Adaptive Curmudgeon

I’ve been on partial media blackout for several weeks. The weather has been nice and the fishing fine. Plus, there’s firewood to cut. (As a “denier” I’ve been stacking firewood. If Al Gore is right for the first time in his life; I guess it was wasted effort.)

That explains recent light posting and a general political condition white. But have no fear! I’m about to brain dump a multi-part uber post that’s been simmering a while.

I’ve been thinking about the folks who historically keep the lights on; COGs. (You’ll have to read the post for the acronym definition.) These folks, who are notable mostly for quietly pulling their own weight, are a key component of civilized life.

Stay tuned…

Being a parent; a lot of the time it sucks and other times it’s heavenly.  You’ve got to remember the best of times.  (Store them up for when they’re nihilistic overbearing teenage yahoos.)

It makes perfect sense. You'll get it when you read the story.

Wood Tape is the story of a four year old’s trip to a hardware store.  Every Dad will appreciate it.

I am slow in reporting this news of great import but my earlier experience (see: Poodle Vision) has had unforeseen repercussions.  Apparently small axillary backup (the guest dog…tragically, a poodle) has infected our large domestic security unit (our family dog) with some sort of ear infection.  I wasn’t there for the vet consult but I gather some sort of creepin’ crud got from one dog’s tongue to the other dog’s ear.  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

So now I’ve got to schedule a daily wrestle with my drooling yard wookie to shove some sort of outrageously overpriced liquid into her ear.  She does not like it.  I don’t like it either but I’m bigger than her; and it’s for her own good.  Which she acknowledges daily when the ordeal is over by placidly wagging her tail and letting me pet her while I clean up the wreckage we’ve inevitably created by knocking over every piece of furniture in a ten foot radius.  On the bright side we make great entertainment for the rest of the household; sort of like a furry/logger WWF smackdown in the kitchen.

Which brings me to today’s “ironclad rule of logically interacting with genetically engineered wolf by-products”:

“When dealing with dogs, if it can fit in a microwave; put it in one.”

(Note: this is not to say that the poodle was anything other than cute and pleasant…nor am I denying that walking a dog smaller than a locomotive has its merits.  But a man has to stick with his morals and I say dogs should be huge.)

Update: I have been made aware that a similar law was established involving blenders.   (What can I say?  The laws of nature become obvious to all who observe.)

I’m not gonna’ tell you my birthday.  You’ll just have to guess.  But rest assured I do have one. And I chose to celebrate it at an undisclosed time in an undisclosed manner in my hidden hypothetical secret bunker.  You may have a beer of your own to join in.  I’m inclusive and trusting in that way.

Birthdays remind me that I was actually born.  Which remind me of Neal Stephenson’s thoughts on the matter.  Which give me license to think of myself as a stupendous badass.

This all derives from Stephenson’s introduction to fictional character Godfrey Waterhouse IV:

“Let’s set the existence-of-god issue aside for a later volume, and just stipulate that in some way, self-replicating organisms came into existence on this planet and immediately began trying to get rid of each other, either by spamming their environments with rough copies of themselves, or by more direct means which hardly need to be belabored. Most of them failed, and their genetic legacy was erased from the universe forever, but a few found some way to survive and to propagate. After about three billion years of this sometimes zany, frequently tedious fugue of carnality and carnage, Godfrey Waterhouse IV was born, in Murdo, South Dakota, to Blanche, the wife of a Congregational preacher named Bunyan Waterhouse. Like every other creature on the face of the earth, Godfrey was, by birthright, a stupendous badass, albeit in the somewhat narrow technical sense that he could trace his ancestry back up a long line of slightly less highly evolved stupendous badasses to that first self-replicating gizmo–which, given the number and variety of its descendants, might justifiably be described as the most stupendous badass of all time. Everyone and everything that wasn’t a stupendous badass was dead.”

Cryptonomicon by Neal Stevenson

P.S.  As one stupendous badass to another I recommend that you read Cryptonomicon if you haven’t already done so.

I hated the 2008 election cycle.  It was tragic.  It was lonely.  My concerns about inflation and debt were so uncool.  They were inadequately addressed by one party and completely dismissed by starry eyed groupies in the other.

Have you ever been at a really rocking party where everyone is so wasted that they’re seeing different dimensions?  Ever been stone cold sober at a party like that?  It sucks.  Everyone is having the time of their life and you’re just hoping to sneak out the back door before someone asks for a ride home and throws up in your car.  You’ve got to get to work in the morning and think maybe some sleep would be in order.  The host’s house is getting trashed.  The blender is in the fish tank, someone has painted the cat blue, there’s a naked stranger sleeping on the porch, and the bathroom looks like a war zone.  They’re begging you to join in and all you want is to get out of there…because you’re sober…and it’s not fun.   The 2008 election cycle was the big party that wasn’t fun if you hadn’t drank the Kool-Aid.

I never stopped focusing on boring stuff; “if solar panels are so great why do we need to subsidize them?”, “explain again how free medicine for everyone will save money?”, “if the Dutch East India Company, the Roman empire, and Oprah’s show all came to an end how can any company anywhere be ‘too big to fail’?” and my all time brain teaser “what has this guy ever accomplished?”

The press shoved rose scented bullshit in my face for months and there was no relief.  I just had to ride it out.  It culminated in this woman’s free tank of gas.

Well the party’s over.  I don’t know about you but I’m relieved.  Obama got a Nobel prize but I still pay for my own gas and mortgage.  I’m no longer badgered by folks trying to explain how this new hopey changey magic future is going to be better than sliced bread.

With the passage of time, all that’s left is the party’s hangover and since I wasn’t euphoric in 2008 the letdown to 2011 wasn’t a letdown at all.  It’s better in fact.  I’m no longer surrounded by an atmosphere of giddy careless unreliability.  Paying your own bills in 2011 it doesn’t seem quaint and pointless like it did in 2008.  Nobody is talking about Obama riding in on his unicorn to tank up their car and free medicine is suddenly looking..uh…not free.  With half of Europe wobbling in debt purgatory I’m hearing less about how we should copy their Utopian vision of cramped houses, commuting with bicycles, and cradle to grave “security” funded by…uh…nothing.

Folks who thought they’d dodged adulthood another few years are waking up to reality.  You have to pay your bills, you have to take care of yourself, you cannot become a fully realized human being on the back of another …even if he’s handsome and articulate …even if you’ve been just dying to have a black president.  Life just isn’t like that.

It was a journey each believer had to take on their own.

We’re back on earth again.  For some it’s dour.  For others it’s refreshing.  I’m happy with the uncertainty of real life.  Delusion is only fun for the deluded.  I hope that 2012 is more reality based than 2008.

I also hope the elated woman in the video has done OK these last few years.  I hope she’s paying for her own damn gas.  I hope she’s proud of herself for doing it.  There’s no need for despair because the free gas never came.  Free gas isn’t free.

I hope she made the transition without bitterness.  I’m rooting for her and I’m rooting for the rest of us too.

Recently Fort Curmudgeon was host to a friend’s dog. Our compound is already fully staffed in the dog department but our dog (a.k.a. “doorbell”, “security unit”) didn’t seem to mind the addition. The guest dog (temporarily referred to as “auxiliary backup dog”) seemed to enjoy our company too.

I love our family dog. She’s slightly smaller than a pony, has a heart of gold, and a brain of rock. She’s the perfect size for a homestead. Huge. That’s her job; “be huge”. She does it well.

She’s also a good watch dog.  She seems to take her duties seriously and is fully capable of setting off a Def-Con IV racket if something sets her off.  Her bark could scare a dragon and her growl is like something in the pits of hell is itching to go on a spree of mayhem.  If I heard sounds like that coming from a house I would never break in.  In fact I’d leave the state.  Presumably if a burglar rejected all sense of self-preservation and got inside, she’d remove a limb or two for identification purposes but let whatever is left run for the door.  She’s not one for holding a grudge. Of course, once you’ve been formally introduced you’re “good people” and you’ve gained a friend for life.

Walking a furry mountain of canine is interesting. She usually stays at heel but occasionally she’ll forget and rip your arm out of it’s socket. Not because she’s straining to escape but because she has a high torque but low RPM brain. She doesn’t always remember the flailing human being dragged behind her. Morning walks are a combination of relaxing stroll and combat training. She always stops pulling the instant she realizes what she’s doing; but sometimes I’ve been dragged a bit before her cerebral cortex processes the insignificant weight dangling on the leash…which happens to be me.

When she’s outside we keep her chained. We use a logging chain hooked to a swivel that’s double chained to a cattle gate / railroad tie that’s planted in the ground. We added the swivel after she broke a lag bolt. (I blame the cats for teasing her.) I’d have bet the bolt could have held back the Oakland Raiders and six wildebeest but the dog proved me wrong. I couldn’t be mad.  She just looked at me apologetically when I found the torn bolt. As if to say; “Sorry about tearing the bolt in half but the cat is now safely re-located to the tree where it belongs. It won’t come down until March. Did I do good boss?”

As part of taking care of “axillary backup guest dog” my wife ordered me to take it outside and tie it up so it could do it’s business. How? Our dog’s leash is a horse lead. Wouldn’t using it with a strange dog be rude? Call me old fashioned but you’ve got to maintain decorum.  My dog agrees.

My wife produced a small ribbon of something I refuse to call rope; the leash for the guest dog. “This? This is a leash? For what? A mouse?” My wife, who was sick of my Neanderthal questions, booted me and the auxiliary backup dog out the door.

I discovered a new treat; walking a dog smaller than a buffalo is easy! The new dog rocketed for the end of it’s leash. Fully expecting a walloping recoil I instinctively planted my feet, adjusted my stance, leaned back, and got a good grip. The little dog bounced at the end of it’s leash like a butterfly on a fish line. Huh?  It quickly returned to me; tail wagging madly. It had expended all six pounds of force it could muster. I was shocked.  This is how it is to walk a little dog? Interesting.

Then I realized a terrifying fact. I was smiling and walking a dog the size of and weight of a bag of chips.  Perhaps I could be seen! What if someone saw me walking a poodle? This wouldn’t do! I’ve got a reputation as a surly and bad natured ogre and I need to protect it! Walking a dog the size of a farm implement always seemed to fit my disposition.  Walking a poodle might make me seem…approachable?  Possibly even pleasant?!?  The horror!

I hustled over to the dog chain and quickly tied it up. Then, after looking around in case someone had a camera, I sprinted for the house.

Ten minutes later I peeked out. The little dog hadn’t moved an inch. How lazy! There are weeds to sniff, cats to annoy, and chickens that need to be barked at. The poodle was just standing there looking sad.

I looked around carefully for cameras. None in the vicinity. No planes flying over head. Satellites? You can never tell…best to hurry. I sprinted back with the micro-ribbon “leash” in hand.

Turns out the poodle wasn’t strong enough to move the chain.  It looked at me with sad eyes. In our homestead universe of interesting smells it hadn’t been able to sniff anything. I slipped off the hefty chain and clicked on the little leash.

Sigh…the indignities one must endure…I started walking the little guy around the premises. Soon it was animated again. It started frolicking about. Me, walking a dog that’s frolicking? A frolicking poodle? It was prancing! A prancing, frolicking, poodle delicately sniffing flowers in the backyard. The horror!

I walked the happy little poodle all around the back yard. Not the front! The road is several hundred yards away but suppose someone had binoculars? Nope, too risky.

Then I brought it back inside and locked the door. I drew the drapes and hid in the garage. I’m still worried. I walked a poodle and I can’t deny it. There could be satellite photos! They’re probably on Facebook right now.  (Not that I actually use Facebook…but I assume that’s where all embarrassing photos go.)  A poodle; I might as well have been wearing a tutu while driving a Prius to yoga class.  How embarrassing!

I don’t usually wade into religious thought but End the War on Freedom has a quote about honesty that was too good to pass up.  I checked out the original source (a 1954 newsletter) and grabbed a snippet.  Here it is (linked to the original source):

“When an honestly mistaken man sees the truth, one of two things happens: (1) he will either cease to be mistaken, or (2) he will cease to be honest. For he will either accept the truth or he will reject it. If he accepts it, he is no longer mistaken; if he rejects it, he is no longer honest. It is as simple as that.”

The entirety is more religious than I roll…but the point about honesty and truth is spot on and applies in not only religion but in thoughts of any type.

Every year around September 11th the press (actually our whole society) wallows in sentimentality. Did the same thing happen in the first years after other attacks like Pearl Harbor? I don’t like it. This year, an anniversary divisible by ten, is going to be worse.

Everything, even tragedy, is a learning experience. I wanted to write a simple post about what lessons we could learn from the events of that day. I even started writing a few times. But I always stopped. Everything I wrote was so obvious. Everyone knew these things by September 12th, ten years ago. I realized something simple:

“Those who were capable of learning from the events of 9/11 have done so. Those who weren’t capable of learning haven’t.”

And that’s it. The press will roll in saccharine sweet horseshit until the cows come home but most of us got the full import right quick. The folks on the Pennsylvania plane recognized the situation and acted with clarity and decisiveness. Nobody on the ground was hurt and evil was stopped…at tremendous personal sacrifice. That’s fortitude.  That’s guts.  That’s heroism. Don’t let politicians play it any other way, American citizens are free to make choices and on that day they made a tough one very well.

Nor were the folks on that flight alone. Americans everywhere genuinely steeled their resolve after that day. We have become a more muscular people. Less forgiving of those who cross us. Less willing to assume the mantle of unearned blame. This is good. It’s more fitting than the cringing supplication that’s so popular in certain circles. It’s good for us to be who we are. I’m not sure how our debts and demography will play out but physical danger does not and will never stop us. We swim too well in those currents.

A counterpoint to this is a bizarre bureaucratic disconnect. The government’s infatuation with form over substance somehow drew a line from crazed zealots performing an act of war to a bored mall cop who wants to fondle my crotch before I enter an airport. Go ahead; try to explain the logic. Draw for me the connection between taking grandma’s knitting needles and killers who believe God told them to destroy us. Seized nail clippers are the kind of distraction you get when irrelevant minds will not face real evil.

Since I reality is a finer thing than theater…I choose to ignore the press and everything they say on the subject of September 11th. Political speeches are carefully concocted to be content free and I’m not interested in what the New York Times and NPR will manage to deconstruct from a clear obvious overt attack. Killing innocents en masse wasn’t subtle and it doesn’t take a genius to understand it. I won’t let eggheads talk around it. I’m not playing their game.

Before, during, and after September 11th, I go into a media blackout. I provide myself with a time of introspection. A time of peace. The luxury of contemplation. Rather than listen to overpaid English majors cut and paste “what it all means” from their internal biases, I get out and live.  I might go fishing, take a hike, whatever…so long as it’s far from the nearest TV.

That too, is a lesson of September 11th. That we are free. Commemorative dinner plates and “very special interviews” filled with flag draped montages are not the substance of freedom. I’m free to see what really happened and understand things as they are.  It’s not reassuring but then again reality never is.