Adaptive Curmudgeon

…that love is what makes a Subaru.

Really?

I prefer vehicles made out of metal. It’s a shame because a Subaru made of metal might appeal to me but one made of love smells like bullshit.

Moreover I’m wearing deodorant that is supposed to smell like wilderness, open air, and freedom.  Apparently something has gone wrong because I’ve been working all day in the open air, and all I can smell is sweat.  (Which is an honest smell and far less annoying than bullshit.)

Speaking of annoying bullshit; political ads are the irrelevant distilled essence of bullshit painted on a solid block of condescension which is then delivered, screeching like a cat in heat, upside your head.  As if an audio visual suppository is supposed to make me like someone?  Why?  I will not vote for either hope or change any more than I’d buy a car made of love or wipe my armpit with wilderness.

On the other hand I have driven several cars which cause me to experience Fahrvergnügen.  One was even a Volkswagen.  I sure loved that car; which was made (as all cars should be) out of metal.

I invented Obamacare Bingo(1) but this is even better!

Brilliant!

As always you should Listen to Uncle Jay.

(1) No you may not see the Obamacare bingo cards.  You’ll just have to live through it.

Recently I was hauling a half ton of (free!) firewood. My redneck-mobile was on cruise control and I was happily chugging along at roughly the speed limit. Not too fast but I wasn’t oozing down the road like an anemic Prius either. I was on a spacious two lane divided highway which was almost devoid of traffic; the perfect all-American paved environment I love so much.

I was mentally tallying my firewood inventory as if firewood (acquired for free!) were immensely valuable. When it comes to heaps of firewood I’m practically Scrooge McDuck.

What a marvelous day. The skies were sunny and my chainsaw had run like a top. Did I mention the wood was free? I couldn’t wait to get home and fire up my wood splitter. Free wood and a good truck. All was right with the world.

I caught up with a couple of sweet motorcycle cruisers. (It’s Sturgis season and their migratory activity is at it’s fullest.) I gawked at their superb styling as my truck cranked past in the left lane.

I had an interesting thought. “How is it that I’m swooping past them on cruise control?” Indeed my lumbering oversized truck had floated past all that gorgeous chrome like they were a couple of tricycles. Oh well.

I’m not a speed demon but when I’m on my motorcycle I wouldn’t generally let a heap of firewood ditch me on a highway. The solution was obvious. They weren’t wearing helmets. I’ve ridden my motorcycle with and (rarely) without a helmet. I know from experience that exposing your cranium to highway speeds tends to tire you out and encourage you to slow down. (You’d expect the force of the wind to be the main factor but I think it’s the noise. The roaring wind is almost visceral once you’re going Interstate speeds.)

My motorcycle (despite being a cruiser) is deliberately outfitted with a windshield and subtle ergonomic gadgetry. It was intended to reduce fatigue but a secondary benefit is that I can comfortably run at slightly higher speeds. The two wheeled artwork I’d just passed was the opposite. Ape hanger bars, forward controls, chrome doo dads at odd angles, leather fringes, and lowered rear suspensions; all the special touches that made them “unique” gave them the ergonomics of a proctology exam. I lost them in the rear view mirror and forgot they existed.

Five minutes later the bikes came up behind me like their ass was on fire. They passed at full throttle (which is massive overkill for overtaking a load of firewood). The racket was enormous. I rolled up my window to block out the painful sound.

Then, in a spectacular combination of stupid and annoying, they lurched back into the right lane close in front of me. It was as if they wanted nothing better than to test out my deer guard with their ass. I switched off the cruise control and started easing back. I don’t need the hassle of picking some loser’s femur out of my radiator.

My only thought was “what the hell makes the front of my truck so attractive?” They must have asked the same question. One of them glanced in the mirror and (presumably) realized he couldn’t see anything but my license plate at the level of his head. He apparently decided that “flattened by a truck” was a bad life plan and laid on the throttle. All this did was send out another barrage of ear splitting shrieks. The other bike followed. Once they’d created an epic shitload of sonic waves they finally found enough spare power to drag themselves of my truck’s kill zone.

Only when they were far ahead did I stop cursing the noise. I also hit “resume” on the cruise control. Ten miles later I passed them again. Apparently they just couldn’t hold highway speeds for long. They once again receded in the rear view mirror and I never saw them again.

. . .

The only thing that offended me was that one of the bikers had slapped a bumper sticker on his rear fender. The horror! A bumper sticker on that gorgeous bike? Why not add a tramp stamp to the Mona Lisa?

What did the bumper sticker say? “Loud pipes save lives.”

I call bullshit! You know what saves lives? Staying the hell away from the grill of a six ton truck. That’s what saves lives!

I call more bullshit! You know what else saves lives? Helmets. Yeah they suck. Nobody wants to ruin their moment of freedom and glory by wearing a skull condom. Too bad because helmets actually save lives. Splitting your cranium like an overripe melon when you highside is the exact opposite of “saving lives”. I don’t care if someone does or does not wear a helmet but I do care if someone is spreading bullshit. Balancing ones eggshell thin skull on a wobbly biped’s neck at 70 MPH while emoting about safety is utter and complete nonsense.

I call even more bullshit! You know what else saves lives? Volvos. No motorcycle, no matter how glorious the chrome, is as safe as the cheapest Volvo. If you’re really enthused about saving lives (especially your own) strap your ass in a Volvo. Wallow in the luxurious life saving joy of seat belts, crumple zones, reinforced door panels, anti-lock brakes, and air bags. That stuff is real, honest to God, life saving technology.

Which brings me back to loud pipes. Loud pipes are loud. That’s all they are. They’re no more related to safety than a generic barbed wire tattoo on a bicep.

I hate rationalization. If you want loud pipes have at it. (Though keeping them quieter than a screeching chainsaw being raped by a mutant amplified bagpipe would show a hint of good character.) Quit trying to come up with some bullshit safety based pretzel logic to explain that you installed “bitchin’ loud thunder pipes” for safety. Nobody on planet earth is fooled by your dumbass rationalizations so just quit pretending. Enjoy loud pipes because it’s fun to be obnoxiously loud. How hard is that?

Thanks.

A.C.

P.S. And seriously…a bumper sticker? You’ve got to be kidding me.

…something odd about this post:

Angry Vermont farmer crushes 7 police cruisers with tractor

“…Orleans County sheriff’s deputies didn’t know what was happening in their parking lot until a neighbor called 911.

A man on a big farm tractor, angry about his recent arrest for resisting arrest and marijuana possession, was rolling across their vehicles — five marked cruisers, one unmarked car and a transport van.”

It was not the obvious; that a guy with a tractor was running amok.  (Actually I’m jealous that his tractor runs.)

What caught my attention was this:

“…the vehicles destroyed constituted more than half the fleet of sheriff’s cruisers in the rural county on the Canadian border. Others were out on patrol at the time of the incident.”

This means the Sheriff’s office has just under 14 vehicles (I’ll charitably estimate an even dozen) and 50% (six?) were on patrol on a given day.

Six on patrol and a fleet of a dozen?  In Vermont?  Have you been to rural Vermont?  I have.

I did some simple research.  The county has a population of 27,231. This means the Sheriff has one vehicle per 2,269 people. (27231/12=2269)  The county has about 10,000 households.  Thus I calculate that the Sheriff can field one vehicle for every 871 households. (10446/12=870.5)

One vehicle per 2,269 people? One cruiser for less than a thousand households? That’s just the County Sheriff. What about the State and Local police forces?  Plus that far north will have some Border Patrol.  Does the Sheriff need tanks too?  Is he worried the Canadians might invade?

Folks, this isn’t Manhattan.  870 households can often be served by one guy who plows the streets in winter and serves as dog catcher in his spare time.  A dozen Sheriff’s cruisers is a whole lotta’ firepower to protect handfuls of skiers and ice fishermen.

I could be wrong.  Maybe Vermont is surprisingly neck deep in meth-heads, hoodlums, and attacking alien spacecraft.  Perhaps the Crips and Bloods are having gang battles amid sugar maples

Perhaps they’re over policed. Yes, crushing cruisers with a tractor is a crime but nobody was hurt so I like to think of it as an unhinged farmer culling a tax grazing herd.

Ht. to Living Freedom

Given the choice, there are places I’d rather visit than Chicago.  For example, Chernobyl or Marquis De Sade’s basement.  Sadly, I was forced to travel through Chicago; or as I like to call it Modor in the Midwest.

Fortunately I can limit my exposure to Chicago by rocketing through in my big redneck truck.  Aside from an economy based entirely on tollbooths and traffic jams it’s tolerable if I just keep moving.  In fact I’ve made it a game.  I never set foot in Chicago itself and go out of my way to spend as little money as possible (i.e. nothing but tolls) in the entire state.  (One has time to think of such games when they’re crawling along in Chicago traffic.)

The worst part is a feeling that I’m in enemy territory.  The place makes a libertarian’s skin crawl.  I know that gun control and taxes can’t leap up my pantleg and infect me with a zombie like desire to annoy and regulate but I just can’t shake the feeling that it would explain a lot.  Better not to take the chance.

However, this was the week of Chicken Sandwich politics; another example of Modor’s Chicago’s bullshit.  For those of you who live under a rock (like me!) I’ll summarize below.  (Note, I’m quoting from a random press article just to keep things grounded.  You’ve already probably heard the whole things.  The facts aren’t in play, only the reaction.)

It starts with a guy with a deeply held personal moral code.  Like all Americans he’s free to have whatever opinion he wishes.

“…Chick-fil-A President Dan Cathy, who reaffirmed his belief in the “biblical” definition of marriage during a two separate media interviews in the past month. Cathy told the Baptist Press he was ‘guilty as charged’ of supporting traditional marriage and denouncing gay marriage.”

So Dan Cathy has a moral code and he’s quaint enough to say it aloud.  In the recent past it would be no big deal.  There was a time when folks were encouraged to form moral codes and act accordingly.  (Am I dating myself when I say that?)

Of course this is the modern era when the only approved morality is the one that comports with a certain side of the political spectrum.  Enter a pair of duchebags:

“Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel is attempting to block the fast food chain from expanding in his city, saying ‘Chick-fil-A’s values are not Chicago values.’ The chain isn’t welcome in Boston either, according to a letter written by Mayor Thomas M. Menino, in which he pledges to stonewall Chick-fil-A from opening an outlet in the city limits.”

Interesting.  I had no idea that Mayor Rahm Emanuel had the delegated authority to determine the values of all citizens of Chicago.  Does it say that on the city charter?  Or did Rahm just smell his shit so much that he started thinking he was God?  Chicago, despite my loathing for it, is still within the bounds of America so they have a Mayor.  They don’t have a Pontiff, Godhead, or King.  Rohm can look up “Mayor” and then look up “Absolute Monarchical Power Wielded By Divine Right”.  Note; they’re not the same thing.

Rahm isn’t the only guy who has an outsized ego.  Boston Mayor Thomas M. Menino eagerly lined up to be duchebag number two.

I don’t have a horse in the gay marriage race.  What I do have is respect for the limits on a mayor’s power.  I can’t abide a population of ego inflated jackoffs that aspire to be theocratic dunderheads in my nation!  Nobody can legally chase a sandwich shop out of business any more than they can make the sun rise in the west.  We’re a free people.  We are citizens not subjects.  They’re why I avoid places like Chicago.  They can fuck off.

None of this is new.  It’s an attitude that has led me to believe the only thing Chicago creates  are taxes, debt, and corruption.  (And Al Bundy.)  It’s also why I have passed through Chicago dozens of times and I haven’t spent a red cent in their blighted burg.  The better to buy fuel, food, and hotel rooms, in free states farther afield.  But I happened to be passing through on Chick Fill A day.  What a great idea.

Unfortunately the logistics were tough.  My truck is too big for cities.  If you crushed six dozen “green technology” bicycles and dumped three Priuses on top you’d have an amusing jumble the mass of my truck’s hood.  Piloting my behemoth down those streets was challenging enough that I came, I saw, and I left…as soon as possible.

A bicycle rickshaw? Seriously?!? I find this mildly amusing and a bit pathetic. Has Chicago regulated itself out of the industrial age? What’s next; mules?

Ground zero in the movement for freedom of chicken sandwiches.

The press was there. What’s that van blocking the way?

No kidding? A police van? Move along. Nothing to see here.

Actually things weren’t that exciting.  The place seemed to have about twice the customers of adjacent shops.  I don’t know what the press was reporting but it seemed like happy people eating sandwiches in a humorous “screw you” to political blowhards.  I’d been hoping to buy a t-shirt hawked by an enterprising street vendor but none were around.  Just some T.V. guy setting up a camera and a crowded store.  Pretty tame really.

I left quickly.  More out of concern for my truck (which desperately wanted to be in a more suitable habitat) and busy schedules than anything else.

A block later I passed this:

Look what was parked a half block away. Nothing to see here either. Keep moving.

There might have also been a third vehicle but I wasn’t fast enough with the camera.  As far as I can tell the were a number of police eagerly waiting for something to happen but nothing was happening and (to their credit) they weren’t starting trouble.  Even the T.V. folks were pretty tame.

On the way out to the highway and roads leading to freer locales I took one last photo:

This young lady had an epic derrier. All you get is a picture of a tree. Sucks to be you.

I once had a neighbour  neighbor…

Editorial rant follows for no particular reason:

Dammit…my spell check is hopelessly Anglophile.  It’s going to Defcon 4 because I’m overriding it’s little irrelevant electronic dictates.  Also it doesn’t like Defcon 4 because it’s woefully uninformed about 1980’s B grade movies. (What’s this?  “Movies” isn’t a word?  No way in hell am I calling Wargames “cinema”.  I need more coffee ASAP.)  Wait!  ASAP is a word and movies isn’t?  WTF?  (Another non word.)

Ok that’s it.  I’m ‘Merican, a victim of public schooling, and a blogger.  It should be happy I’m literate at all.  Spell check is a metaphor for the government.  It’s incredibly handy but it has a tendency to forget that I’m driving the boat and it’s just a silly little utility to help things along.  I’m turning the damn thing off.

My neighbor (retired) used to grow corn every summer.  Man he grew corn.  It was like his life’s mission and he took it seriously.  He had all the equipment you can name and tilled a massive set of gardens.  The rows were arrow straight and the gardens were picturesque and bountiful.

Everything he grew was delicious.  He sold it at a roadside stand and gave away plenty too.  He always beamed with pride whenever he harvested another ear.  I liked him and ate all the corn I could get my hands on.  I think I liked the idea of his beautiful garden and pride as much as I liked corn on the cob.  The “you didn’t build that” meme reminded me of him.  Nobody would look at those gardens and fail to see the pride and skill involved.

I’m not much of a gardener so I focus on critters.  I’m too lazy to weed a garden.  Plus I’ve never seen a stalk of corn strut around the lawn and annoy the cats like a rooster.  (The things you’ll watch from a porch swing.  It’s better than cable.)  Our homestead doesn’t provide 100% of our diet but it’s pretty uncommon that we buy meat.  (Hunting has a lot to do with that too.)  It’s not as exceptional as my neighbor’s massive garden but we derive some pride from raising food too.

Beer Can Chicken BBQ. There are many like it but this one was mine.

In other news it remains a year divisible by four with a D in the big chair.  Thus the press is hopelessly upbeat even as one guy says stupid things (which has the side benefit of being perfect satire fodder), the other guy is vilified by making legal private sector profits (because it would be better if he drove companies into the ground?), and the Federal debt is $15,918,983,548,548.25.

I don’t know about you but I don’t give a shit who sewed Olympic uniforms ten years ago when it takes sixteen digits to type the debt.  In the long run, debt matters more than almost anything else.  Which is why both parties are ignoring it like a 600 pound gorilla in the room. (A gorilla that’s angry, rabid, armed, and painted orange. Nothing to see here.)

Which is to say that summer 2012 politics continue to be largely content free.  As I’d planned in advance I’m (almost) ignoring it all.  (I’m also ignoring blog fodder like tractors and homestead stuff.  Call it a mental vacation.)

Happy summer.

The following post has no point or defining theme:

Summertime,
And the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’
And the cotton is high

Oh, Your daddy’s rich
And your momma’s good lookin’
So hush little baby
Don’t you cry

One of these mornings
You’re going to rise up singing
Then you’ll spread your wings
And you’ll take to the sky

But until that morning
There’s a’nothing that can harm you
With your daddy and mommy standing by

Summertime,
And the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumpin’
And the cotton is high

Oh, Your daddy’s rich
And your momma’s good lookin’
So hush little baby
Don’t you cry

Summertime, George Gershwin, 1935

I’ve had Summertime in my head for days. The haunting rendition by Janis Joplin and the verbosely named “Big Brother and the Holding Company” is my favorite.  I’ve been humming it all day. (Note: I’m not listening to it from a recording because iNinjas still have Janis in their clutches. I’ve liberated a lot of the iPod but that bloodsucking swine in a sweater still controls too much of my music; including Janis! In the end I’ll jailbreak the rest of my property if I have to use a crowbar. However, it’ll have to wait until I’m motivated to begin Phase II of the iPod liberation wars.  When I’ve won the war…and there can be no doubt I will win… I might take that infernal contraption on a short trip to the shooting range.)

No matter. I don’t need iDevices. Just a porch swing and a view composed mostly of nature. When it’s hot enough that the oak looks like it’s going to start sweating, Janis’ voice just comes into my head. How a drug addled hippie could muster such beauty is a mystery.

Also; what is it with Gershwin? It’s almost embarrassing to like his fluff derived of showtunes and lullabies; yet he was brilliant. If you can sit on my porch swing in July and not hear “Summertime” you’re a mutant.

…

Meanwhile folks have been haranguing me about letting my blog slide. “Crocs? You’re writing about crocs?!? Have you gone mad!?!” (You know who you are.) Thankfully my commenters (which I’ve been ignoring) report they’ve generally defeated the specter of Crocs. (Good show! I knew my readers were a cut above.)

As for the ones seeking more substance; tough. It’s summer and all I hear is birdsong and Gershwin. It’s a seasonal imperative. I live far enough north that the winter weather can break your soul. One must loll in the heat the better to endure the bitter cold that will arrive as surely as death and Christmas shopping. Making fun of lamentable electric cars and typing all 14 digits to the debt is best reserved for cold months. Nobody can take clammy gutless political talking heads seriously in this weather. Well there are exceptions; earnest unemployable community organizers and determined people who sleep with Atlas Shrugged under their pillow. The rest of us know sunshine is too valuable to waste.

My summer is mostly booked with relaxation and working my ass off. There is no contradiction in these two things; the good lord kindly gave me extra sunlight all summer long. You thought it had to do with tilted axes of planetary rotation? How silly! It’s so I can finish homesteading chores and still have time to go fishing.

So for the moment every time a blogging idea pops up it risks losing steam. Sunshine cannot be denied. I must amass firewood. I must butcher chickens. Actually I must sit on my porch swing and sip beer while the firewood is ignored (and baked) and fattened chickens live on borrowed time.

Yet the campaign threatens to ooze into our homes. How to react? Simple. Ignore it.

Trust me on this.  Nothing said or done by either side in 2012 has been surprising so far. They’re all following their ruts with clockwork precision. (Except Ron Paul who is always fated to be dismissed. That poor guy could resurrect an orphan on TV and be harassed for causing overpopulation.) Everyone else will stay in their foxholes until they’re dragged out by desperation when things come down to the wire in October. Tune out for now. Wait until you’re starting to daydream of hunting season and pumpkin pie. You’ll have missed nothing.

Here’s an example to illustrate the irrelevance of news this month. I was recently exposed (like one is exposed to a pathogen) to a press article. It breathlessly claimed that campaign ads have “turned unexpected negative”. Unexpected to whom? Anyone who expected positive campaigning in 2012 is either a six year old girl or a college student. The rest of us consult the calendar and think “the corn is waist high, I’m suddenly appreciative of air conditioning, and campaign ads are negative. Seems like mid-summer in a year divisible by four.”

In fact the only political surprises of 2012 so far have been the following:

1. The Obamacare Supreme court ruling ruling was not the wishy washy half-measure I predicted. It was a full fledged ballsack crushing punt through the goalposts. It proved that there are no limits to anything ever. In a way I found it cathartic. Watching the Supremes try to saw a baby in half always annoyed me. Plus life is simpler when your opponent has set fire to your car, fed your child’s hamster into the garbage disposal, and poisoned your houseplants. Clarity has value. Anyone who was sitting the fence pondering when government will start to self-limit either got the hint or will smile all the way up the ramp to the railcar.
2. The price of gasoline is vaguely low. It’s barely double what it was when the press was yelping about evil profiteering right wing cowboys in the white house.  (Factoid: gas was $1.47 when Bush entered office on Jan 2001 and $1.78 when Obama entered in Jan 2009.  It is now averaging $3.46 for regular grade.  Doubling Obama’s start price would be $3.56.)  I’m not alarmed about the price of gas but the press would be hyperventilating if it was up 200% in a year divisible by four if the guy in the big chair didn’t have a “D” after his name.  I was betting on $4.00 (see #45). I missed by $0.50 a gallon.  So far I have been (gasp!) wrong. Which is good news.

If seven months of politics has no more surprises than those two; 2012 is demonstrably on auto pilot.

Join me. Turn off the TV (and set it on fire). Kick back and grab a cool drink. I’ve been spending as much time as possible sitting on the porch, watching the rooster um… “herd” his hens, and pretending I might actually split some wood before sunset. (Hint: I’m won’t.) That’s what summer is for.

Happy summer.

A.C.

Until recently the world was a better place.  This is because I did not own Crocs.

I was (apparently) the last human on earth to hold out against them. Aside from me, they were everywhere. Even Curmudgeon Compound been infiltrated. The only two members of the household without a pair were me and the dog.

Then, tragically, my most recent set of “cheapskate moccasin” slippers was declared a Superfund site and banned from the house. Did you know that it’s pretty rough on slippers to wear them across the snow to the chicken coop? Ah… life has so many lessons to impart.

At any rate I now have Crocs.  Their camouflage design does nothing to cover the fact that I’m a lesser man for it.  The worst part is that they feel pretty good.  Ugh…did I just say that?

“But”, said I, “I shall never be seen in public with Crocs.” For this was a slippery slope from which there was no recovery.

You know where this is going don’t you? After the Crocs were in the house for several months there came a time of weakness. I was ill. I was missing a day of work and royally pissed off about it. I was also starving and in no mood to face whatever I (being a bad cook) would serve myself. I limped out of the house and made my way to the nearest cafe where I could drown my sorrows in half a pot of hot tea and whatever else I could keep down. Hey, I was desperate!

Only after I was already served did I realize I was wearing them.  In public!  How appalling!

Then a few months later I watched The Dictator.  Satire is the home of truth.  The horrible fact was delivered by the gentle hand of a Sasha Cohen script.

“You’re wearing crocs!?!”

“Crocs are a sign of a man who has given up. Next you will be wearing sweatpants and spending your nights at Applebees!”

Nuclear Nadal knows that Crocs are totally unacceptable.

Yes.  It is true.  I have not yet succumbed to Applebees but I know the day of reckoning is nigh.  Sometimes you cannot avoid fate.