Adaptive Curmudgeon

So, you’re curling and you’ve just thrown a stone. What do you do now? You’re probably already face down on the ice so, if you’ve got a modicum of dignity, you scramble into a couching position. Then watch your newly launched interplanetary ice probe slip slightly out of the planned trajectory and either stop too soon or too late. You can shout to your teammates “HARD HARD HARD” which is supposed to encourage them to sweep in front of the stone and make it go further. This would be useful if you could judge the difference between a stone thrown too lightly and one thrown too hard. This difference seems like 0.00001 grams force.

Your teammates, who have no idea what’s going on either, can sweep in front of the stone to make it go further, possibly because you’re screaming “HARD HARD HARD” like a maniac at a Metallica concert. Or they can leave the ice unswept so the stone stops shorter. Surprisingly, sweeping does have an effect (though a miniscule one). A 40-pound stone in motion on a nearly frictionless ice is only in a nearly frictionless state and the broom makes it even more nearly frictionless. Either that or it’s magic.

In the case of us noobs, we mostly stared at each incoming stone with wonder while it did whatever the hell it was going to do. The fact that people with one foot in a “slider” can (if they know how) skitter along swiping the ice in front of a huge rock tells you what you need to know about speed but don’t forget the invisible story of momentum. The stones, which move so slow and majestic, probably could break your ankle if you let them hit you. This would be pathetic because you’d have been hammered by something that moves slower than a riding lawnmower. For us noobs, it was a very real possibility. Half the time I was cringing, wondering what would happen if one of us faceplanted just in time to take a 40-pound rock to the head.

Invented. By. Drunk. Scotsmen.

Speaking of “drunk”, after each “throw” of the rock, I’d shuffle off the ice to get another drink. This is the best part of the game.

There is scoring, teamwork, strategy, and precision. Or there would be if we could control the stones like real players. Our guide would wind up and launch (“throw”) a stone so beautifully you could hear angels smile. The stone would swish down the sheet, gently shove every other stone out of the way, edge slightly to one side or the other as planned, and suddenly stop within five microns of the target’s center. It was glorious.

Then, it would be my turn. I’d stagger up, launch the infernal rock like a hopeless awkward dipshit, drag my bearded face across the ice, and either fret over a limp underpowered failure that left it dead halfway down the lane or cringe because I’d overcompensated and rocketed the stone past the target like a runaway freight train. Overshots not only zoom past the back line but they crash into the wood bumpers loudly; informing everyone in earshot how much you suck. Undershots are almost more pathetic. They just sit there waiting for people to notice your ineptitude.

I looked like a chimp on crack, but was having fun. We “threw” the “stones” back and forth on the “sheet” and occasionally put a stone on the target. Stones on target scored following rules that had absolutely nothing to do with the right and proper way; which is firearms target shooting of course. In case you’re wondering, Canadians will look at you weird if you “throw a stone so it lands on the button” and shout in delight “right on the ten ring, next throw is a double tap!”

Each “end” required me and my opponent to do six or eight “throws” where us noobs stretched our body like taffy. Then we’d waddle about with brooms as the stones came back in stately, rotating, chaos. Then I’d top off from the flask for a bit of liquid muscle relaxant and play another “end”. Lather, rinse, repeat.

At some point I had to admit the slow beautiful orbit like stone throwing was wearing my ass out. I’m constitutionally incapable of being the first guy to quit… anything… so I steeled myself to tough it out. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one. Someone somewhere declared we’d had enough. Soon the game was over. I glanced at the simple, yet completely alien, scoreboard, had no idea who’d won, took a sip of beer, and decided I didn’t care. I happily removed the fiendish boot condom and made my way back to the bar.

More beer was consumed and I grazed on the potluck detritus. Someone had a tiny speaker bluetoothed to an iDevice and I tolerated the inevitable urban shit music. Some forgettable helium voiced widget sang while electronics tried to cover up her lack of talent. Folks (especially the younger set) seem to like that shit. Soon there was dancing. That’s my cue to slip out the back door. I’m perfectly happy with other people dancing but want nothing to do with it myself. Plus, I was out of beer.

You know you’ve had a great night when your whole-body aches from head to toe, you’re buzzed, and you’ve just slipped out the back door.

I highly recommend curling as the sport of Gods.

A.C.

P.S. Epilogue, for the nanny state nincompoops out there, I didn’t hit the road in that condition. I retrieved my bucket of beer and a toothbrush from my Dodge and then set out on foot. I walked through what seemed like a mile of snowdrifts to the nearby restaurant. There was a confusing discussion where I tried to order “metric” poutine (which made sense at the time but doesn’t now). From my booth I made a few phone calls (God knows how much I paid for them!). I cancelled my existing hotel reservation (“because I’m shitfaced in a place that isn’t Perkins”) and made a different reservation at a hotel I could see across the street (“I’m across the street in the not-Perkins”). I lived and the truck was happy to sit there all night. See? I’m all about safety.

The thing about curling is that it was invented by archaic drunk Scotsmen. There is no other explanation. Go back in time and imagine the kind of man who spent all summer whacking a testicle sized rock around a sheep pasture until it fell into a gopher hole. Imagine the sort of nut who would take the gopher hole game super-seriously until he’d molded it into a religion called golf. Next pickle his cerebrum. Keep him cooped up during a long cold winter. Give him scotch and bagpipes and nothing else to do. Eventually he’ll have cabin fever and wind up staggering around a lake playing oversized shuffleboard with a stone he swiped from the nearest sheep fence. That is curling.

I don’t care what the history books say, if you play the game, you know I’m right.

Other than the basics, I knew little about curling. Soon I was certain that it’s the best sport in the history of time. Why? Because there was a row of coat hangers at the sheets and above each coat hook was a cupholder for your drink. Designated beer holders?!? God damn I love curling!

Things took a downturn when I was handed a “broom” that looks nothing like a broom (more like a lame squeegee). I barely had time to grok the broom when I had to slip a ridiculous boot condom over my left boot’s treads. I did not like the boot condom.

The idea here is that your left foot now has absolutely zero traction while your right foot is still a regular Vibram soled boot (which is still slippery on ice mind you). When I say “zero traction” I mean it. You may think an ice skate has zero traction but that’s not true at all. An ice skate has an epic cutting edge. You can use that to control your motion. The shoe thing gave me no control whatsoever. Not forward, not backward, not lateral… totally fuckin’ useless.

There is no situation in life where asymmetric shoes are a good idea. I went down like a sack of potatoes and everyone was laughing. Only then did the second person step on the ice and they too went ass over teacup. Who’s laughing now? Then two more fell. Our host was desperately trying to instruct us on the fine art of keeping upright in the strange universe of asymmetrical ice shoes but we were too stupid to figure it out. None but our guide knew anything about anything and I wondered if he felt like the Napoleon women herding half sentient tadpoles around the hockey rink. Poor bastard.

I pulled my ass off the ice, hobbled to my drink for some liquid courage, stepped back on the ice, and balanced uneasily. Ballsy! One thing I’m sure of; asymmetric shoes are a unique experience and a great way to break a limb. (Wikipedia tells me the two shoes with different functions are called a “glider” and a “gripper”. This is totally unhelpful, but now you know it too.)

Invented. By. Drunk. Scotsmen.

Each lane (“sheet”) had a dozen or more “stones”. These Godzilla sized urinal cakes are made of granite. They’re color coded and numbered (I think the pros get to know each stone’s personality). They have a handy handle on the top but think carefully before you pick one up. I hefted one and promptly fell on my ass again. They’re heavy! Think bowling balls are heavy? Not a chance! Remember the drunk Scotsman theory? Double the weight of a mere bowling ball and you’re in the ballpark. I think I was noodling around with 40 pounds of granite… in asymmetric shoes…. on ice.

The huge mass impressed me. It’s pretty cool. They moved with mathematical precision. It was gorgeous to watch. 40 pounds of granite slides down the ice with arrogant amounts of momentum and you can sense Newtonian physics writ large. It felt less like pushing game pieces and more like establishing planetary trajectories. If bowling is rolling a cannonball, curling is shoving an asteroid into the void until it just kisses the edge of a gravity well.

Well that’s my description. YMMV.

Gorgeous motions don’t come easy. My stones didn’t go where I wanted. Ha! That’s an inadvertent pun but it is totally apropos!

It’s not just strength. It’s balance, coordination, and flexibility. You need the skills of a Cirque du Soleil gymnast to make ‘em go. I’m as flexible as a steel pipe. I was definitely out of my element.

How to throw a curling stone as explained by the Curmudgeon:

Here’s how you do it. You crouch against foot pegs (like the beginning of a running event). I think they’re called “hacks” but I called then “launchpads”. You’ve only got one foot against that solid launchpad. The other foot is a glider that’s moving all over the ice and is totally fucking useless.

In order to keep from falling over, you wedge the broom under your armpit and brace it against the ice. This doesn’t help a bit because you can’t easily grip a broomhandle with your armpit. Also, it’s braced against ice. Who came up with the idea of bracing against ice? The Three Stooges?

I’ll say this for it; when done right it looks very cool. I did not look cool.

You kick off the launchpad fairly hard and stretch out like a jaguar going for a kill. Except that you do it in slow motion; a mystic space jaguar on Quaaludes perhaps. The one leg that has launched has functioned like a pogo stick and is now bereft of kinetic energy. It drags behind you like a tailpipe that just fell off a Ford. Meanwhile the other leg is functioning as a monopod on a frictionless surface. The equivalent of a greased unicycle. With one leg splayed out and one twisted into a pretzel; pogo stick to the right and unicycle to the left… you’re already sliding madly forward. One hand is lightly resting on a stone that’s twice the weight of a bowling ball. The other is gripping a broom that is doing to no good whatsoever because it’s braced against fucking ice.

While you’ve got your whole body in motion (and spread across what feels like ten feet) you continue to slide on the foot with absolutely no traction (or lateral control), adjust the stone’s motion with the kind of precision NASA uses to put a probe on Mars, gently rotate the stone to impart spin, continue to balance with the broom, and then let go. The stone drifts away, almost frictionless and silent. Away it goes in glorious stately beauty.

Meanwhile, you’ve stretched so far that your nutsack is in Sacramento while your left shoulder is in Seattle. Then you faceplant on the ice like a turtle dropped from an airplane.

Did I take a few aspirin after this adventure? You’re damn straight I did. I needed it too, it was a week before I could walk without going in circles.

After action report follows in the upcoming last post…

It turns out there was a single building with two sides. Like America, the Canadian rink was evenly divided between disparate social populations; in this case, hockey and curling. Two sides of the same icy coin, they should get along harmoniously; but I detected a bit of friction. Must we always “other” the… um…. other? Either that or I just look like a homeless dipshit and read too much into it when I triggered the platoon of psycho-moms.

Despite playing hockey as a kid I’m not enthused about hockey rinks. I have happy memories of skating with friends on frozen beaver ponds. (It’s a miracle nobody drowned, froze, or put an eye out.) Being herded about by groups of helicopter moms is entirely unlike my fuzzy memories of Normal Rockwell style wintertime fun. I was a little bit shaken. I’d smelled a whiff of the universe that will non-ironically say such bullshit as “permanent record” and “extracurriculars will help you get into a good college”. Ugh! A flashback to the tortures of youth!

Luckily, now I was at the curling rink and my stress vanished. It looked, felt, and smelled like a tavern; because that’s exactly what it was. Not the kind of blaring “sportsbar” where dudebros shriek at football games on LCD screens. Not the kind of fern bar where everybody knows your name. But rather the far superior kind of bar where nobody gives a shit about your name and they let you drink in peace.

I soaked in the joy. Thick soft, well-worn carpet, no televisions blaring propaganda or sportsball, dim lights, a half dozen cheap beer lights, and small tables surrounded by comfy seats. Some tables were stocked with decks of cards and cribbage boards. There was a popcorn maker in one corner. Heaven.

One wall was mostly glass windows where you could look out and down at a row of Curling lanes. (I think they’re called “sheets”. Each lane is about the dimensions of a generous pistol lane.) There was a row of barstools near the window. You could sit here and drink in the warmth while heckling your teammates!

I fell in love. Beer taps, comfy chairs, and none of the clucking women from the hockey arena. The perfect man hangout. It was the kind of place that makes me want to throw a sleeping bag in the corner and hibernate all winter.

It was also abandoned. I wandered around a bit and discovered the taps were off. (Don’t judge me! You’d have checked too!) Out on the sheets someone was working a contraption I presume to be a pint sized, walk behind Zamboni. Turned out he was preparing the ice for our arrival. How cool is that?

My friend showed up just as I was settling into a particularly overstuffed chair. I think he’s a bigwig in the curling world, or at least at that curling club, or at least I didn’t have to pay to use the facilities… any one of which makes him a rock star as far as I’m concerned. He explained that more people were soon to arrive. The taps weren’t open but the soda fountains were, so I poured myself a coke and topped it off with a little something from my hip flask. Meanwhile the rest of the gang arrived and a potluck materialized. I tossed a bag of chips in their midst and chowed down on their far more delicious contributions. Someone showed up to open the taps and run the bar. (Liquor laws I guess?) I bought a pitcher or three of shitty beer. Several others did too. Fed, beered, and feeling groovy I was like “I love this sport!” Then it was time to play. I slurped up the last of the beer and (still carrying a cup of mostly hip flask contents with a splash of coke) made my way to the “sheets”.

The game begins…

I wound up at a steel industrial building squeezed between the ass end of what looked like a Perkins and a snowmobile repair shop. Inexplicably, I’d arrived earlier than the rendezvous time. The front of the lot was full so I tucked my truck into a far corner. Nobody noticed me. I was in the mood to drink so I sat in my idling truck sipping beer that had been chilled in a snow filled bucket. (See what I mean about the value of a good bucket?) Soon I had my seat reclined, my feet on the dash, and I was reading an old copy of Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. (Every properly equipped truck has a copy of a good book shoved in the tool box.)

Cold beer, a quiet place to sit, and Mark Twain; it’s as pleasant as vacation as any.

It might have been a stressful week (month? Year?) because the beer went down great. When 4:00 rolled around I strode toward the building and discovered I was a bit more tuned up than I’d planned. No matter. I was a man out to relax, surely no faux pas would ensue.

Wrong! Just inside the door I stumbled smack dab into a gaggle of clucking hockey moms. Jesus, what an uptight bunch! They were barking orders at their progeny like feminine Napoleons. The kids were a confused muddle, had not the slightest clue what the hell was going on, and were getting marched back and forth like toy soldiers. Poor bastards! The helpless tykes were each staggering beneath 40 pounds of fancy overpriced hockey gear. What fresh hell is this? I make fun of degenerate Detroit teenagers buying $200 sneakers but here was the flip side of the coin. Kids barely mature enough to pee on a tree stump were outfitted with top dollar, name brand, shit. How much did that cost?

The Nike / NHL intersection indicates that generic stupidity crosses all social lines. Well not me of course, I played pond hockey with jeans and work gloves. I somehow made it to adulthood without a jersey stenciled with some other dude’s name on the back. I prefer to generate my own unique forms of stupid; which doesn’t require buying expensive clothes. Here’s a hint, if your kid is nine don’t drop several hundred bucks outfitting him like a mini-me version of Gretzky; use your money to pay the fuckin’ light bill and tell the kid to play in the dirt with a stick.

The ladies glared at me like I was an abomination. Apparently, men are welcome at the suburban micro-grasshopper’s hockey league like they’re welcome at the elementary school PTA, which is to say “get the hell out of here you damn hairy ape”.

I was just as terrified as the poor kids; a deer in disapproving headlights. Finally, I had the presence of mind to croak “Curling?”

This did wonders. The ladies seemed relieved I had nothing to do with hockey or their precious swarm of half sentient minnows. Moving in unison (almost bovine like), they pointed toward a shabby metal door as if to say “your kind belongs over there… among the drunks and reprobates”. I was happy to leave. Uptight women herding three dozen overequipped, chest high, elf droppings named Hunter and Chad was too much. I fled though the door before they could start using me as a teaching moment. “If you don’t eat your vegetables you’ll wind up like the bad man.”

Part 3 is on deck…

[Note: I missed the period of time when everyone blogs about Christmas (or New Year’s Day) so I decided to tell a story that’s totally unrelated. Details have been omitted for OPSEC.]

I was in Canucistan hanging out with America’s Hat among our good friends to the north. I’d finished what I was doing but was dreading the long drive home. Also, the pre-Christmas commercial orgy of consumption was in full swing. If I got home too early, I’d get mired in it.

On a whim I pulled into a hotel, booked a room for the night, and made ad hok plans. I’d spend the afternoon ice fishing!

Lucky for me, Mrs. Curmudgeon is awesome. She’s chill about Christmas presents (including the fact that I purchase them randomly; as if I don’t own a calendar or know the significance of December). More importantly, she’s totally understanding if disappear an extra day into the forest (or in this case, a lake). If I spend an occasional unscheduled day freezing my balls off on a Canadian lake that’s just how I am. She long ago gave up on civilizing me and that makes me a lucky guy!

Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned ahead. My regular fishing tackle (always stashed in my truck) is useless after the freeze. My solution was to buy new gear at a Canadian Tire. (For those of you who don’t hang out in the land of sleds and poutine, Canadian Tire is like Wal-Mart but with a lower component of useless pussy shit from China. Unavoidably, it is stocked cheap Chinese shit. The difference is that the selection leans a bit more towards objects more suitable for men.)

In theory, ice fishing is inexpensive. The poles are short compared to a usual freshwater lake pole and that apparently makes them cheaper. Reels, line, and tackle are all scaled down too. Not free but inexpensive compared to a rod/reel combo appropriate for June. I selected a rod, reel, ice line, some tackle, a bucket (the bucket is key!), and beer. I doubled my beer allotment thinking I’d find some fishermen out there and coax them into drilling me some iceholes in exchange for a few Molsons. Any activity where I get to say “iceholes” non-ironically is a good one! (Augers are a big-ticket item and I resent that. I should be able to buy a chainsaw powerhead adapter! But so far, no luck.) At a nearby gas station I’d pick up a fishing license, minnows, and maybe a bottle of whiskey. It was a solid plan.

My phone rang and (as often happens) my plans were rearranged.

“Shit! I left this thing on? It’s probably costing me six bucks a minute. Who the hell are you?”

“Ah Curmudgeon, always the same. Other people answer phones with ‘hello’ but not you.”

“This is probably being billed as an international call. Speak fast.”

“OK. Are you heading out or staying overnight?”

“Staying.”

“Got a plan?”

“I’m going to sit on a bucket and freeze my balls off while drinking alone.” (I thought this was a funny way to say “ice fishing” but it didn’t slow him down a bit.)

“The pike bite blows. Don’t bother.”

“Also, I’m avoiding shopping.” (As I said this, I realized I was pushing a cart full of consumer shit through a Canadian Tire.)

“Standby. I’ve got a better idea.”

The phone went dead.

The call was just under a minute. Short declarative sentences. Manspeak. I like conversations like that.

Two minutes later I got a text; short and all caps:

[CURLING AT 1600. ADDRESS = X]

I glanced at my watch. I’d have to hurry. I tossed all of the ice fishing crap out of my cart but kept the bucket. (A good bucket is always a wise investment!) I also kept the beer.

As I jogged toward the checkout, another text arrived:

[BEER]

I smiled. Like I’d forget. I replied:

[CAN CONFIRM]

Another text:

[POTLUCK]

I grabbed a largish bag of chips and hurled it in my cart. It was sufficient. I’m staying in hotels, nobody expects me to bake a cake.

Then I turned off the phone. I hate cell phones and especially cell phone bills. Using an American cell phone in Canada is a billing crap shoot… or at least that’s how I justify being standoffish. (Mostly I just like to turn off my phone whenever possible.)

More to come…

I haven’t been literally off grid but I’ve been pretty unconnected. This leads to strange moments of re-calibration as I reintegrate into the steaming heap of bullshit that’s modern “news”. So much has happened and so little has mattered:

First came the aborted, wasn’t going to happen, easy to call December 10th government shutdown. I bet NO and did well on that one (low money but high ROI).

The sequel, “Pissing Match Mark II”, was another matter. I couldn’t make heads nor tails of it.

Originally I leaned NO but didn’t buy in. Pelosi and Schumer tried to threaten the Trumpomatic (which is probably never a good idea). “Hey, lets go find the craziest motherfucker in DC and challenge him to a game of chicken”. Trump was like “This! Is! SPARTA!” and we all had a good laugh. I thought “it’s over, Dems know Trump’s willing to turn the dial to eleven so they’ll wisely fold.”

Then Congress went home to do nothing locally instead of doing nothing centrally. I was still thinking “not gonna’ happen” but by then the market was all over the place. I kept my beer money in my pocket.

Then, Trump was like “OK fine, I’ll pussy out on the wall”. I heard this while driving and about ran my truck into a bridge abutment. It seemed amazingly out of character. I didn’t see it coming. I thought for sure Trump wasn’t bluffing but he went (as Mrs. Thatcher would’ve said) “wobbly”.

Within the hour I had new PredictIt plans. Forget lame ass budget shenanigans and go large. Trump was destined to be a one term wonder and this was the moment that sealed the deal. “Welcome to the Carter / Bush Sr. club ya’ chickenshit!” No wall, no re-election. End of story.

Alas I was busy and didn’t have time to set up my laptop in a Starbucks to sell my meager shares of Orange Man and Stupid Party in the markets for “2020 Stupid Party Nominee” and “Which Party wins presidency in 2020” respectively.

I checked out for a few days and forgot all about it. Seemingly the Evil Party was busy overplaying its hand. Soon the situation had reversed and Trump had a spine again. I was totally baffled. It boils down to one of two options.

Option A is that Trump really was about to pansy out. Perhaps Melainia was stroking his nutsack so well he lost his usual almost supernatural sense of the zeitgeist. In a fit of dumbassery he ran an elephant over the thin ice of pissing off the 40% of the populace that supports him. (Wimping on the wall means he’s dead to them.) Then, at the last minute he drank three diet cokes, got his head in the game, and realized he’d made the wrong call. He subsequently backed away from his bad decision. Occam’s razor leans toward this solution set. I’ve noticed Trump is very good at recognizing he’s made a mistake and is willing to correct missteps with whiplash speed.

Option B is that Cheeto Jesus is the slickest psychological manipulation machine to walk the face of the earth. He told the Evil Party “I will fuck you up”. His supporters loved it. When the Evil Party was about to make a show without substance (a half assed pretend shutdown kabuki that wouldn’t give him the clearly demarcated battle lines he wanted) Trump showed a bit of weakness. “OK fine, I’ll kick the can on the wall… just don’t throw me into the brier patch”. The Evil party, being evil, smelled blood and overplayed their hand. Meanwhile, the Stupid party, stood around with their thumb up their ass. Seriously, what’s the point of those toadstools anyway? Then, just when NPR was about to ignore Trump and whine about sad polar bears on Christmas Eve, Trump swerved again. “Nope… it’s still Sparta. No wall means I’ll veto. Yippie Ki Yay Motherfuckers!”

I’m not sure option B is true but I’m not ruling it out either. It’s part of why I stayed the hell out of that market. Trump uses unpredictability as a tool. Also playing chicken with Trump is suicidal. If Trump really did go with option B, he’s playing his opponents like an instrument. He’s either crazy or brilliant. Probably both. I sussed out option B as slick political judo or I’m falling prey to confirmation bias. Probably both. Either way, I’m glad I stayed out of the market and have no predictions about the shutdown’s duration.

In other news, several things have happened that I didn’t expect. I wonder if this is why both parties wanted a shutdown. As a distraction?

The market, which has been on a tear since 2016, is getting flaky. Frankly the stock market is unlinked from true valuation and I can’t make much of it. A re-adjustment seems reasonable after a two year post-Obama skyrocket. I’m actually holding a bit on “Trump recession by 2020”. Regardless, the market took a huge shit, and everyone seemed totally cool with it. It barely ruffled the press’ feathers. What’s up with that? Were they fluffing the Dems pre-shutdown tailgate party or did I just miss the show? Then stocks roared back in the middle of a shutdown. Go figure. Regardless, I’ve no PredictIt position on this.

I had a PredictIt bet that blew up. I held NO that Trump would give special council testimony by 12/31/18. It seemed a safe bet. Everyone knows you never talk to the police. If Trump was dumb enough to walk into a perjury trap he’d have been hammered back when he was just a rich real estate developer. If there was real evidence we’d already have heard of it too. Yet the market resolved at $1 on YES.

It happened? I had no idea. Apparently the big orange idiot did the deed? Why? What kind of asshat will testify before a grand jury when half the population of DC has been going scorched earth on his ass for 2 years? It’s been “Russia, Russia, Russia” with less evidence than a flat earther’s wet dream about Area 51 and he was willing to play ball? Can this be the same guy I associated with Option B cleverness just a few paragraphs above?

Personally, I wouldn’t testify under oath that the sky was blue for those jackoffs. Someone would show up with a new definition of violet and I’d wind up arguing about wavelengths. Or they’d ask me what I’d eaten for breakfast on a leap year while Halley’s Comet was on the rise and I’d answer Cheerios when the real answer was Rice Krispies. I’d wind up in Federal pound me in the ass prison for not properly remembering a thing that’s not a crime. Fuck that noise! Regardless, I lost $0.96.

Oddly, NPR, which can’t take a shit without blaming Trump for the smell, didn’t mention Trump’s testimony? I would’ve expected 3-4 days of “the walls are closing in” and “this time we’ve got him”. Radio silence. What’s up with that? Perhaps I was otherwise occupied at the time.

Another market, my creepy actuarial dead pool bet on Mrs. Ginsberg leaving the Supreme court first has bounced all over while I’ve resolutely held a few shares of YES. My logic is simple it’s based on age and a grim fate. Some folks latch their talons into power and mainline the addictive nectar until they’re dead. Robert Byrd, Ted Kennedy, and the recently planted John McCain come to mind. Ginsberg is on that dark spiral. It seems a Faustian bargain to me but then again I’m not addicted to power. If going to a staff meeting in your mid-80’s isn’t hell then what the fuck is?

Mrs. Ginsberg, impresses me with her persistence, but she’s mortal. Personally I think she’s too invested in “preserving her legacy” and it’s a little sad. (Hint: there’s a fine line between “preserve my beautiful legacy” and “build a giant statue of myself”. There’s a reason Ozymandias is in my right margin. Read it.)

Ginsberg can’t “let go”. Faustian bargains are like that. But she’s not a spry 60 year old either.

In keeping with my crude assessment of her motivations and a press that’s to the left of Trotsky, I assume all reporting of Mrs. Ginsberg’s condition are of the Fidel Castro / Pope John Paul II model. The heroic superbeing in question is healthy and fit right up until the moment they were suddenly dead last week. Seriously, Cuban propaganda made it sound like Castro was bench pressing his weight in cigars when images showed a frail man shuffling about in sweatpants. He disappeared for long lengths of time; during which he was “in excellent health”. Finally someone reluctantly said “dude died last Tuesday”. (At least that’s how I remember it.) Incidentally, I mean nothing untoward putting the Pope in the same sentence as that shitweasel Castro. John Paul II seemed like a nice guy. I’m thinking more about the Holy See being as evasive as possible as the man aged.

Anyway I put a PredictIt bid YES on “Ginsberg retires first” shortly after she had a “minor” breaking of three ribs. Just for the record, if I break three ribs I’m going to piss and moan about it big time… not mutter something about “minor”. (Have I mentioned she’s already had two different kinds of cancer?)

I didn’t get a great price because everyone else lemminged on the news. Ginsberg recovered and the price dropped. (You gotta’ hand it to her, she’s harder to kill than John Wick.) My position went from Meh to Crap as the press reported she was doing the montage from Rocky movies.

I ignored the press. Why wouldn’t I?

A few weeks ago (when I wasn’t paying attention) my shares went from Crap to Golden and then back to Meh. I had no idea why.

A check of Google informed me Ginsberg suddenly announced she was already finished with a heretofore unreported treatment for cancer (a third independent unrelated form of cancer). It had been discovered during the “minor” broken ribs but not reported because apparently frail women in their 80’s totally thrive on lung surgery and DON’T LOOK BEHIND THE CURTAIN YOU DAMN DIRTY BLOGGER!

Anyway the market peaks when she’s having “minor” issues like broken ribs and cancer but takes a dump when the press subsequently reports she was wrestling grizzly bears that morning. I’d like to buy more shares but at this point the value may never go low enough to be a real bargain.

So that’s the PredictIt report. Wild gyrations in markets made of stampeding lemmings. I try to sift through “news” that’s really propaganda without falling prey to confirmation bias. Sometimes I win. Sometimes Trump inexplicably testifies when I’m not paying attention. Sometimes the water’s so damn muddy I stay on shore. Life’s just a game of bullshit detection.

A.C.

P.S. Incidentally, what’s up with Donald Trump Jr.? I bought NO on some lame market  that he’d be in the Denver SuperMax by New Years. (I’m paraphrasing.) It sounded like bullshit. Did the bullshit happen?

Here’s a hint. If you’re a company and are about to introduce a “feature” that will make people burn you in effigy… don’t.

Don’t. Be. That. Guy.

Don’t tell your customers New Coke tastes better. Don’t advertise the shit out of your exciting launch of the Edsel. If you’re working for Google and feel like being evil… don’t. Just don’t do it.

Don’t inflict your better and superior and wildly unpopular ideas on the people who are your customers. They don’t give a crap about your special new take on what’s basically a way to type strings of text. Get over yourself. If they want what you think is a shit sandwich… then get out the bread and make a fuckin’ shit sandwich.

Capiche? Got it it? Ya’ feel me? Did ya’ grok that? We square? Good!

I’m done ranting. I’ve installed the WordPress “classic editor” and it’s good enough for now. It was easier than dumping WordPress lock, stock, and barrel (which I’m eager to do if they get used to this kind of behavior). I recommend “classic” (a.k.a. “geezer mode”) to anyone who cares about such things. (Ironically, WordPress’ editor was always a bit lame. I was actually looking forward to the upgrade. It’s just that Gutenberg is really pathetic. Flat out craptacular. I didn’t relish my blogging becoming another battle against the post-literate society that lurks in my nightmares. Fuckin’ “blocks”?!? They can bite me!)

Happy typing y’all.

A.C.

What a glorious week! I celebrated Jesus’s birthday by doing nothing, absolutely nothing.

At the tail end of a challenging year, several days of being a lard ass has been exactly what the doctor ordered. I earned it. 2018 was a year long uphill marathon. I made it but now it’s time to clock out a while.

I’m so mellow I can’t stand myself. We’re legit snowed in and I just don’t give a shit. Not. A Single. Shit. To. Give. I planned for a few days downtime and apparently I needed it. Clearing snow on our long driveway is pretty much mission critical and I’m usually swarming over the situation like white on rice at the first hint of a storm but not today. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy:

I’m letting “it” ride. If the grid goes down I’ll chill my beer in a snowdrift and drink it in the dark. I like to keep the road clear but I don’t have to go anywhere. If the house burns down because the RFD can’t get here I’ll fuckin’ roast marshmallows over the smoldering ruins. Besides, the RFD doesn’t have a great track record anyway. (“Never lost a foundation yet.”)

As the Millennials say “I’m not up for ‘adulting’ today”.

Merry Christmas y’all!

A.C.

P.S. Someone find the dipstick that “improved” the WordPress editing interface and shove him feet first into a woodchipper. Like I needed another New Coke or Clippy in my life. Anyone who’s already shuffled off the WordPress buffalo for greener pastures and better editing; please give me hints in the comments. Thanks!

I’ve been offline most of the week. (Someday I may have to buy a “traveling tablet”?) Initial reports hint that some of you deposited Christmas presents in my PalPal account? I’m not where I can check for sure but that’s my indication. You guys are awesome! Thanks.

I’ll be back online soon. In the meantime, have a Merry Christmas.

I became my own blind trust. By definition this is impossible. But, I did it!

A blind trust is when someone manages your assets such that you aren’t involved in market decisions. Blind trusts are a legal device intended to shelter one from their own market bending political power or insider knowledge. The trust eliminates the moral hazard that… Ha ha ha ha…. like anyone in such a position is worried about morals. I had ya’ going didn’t I?

OK, the real reasons are related to legal entanglements. Blind trusts are meant to avoid prosecution for “insider trading” (i.e. Martha Stewart) or political shenanigans (a.k.a. “Clintionesque activities”).

I don’t need a blind trust. I’m totally bereft of political power. I’m not even sure my vote is counted anymore (are you?). I’ve no special knowledge of any financial entity. I think of “assets” as things like “fresh tires on the truck” and “a full freezer”. A Rockefeller I am not. Good news! Every dollar I have is my own to misuse at will.

There’s another reason for blind trusts. That is if you’re a rich unworthy inheritor and therefore so fuckin’ irresponsible you’d burn Daddy Warbuck’s fortune on hookers and blow six months after you got your hands on it. (Ask yourself why “trust funder” is not a compliment.) Or, you may need to be shielded from your stupidity. Perhaps, you’ve been so totally indoctrinated you actually believe the shit your college professors said?

That indoctrinated group is where PredictIt comes into play. I figure the game is to find places where people en masse are making bad valuations. As soon as you find that spot, you do the opposite. The efficient markets theory suggests the masses are right more often than not. Based on rational investors you’ll usually lose.

Seen much rationality lately?

In practice, the masses now include people who’ve been indoctrinated since they were getting triggered by Spongebob Squarepants. They’re the target. Find something they believe in deeply. That’s where you’ll sniff out the goldmine of derp.

This is harder than it sounds. People sound like dipshits. It almost appears the natural state of mankind… or at least the college educated (indoctrinatus dipshiitius). But do they act on their dipshit assertions with their own money? Ah ha! Not so much. Watch a hippy sometime. They’ll lecture you about diversity all day long. But after work they’ll hypermile their Prius past fifty blocks of vibrancy to a McMansion which is nestled in a lily white gated community as uniformly manicured as the Queen’s garden. Hippies don’t go large on their beliefs, because they don’t actually believe them. They’ll signal their superiority on Facebook but do you they line up to finance California’s bullet trains and Solindra’s solar plants? Of course not! Hippies know their ideas are shit, that’s why they use taxes to implement them.

(As an aside, the reason young people accumulate mountains of debt for college is they incurred it before they realized deep in their soul that the debt was theirs and not society’s. Their short lifetime of free rides didn’t prepare them for the enormity of a $100K sociology degree. That’s why nobody begins a sociology degree in their 40s. By that age you’ve learned the difference between your money and “everyone’s money”.)

Pondering beliefs, actions, and the distance between the two brings me to Global Warming. (Another aside: I refuse to call it Climate Change. I’ve lived through the “Oncoming Ice Age of Doom” in the 1970’s. I’ve lived through Al Gore’s “Global Warming” that was absolutely going to make an ice free north pole (littered with polar bear skeletons) 5 years ago. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them use the word “change” and claim both options. Call it cold or call it hot but quit bitching’ at me about both.)

Anyway, Global Warming is a good spot to sniff about. It’s a likely intersection of beliefs people claim en masse but which don’t match the measurements (the derp faction) and a place people will spend a ten spot to signal their superiority:

“Will NASA find 2019’s global average temperature highest on record?”

Talk about a sweet market! It should be a shoe it! Buy NO and laugh all the way to the bank. In general, betting against anything being the highest on record is pretty safe. By definition, most of the shit that happens in any given year is well within the range of shit that’s happened in recorded history. That’s why records are… um… recorded.

I’d happily bet against almost anything setting any record in any year. Will the number of excellent blowjobs in San Jose be the most in human history in 2019? No! Will German speaking fruit bats die more in 2019 than any other year in history? No! Will the number of re-animated corpses that play kazoos be more in 2019 than any other time in recorded history? No!Will the number of Fiats attacked by weasels in Guam be the most ever? No! Will the number of times Paul Krugman is wrong exceed humanly understood number theory in 2019? OK… Krugman is an exception. He’ll be more wrong every year until someone takes him behind a barn and Old Yeller’s his ass. So there you have it, averaged over several markets, bidding NO against highest records is a no brainer.

But that’s thinking like a Curmudgeon who lives on earth where the sky is blue and 2+2=4. This is an era when reality is pushed in the corner and getting dogpiled by lemmings. Read the fine print. This isn’t a market about actual thermometers recording actual temperatures… it’s a market about what NASA will say about global modeled aggregates. Is NASA going to tell the truth? “We measured temperatures and found absolutely nothing interesting, please fund us more.” Riiiiiight.

It’s not a verifiable single number: “will Boston Airport weather station record >X degrees”, “will 2019 max out this thermometer in Rome that’s been around 400 years”, or even “the high number will be on the raw Landsat datastream that’s been incoming since 1972”. That’s the catch. NASA can announce any damn thing they want.

Betting against a historic never before seen recorded maximum is easy. Betting against NASA flinging shit is hard.

The game is afoot!

I decided the best way to play it was assume chimps were in the market. (It’s a global warming market after all.) I conjectured they’d collectively bid according to their teeny tiny world view. They’d say “NO WAY” to “global warming” when the Northern Hemisphere is in winter and the press is baying that Manhattan got 3″ of snow. “This just in, Manhattan is reeling from ankle deep snow! Stockbrokers are resorting to cannibalism because the Kobe Beef supply ran short. This is Trump’s fault.”

I further hypothesize they’d say “IT’S A RECORD WARMING YEAR” when it’s August and their nutsacks are sweaty. “This just in; everyone in Phoenix will die if the air conditioners fail for more than seven minutes. This is Trumps fault. Stay tuned for Bill Nye explaining how it’ll totally improve power grid reliability to switch to windmills.”

Two predictable motions; one down, one up. Then, the hard part. I’ll have to get the hell out before the end. I can’t just buy and ride it to the end of 2019. We all know the purpose of NASA is not science but to “engage much more with dominantly Muslim nations to help them feel good about their historic contribution to science, math, and engineering“. When NASA replaced the guys with slide rules and started taking orders about “feeling good”; it was all over. By now, there could be penguins in Maui and they’d say this proves global warming has been caused by middle class Americans who own SUVs.

So the safe buy in was “NO” during winter in Northern hemisphere. But it was priced too high. NO was somewhere near $.60. I decided to wait.

I tuned in after a tree day absence. YES had plunged 28%! (Meaning NO had soared.) I’d missed it. Damn.

But what’s this? I’d logged in a “BUY NO” order at $0.52. I don’t remember doing that.

Yes had made a minor run. NO clicked down just enough to trigger my buy. Then YES fell off the cliff and my pittance of NO shares gained 30%. Sweet!

Before anyone thinks I’m suddenly rich I’ll restate that this is a micro pittance we’re talking about. Not even enough to buy a six pack of beer. Alas, I’m simply not constitutionally built to risk money in serious amounts. I’ll take risks with chainsaws and motorcycles but I’ve had a fiscally lean times and they change you. Using money that would hurt if I lost it is not my way. Even so, I’m delighted. I do put real money up at real decision points and really report when I suck and when I rule. I figure it’s the same market calls to make 30% return on five bucks as it is a thousand.

Also, it’s all for fun. Did I fret about this over the weekend? Nope. I’d forgotten about my BUY order. I was my own blind trust. How cool is that?