Social Observation #2987 – (Or: America’s Hard Core)

I’m traveling from nowhere to nowhere. Today I’m hanging out in the 98% of the continent called (by some) “flyover country”. It’s nice. Serene even. They should organize guided field trips so urbane coastal sycophants and butt sniffing politicians could see what the world is like where people make the engines of civilization run. (Lets be frank, these are the places that really matter. If the supply of corn flakes and crude oil stops rolling out of the heartland, nobody’s going to give a shit about gun control and gay marriage in New York or LA.)

Over shitty coffee and worse breakfast in a forgettable hotel restaurant I was exposed to “news”. Fortunately the TV was on mute. People in a country I couldn’t readily identify were busy carrying on a centuries old social improvement project by hitting each other with sticks and rocks. They appeared to be screaming at each other. Here’s a hint, if you’re screaming to make the world a better place, you’re a dipshit.

I supposed the argument was about God and how his biggest interest in running the universe is the life and welfare of rock throwing nitwits on one side of some age old dispute. Perhaps they were yelping about how the heathen scumbags on the other side of this super damn important dispute were evil incarnate? Presumably the streets, once filled with the blood of unbelievers, would no longer have potholes? I couldn’t tell if they were fighting over a whole nation or a city block. There was a burning Fiat in the background. No Fiat is important enough to burn. It could have been breaking news or a replay from decades ago.

Deliberately ignoring the TV, I picked up the local paper. I forgot it’s name; “The Cowtown News” or something similar. It had absolutely no “important” news whatsoever but plenty of high school sports and the comics. I like comics. The paper was remarkably free of controversy. No word about the TSA which had recently crawled up my ass nor the NSA which is setting up a camp there.

It was a short paper.

Something on the last pages caught my eye. It was the “church report”. A two page spread, which for this little pamphlet, was huge. For each church in the vicinity there were a few paragraphs. I pay attention to Church like a squirrel pays attention to Jupiter, but the paper was short and I had more shitty coffee to drink so I read further. Each little article was a synopsis of a Church’s Sunday (or other) service.

“At Church A Reverend Smith told the congregation that it’s totally uncool to covet their neighbor’s tractor. Even if your neighbor’s tractor has in-cab heat and you’re freezing your balls off just suck it up and smile. Jesus, of course, will forgive your sins but you gotta’ meet the guy halfway.”

“At Church B, Father Jones told the congregation that they’d better get with doing good things ’cause God is paying attention. Jones continued by explaining that God is taking notes and he’s getting pretty sick of everyone’s shit. Also the Zebb family of East Main Street just had a beautiful daughter so shake their hand on the way out.”

“At Church C, Jeannie told everyone to hug their neighbor and conserve water because it’s a drought.” A hippie church? Here in the middle of wheat fields? Be still my beating Prius!

“Church D is holding a raffle and bake sale for unfortunate victims of wolverine attacks.”

“Church E implores you to quit drinking, smoking, swearing, and generally behaving like a moron. Also the ‘Toys for Tots’ Christmas drive was a big success.”

“The town’s synagogue wishes to thank everyone for learning to spell ‘synagogue’ and also inviting them to Christmas parties last month.”

Every church, and there were many, was on the same page. I was delighted! Why? Because it’s part of America’s brilliance!

It’s easy to forgot that our heart is in the right place. Despair seems logical. We’ve got a debt of $17,324,010,325,351.85 and two parties of dumbasses who simultaneously deplore the situation, want to control it, and are the ones that created it. Meanwhile the NSA bugs my phone and the TSA fondles my balls because people from Saudi Arabia crashed a plane in a different timezone a dozen years ago. That makes sense? To whom?

Letting dissonance roll off your back takes a strong spine. But don’t give in. Hang tight. Bullshit is not the whole story. America is, has been, and remains the biggest baddest dude on the block. The silly little newspaper in flyover country proves it.

Our country has such big brass balls that we’ve got a dozen competing religious institutions in one town. Are they at war? Are the Baptists setting fire to the Catholic’s Toyotas? Are Jehovah’s Witnesses beheading grandmothers at the Hippie Unitarian bake sale and yoga gathering? Hell no!

America is so rock solid… so completely in control of it’s own immense self that we coexist in peace and harmony every damn day. Food gets processed, trucks run, shipments are made, and it happens like clockwork. Agnostics, atheists, the lazy, and the hung-over happily spend the weekend watching the Broncos piss themselves and welding monster trucks. Yet they get along just fine with the devout who have an exclusive, all expense paid, golden ticket to heaven. The newspaper was proof that believers of several religions could interact with their deity of choice weekly without lobbing rockets into each other’s back yard. Meanwhile everyone (in flyover country at least) gets their ass to work Monday morning to keep the whole thing afloat.

Americans never let religion interrupt the bacon supply. That’s just how we roll!

It a mature society to put our beliefs all out there on a single page. Side by side. Ready for comparison. In competition; presumably of the friendly sort. We do this weekly and everyone, everywhere, gets to believe whatever the hell they want. We’ve got polite society so damn figured out that nobody sane cares to cause a ruckus. Religious riots, tantrum level behavior wrought large, are big fun in various parts of the world. Not here. Never! We don’t play that game. It’s beneath us.

Besides, if Americans really went toe to toe we wouldn’t screw around throwing rocks. Top predators usually avoid fighting each other. They know better. For the most part, Americans get this. Whether from moral dictate or simply because we’re not idiots; we get the fuck along! We do this not because we’re weak, but because we’re strong. Battle, for us, is not a hobby.

Getting along is the hard core way to live and we’re fearless about it!

I glanced back at the mute TV. A couple dickheads were throwing rocks at an ambulance. I still couldn’t identify the location. Whatever country was involved, it looked like the gross national product is dirt.

Also, how low on the scale of dumbass do you need to go to throw a rock at an ambulance? Americans pull our humongous overpowered SUV 4×4 battle cruisers to the side of the road so ambulances can go faster. Do we do that because we’re afraid of ambulances? Do we do it because we’re afraid of cops protecting the ambulance? No, we do it because we’re not idiots!

Whatever rock throwing, car burning, stomping around the streets, screaming with fists waving in the air, chimps were barking about on TV there’s only one thing I know for sure. They’re weak. A “church report” could start a riot. Assuming literacy in whatever shithole I was watching (which is questionable) a paper like the one I’d just read would make a not insignificant portion of their population go apoplectic. ‘Cause they’re pussies!

America does every day what half the world thinks is impossible. We don’t even notice.

Good for us.

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Ignoring The Superbowl

Yesterday’s conversation at Curmudgeon Compound:

Me: “I stopped to fuel up the truck and it was chaos. Cars, trucks, all sorts of people acting like nimrods in heat. It was like opening day of deer season but with fewer rifles. The weather looks clear so I’m not sure what had everyone stirred up.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “It’s Superbowl Sunday.”

Me: “That explains it! A run on cheap beer and fritos at the last minute. Whew… I though maybe another storm was coming.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “You didn’t think to talk to anyone? Maybe ask what’s up?”

Me: “Nope, I swiped my card at the pump and got outta’ there. Why hang around a crowd trying to figure out the news? Better to flee before some chimp on a beer run dents my truck.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “You and the truck; it could have been the impending zombie apocalypse and you’d miss it.”

Me: “Is that a bad thing to miss?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: (Changing the subject.) “We didn’t get invited to a Superbowl party this year but I got invited to an Oscar’s party next month.”

Me: “‘No’ to football and ‘Yes’ to Hollywood? Apparently I’m gay.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “You aren’t but my friends are, and you’re not invited Sasquatch. Call ’em and ask for an invite after you learn to rock a tux.”

(I glanced down at my clothes. I was wearing overalls.)

Me: “Maybe I’m just unpopular?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “That’s what happens when you’re an isolationist.”

Me: “I’m comfortable with that. You enjoy the party and I’ll stay home. I might read.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Pick a book without zombies for once.”

Me: (Imagining a perfect evening of doing absolutely nothing; sipping a glass of whiskey, dog snoozing at my feet, a recliner by the fire… I was already deciding which book I should read.) “I’ve got a book about that Somali Pirate event a few years ago. I’ll read that.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “That’s a movie; ‘Captain Phillips’. It might win an Academy Award.”

Me: (Makes a sound exactly like Lurch from the Addams Family.)

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Light Posting

I haven’t posted much lately. Mother Nature is trying to kick my ass.

I will post more when nature is less focused on reducing me and everyone in my house to a series of ice sculptures surrounded by a collapsed roof heaped on a bunch of frozen pipes. Also, to our Canadian friends further to the north… I can only assume you’re all dead. Sorry eh.

Excuse me while I go looking for the truck. It was visible when I parked it.

Excuse me while I suit up to go find the truck. It was visible when I parked it.

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This Song Will Never leave Your Head

I’ve always liked The Oatmeal but I had no idea they’d branched out into music videos. (Apparently I live under a rock or something.) My Muse shanked me tipped me off to what I was missing.

Warning: It’s entirely unsafe for work. It’s crude. It’s pretty much entirely composed of vulgarity. You have been warned. Also, once you hear the song it will never leave. You’ll hum it all day long. There is no escape!

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So I’m Not The Only Person Who’s Felt Like This

Dead Man Dance put words on a mental state which heretofore has remained ill defined.

“Tired but not sleepy, hungry but vaguely nauseous. What is it that hippies talk about? Chi? Biorythm? I think mine is gone.”

It’s a feeling that we’ve all had. I get it when I’m overworked and especially if I’ve been on the road a lot. I try to call it “strung out from the road” but that makes me sound like a crappy Bob Seger song. Kudos to Dead Man Dance for an apt description.

Note: I don’t necessarily get fried from many miles of merely driving. Under the right circumstances like the road. A good machine under my control and an excellent road is the closest thing I’ll ever get to wings! (This is also why hippies and busybodies will never fully shove all Americans into buses and light rail. When you’re in a bus you’re cargo. When you’re piloting a vehicle you’re the captain of your own ship, shaping your destiny, seeing the world as a million generations before the internal combustion engine could only dream. To have abilities akin to the Gods and throw them away for a commuter bus pass is more or less a surrender of the soul.) The limiting factors are time away from home, erratic schedules, shitty food, and excess work… it’s a deadly combination and it’ll strike more completely when you’re sitting on your ass begging for a packet of peanuts on a plane as when you’re blasting a motorcycle solo through a lonely Wyoming windstorm.

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Do Not Go Quietly Into The Suck

I fly. Not in the good way, with dragons wings, LSD, or my own bushplane. I fly in the bad way, on commercial airlines.

Commercial flight is a relentless circular firing squad that starts with TSA fondling my balls and ends when I’m infuriated and hollow; slumped across the car rental counter discovering my reservation has vanished and now I’ll have time to wait for my lost luggage because the last car was rented to someone who fled the terminal five minutes ago. The degree and complexity of many little annoyances is awe inspiring. It takes work to devolve transport into something so deeply unpleasant.

I once liked flying. (Anything that has engines the size of a Japanese apartment is pretty cool.) Oh to be so young and impervious again. Over time commercial flight went from mildly inconvenient to insufferable. I it wasn’t any particular indignity that made the difference. It was the aggregation of them.

Also, it was me. I changed. I came to believe that free citizens simply shouldn’t be treated in certain ways. Further, I began to think that my submission to a system’s mistreatment reflected as poorly on me as the system.

My last straw was the “perv scan”. I’m not particularly worried about somebody seeing my naked ass but I am very worried about Americans being trained to walk through machines. Are people who, like trained poodles, jump through hoops on order… diminished? I think they are.

“[A] long train of abuses and usurpations”. It’s of a kind if very minor in degree. I don’t want to go overboard. TSA is nothing like the real and horrible oppression that is the lot of so many. Nor is shuffling citizens through a reverse orgasmitron a bullet to the head or starvation in the Gulag.

What it is, however, is training. You train people to eat shit before you serve it.

So I cut way back on commercial air flight. For a few years I cut it to zero. (Good for me!) It made a difference. I was pleased to have avoided one of the modern world’s annoyances.

Alas air travel is a natural monopoly. (My truck can’t drive to Norway or cross six time zones in a day.) I backslid. Here I am; eating shit. Again. Dammit!

I wondered the last time I was so royally pissed off with flight. Turns out I blogged about it in 2010; “I’m in the clutches of that great Kafkaesque clusterfuck called air travel. Nothing can save me.

Same shit, different day.

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Eleven Dollars

An open letter to an airport; you know who you are.

I can forgive the TSA’s attempt to rape me. I hope you enjoyed it, you damn perverts.

I can forgive the airline that canceled my flight in anticipation of weather rather than because of it. I can forgive canceling my flight a day before the weather that didn’t happen. I can forgive not contacting me when I could easily have made adjustments in advance. I can forgive causing me to leaving my comfortable home many hours in advance for the privilege of watching my life, like sands through an hourglass, pour out on the concourse’s shitty tiled floor. I can forgive seats ideally sized for 8 year old female gymnasts, half ounce packets of pretzels, and generally turning the magic of flight from a golden adventure into a Kafkaesque nightmare.

However, there is no forgiveness in my heart for the airport lounge. Charging stranded innocents $11 for the booze they desperately need to keep from committing mayhem upon a vast system of integrated failure is simply wrong. It’s wrong written in neon on the face of humanity. It’s shitty on a galactic scale. Eleven bucks for a single mediocre drink is a sin against nature, an abomination before God, and a violation of civilizing norms. The sooner divine retribution sweeps their poisonous fangs from the neck of society the better. I don’t hope they die in a fire. I fervently dream of it. When it happens I will dance on their grave and sing songs about it. I’ll pay good money for an obelisk and erect it at their corporate front door. I’ll carve “Fuck them” on it’s base and hire street urchins to urinate hourly on their fiscal bottom line while commissioning an opera to commemorate how truly repulsive I found my tab.

Trust me on this, nothing good comes from being assholes. It’s good to make a profit, it’s evil to bleed a prisoner. I don’t know what will be the agent of karmic correction but I’m hoping it’s ugly and spectacular; possibly involving venereal disease, brimstone, and radioactive tapeworms.

As always, thanks for listening.

A.C.

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Winter Of Doom: Part 3

From Theo Spark:

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Winter of Doom: Part 2

After some arctic heroics I wound up idling five vehicles. One that was my truck (works just fine thank you). I didn’t need to charge the battery but you’d have to be a special kind of stupid to turn off the only sure fire heat in the vicinity). Plus four I’d “encouraged” until they ran. Just for the record Al Gore can suck it, when I take a block of machine that’s nothing but a monthly payment that needs a tow and turn it back into a mode of transportation I’d happily drop a polar bear in a woodchipper to keep it that way.

Newsflash, when you’re idling multiple cars in very nasty cold all you want to do is climb inside the defroster vent and listen to the radio. Second newsflash, the radio has very dumb people who aren’t smart enough to put on a song and shut the hell up. What do they talk about when it’s damn cold out? It sure as hell ‘aint Federal Reserve rates and technical refinements in nucleotide sequencing.

It turns out there’s such a thing as naming a storm. Hercules? I call bullshit! Time for a Curmudgeonly Gem of Insight. Everyone get out a magic marker and write the following statement on the forehead of the nearest weather announcer:

“Every blizzard has a name. That name is ‘winter’.”

Also, if you use the word “snowed in” in any sentence that has the phrase “2 to 7 inches” you are hereby ordered to never speak again. (Living in Delaware is no excuse!)

Now they’re predicting another storm. Ion?

Oh. Hell. No!

“The first blizzard of January shall be called ‘winter’. The next blizzard shall be called ‘winter’. Repeat until the robins come back or the glaciers kill us all.”

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Winter Of Doom: Part I

I live far enough north that sometimes it scares me. The cold sometimes exceeds the invigorating chilliness associated with rosy cheeked kids playing pond hockey and becomes more like the eternal frozen death of outer space. There’s a difference! (Also I think I may become Canadian by default. As an American I’m pretty sure they’re better off without me but I really dig poutine and Trailer Park Boys. I may be doomed.)

Also, it’s important to separate genuine rough conditions from posing. Inexplicably, everyone likes to think their chunk of the planet is the toughest. Why? When someone from Atlanta visits Fairbanks they’ll say “well yeah, it gets cold where I live too. Once, I had to wear flannel.” Why do people do this? After all, it’s pretty cool to live where nature isn’t actively trying to murder you and besides we can’t all be Fremen.

(Here’s a hint, wind chill numbers are for sissies. If you are in my presence and repeat the “wind chill factor” because it’s an extreme number I reserve the right to hit you with a shovel.)

Here’s an example, when I was in Death Valley I was very careful. I did not say “Sure Furnace Creek is toasty warm but it’s not the heat it’s the humidity and my place back home is all kinds of humid.” That was my little gift to the global stockpile of humility. We can all learn a lesson from this. (The lesson is to visit Death Valley… it’s awesome.)

I wore this exact outfit to Furnace Creek. Sandworm or motorcycle... it's all the same.

I wore this exact outfit to Furnace Creek. Sandworm or motorcycle… it’s all the same.

At any rate I’ve been feeling like the final scene in the Shining. It’s been a bitch.

Fuck the jumper cables, I'm just gonna' sit here and wait for spring.

Fuck the jumper cables, I’m just gonna’ sit here and wait for spring.

Today I had to start four”frozen” vehicles.

  1. The first was a simple jump start. I have excellent jumper cables. The hefty conducting cables are as thick as a politician’s reasoning. Good jumper cables are a wise investment.
  2. The second was another simple jump start. Did you read #1? If you have crap ass  jumper cables do yourself a favor; saunter to the auto parts store (or hitch a ride because you’re a dumbass who can’t jump start your car) and buy the biggest baddest monsters you can find. Spare no expense. This is the first step on the road to enlightenment.
  3. The third was a delicate operation involving replacing a frozen battery. Sadly, it was on a modern car and therefore I had to do friggin’ surgery to get the damn thing out of the maze they call an engine. There’s no reason any battery on anything other than a true performance racing machine should weigh less than 40 pounds and be smaller than a bowling ball. Further, oddly shaped or uncommon sized batteries are a sign that the engineers involved are malcontents. Also, opening a doorknob at -24 is a feat so changing a battery in the dark when it’s even colder is damn near heroic.
  4. The last was the worst. It wasn’t just a cold battery; it was a truck that had given up on living. I didn’t merely start the vehicle. I performed a full blown exorcism and resurrection. It one was touch and go. Unusual tactics were involved. Some stuff may have melted. (Whoops!) Frankly I was an inch away from declaring that nothing short of immersion in lava would get it moving. This was unusual. I can make almost anything breathe life (if only because my swearing scares the ailing machine back from the dead) but this hunk of crap on wheels seemed to really relish being dead. In retribution I’d like to carpet bomb Detroit for making such crap. (Of course bombing Detroit would be slapping a masochist but that’s a topic for some other day.)

Just in case you’re going to say something snarky… my truck started and ran just fine. (It did this because it loves me, I speak fluent “truck”, and I treat it well.) My trusty steed (a diesel) spent half the night serving as a six ton rumbling flashlight and warming hut while every  gas powered apparatus in the vicinity bailed. Go figure.

Having once again saved the day, or at least four vehicles, I had a chance to turn on the radio. Big mistake!

Tune in for part two whenever I get my ass in gear and write it.

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