Adaptive Curmudgeon

I’ve said before that the surest sign of spring is when some procrastinating ice fisherman sinks a truck.  Well the ice conditions this year were superb.  You could have built a battleship on it.  Then, when things got warm-ish, everyone got their ice shacks on dry land with uncharacteristic efficiency.

No trucks were sunk!

Since then Mother nature has been a stone cold bitch.  I was out in the blustery snow this morning; swearing at my ATV’s winch cable (jammed again).  It was attached to my disabled ATV.  It had stalled when I crashed the snowplow into a block of slushy ice/snow mix I’ll call hell-crete and it wasn’t going anywhere until I shoveled enough to put a tire or two on the ground.  Here’s a hint: an ATV’s unstoppable force is actually quite stoppable.  When you jam it into theoretically compliant snow which is actually denser than a politician’s skull you learn that.  I careened off the seat like a Muppet flung from a catapult.

Did I mention my wood pile?  It’s totally adequate.  It’s also iced up like Greenland fell on it.   I clear the path to my “chosen” wood pile and let the others get covered.  In APRIL… freakin’ damned where’s my tulips April… my chosen one ran out.  I can unearth the others but I have to hurry because NOAA reports that the four horsemen of the Apocalypse are coming on a cold front by midnight.

If there’s any balance in the world it’s going to be an awesome autumn because early 2013 is not riding out winter… it’s surmounting a siege.

1. A blogger without Internet access is a truck driver equipped with a mule.
2. I drove to a yuppie coffee shop (i.e. enemy territory) specifically for WiFi only to discover that their WiFi was down and the coffee I make in my kitchen is better than the sputum of Satan which they somehow manage to foist on their customers.  (In all fairness the bar is set pretty high.  I don’t cook much of anything but I make rockin’ coffee.)  When I asked the drone at the counter if their WiFi was malfunctioning she fixed me with a stare akin to when I explain physics to a Labrador Retriever.  Further when I said, “I don’t mind the ‘net is down because I came here specifically to enjoy this putrid $4 coffee” she did not recognize it as sarcasm.  (I can only assume putrid is a word she had never heard?  Actually I’d feel better if I knew she was stoned.  If you’re stupid while stoned there’s always the possibility you’ll brighten up after a good night’s sleep.)
3. I’m convinced the reason for #2 is that hipster ironic glasses that people wear to express their individualism by pretending they’re Elvis Costello cause brain cancer.
4. It has been snowing two out of the last two days.  Which is 100% more than it should be snowing.
5. I have no idea when this will be posted.  Luckily it’s a blog and not a nuclear reactor.  I can ignore it for a while.  Carry on without me!

Part 1:

Curmudgeon Compound has gone from “deliberately removed from the daily hurly burly” to “totally off line”.  I theorize a squirrel ate a switch in a transformer somewhere in the middle of nowhere.  I can only hope the little bastard is fried to a crisp because I’ve been kaput for days.

The phone company is hard at work and they’re doing their bureaucratic best to turn it into an opera.  I’m told a crack team of high end specialists will have it fixed in a week or so… unless they don’t.

I’m not too worried.  I’ve been ignoring politics mostly and there’s no shortage of beer to drink and stuff to do.  Life is fine on a homestead without the Internet until I use up my pre-downloaded Kindle backlog .  I do miss Netflix though.  Suddenly Blockbusters has gone from a laughably out of date idea to entirely logical.  Though I don’t even know if Blockbusters exists.  I can’t be a common market niche and I’ll go back to laughing at them as soon as my broadband is back.

The whole moment is steeped in irony.  I called “the big high tech company for reports on their snail crawl”.  I did this using a decrepit $9 “disposable” cell phone which is running like a flawless product of the industrial revolution.  Charitably I can pretend my landline company is giving me a free EMP attack drill.

Part 2:

I got a call to my top secret cell phone.  The one with a number so unlisted that only my dog and a few others have it.  It was my single reader who knows the number.

Curmudgeon, “Curmudgeon’s phone, if nobody is bleeding it’s not an emergency and I’m going to hang up on you.”

Friendly Reader, “Did you just post Shatner on acid?”

Quoth the Curmudgeon, “I didn’t post shit.  It’s the 1880’s here.”

Friendly Reader, “A big floating pair of lips?  Mutilating Freddy Mercury?  Bohemian Rhapsody?”

Something clicked.   “Oh yeah.  I was halfway though a bottle of wine a few weeks back.  It was so funky I couldn’t even tell if it was ironic or stone cold serious.  It amused me.  So I posted it on ‘autopilot’.  It won’t go live for weeks.  I’ll probably pull it first.”

Friendly Reader, “You ‘autopiloted it’ a couple weeks ago.”

Curmudgeon, “Yeah I guess.”

Friendly Reader, “And now it’s a couple weeks later…”

Curmudgeon, “Yeah but I’ll probably pull it.  I’m sober now and…  uh oh…”

Friendly Reader, “You did!  It’s there.  In all it’s Shatneriffic glory.”

Curmudgeon, desperately trying to remember through the haze of wine and time, “Umm…”

Friendly Reader, “Just for this I’m going to drive to your house and kick your woodpile over.”

Curmudgeon, “Er…  It was funny!  Wasn’t there a freedom song too.  That was awesome!”

Friendly Reader, “Yes, I liked Hard and Phirm but that does not excuse releasing the Shatner.  You were wasted.  That’s the only explanation.”

Curmudgeon, “Let’s stick with that.”

Friendly Reader, “So log on and pull it dummy.”

Curmudgeon, “Well there’s no internet here.  A squirrel probably ate…”

Friendly Reader, “You’re a blogger without the internet?”

Curmudgeon, “Ironic no?”

Friendly Reader, “Drive your ass to wifi somewhere and make it right.”

Curmudgeon, “What if I just explain my internet is down?  After all I kinda’ like it when Shatner gets weird.”

Friendly Reader, sighing, “OK fine.  The internet has seen worse.  But when your hit count goes negative I want you to know it was self inflicted.”

Curmudgeon, “Well some of it is the squirrel…”

Friendly Reader, “Your line could be down for a million reasons.  There is no squirrel!”

Curmudgeon, “There is no spoon.  Suddenly I feel like watching the matrix.”

Friendly Reader, “So do it.”

Curmudgeon, “Netflix is down.  I wonder if Blockbusters is still in business.”

Friendly Reader, “You’re hopeless.”

Curmudgeon, “It’s been said before.”

There is weird.  Then there is Internet weird.  Finally a Rubicon has been crossed and there is Shatner weird.  (Safe for work.  No comment beyond that.)

Hat tip to Ace of Spades HQ.

It never occurred to me that the invention of the telephone meant people had to invent language to answer it.  Good thing the Internet is here to provide such important data!

Check out Maggies Farm.  Also note the source at the New York Times which has finally found news that it can report without bias (stuff that dates to 1887, everything since the Age of Aquarius remains malleable).

Apparently “Hello” narrowly entered the lexicon because there had to be some way to greet a person without the hullabaloo of a third party introduction.  That bastard Edison favored “Hello” and we all know that Edison, the Bill Gates of his time, was not to be crossed.  Edison’s (OK lets just call it what it was; nemesis) Alexander Graham Bell favored a jaunty nautical “Ahoy“.  Just for the record I totally dig “ahoy“.

Sadly the manuals of 1878 that suggested “what is wanted” never caught on.  I think we’d all be better served by “what is wanted” in 1878, leading to “what the hell do you want” in 1970, eventually degrading to “what the hell do you want asshole” by the gritty 1990s.

Of course, should I pick up the phone (which is almost never) I’ve got a favored greeting.  I always respond with a cheery “Curmudgeon residence, if you’re a telemarketer prepare to die“.  Try it!  You’ll like it.

A.C.

The homework bullshit at hand was a call and response exercise about “Disagreeing Respectfully”. Apparently science, math, art, and literature, isn’t enough and the mandate of school is implied to involve “Respectful Disagreement”? I disagree! Furthermore I do not disagree in any manner which could be construed as respectful.

We were supposed to read a line of dialogue and submit alternate more respectful verbiage. The kid began warbling something like “perhaps we can find common ground…”

“Seriously?” I said. “Have you ever said that in your whole life?”

The kid blinked. “Well no, it’s just for the assignment.”

“What is?” I asked rhetorically, “speaking like an unemployed psychologist?”

The kid looked nervous.

“Let’s have fun!” I started.

“First of all,” I began, “if you’re sending a message to an unworthy yahoo who’s annoying you, the signature is key. Do you know who ‘John Hancock’ is?”

“The guy who signed the Declaration real big?” She asked, clearly not seeing a connection.

“Exactly! When someone wants you to do something stupid you should always remember the founding fathers.” The kid looked puzzled. “John Hancock told the most powerful man on earth that he and his whole military could kiss his colonial ass. That’s what it means to be an American!” I signed ‘John Friggin’ Hancock’ on the top of the page. The kid looked around for her mother. Too late! I was on a roll!

“The text refers to anchovies. Too boring. Let’s substitute snail darters.”

“What?” The kid asked?

“Snail darters. They’re a fish that is a sort of a word association between eco-groupies and the Endangered Species Act.”

“Um…” The kid looked nervous.

“All elementary school teachers are secretly in love with Rachel Carson and have a Pavlovian response to snail darters. Especially if we propose to eat them.” I was on a roll.

“Er… I don’t think she’s into fish.” The kid tried to explain.

“Does your teacher think all the polar bears are dying?” I asked.

The kid brightened. “Yes, she said something about that.”

“Well your teacher is wrong.” The kid looked shocked. I was still talking “…and anybody dumb enough to think the top predator of the Arctic cares if you drive a Prius will know what a Snail Darter is.”

I glanced at the next line. “I think you need to work in some quotes from Monty Python.”

“You mean the king guy with the coconuts?” The kid was desperately trying to figure out what was happening.

“Yes! You’re a smart kid. That’s the best place to begin a career of finding pompous losers and kicking them in the proverbial groin. Watch lots of Monty Python.”

By now I had scribbled all over the paper and the kid, despite misgivings, was joining in. Ten minutes later we had jointly composed an essay which was so sarcastic that the paper was practically smoking.

Sadly, mom showed up and realized her little angel was squeaking excitedly and shouting “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

The kid had taken the initiative. “It definitely needs more violence…” the kid was saying. I agreed. Mom was glaring at me.

Mom snatched it up and our work of brilliance was crumpled up and tossed in the trash. Apparently mom wants her kid to ride out another year before finally realizing it’s all a farce. The kid was sad to see the paper go but probably relieved that she wouldn’t have to hand it in.

After they hustled out I grabbed the paper, smoothed it out, and ran it through my scanner. It was a messy copy so I re-typed the illegible responses. Here, for those of you who loathe social engineering in elementary school, I present “Disagreeing Vociferously with Archaic Verbiage”:

I do not think I will be asked to help with homework again.

I’m good at math. I’m not the best but I make a living and the truly awesome math guys are as brain meltingly sharp as they are rare. Conversely the vast majority of Americans can’t math their way out of a paper bag so the bar is set pretty low. Tragic really.

This means I sometimes get shanghaied into helping kids with math homework. I avoid this when possible. There’s two kinds of math homework I like; the stuff I get paid to do by a grateful employer and assignments where I charge struggling college students until they bleed for my services as a tutor. Beyond that I’ll stick to stacking firewood in blissful obscurity. Helping a elementary student in public school? Thankless.

The problem is that I do math specifically for the purpose of finding the right answer. Public schools teach math as if the journey is the destination. It’s not.

Every teaching “professor” tries to rethink basic concepts we’ve known for hundreds of years so they can publish another new, updated, improved, extra-important, “this is the best ever” method with a trendy name like “new math”, “improved logic”, “lattice method”, or whatever buzzword will secure grant money. Their minions at the local school follow in lockstep. Here’s a hint; mathematics (particularly at grade school level) isn’t cutting edge. It’s wise counsel to shut up and teach it without fanfare. Kids are (for the most part) already hardwired for math unless some derelict has gotten there first and beaten it out of them.

Want proof? Amish kids use the same methods that were around when George Washington was carving dentures out of felled cherry trees. At introductory levels this doesn’t put them at a disadvantage. Meanwhile school districts float loans to buy computers for third graders and eventually churn out truckloads of economic cannon fodder. I call bullshit!

Since kids are expected to do whatever wingnut process an education major with spare time invented, I get crap when I help them. I’ll step them through deriving the exact right answer using whatever method makes sense to me (or the kid). Public schools hyperventilate in response. Who’s got time for that?

However this kid was desperate. She’s a smart little critter and had tried mightily. The kid’s mother had tried too. I was asked ever so kindly to help and I happened to have fresh coffee in hand (always the best time to get me to do anything).

I glanced at the paper. Without actually knowing the correct answer I could tell their shot at it was wrong. (You may have guessed my specialty is statistics; identifying “wrong” in a heartbeat is the first step in pursuing “correct within a margin”.) But how was I going to explain it to a kid in public school? “I’m sorry. I can’t explain how to solve this without Algebra.”

“I’m in algebra!” The kid beamed.

Perhaps all is not lost with the next generation! We launched into a discussion of algebra and the kid got to the answer right quick. Kids are meant to be smart; it’s good when they still have their spark!

Homework wrapped up, I shared a Curmudgeonly secret of life, “Pay attention to algebra. You can use it to solve problems in subjects you don’t know a darned thing about. You can sometimes do this while ‘experts’ in the specialty (if they happen to be math illiterate) wander around with their pants down and ‘loser’ stenciled on their forehead. It’s one of many secret keys to awesomeness.”

Then I related a story about how I (inadvisedly!) snoozed through half a year of undergraduate hydrology. When a mid term rolled aloud I was supposed to have memorized a dozen formulas. (I hadn’t.) With the clock ticking I derived the formulas from scratch right there during the test. Algebra was the method I used because memorization was the method I’d ignored. (Also hydrology ‘aint rocket science). I, slacker from hell, walked away with one of the highest grades in the room. Something that still amuses me now.

For once I had a kid listening to me. Cool! Then came my second proclamation “If you know math. I mean really know it. You can pin an employer on the ground and pull money out of their hands. And they’ll thank you for it.” The kid nodded. “You can do this when half of your peers are washing dishes and aspiring to become a Wal-Mart greeter.” The kid was drifting but I yammered on like the old fart that I am. She dozed the next few seconds and came to as I was finishing my monologue “…drive your enemies before you. That is what is good.”

The kid, sensing an opportunity, shoved another homework assignment my way. What’s this? It wasn’t algebra at all. I glanced around for an escape. There was none. I skimmed the paper.

“This,” I began, “is not math. It is social engineering.”

“Um…” The kid looked uncertain. “I don’t think they call it that.”

“Of course they don’t!” I groused. “They don’t call it bullshit either. Yet thats what it is.”

“Er… What’s ‘social engineering’?” The kid asked.

“Social engineering is when an unqualified worker in the employment of the State takes it upon themselves to manipulate children as they see fit.” I sipped more coffee. “An activity formerly reserved for people deemed more appropriate, such as clergy or respected elders.” I reflected further “or sometimes cult leaders and gangs. Maybe Mafia leaders. You know what I’m saying?”

The kid looked at the paper. She did not know what I was saying.

“But I’ll help you. It’s time to see if your teacher has a sense of humor.”

[Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion to this week’s Curmudgeonly mayhem]

I recently acquired a cat. I did this of my own free will but I cannot say just why. Presumably I was impressed with it’s fierce reputation as a mouse killing machine. More likely I was just too damn happy and needed another cat to make my life suck.

I hoped to replace Curmudgeon compound’s markedly inferior indoor cat with this supposedly excellent mouser. (See The Best Sales Pitch Ever, Chipmunk Wars Part I, II, III, IV, V, and Useless Cat Update.) When it arrived I gently introduced the new cat to the out of favor (and soon to be fired) cat. They greeted each other with the joy of the cold war and the sound of scarcely contained rage. They didn’t, however, fight.

I considered explaining the new workplace hierarchy to the fired cat by grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and tossing it into the snow. Alas it was -11 that day and I figured nothing could survive the transition. I hate cats but I wouldn’t toss one into bitter weather if it had no experience in the cold. Unless, that is, the creature in question gave me an excuse. Miraculously the fired cat sensed my mood and behaved like an angel. Opportunity lost. I decided the fired cat gets to stay indoors until the robins return or it pisses me off; whichever comes first.

The two cats spent the next several days circling each other like tactical submarines. Also like tactical submarines they stayed hyper alert yet refrained from going to all out war. It was mostly prowling and bluff. The new cat seemed to accept that other cats exist and are not edible and are therefore to be ignored or occasionally bullied. The old cat was furious at the interloper but whenever it got too aggressive it was batted down like a bowling pin in front of a tank. I had to admit the newcomer wasn’t a wimp.

The dog, which is condition white with fur, occasionally bumbled near the new cat. Whenever it did, the new cat would poof up to twice it’s size and make sounds like a transmission getting powershifted from overdrive to first gear at 10,000 rpm while being thrown into a volcano. It would lash furiously out at the dog. The dog, which has fur like a woolly mammoth and could probably eat a Buick, scarcely noticed. One day the new cat landed a claw through the dog’s twin armor of size and oblivion. The dog instantly and without hesitation let out a single bark that would make a wolf die at a quarter mile. The cat more or less vaporized. It wasn’t seen for days. Apparently it learned it’s lesson because now it co-exists with the dog quite nicely. I like my dog.

Then, because I’m an idiot. I left town. I instructed the cats to stay away from the credit cards and firearms, kill and eat anything smaller than themselves, and crap only in designated areas. The same instructions I’d give a teenager. Then I drove away wondering what sorts of entropy would ensue in my unsupervised house. The dog was kenneled off premises. A good friend (and original source of the new cat) dropped by once daily to give the cats food and water. Every so often she’d text us on the road to report the situation.

[Day 1] “Everything fine.”
[Day 2] “Everything still fine.”
[Day 3] “One of the cats is missing.”

Um… how can an indoor cat be missing? It can be dead or on fire but it can’t simply not be. Even Shrodeger’s cat was somewhere. Unless it tunneled through the foundation it hadn’t left. I texted back. “Missing? How?”

The answer, and I deserved it, was this:

[Day 4] “It’s not here… that’s how.”

I assumed the new cat had gotten lost in the subbasement and was dead. That would be a gruesome task for spring when I finally figured out it’s location. Yuck!

[Day 5] “Old cat still missing.”

What’s this? The old cat was gone? Not the new cat? The old cat should know the nooks and crannies of the house since they’re the parameters of it’s known universe. Where could it be?

[Day 6] “Found the old cat. It was locked in a bathroom. It’s hungry but ok.”

We’ve lived in this house the old cat’s entire life. Now, and never before, it found a way to lock itself in the bathroom? I didn’t buy it. I concluded foul play had ensued. The new cat had traitorously lured the old cat into the room and locked it there. I was impressed. “That’s how you win a fight!” I enthused to Mrs. Curmudgeon “Lock the opponent in an unpleasant situation of your choosing. Starve the bastard to death. Win the war without a shot fired. Well played!”

Then it got weird.

[Day 7] “What’s with the garlic?”

Ok I’ll play the game; what is with the garlic? I gave up and called. Turns out that one or more of the cats had found a big bag of garlic powder and spread it all over the place. Obligatory jokes about vampires ensued. Mrs. Curmudgeon and I wondered where the hell the cat (or cats) found a bag of garlic.

Then I made the worst mistake of the month. I came home. In retrospect I should have stayed on the road. Possibly firebombed the house and headed south where a man can wear a t-shirt without losing limbs to frostbite. I like my house but it’s in a cold location. Furthermore it’s a shithole and my truck is neat and orderly…also mobile. Which is a better place to live? It’s a no brainer if you ask me.

Both cats greeted us at the door as if to assure us of their undying love. I wasn’t fooled. Cats, like robots, psychopaths, and politicians, cannot feel love.

I looked at the garlic powder. It was a thick layer throughly coating one floor of Curmudgeon Compound. It was a terrible mess. I had dark thoughts involving running cats and pellet rifles. The dog stuck close by my side as if to cement it’s already iron clad alibi. Smart dog.

It turns out that the cat, and I’m sure it was the new one, had decided to attack my “camping food”. I’d carefully stored my stuff sealed up and in a closed cabinet but that wasn’t enough to stop the damn creature from getting in and running amok. It spread several plastic bags worth of powdery mess around like it was paid by the square inch to trash my house. It wasn’t entirely garlic. It was a combination of stale pizza crust mix, fish breading, spices, and something unidentifiable which originated in an MRE. It was everywhere.

What kind of creature starts a fight with an MRE!?!

I’m still cleaning up the mess. I’ll be shaking powder out of backpacks and hunting jackets forever. Rather than cleanup I proposed we move to a new house. Mrs. Curmudgeon is less dramatic… but then again it isn’t her camping gear that’s been tainted by a feline terrorist.

Meanwhile I haven’t seen the slightest hint of a mouse. Mice aren’t stupid; they’ve all left the county. Anything that’ll eat an MRE would consider a mouse to be steak with feet.

And that’s today’s cat update.

A.C.