Word For The Day: Re-Homed

Posted on August 17, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Cats packaged for shipping to their new home in Guam.

Recently I was reading the newspaper.  (Making me one of the last six Americans left who reads print media.)

Towards the back of the slim product (should I even call these limp pamphlets newspapers anymore?) was an article about the Humane Society.  (Or as I like to call them “Dons of the Cat Mafia”).  The “article” was the usual fluff where some hack copied a press release verbatim and called it journalism.  All articles about all things in all newspapers are about the need for more money and this was no exception.  Apparently if the Humane Society doesn’t get more money there will be chaos in the streets and we’ll all die.  (That was the gist of the article.)

In order to justify their benighted existence they mentioned how many critters the local organization had shuffled to new owners.  This, of course, is good.  I’m not in favor of cats and dogs starving in the streets.  Nor am I in favor of shoveling them into incinerators.  A critter in a good home is good karma for all of us.  But I do contest their choice of words in describing the transfer of ownership from abandoned/feral to owned by someone who will actually feed the damned thing.

I myself would have used the word “foisted”.  “We here at super loving facilities have foisted 65 cats, 97 dogs, and 16 badgers on willing new owners.”  Yeah I like the way that sounds.

Traditionally they’ve used the marketing term “adopted”.  “Due to our immense dedication 14 iguanas and 3 fruit bats have been adopted by new owners.”  I can live with it.

The new term was “re-homed”.  “We deserve a huge bunch of money because we have re-homed 64 toads, 18 aardvarks, and 928 cats.”

I can’t abide by that level of horseshit!

No animal that I have possessed has been “re-homed” to me.  Many I’ve acquired because I truly want them, some have been foisted, a few have been adopted, and some have just showed up.  But I will not go into the dark night of “re-homing” anything.

In my opinion, people who use the term “re-home” in reference to critters should be whacked repeatedly on the nose with a rolled up newspaper wrapped around a lead pipe and/or beaten with a large heavy dictionary.  Journalists who cut and paste it without comment should be stripped naked and left on an Antarctic ice floe.

As always.  Thanks for listening.

Posted in Where vocabulary goes to die, Word For The Day | Leave a comment

Depreciation Curmudgeon Style!

Posted on August 16, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon 
[PHOTO DELETED]

The tractor you see there, operated by the most handsome and intelligent male model I could find, is an Allis Chalmers C. It was (probably) made around 1941 and listed for about $1,200. (Source.) I picked it up in North Dakota from a nice fellow several years ago for about $1,600 in cash. He helped me load it and told stories about how much he liked it and we drank beer together. I didn’t so much buy it as adopt it for fair market value. The former owner probably cried when the rusty old beast left with me.

It’s a work tractor (albeit “working” on my tiny and insignificant little homestead and not on a real corporate farm). It’s almost cosmic that she’s still running. She’d already put in a lifetime (or two) of hard work before I was born. She’s probably logged more hours pulling hard loads in the baking sun than all my readers (if I have any) combined. It’s an honor to know her.

So it’s a lovingly restored garage queen in the hands of a yuppie wanna be eco-weenie? Nope. It works for a living and it knows that anything on my farm that doesn’t pull it’s own weight gets taken behind the barn and shot. (I’m looking at you cats…make with the mousing or you’re next. This is not a union shop!)

It could use a lot of repairs. Everything that can break is broken. Everything that isn’t necessary is gone. Everything that can warp, dent, or tear is well and duly warped, dented, and torn. I use a mallet to remove the mangled oil filler cap, never fill the tank more than halfway because it leaks if too full, and charge it between uses because the generator has been gone since the Carter administration. (It’s a total loss system. Theoretically I can hand crank start it but I’m hinky about that.) It lacks an “off” switch and probably never had lights. Etc… But old tractors, unlike new consumer goods, can be nearly infinitely rebuilt so I don’t see it as “trashed” so much as exhibiting “deferred maintenance”.

But still…she starts and runs. I use it at least twice a week rain or shine. Hauling firewood in the winter and mowing grass in the summer. I feel an affinity for this old piece of junk and am joyous each time I use it.

Also, I consider it a solid “investment”. Why? Well since I mostly use it to mow (and I really need it’s monster sized mower deck) lets compare it to a new lawn tractor that can do what the aged beast can do. It’s got a 60” mower deck and roughly 18-20 HP. Sniff around the web for a 60” mower and you’ll get sticker shock from John Deere (price so high I refuse to type it!) or settle for a narrower mid quality machine for about $2,000.

Are new machines better? Sure, they’ve got cupholders for beer, various Ralph Nader safety features, and more ass friendly seats. But they are weak and hard to repair and I very much prefer stuff that’s built like a brick shithouse. A lawn tractor is likely to last about ten years before it’s more or less shot (yeah I know some folks can make them run forever but they usually avoid the modern plastic clad toys). Nobody in their right mind thinks a tractor from a box store is going to last until 2079. On the other hand the old critter in the photo has already done just that and shows no signs of going belly up. I fully expect it to outlast me. Maintenance free? No. Depreciation proof? Yes! So I could sink two grand in a lawn tractor and in ten years have a lawn ornament or limp along with this one for a good long time and (maybe when it’s needs can no longer be ignored) rebuild it. If I spent the same two grand rebuilding my piece of junk I’d be able to mow the lawn during the week and ride it in parades on weekends. Try that with the shit they sell at a box store.

Tractors of the WWII era, it seems, are one place where machinery attained a level of bulletproof strength and rock hard simplicity that almost nothing since (certainly nothing for sale at WalMart) can match. I mow my lawn on a piece of art that can be infinitely rebuilt, wont depreciate much from it’s current level and makes me smile. It’s one of the little things that can really make my Curmudgeonly day. If you already have a consumer grade lawn mower I suggest you set it on fire and replace it with a nice ugly 69 year old hunk of iron!

Posted in Brilliance and Simplicity | Leave a comment

Game Theory

Posted on August 13, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Suppose you’ve got a teenager who isn’t afraid of work. (A miracle!) He’s making a few bucks mowing lawns. He started doing that years ago when he mowed the neighbor’s lawn at age twelve. You’re lucky to have such good neighbors. Your kid strings together a few customers by going place to place with the modest vehicle you (as a kind parent) have given him. All is well until the vehicle needs a couple hundred dollars in repair. He’d saved maybe half of that but can’t quite swing the full cost.

The kid has a choice; park his ass on the couch and never work a day again or sell his beloved collection of dusty Pokemon cards and vintage Xbox games to buy a muffler. Being a product of public schools he makes a decision that makes sense to him and doesn’t move from the couch for six weeks. The school system approves since they take a dim view of child labor. Good parent that you are, you drive his car to the mechanic and have the damned muffler replaced. This is called a bailout. Soon he’s mowing lawns again. It’s nice to have the couch back!

What you don’t know is that the day he saw the car running again he took the $50 he’d saved toward a muffler (still not enough) and blew it on a Twilight poster and collector’s edition X-Games memorabilia. At least he’s working. He drives around mowing lawns until the next time the car needs repair. He’s already spent all of his earnings on skull motif skateboard graphics and platinum tipped iPod earbuds. He didn’t feel the need to save for repairs because he knows you’ll bail him out. Remember this the next time a politician claims a particular business needs a bailout. I’m looking at you GM! The kid lies on the couch like a beached whale. Speaking of bloated and immobile I’m still looking at you GM!

You try to ignore it but it you can only stand so much. One day you trip over a line of Cheetos bags leading to the couch and blow your top. You tell him to get his ass back out there and make some money. All he does is grunt and wave listlessly at an estimate for a new transmission. Ouch! You don’t want to do a second bailout because two bailouts means the first one was a failure. I’m looking at you Chrysler!

You offer to pay half the car’s repairs? Too late. The kid is fossilized in place. Car or no car he’s busy watching South Park. So you offer to pay half his car expenses and all his gas from now on…if only he’ll get off the damned couch. You hand him a gas card. The car repair is a matching fund and the gas card is a subsidy. The kid springs into action and anything he owns that isn’t nailed down goes on e-bay. Soon the car is fixed and he’s out there mowing lawns again. You’ve made a wise move.

Wrong! You’ve distorted the economy…or at least distorted it for this kid. Any time you tinker with anything economic you risk unintended (or intended!) consequences. Sometimes they can be bizarre. I’m looking at you Congress!

The next month the gas bill comes in and you realize he’s been driving to Pasadena to mow a lawn that only pays $10. Good grief that’s a lot of miles for a ten spot! The kid shrugs. With free gas he can drive a long way. You learn that a hot girl lives at the house in Pasadena. There’s another hot girl in Fresno. Possibly a few more you don’t know about. Your kid is racking up a thousand miles a week and making a pittance mowing lawns as an excuse to stalk anything with a skirt that likes short grass. At least he’s off the couch.

The next month the gas bill comes in and you have a coronary. Your kid dumped the lawn gig and is delivering pizzas. Since his gas is free he’s making bank. Your neighbor’s kid was delivering pizza before your kid showed up and offered to take the same job for a nickel less per hour. Your kid can afford lower wages since he’s got all that free gas. The neighbor’s kid is now unemployed and parked on his parent’s couch watching daytime soaps. The neighbors are pissed and talking about some sort of fair trade agreement. You never liked the neighbors anyway! Meanwhile your kid is dropping all his money on the hottie from Pasadena, including buying her a tattoo of Che Guevara put in a place you can’t believe she posted on Facebook.

When she dumps him you brace for him to camp out on the couch and cry. Instead he pours his soul into his work and drives the wheels off the car. Soon it’s worn out and he must choose a new one. He struts past the econoboxes with good MPG and buys a Hummer that gets 4 MPG. He uses his wages to buy a stereo so loud that it makes birds fall from the sky and God himself weep. The gas card is smoking but he holds up his end of the bargain and pays his half of the car purchase. The couch is blissfully empty. In fact he’s working so much he more or less disappears. You’re pleased with his work ethic.

Six months later you get a gas bill that causes your sphincter to implode. Unbeknownst to you, your kid has hooked up with a trucker named Large Marge and is using the gas card to fuel a Kenworth en route to Fargo with a load of Kumquats. But that’s not all. Tanks of diesel have been purchased in Abilene, Winnipeg, Miami, Seattle, Des Moines, Huston, Las Vegas, and Guadalajara.

Eventually the gas card bursts into flames. Watching the bills come in has given you a working knowledge of just how much fuel a semi can consume. You realize that your kid and Large Marge have been team trucking where one drives while the other sleeps so the truck has been running coast to coast 24/7 on your dime. Your neighbor’s kid is still on his dad’s couch and moss is growing on him. The deadbeat neighbors piss you off! The credit agency puts you on a payment plan. You can just barely make ends meet if you stop taking your heart medication and sell your dog. It’s worth it. Then they repossess your couch.

So what’s the moral of the story? Nothing. The kid didn’t show morals so there is no moral to the story. Cool eh? Instead of morality the kid showed cool calculating economic logic. Free gas was a resource to be exploited. In subsidizing a resource, you made it logical to maximize consumption of that resource to the exclusion of others. In the absence of morality it makes perfect sense to seek and exploit subsidy to the greatest extent possible.

Why write this story? Oh, no reason. Did I mention that they’re discussing another stimulus plan in congress? Or that it’s an election year? Nah…that’s off topic.

Posted in For Your Education | Leave a comment

Dependency And The Leather Clad Cure To It

Posted on August 12, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

New Orleans is built partially below sea level. Occasionally Mother Nature takes a swipe at the Gulf Coast and on August 29th 2005 she landed a solid punch. New Orleans got hammered by hurricane Katrina. Bummer! When the sea kicks your ass it’s a bad day and my heart goes out to the people who lost loved ones or property in the disaster.

Now for the part where I get all non-PC. From the moment the storm made landfall, blame was assigned to virtually anyone on earth who wasn’t actually a resident of New Orleans. Inexplicably George Bush got plenty of it. I doubt the President has magical powers over the weather but apparently no drywall in New Orleans was damaged but that Bush caused it. Listening to the news I got a malady I call “Gripe Fatigue”. After the fiftieth time I’d been presented with some clueless rube (who has never left their neighborhood much less the city) bitching about who was responsible for all maladies in their life, I tuned out. If you think the urgent infusion of truckloads of money will make New Orleans into heaven on earth you’re incorrect. (Giving me money, however, is a very good idea so send that check right away!) Meanwhile I couldn’t ignore the fact that hurricanes happen every year and the city just happens to be built under sea level. Let me repeat that last part; under sea level. Aren’t storms in the Gulf of Mexico to be expected; like blizzards in Alaska or heat in Phoenix?

Luckily folks rose to the occasion and faced a challenging time with dignity and resolve. Just kidding; they went apeshit. FEMA trailers and the Mayor’s insistence that God wanted the city rebuilt with the proper racial mix and guns seized from civilians and looting made me wonder if we’re all just animals. Surely some residents had the good sense to get out of Dodge before the shit hit the fan but I never heard about them. Too many losers cowered and bitched and blamed Bush. The deplorable lack of self reliance filled me with despair. Sadly, Katrina is merely an example. Every year in many locations for many reasons voices cry out that they are in misery and it’s everyone’s fault but their own.

If you knew nothing more than the Katrina saga you’d conclude that America is totally hopelessly irretrievably dependent and inept. But wait! There’s a counterpoint to the blame everyone else game I associate with Katrina. Bikers!

The author out for a ride.

The author out for a ride.

Every year, like the migration of a great amusingly chaotic species, well over half a million leather clad yahoos on motorcycles descend on remote little Sturgis, South Dakota. I’ve been there too. It was like the bar scene from Star Wars but with more boobies and louder machinery.

Broken Spoke Saloon, Sturgis SD.

Broken Spoke Saloon, Sturgis SD.

I enjoyed the partying and general mayhem but I also gained a new source of patriotic pride. It’s heartening to witness a multitude of bikers drifting in from all over the continent merely to built a city out of beer cans and noise. There is no Federal Program to subsidize motorcycle based frivolity, so by some points of view Sturgis shouldn’t exist. But its there in all it’s leather clad glory! Many hundred thousand men and women and kids and dogs and bikes and Elvis impersonators and drunks and mechanical wizards on custom bikes and t-shirt sellers and scantily clad women and ugly old farts and silly dentists and genuine hoodlums and every piece of humanity across the spectrum. All self motivated. Nobody forced to go. No tax dollars needed. No FEMA trailers. No blaming whichever party is in office. No bullshit.

This year they may break 750,000 participants; all of whom have deployed a considerable outlay of logistical, financial, and personal resources. Consider what you need. Motorcycles are big expensive powerful machines that don’t come cheap and if you go to Sturgis without one you’re a big whiny loser. Nobody goes there without a ride and rides aren’t free. Every bike is privately owned and operated. Fewer subsidies are expended on the half million bikes in Sturgis than on a dozen Priuses shuffling around Starbucks. (And just for the record motorcycles can be shockingly fuel efficient. So you can be “green” and still scare the shit out of the neighbors. Win win!)

If this isn't how you do your morning commute, you're wasting gas and Al Gore hates you.

Money alone doesn’t get you there. You either ride there (I did!) or (if you’re a poser) trailer your motorcycle. Riding means piloting a powerful rumbling machine hundreds of miles in the heat and wind and noise and bugs and loving every minute. Ralph Nader weeps when he thinks of all those citizens not wearing seatbelts. Can’t operate a clutch? Don’t like the heat? Miss the safety of your Volvo? Stay home! I don’t know what portion of bikes are trailered (my motorcycle would be insulted if I put her on a trailer!) but even trailered bikes represent considerable resources. (You’re still a wuss for not riding!) Got no truck and don’t want to ride? Stay home with your momma!

There is no light rail. No metro-bus. Obama won’t airlift your motorcycle for you. One way or another you drive your ass to the middle of nowhere all by your damn self. You pay the maintenance of all that machinery. Gas and insurance and tires and helmets and skull motif chrome keychains and silly bandannas and everything else are purchased with your cash. Don’t ask FEMA. Can’t afford it? Stay home with the kiddies.

Nor is it a visit to the Hilton. The majority camp in the middle of fields in a place that doesn’t even have trees. You bring your own food or pay for burgers and beer and meals and beer and trinkets and beer and concert tickets and beer. You set up tents or reserve overpriced hotels years in advance or just pass out in the grass. (I had a tent.) Neither FEMA nor the president is flying out to a field in South Dakota to tuck you in. If it’s windy it’s windy. If it rains you get wet. If it’s hot you sweat. Most people sleep on the dirt and that’s that.

All this…and not a single tax dollar. Every participant is a volunteer. Everyone is skilled enough to handle a hefty bike, responsible enough to amass the money they’ll need, and tough enough to sleep on the ground and call it a party. In short they’re a nation of silly but consenting and fully self-reliant adults roaming around in loud mechanical packs. So long as America still has goofy hordes that do something as improbable (and spectacular) as to amass an army of motorcycles in the empty prairie just to party we’re on the right track. Bikers give me hope that our society is not yet fully spineless. Have a great vacation riders!

Posted in Wussification and other modern hazards. | Leave a comment

Book Review: The Road

Posted on August 11, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

I’m mentioning this book long after the excitement has passed. The Road was written several years ago and was popular at the time. It was made into a movie (which I haven’t watched) and it was endorsed by her royal Oprahness which apparently is the gold standard in some minds. I read it several months ago myself too. So why am I posting about it now? Because when you read this book is irrelevant. The Road is not drivel that is only interesting when it’s popular. It is perfect and, in it’s simplicity, timeless.

You should read The Road in an appropriate frame of mind. The Road should be read alone. In a closet. In the dark. While hungry. Watching it on a big screen while munching popcorn is missing the point. On the other hand it’s a book that tries it’s best to leave you dazed and spent; so don’t go overboard. I bought it to read while ice fishing and decided not to. Reading “The Road” while alone in a remote icebound landscape is like locking yourself in the Bastille before reading The Pit And The Pendulum. This way lies madness.

It’s a post apocalyptic book. If you think about it, it’s odd that such a genre as “post apocalyptic literature” even exists but it’s one of my favorite genres. A book that starts on page one with everyone (or almost everyone) dying gives the author a clean slate upon which to paint a new world. However, I’m of the opinion that most “post apocalyptic” books are Quixotic fluffery written by overfed English majors who couldn’t fix a flat tire much less survive when the underpinnings of civilization have gone off the rails. I detest reading about an interesting situation but mid chapter having my illusion broken by the undeniable feeling that the text was hammered out on a Mac in a Starbucks. The Road is an exception. McCarthy gets to the point and stays there.

It’s really an exploration of a father and his son and their relationship amid a situation that is more or less hopeless. Cormac McCarthy goes to great lengths to make good and sure you understand there is no easy out. No Fairy Godmother is coming to this story and that’s refreshing as it is rare. Modern literature (our whole society in fact) goes out of it’s way to avoid situations that stark. McCarthy has balls of steel to go there. Furthermore he has a real touch for showing the small incremental struggles that loom large in a brutal environment. I’m sick of authors that churn out a ten chapter story about taming dragons but can’t describe starting a fire in a wet place. Nor can they explain that no fire means cold and do it in a way that pierces our smug protected overly civilized lives. McCarthy knows what he’s doing.

Some caveats. First; my wife hated it. In fact I’ve never met (or heard of) a female who liked it. Sorry but it’s true. This is a book about survival and it comes entirely from a male point of view. How Oprah endured reading it I’ll never know. Second; you either can go with the whole post apocalyptic tone or you can’t. If you can’t willingly suspend disbelief enough to visualize a world where there’s not a cold soda in the fridge and the power is off for good…don’t bother. You’re going to think it’s trite and repetitive. Turn back to the TV and pay no attention to loners and their creepy stories.

But if you’re of the right mindset (especially if you’ve experienced even the smallest hint of a “survival” situation) it’s just plain the best book you’ll buy this decade. If you’re nodding in agreement get a copy of The Road and read it. Just do it. It’s short and spare so I don’t want any bitching about long books or how you’re too busy. Kick everyone out of the house, turn off the phone, sit down, and read it. Then, when you’re done, take a deep breath and be really happy it’s just literature.

The Road, By Cormac McCarthy

Read this book.

Posted in For Your Education, Reviews | 2 Comments

Airlines; Business model of indignity and revulsion.

Posted on August 10, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Steve Slater

Steve Slater is a man who knows when he's had enough. Go Steve!

If I had any readers they might have noticed my postings are sparse. That’s because I’m in the clutches of that great Kafkaesque clusterfuck called air travel. Nothing can save me.

A vengeful impotent rage developed when I couldn’t get on-line to check my travel arrangements while at the terminal. At first I was pretty blasé but every twenty minutes a recorded announcement blared that Philadelphia Airport provides free WiFi “because they care”. It started drilling into my psyche. I care too. I care that Philadelphia once was the heart of a fledgling experiment in democracy and (based on this airport) it’s been in decline since 1790. A pox on the disembodied recording telling me that which I have verified is untrue. (Note: if you’re from Philadelphia and wish to defend your fair city; don’t. Even if your city is Paris in Pennsylvania, the seat of the next Renaissance, and the savior of civilization…without WiFi in terminal F it’s just a third-world slum with a different smell.)

Commercial travel is not measured in miles or dollars but indignities. It could be delightful! You can get from East Cowschitt, Montana to a bordello in Bangkok using intermodal technologies that would make our forefathers gape in clueless admiration. But the indignities are too relentless. Airlines shovel crap at the innocent customer that go beyond merely annoying and descend into creative evil. Why should a trip from point A to point B cause me to become a chew toy for “Fuck You Airlines”? (F.U. Airlines is a wholly owned subsidiary of Halliburton, the US Government, and a group of companies that regularly go bankrupt as part of our business plan. We care.”)1

Everyone knows the spirit of failure that is the TSA. But making fun of the TSA is shooting exceptionally stupid fish in a small barrel so I’ll ignore them to look at the bigger picture. The real travesty is that everyone in an airport is lying all the time. A politician might redirect your attention while he grabs your wallet (or ass) but the airlines punch you in the face while telling you they love you. I’ve had airline agents insist a flight is sure to be on time when anyone with an IQ above room temperature knows it’s not true. Once, during a blizzard in Fargo that would kill a sled dog they insisted the plane would fly. I’d nearly died like a scene from a Jack London story just getting across the parking lot. This same person announced (with surprise!) three long consecutive delays before they admitted that the plane, like sanity in Washington, was never coming. By the time she was done screwing me over the nearest hotels were booked…including rooms for the flight crew on the plane which everyone (including apparently the airline) knew wouldn’t fly. Who makes a business plan like that? Stalin?

Airline indignities are so ubiquitous they seep into your pores. A company with hundreds of multi-million dollar planes insists it can’t afford magazines to read in flight? Bags of peanuts have shrunk to sub atomic size and a vending machine quality sandwich costs six bucks if you’ve got correct change and beg for it. I’m supposed to sit amid 200 passengers knowing that no two of us paid the same price. I’m told that a peon flying steerage like me can’t use the first class crapper “for safety reasons”. (Be honest and say it’s because I’m a chump!) I’m supposed to believe that putting the seat back upright somehow makes the plane land better. I’m supposed to think oxygen tubes and floating cushions will matter when a Boeing disintegrates at 30,000 feet. I’m supposed to “feel safe” because they’ve searched for nail clippers and knitting needles. Nobody wants to fly on a plane that can be taken down by knitting needles. I want a plane where you can carry a chainsaw because it’s tough enough to handle it. I also want pilots who swagger like John Wayne and should anyone threaten the cockpit they’re willing and able to dismember the bastard with their logbook and a bic pen.

Planes inherently suck so they should try to liven things up. I want stewardesses to be so hot I can’t think straight and keep me pumped up with a steady supply of cheap booze. Keeping me liquored up is an excellent way to make me happy about levering my American ass into a seat that was engineered to fit a four year old Asian midget.

And the electronics thing is just pathetic. If an iPod is going to hose the navigation computer then improve the damned computer. Telling the pierced degenerate two rows ahead of me to turn off Depeche Mode because otherwise a nav computer malfunction will corkscrew us into the dirt near Des Moines isn’t even trying.

The airlines are failure writ large. They have a natural monopoly. (If you could get from NY to LA in a day with anything else you’d never fly again.) They have an immense subsidized airport infrastructure. And frankly flight itself is pretty cool. Yet they still go bankrupt on a regular basis. They could lose money selling air to people chained underwater. This is all you need to know about airlines and their customer service.

But you all know this. The last person to like air travel was a Croatian pig farmer who died in 1986. Right now I want to talk about someone else who met his match. While I was languishing in terminal hell, steward Steven Slater2 finally blew a circuit and told the whole world to “take this job and shove it”. He grabbed two beers and bailed. I’m with ya’ there Mr. Slater. Nobody, even convicted felons, should have to fly commercial air day in and day out. That you lasted this long makes you a man among men. Being a steward has got to be the most unpleasant job this side of an ethics officer for congress. I hope you wind up on Letterman and get rich with a book titled “Peanuts and Assholes”

1I favor the return of dueling as a conflict resolution technique. I guarantee that airline service in an age of dueling would improve!

2Hat tip to Joe Soucheray.

Posted in Technology of Indignity | 1 Comment

iPod and the Curmudgeon II

Posted on August 9, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Huey Lewis in a jar.

In theory I have nothing wrong with Huey Lewis and the News. Like, light beer and rice cakes; he served a purpose despite being light and unfulfilling. I’ll even admit that in younger and more naïve days I once actually shoved a Huey Lewis cassette in my truck’s radio (though never in public).

(Note: those of you who aren’t quite as dinosaur-like as me can review the novel concept of a “cassette tape” by going to the Smithsonian and looking for objects classified as; “It was cool back then and people laugh at it now”. This includes medical leeches, Sony cassettes, and a form of black arts called shortwave.)

Of course I soon came to my senses and Huey Lewis wound up in the dirt on the truck’s floor amid empty cans and bits of wiring that had fallen out of the dash. I’d somehow acquired a Steppenwolf tape and (in the words of the Doors) “broke on through to the other side”. (Get your head out of the gutter, I’m not talking about getting stoned and dancing naked at Woodstock…I’m just talking about music that doesn’t suck.)

Fast forward several millennia. Recently I found myself en route from my secret rural bunker in an undisclosed location to a city which shall be unnamed. This was the beginning leg of a multi-week, multi-state, multi-mode trip. Tragically, (nearly unforgivably!) I was not on my motorcycle. This was because I had my kid with me and at some point I was forced to accept that two weeks of luggage and a kid aren’t compatible with rocketing down the road on a lightning bolt of cool (if I have to explain you wouldn’t understand).

Bravely trying to save face I commandeered my kid’s iPod (which was plugged into a Honda Hatchback) and clicked it over to “Born to be Wild”. Immediately my spirits soared and somehow the little Honda was going a mite faster than wise. The trip itself is indeed an adventure to my kid so he was in the spirit of the moment. Soon the inside of our unassuming little puddle jumper was vibrating with two out of pitch male voices screaming ‘Get yer’ motor runnin’!!!!”.

All was well with the world. Sure I wasn’t on my beloved bike. Sure I’m a fat balding middle management schmuck who works some of the time in fabric covered beige boxes. Sure I’m (how did this happen) a…gasp…dad…but I can still howl at the moon!  And who wouldn’t enjoy hearing their son belt out “fire all of yer’ guns at once and explode into space…”?

The happy haze lasted 50 miles. I love Steppenwolf. My kid does too (following my example if for no other reason). I’m road trippin baby!

Then my subconscious interrupted my happy reverie. You know how a song gets stuck in your head? A song I hadn’t heard in ten years drifted into my mind and took root. “It’s hip to be square.” Huey Lewis, that evil monster, somehow knew that I was “square”. (Under “square” in the dictionary it says “When a generic slob in a hatchback hopelessly clings to a mental state of adventure”.) Mr. Lewis struck with superb precision…that focus grouped monster! Be warned. He’s in your head too. Set down the Viking Hammer for one minute and you’ll quit hearing the echoes of Ragnarok and hear Huey’s bubbly voice. It’s there like elevator music on the way to Purgatory. You’ve been warned.

Posted in Technology of Indignity | 5 Comments

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Obamacare

Posted on August 5, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

There are two schools of thought regarding the Health Care “Reform” shenanigans our congressmen churned out last Christmas eve. (Note: The last time the Senate held a roll call on Christmas Eve was 1895. Draw your own conclusions from that factoid.) One side thinks it will bring puppies and rainbows, costs will go down, quality will go up, and leprechauns will keep us alive forever. The other side thinks that faceless Kafkaesque bureaucrats will torment us with form twenty seven B stroke six while shipping granny to the Soylent Green factory. I lean toward the latter but I don’t really know what the future holds. The only thing I can know for certain is that my opinion will have no influence whatsoever. I just called Nancy Pelosi; she insisted that I don’t matter. So that’s that. By the way, your opinion doesn’t matter either.

But have no fear! Every law has unintended consequences and in those I see chances to adapt. Remember, I didn’t cause the change, I’m merely cogitating on how some of us will adapt to the steaming hot pile of “reform” they left on my doorstep.

What could show a way past a congress bent on dominating another 1/6th of the economy? The most powerful force on earth; boobs! Yep, breast augmentation surgery is my explanation as to why Obamacare wont completely suck.

Breast augmentation is pretty much covered by no insurance. Therefore, according to certain ways of thinking, it shouldn’t exist. Yet I checked and apparently the procedure is widely available and displayed proudly on some of my favorite internet venues. There you have it, a medical procedure that is almost never covered by insurance yet it is legally, safely, and widely available. Where insurance fears to tread a competitive market exists.

Contrast that with the insurance based medical care available to your average working stiff. Non-emergency care, for me, starts by calling a dozen doctors looking for one who is “taking new patients”, dialing three for English, being put on hold for a hour, and eventually a six week wait for my appointment. Once the golden day arrives I’m asked for my insurance information and if I say something silly and archaic like “I can pay cash” I run the risk of being tossed out the door and never rescheduled again. Nor will I get reliable price information. Suppose a doctor says I need a procedure (it’s a thought experiment so enjoy yourself by imagining something cool like a titanium skull replacement). He never knows what it will cost. Even though I have insurance I always ask about prices because I’m just that kind of troublemaker. Invariably I get vague non answers which can’t be written down using numerals. This infuriates me! If you can’t write down actual digits then it’s not a price. If it’s not a price, it’s a fable, a fairy tale, a load of conjecture with a covering of assumption-sauce.

I’m forced into this “unpriced” system because I can’t afford to go to a private hospital like my pal Bill Gates and I’m insured well enough that I don’t have to take my chances with the ER like many folks on the lower rungs of the economic ladder. Lacking price information, I do what everyone else does and hope for the best. Six weeks after a Doctor’s appointment I’ll get a confusing printout that says “The procedure cost eleventy gazillion dollars but insurance covers 63.876% of it on alternate weekends provided it was done by a network of specific doctors in specific offices, the moon is in the seventh house, and you ask us pretty please to not kidnap your dog. You still owe $237.56. P.S. We hate you. Signed: The insurance company.” In short, the fundamentals of a market don’t exist for me and they don’t exist for my doctor. And unless you’re very rich or somewhat poor, they don’t exist for you.

If there were a functioning market, would I get cheaper care? Maybe. Would I get better care? I think so. I base this supposition on the care I get from markets which are thriving right now. Obviously I’m not in the market for a breast implant but I do partake of opticians and dentists. They’re not covered by many insurance plans and therefore markets exist. Depending on my finances and my inclination I can buy ugly glasses, trendy expensive overly cool glasses, contacts, or go nuts for LASIK. I can perpetually repair old glasses or annually buy new ones. I can pay to have my teeth cleaned often or never and if I neglect them until I get a cavity it’s nobody’s issue but mine. I always know precisely what a procedure costs, I have a range of providers, there’s always room for an appointment, and “glasses in an hour” is not a punchline. My experience is that people who get my cash always treat me more humanely than folks who’ve got my insurance card.

But what about “regular” medicine. Does a market exist? Of course! Rich Americans get medical care by buying it. Millionaires don’t sit around reading six year old magazines in the same waiting room as me to go to the same doctor as me. Thus, there is a market for rich guys like John Kerry and Dick Cheney but it’s out of my league.

What I’m hoping for is enough competition to lower the cost until it’s approachable by a loser like me. What would do that? How about knocking the snot out of the current system the vast majority of us use? As soon as you tax “Cadillac insurance plans” you’ve made a strong incentive for everyone to stick with bare bones insurance. As soon as the bare bones system is run by the people that brought us the TSA, the post office, and the Department of Motor Vehicles quality will become craptacular. Horror stories like what’s occasionally attached to underfunded VA hospitals and inner city ER rooms do not originate in high end private hospitals. Did I mention that congress will try to push payments to care providers lower and lower? Some (but not all) of the current “got some money but not rich” consumers (folks like me who will pay for something better than Dr. Nick) are going to be looking for something better. A demand that may create a real market.

I’m not happy that we may see the medical system get hammered. Nor am I happy that we will all pay for it. (Obamacare will spare no taxpayer.) But all will not be lost if a small parallel cash market in medical care for non-rich people develops as a result. Some of us will voluntarily pay a second time in cash for anything better than Obamacare. Paying twice hurts but then again I never promised free and perfect. (I’m not running for election or a deluded politician.) If the table is set for a wide range of medical service at prices that I expect from optometrists, dentists, and Hollywood plastic surgeons there is a silver lining. It’s not perfect but that’s life.

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iPod and the Curmudgeon

Posted on August 4, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Like many homeowners, I was shocked when ninjas slipped into my house by cover of darkness and deposited an iPod in my kid’s room. I don’t like Apple products so ninjas are the only possible explanation. My wife, who is surely innocent in all this, agrees. It was iNinjas. They have attacked before with an iMac and an earlier version iPod. All I know is that if Steve Jobs tries to sell anything more in my vicinity he’s going to get his iButt iKicked. I am a Curmudgeon after all.

I tried mightily to load my kid’s iDevice with a few of my favorite CDs (can you believe it…there was a time when you purchased physical media for your money…I’m so out of date). Alas, Curmudgeons are not good iConsumers. My computer resembles a garage sale and runs Ubuntu on whatever parts still function. As far as I can determine, iTunes was designed solely to extract my credit card information and then fail to upload songs. I’d been iDefeated. (Full disclosure: I’ve recently purchased a new laptop and it came with Windows. I haven’t yet switched the OS and I’m already considering finding Bill Gates and WinKicking his WinButt.)

My wife, with iNinja assistance I’m sure, got iTunes working in an undisclosed location. She started feeding our kid a diet of music and audiobooks. I offered helpful hints; songs that are appropriate to explain to a young boy the important things in life. At my suggestion my son now knows the words to Godzilla (by Blue Oyster Cult), We Will Rock You / We Are The Champions (by Queen), The Immigrant Song (by Led Zeppelin), and Boy Named Sue (by Johnny Cash). I’m pleased that he’s learning lessons about stomping Tokyo, stomping the floor, Vikings stomping everybody, and a heartwarming tale of overcoming a difficult childhood through a gun/knife fight with your father that causes an epiphany and rejection of his actions. I’m glad to see music lighting the way to proper morals.

My wife kindly served as the intermediary between iMarketers and my suggestions. I lacked earphones so assumed all was well in my kid’s musical selections. Then one day I discovered that Huey Lewis and the News had seeped into my son’s iPod! Timid pop amid stomped Tokyo trains? Mixed with ferocious guitar solos and Robert Plant’s screaming? In a gunfight Johnny Cash would have drawn first and been rotting in Folsom Prison before Huey knew what hit him! What had transpired?

So now I’m going to monitor the iPod more carefully. I’m going to start by trying once again to iShove my old Jimi Hendrix CD’s (which never leave the car’s radio) into his iPod; possibly using a sledge hammer. He already knows the words to Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)….but another several thousand replays couldn’t hurt.

After all, he’s growing up in a world with threats like frozen yogurt and people who can’t drive a car with a clutch. He needs all the musical inspiration I can give him.

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Pinheads With Billboards

Posted on July 29, 2010 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

On any given day I’m not likely to get an abortion. This is hardly an earth shattering revelation since I am male and lack certain attributes that go with that activity. (If you don’t understand, I’ll have the gym teacher explain it to you after class.) Nor do I indulge in pointless self destructive behaviors. For example; I make it though each and every day without domestic violence, excessive gambling, driving while drunk, or doing meth. Apparently I’m a paragon of virtue. Where’s my Nobel prize?

I’m not unique. The vast majority of us can get through the day without imploding and the rest wind up either in a gutter or in Congress. Yet various hand wringers think I perpetually need to be saved from myself. How do I know this? Because these misinformed pinheads keep putting up billboards which bark orders at me from the roadside.

It happens every time I take a road trip. I should be able to roll out on the highway and cruise happily. Instead self righteous simpletons and their moralistic graffiti harsh my mellow. I’ll be informed that abortion stops a beating heart, gambling ruins lives, beating a child is wrong, and meth will mess me up. Recently I was informed (with government money) that going in a boat without a life vest means I’m sure to drown. Also I should walk somewhere. The latter must be because I’m an gluttonous whale who can barely lever my carcass off the couch and I wouldn’t figure out what to do with my feet if the government didn’t tell me to walk? My tax dollars at work.

In theory the intrusive morons with their preachy billboards think they’re doing good. In reality, they aren’t. And they know it. Nobody is dumb enough to believe I’m driving down the road thinking: “I’m bored. I think I’ll pull over, do some meth, beat my child, start a forest fire, and then drown myself”. It takes a vivid imagination to picture a sudden change of mind. “Whoops! It says on the big plywood sign that meth is yucky, it’s bad to beat the innocent, forests are pretty, and life vests float. Who knew? Guess I’ll just continue being a productive member of society.”

Social engineering billboards merely expend money to intrude on my life in the name of somebody’s favorite cause. They can quack all day about “doing good” but really they’re just inflating their ego at my expense. Doing it at my expense is the unforgivable part. I’m all for inflated egos (because I’m totally awesome) but a couple hundred miles of getting a stern talking to by every non-profit that knows how to shakedown a grant proposal and I’m sick of the world. Thanks guys…care to kick my dog and audit my taxes to make my day complete?

Of course this is going to continue. It takes maturity and wisdom to refrain from bossing other people around, especially when you can do it with someone else’s money. But that doesn’t make them any better. My only hope is that blockheads designing the next billboard to “encourage” the great unwashed masses to agree with their particular way of living go boating without a life vest first. From what I’ve heard that’s instantly fatal.

Posted in Nanny State Moralizers | Leave a comment