Adaptive Curmudgeon

I woke up feeling evil because morning. The day got modestly brighter when I got to my favorite coffee shop because caffeine. Then it turned sentimental because kid.

I started by perusing the news. Every few days I review things in case there has been actual, you know, news. Things have been largely news free for a few years but I still keep an eye out. Coffee in hand, I picked up a random newspaper and read.

My review: Are Republicans still spineless toads who’d sell their grandma’s kidney if they got another term in office? Check. Are Democrats still manipulative jackoffs who’d throw a Republican’s grandma into a woodchipper if it got them closer to their unattainable imaginary Utopia? Check. Is the president still a narcissistic emperor with no clothes surfing on the reflected dreams of folks who are often accomplishment free? Check. Is America’s debt still the largest ever experienced in the entire history of mankind? Check.

I continued with the financial section. Unemployment was reported as “unexpectedly” high.  I chuckled.  Bad news is always “unexpected” so long as the letter after the president is “D”. The last president’s letter was “R” so when unemployment peaked at 7.2% the press informed us it was the end of life as we know it. The current occupant’s letter is “D” and unemployment has been over 8% for 43 consecutive months.  The press calls this a “slow recovery”. How awesome is that?  Is reporting of unemployment still bullshit?  Check. I looked at the price of gold. Check. I read an article about inflation. Do official inflation figures contradict the experience of anyone who has bought anything anywhere? Check.

I flipped to the sports page. Lance Armstrong took drugs? I searched my dusty memory banks. Isn’t he the guy that rode a bicycle and had his nuts fall off? Didn’t he retire like twenty years ago and who cares about bicycles? If I designed bicycles they’d be equipped with powerful engines that generate serious adrenaline. Also they would be called motorcycles.  Hello everyone, the Industrial Revolution is calling on line four! Some redneck in the arctic says he can outrun the studliest bicycle racer on earth with a Dodge carrying two tons of oak. He says he’ll outperform the entire Olympic bicycle team while blaring Metallica and swigging a big gulp (banned in New York).

The Oprah thing baffled me. What’s a one nut bicycle rider got to do with Oprah?  She couldn’t ride a bicycle around the block. I’ll never understand sports.

I assumed the press had dusted off their articles about Barry Bonds and were doing a search and replace with words like baseball, bicycle, testicle, and (inexplicably) Oprah. I called that one a “check” and prepared for the big plunge.

I knew the front page would have some sort of distraction; the more unrelated to the economy the better. I took a big breath before turning to it. Gun control, gay marriage, and the local municipality is building another white elephant with “free” State and Federal funds. Check, check, and check.

Clearly the world was behaving exactly as predicted. Rut or groove? Take your pick.
I was out of coffee and shambled to the counter to get more.

This is when my day changed…

Welcome back to the Book Club For Men. I’m glad to see you’ve all arrived armed and equipped. What’s this? You’re always armed and equipped? Of course, what was I thinking?

Before I get started I’d like to ask whomever parked the Sikorsky by the woodshed to move it to the corn field; for some reason it’s pissing off my dog. No no, the thirty seven trucks, six sports cars, four motorcycles, three ATVs, and the imperial battle cruiser are all fine where they are. The dog is used to them and that’s why I have a big lawn. Also whomever killed and ate one of my chickens had better pay for it… you know who you are. I’d like to give a special thanks to Roger who brought his Kenworth and dropped off 10 cords of wood for this evening’s campfire. I know some of you have come a long way so… What’s this? One of you drove from Death Valley? In a 1932 Chevy? Well done sir! …As I was saying, you’re all welcome to camp wherever you want and use Roger’s wood to keep warm or build a cabin or whatever.

As always there’s beer in the fridge and today we’ve got venison stew. Thanks for coming.

I’m handing out the syllabus now. I have attached a link to Amazon for all the books. Many of the books are available for a song if you own a Kindle. Yes yes, I know a few of you have a Nook, one of you has soldered together an e-reader from tin cans and a Linux kernel, and the rest think e-books are the work of the anti-christ or possibly the NSA’s way of spying on us. Read whatever media pisses you off the least ok?

Incidentally I’m doing this only for the joy of literature and possibly the thrill of battle (in experiential learning form of course). If you buy from Amazon I get jack squat so don’t act like I’m Bill Gates’ evil twin. I don’t care if you buy the book, steal it, or use the archaic copyright violation pirate scheme called a library, but if you show up for our next session having failed to read the book; you will be shot.

One last thing, as you read the syllabus you’ll note a lot of killing. This book club isn’t for pansies and we’re not a bunch of chickenshits bound my some sort of Trekkie prime directive. Get out there and rock things. I’m just sayin’.

By the way, every book’s “experiential assignment” is listed in brief so you know what you’re getting into. If you’re not up to the challenge don’t say you weren’t warned. Come back next week and we’ll hash out our first and easiest experiential assignment and get ready for the next book on the list. Remember I’m starting small so don’t get cocky.

Thanks for coming and don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.

1. Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis, 1942: Experiential Assignment (introductory level); blog about your job until your boss gets fired. Somehow do this without getting fired yourself. Good luck with that! Advanced study: tempt your fellow man from a good life to one of iniquity that ultimately dooms his or her soul to hell. (Be warned, Amazon, because it thinks you’re an illiterate slob, will point you toward an audio book if you’re not paying attention. Though I might buy it for light listening while I’m in my truck.)
2. Tarzan of the Apes, by Edgar Rice Burroughs, 1912: Bring your passport because we’re flying to Africa. If you’re smart you’ll hit the gym before getting on that plane! Experiential Assignment (introductory level) either beat a leopard to death with your bare hands or overpower a gorilla. Advanced study; get seriously hosed by an upper class Victorian chick named Jane. (Note: This book is about three bucks on Kindle.)
3. Harrison Bergeron (short story), Kurt Vonnegut Jr., 1961: Experiential Assignment; attend public school until you’re dumber than a sack of hammers. Given the state of our schools this won’t take long. Advanced study; watch 200 consecutive hours of television.
4. Lord of the Rings, J. R. R. Tolkien, 1937: This is a self study experiential assignment. You must identify something evil, seize it, and overcome an all seeing malevolent organization bent on your demise in order to bring it to it’s point of origin where it can be utterly destroyed. As an example I’ll tell you my self study project. I’m going to steal my colleague’s iPhone 5 and carry it to Apple Headquarters at 1 Infinite Loop Road, Cupertino, CA. Once I’m there I’ll infiltrate the building and throw it into the trash compactor on the fifth floor. For this project I’ll need weaponry, a Segway, and a black turtleneck sweater.
5. The Road, Cormac Mccarthy, 2007: Experiential Assignment; Starve. Advanced study; Eat your neighbor.
6. Little House on The Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder 1932 – 1943(Read the entire nine book series, it’s a quick read): Experiential Assignments; Live in a dirt hut, freeze in a South Dakota blizzard, work like a mule. Note: you’ll still eat better than the people in “The Road” so quit whining.
7. 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, Jules Verne, 1870: Experiential Assignment; kidnap someone and take them fishing while expressing a red hot streak of libertarian anti-authoritarianism. (I was shocked to discover this book is FREE on Kindle and that’s part of what drove me into the cold impersonal arms of technology.) Book club members are NOT required to read it in the original French.
8. Cryptonomicon, Neal Stephenson, 2009: Experiential Assignment; Find Nazi gold or a Japanese death trap and/or impress a hot woman with your mathematical prowess. Advanced study; learn to “display adaptability” in everything you do.
9. To Build a Fire, Jack London, 1902: Experiential Assignment; Field trip to Greenland in a blizzard. (This book is $1 on Kindle.)
10. Snows of Mount Kilimanjaro, (Short Story) Ernest Hemingway, 1936: Another field trip to Africa. Experimental Assignment; Get your ass in the brush and kill the wounded lion like a man should; drink heavily.
11. Enders Game, Orson Scott Card, 1985: Experiential Assignment; Mess with your kid’s mind using video games until he is a brilliant but heartless tactician. Advanced Study: find and eliminate an intelligent alien species.
12. Lord of The Flies, William Golding, 1954: Experiential Assignment (introductory level); Field Trip to deer camp, run out of beer! Experiential Assignment (moderate level); field trip to fly in hunting camp in the Yukon, run out of food. Experiential Assignment (advanced level); war in the Middle East.
13. Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court, Mark Twain, 1889: Experiential Assignment; Find a society of primitive screw heads and force them to face individual freedom and the fruits of the Industrial Age. Advanced study; Face a mounted knight in battle; him with a lance and you with a scoped 30-06. (This book is $0.95 on Kindle.)
14. 1984, George Orwell, 1948: Another field trip, this one will be hosted by Vladimir Putin. He will explain the experiential assignment personally.
15. Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood, 2004: Experiential Assignment; drive an animal to extinction through genetic engineering. Advanced study; decimate the population of humans on the entire planet.

Gentlemen!  It’s good to see you here tonight for Curmudgeon Compound’s first ever Book Club for Men.  I’m Adaptive Curmudgeon and I decided to host this book club because I felt women were having all the fun with book clubs.  While there’s no law about book clubs being exclusively for women they all seem to be highly feminine. Despite press releases indicating the contrary, us men are not inherently illiterate.  Therefore we need an outlet for our literary explorations as much as anyone.  This will be an exclusively masculine book club.  However, and all men who aren’t jackoffs will understand when I say this, women are both welcome and encouraged to attend.

I hope this will be a friendly atmosphere, feel free to grab a beer from the fridge in the garage; you can call me Adaptive.

First some ground rules.  This is not a democracy.  We’re not going to vote on the books.  In keeping with male culture and longstanding tradition, I get to pick the books because I’ve supplied the beer.

Second, if you don’t read the book you can bugger off.  Go sit at the kid’s table where you belong.

Third, the books are ones I like.  Therefore there will be no weepy horseshit; no “one legged lesbian poet limps out of Argentina to become a nun in inner city Chicago”, no sparkly vampires, no recipes included in the footnotes, no stories about women forced to choose between the bad boy that makes her heart throb and the sack of dull to whom she’s married, no long bouts against cancer, etcetera.  Instead there will be good versus evil, death, destruction, wild animals, misery, overcoming misery, and freedom.  Also there will be explosions and most fictional hot women will know how to use weapons.  (Pause to let cheering die down.)

Finally this is a experiential book club.  We will not sit around discussing the book while sipping tea.  We will prove that we have learned from and embraced the book by engaging in an activity that displays the spirit of the book.  Good books have plenty of spirit so an experiential book club is a serious challenge.  It will be expensive and some of you will die.  If you’re not ready for that you’re welcome to leave now.  (Hey Fred!  You can leave but you can’t take the pizza dumbass!  What a wanker!)

Ok everyone else has stayed put.  I’m a little surprised that nobody else copped out.  (Hey!  He took a pizza.  Damnit someone go beat Fred senseless and get the pizza back.  Wait! Wait!  Only a couple of you should go.  I don’t need any more fatalities in the yard… though I like your spirit!)  Anyway I’ve selected a list of fifteen books which we will experientially examine on a monthly basis.  We will take a year and a half to do this.

You’ll need to be prepared so you have one month to acquire the following:

• A passport.
• Firearms.
• Several thousand dollars.  (Many of the books will be cheap or free but you’ll need the money for ammunition, air travel, medical emergencies, and potentially bail.)
• A fresh change of clothes would be wise.
• Also a warm coat and whatever you have in your bug out bag.

I see several of you nodding.  What’s this?  Most of you have all that on your person right now?  Excellent!  Stay tuned for the Book Club For Men syllabus…

Despite my arguments to the contrary, the executive household steering committee has chosen to retain the indoor cat in its current position. I suppose I should be relieved that the executive household steering committee has chosen to retain me in my current position.

The cat, when informed of this, continued sleeping.

The damn cat hasn’t earned it’s keep.  All it does is sleep and crap; like a teenager.

I crawled into the sub-basement and aimed the deadly flashlight. Fortunately I could see the chipmunk. As predicted I couldn’t reach him.

I whipped out with the PPK with a flourish. Actually I tried a flourish but you can’t muster a flourish while lying on your back inches below floor joists. Still this should get the little cretin out in the open. James Bond took out half the Kremlin with a PPK so a replica should make a chipmunk either die of fear or run home for his tree.

I took careful aim. POP! Direct hit! How awesome is that?

The chipmunk leapt right at me. In retrospect I should have seen that coming. I let out odd squeaking noises as I tried to get out of it’s way. Did I mention I was on my back in a crawlspace? I also slammed my head on the ductwork. What is it with me banging my head this week?

The chipmunk made it through the ductwork, over the basement, and into the “finished” part of the house before I was done with the requisite cursing. I stumbled after and found him hunkered amid some fishing poles. I spilled them over. It zoomed past my camping gear, across some butchering supplies, and into the nooks and crannies of a stack of books while I was still trying to get the treble hook out of my shirt.

He clung to the bookcase while I drew and fired again. A miss! **&&^%^%%%

At least the chipmunk was in motion and not hidden somewhere. I fired again and it scooted over my shoe. Yikes! Nobody likes a live rat on their foot (sure chipmunks are cute but once they’re in the house they’re just rats to me).

I took a wild swipe with my flashlight and smacked my knee cap. Ouch!

Now it was personal!

It charged over the couch into a 6” space. With total abandon I charged over the couch and dove into the same 6” space. It fit. I didn’t. I fired wildly, “winged it” a few times, and it went charging away for the living room.

Over the Legos it went. Over the Legos I went. It jetted behind another bookcase and I yanked it away from the wall a half second later. Then it zipped behind a rack of VHS tapes. I ripped the rack away from the wall only pausing briefly to think “we have VHS tapes?”

It ran across the center of the room with me inches behind it. A shoe was lying on the floor. I chucked the shoe and the chipmunk somersaulted over it. Meanwhile the cat stretched out on the stairway watching the show. Cats!

Following the “shoe incident” the chipmunk realized it was in the center of the room with no clear path of flight. It paused right in front of the TV. Ah ha! I drew a bead on it. The TV was two feet behind the chipmunk. If I missed (or even if I hit) I’d run a big risk of a ricochet taking it out the screen.

Hmm…was this a problem or an opportunity? I could kill two nasty invasive little problems at once! The chipmunk flitted six inches to the left then reversed and froze. It was still in front of the TV. I clicked off the safety.

The TV loomed. Actually I hate TV. What loomed was the thought of a future discussion with Mrs. Curmudgeon. “You shot a hole in it!?!” She’d scream. I’d hold up a dead chipmunk. “Do you have any idea how much a TV costs?” She’d continue. Actually I have no idea how much a TV costs but I know that I bitch about the cost of bread. Even so I could probably deal with blowing a hole in a TV that costs more than my first car (or many of the ones that followed) if the explanation was something more intelligent than holding up a dead chipmunk. I have some pride. I put the pistol back on safe. The chipmunk stayed put. I took a step forward.

The chipmunk stayed put. I took another step. It was staring at me. I raised the flashlight.

It erupted in motion just as I brought down Thor’s hammer. I nicked its tail but missed center mass.

It went flailing past the woodstove. It was in full flight but I had a good view. I took aim just as it went in front of the expensive glass window on the woodstove. I hate TV but love my woodstove. I reholstered the pistol and let the chipmunk dive into our huge woodbox. Well played sir.

How do you get a chipmunk out of a pile of split firewood? It’s their natural habitat. They’re so good at burrowing through stacks of wood that they’re practically the wood itself. This was going to be like trying to extract a politician from a pile of money.

I could hope the cat got back in the game. I looked at the cat. The cat looked at me. Cats!

Charge! I leapt forward and started yanking wood out of the neat stack and flinging it all over the carpet. The chipmunk was scurrying around as I kept removing whatever piece he’d been hiding under.

Roughly halfway through the pile I lifted a piece of wood with a desperate injured chipmunk still clinging to it. It shot toward my arm. I let go of the wood and he was air born. Everything came down to this moment…

Stomp!

Ha! Monkeys have feet! Remember that when you mess with bipeds!

He was still alive. Head beneath my boot and body wriggling wildly. I leaned down close and did a perfect air-pistol based double tap. It was over.

He’d put up a good fight. I paused a minute to admire the moxie of my worthy adversary. Then I scooped him up and marched past the useless indoor cat to toss the body into the forest.

Other chipmunks were scurrying around the forest. They chirped loudly at me as I walked under their oaks. I wondered which tree the dead chipmunk had come from. Were these little jerks his “homies”? I ought to put his little head on a tiny spike as a warning to the other woodland creatures. I’d drape it with a miniature sign in chipmunk language that says “be warned: the guy in the house has no sense of humor”.

Instead I think I’ll be shopping for some more traps. And possibly a kitten. The indoor cat is on administrative probation pending a full review of it’s job performance. I think she should be demoted to outdoor cat. I’m not sure how the executive committee will rule but my plan is to say “the TV almost died and the cat did it”.

The **^$##%^& cat had failed! Why the hell do we have cats if they can’t catch a *&%$#$$ chipmunk?

No matter. “Am I not a super macho male dude?” I thought. My caveman brain formulated a plan; “I shall kill the interloper, defend the homeland, and then maybe eat a sandwich.”

Except chipmunks have sharp little teeth. And they’re fast. And they can fit into little places. “Hmm…” This posed a conundrum. Meanwhile the cat took a dump that merited an EPA cleanup crew. “What were we feeding that thing?”

Unlike a cat, I came back to task quickly. As a monkey with a big brain I needed tools with which to smite my small toothy enemy. The broom? Nah. Mrs. Curmudgeon doesn’t like it when I beat her broom to death. I made a mental note to remind Mrs. Curmudgeon that I was so smart and clever that I didn’t smash the broom for once. She’d be impressed!

I grabbed a beefy D-Cell flashlight. Yeah! Then I picked up a steel wrecking bar. Hell yeah! Then I thought about how much I hate patching drywall. I set the wrecking bar down.

Once I had my ‘smashing thing’ I needed a ‘get into small places’ thing. Ideally the ‘get into small places thing’ would also serve as a ‘kill it from a distance’ thing. I wished I was outside so I could use my boomstick. Life is so easy outdoors. Outside I’d blast it with a shotgun and be back inside making a sandwich before it hit the ground. In the house I had to accept close quarters combat. Hand to hand fighting with a flashlight/club against a mere rodent?!? Pathetic!

Eventually I came up with an idea. I have a Walther PPK replica air pistol. It looks really cool but it has a 3” sight plane and shoots BBs that can’t do much more than put your eye out and/or knock over Shatter-Blast targets. Maybe I should ask Santa for a little pellet rifle?

I knew that the pistol was too weak to do in a chipmunk. I’d shot one with it before. Hitting a zooming chipmunk was a superlative feat of quick draw marksmanship. Once I pulled off the impossible, the shot wasn’t even lethal. The chipmunk had just shaken it off and run away. At least the little air pistol could flush the bastard out. Once it was in the open I’d apparently have to pound it to death like Godzilla. The irony of the wimpy air-pistol / flashlight combination was unbearable. I have rifles that could bring down a rhinoceros (or at least a Volkswagen) but I had nothing to stop a beast of chipmunk size.

I forced myself back on track again. “Seek the intruder, kill it, then drink beer.” Mission statement fully articulated, I stormed into the basement.

It was a day and a half before the inside cat detected a perimeter breach. The inside cat, being useless like all cats, spent sixteen hours sleeping while it pondered this new information. Then, after another nap, it decided to go see if chipmunks were fun to play with.

It dimly understood that it was an inside cat and had not yet been demoted to outside cat for reasons specifically related to the inside rodent population. Or something. Humans were boring and their goals never made sense. They used lots of words to explain stuff that was irrelevant. Also, they never fed cats as quickly as they should. Plus the humans had a stupid dog. The cat had no idea why she let the pathetic humans keep a dog in her house. She’d look into this oversight sometime and have the dog shot. Maybe it was also time to get new humans to replace the losers currently on staff? As soon as the cat had this thought it forgot about it and went to sleep. Then it was lunchtime. Or maybe it was dinner?

Eventually the cat remembered it’s goal of seeking the chipmunk but then it decided to lick it’s own ass instead. After that it took another nap. Later that weekend, after the cat had taken six more naps and sharpened it’s claws on the couch, it got to work.

It found the chipmunk in the basement and attacked. Except the cat lacked the one thing a cat really needs, a killer instinct. The chipmunk scooted up the wall and into the sub-basement. The cat lost interest.

Later the cat remembered something furry and went into the sub-basement to investigate. The chipmunk exploded over the ductwork. The cat thought running over the ductwork seemed like a fun thing to do. It followed noisily. The human upstairs heard the racket and arrived with a flashlight. Humans suck.

The battle raged on while the human cheered. “Get it, get it, get it. Kill the stupid chipmunk you dummy!” The cat, being useless, liked to chase critters but had no stomach for killing. The chipmunk flitted into the crawlspace and disappeared. The cat lost interest again. The human began cursing. That guy sure had an elaborate vocabulary. The cat immediately went to her box to take a big smelly dump which the human would eventually have to clean up. Being a cat rocks.

I’m not the only one who felt that ominous breeze. Nearby a chipmunk was sitting on a tree branch. From his lofty perch he eyed me and my decrepit tractor with disdain. He felt the same breeze. He sniffed the same wind. He knew too.

It had been a good year for critters. The oaks had produced stupendous amounts of acorns. Most of the seed bearing plants had done a good job too. The mower had actually run all summer long (an unprecedented event) and the grass had been kept manageably low. Thus the cats hadn’t had their usual cover from which they like to jump on God’s furry cleanup crew. In short there had been ample opportunity for an enterprising chipmunk to top off his nut based 401(k).

One chipmunk was different. He was a coddled beast. He had too much self esteem. He’d been given thirty seven consecutive blue ribbons for “most improved” in chipmunk school. He was confident in his belief that he was the best, most excellent, of all chipmunks ever. He desperately wanted an iPhone 5 so he could communicate this fact to the universe.

He perched on a tree branch and looked enviously at the house. “Why should I be outside when that two legged wanker has a whole house?” His furry brain reasoned. “I’ve got acorns but I know the humans have lots of dog food.” His brain seethed. “I could steal it from that lumbering wookie they keep in the house with them.”

Thinking of the dog, he chattered angrily. The clueless dog wandering around the yard heard the racket. The dog, being clueless, decided the best response was to bark at the clueless turkeys, which were the only thing more clueless than the dog. (This is what the dog did whenever it couldn’t think of anything else to do.)

Meanwhile the cats laid on the grass like beatniks and stoners. Actually they laid on the grass like beatniks that were stoned… or possibly beatniks that were dead. No, that’s not an adequate description. They laid around like cats; for nothing on God’s green earth is more indolent and lazy than a cat. The chickens, as always, pecked industriously amid the fallen leaves. The chipmunk hated them all.

“Fortunately,” thought the chipmunk, “I hate them all equally, which shows that I am without bias.” Though upon reflection the chipmunk had to admit to himself that he hated the cats just a little bit more than the others. He sighed; it was hard letting go of prejudices. He’d have to work on that.

Turning his attention away from the menagerie in the yard, he thought again of the human. He watched him crawl under the tractor for no apparent reason. Then the man banged his head on it’s iron belly. The man let fly with curses that practically melted the last bits of remaining paint on the machine. Was that why he crawled under there? Who would crawl under something simply for the purpose of hitting his head on it? Was it more fun to bash your head underneath the tractor? Was the top too soft? The chipmunk pondered this while the man crawled under the tractor again.

The man twisted a shiny metallic object until black liquid suddenly poured from the machine. This was interesting! The chipmunk had no idea the tractor had a chocolate center. The flow of liquid narrowly missed an old bucket and instead covered the man’s face. This caused another round of cursing. “What a moron!” thought the chipmunk, “nothing he does makes sense.” Finally the chipmunk had made his decision.

“He’s an idiot!” Declared the chipmunk. “Furthermore he doesn’t need that much stuff.” The chipmunk continued. “I need a warm house. I need food.” The chipmunk could scarcely contain himself. “Who are they to deny my rights!” The chipmunk was in a froth! “They are the 1%. Too rich. They have exploited us chipmunks for too long! We chipmunks are the 99%.” He stammered angrily. “In the name of justice and equality I shall take from that undeserving rich bastard what is rightfully mine!”

Full of righteous indignation, the chipmunk zoomed down the oak’s trunk, past the woodpile where he’d been loafing all summer, and under the porch. The cats in the yard neither moved nor considered the possibility of moving. The drafty old farmhouse posed no challenge to the clever creature. Within minutes he was in the basement. “This winter”, thought the chipmunk, “is going to be excellent!”

If you live where the iced tea has sugar you may not understand what is happening at Curmudgeon Compound. Up here, “the change” is coming. It will arrive with or without an invite and there’s nothing we can do to avoid it. The Mongol Horde called “winter” is camped on the plains just beyond the horizon. It is preparing to do us in. Soon it’ll charge into our region and the war will begin. Nobody will be spared. Cars will rust, batteries will freeze, and checking accounts will be depleted. Only the strong will survive.

All the signs are clear. Geese are flying south. Old people and RVs have preceded them. Tourists are a distant memory. Marketers are shoving Christmas stuff up our asses. Bass boats, which were the most coveted of possessions in August, are suddenly expensive and frivolous. Snowmobiles, which spent all summer collecting dust and getting gummed up carburetors, have become desirable. Lusting after ice shacks will begin shortly. Hunters are about to go into rut. Bucks are getting nervous. Somewhere a redneck is looking forward to driving his truck on the ice.

You never know exactly when the change will happen. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it arrives with fury. Only one thing is sure; when it comes you will know.

I was frittering away the afternoon tweaking my tractor’s back blade (one of my three snow moving implements… one needs backups!). I sniffed the air. Winter was coming. No! So soon? I felt it on the breeze too. There could be no doubt. Winter would wait no more. Shit just got real.

In October Curmudgeon Compound was attacked by zombies critters.  I wrote a story describing my brave fight against the forces of darkness furry invaders and my massive victory minor success in defending the homeland.

Then, because I was busy doing particle physics research in the barn I was lazy, I failed to post it.  Today, while cutting firewood meditating[1], a woodland creature perched on my woodpile and started bitching me out.  Vocally expressed his distaste for me, my saw, my wood splitter, my truck, my hat, my dog, and my very existence.  This reminded me of the epic battle of autumn.  Stay tuned for the details…

A.C.

[1]  Cutting firewood IS meditation dammit.  Loud macho dangerous exhausting meditation!  You expect me to sit on a rug smelling candles?