Adaptive Curmudgeon

I avoid paying attention to hit counts but I’m only human. When I get a lot of hits I think “I’m glad I wrote that”. When I get relatively few I think “I ought shut my yap and go shovel snow”. Today’s count is… neither.

WordPress, my benevolent overlord, provides hit counts. Statistic one is how many individuals (or robots?) access the site. Statistic two is how many pages are viewed. Usually there’s a reasonable ratio between the two. Today the number of page views per individual (or robot?!?) is higher than usual. Either I’ve gained a handful of new readers who’ve got endless spare time and a cultlike interest or I’m being “scanned”. Scanned by what?

Could someone in the know tell me what’s going on? Just a comment would do: “NSA is building a case to ship you to Guantanamo”, “the duck has evolved into digital form and is messing with you”, “that happens to real blogs every day and you’re a total noob because you haven’t noticed”, etc…

Thanks.

A.C.

P.S. Due to computer issues I’m still dinking around with the gutless netbook I resurrected a few posts back. It works but there are drawbacks. The tiny keyboard and screen discourages writing like a rusted Ford Fiesta discourages a two week road trip.

If you haven’t read “To Freedom And Stupidity!” ignore everything and read that post first. Or just raise a toast to the deadest dumbest duck in this time zone. (Or chalk up the whole thing to Cabin Fever?)

You’re still here? In case you’ve no idea what’s up with the duck… I made this post to document one of the freest (and dumbest) creatures on Curmudgeon Compound. I’m gonna’ miss the little imbecile.

It’s a reminder to us all. Freedom isn’t about eggheads pondering the Federalist papers. Personality and moxie are where it’s at. Links that tell the story of Bowling Pin Chicken (in rough chronological order) are below:

Homestead Update #1. July 13, 2015:

“You’re a chicken understand? Just accept that you’re a chicken.”

Homestead Update #2. July 14, 2015:

“The ducks stood about six feet away in their square… radiating stupidity. They were my problem now.”

Homestead Update #3. July 15, 2015:

“I named the brown and white one “skidmark”… …The world is full of predators but the duck mind must be full of pastels and glitter.”

Homestead Update #4. July 16, 2015:

“…a bold night-time raid took out several chickens and three of the four ducks. I named this unseen predator Vladimir Putin… Skidmark, the sole remaining duck, was a changed creature. He took up residence under my truck. Skidmark got a new name and became Truck Duck.”

Bowling Pin Chicken Is Dead. September 6, 2015:

“The surviving duck, which had the size, shape, and intelligence of a bowling pin, started hanging out and acting like the chickens. Thus, his newest name, Bowling Pin Chicken.”

“Bowling Pin Chicken totally rejected the chickens and decided he was pals with the pigs. He had become Sub-Bacon.”

“…It has been three days. I see no errant feathers. No sign of a struggle. No duck bits. The pigs aren’t talking. I have no idea what happened.”

I’m Back / The Duck Is Back. September 23, 2015:

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Quack!”

Bowling Pin Chicken Just Doesn’t Care What I Think. November 5, 2015:

“I’m impressed by that level of “don’t give a shit”… …that stupid duck simply doesn’t give a rip. It’s not in his nature. He’d be just as happy swimming in a radioactive shark tank as a National Park.”

A Mystery. November 23, 2015:

“…I waved a flashlight around and prowled the vicinity. I was looking for either chickens or carcasses. Amid the wind and gloom I found neither. …I heard an angry quack and noticed Bowling Pin Chicken (a duck) was there… …Where did the missing chickens go? I have no idea. Perhaps the brutal wind confused them (or blew them to the next county)? Maybe a coyote ate ’em?”

Rookie Redemption. November 25, 2015:

“Sometime between sunset and dawn the remaining chickens had “broken in”… …and were happily picking away at a “coop” area that was theoretically off limits… Off in the distance I heard Bowling Pin Chicken (a duck) quacking in his usual Gilbert Godfrey voice. I was tempted to check the odometer on my truck. Had they gone on a beer run while I was sleeping?”

To Freedom And Stupidity! February 16, 2016:

“He died as he lived… free and stupid!”

Self reliance means more than stacking cans of beans in the basement. Among other things it means tinkering. Without the mindset of “I can do it” (or perhaps “I can make do with it”), you’re just a pet and milk cow to the technologically adept (or the corporations that hire them). Yet the average person is as likely to service their iThing as they are to build a spaceship. Pansies!

I don’t always live up to my own ideals. (Don’t laugh, you don’t either.) For example, the era when I was modestly adept at computers has passed like the Paleozoic. In general that’s fine. In the iDominated world all I actually need is the ability to tweak gadgets just a little. The goal here is to prove to myself that I have options other than buying another disposa-gadget. For the most part obsolescence is an mellow gradual lifestyle progression. Also, get the hell off my lawn you damn kids!

Where was I? Oh yeah… a Curmudgeon of the Adaptive type, should always keep at least a few tricks up his technological sleeve. One of those is maintaining a perpetual low level distrust of the current two pronged operating system’s oligarchical squeeze between WinDoze and iDevices. Is it not wise to maintain at least sufficient skills to slap in a Linux variant? What other backstop is there against iZombies (or Bill Gates… but I repeat myself)?

Which brings me to today’s small victory. Mrs. Curmudgeon, who’s very happy with her new iSlab, had an old “netbook” lying around that I just resurrected. It was ignored, dusty, and hadn’t been used for years. I think we’d found it in a bargain bin at Wal-Mart for half the price of a Schwinn some 5 years ago. I’m attracted to discarded junk and it has a nice reddish color. The only drawback is that it was a gutless POS the day it was made and would be doubly so now.

The poor thing looked abandoned… and useless.

“Am I not man?” Though I. “As a user of tools and repurposer of things forgotten I shall restore this underpowered whelp to honorable utility.”

“Are you talking to things again?” Mrs. Curmudgeon asked. (I should learn to keep my thoughts to myself.)

It wasn’t hard. After a few hours charging (apparently it hadn’t been charged in over a year) it booted up. It took one boot cycle to realize it would be insufferable under its native OS (Win 7 Starter). (Side note, who the hell names an OS “starter” and what’s their mental state? What’s next? Win11.01 Lame? iGimp?)

It’s no big deal to download a new ISO copy of Mint and save it to a bootable USB. Booting from that, the critter ran well enough to be tolerable (if slow). I hit “install”, activated the “nuke the HDD from space” option, and let ‘er rip. I felt a tiny bit proud to be deleting the old craptacular OS. I sat around drinking beer while the overbearing tonnage of Windows bloat was exorcised. By the second beer the deed was done and it was testing time.

Success. It works. Its performance won’t win awards but it’s totally serviceable. At least I think it works. If you’re reading this then I know for sure. If you’re not reading this I’m just a codger typing text on a piece of junk for no good reason. Actually that might be true even if you are reading this.

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?

Whereas shit happens;

Whereas there is no plumbing fairy;

Whereas I finance and maintain my own water/septic system from wellhead to leech field;

Whereas much of civilization depends on men wielding a round pointed shovel; and

Whereas a country boy can survive; now therefore be it

Resolved that Adaptive Curmudgeon:

1. fixed the shitter, within a reasonably lax standard of fixed;
2. has a back ache that ‘aint going away any time soon; and
3. any twerp on the cover of Mother Earth News blovating about the ease of “voluntary simplicity” will get walloped with the aforementioned round pointed shovel.

Two brief moments that deserve mention:

Mr. Curmudgeon: “How was book club?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “It was great we had wine…”

Mr.: “And the book?”

Mrs.: “We watched a movie.”

Mr.: “You watched a movie?!? At book club?”

Mrs.: “It was about a writer…”

Mr.: “A movie? At. Book. Club.”

Mrs.: “It was very good. Had Will Ferrell…”

Mr.: “You went to book club and watched a movie… with Ricky Bobby from Talladega Nights?”

Mrs.: “Shut up.”

Mr.: “I’m puttin’ this on my blog.”

Mrs.: “Ugh!”

Me: “I just got back from the kid’s school.”

Mrs.: “How did it go?”

Me: “I’ve come up with a great name for a girl power glam rock band.”

Mrs.: “Oh god not that one woman…”

Me: “Yep. ‘Scary Mary and the Stoners’ is going to top the charts.”

Mrs.: “Remember the good old days when the kids were the dumb ones?”

Me: “That’s going on the blog!”

In my last post I wrote this:

“Ninety miles west of Burns is a semi-abandoned “town” called Brothers. There’s not much there. I dimly recall a few collapsed buildings. There’s maybe a dozen residents and twice as many jack rabbits. There is always a cop at Brothers. The cop is always manning a speed trap. Once you pass the cop you’ve passed the first attempt to “harvest” you (or at least your money). Whether it’s a speed trap or a freak selling organic granola you’ll be “harvested” all the way to the Pacific. Hold your wallet tight.”

I knew I was telling the truth but had no idea there was photographic proof. Luckily my readers were far ahead of me (hat trip to “Malatrope”!).

Here, for your viewing pleasure, is a Google street view of Brothers, OR (or click this link).Notice the busy traffic in the background? We live in a nation that has Chicago and have chosen to position highly trained and well equipped men and women… here.

[Warning: I’m not specifically aiming to talk about politics today. If you want that, go somewhere else.]

Many years ago was on a motorcycle ride across the American west. After doing my time on the Interstate I hung a left and roared off to the middle of nowhere. I took one of my favorite roads that leads to one of my favorite pieces of nowhere. I felt home.

Johnny Cash knows all about my favorite road:

“I was totin’ my pack along the dusty Winnemucca road
When along came a semi with a high canvas covered load
If you’re goin’ to Winnemucca, Mack, with me you can ride
And so I climbed into the cab and then I settled down inside
He asked me if I’d seen a road with so much dust and sand
And I said, ‘Listen! I’ve traveled every road in this here land’…”

A weight lifted from my shoulders and I sung the song into my helmet. (It’s a good song!) In Johnny’s song he was travelling south. I was heading north. In my eyes that’s the superior direction. I’d spent a sleepless night in a smoky shithole hotel attached to a noisy shithole casino. Time to shake off the florescent lights and jangling gambling consoles.

Just north of Winnemucca there are sand dunes. I stopped to check ’em out. Why not? Some folks stop and smell the roses. I stop and sift the sand dunes.

An hour later, somewhere around the border between Nevada and Oregon, I stopped again. (You do know that Nevada borders Oregon don’t you?)

In a little gravel spot, I stopped to take a swig of water. After checking for snakes I laid down in the shade of my bike. I fell instantly and deeply asleep.

As a man gets older he gathers memories. A first kiss, birth of a child, whatever. I’m here to tell you that an hour’s nap in the shade of a motorcycle on the dusty Winnemucca road will be remembered as one of the most stress free moments in my life. Perhaps some men never experience such peace?

If I could have, I’d have never left. But of course life isn’t like that. After an hour or so I got up, brushed off the dirt, and rolled on. Soon I arrived at one of my favorite little towns; Burns, Oregon.

I like Burns. It’s far enough from Boise to be unaffected by city issues. It’s far enough from the wet, feverish, hippie infested Oregon coast to avoid most of the bullshit. Nobody passes through Burns by accident. Americans generally stick with Interstates which keep them 135 miles to the east or 220 miles to the south. It’s pretty but the dial is turned humbly below the high wattage scenery that attracts rich people and real estate developers (I’m lookin’ at you Jackson Hole).

Speaking of gorgeous places that foul their own nest; Bend is 131 miles to the west. When you’re ready to buy a $30 t-shirt and slurp fat-free frozen yoghurt, Bend is waiting to entertain you. Fifty years ago Bend was probably just like Burns. That time has passed.

You can ride the empty road from Winnemucca, tank up on gas and coffee at Burns, and then roll on through to Bend for 350 miles of peace. Keep an eye open for antelope.

If you haven’t done it, you should. What better things are you doing with your time?

Ninety miles west of Burns is a semi-abandoned “town” called Brothers. There’s not much there. I dimly recall a few collapsed buildings. There’s maybe a dozen residents and twice as many jack rabbits. There is always a cop at Brothers. The cop is always manning a speed trap. Once you pass the cop you’ve passed the first attempt to “harvest” you (or at least your money). Whether it’s a speed trap or a freak selling organic granola you’ll be “harvested” all the way to the Pacific. Hold your wallet tight.

Now for the news. Unless you live under a rock, you’re aware there’s a standoff in Burns. It started January 2nd and continues to this day. I don’t have a dog in that fight. I don’t know if the law enforcement officers are saints seeking peaceful resolution or tin horn tyrants on a rampage. I don’t know if the ranchers are selfless patriots or twitchy edge cases. I’m not there. You aren’t either. Maybe the standoff is the amalgamation of all human aspirations and frailties; good and bad.

What I do know is there’s a reason it didn’t pop up in other equally rural places. Stowe Vermont or Hazard Kentucky remain unnoticed. Most of the land in Burns is tied up. Maybe it’s for ducks or maybe it’s for grazing or maybe it’s because we in America worked out only the shakiest compromise between “privately owned land” and “a zillion acres of sagebrush”.

The people there, who are few, must jostle against and work with the government which is (obviously) run by the many, for the many, all of whom live far away. Who is surprised that friction develops between locals who are bossed around and management which is beholden to distantly removed places? I see no clear winner in that. City folks obviously have a say; them that pays the fiddler picks the tune and their income taxes finance duck projects they’ll never see and grass for cows they don’t own. But given that awesome power what informed notions could they have? How can a banker in Boston relate to a man who’s business model collapses when someone draws a line on a map and demands a fence be built there? Perhaps the banker just likes salmon dinner and means to make wise choices? Who doesn’t like salmon dinner?

I don’t know the solution. Maybe there isn’t one. But I sure like Burns and wish it well. I hope the situation mellows. Reticence and caution when pushing around other people is wise. That goes for everyone. Locals are in the thick of it but also involved are Subaru driving vegans who are in the habit of noodling about in peoples lives, however indirectly, from a thousand miles away.

A.C.

P.S. The Brothers speed trap has never caught me so don’t accuse me of sour grapes. I just resent revenue generation operations. It’s personal. I grew up during the collective insanity of the 55 MPH speed limit. I’ll never see a speed trap without feeling a brief surge of venom.

I cringe in terror as I post this:

“FORT HOOD, Texas — Army 1st Lt. Gina Caffey, the first woman selected to attend the Maneuver Captain’s Career course in Fort Benning, Ga., is mere days away from being crushed when she discovers the tragic lack of ponies the modern Cavalry Branch offers to its female officers, sources say…”