Adaptive Curmudgeon

This interview was recorded at a meeting of the Society of Dour Armchair Economists (SDAE). The meeting (which was held in an undisclosed location) included a couple of journalism interns who interviewed founding member and SDAE dictator for life chairman A. Curmudgeon.  One of the two interns is now a Buddhist monk and the other has moved to a bunker in Idaho.

Q: Mr. Curmudgeon we’d like to thank you for agreeing to this interview.
A: Actually you’re figments of my imagination.  Do continue.

Q: Is the government going to shut down this weekend?
A: Not unless I’m a Chinese jet pilot. Can you imagine the press’ whining if it happened?

Q: But…
A: Think about it.  Airhead newscasters will compete to find and interview the most pitiful possible Government employee…

Q: Er…
A: They’d unearth some poor schmuck who would have every possible level of victim.  Not an EPA regulator or IRA auditor.  People hate them and want to use them as piñatas. They’d interview a sad, poor, octogenarian, gay, vegan, janitor with post-traumatic stress disorder who’s laid off from working at a the Pentagon’s American flag warehouse.

Q: Uh…
A: It would be excellent theater. Five minutes after Social Security checks stopped flowing they’d interview him. Actually it would be a her. A black her.  The interview would be on Christmas Eve.  In the snow.  They’d make this poor bastard stand in the snow without a coat and explain how miserable they are.  It would have to be someone with who mentors orphans and has a one legged dog named “Hope”. It would be a weepy story. Maybe they’d cry.  Yeah…then they’d cut to a picture of Newt Gingrich and say something like “The shutdown means Sara Sobstory here is going to have to live in a cardboard box, cook her cat for dinner, and sell her thirty six children for medical experiments to pay for the family’s iPod data plan.  We at the unbiased media think this is all because those racist bastard republicans are lying on piles of gold.  Now back to the studio for a story about how kittens love Socialized medical care.”

Q: Kittens love socialized medicine?
A: MY DOCTOR WORKS FOR ME NOT THE DAMN GOVERMENT!

Q: Are you ok?
A: I probably should switch to decaf.

Q: Back to the interview. When was the last budget passed?
A: Don’t you have Google? The last full actual complete real non-bullshit Federal budget was for Fiscal year 2010.

Q: That long ago?
A: That budget was over on September 30th 2010, fourteen months ago.

Q: So they’ve made no progress in fourteen months?
A: Actually it cleared the Senate in April of ’09. So it’s been two and a half years ago since the last “normal” budgeting…whatever “normal” means.

Q: But their job is…
A: …spending other peoples money. Beyond that politicians don’t do much. Of course some are more active than others. Several have been energetically hiking the Appalachian trail or starting money making enterprises. I think Nancy Pelosi was vacationing in her castle in Transylvania. And of course the President has been… well…Obamaing.

Q: Obamaing is a verb?
A: Of course. Politicians are like Muad’Dib. Their names have a clear meaning. For example when a used car salesman tries to sell me a piece of junk I’ll say; “Quit BARNEY FRANKING me.”

Q: Ouch!
A: See? You knew what I meant.

Q: But…
A: It’s fun. Try it. “If a burgalar tries to BLAGOJEVICH my stuff I’ll go all HILLARY on his ass!”

Q: (Cringing) Weren’t they, you know, passing legislation?
A: Well most of the really obnoxious stuff is done through regulation now. Meddling in oil pipelines, shutting down off shore drilling, dinking around with raw milk, bitching about driver’s with cell phones, wiretapping, performing unnatural acts with the Fed, throwing cash at Solyandra, running Government Motors. THE CHEVY VOLT PISSES ME OFF!

Q: Huh?
A: They’re probably coming for ‘Vera’ next.

Q: I’m concerned about that rifle you’re cleaning…
A: That’s Vera.

Q: Aaackk.
A: Didn’t they tell you I was a paranoid lunatic?

Q: But…
A: It’s a gun. I’m clinging to it. I should really get to church more often.

Q: I just dropped my MacBook. Can we start again?
A: Sure. Mind if I sharpen this knife while we talk?

Q: Uhhh…so when was the last real budget signed?
A: July 22, 2009.  Dude, you really don’t have Google?

Q: Google is too much work. So how has the budget process gone since the last “normalcy”?
A: It’s my understanding that Congressweasels and the Executive agreed on six consecutive stopgap spending bills.

Q: Wow that’s a lot…
A: And when the sixth one ran out they tried to duke it out in April of this year when the Debt Ceiling was reached.

Q: Government almost shut down then.  It was terrible!
A: Damn straight.  My tractor broke down that week.  Sigh… my poor tractor.

Q: And the near shutdown…that could have been tragic.
A: Yeah…whatever. Stupid carburetor…

Q: About the government?
A: Oh yeah, the stupid party and the evil party stood toe to toe on principle. Then they jointly decided to keep spending because why the hell not? It was like watching Stalin and Hitler decide who’s more moral before joining Pol Pot in a three way.

Q: It was a compromise.
A: They punted by claiming a special committee would solve things in the near future.

Q: Makes sense.
A: No it doesn’t!  Ever see a committee accomplish anything?

Q: Well I suppose they meant well.
A: No they didn’t. Anyway the ‘committee’ gambit only lasted a while.

Q: ‘Till when?
A: ‘Till now.  Shutdown in t-minus a couple hours.

Q: Oh no!
A: Calm down. ‘Aint gonna happen.

Q: Why?
A: Because Congressweasels really represent the people.  Or at least some of them.

Q: And what do the people want?
A: Fucking everything! They want free stuff, no payoff student loans, subsidized mortgages, golden retirement plans for community organizers, war with everyone who pisses us off, light bulb regulations, electric cars, polar bear self esteem, taxes lower than spending, and a handsome president with good hair. Everything all the time forever and free.

Q: That doesn’t sound realistic.
A: It’s not.

Q: Now I’m depressed.
A: Join the club.

Q: But won’t they compromise and come up with a budget solution?
A: Maybe for a while but there ‘aint no such thing as a free lunch so they’ll have to do it again shortly.

Q: (Crying)
A: Wait ’till I explain what ‘fiat currency’ means.

(Five minutes later both interns were terrified. One was banging his head on a wall and the other was trying to sell a kidney to buy gold.)

A: Relax, it’s not so bad.  The shit isn’t about to hit the fan…it already has.
Q: That’s the good news?

A: Sure…if you’re going to be stampeded by fail it’s nice to see it coming.
Q: (Speechless)

A: It’s not permanent. Congress and the executive can get back on track. They just need better incentives.  Given the proper incentives even debased immoral scum like the ones we continually vote for can rise to the occasion.
Q: Really?

A: Sure.  I had the same problem on my homestead.  My chickens went apeshit. Faltering production.  Fighting amongst themselves. Shitting on everything.  Costing more than they were worth.
Q: Hmmm…that does sound like Congress.

A: I applied better incentives and now they’re at top notch efficiency.  Improvement is always possible.
Q: Really?

A: Sure.  Let’s discuss it over dinner.  My treat!

Q: Thanks.  What’s on the menu?
A: BBQ Chicken.

Recently I fell prey to a plot which I claim to be entrapment.

I’d put some flour and other random ingredients in my battery of breadmakers.  (I’ve got only two machines running now but ideally I’d have a dozen.  I’m not so much interested in cooking as I am in manufacturing food.)  I make many loaves in advance and store them in the freezer.  It’s a handy complement to deer hunting and other manly freezer filling pursuits.

I set the machines on “magic” (for there is nothing quite so magic as an automatic breadmaker) and went to bed.  Three hours later the bread machines were done and they beeped.  This set off our nocturnal intruder alarm (the yard wookie).  The subtle difference between a bread machine beep and the zombie apocalypse eludes her.  Nobody heard the dog but me (thus proving that a nuclear bomb could go off and most of the household would sleep through it).  I guessed it was a false positive dog alert but I lumbered around the house scanning the perimeter for zombies and other creatures likely to invade the house or molest the chickens.  Nothing.  Good dog.

Once the bread was on cooling racks I realized I was hungry.  I’m a man.  Men are always hungry.  The only time they’re not hungry is when they’re thinking about beer or sex.  (In those moments they’re still hungry but distracted.)

But the bread was part of my “fill the freezer plan” and we had some store bought bread (hereafter referred to as abhorrent compressed sawdust loaf) which should be eaten first.  Besides I wasn’t in the mood for bread; either my golden creation or the abhorrent compressed sawdust.  So I opened the fridge to find a snack.

The fridge was as empty as a politician’s promise; mustard, pickles, one can of Coke, maple syrup, some carrots that look dangerously old, butter…  what’s this?  In the far back I found a little cup of apple sauce.  The perfect thing for a 2:00am snack!

I wolfed down the apple sauce, told the dog to limit barking to things I could legally shoot, and went back to bed.  Story over…

Wrong!

Several hours later morning came.  I was just barely capable of focusing my eyes when one of the smaller household units (larger than a poodle and smaller than the dog…yet capable of using tools, possessing speech, and literate) zoomed into the room to accuse me of something.  I couldn’t quite understand the complaint.  Yeah, I ate some apple sauce, so what?  “Ah ha!” the accusing voice exclaimed, “I knew you did it!”.  Then it scampered out to notify my wife.

Five minutes later she who must be obeyed showed up with the air of the Spanish Inquisition.  More accusations; “Did you or did you not eat the applesauce?”

Folks I’m a man.  We don’t get hints.  We actually answer questions.  Truthfully.

“Yes, I ate the applesauce.  So what?”

“That was the last applesauce.”

Apparently the applesauce wasn’t for me.  Of course!  How silly of me!  I should have noticed the pheromone marking placed on it.  The error of my ways should have been self-evident.

My dander was now up.  I’m not even sure what a “dander” is but I think the world should learn to treat me kindly before I’ve had my coffee.  In fact it’s better to wait for the second cup lest I start running around on all fours like a rabid badger and bite your kneecaps off.  Even I don’t know what I might do before the blessed civilizing embrace of coffee kicks in.  I spoke:

“Yes, I ate the one and only last applesauce in known creation.  As Al Gore has pointed out apples will be wiped out by global warming.  We’ll all have to eat soilent green.  In spite of that I acted like the hopeless Neanderthal that I am; I ate the applesauce.  A foodstuff that I found in my fridge, in my kitchen, my house.

Now we’re all going to die.  Because I’m a greedy pig who eats everything in sight.  The two new loaves of bread, borne from the sweat of my brow and God’s divine providence of the wheat harvest, are irrelevant.  Because I have consumed all materials that could sustain life as we know it.

The loss of applesauce will plunge us into Dickensian misery and domestic starvation.  Our demise is upon my shoulders.

Do I deny this?  No.  For I have no regrets!  I did it willfully.  If I had the chance I’d do it again!  Applesauce is my addiction.  Applesauce is crack.  Applesauce goes to eleven.  Applesauce has more cowbell.

I’ll never let them take my applesauce without a fight.  You’ll have to pry the applesauce from my cold dead hands.    Rage rage at the dying of the applesauce…”

That didn’t go over as badly as you might imagine.  She who must be obeyed and small talkative creature chalked it up to senility and my predictable pre-coffee attitude of evil and mayhem.  I think the family unit will overcome the applesauce drought of 2011.

Everyone left but me and the dog.  The dog had loyally stood by side all morning.  Dogs rock!  Sadly, she was terribly confused.  She is willing to defend me against a charging infantry division but she didn’t quite understand the import of applesauce.  I don’t either.  She looked at me hopefully.  As if to say “Is there something I can bark at?  Maybe terrorize the UPS guy?  Would that help?”

Nope.  I was doomed the minute I took for granted free access to the fridge.  (I wonder who owns the mustard?)

I made coffee and fed the dog.  On a whim I made toast out of my fresh good bread. (This bread is mine and by God I’m eating it!)  It was delicious.

That’s how I started my day.  The dog is still confused.  So am I.  Men usually are.

But the toast was excellent.

Recently I ranted about inflation. I’m pissed that I saw inflation coming a mile away and was told I wasn’t seeing it. I was told “this time is different” and “mathematics don’t apply to us” and “don’t be lame, it’s a historic moment“.  Now inflation is swirling around my ankles and I’m being told that it’s not true. Why? There is no nobility in denying that which is true.  I’m annoyed because some dumbass will be telling me it’s all sunshine and rainbows right until I’m dropping a twenty on a box of corn flakes.  (Especially if the media likes the guy in the big chair.)

I might as well add the other part of the misery index; unemployment. I’m less worried about unemployment than inflation. Inflation sneaks though the window in the middle of the night, sets your car on fire, shoots your dog, and lobs a live grenade into your bank account. Unemployment shows up drunk, drinks all your beer, craps on the couch, and makes a pass at your girl but you can try to set things back in order once you shoo it out the door.  Unemployment is never delightful but an individual can do his or her best to adapt and might come out ok.

Also, unemployment is hard to pin down. It’s based on the number of Americans who’re receiving a certain Federal benefit. The relationship between this and hard working COGs who are temporarily idled is fuzzy.  But accepting that it’s a fruity number it’s still relevant.

So how are things going? Shitty!  How do I know they’re shitty? Because the statistic stands at 8.6%.  Not long ago Bush Jr. was in office and eight points would have been considered the end of life as we know it and proof positive that we were doomed.  Bush’s unemployment rate bounced from 4.3% to 7.8%.  Towards the end of his administration he was hounded for unemployment any time the media wasn’t barking about Guantanamo.  (Good thing Obama closed Guantanamo.)

So 8.6% is bad news right? Nope, the press loves the guy in the big chair so it’s all puppies and flowers. Check it out: Jobless Rate Dips to Lowest Level in More than Two Years.  I’m really impressed by their ability to spin 8.6% into good news.  (Next they’ll kick me in the groin and tell me it’s good for my self esteem.)

I couldn’t help but dredge up this chart:

This is the chart that the president showed so it must be right. Also, I think entirely in pastels.

This chart comes from page four of a January 2009 report by the Council of Economic Advisors called “The Job Impact Of The American Recovery And Reinvestment Program” (it’s available from the footnotes in Wikipedia). This chart was a key to the sales pitch (snow job) that got the “Stimulus Package” passed.

This chart is also completely fucking wrong.  Not one part of their “predictions” were even remotely correct.  (Which is something I saw coming…as did many others who hadn’t drank the Kool aid.)

The next chart is reality:

Reality is a harsh mistress.

I decided to compare the puppies and rainbows “prediction” (i.e. bullshit) with real life.  Check out my super cool annotation abilities!

Since when is "much worse than predicted under any scenario" good news? (Bonus question: to what extent is this related to the stock price of New York Times?

Continue reading →

It’s no surprise I loathe the Chevy Volt (see here, here, and here) but I don’t hate electric cars.  I love weird niche vehicles and might dig owning a plug in.  That’s why I hate the Chevy Volt; it’s a shitty car for a shitty price with shitty performance.  I want anreal electric car and Chevy’s Volt is just a subsidy harvest.

Here’s another niche car that bought the farm: our government killed the Smart Car.  It’s a ridiculously small “car-like-object” that’s been for sale in Europe for years.  It is saddled with an appalling name (“Smart Car”) and it’s smaller than a Labrador retriever but it has a killer feature; 69 MPG.

At 69 MPG this is an unusual vehicle. At 36 MPG this is a punchline.

Compared to a Buick it’s a dog turd on wheels but I’m bored by SUVs.  I’ll consider anything.  Rather than think of it as a “really small car” I wondered if it could be “a motorcycle that has a body and heater”?

It was not for sale in America.  Thanks to Twinkies like Ralf Nader, the EPA, and our Nation’s lamentable position as host to rabid hordes of feral liability lawyers, lots of cool cars cannot be sold in America.  It pains me to say it but the French can buy cars that I, as an American citizen, cannot.  The French damn it!  It’s an assault on all that America stands for that the damn French can buy something that’s banned by EPA regulation.  We’re the people who invented Wal-Mart and turned over-consumption into a National pastime.  It’s not right!

I waited for the little Smart Car.  First it was in Europe and I couldn’t have it.  Then it was in Canada and I couldn’t have it.  The reviews made it seem ok.  It was supposedly dirt cheap and invariably got super mileage from it’s tiny diesel engine.  I  love diesels; it had potential.  I was worried it might be a bit “buzzy” at highway speeds but I planned to test drive one when it got to America.

Then it arrived in America but it wasn’t for sale anywhere near me.  I planned a fun motorcycle road trip to the nearest dealer to check one out.  Just to kick the tires and drive something odd.

Then I found out it was “Americanized”.  It was supposedly heavier (not cool on something so small), it was much more expensive, and it was equipped with a gas engine that got relatively lousy mileage.  I never test drove one because without excellent MPG it’s all sizzle and no steak.

Which brings me to today’s link Sales of the Smart ForTwo Plummet:

“It will not import its diesel version available in Europe. Despite the fact that this model achieves more than 69 miles per gallon, it’s gasoline-only for these shores. Which means the company must rely on a model that has been criticized (by me and other reviewers) for a balky transmission, lackluster road-holding and pretty average fuel economy for a car this size (36 miles per gallon, according to government testing — a number I never achieved).

With larger modestly priced cars boasting similar fuel economy, like Honda’s Fit and the coming Ford Fiesta, it’s hard to see how Smart will manage to attract enough buyers to make this a going concern.”

By the way, the article was from February 2010.  How were they going to address this problem:

“The company says it will react appropriately with a new marketing strategy.”

“New marketing strategy” is code for “refuse to adapt and fail like the little pussies that we are”.  Here’s a hint.  If you’re selling shit, the solution is not advertising.

The Smart Car is dead to me.  I bought a Honda and have been driving the wheels off it.  It’s a thousand times bigger yet gets similar MPG to the “gassed” Smart Car.  It’s much faster, seats four, and the stick shift is fun to drive.  The Smart Car that could have been a fun little street legal go kart / heated motorcycle was turned into an eco-masochist’s hair shirt.  Nobody sane will own one.  Harrumph!