Adaptive Curmudgeon

Today’s roofing based journey of discovery started at a store I’m not going to name but rhymes with “Bone Despot”.  After some time I arrived at the conclusion of… Fuck them.

The next store was more helpful; which is like saying it’s better to be groped by the TSA than shot by Stalin’s henchmen.  Should I cheer for the TSA?

I already knew I had X square feet of roof.  This was non-carpentry math and therefore made sense.  I have a tape measure, understand the concept of “slope”, and mastered fifth grade geometry.  Yay me.

“I need enough shingles to cover X square feet” I explained.

They looked at me like I had a face made entirely of armpits.

This is when I remembered that I was buying construction materials and was therefore no longer participating in a logical universe.  I needed to speak their inane language of units based on astrology.  A “square”, for reasons known only to carpenters and the Illuminati, is the amount of shingles that’ll cover 100 square feet.

I tried again.  “I need X/100 ‘squares’ of shingles.”

They sprung into action.  Soon I was looking at a “parts list”.  It started with the “squares” and continued through endless picky little details right up to and including several huge boxes of coil nails.  I liked the list.  It looked complete.  A job well defined is half done!

Then I read the price and shit myself.  After that I started talking in tongues, smelled brimstone, and passed out.  “Why not just bend me over the counter and have your way with me right here?”  I wailed.

OK I didn’t actually say that.  Instead I stuffed it all down inside for that heart attack all men have waiting for them.

I soldiered on.  Apparently a “square” is no longer 100 square feet.  Why?  Because screw you that’s why.  It’s about 97.9 square feet.  Or maybe something else.  Yep, it varies depending on which brand of shingle you select.  (Is this what women experience with dress sizes?)

My fuse was lit again.  What good can come of a unit of 97.9 square feet?  Those Godless bastards had gone too far!  I started winding up for a righteous speech about how 100 square feet is reasonable and everyone else needs to have my foot kicked so far up their…

At this juncture Mrs. Curmudgeon said some soothing words (“shut up fool and pay the man”).  Well said dear.  I mellowed my inner harsh and adjusted the order slightly to make up for suckitudinous unitage.

I was back on track.  Like water off a duck’s back baby!

Then they asked if I wanted to put it on my “store card”.  Screw that!  I have my own resources.  What’s this? I get a hundred bucks cash back?  Well sign me up!  I surrendered my personal information (and dignity) because I’ll get a $100 “rebate” in six weeks and daddy needs a new toolbox.  Then I noticed the APR.  24%.  Really?  Are you kidding me?  I started another rant.  This time centered on usury and the appropriate reaction to a 24% APR.  Mrs. Curmudgeon distracted me by promising to arrange the check within 24 hours.  Whew!  If I pay even one penny of good money on their evil card I’ll never forgive myself.  After all, 24% would make Al Capone seem benevolent.

“Now about the free delivery…”  What’s this?  It’s not free?  “I drop the price of a three karate diamond on pebble covered felt and you jackoffs want $79 to deliver it?”  I harrumphed a bit and pondered the hassle involved.  Finally I wavered.  Sometimes it’s worth it to pay to avoid a tough job.

“OK, ship the stuff to my house at…”  What’s this?  The truck ‘aint here?

“Well fine, call the guy and have him deliver it to…”  What’s this?  Not coming until Wednesday?  Can you say “blow me”!?!

Everyone at the materials counter came to a halt.  Most people simply accept the delay while the delivery guy is gone.  Why?  Because we’re slowly devolving into a population of spineless chickenshits that’s why!  I will not go quietly into that dark night.

More in Part III.

Just for the record I’m good at math.  I’m not afraid to calculate anything; ranging from the rate of return on your “investment” in a chromed out Harley to the odds you’ll get struck by lightning while having sex with a supermodel.  (Hint: still higher than the ROI on a Harley.)  Also, and I say this to prove I’m fearless (or stupid), I do my own taxes.

However, I loathe “carpentry” math.  It’s a bullshit combination of medieval superstition, corporate malfeasance, and dipshit tradition.  The units associated with construction materials are so gruesome that my brain takes flight and I start whirling around in circles until I fall down.  (Try that in the plumbing isle and see if you can find a “sales associate” to help you find the right roll of aluminum flashing.)

The worst part is that everything, and I mean everything, is a fractional size that is almost but not quite something that makes sense.  Why must they do that to me?

I hate the fact that a 2″ x 4″ stud is really 1 1/2 ” by 3 1/2″.  It’s like saying the Easter Bunny is really a marsupial from Jupiter.  Further, since everyone accepts that explanation I should just shut up and eat my damn candy. Really?  I say no!

That’s just the tip of the iceberg.  There’s a cosmic injustice involved in 3/8″ nominal plywood that clocks in at 11/32″.  I implore the universe to make 3/8″ stuff 3/8″ thick.  I’ll pay extra just to avoid getting emotionally hosed trying to evaluating an obscure fractional series while standing in the lumber isle.

The 1/32″ of wood the lumber companies squeeze is causing me to hate my fellow man and that’s too steep a price for society to pay!  For that matter, I’d every time I buy a stud that’s not 2″ x 4″ I just know I’m participating on the death of something holy.  Some day I’m going to buy a goddamn Woodmizer and make my own dimension lumber.  A man needs to take a stand!

Now lets talk about shingles.  Shingles are, in my opinion, proof that humans are just monkeys with cell phones.  Asphalt shingles are essentially a sheet of felt, slimed with tar, and sprinkled with gravel.  That’s the pinnacle of our monkey brained innovation?  These slabs of pretend asphalt road are stacked on the house in an interlocking weave of suck.  Then, because God hates us, they degrade and must be replaced.

Each successive generation of monkeys has to replace the roof.  This year, I drew the short straw.  Someone give me a banana.

It’s backbreaking labor to remove the old crap someone nailed up during the Carter Administration.  Ibuprofen?  Check!

Once there’s a mountain of shingles leaking nails on the lawn you’ve unearthed the tip of the iceberg.  Now you can see how poorly the old roof was functioning.  Not surprisingly I wound up with an axillary home improvement project involving plywood and angles.

Some things are better left unknown.

All this to nail up what seems like a comically crude roofing design for the sole purpose of not getting wet?

(Spare me the talk of metal roofs.  I couldn’t afford that shit if I sold a kidney and smuggled cocaine in the empty cavity.  For me it was a choice of architectural shingles or letting my house rot and selling it as compost.)

The rest of the story follows in part II.

A thousand monkeys hammering a thousand typewriters for a thousand years might produce Shakespeare but spambots aren’t up to the task.  Not that I care.  Most incoming spam is killed by filters long before it slimes up my in-box.  (My filters do a shockingly good job.  I liken them to a pack of trained wolverines.  Why?  Because nothing says “get off my lawn” like a wolverine.  If I could buy a wolverine guard “dog” I’d get three!)

That said, here are a few bits of spam that washed up on my filter:

“I’d like to shoot you ann e-mail. I’ve got some creative ideas for your blog you might be interested in hearing.”

No you don’t.  First of all you can’t spell.  Who makes a robot that can’t spell?  Further, your link goes to something called “Paint On Bridal Position”.  A site which is apparently about shoes.  If you’re going to entice me with something called Paint On Bridal Position it had better darned well be porn on a level that has gone beyond merely prurient and drifted full circle into awe inspiring.  Imagine my disappointment to read of shoes!

“When some one searches for his vital thing, so he/she wants to be available that in detail, thus that thing is maintained over here.”

You’re this dog aren’t you?

“Heya! I’m at work browsing your blog from my new iphone 3gs!”

Put down the phone and get back to work.  The boss isn’t paying you to sit on your ass.

“It’s the best time to make some plans for the future and it’s time to be happy. I’ve read this post and if I could I desire to suggest you some interesting things or tips. Maybe you could write next articles referring to this article. I desire to read even more things about it!”

Ahhh… nothing better than “politician spam”.  Politician spam (a term I just coined) is when spam starts with a statement that is beautiful in its poise and simplicity… then drops a truckload of irrational gibberish on it.  It reminds me of the political speech our society has seen fit to substitute for reasoned debate.

Folks, we should heed the spam.  Right now really is the best time to make plans for the future and it’s always a good time to be happy.  Thus I’m logging off and will immediately adjourn for the porch swing, where I’ll happily make plans of the bright and shiny future when there will be wolverines frolicking on the lawn.

Brilliant!  (Hat tip to The Whited Sepulchre.)

The Worlds Only Rational Man pointed me to a delightful quote:

“The society which scorns excellence in plumbing as a humble activity and tolerates shoddiness in philosophy because it is an exalted activity will have neither good plumbing nor good philosophy: neither its pipes nor its theories will hold water.”

John W. Gardner, Secretary of Health Education and Welfare under JFK and author of “Excellence.”

I’d never heard that one before.

He included a story about a New Detroit splash park [which] opened, minus the water. Now I could make fun of Detroit because they built a “splash park” and didn’t have water but that would be mean.

Bwa ha ha ha ha! Yes I’m mean. What a hoot!

Then, in mid laugh, I had another thought.  The government builds “splash parks”?  WTF?!?

Curmudgeon that I am, I have limited experience with “splash parks”.  In recent centuries I’ve only been to one.  I was dragged there (like all other adults who go to such places) by a child.  Child dove and I oozed into several water filled objects that resembled gargantuan cement mixers.  We sloshed around on the spin cycle until we were both half drowned.  Here’s a hint; the five story slide that children go down on their belly was not calibrated for a two hundred pound man.  I believe my ass broke the sound barrier while my balls were still on the launch pad.  In the end… I lived.

It was fun for child.  It was OK for me (but if I ever go down the five story slide again it’s because Vladimir Putin pushed me).  Also it was expensive.  I left more or less penniless.  Well played oh splash park nemesis!

So what is this Detroit based “government subsidized waterless splash entity”?  Aren’t “splash parks” run by capitalist entities like Six Flags or something?  Apparently not.  The photos make it look like a tepid shadow of the outrageous capitalist ball buster I encountered.

Next question; why?  For this I turn to the Detroit News (which reads like they cut and pasted the press release). Detroit opens splash park in Palmer Park neighborhood. It begins with this:

“Because her Palmer Park neighborhood didn’t have a splash park, [City Council member] Carla Rivers would have to drive her 9-year-old daughter Karis to Farmington Hills to enjoy the experience.

Now after years of having their neighborhood pool shut down, residents like Rivers and their children have a brand-new splash park to call their own.”

So there you have it. In the horrible oppressed days of yore people had to drive their own cars to have the recommended annual dose of splash park experience.  Detroit, because it’s awesome, rectified this situation by using tax dollars to build a “free” splash park.  It was financed, apparently, by unicorns.

Of course I live in the middle of nowhere.  If I want to go to a splash park I have to drive several hours.  Once I get there it’ll cost money to get in and I’ll get raked over the coals for purchases of everything from corn dogs to sunscreen.

What’s the word for someone who must finance his own vehicle, drive it himself, and pay to play?  Oh yeah; it’s called “being an adult”.

One last quote:

“It’s important to keep our kids occupied,” she said. “This facility will definitely keep them occupied.”

Shitty schools and rampant crime in a bankrupt city;  no wonder they’ve got to keep the kids “distracted”.

Meanwhile, curmudgeon that I am, I go swimming fairly often.  I never cost a penny of tax dollars.  I find the nearest lake and jump in.

The water may be a bit cold but it’s free; and when I say something is “free” I don’t mean “paid for by someone else”.  Plus there’s always the chance I’ll catch a fish for lunch.  Detroit, which is essentially bankrupt, could learn a lot by jumping in a lake.

[This part II of a post in which I insult both political parties and try my best to feel sympathy for a lawyer (presumably) who has labored in secret to perpetuate a colossal injustice.  How do I get myself into these things?]

OK fine, assuming I’ve made the point that shit has already hit the fan, who cares?  For part two of my little rambling note I’m going to out myself as having sympathy for one of our oppressors. Yep; I’ve found in my heart a bit of sympathy for one of our nameless overlords. Who knew I had it in me?

I’m referring here to the unnamed person who, in secret, was ordered to justify spying on all Americans. Imagine that job! I’ve shoveled shit. I’ve dug ditches. I’ve worked in brutal cold, blistering heat, dangerous environments, long hours, and I’ve even had to fly to Newark… but no job has ever asked me to shave off a piece of my soul and burn it on my bosses desk.

Someone, presumably a well educated individual, had to form a logical construct about why it’s legal to spy on all Americans. This couldn’t be done by the unaware. The person (or team) who did it knew what he or she was doing. Now they have to carry that burden. Dirt washes off but that won’t fade.

Remember, I’m not talking about the amoral or deluded who did the spying. I’m talking about the poor sap who had to justify it.

Here’s the article that got me thinking about what may be the shittiest job on earth.  It was written by Rep. Jim Sensenbrenner (R-Wis.) and discusses a memo that “justifies” wiretapping every American all the time whenever the NSA feels like it.

“On Aug. 9, the Obama administration released a previously secret legal interpretation of the Patriot Act that it used to justify the bulk collection of every American’s phone records. The strained reasoning in the 22-page memo won’t survive long in public light…”

Imagine that.  Someone had to write a fig leaf to justify folks who intended to do whatever the hell they wanted.  I can’t imagine what that sort of internal dialogue would do to me.  It had to hurt.

It makes sense that the Patriot Act was used for this charade.  The Patriot Act was an affront to civil liberties when it was passed and remains one to this day. As surely as night follows day, it was misused as soon as the opportunity presented itself.  Anyone who’s read history would have seen abuses coming.  Why create a hammer if you’re not looking for a nail?

I find it instructive that both parties are at fault.  When the party of R was in power they passed the bad idea and promised they would never misuse it.  Oh really?  The party of D was not in power so they opposed it (ineffectively).  Then, just about the millisecond the party of D was in charge they decided the Patriot Act was totally awesome.  Oh really?  Meanwhile the party of R suddenly decided the monster they’d created was totally not cool anymore.  Too late suckers!  There is a beautiful (and morally bankrupt) symmetry in a world where both parties embraced spying but only if they got to be the spies.  Neither party did the right thing when they were in power.  Both parties changed their tune when they weren’t holding the reins.

“…the Patriot Act authorizes the collection of certain business records — in this case, phone records — when there are reasonable grounds to believe that the records are relevant to an authorized investigation into international terrorism. The key legal term is ‘relevance.'”

Whomever was forced to write the secret memo to justify spying on all Americans played around with legalese and definitions trying to make a case.  Even then they were hampered by the fact that in the end, they were speaking English.  You cannot do whatever you want by redefining words:

“The administration’s memo begins by acknowledging that its interpretation of the statute is at odds with the plain meaning of ‘relevance.’ It argues there is a ‘particularized legal meaning’ of relevance, but it ultimately concedes that it fails to meet this standard as well.”

Nor was this accidental drift.  They knew precisely how far they were going:

“….no public court has ever upheld document collection that is remotely close to the dragnet at issue. The administration concedes as much: ‘To be sure, the cases that have been decided in these contexts do not involve collection of data on the scale at issue in the telephony metadata collection program, and the purpose for which information was sought in these cases was not as expansive in scope as a nationwide intelligence collection effort designed to identify terrorist threats.'”

Having nowhere else to go it concludes that Congress knew so it was OK.

“…information concerning the use of Section 215 to collect telephony metadata in bulk was made available to all members of Congress, and Congress reauthorized Section 215 without change after this information was provided.”

Of course nobody in Congress seems to know what they’re talking about.  Maybe it was one of those “pass it to know what’s in it” things?

“As I have said numerous times, I did not know the administration was using the Patriot Act for bulk collection, and neither did a majority of my colleagues.”

The article winds up with a Conrgessman shooting down 22 pages of misdirection with 16 words of common sense:

“Regardless, the suggestion that the administration can violate the law because Congress failed to object is outrageous.”

Then we see our Congressman end by claiming to have  a spine:

“But let them be on notice: I am objecting right now.”

That’s all well and good.  I’m glad that we’ve got a Congressman who’s calling bullshit.  Good luck sir!

Also I really do feel empathy for whatever is left of the person who wrote the original 22 pages of justification.  Jobs that force you to chose between a clean soul and a paycheck erode you inch by inch until there’s nothing left.  I’d like to think I’d do the right thing.  We all would like to think that highly of ourselves.  We’d like to think we’d tell the boss to suck it and walk out the front door unemployed and guilt free.  We’d stand straight and tell the president himself “no”.  Then they’d roll the credits on our heroic awesomeness.

However, life isn’t like that and from experience I’ve seen great men slowly collapse.  As for me, the few times I’ve been put in positions where the boss wanted “wrong” I have indeed refused to go there but it wasn’t easy and nobody congratulated me.  I suspect it gets harder the more compromises you made on the way to where you are.  I’m guessing it was just another step in the diminishment of someone who’s already given up.  I doubt I’ll ever be put in that position because I have made a point out of avoiding it.  None of us truly knows what we’d do when a very expensive and highly lucrative career was on the line and the boss was one of the most powerful men on the planet.  Standing up to your boss when you were a 19 year old delivery boy ‘aint the same thing as doing it when you’re 50.

Back to our bravely squawking Congressman.  Thanks and good luck but it’s not going to get better soon.  Call me when you’ve made a difference but don’t expect a parade for feeling angry that shit went down on your watch. Nobody in Washington D.C. of either party is even remotely likely to do any good toward civil liberties.  This mess didn’t happen by accident.  They fostered the mindset that led to it (both in the populace and in themselves). They created the conditions, they amassed the funding, they put the tools in place, and they only put on the brakes when they don’t get to control the monster they jointly made.  Both parties screwed the Nation when it suited them and they’ll forget all about their rhetorical outrage soon enough.

A.C.

P.S.  I’ve just dropped 1,500+ words hassling both Democrats and Republicans.  I already anticipate earnest Republican readers carefully explaining that their favorite party has acted much better than Obama and his posse. (Perhaps Republicans have a point.  Much like it’s better to stick your finger in a light socket than have your arm chewed off by a wolverine, Bush Jr. didn’t run quite so amok as our current glorious socialist leader. Then again when Republicans had their chance to shine; they didn’t.  Thus, when they get the chance again; they won’t.)

Surely Obama’s 22 page secret memo justifying “spying on all Americans” is nothing like Bush’s performance.  Oh really?  I recall a 50 page secret memo in 2002 that was the mirror image of a 22 page secret memo in 2013.  It was filled with pretzel logic explaining that pain had to be “equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious physical injury, such as organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death” or it wasn’t torture.  I’d like to find anyone who went along with that and smash their fingers one at a time with a hammer.  If I inflicted slightly less pain than organ failure they presumably would agree that it’s not torture.  Which is good because I’d have to hammer a lot of fingers to to test my theory on all of the people that tried to put a good face on doing wrong.  My arm would get tired.

You might think you’re being tortured without pain “equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious physical injury, such as organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death”.  You’d be right.  You might think it’s unreasonable that every call you make is logged by the NSA.  You’d be right.

[This is part I of a post in which I insult both parties and try my best to feel sympathy for a lawyer (presumably) who has labored in secret to perpetuate a colossal injustice.  Frankly I couldn’t get to the point without a couple pages frothing at the mouth about past, present, and future asshattery emanating from D.C.  How do I get myself into these things?  Ah well, here goes:]

Years ago I was furious. An ill day was about to dawn and there was nothing I could do about it. The economic misery preordained by elected miscreants and their pet army of the economically illiterate was drawing nigh. The tools both parties had constructed to inflict civil liberties disasters that were literally (not figuratively) Orwellian loomed ever closer.

There was shit. There was a fan. The next step was just a matter of time. I was tense.

Denial was the name of the game. I knew it wouldn’t last. Realty cannot be denied. I just had to hold my breath and hang tight against the tide. Luckily, time has passed. I’m far more laid back now. Why? Because, in large part, it’s a done deal.

For example; the economy tanked. It’s no longer about to tank unless we take action to avoid it. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s still tanked. In fact we’re getting used to tanked. Americans are a rich and fortunate people and our version of tanked isn’t as bad as some versions of tanked. (See: Greece, et. al.) Sure, things can get worse and in some ways they will. (See: Cyprus, et. al.) Sure, some folks want to go back to the glorious naiveté of the past. (See: Washington Post, et. al.) At least we’ve reached the point where nobody takes them seriously. The press has been reporting “green shoots”, “housing restarts”, and whatever drivel Paul Krugman spews for years. End result: they overshot tanked and charged straight into bankrupt. (See: New York Times, et. al.) NPR may still blare from the dash of a Prius but nobody is waiting on a Unicorn car. (See: the Chevy Volt.) Also the Prius is en route to the Obamacare mandated 30 hour work week (if the driver is lucky). Tough economic times are a reality enforcing mechanism that makes us thankful the fossil fuels in North Dakota are on private land and the yoyos didn’t dig any deeper trying to build their particular Utopia. I’m glad we’re done with that. Misery sucks but unreality was worse.

The civil liberties front has been worse. You can try to “opt out” of the economy but privacy has been hammered remorselessly for everyone. This is a very bad thing because money comes and goes but distrust goes to the core where it resides for life. Privacy concerns were once the private hell of networked Linux fans and the tinfoil of hat. The last few years made it everyone’s business. Grandma knows the NSA has spied on her Facebook posts of knitting projects. Clueless teenagers, who en mass had iPhones grafted to their ear, know their cell phones have been monitored. Children have seen Michele Obama glaring at them from posters at the school cafeteria. The rest of us know the IRS has targeted it’s enemies and will soon have our medical records. A people who’ve seen guns seized in Katrina, martial law in Boston, an occasional “botched” no knock raid that kills an innocent, and of course suit wearing liars misrepresent each event in its turn… such people can’t quite return to their status of unaware.

Things change when your phone goes from “theoretically insecure” all the way to “has been, most certainly still is, and will continue to be monitored”. It’s not good news but it’s true. I prefer truth. As I’ve mentioned before, careening toward the guardrail is scarier than winching the wreck out of the ditch the next morning.

Now, in 2013, only the most unteachable, emotion soaked, true believer can avoid the obvious about both the economy and civil liberties. So, paradoxically, I’m relaxed.

…

So now that I’ve made my argument that we’re going to hell in a handbasket and I deal with the disaster better than the denial, I’d like to ponder a little piece of collateral damage.  Administrations (of both parties) hire lawyers to justify their actions.  Their lackeys never ever fail to come up with some sort of bullshit reasoning that allows their boss to do whatever the hell the boss wants to do.  It’s their raison d’etre.

That’s a peculiarity of our system.  Other monsters don’t hire “justifiers”.  Stalin didn’t hire lawyers to justify his madness any more than Capone needed one to justify ruling the Chicago underworld.  Recent administrations, uniquely, have done just that.

What madness flows through the mind of a person who has been hired to legally, morally, and rhetorically justify an administration bent of doing that which is both wrong and illegal?  What does that do to them?  How do they feel afterward?  I guess what I’m trying to say is that the folks who twist logic probably wind up twisted themselves and I suspect it’s an unpleasant experience.  That’s why I say that they’ve got the shittiest job in all of creation.

I stumbled across Views of a Crank a few weeks ago.  It’s interesting and well reasoned; everything you won’t find here.

Here’s a quote to whet your appetite.  This was just one of many pithy statements from which to choose:

“Government authority should be small enough that misuse of it by a monomaniacal nitwit would not matter.”

The site is now on my blogroll.  Enjoy.

From time to time I’ve been tuning in (is that a dated phrase?) to “The Slingshot Guy”.  For some reason I never mentioned this particular genius on my blog.  Time to rectify my oversight!

Background: Basically he’s a very pleasant German guy who has a hobby of building and firing slingshots.  Stand back when he does his stuff!  We’re not talking Tom Sawyer with a rubber band.

Also, and this is key, he says the most delightful things.  For example: “You know how much I like to weaponize Black and Decker so I built this…”  Anyone who utters the phrase weaponize Black and Decker is a mountain of awesome!

He’s getting better and better.  When I first watched him he was firing nine inch metal spikes.  By now he’s up to wheeled artillery and various large and pointy projectiles that would drop an elephant.  All with slingshot type propulsion.  Huzzah!

If there’s ever a zombie apocalypse he’s your “go to” guy for homemade mayhem!

Video 1: Wheeled Artillery; just what you need when someone steals your parking spot.  Money quote as he describes his newest creation: “it’s a little bit dramatic”.

Video 2: Shaka Zulu Assegai (steel pointed spear) firing crossbow.  Just what you need for deer hunting.

P.S.  Check out his other videos.  His shoulder mounted chainsaw launcher should get your attention simply because the world is a better place now that such a thing exists!

There was nothing left to do but cut the tree and hope for good luck.  I don’t have good luck.  It just doesn’t happen that way for me.  It is best to never assume good fortune and therefore I’m rarely disappointed when probability takes a dump on my psyche.

I decided to sharpen my chain.  I hunched over the saw like I was performing something unnatural (those of you who’ve sharpened a saw in the field know what I’m talking about).  Then I cranked away on the innocent teeth with a round file while muttering to myself as I worked.  File file file… grumble… “‘shoulda’ been an accountant…”

Move  to the next link.  File file file….  mutter… “…accountants can’t drop a tree on their head…”

Mutter, curse.   Move to next link.  File file file.  “…I could have learned to play the violin but no!  I had to get all macho and play around with a frigging chainsaw.  Firewood blows.”

I continued the pattern until I ran out of chain.  I was running out of opportunities for procrastination.  Finally, I gassed up the saw and suited up in all the protective gear I had.

Then I addressed the homeowner.

“If I drop this on the house…” I started.

“You won’t.”  She responded.  (For some reason I inspire confidence in people.  This mystifies me.)

“Yeah, well if I do.  You’re not gonna’ sue me?”

“I promise.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep.”

“OK but if you sue me and I go broke I’m moving into your chicken coop and living there.”  I threatened.

“He’ll do it.  It’s not an idle threat.”  Mrs. Curmudgeon chimed in.

I looked around the yard.  Happy farmland critters mingled on the lawn.

“And if the tree lands on a duck or something?”

“You can cook it for dinner.  Just do it!”

“I shoulda’ been a rodeo clown.” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  Filled with foreboding I stomped off to address the tree.

————————————————

“OK tree.  Nobody but you and me.  Where’s that split?  You gonna’ fall the way I want?”  I muttered.

“Bleaugh.  Narkdafs.  Shlaugh.”  The tree was clearly mental.

“You’re the most messed up tree I’ve seen in ages.  Please fall properly.”  I bargained.

“I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.”  The tree blathered.

“You’re nuts in iambic pentameter?”  I fumed.  Trees don’t read Shakespeare.  Hell, most Americans can’t read Shakespeare.  I was losing it.

The tree shuddered.  A twig near the top shook loose and drifted down to earth.  A warning shot across the bow.  There’s a reason we call hanging branches “widowmakers”.  I’d say I was getting jumpy but that bridge had already been crossed.  The tree spoke again.  “Since I’m bigger than a whale and leaning everywhere all at once; you’ve gotta ask yourself a question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?”

I didn’t feel lucky at all.  Trees usually like me.  When they quote Dirty Harry things are serious.  I stomped back to the truck and coaxed Mrs. Curmudgeon out.

“Here’s my cell phone.  Stick it in your pocket.”  I shoved my archaic phone in her hands.  “Stand here.  I’m aiming for that weed over there.  That’s the target.  If that top moves… even a bit… you should see it from this angle.  When it does, yell.”

“How do I yell?”  She quavered.

“I dunno.  Like you really want me to hear it.”  I explained that a fraction of an inch at the base of the tree shows up as a large movement at the top.  Also that I couldn’t see the top properly.  Then I stomped back to the tree.

“You back for more?  Wuss!”  The tree greeted me.

I didn’t say a thing.  I started the saw and immediately started cutting.

Those of you who don’t know directional felling probably assume it’s all muscles and work.  In fact it’s as much an art as a science and muscular idiots don’t last long.  For this particular tree I made the best wedge cut ever.  I wanted it to be perfect.  I was careful.  I took my time.  I tweaked and checked and made sure it was level and well aimed.

“Hey there.  Let’s negotiate.”  The tree was getting nervous.  I was feeling more confident.  Frankly I hadn’t been sure the whole thing wasn’t rotten.  I’d wondered if it would implode and drop randomly.  Instead it was solid.

The wedge was a thing of beauty.

Mrs. Curmudgeon, clutching the cell phone and looking worried, had no idea I would carve a wedge out first.  She gasped when I popped out a monster block of wood.  The homeowner had left.  The chickens and ducks watched with interest.  The pig cleared out.

The back cut went in smooth and level.  I tapped a felling wedge (a simple piece of equipment meant for this purpose and not the block of wood I’d just removed) in the gap right behind the saw.  I watched it like a hawk.  Every fraction of an inch the gap would open a smidge.  I’d adjust the wedge.  The inclined plane is how a six foot monkey can overpower ten ton tree.  Physics baby!

Within reason, the deeper the back cut the less “hinge” left.  Less hinge means a faster falling tree; assuming everything is sound and you’ve judged the balance well.  I decided to knock this tree down very gently.

I nipped the back cut deeper in millimeters instead of inches.  Then I saw the wedge loosen.  It was go time.

Generally I’d rip out a little more hinge.  Not with this ugly mess.

I stepped back, flipped off the saw, and sauntered to Mrs. Curmudgeon.  The tree was leaning ever so slightly.  She’d just noticed.  It was moving slower than molasses.

It was going just where I wanted!  I breathed a sigh of relief.

Mrs. Curmudgeon, unaware that I could control speed as well as direction, was impressed.  “That’s so cool!”  She gushed.

The tree tilted over, degree by degree.  Oh yeah!  I was looking uber cool.  I’d done everything spot on.  Mrs. Curmudgeon was impressed.  (It’s not easy to impress her.)  I smiled.  I was gonna’ get lucky tonight!

Then the tree stopped.  Leaning a preposterous 50 degrees it ground to a halt and stayed there.

“I cockblock you!”  Shouted the tree.

“Oh hell no!”  I shouted; losing whatever ‘coolness’ I’d banked with my skillful work.

By now victory was assured.  The tree had no options but to fall precisely where I wanted.  I was through playing games.  A duck waddled beneath the tree.  Screw it!   The duck would either get out out the way or meet with a BBQ and as for the *&*^$$ tree…  “Die bastard!”

Firing up the saw in mid-stride, I snapped my faceshield down and in a flash I was attacking the remaining hingewood.

“You have no sense of humor…” the tree whined.

And then it was down.  Whew.

Most trees are simple.  A few are complex.  A rare few quote Shakespeare and try to kill you.  Imagine all the adventure I’d miss if I simply bought furnace fuel in the winter.