Adaptive Curmudgeon

Six weeks ago I bought a Raspberry Pi. I had A PLAN to DO STUFF. I was going to shoehorn this little hunk of technology into something that’s almost but not quite a laptop. I wanted to make my personalized Curmudgeonly version of this guy’s “Ambition Box“.

Shoddy workmanship, tiny screen, Philips head screws, everything crammed into a lacquered cigar box. My God, it’s brilliant!

This guy should take a bow. His concoction just oozes uncool and impractical; like me. So when I got my Raspberry Pi I eagerly tested it enough to know it worked. Took a deep breath and…

…ignored the whole thing.

I went hunting. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.

While I was doing nothing hunting I pondered my next move. (Hunting is about thinking is it not?) I have no time to tinker with a bespoke wood box and as soon as I reach for a soldering iron mayhem ensues. Yet I wanted the critter up and running by Christmas. Long term irrational goals would have to wait. I needed a dirt simple way to get the idea off the ground now.

Luckily someone else had figured it out long ago. I followed the Internet’s trail of breadcrumbs to the simplest solution. I purchased some crap on the internet (details follow) and with virtually no effort whatsoever created a laptop out of cheap components. Yay me!

I don’t have time to describe it all right now. (The duck is plotting against me and I must attend to his shenanigans.) However I’ll start now with a parts list (which is all you really need).

It’s not rocket surgery to jam cables in various gadgetry so even without “instructions” you can do it yourself. I did. I highly recommend that you do too. The world is awash in iSlabs… we’ve got to take a stand!

Step One: The “Brain”: Don’t overthink it. The Raspberry Pi is pretty much good to go and if you start surfing components and options you’ll go down the rabbit hole. (Which can be a fun trip.) I bought a CanaKit Raspberry Pi 2 Complete Starter Kit and couldn’t be happier. The kit costs a bit more than the board alone but it comes with the power supply, case, wifi dongle, microSD, an HDMI cable, heat sinks, and instructions which are idiot proof. Also the microSD has the OS & software pre-loaded. (Did I mention it was idiot proof?) You won’t save much money buying the parts independently and when it arrives as a kit it’s nigh on impossible to be too dumb to assemble it. Trust me, if it could be messed up, I’d have done it.

It’s not rocket science to buy the parts but the kit is just as cheap.

Step Two: Get Thee A “Lapdock”:

A laptop is really a series of functions; a screen, a keyboard, and a power supply. Put all three in the general vicinity of a Raspberry Pi and you’ve got an improvised laptop. There are a million way to do it. I chose the simplest. As in, out of the box and running in five minutes. It’s not the cheapest method but it’s probably on the low end of cost and it doesn’t look half bad.

What I bought is a keyboard/screen/battery that lacks a brain. I present to you the AT&T Laptop Dock for Motorola ATRIX 4G. This thing is a great idea. It turns a smart phone into a laptop. It almost makes me want a smart phone (almost but not quite). So of course marketing shit all over the simple idea. They overpriced the living hell out of it. (Marketers are walking black holes.) Everyone and their dog was appalled at the price, stuffed their smartphone in their pocket, and bought a parallel duplicate dedicated device for “computing”. (Which usually means “surfing Facebook”.) As far as I can tell the market failure of the “lapdock” is all about being too damn expensive and not that it’s a crappy design. At any rate their stupidity is our gain. What once cost several hundred due to marketing stupidity is now an incredibly good buy at $80.

All it needs to attain perfection is to be pierced with some Phillips head screws and jammed in a cigar box. Maybe I’d add some duct tape highlights? (Photo is linked to the product.)

Step Three: $13 In Fiddly Bits: The “lapdock” was meant to talk to its smartphone via USB and HDMI. Like everything on a smartphone they’re a bit weird. You need two specific Bruce Jenner cables sex change adapter cords. These are cheap but you aren’t likely to find them at your local store (especially if you live in the hinterlands like me). These are what I ordered:

The $5.50 USB cable: AFUNTA High Quality USB 2.0 Micro 5 Pin Female to Standard USB Male Extension Cable for Data Transfer -5 inch.

The $8 HDMI cable: Hisonde® Type D Micro Hdmi Socket Female to Hdmi Male Adapter Cable for Tablet & Cell Phone.

Step Four: There Is No Step Four:

You’re done. Seriously I mean it. Your soldering iron will get no exercise this trip. Plug the cables into the lapdock (they’re a tight fit) and into your Pi. Boot up the Pi and the Lapdock will do its thing without a hint of confusion. You are now the proud owner of an improvised laptop that runs Linux, does whatever you want, and is more or less DIY. It’s the polar opposite of a $400 iSlab’s gleaming conformity. When you fire it up at Starbucks you’ll feel the earth move when a thousand ironic hipsters weep all over their advanced English degrees. The Internet ‘aint all Steve Jobs and one size fits all solutions; it’s got room for the likes of me too!

Caveats:

• Supposedly the Lapdock can power a Pi2 through the USB for about 8 hours. (It can do a Pi1 as well but you’ll need to cut up a USB cable.) However, I haven’t yet proven that. When I’ve got the Pi setup to suck power, vampire like, from the lapdock I’ll report that. For now I’m still plugged in to AC. I doubt it’s a big deal. I just haven’t had time to tinker with it.
• The lapdock arrived in more or less mint condition but not in “original packaging” as advertised. I can’t possibly imagine why I’d want an old box but now you know.
• The lapdock is pretty slick but the keyboard is a bit unusual. In addition to QWERTY it has Hebrew (I think?). This has no affect on anything but if seeing a few extra squiggly lines on a keyboard is going to freak you out… well hell… if you’re that much of a pansy why are you building your own laptop? Go to WalMart and buy something with Windows and leave us tinkerers alone.
• A Pi2 is pretty cool but it’s not a computing powerhouse. Moore’s Law is our friend and it’s plenty for most uses but we’ve become accustomed to all sorts of extraneous shit from our electronics. Don’t expect it to be what it’s not. I intend to use it for composing, editing, blogging, and posting the shit you’re reading right now. It’ll be fine for me. It’ll be fine for you unless you really must have an full bodied immersive entertainment/computing experience. If that’s the case you should buy an iSlab with the Turbo Encabulator. This is a device people who can skin a buck and run a trot line… or at least drive a manual transmission car.

It’s Monday. In order to help us all face the week I’ve linked to a motivational speaker (warning NSFW language).

Hat tip to The Future Primaeval.

A.C.

P.S. You know he’s tough because he ends his sentences with a preposition.

A homestead is a hotbed of complexity. Take, for example, the photo above.

What you’re seeing is a visual demonstration of social interactions which makes the Balkans seem simple. It all starts with a breakfast burrito. It was awesome. There was a bit left over and I decided to “share the wealth”.

The instant I opened the door, Fluffy noticed. Fluffy is constantly scanning the horizon for threats and opportunities. The burrito was an opportunity. Fluffy followed me like a shark on a scent until I set it down. Then… nothing. I stepped back. Fluffy eyed me, calculated distances, and waited. The brain damaged cat rubbed against my leg. The duck was in the pig pen quacking angrily at a cinder block.

I stepped back another two feet. Fluffy made her move. She swooped in, inhaled half the burrito and then backed off ten feet as if the two of us might end up in a knife fight and if so she was going to win. I thought, “where are the other chickens”? As if to answer, Fluffy let out a squawk and her compatriot, second in command in the resistance movement, came running. It chowed down while Fluffy observed everything, me included.

Then the duck showed up. It shoved the chicken out of the way and quacked angrily at me. As if to say it would like a nice chianti and wanted to know why the hell hadn’t I provided it?

This was enough to wake the cat’s two remaining brain cells. It made it’s crooked, off kilter, asymmetric, way toward the burrito. Without breaking stride it swatted the duck away. Everyone moved down the line.

The flock of layer chickens, who spend the night in the barn and act like regular livestock, missed the whole thing.

I grabbed my camera. This was a soap opera and I wanted to capture it. Fluffy spied the camera and mooned the entirety of the internet, because that’s how a freedom chicken rolls.

And now you know what people watched before there was TV.

This morning I woke up with a vague feeling that bears mattered. I couldn’t put my finger on the bear thing; it simply faded. As I took the dog on its morning walk I noticed half eaten carrots on the ground. Bears had been eating carrots in the yard? My mind drew a blank. Mrs. Curmudgeon reminded me and now I remember the whole story.

It was 4:00 am when the quasi-sentient alarm system (dog) went off.

“bark… bark… bark…”

This means there might be a deer in the yard, or a squirrel, or it’s Tuesday. I ignored it.

The tone changed: “Bark… Bark… Bark…”

Hmm… now the tone was in the range of “things that might possibly matter”. Possibly a skunk in the chicken coop?

I sniffed the air. No skunk. I don’t like the chickens anyway. I rolled over. Mrs. Curmudgeon got up to investigate.

I heard Mrs. Curmudgeon exclaim “Oh my!” Judging from her tone it was something unusual but not threatening. “Unusual” rules out chicken predators and deer. “Not threatening” means the Gambino family and/or the IRS aren’t stacking up at the door for a home invasion. Also I didn’t hear any engines. This is always reassuring. (I’ve grown to understand that very few Americans can get anywhere without an engine. My driveway is longer than most people, including all but the most motivated criminals and/or zombies, will walk.) No engines means no people. No people means (usually) no problems.

I decided it must be a bear. That would be unusual but not threatening. “Is it a bear?” I mumbled? It seemed a bit late in the season for a non-hibernating bear but my sleep addled brain fixed on the theory. Could this be an opportunity? I don’t bear hunt but I often possess a bear tag (on the logic that a valid hunting tag is the very best bear repellent). Could I go out there and pop it? Bears taste good. Of course it was dark… plus I have no idea if they’re in season right now. Anyway I forgot to get my bear tag this year. Damn! A missed opportunity. I started to drift off.

Mrs. Curmudgeon said something. I interpreted it as “asdh dkjhfs nerweeh djfhkjsfnssd dasdhkjh“. I was tired.

The dog’s tone changed again: “BARK BARK BARK!” This I interpret as “You have threatened territorial integrity and I will destroy you!” Good dog! Curmudgeon Compound, unlike America and Europe, takes borders seriously.

I rolled out of bed. If the dog wanted something dead it was time for me to assess the situation and (if needed) make it dead.

“It’s checking out the chicken feed in the back of the truck…” Mrs. Curmudgeon added.

My truck?!? If a bear was in my truck bed it would play hell on the paint job. One bear rug coming up! I grabbed the shotgun and strode toward the door. Before I could get there the dog went ape: “BARKBARKBARK!” In dog language it meant “RAGNAROK HAS BEGUN!” The dog slammed into the front door and let out an even more intense war cry that would send shivers up anybody’s spine and pushed me to DEFCON III. Mrs. Curmudgeon giggled. (In retrospect this should have been a hint.)

I shoved the enraged dog out of the way and peered through the door’s window. Nothing…

The dog was pacing back and forth begging to be unleashed on whatever was out there. Yet I saw nothing. Stupid bear was long gone.

Then, head high, and six inches from my face; separated only by a pane of glass it appeared! Bigger than me! Taller than me! Big square teeth grinning at me!

It was a horse.

The dog went berserk and got between me and the window again. I let out a huge sigh and unloaded the shotgun. Mrs. Curmudgeon stood patiently behind me; clutching a handful of old carrots. The horse, unimpressed by our enraged dog, sniffed the window and steamed up the glass. It took a while to get the dog calmed down and in the kennel. The dog was not only willing but eager to attack something ten times its size. Good dog!

I decided the horse wasn’t going to scratch my truck and it seemed in fine health so I went back to bed. I’m more than willing to fight the zombie horde in the middle of a dark night (and my dog would join me) but some dumb horse ‘aint sufficient motivation to wander around in the snow. Mrs. Curmudgeon went out there and gave the horse a few carrots. By sunrise the horse was long gone and I’d forgotten all about it.

Even now I have no idea where the horse came from, where it went, or what it was doing in the yard. I assume it’s the duck’s fault.

The calm after Mrs. Curmudgeon’s Black Friday tactical retreat didn’t last. The next day one of Curmudgeon Compound’s smaller humanoid forms needed to go to town and BUY STUFF. This was apparently urgent. I hammed it up.

Kid: “I need to buy a THING OF GREAT IMPORTANCE. I must do it now.”

Me: “Hmm… I see your motivation. Shovel out the chicken coop and I’ll see what I can do.”

Kid: “Moooooom!”

This went on for a while…

Kid: “Can we please go now? Please?”

Me: “The car is low on fuel. Siphon some gas out of the lawnmower and we’ll use that to get there.”

Kid: “Moooooom!”

After a few hours I relented. I’d had several post-Thanksgiving sandwiches and was game for anything.

En route we passed the store where the Black Friday bug out had gone down. It looked sane. “Why don’t we go in there and see if the iSlab and XWii2600 you both wanted is truly sold out. If it’s there you can cancel the Amazon orders (I think) and geek out today.” Mrs. Curmudgeon was reluctant but the kid thought it a fine idea. In deference to Mrs. Curmudgeon’s PTSD the kids and I ventured forth and left her with the car. Her wait would be short. I can shop in ten minutes.

We immediately ascertained that the coveted XWii2600s were long gone. Amazon really was the only game in town. (All hail the internet.) I let the kid prowl the aisles a bit and then decided our ten minutes were up. Time to go.

I turned around and nearly bumped into Mrs. Curmudgeon. She was hovering around the iSlab display with a look of longing. So much for waiting at the car. The display had a scant few boxes in a largely empty cabinet. The packaging was identical and gleaming white and reeked of hipsterism. I peered in the case; trying to fathom the difference between a pristine white box that cost too much and a virtually identical pristine white box that cost three times more.

Another shopper asked me a question; “Is that the iSlab Model A or the iSlab model B?” How the hell would I know? I’m more likely to run Linux on a Raspberry Pi soldered into a go kart than drop a week’s pay on a digital Prius. On the other hand this was an opportunity to be a wiseass.

“The one on the left is the iSlab Mark V.” I said, confident that the fellow had no idea how Lincolns were marketed decades ago. I was right.

“So why does it cost so much more?” He was buying my crap.

“It has a Turbo Encabulator.” I smiled knowingly. “It’s a few hundred extra but you will appreciate it. A Turbo Encabulator really enhances your experience.” Who could say no to a Turbo Encabulator?

“Ignore him.” Mrs. Curmudgeon cut me off and saved the poor wretch before I could sell him blinker fluid and a reverse mortgage. A salesdrone appeared. I melted into the background and joined the kids in the Lego aisle. Legos rock!

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Curmudgeon showed up amid the Legos. She looked pale and spoke weakly. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“OK fine let’s… hey is that a package in your hand?”

“Shut up.”

“Did you get the iSlab you wanted?”

“Yes. And I got the deal with the gift card. It was a good price.” She looked like she’d had a pint of blood extracted through her credit card.

I thought about making a joke involving Turbo Encabulators but decided I’d rather not get kicked in the balls. Mrs. Curmudgeon, like me, doesn’t like big purchases. They almost hurt. I groped for something non-committal to say.

“Right, well off to the parking lot eh?”

Ten minutes later we were in the car. She was still white as a sheet. Time to break the tension.

“Are you happy? It looks cool.”

“Yes, but I HATE spending that kind of money.”

“Honey, that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said. You are so hot right now.”

“Quit it, I’m freaking out.”

I knew exactly what was going on in her mind. We’re alike in that way. Many years ago I treated myself to a nice hunting rifle and scope. I practically stroked out at the cost. The rifle was worth it and the iSlab would be too. We’re just nervous about large numbers; in fact Mrs. Curmudgeon is more frugal than me. But an iSlab is not a Ferrari and only freaks like me type on an AlphaSmart and upload from a Raspberry Pi.

“You’ve wanted it forever. Enjoy it.” I really meant it.

“But… money.”

“Bah, we can afford it. Enjoy your shiny toy. It’s not like we’re going to wind up living in a cardboard box.”

She nodded.

“Besides.” I continued, “that box is way too small to live in…”

You gotta’ pitch the one liner when the universe cues it up. Mrs. Curmudgeon laughed so I think it’s OK.

An hour later she was finally relaxing. “Well,” she sighed “at least I’ve got my Christmas present. Thanks.”

Huh?

“This is exactly what I wanted.” She continued. “I don’t want anything more for Christmas.”

My spidey senses tingled. Was this a trap?

“You don’t want other stuff for Christmas?” Was I off the hook for Christmas shopping? Holy shit! This was awesome. Christmas shopping is hell, I occasionally screw up and get her a really retarded gift. I never know which gift will be my next epic faceplant. I DIDN’T HAVE TO LIFT A FINGER AND CHRISTMAS SHOPPING FOR MY WIFE WAS OVER!

“Want more stuff? After that extravagance? Hell no!” She meant it.

It had to be a trap. I’m not a subtle man so I asked. “Is this a trap?”

“Nope. Your Christmas shopping for me is done.” She smiled.

“Can I have that in writing?” I’ve been married a long time and haven’t yet figured out the rules. (And I never will.) Maybe I should get it notarized?

“You can relax. That thing cost a fortune. I am perfectly happy.”

“OK fine, but I’m putting this in my blog.”

She agreed.

So there you have it folks. If I wind up dead on December 26th, you know why.

I didn’t buy a firearm on Black Friday for the same reason I rarely get drunk on New Year’s Eve. I’m cheap and don’t do crowds. On the other hand, whenever a law abiding citizen buys a firearm the universe finds a utopian nanny state hippie and kicks him in his underused balls. That’s a good thing and it’s happening more often every year. Americans, the real kind, the kind that spend their own money, are getting in the habit of applying the “we like freedom” hint with a sledgehammer every Black Friday. I first noticed it back in 2011:

“It’s a reasonable guess that there are some 129,000 more guns in the hands of free American citizens than there were the day before.  Huzzah!”

I figured it was more or less a statistical anomaly combined with the predictable buying craze that happens every time a gun banner gets too uppity. Surely it couldn’t last? After all guns are expensive and last virtually forever. Indeed you can never have too many firearms (perish the thought!) but logically I expected demand to moderate. How many Toyotas would be sold if every Model T and every car sold since was nearly as good and most were still running?

Apparently lots of them. Americans continue to double down:

“More Americans had their backgrounds checked purchasing guns on Black Friday than any day on record… The National Instant Criminal Background Check System processed 185,345 requests on Nov. 27”

Biggest. Day. Ever.

This got me thinking. More free American citizens plunked down real cash for freedom on one day than six Boston Marathons, a vegan knitting circle, every bar in my county, and eleven long haired Friends of Jesus in a chartreuse microbus. Then again they spent more on XBoxes and novelty underwear too. When numbers get large it’s hard to know if it’s a real thing or just a big number.

I wondered; “Is this a big deal or not?” I didn’t have the answer. My dog was asleep and unavailable for consultation. The duck knows but he’s not talking.

It was time to do what no journalist has done in decades; investigate. First I started estimating how many law abiding American citizens could conceivably buy a firearm. This is surprisingly a difficult number to find. The Census is all about counting people. They simply love slicing and dicing by race, age, sex, and so on. But sorting out what I’d call “normal people” is not politically correct. There are piles of charts about how many black versus hispanic versus whites in the 18-24 age class live in a specific region on alternate leap years. If I want to know how many are actually law abiding citizens… well that’s badthink.

Seeking answers, I searched on “how many American citizens”. (This was based on the theory that, at least for now, population isn’t citizenry. Also that illegal aliens are still illegal aliens in the real world. California will give them a driver’s license and Washington state will give them a joint but nobody will allow the real proof of freedom… a legal firearm). Then I realized “citizen” includes minors. Not even Texans give infants guns. Fair nuff. Then I realized that “citizen” doesn’t rule out “felon” but “felon” rules out “law abiding”. (It’s a tautology fer crissakes!)

Finally I refined my search parameters and typed in “How many people are law abiding American citizens who are adults and not fuck ups?” It’s what I wanted after all.

I could hear the NSA hard drives spinning and somewhere an analyst put a pin on a map. Google and the Census wept. But I persevered and got some data. If you’re willing to live with crude general estimates I got this:

Obviously this is highly simplified. Somewhere there’s a non-citizen, minor, felon and he’s screwing up what should be a simple chart. He’s also stealing hubcaps in Sausalito; so what? It’s my blog and I’m not about to let my question (“is this a big deal or is it not”) bog down in exceptions. My question is all about general scale.

Once you’ve got a reasonable estimate of law abiding, adult, American citizens it’s time to wonder how many of them had a handful of cash and a hankering to part with it in a way that freaks out hoplophobic chickenshits.

Here goes:

So what’s the conclusion? I’m thinking Black Friday is fun but just a rounding error. Technically it’s 0.14% of my “good to go” population. Didn’t seem like much. Then again Rome wasn’t built (or armed) in a day.

Once you add up all of October it gets interesting. That pencils out at 1.45% of the “good to go” population. So if you and 200 of your “good to go” pals had an October BBQ (and I’ll bet it would be awesome) one or two of em would have a new toy. Cool.

Crank it up to this year (which ‘aint even over) and the number is just under 13%. Good grief that’s a lot. Your awesome BBQ would have 26 new toys in the mix. (Yes yes, I’m aware that one NICS check might mean multiple guns. I’m also aware that there are a few of us out there who make multiple purchases in a year. You lucky bastards!) Even glossing over the crude numbers that’s a new purchase for every seven “good to go” folks in ten months. I love living in a rich country!

Of course this is America in 2015 so everything from light bulbs to soda sizes is political. You’re all surely wondering how many bitter clingers armed up since the chosen one graced us with his leadership. It clocks in at 86%. So, if you are at the hypothetical BBQ of the “good to go” folks and you haven’t bought at least something since the oceans stopped rising and our planet began to heal… well you’re a weirdo. Seriously man, get with the program. We’re all getting together for a group photo with our statistically likely 172 purchases and you’re going to have to sit out with the 28 freaks who are… boring. Here, eat some yoghurt. Loser.

Finally I looked at all the purchases on the whole 17 year NICS record (which you just know NSA has archived on a thumbdrive somewhere). (I find it ironic that NICS, the very thing that was intended to limit guns, is a nice accurate estimate of their immense popularity.) The count is now at 220,120,868 purchases for my hypothetical population of 135,863,000 “good to go” folks. That’s 162%. At my imagined (and awesome) BBQ that would be well over 300 new toys… I hope everyone brought earplugs; the range goes hot at noon, someone set up the targets.

So yes. It is a big deal and it’s a big deal no matter how you slice and dice the numbers.

Perhaps my oversimplified “good to to” population can be tweaked. If it were lower or higher that wouldn’t change the conclusions. There’s more than enough for one firearm each in any reasonable configuration.

Nor do I assume it’s evenly spread. Certainly collectors and dedicated gun nuts (I say this with reverence) are soaking up a lot of that sweet sweet boomstickery. Meanwhile there are hordes of Woody Allen clones and urbanite cringers who’d weep at the smell of Hoppes #9. They’re still in the “good to go” group even if they wouldn’t touch a firearm with a single limp pale sweaty finger. (Suddenly I wonder if Woody Allen is really a non-felon? Can that be true?)

That variation in who owns what is a feature not a bug. It’s another form (and solid proof) of freedom. What kind of bullying idiot would expect everyone to make the same choices? Oh yeah… that would the jackasses who outlawed my light bulbs and regulate my toilet reservoir and bitch about me driving my own car instead of riding a light rail that doesn’t exist. Even so, as much as I like firearms (and to make fun of yoghurt and Woody Allen), forcing people to buy something they don’t want is just crazy stupid. What kind of freak would think that way? So yeah, it’s unequally distributed but that’s because it’s all purchased by people who want it. Political fluffers will gloat that X people “chose” to join Obamacare or deigned to accept a free cell phone but firearms are all, without exception, both voluntarily undertaken, bought with real private money, and limited to law abiding people. Nice!

Happy post black Friday y’all!

A.C.

P.S. If you didn’t get the hint that this was a crude estimate and you want to run the numbers yourself be my guest. Here are some sources: October 2015, October 2015 from another source, Black Friday 2015, The Census Admits Non-Citizens might have existed in 2010, Princeton counts felons, Minors, and the unexpected joy of a reasonably reliable count of law abiding citizens buying boomsticks in droves.

A week before Thanksgiving Mrs, Curmudgeon and one of the smaller, chronologically inferior, compound residents compared their gadget acquisition plans. She wanted an iSlab or an iFlat or some other physical manifestation of Steve Jobs. The kid wanted some sort of gamery; probably an XWii or a Nintendo2600. Also a copy of GrandTheftMortalAssassinsNFL. I need shoes but am provisionally happy with my duct tape repair job and intend to limp along (in a manner of speaking) until next payday. They ignored me and formed a plan. They would SAVE MONEY by braving the crowds and SHOPPING on BLACK FRIDAY.

I generously offered that I was more than willing to buy anything anyone wanted so long as it could come from Amazon. [Editorial Note from Mrs. Curmudgeon – He’s Lying!] I’d smile and pony up for anything that was delivered by a nice fellow in a truck. Venturing into a commercialist mosh pit, on the other hand, was out of the question. The two of them considered my concerns and subtly hinted my presence was not mission critical. “We’d prefer you stay home” Mrs. Curmudgeon hinted.

Then, because marketing is the work of the devil, the plan changed to Thanksgiving evening. Apparently some sort of shrine to sales would open in the late afternoon of the holiday itself. This would lead to SAVINGS and AWESOME. I volunteered to drive the getaway vehicle. I would drop them off at the door and retire to the nearest “safe zone” (a coffee shop). I would consume $4 lattes and surf free wifi while they endured THE PURCHASING. Once they were done they could text for transport. I’d pick them up at the door. “But I’m not going in.” I explained supportively, “If you are taken out by the zombie hordes, I’m not doing an extraction. You must make it to the parking lot or die trying.” It’s important to define mission parameters.

“Stay here at home. We’ll be back.” Mrs. Curmudgeon repeated, subtly indicating she wanted nothing to do with me and whatever unhinged reaction I’d have to a huge crowd of gadget seekers. Wise woman.

In anticipation of departure they hovered over the computer screen and selected targets. Models were selected, prices analyzed. This was going to be a surgical strike; get in, get the stuff, get out. They acknowledged there was a chance the stuff they wanted would be “sold out”. Failure was an acceptable outcome, but the discount  + gift cards was too big a draw. With great risks come great rewards and they judged it worthy of the hassle.

I applauded their bravery, repeated my admonition that I would not go behind enemy lines on a holiday, offered to pay twice as much on Amazon [Lying Again!! – Mrs. C], and then made a delicious post Thanksgiving sandwich. I waved as they drove off. Poor bastards. I’d probably never see them again.

It’s a long drive and they had a plan involving waiting in line. They wouldn’t be back for hours. I ate an extra helping of cranberries. I watched a documentary about Shackleton; which made being well fed and heated by the fire seem incredibly luxurious. I pondered taking a nap. I was too lazy to take a nap. I enjoyed a good book instead. It was a wonderful afternoon.

Eventually I saw headlights coming down the driveway. They were back. This was way too early! Was someone injured? Did Mrs. Curmudgeon forget her wallet?

As soon as the car rolled up Mrs. Curmudgeon hopped out and explained what had happened. One word:

“RETREAT!”

Apparently they’d surveyed the scene and chosen, without even leaving the car, that it was not worth it. There were too many people with too few teeth. Two cop cars were milling about. Even as they surveyed the scene and calculated odds, more people joined the line. Things looked worse by the minute. The coffee shop was closed. It was 20 degrees out. They’d have to wait hours before the door opening and who knows how bad things would get? The seething mass was something best viewed through the rear view mirror.

Mrs. Curmudgeon, wisely, chose to bug out.

So there you have it. A real world test encounter with the zombie horde and a narrow escape. While no gadgetry was acquired, no limbs were lost, no credit cards melted, and I didn’t have to do squat. So I call it a win!

I think they picked the right course of action. It’s Thanksgiving after all I’ve much for which to be thankful and that includes evading the stores.

A.C.

P.S. Roughly 20 hours later they checked on line and the prices for “Cyber Black Friday” were a pleasant surprise. Apparently the virtual world drops its prices in competition with the crowded, packed hordes, of the “real world”. Who knew? Prices were plenty good enough. They ordered all the things they wanted from Amazon with no muss no fuss. (Also they used links from my blog. If you click on an Amazon link from my blog and buy ANYTHING the benevolent overlords of the internet throw a few farthings into my account. It costs the customer absolutely nothing so please follow their example! Order stuff from Amazon and use my blog and life will be all kittens and puppies!) I think they’ll wind up paying some $18 more than what they’d theoretically have paid in the unlikely instance the items they wanted were in stock after the first wave of humanity had attacked the store. Eighteen bucks to place an order in your pyjamas versus battling it out with six hundred stampeding lunatics? It’s a no brainer.

It’s Thanksgiving. One of my favorite days. I’m pretty good at being thankful for stuff.

Unlike many Americans who compare themselves to what they see on TV or their rich neighbors or whatnot, I’m constantly pleased that I’m not dying of malaria in a mud hut. (I am also pleased when I flip a switch on the wall and lights go on. Trust me on this, AC lighting seems mundane until you don’t have it.)

I don’t know where I got that attitude. Most Americans aren’t sitting in a mud hut. We have lights, and flush toilets, and 50 channels of shit on big screen TVs. We can drink $4 lattes while bitching about the NSA tracking personally owned $300 Smartphones most people use to surf Facebook. ‘Aint life grand? Most folks think civilization is no big deal but I’m ecstatic. Why I’m delighted to be “average” is beyond me. Yet there it is.

We are among the most fortunate people to be in one of the most fortunate nations in one of the most fortunate times in all of mankind’s long and messy history. Yay!

Happy Thanksgiving

A.C.

P.S. I didn’t explain the title. My grandmother, who was an excellent human being, fount of wisdom, and tough as nails, used to have a phrase she applied whenever I (as a young child Curmudgeon) complained about anything. “Waaahhhh, I fell off my bicycle, school sucks, the AMC Gremlin is disgusting, I hate broccoli…” She’d give me an evil smile and say “Yeah, well it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.” (Not that she’d take out my eye, but somehow you got the idea her idea of a bad day made my complaints seem like a cakewalk.) She was brilliant. When you set the bar at searing pain, everything seems better; and then you shut up an leave your grandmother in peace. (Which was likely her main goal.) So I share this with you; wisdom from my grandmother to the universe. Enjoy it. And have a splendid holiday.

Kids area a pain in the ass. Sure sure, they’re the light of our lives and something our heart and soul cherishes. But you can’t deny there’s a certain level of annoyance. There are hassles from the first time you find a cookie stuffed in your shoe, through the times they flush a stuffed animal into the sewer system, to the Lego in the toaster, to the moment when your car has a dent and the explanation is unbelievable; then they go to college and come out slightly older and statistically they’re likely to go from clueless to a depth and breadth of stupidity that’ll take years to outgrow. It’s a Sisyphean challenge to raise a child.

That said I love my kids and intend to either produce fine intelligent self reliant young adults or kill them working on it. Would that all parents produce young men and women instead of the balless debt monsters wallowing in the average University.

. . .

So there I was, standing in the wind, snow blowing so much as to make vision hard. Half dead from an illness. Waving a flashlight vaguely. Clutching an idiot laying hen and the sexy resistance chicken with whom she’d shacked up. Yammering about frozen pipe in the coop. The stupid was about waist deep and a new life; say living in a condominium in Miami and hiring illegal aliens do the yard maintenance was sounding better and better.

Then the sole of my shoe ripped in half. What the fuck!?!

So what I’m saying is that it wasn’t a good evening.

Just then Mrs. Curmudgeon and a teenager arrived. She, having been informed of the iced pipe, had picked up a heat tape en route home. Well done! The teenager, a species of being that is statistically more useless than chickenshit on a pump handle, sized up the situation and asked the greatest question in the world. “What do you need?”

Dear God there’s hope for us all!

I barked the vaguest of instructions, “Help mom get firewood before my balls freeze off.” Then the chicken in my arms squawked and I dropped the heat tape. I started juggling them and dropped the pipe wrench out of my pocket. I was utterly distracted and too busy to supervise. Also I have injuries (about which which I won’t elaborate at the moment but it’s nothing huge) that preclude me handling firewood. (For me, not handling firewood is concentrated misery but it’s not like I’m in a wheelchair or something.)

I’d said “get firewood” and immediately left. The die had been cast.

In the coop I performed a miracle. Frost free hydrants have pipes that go way down; probably to the earth’s core. I used a great deal of swearing and a broken rake handle to wrap that tape around the pipe precisely where it needed to be. Somehow I’d installed it in a space that would give a mouse claustrophobia. Plus I’d managed the thermostat and whatnot above ground level. Given a bad space where the work had to be done I’d made a good go of it. I plugged it in and left the pipe to the ministrations of electrons which had been excited in another time zone. (Yes, going off grid is romantic, but I never ever forget to be impressed by the awesome utility of 24/7 power.)

Then came the slog back to my house. My shoes, with the ripped soles, accumulated ice and it was like walking on a golf ball. l was exhausted. I’d left the flashlight somewhere. It had been a rough day.

What should I spy but the kid desperately grunting and pushing and shoving the pony trailer’s ball hitch. I hobbled over and either due to my massive level of experience with iced up trailer components or the fact that I was more than willing to rip my spine in half, I got the thing unhitched. Together we set the trailer down, where it would most certainly ice itself to the firmament within hours. The kid thanked me. I thanked the kid.

Then, and only then, I realized I was witnessing a miracle. He was unhitching the trailer. Which means it no longer needed to be hitched to the ATV (which was idling). Which means…

“You’ve already hauled the wood?”

“Yep, Mom and I did it. She’s starting the fire right now. I’m gonna’ park this thing and go inside. I’m beat.”

“I…” I was speechless.

“Pigs are fed too. Not so hard to get around in the pen now that it’s ice.”

“Yeah the mud sucked… You already hauled the wood?”

The kid didn’t hear me. Instead there was a revving of the ATV engine, followed by a  mechanical pirouette (just like I’ve done a thousand times; apparently the kid was watching and has mastered it). I saw a glimpse of a red taillight blasting for the garage and then it was gone.

The wood was already done! Before I could wipe the tear from my eye the ATV was parked and the kid was in the house. I sauntered over to the garage and closed the door (the kid has forgotten to close the door but otherwise done incredibly well). Then I declared the day done.

The fire was warm. Mrs. Curmudgeon was already parked by the fire and the cat (which was evil) was already trying to bite her. The kid was already off doing whatever teenagers do. Probably a video game or a manifesto about how adults are idiots or something.

There was half a face cord of wood stacked and ready. The cat was climbing on it, Mrs. Curmudgeon was burning it, I was simply beside myself with happiness at the heat.

Think about the people you know. Ponder the people you work with. If you need a laugh think about politicians and celebrities. How many of them can fire up an ATV (she’s a cold blooded model too), drive through the snow, hitch up a trailer, load the trailer, tow the load through the dark and bitter wind over icy terrain, unload the trailer, return the trailer to it’s designated spot, park the ATV, remember to turn off the fuel line…

Hell the key was even hanging on the rack where it goes.

By God the kid is going to make it! A fine young adult is forming before my very eyes. Sure, I froze the pipes and will only know if the heat tape worked sometime tomorrow and the chickens are missing and I still have nightmares about the AMC Gremlin… but a new generation is coming on line and that too was my responsibility and it means a hell of a lot more to get that right than fretting over an iced pipe. The kid’s doing well. I call that a win!