Coffee Politics: Part 2

On the road I subsist on purchased coffee. Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s bad but it’s always accompanied by condescension. Why? Because otherwise unemployable and utterly uninformed nitwits have an ego problem. They instinctively flock to the only unskilled labor that affirms their superiority. I don’t know why they feel so smug. They’re no better (or worse) than the monkeys at McDonalds; at best they’re manning an espresso machine.

I have an espresso machine too. I can operate mine, they can operate theirs. I don’t brag to my friends and neighbors that I’ve mastered the esoteric skill of making a bit of espresso. Why would I? It’s not rocket science.

Here’s a hint, if you operate a linear accelerator or service a locomotive I’ll be impressed. If you run a kitchen gadget that shoves steam though coffee grounds don’t expect a standing ovation.


Me: “I’d like some strong coffee. No whipped cream. It gets in my beard. Here’s a refillable mug so you don’t have to waste a paper cup.”

Barista: “It’s good that you want to save irreplaceable trees.” (“Zer” pours coffee into a paper cup to “measure it” and then pours the coffee into my metal cup.)

Me: “Uh… You know trees grow; right? They’re plants. They grow. From dirt.” (I pause as “zit” throws the paper cup in the trash.)

Barista: (Totally not hearing me.) “Re-useable containers are good because they reduce waste. Though the skull motif is problematic.”

Me: “I prefer a proper mug like a civilized being. I swear it makes the coffee taste better. Also the skull makes it taste better. Um… you realize that you ‘wasted’ a paper cup anyway? You just tossed it in the trash. I saw it. Have you considered using a measuring cup?”

Barista: (Unaware of any hole in “zim’s” logic.) “Because of global warming we’re running out of trees.”

Me: “Plants like increased CO2. It’s a fertilizer. Plants crave it. Like electrolytes.” Sipping coffee. “Ugh! Do you really have to serve it lava temperature?”

Barista: (Completely missing a great joke.) “Someday we’ll run out of paper.”

Me: “Are you postiting a theory of ‘peak paper’? Shouldn’t you wait for ‘peak oil’ first?” Sipping again. “This is burnt.”

Barista: “It’s supposed to taste like that.”

Me: “Like shit?”

Barista: “Yes. Also, would you like to donate to a charity.”

Me: “Sure, I’ll cough up a ten spot for the NRA.”

Barista: (Doing a double take.) “No, I said a charity!”

Me: “Yeah, I’m a big fan of charity. Whatta’ ya’ got? Hillary Clinton prosecution fund? Guns for toddlers? Liquor for the Amish? I love people. I’m in!” (Waving my debit card eagerly.)

Barista: “It’s an environmental fund. They raise awareness for…”

Me: “Not interested. I’m already aware. I’m woke baby! We’ve all got enough aware. Too much aware is filling up my garage and overflowing in my closet. My truck is completely packed with awareness. My kid’s school is so aware there’s no room for learning. We don’t need to raise awareness, we need to flatten it down. Strap it to pallets and ship it to the awareness recycling mill. I hear awareness can be turned into ‘give a shits’. I’m totally out of them.”

Barista: “You’re not really our preferred customer.”

Me: “OK then. Enjoy your buggywhip factory. When Tim Horton’s takes over and we’re playing hockey and genuflecting to Gretzky it’s on you.”


Also there’s the following from American Digest:

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Coffee Politics

Yesterday, Starbucks shut down many (8,000+) stores for an orgy of ritualistic self flagellation. Good luck with that! This is just the beginning.

Couldn’t happen to nicer people. Their self reinforcing army of scolding nitpickers had it coming! As for me, it’s a nice steaming cup of tasty schadenfreude. Cheerful and fulfilling, like watching the sun set over a pleasant mountain vista while your worst enemy gets pecked to death by ducks.

It was a long wait but it’s worth it. After years decades of bitching me out about every little thing, SJWs have turned on each other. This was always their fate. Their desperate feeding frenzy to punish everyone everywhere until a new Utopia magically appears has begun to collapse. It’s a delightful show. Starbucks’ will have a long slow slide of homeless bums lounging in their lobby until the business (or what’s to become of it) evolves into a wifi library and halfway house for losers attached to a defacto “drive through only” enterprise for the people who actually pay.


At home I brew a pot of coffee every morning. (I try to keep it down to one pot per day or I’ll stroke out.) It’s usually DeathWish or some other quality product. I buy the good shit because I like the taste. My stockpile of beans is stored in the freezer and ground in small batches as needed. On weekends I might indulge in stately woodstove based percolation and top it off with some 1792 Bourbon.

It’s always delicious. Follow those steps and your coffee will be delicious too.

You know what I didn’t mention in that description of delicious coffee? Racism.

Nor did I mention the following: sexism, income redistribution, my original sin as an employed male, or half assed theories about the environment that come from Muggles that don’t understand sciences like chemistry or math.

Anyone can follow my lead. It’s easy to brew a top notch pot of coffee without getting into a political circle jerk. It’s coffee, not religion. And for that matter I’m not convinced there’s a positive correlation between religion and great coffee either.

“Good coffee comes about by no other activity than endeavoring to make coffee that’s good.”

Posted in Curmudgeonly Gems of Insight | 4 Comments

Things I Don’t Care About

[I have “thoughts” assembled for a future series of posts but on a topic of depth. Today I’ll wisely stay in the shallow end of the pool. Enjoy.]

Everyone seems to care deeply about everything. How exhausting! Folks are willing to die on hills that look irrelevant to me.

I can’t muster sympathy over minor shit. Is it strange that I’m not hyperventilating about gluten, plastic grocery bags, or skateboarding on sidewalks? I periodically review, for my own confidence, things that don’t mean shit to me… just to make sure they still don’t mean shit.

You’re welcome to join me. Here’s an abridged list of topics about which I can’t get upset.


Two spaces at the end of a sentence: In the interregnum between lead cast movable type (all hail Gutenberg’s miracle) and the word processor (we’re Microsoft and you will obey) there were typewriters. It was mechanically convenient to use the same width for a narrow letter “l” and a wide letter “o”. With typewriters it became common to put two spaces at the end of a sentence. People learned this. No, that’s not right. They didn’t learn it… they fused it into their fucking DNA.

Time passes. By the 1990’s, everyone and their dog was using a word processor. Word processors effortlessly manage the width of letters, spacing between them, and spacing between sentences. It’s called kerning. Two spaces were no longer needed after each sentence. Transitioning from IBM Selectric to WordPerfect, I switched to using one space. I’m adaptable like that. It didn’t seem like a big deal.

However, there are folks who hate it, hate it, hate it. I’m talking to you Mingo! (Mingo puts two spaces at the end of a sentence and will defend the practice to his dying breath.) Mingo’s not alone. Lots of geezers hammer out a duplicate space at the end of a sentence as a matter of religious doctrine. I don’t get it.


Pluto: Among the quasi-useless errata I memorized in school was a list of planets. There were nine of them. Pluto was the weird little flake on the furthest orbit. In 2006 some folks changed the definition of “planet”. Pluto went from “planet” to “dwarf planet”. This royally pissed off everyone.

Except me. I don’t give a rat’s ass how many planets are in an arbitrary list. I understand it will always be arbitrary to define this orbiting mass as a planet and that orbiting mass as a “not planet”. You gotta’ draw the line somewhere. Haley’s Comet orbits the sun but isn’t a planet. Does this make Pluto fans sad? Is there a “Haley’s Comet got screwed” movement to call it a planet?

I think it comes from folks learning a list at a certain age (elementary school) and becoming dogmatically attached to a familiar factoid. We (theoretically) learn new things with time. At any moment some nerd might refine a telescope and find a new planet or something sufficiently planet like; it may or may not coincide with the list of nine that someone printed in a textbook decades ago.

Ironically, Pluto, circling slowly in space, is exactly what it always was. Pluto doesn’t know what a far distant group of (arguably) sentient apes chose to call it. There’s a move afoot to redefine “planet” to re-include Pluto. This will have absolutely no effect on the actual celestial object. If astronomers redefined it as “an orbiting space turd” I’d be happy with that definition too. I’ve never been to Pluto. I’ve probably never seen Pluto. I don’t give a shit if some list I memorized at age 9 changed with time. I can’t get upset by Pluto’s designation as a planet or not.


Literally Hitler: Everyone needs a foil. Angry “protesters” need tons of them. They need to associate well known evil menaces with their manifold enemies. They consider this to be rhetorically awesome.

Sadly, they’re too dumb to make a good comparison. We appear to be in a cycle where each generation may know less than the one before. Lacking mythical constructs, SJWs can’t call Trump (or any other hated enemy du jour) a Gorgon (Greek) or a Draugen (Norse). You need to know what a Gorgon is before you can say your enemy is like one. Lacking religious constructs, SJWs can’t call Trump a Demon or Satan either. It just doesn’t “sing” to them. They lack the depth for a decent pool of comparative insults.

The closed and locked door on their imagination cage is a lack of history. They picked up  Hitler as a concept; but almost nothing else. They know Hitler was bad but it’s a vague feeling that “he’s icky”. They certainly didn’t learn about any other bad apples. They don’t know Benito Mussolini was Hitler’s good buddy and an actual literal fascist. They don’t know Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. They can’t identify Joseph Stalin and Holodomor. They haven’t the slightest clue who Genghis Khan was or what happened to eastern Europeans who experienced the Golden Horde. More recently they don’t know what happened to dissidents on Argentinan military flights in the 1970’s, what happened to farmers in Zimbabwe in the 1990’s, or why there were a lot fewer Tutsi in Rwanda after 1994. They’re so dumb they think rebellious English colonists spontaneously invented slavery in 1776. They don’t know a single example of evil except a single nasty German asshole from seventy years ago.

If the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. So, everyone bad is Hitler. When I hear nitwits compare President Trump to Hitler because he reduced taxes, moved the American embassy to Jerusalem, or is insufficiently willing to seize private guns I know I’m in the presence of an idiot. Comparisons to Hitler are officially irrelevant.


Illinois Nazis: (See above.) In 1980 (38 years ago!) the Blues Brothers movie made fun of Illinois Nazis. The joke was this: a handful of uniform wearing nitwits were expounding their dumbass views but they were Nazis in Illinois in 1980. Everyone was inconvenienced and huffy. The Blues Brothers realized the “Nazis” were just a handful of losers and acted accordingly. They charged across a bridge in their battered cop car, terribly embarrassing the supposed superior race. The Blues Brothers didn’t fear they’d be shot, gassed, or bombed, like the real terrors of WW2. Why? Because these were Illinois Nazis.

Jake and Elwood were right. If there are Nazis in 2018 they are few, far between, and totally fucking irrelevant. Protesters dredge up the specter of this hated awful group as if they weren’t militarily defeated in 73 years ago. There’s probably just barely enough actual Nazis to form a bowling league. They’re outnumbered by Furries, octogenarian pianists, left handed master gardeners, and transvestite Latino bikers. I cannot fret about Nazis in 2018.

KKK in modern times: See everything I wrote about Illinois Nazis and apply it to the KKK in modern times. There can’t be enough real KKK members alive to fill a decent movie theater. Protesters act like they’re behind every tree. That’s stupid.

The only real KKK member I recall in my entire lifetime is Democratic Senator Robert Byrd. Byrd “served” in Congress for 57 years until he died in office in 2010. He was 92. He was a real actual Klansman (though repentant later on). He’s dead. He was the last Klansman worth fearing.


And now the short essay portion.

Movie Profits: The news will report; “‘Superheroes In Tights’ earned eighty gazillion dollars this week. It narrowly edged out ‘College Students Get Drunk’ which earned slightly less than expected. But hopes are high for a blockbuster return from today’s release of ‘Not Even Subtle Propaganda’.” So what? There is no reason whatsoever to care how much a movie makes.

How much an actor gets paid: Actor Strongjaw McGoodHair gets $50 million per minute while on the set of “Jackass VII, the Jackening”. Don’t care. It’s not my money. I don’t give a fuck.

What an actor thinks about politics: Actor Strongjaw McGoodHair is in movies. What’s the purpose of a movie? My amusement. He’s a dancing monkey that exists only to entertain me. Like a pet… but dumber and with less personal connection. His opinion on foreign policy, tax structures, or government representation are irrelevant.

Rich guys buying rich guy things: His yacht is made out of pure carbon fiber and it takes a crew of naked supermodels to operate the bilge pump; which is filled with champagne. Don’t care. It’s not my money.

Any opinion about what I need: I decide what I need. It’s my money and I’ll do what I want with it. Do I need a 400 horsepower engine, expensive bourbon, and a rifle that can explode a deer at 300 yards? I sure as hell do! In the interest of kindness I go out of my way to tolerate folks who need shit I abhor; gluten free cookies, soulless cars, music with autotuners, and lite beer.


I could go on forever but I’ve typed enough. Everyone get off my lawn.

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Dead Air (Updated)

[Forgive the overwrought title, I was once a DJ and “dead air” was a “very bad thing”.]

All hell has broken loose on the homefront and predictably my server chose this moment to have hiccups. If you commented and it never showed, be patient. I’ve approved them a couple times (with responses from me) but it’s not getting through to the great database in the sky. This too shall pass.


Update: In the “be careful what you wish for” category, I’ve discovered that WordPress, the software that makes this blog go, has a new update with tricked out “privacy policy” settings. This is very good news. I don’t know why it’s happening now but I like it. I want to set the software to even more carefully ignore private information that it already does. (If that’s possible. I’m pretty sure I don’t record much of anything but I never went full nerd to verify it.)

The bad news? The software is made for bigger fish than me. I’m supposed to generate some sort of “privacy policy web page” as part of the overall system and it’s like three network gurus and a team of lawyers had a word orgy. Also there are details I never pondered. Perhaps I’ll have to disable the Amazon affiliate links? (I can live with shutting it down if need be. Sometimes you good folks buy cool shit and it makes me a few bucks but it’s not paying the rent. True story, last month’s earnings was less than a can of beer.) Some people “subscribe” to the blog and get an e-mail when I post. I think that’s OK but I’m not sure if that’s something I’ll need to encrypt, disable, or just update a plugin.

I’m a big fan of privacy so I’ve been sussing it out. Wish me well. I’m wading through all sorts of crap about cookies and archival procedures and whatnot. I haven’t a damn clue what most of it means. I’m not a complete dinosaur but I’ve got a day job… and tinkering with WordPress settings is boring. Clearly the WordPress designers intended for me to convene a meeting of my IT support staff at Curmudgeon Corporate headquarters where we drink coffee, draw shit on a whiteboard, and then know what to do.

Last night I was trying to sort it all out and finally said “Fuck it”. I’ll get back to it but life has my balls in a vice and blogging is on the back burner for now. Eventually the dog and I will figure it all out. We’ll click all the buttons, set all the settings, and have an official “policy” that’s you can read whenever you get bored or paranoid. It’ll be designed so I don’t know jack about anyone unless you specifically told me. I think this is very positive… something the software should have been doing 10 years ago. But for the short term the implementation is wonky.

Also, Zuckerberg can bite me. (I’m just ‘sayin.)

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The Boxes Don’t Touch!

Hat tip to The Feral Irishman.

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Ryostman? Craftoby?

Recently I tried to slink away from the pressures of the world. A moment “off” to retire to my shop and get my grove back. I chose a simple task. When you’ve got a shitstorm in your wake, a thousand things on your mind, and eleventy irons in the fire it’s best to stick with easy jobs. Simple jobs = small successes = a feeling you’re going in the right direction. But enough navel gazing, time for minor garageneering:


This is my humble 10″ Ryobi table saw; purchased a couple years ago when my last saw died. It’s cheap and adequate. It’s barely adequate… but adequate nonetheless.

Except those spindly legs. They annoy me. Better to ship the saw without them and add the price difference to the quality of the build. That said, they’re “good enough” (and maybe handy if you work at remote sites / though I don’t cart my saw around like that). From my point of view, they’re the skinny folding anemic wimpy version of what every saw really needs, which is chunky beefy legs with wheels.

It works and I got what I paid for. No regrets but it’s time to do better.
Here’s a close up of the chicken legs that some Ryobi marketer is touting as “portable!” Note that the saw is held on by little plastic rotating deals that slide into plastic slots and rotate to “lock down” with plastic knobs. God forbid a dude with a table saw can use a wrench and bolts.
The bottom of the Ryobi has little cylindrical tubes where they obviously expect any sane man to drill a hole and insert a bolt. Why not pre-drilled? Because marketing? Perhaps a hole for a right and proper bolt would mess up the “clean lines” of the little plastic doohickeys? It took two minutes with a power drill to rectify that mistake. (Also, I didn’t see a way to remove the doohickeys without destructive means, so I left them intact. Bonus points that they don’t stick out below the level of the base housing.)

The plastic doohickeys are in a rectangle; as God intended and as required by any reasonable set of folding legs. But the drillable bolt hole “suggestions” create an irregular quadrilateral. Really? Wouldn’t it facilitate measuring and centering if the bolt holes were somewhat logical?
The star of today’s show is an old table saw stand that came with a saw I got at a garage sale. I bought the saw and stand for $20. I used the old saw a few years until something went “kathump” in the inner workings and it got something a bit like Dodge Death Wobble. I could probably have fixed the saw but I was in a hurry and I’m naturally cautious about table saws. So bought a new Ryobi (I was on a budget), removed the still usable stand, and tossed the saw. I used the stand as a paint station for a while. I got my $20 out of it just for that! Then I got tired of it taking up space so I tossed it in the barn for a few years. I planned to bolt the Ryobi straight to the stand but the Ryobi’s plastic housing is every possible shape but rectangular. No worries. I cut a hunk of plywood and mounted that, then did some tracing and cutting. Notice the four mount points for the Ryobui? (The four holes that are not occupied in this photo.) It’s not a trapezoid, parallelogram, or any other sane shape. This mystifies me.
Once the saw was bolted down, the stand went from an old piece of junk to a proud and useful object once more. I installed four casters because there’s nothing better than a tool that can roll out of the way when you don’t need it.
I’m amused by the large and clear brand names. Apparently what I’ve created is a hybrid. Is it a Ryostman or a Craftoby?

A.C.

P.S. You might infer from this post that I’ve got something against my cheap Ryobi and that’s not true at all. It serves well for what it is. I don’t use a table that much but when you need a table saw you’re best served by a (you guessed it) table saw. In many situations, an adequate but unimpressive Ryobi is a big step up from dinking around with a handheld circular saw.

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The Entire Godfather Series Explained

Hat tip to IMAO.

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The Finish Line Is A Dangerous Place: Part 3

If you stretch yourself… I mean really go for it… dispense with the excuses and the bullshit and timid resignation of society… and grit your teeth and push through… you’ll eventually cross a finish line. It’s awesome. And it’s dangerous.

Attaining a hard-won goal is the very moment when you’re weakest. That’s a bit of wisdom I’ll pass on free of charge because I was just reminded of it. One inch across the metaphysical finish line, I was crushed. Take a gentle reminder from my mistake.

If you’re going to push it, prepare an end game.

The greater the challenge the more likely you’ll be spent when (if) you emerge on the other side. If you’re not going to keep some tiny sliver in reserve (and why would you do that?) you must plan for the consequences. I blew it on that front.

My challenge was mostly physical. I’m no spring chicken. I gave every bit I had. Maybe some other fellow would have breezed through but that’s him, not me. I hit the wall and kept going. Possibly this was unwise. Too bad. I did it anyway. After I was done I staggered home and collapsed in bed.

Here’s the problem. Time didn’t stop. Nor did the world. I’d been imagining it would. I’d been focused on the goal. I didn’t plan for anything immediately after it. I forgot that the world doesn’t give a shit about my little vision quests.

The next day arrived without so much as a nod acknowledging what I’d done. My personal great achievement had no affect on the universe outside of my own head. The sun rose mercilessly.

As always, I had shit to do. I had work, one of the kids was sick, the dog needed walking, I had to take the trash to the dump, and nobody was much impressed that scraping my aching body out of bed was about all I could do. I was a mess! In my mind I’d expected a few days of inertia but I didn’t lay the necessary groundwork. I should have planned better.

Physical exhaustion can happen to anyone. No matter how tough you are you have a limit. Ironically, if you’re filled with grit it just raises the stakes; it lets you double down on the strength and stamina you’ll put into a physical challenge. It’s helpful during crunch time but it leaves you a shell in the aftermath.

A couch potato, lacking grit, won’t understand. They’ll crap out at the first hint of adversity, paradoxically allowing them to spring back quickly from their feeble attempts. They won’t fathom the way some of us push much farther and damn the consequences. Which is precisely what I’d done.

Having spared nothing, I stumbled; crashing into the new day. I’m older than I once was. I couldn’t easily shrug it all off and walk on. Nor was I willing to bail on my regular daily obligations. I was too stubborn. Too crotchety. Too unforgiving of myself to bail on my obligations. Why would I? I was exhausted to the core but not sick.

What’s worse is I had a travel situation. Travel is its own challenge. In a daze, I packed my truck and rolled out. I had aches and pains everywhere. I stopped often to walk around the truck lest my joints seize up. I paid extra attention to my driving to make sure I was safe. I drank bottles of water like hydration was my profession. I shifted hotel reservations to make things easier. I drove a little slower. I was very careful.

During the long drive I received bad news. The death of someone I held dear. It would have been sad news in any situation but exhausted and limping down the highway made it harder. Sadness cut like a knife. Fate knows when you’re venerable and it’ll kick you when you’re down. We all have low points in life. That was one of them.

I could do nothing but drive on. I had shit to do.

Everyone bitches about their employer and I’m no different. That said, I always do my best. My dad, to his immense credit, valued work and imbued that spirit in me. If someone’s going to cut me a paycheck then by God I’ll earn it. So, it came to be that not long after “crossing the finish line” and still mourning a death, I was in another time zone, ready to work; standing in the mud and wondering if it would rain. I really didn’t want to get cold and wet. I had a rain jacket and appropriate gear but I was in no shape for a chill. I had bruises, bent limbs, creaky knees, and a throbbing head. Add a chill and I’d probably seize up like a pretzel! Fate, for once, let me slide. The rain didn’t come. I got my work done, good and solid. All the while doing my best to pretend I was twenty years younger.

I suppose I could claim it all was a success. I met my goal and still did all the things that needed doing. (I even took out the trash.) I was an excellent employee. I got to the job site on time and standing. I didn’t slack off, though I did move slow. I didn’t pass out and wreck my truck. I did everything I had to. Then I drove home. Slowly. Mile after mile. Still mourning a death and wishing I’d realistically planned my recovery.

It could have been so easy. A wiser man would have seen it coming and evaded at least some of it:

Boss: “What’s this about you requesting a few days of vacation time?”

Me: “I intend to slay a personal dragon, improve myself, and attain a new plateau. I’m going to need three days to lay on the couch drinking Gatorade when I’m done.”

Boss: “Whatever. Put it on the calendar.”

It seems pretty simple in retrospect doesn’t it?

For what it’s worth, I have no regrets. How can you regret doing your best? Further, if you don’t periodically push yourself to the limits how do you know where they are? I just made a rookie mistake. I failed to give myself adequate recovery time. I will learn from this.

Posted in Curmudgeonly Gems of Insight | 7 Comments

The Finish Line Is A Dangerous Place: Part 2

I made the last post so I can tell you this. I just crossed a finish line. Forgive the mystery but I’m a fan of privacy. You’ll have to make do without specifics.

Actually, it was less a finish line than another step on a long road. (It’s never the last finish line until you’re dead.) This one turned out to be a tough one for me. Maybe it would be an easy step for some other man. That’s irrelevant. It just plain kicked my ass and that’s what matters to me! I needed to pause once I got to the far side of it. What you’re reading right now is part of that pause.

So, what’s my point? If I wore myself out for internal purposes and not for public consumption (hence the vagueness of this post) why am I writing? Because other men are doing similar things. I voluntarily pushed myself right to the ragged end. I’m not alone. Somewhere someone is doing something impressive right now. I hope they do well.

Men don’t get a lot of positive feedback. Let me rephrase that… men don’t get any positive feedback. Men are used to this and try to achieve without so much as a smile. It doesn’t have to be that way. Any bit helps. So here it is. For all the men out there; if you’ve levered your ass off the couch and are endeavoring to do whatever… the Curmudgeon is rooting for ya.

Good luck.

There’s one more post coming. In which I try discussing a moment which sucked without whining.


Update: Commenter JK pointed out that what I’ve written sounds dismissive of women. That wasn’t my intention but she’s got a point. I sorta’ thought of “relentless inner drive to improve or die trying” as a default masculine thing (it’s almost a cliche) but when you get down to it, it’s a human thing. At least for some humans. I’m all for a kind word to anyone who’s climbing their personal self selected mountain… especially if it’s a hard struggle and in particular if it’s undertaken solo and for the right internal reasons. I’m going to leave the text as I wrote it because I’m too lazy for a major edit but for the record I’m all for every damn human who’s earnestly endeavoring to push them selves to new heights. For everyone, man or woman, who’s trying to “level up”…I’m rooting for ya.

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The Finish Line Is A Dangerous Place: Part 1

It may not be apparent from this blog but I have an insatiable drive to learn new skills and improve; do this thing well, that thing better, etc… I periodically turn the dial to eleven by striving for excellence at whatever damn goal I’ve a mind to pursue. (If generalities make my statements awkward, please forgive an artifact of OPSEC.)

I’m not saying this to brag. Frankly it gets awkward:

Normal person: “Have you seen that TV show XYZ?”

Me: “Nope, I don’t have time for TV. I was working on stuff and learning things.”

Normal person: “Unclean! Heathen!”

It’s how I’m wired. Sitting on my ass wears on me. I’m driven to do stuff.

Sometimes I do whimsical stuff. Other times I do stuff very seriously; with an aim of self-improvement. The latter is a big deal. I seek to improve because I am a man. I am a man because I seek to improve. Correlation is unavoidable. Causality is irrelevant.

I’m not alone. Many men reading this are nodding their heads in agreement. Creatures with a penis who read this with offense are not men; they’re “guys”. It’s different.

Self-improvement is coupled with accomplishment. Some accomplishments are small; “this cord of wood is stacked perfectly straight.” Some are large; “I defended my thesis!” Some are measurable; “I paid off every goddamn penny of my student loans.” Others are important but diffuse; “I was thoughtful and made my wife happy today.” Some are time dependent “I hiked to that particular patch of woods well before dawn on opening day.” Some are not “I’m going to rebuild that old truck when I get a chance.”

A man tries to “do well” in virtually any physical/mental/spiritual endeavor that appeals to him: fix a lawnmower, tie an elk hair caddis, learn French, run a marathon, do a crossword (without Wikipedia!), climb Everest, train a bird dog, coach a kid’s softball team, make a good omelet, etc…

At its purest form, his purpose is internal. Men aren’t trying to please a crowd; to do so would be pointless. The only audience that matters is himself; or perhaps God. This pursuit of inner quality its why men of a certain age dismiss youth’s addiction to selfies and social media. If a man meets a goal he set for himself it makes him happy; even if nobody knows. If he posts what he had for breakfast on Facebook and gets a thousand likes, it means nothing.

Men must move forward. Make a decision, set a goal, attempt to meet the goal. Reassess when necessary. When you reach a goal it’s time to pick another. Lather rinse repeat.

Men know the alternative is stagnation and eventually death. Bodies age and time passes, whether the totality is growth or decay is a choice. Ideally, strong muscles in a young man evolve toward experience and wisdom in an old one. If a man’s mind and spirit is the same at fifty as it was at twenty, he wasted three decades. If he let that happen he’d hate himself for it.

Success is, for the most part, irrelevant. It is the pursuit that matters. Failure (far more than success) will helpfully guide him in future improvement. “I was there but didn’t see any elk. So next year I’ll try across the ridge.” There is no shame in failure. There is shame in ambivalence.

In the next part I’ll start to tie all this together.

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