wrong term if it’s a “win” of recounts. Can you imagine the inner shame of “winning” like that? What would it do to your soul? What Greek tragedy happens in the head of someone playing those sorts of games?

Deplorable or not, I have honor. As do most of us. Keep it safe. When all else is forgotten you’ll still remember your own behavior. And, so they say, you’ll have to account for it.

In other news, also blurred by OPSEC, I have faced and surmounted another personal challenge. (Unrelated to the aforementioned unplanned shitstorm.) As if I didn’t have enough to do! I’ve already written about the joy and beauty and risk and heartbreak of doing something very hard. I mentioned it twice this year I think? But what I didn’t mention was I had another planned challenge.It had a long brewing, inflexible deadline… and this time, the third time, I met it quite well. That’s all you can do really. Take on all you think you can handle, and perhaps a bit more. Then, if you’re very lucky, you’ll handle it well.

Whether you’re Odysseus or Walter Mitty, you’ve got a horizon and if you cross it, you must slice and dice yourself until you’ve fit the new space.

Title: “Odysseus has bigger problems than you” or “White male oppresses endangered fauna”.

Perhaps, ironically, the challenge is greater for the Mittys, for theirs is not the spirit of such things.

Title: “Proto-milennial seeks mental safe space” or “Danny Kaye has better hair than you.”

I’m no Milquetoast of course, but this marks the third of three arbitrarily scheduled moments where I’ve done something I found very hard. This time was the least of the three. For which I’m relieved and thankful. Fittingly (and brutally), this last round came in the middle of “all hell breaking loose”. Such is the nature of life; you don’t get to specify all the parameters. The starting gate is really just the ending gate of the prep time. You might have the best of intentions but God may have other plans for you. As apparently he did.

But I don’t mind. The good news is it didn’t kick my ass. Rather I rose to the occasion. Maybe that was God’s plan? If so I’m happy with it but have had enough fun. Curmudgeonly prayer: “Thanks… it was good. Though please hold off on any more character building sessions for a while?”

Now it comes to late November. It has been my plan, for the whole year, that this is a finish line. At this juncture I would sit on my ass and gulp great heaving breaths of relief as the brutal year 2018 winds to a halt. When I made this plan I didn’t know it was going to be a whole year long shitstorm but coasting a while in November /December is still my plan. That’s precisely what I am doing.

Thus, you get today a post, typed on a bitshovel, with thoughts that may be a bit garbled. It says in a thousand odd words “light posting y’all… be patient”. I’m pretty pleased with things so far but need to let the dust settle.

Fortunately, there was hunting. I have the smell of forest in my nose. Nice.

The year has been, if not pleasant, at least correct. It remains good. It is not over but it’s winding down.

“Hell breaking loose” will ease up with time. I see a reassuring light before me. A tantalizing end zone appears in the distance. When I get there I shall not dance. I won’t spike the ball. I’ll simply be happy.

I did what needed doing, to the level I could, for whatever good it did… and does. After a few strides to gather my wits and breathe deep, I will declare it done. I’ll have myself a steak dinner and take a nap. Fifty naps! And then sip some bourbon by the fire and take yet another nap! Eventually I’ll be myself again. I’ll write stories about squirrels. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is a good a goal as any.

Have a good Thanksgiving. Eat turkey and tolerate or embrace your relatives as needed. My true Thanksgiving will come a bit later. I’m not in charge of scheduling and chaos is going to take a few last bites before it spits me out.

In the meantime, I’ve put another log on the fire, it’s cold out.

This post offers absolutely no Black Friday deals. There are no coupons on this post. This post won’t spam your in-box with “hot deals”. There are no low cost financing options associated with this post. I’m not playing Christmas Carols on this post. There are no Hallmark movies playing on this post.

You’re welcome. Have a great day y’all.

[I’m nowhere near the Paradise Fire. I don’t have a dog in that fight. Nor do I want to get sucked into the endless politics of the Left Coast. I lived there for a while. I chose to leave. ‘Nuff said about that. I wanted to write this post because I heard about a politician changing their mind and I’m always supportive when people learn. I tried to write something nice about it. But in the end it’s not enough. If you change your mind but looked away from the underlying situation, you’re missing the point.]

I’d like to talk about this: Gov. Jerry Brown proposes easing logging rules to thin forests. It’s behind a paywall but fortunately (and with an obvious bias) it’s excerpted here: California Governor Jerry Brown Quietly Admits Donald Trump is Right – Proposed Easing Logging Regulations.

I’ll give you a simplified TL:DR version.

1. California is tightly regulated; the State plays a role in everything from soda straws to car mufflers. This includes regulatory control over forests; on private as well as State lands.
2. One way to reduce and/or mitigate forest fires is to manage forests before they’re loaded with excess biomass and before they are on fire. In California, regulations, whether intentionally or not, make it hard to do certain kinds of forest management which can and do reduce fire risk and severity.
3. The Paradise fire is unpleasant. It burned a lot of trees and houses. Air quality is low in surrounding areas. Fighting it is expensive and difficult. It may also have killed a shockingly large number of people (I have not verified that). (I especially hate to see deaths. In our supposedly technologically advanced era I’d rather nobody die in a forest fire.)

There you have it. I summed it up in three statements. All are TRUE. Verifiable, measurably, TRUE. It’s not merely spin or bias… TRUE. The only value judgement I allowed was my concern for lost human life & property.

Regardless of your politics, the human tragedy involved with this fire is heartbreaking. To his credit, Governor Brown is trying to learn from it. (Yes, you heard me correctly. I’m trying to give Governor Moonbeam, a man who’s decisions I thoroughly dislike, credit. He’s trying. It takes gumption to say “this is bad and I had a role it it.” We should be so lucky to have nothing but politicians who are capable of learning.)

Unfortunately, Governor Brown learned the wrong lesson:

“Gov. Jerry Brown is proposing broad new changes to California’s logging rules…”

In one way he’s on the right track. The changes might do some good. In fact I’ve got no problem with the proposal. But in another way he’s completely doomed. It has not occurred to him that there are things he (or the State) ought not do at all:

“Under Brown’s proposal, private landowners would be able to…”

And there you have it. Brown reserves for himself (or the State) the power to manage private landowners. They’re pawns on his chessboard, one interest group among many, a variable in a calculation that happens far from the owner’s backyard.

These citizens are to be managed by Governor Brown, even as tragedy is unfolding. Smoke is still in the air. There are dead bodies that searchers still haven’t found. Burned out homeowners are making due in hotels and relative’s basements. And the Governor has (bravely!) acknowledged his decision-making plays some role in this situation.

So what has he learned. Was it “I suck at this?” Was it “let’s get out of the business of arguing about trees?” Nope. His current decisions left a smoking ruin (literally) so he’ll just have to keep making choices on behalf of private landowners but maybe with a slightly looser leash. Those citizens will be allowed to do more things, or different things, or this thing or that thing… with their ostensibly personal property. But inherently they must remain within the sandbox he (or the State) defines for them. Even as dead bodies are collected from ash coated hillsides, the legislature must be the ultimate decider. A collective group two hundred miles away knows more than the man who’s standing right next to the tree.

• Reams of rules led to this bad situation.
• So the solution is more rules, or better rules, or tweaked rules. The bad rules will be replaced by better rules that will be written on paper in an office in Sacramento and these rules will be somehow imbued with greater wisdom. These better rules, like the ones before them will apply in great swaths from the deserts of Barstow to a fog bank in Eureka. The new arbitrary limits (36″ diameter) will be perfect! Completely unlike the older arbitrary limits (26″ diameter).
• Controlling people with this new and improved set of written documents means everything will be different next time.

I humbly submit that vast hordes of people in suits in Sacramento can’t make perfect decisions for every tree in California. Even if they’re really nice people. Even if they care deeply. No matter how hard they try, they’ll be making blanket statements that fit average conditions for large groups. They will balance the interests of bird watchers and lobbyists and tourists and everyone else who’s got time to join in the political fray. By definition they’ll come to different conclusions than someone who’s house (or family) just burned.

Such is the intractable conundrum of control. Once you control others, you make decisions that are contrary to their individual desires. Governor Brown (or any human) can’t bridge the gap. I wish him luck, but no man can live for the other. California has things like climate and soil that can lead to wonderful forests, but the people and their forests remain a gamepiece in a political scrum.

It was a cold winter evening. The next morning’s arrangements were well in hand so I poured a glass of bourbon, stoked the woodstove, and retired to a comfy chair. Despite general opposition to TV, I was in a mood to take it easy. A brief respite from the worries of the world and then I’d turn in early. After all, I had to be up before dawn tomorrow and pre-dawn is never my happy place. I waved the remote at my Roku and…

Bang!

The front door burst open and a surly, lanky, booted, young man entered. With galactic arrogance he stomped through the living room. Ignoring me, he idly pet my dog; which normally would eviscerate any being entering the house in such a manner. My dog beamed.

A light dawned in my head. “Billy?”

“Good guess, genius.” He oozed a combination of competence, disdain, and reckless vitality.

A younger, bookish, fellow entered the room. He seemed uncomfortable with Billy’s theatrical entrance but acted like home invasion was otherwise unremarkable. His eyes hinted at tremendous intelligence.

Billy slumped in a chair and sniffed my bourbon. “Drinking alone? Not a good sign Curmudgeon.”

“Not to mention three way conversations with fictional characters.” His compatriot added.

“Doogie?” I sputtered.

“Honestly, you couldn’t come up with a better name? Was Eggbert taken?” He smiled. Then he arched an eyebrow at Billy. “If anyone in the room is a genius, it’s me.”

“Granted.” Billy acknowledged.

The lights flickered, then went out. Billy sat contentedly; petting my dog in the gloom of the woodstove. He was completely at home in the dark. Doogie leered happily.

Gradually, I deduced the source of the power interruption. “You brought the squirrels? You assholes! They probably got in the power main. I’ll have to clean electrocuted squirrel guts out of the breakers.”

“Correction, fictional electrocuted squirrels.” Doogie added unhelpfully. “However,” He continued, “they’re pretty good at such things. I’m sure they’ve got it well in hand.”

The lights came back on.

“I see your generator is in good repair.” Billy nodded in approval.

“My generator is not electric start.” I glowered.

“No worries,” Doogie continued, lecturing the two of us, “they killed grid power just long enough to reset the WiFi router.”

“What?”

“You’re their bitch now.” Billy laughed. “Squirrels, clever little bastards.” He elaborated. “Takes all I can do to keep ’em out of the Subaru’s engine compartment.”

“So, to the nature of our contact here…” Doogie prompted.

“Oh yes,” Billy eyed me like a hungry man addressing a steak. “We’ve had some… complaints. A few folks from Patreon, readers who’ve donated, more who haven’t…” He was all business now. “You really screwed the pooch dude.”

“I what?”

“You left the story in mid-conflict.” Doogie interpreted.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Roku was rebooting. The location was now set on Uzbekistan and the “watch list” had been replaced by a combination of My Little Pony and roller derby.

“Squirrels, they’ll get under your skin. Just remember, you started it.” Billy was enjoying my distress. “They’re in it as much as we are. So, we agreed to come here as a team; to eliminate distractions.”

“So you can get back to work.” Doogie explained.

On the table at my side, my trusty Kindle was rebooting. A vast library of e-books, my planned reading for the winter, was probably gone. “They’re fast.” I admitted.

“Wait till you see what they’re doing to your checking account.” Doogie added.

“You won’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of!” Billy beamed. “Nothing to do but eat from your pantry stores and write. It’s all about focus.”

Jesus! They were playing for keeps.

“Look fellas,” I held my hands up in supplication. “I’ve been busy. Work, family, real life… You know how it is.”

“Meh,” Billy was unmoved, “your plot involved me getting pummeled by a transvestite MMA fighter. Cry me a river.”

“You postulated I was unable to shake off mind control. I beg to differ!” Doogie complained.

Yikes! I should be more careful about the tortures I inflict on my creations.

“But I have plans.” I begged. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“Stuff it, Curmudgeon. We’re staying here until the story’s done.”

That was as much monologuing as Billy could stand. He chuckled and raised the stakes. He dug a walkie talkie from his pocket. “Terry and Mary, after you lock up Curmudgeon’s money, start vaporizing data.” He was enjoying himself! “Then, if he hasn’t set the word processor on fire with brilliance by noon tomorrow, dox his ass on social media.” He paused and then had an afterthought. “Bart, beer me!”

There was a crashing sound in the kitchen. The fading but still visceral scent of skunksplosion drifted through the room. I gagged.

“You get used to it.” Doogie shrugged.

There was another crash in the kitchen. “Bears suck at opening refrigerators. You’ll probably have to buy a new one.” Billy explained.

“But, I’m going hunting…” I almost sobbed. For a redneck, big game season is both a religious pilgrimage and a moral obligation. Only monsters would deny me my hunt!

“Hm.” Doogie wandered around the room. “Box of ammo, clothes carefully hung where they won’t pick up household scents, boots at the ready…” He picked through my daypack. It was stuffed with mittens, a compass, a knife, a water bottle, and trail mix. “That’s certainly suggestive.” He kept searching. “This is conclusive.” He declared, when he found my alarm clock. He handed Billy my battery operated travel alarm clock. It was set to 4:30 am.

“It checks out.” Billy agreed. Billy knew enough of his creator to understand the only reasons I’ll see 4:30 AM involve the tail end of a night’s drinking or a pre-dawn trek to desirable hunting grounds.

“I’m conflicted.” Billy pondered aloud. “Hunting is a legitimate manly endeavor…”

“But is it sufficient to offset the shame of watching television?” Doogie finished his sentence.

“While we’re stuck in limbo?” Billy weighed options.

“Look guys, when I get back I’ll start again.”

“Fine.” Billy relented.

“No! I demand recompense!” Doogie surprised us both with his vehemence.

I sighed. Even my supposedly milquetoast characters were treacherous.

“In act three some stuff happens that you’ll enjoy.” I offered.

“Details?” Doogie’s eyes widened like a kid anticipating Christmas.

“Hippie tears! You don’t get to hunt unless I get hippie tears in the plotline.” Billy had smelled a negotiation and was going to get in on the action!

Meanwhile the unseen squirrels had cued up Dancing with the Stars and it was playing on mute. The little jerks! I’d probably have to burn the TV. I glanced around but couldn’t find them.

There was another crash from my kitchen. Bert had probably found the steaks I was defrosting.

Enough! Time to strike a deal.

“No advanced information for Doogie!” I insisted. “It’s merely an opportunity. Blow it and you’re no better off than before. So pay attention.”

“But…” Doogie sputtered.

“No! Foreknowledge will ruin your chances. Do not insert the Grandfather Paradox of foreknowledge into what I have planned.” I was adamant and Doogie was mollified.

“As for you, Billy,” I reasoned, “obviously you’re going to get your way. I can’t imagine any story arc or fictional universe that doesn’t have a heaping dose of good old fashioned hippie tears. Who could?”

The two men looked at each other. I had them! Billy’s desire for hippie tears was unquenchable and Doogie could no more ignore the intellectual challenge of an unknowable future than a bird could stop flying.

They nodded.

“Well played.” Doogie menaced.

“Nice dog.” Billy shrugged. Then he keyed the walkie talkie again. “Abort operation ‘mess with the author’. Repeat, abort.” He spied my bottle of bourbon and grabbed it. “I’m taking this.”

With a final pat to my dog’s head (some guard dog!), he strode out like a conqueror. Doogie followed, equally pleased if less obvious about it.

I’d bargained enough time for a big game hunt but it came at a price. I’d lost my second to last bottle of good bourbon, my kitchen was trashed, and the OS of every device in the house was corrupted. I’ve no doubt Doogie and Billy are monitoring my blog. They’ve got me over a barrel.

The snow is starting to gather and winter draws nigh. ‘Tis the season of fiction. I’ll start writing Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels again in the next few weeks.