Adaptive Curmudgeon

[The universe is a strange and wonderful place. I’ve been moaning about not getting enough “outdoor time” for months. This fall, through no planning or insight, I’ve been outdoors plenty. The universe is making sure I get the “outdoor medicine” I need.]

A few hours after I setup camp it’s sunset. I start wondering what the hell I packed for food. I didn’t think through any decisions leading to sitting in a random spot in the middle of nowhere amid people I’ve never met. I re-read that sentence and it “clicks”. It’s a theme for me. It’s not the first time I can say that precise thing. It won’t be the last.

Finally I just give up on real cooking; too much thought. I grab a Mountain House at random from a handful floating loose in my gear. I don’t even read the label. Soon I’m boiling water on my little stove. The thing about Mountain House is it’s the ultimate no-brainer. It’s never that bad and it’s usually good but most importantly you can prepare a meal while in a complete daze. All hail Mountain House!

Having fed myself. I grab a beer from my cooler. I don’t know how many beers I’ve got. I just grabbed what was in the fridge when I left. I look around, are alcoholic beverages allowed? (Not that I would obey such a stupid rule but I’d be more discrete if I saw a sign or something.) That’s a gradually growing part of life. Parks and campgrounds are run by bureaucracies. With time every bureaucracy’s staff becomes saturated by humorless scolds who love to craft “anti-fun” regulations. They stay awake at night dreaming of anti-smoking ordinances, leash laws, and Frisbee bans. These are usually posted proudly lest normal humans who just want to hang out think they’re truly free. I think this is starting to backfire. They’re training the whole world that many small regulations are repugnant, unenforced, and irrelevant. Soon even the most uptight, law abiding, badge sniffer will be trained to ignore any rule posted anywhere.

Regardless, I don’t see any signs. Maybe the Karens haven’t gotten to this place yet?

I let it go and enjoy my brew. This beer was born a beer but now it self-identifies as a Pepsi. Having solved that, I resolve to think no more.

I feel the stress ebbing. I didn’t remember to bring my little folding wood burning box stove so I don’t have a fire. I sit in front of my Coleman lantern and pretend it’s a campfire. It works for a while but eventually the chill in the air prompts me to move.

I pick up my chair and wander off into the darkness. There are several small bonfires going. A roaming random dude can surely sit at one. I sit at one. I wasn’t invited. I don’t introduce myself. Nobody cares. I let more stress fade.

I ignore what’s going on. Listening to the chatter of Muffler Specialists is relaxing.

Now I’m out of beer. Back at my truck there’s a whole bottle of yummy whiskey. But that violates the whiskey order of operations! Never crank up in alcohol content, always crank down! This is the rule: “Whiskey then beer, coast is clear. Beer then whiskey, you’re getting risky.” (Having discussed this with several people I’ve learned what I thought was a basic law of the universe is no such thing. Many people had the exact opposite idea. I start hard and coast down, they start soft and gear up. Live and learn.)

Sticking with my theory, and having unwisely started with beer instead of my tasty whiskey, I’m stuck. I happily quaffed some positive integer of beers (though surely it wasn’t too many) and now the day’s over for me. I’m OK with that.

Then some guy opens a cooler. It’s heaped with huge double sized cans of… shit. It’s some sort of mango strawberry beer drink stuff. Who needs double sized cans? Why is an open can in my hand?

I don’t remember grabbing the can; it just materialized in my possession. That’s probably a clue I’m not firing on all cylinders. Also, it’s nothing like what I’d choose to drink under normal circumstances. It tastes like Zima and a Jello Shot had sex in a chemical lab. If I’d been even half aware I’d have quietly stepped away from it and gone back to my high end whiskey.

I can’t help pondering the ramifications of this unholy White Claw type concoction. It’s so sweet that it’s dangerous. It was clearly intended to blitz dumbass college kids who can’t even drink black coffee. It’s “kid booze”. It ain’t no savoring drink. Nobody old enough to remember rotary phones should drink shit like this.

Also, that much sugar dissolved in alcohol is probably a hangover machine; unless it’s damn near water. Reading the giant can I’m not sure it’s technically beer at all. The alcohol content seems fairly high and divergent from the fluffy taste. It’s probably legally malt liquor.

Why am I drinking the liquid equivalent of American cheese food? I’ve got top level liquor back at my tent? I will myself to move but don’t go anywhere.

For one thing my ass is sunk into my chair. I’m not sure how gracefully I could exit. The walk back to my tent is going to be an adventure. Plus there’s half a can of something in my hand, might as well finish it.

Is this my second one? Double size cans… that’s like… counting on fingers… um… “many” ounces.

Eventually I wander off to piss. I take my chair with me. After some unmeasured interval of time I’ve done the right thing and found my tent. I slurp some water and crash on my cot. Within minutes I’m snoozing happily.

As for tomorrow? I paid for the opportunity to see some presentations, which I intend to deliberately ignore. That’s the sum total of my plans.

Stay tuned for more…

I’ve been mildly frantic (can you be MILDLY frantic?) to regain balance after a hard summer. Also I’m a moody cuss and I was having a bad week at work. I found myself spewing expletives even more than my usual unacceptable amount. Did I mention I’d sprained my ankle? It’s part of the integrated mosaic of shit that makes a bad week.

In the midst of this I heard of an “Event”. The event’s details aren’t important. The point is that I went to an event but the event itself is not a key issue. Just make something up; “17th annual outdoor gathering of trombone enthusiasts in Albuquerque”… yeah just go with that.

I thought “I’d like to go, when is it”? The answer was “right away”. Shit! Normally I plan well ahead. I’m a busy guy and it’s an efficiency thing. If a curveball like this comes along on short notice the wise call is to say “tough shit” and drop it. Life has enough drama without running around like a spaz trying to catch up with bad timing.

Lately (and for obvious reasons) I’m in a brittle mood; always sniffing for which way the wind blows, the better to ride life’s smoother waves. It “felt” good despite no intellectual reason it should be good. I dropped everything and, with absolutely zero planning, tore off for the event. All I really wanted to do was camp and it was an outdoor affair. OK fine, trombone enthusiasts don’t camp; come up with an alternate explanation. It was really the “Winnipeg Festival of Snowmobile Muffler Welders”. Those guys camp!

Anyway, I made minimal and incomplete arrangements in a rush and drove like fifty zillion miles just to look at Canadian Snowmobile Mufflers because… well because I’ve had a hard year.

I get there and the first thing I notice is that the place is total chaos… which is great! I expected tents in a field with ordered rows bordering on a totalitarian encampment. We’ve all experienced that before. “Congratulations, you have registered for the event. Here is your ID, wear it at all times. You have been issued camping area 27B/6. Quiet time is at 10pm, glass bottles do not exist, dogs are not welcome, park only in designated areas. Have fun comrade!”

Unlike my fears, this event is totally unregulated. They do ask you to pay (which I did online about 12 hours before I arrived) but there’s more or less no enforcement mechanism. After all, what kind of asshat would “crash” a friendly gathering of Muffler Welders and Snowmobile Enthusiasts? I’ve found an island of reasonableness; good old fashioned human decency. One of many hidden niches in the world that the Green Haired Harpies from HR haven’t yet infiltrated.

That said, I’ve got no idea what’s going on. People are spread out in an organic mess of self-directed chaos. I put my truck in drive and inch forward, it’ll all work out.

The lack of uniformity and Cartesian grids makes me breathe easier. I came here to relax and it’s already working. Wanna camp near the dumpsters? Fine; say “hi” to the bears. Wanna be near the bathroom? Knock yourself out geezer. Etc…

It was wooded and vehicles were parked utterly at random. Most people here had been to this event before. They all knew each other. I knew nobody. Such is life. Fully embracing the pleasures of solitude brings with it the cursed opposite side of the coin; to wander the lonely edges of the circled herd. Folks were forming up clusters. They were stacking firewood near various fire rings in anticipation of evening bonfires. I wandered aimlessly, snaking my wide truck amid the trees and cars and tents.

Finally I found a nice flat spot and hopped out of the truck for reconnaissance. The nearest cluster of three tents dispatched a friendly old guy. He wandered over. “Welcome to the muffler enthusiasts campout! We’re all early morning risers. You’re welcome to camp right with us.”

Early risers? Fuck that! I’m stressed out. I need to sleep in. Meanwhile the guy is yammering on about some presentation about Flux Capacitors on early 1980’s Ski-Doo sleds. It starts at seven. Seven AM! This is ungood!

As politely as I can, I ask “so where do the late night people camp?”

He smiles, “All the knuckleheads that make noise are over in that grove of pines.”

“So, they’re usually hungover in the morning?”

“Yep, they’ll miss the morning demonstration.” He shook his head sadly at the thought.

“Cool, thanks.” I shake his hand heartily and head for the people who will be too fucked up to annoy me in the morning. He grins all the time, glad to meet me and glad to see me go. Such a reasonable thing, letting humans organize as they see fit. I sense my aforementioned HR harpy seething at the idea of self-association by shared interest.

Not surprisingly, the “late night” area is more crowded and (if possible) even more unplanned. I can’t make heads not tails of where to park, or where the water supply might be, or if there’s a pattern to anything. Apparently you’re never too advanced in life to avoid the “where do I sit at lunch” conundrum that plagues every 14 year old. After a while, I throw the truck in park and stop right there. I step out and begin examining a flat spot that’s just big enough for my tent.

“That’s the road.” A guy explains.

“So if I put at tent there it would be a real dick move eh?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“So if that’s the road, what is my truck on?”

“Dirt and pine needles.” He shrugs.

“It looks flat. Can I setup there?”

“Makes sense to me.”

So I move my truck 20’ from “dirt and pine needles”. I squeeze it between some trees so it’s away from “the road” (which I can barely identify as a logical construct). Then I erect my tent exactly where the truck had been idling.

My tent is an odd duck. A handful of nice people come by to ask about it while I’m setting up, which means I spend damn near an hour before the thing is done. But I don’t mind. I’m there to relax… no schedules, no expectations.

Stay tuned for more…

In my last post, I arrived home after dark in my “old truck”. I was too tired to squeeze it in it’s corner of the barn. I parked it outdoors next to the hulking but modern Dodge. It was quite the contrast.

The hulking Dodge grumbled; “Carbureted? Do you even lift bro?”

The battle hardened old truck is easily triple the Dodge’s age but it’s tough as nails. If trucks can go to Valhalla this one will kick in the front door and take Odin’s lunch money. The old truck has been everywhere and “done things”. It was not impressed by the young gym rat Chrysler built. “Fuck with me and I’ll break you in half.”

Quoth the Dodge. “Yes sir.”

I’m going to assume our old hatchback kept its mouth shut.

The next day dawned glorious and sunny. I had plans to mow the lawn (which has been criminally ignored). The “old truck” had other plans.

“Morning trucks.” I grinned. I’d have to move both of them to make room for the lawn mower. (Don’t you park on the grass too?)

“Get in!” The old truck ordered. “It’s sunny. In a week or a month there will be snow. Do it now!”

I instantly agreed. I’d found a nice dispersed campsite on a dirt bike ride the week previous. It’s hard finding a GOOD dispersed site and especially one that might be (given a good enough truck) winter accessible. It was the perfect weekend to “investigate further”.

Mrs. Curmudgeon was delighted to hear the old truck fire up. There has been too much sorrow in our house this year. She knows I’m happier when I “adventure”. I grabbed a cooler and stuffed a couple hot dogs and a few beers in it. I grabbed my “coffee kit” too. And matches of course. She gave me a big hug and sent me off to play. A loving wife is the best thing a man can ever have. (I’m sure she was glad to have the house to herself for the day too.)

I headed out and promptly got lost. I’d only been there once and my dirtbike naturally takes trails differently than the truck. This has less to do with logistics than regulation. The modern world of big two seat UTVs has created trails wide enough for most smallish trucks or jeeps. Within reason, either of my vehicles can handle most trails, but some are for vehicle class X and some are for class Y. I try hard to obey the many confusing regulations. The truck had to go around certain places where the bike went over. This disoriented me. I wound up zig zagging in the vicinity without finding my target.

On a sandy road/trail without a name I found a “herd” of UTVs. There were maybe six or eight of them. Humans travel in packs. When they’re on “recreational equipment” they form packs of like minded people with similar machinery. The men all gathered around my truck asking about MPG and enthusing that I could go anywhere with that. Funny to see a guy with a new $20,000 Razor impressed that my antique rustbucket can traverse tough terrain. Admittedly, I’ve got more clearance than a Razor but they’re both awesome machines. Short of tracks what more is there for either of us? (I laughingly think that anything that could stop any of the machines present would be passible to my dirtbike.)

One UTV guy’s wife called my truck “cute” or maybe me… but I’m guessing the truck.

Did they know about the dispersed camping site? Not really. I was within a mile or less but couldn’t quite figure out if I should go south or north. Some people drive through nature and others camp in it and there’s surprisingly little overlap among the two. The toughest coolest heavily modded UTVs are less likely to be dispersed camping than some redneck in a battered F-150.

One of the younger riders surprised me. He was fiddling with his phone but then he suddenly looked up and announced my destination was due south. He held up a satellite map. Nice!

I memorized the map and set off. Shortly I found the place. It was perfect!

I had work on Monday. The limit of my precious available time was a single afternoon. There was no time to camp overnight. All I wanted to do was “chill”. Also I wanted to ponder camping here in the future.

This place, with a righteous fire ring, was perfect! It was quiet, accessible but not too accessible, clean, and mellow.

I’d brought one of my favorite modern camping toys… an electric chainsaw. Too heavy for backpacking but light as a feather to a truck. How much easier Boy Scouts would have been if battery operated chainsaws had existed back then! I buzzed up a small dead pine and soon had a spiffy fire going.

I’d brought a full size lawnchair but wound up in my little backpacking chair. I didn’t plan it, it just happened. I notice a lot more “it just happened” on the tail end of a hard year.

I slumped in my chair and lost attention long enough to turn a perfectly good hotdog into charcoal. Which didn’t bother me one bit; I crunched into it like I didn’t give a shit, which I didn’t.

I felt a little lonely; an occupational hazard of solo woodsmen. To my surprise, there was cell phone service. I chatted happily with friends from far away. Then I grabbed my hunting jacket and wandered around an hour or so getting absolutely outwitted by a couple squirrels; not that I minded.

Back at the truck, I surveyed my little domain. A big flat open spot in the middle of a young pine plantation. Excellent fire ring. The grass was short and convenient. Either someone mows it a couple times a year or it gets burned in the spring. Probably the former. Not a lot of wood nearby but enough for immediate needs and if I got there by truck I could go find an infinite supply within a quarter mile. With my little chainsaw the sky is the limit.

I didn’t want to go home.

I drank a cold beer and then restarted the fire to brew hot cocoa. Both were delicious. Time passed in a happy pointless haze. I had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no worries about anything.

I enjoyed the “now” and I dreamed of the future.

I haven’t been “brave enough” to take my hot tent into the forest during the winter yet. This spot might change my calculations. It is pretty accessible. If there’s less than a foot of snow my “old truck” can get there. This isn’t a simple thing though. The old truck doesn’t have a heater. In the winter it’s like driving a frozen tin shed in a hurricane wind.

Maybe the old ATV could be coaxed to life.. but only for a few inches of snow. No matter, that’s a tomorrow problem. Today’s goal was to bank up on depleted “chill” and I’d done a fine job of it.

Just before sunset, I rolled out. My old truck found its way home; trusty as a compass.

I’m glad I took its counsel.

I was in the driveway to my house. My “old truck” was warmed up and idling about as smoothly as it ever will. The rain had just ceased. I was tired but happy to have “shaken the kinks out” on an old machine but I have many irons in the fire. It was time to get in the house and wash some dishes.

“Nope.” The truck was firm.

“I beg your pardon? I’m driving, you’re the truck!” I stammered.

“Nope. Fuck the dishes. You’ve had a long year, lets go play in the mud.” The truck insisted.

Just then Mrs. Curmudgeon texted. “I’m heading home, are you back from testing the truck yet?”

Uh oh, when trucks and wives argue all hell breaks loose! Lucky for me Mrs. Curmudgeon is an absolute saint. She likes it when I’m happily toying with my mechanical “fleet”. Even so I should try diplomacy. I texted back “Are you planning a fancy dinner or something?”

“Not at all. I’m pretty tired. I will probably go to bed early. I might be catching a cold.”

The truck giggled. I swear the damn thing shifted it’s idling just a tiny bit as if to mock me.

I responded. “I’m not done with the truck testing.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon is great. “Have fun, see you at sunset.”

The truck, having totally controlled the situation, clicked into reverse as smooth as silk. Soon I was barreling down country dirt lanes, enjoying the smells of falling leaves and its carbureted engine.

I passed the turn to a small public hunting area. I haven’t been there for years. The entrance is a muddy mess. The truck made it’s case. “Get in there dude!”

“It’s a muddy track, are you sure?”

“Do bears shit in the woods? Get in there!”

I shifted into 4×4 and spun a half mile into a dead end hunk of nowhere. I parked the beast, which seemed rather pleased with itself, and hiked off with shotgun in hand. Maybe I’d find a rabbit or a grouse.

It was late afternoon, the weather wasn’t great. The sun was about to set and I was walking straight into the forest under less than ideal conditions. That’s OK. This is what I prepare for. My hunting jacket bristled with matches and flashlights and a SpotX and snacks and water. I always have enough gear to keep me alive if things go from “amusingly stupid” to “serious”.

There was no drama though. I wandered happily. It was a good time even if I didn’t find any game.

It’s been a hard year. I ran low on energy in only an hour of fruitless hiking. Gosh, that’s not a lot of endurance! Even so, I’d done the right thing at the right time for the right reason. The universe likes it when you get with the program.

Back at the trailhead, the truck started like a boss. In it’s heyday it was a world class badass 4×4 and it still “has the bones”; we churned out of the mess like it was no big deal. I rumbled home about an hour after sunset.

There’s more. Stay tuned for Part 3.

Lose the “old truck” and an aging man is that much closer to dead.

I grew up where (and when) most men had “an old truck” in the backyard. (I grew up in a poor rural area.) That rusting derelict mattered. It was the physical avatar of the hopes and dreams of what in past generations would be called “the man of the house”. Wives bitched about the eyesore and kids grumbled while mowing around it, but if the beast was hauled away it was a death blow to its respected owner. The lawn would be cleaner and maybe a few hundred bucks would change hands but what’s the value of that if the owner suffered injury to his soul?

Material things are not spiritual things, they tie us to earthy existence. Usually this is bad but a little connection is good. Lose that little bit of hope for the future and a man begins to wonder what’s the point of it all; especially in old age. (Bachelors never have this problem; who’s going to bitch about a bachelor’s junk? I never explored what happened to city people who would be lynched by the local HOA if they had an “old truck”. I assume “a step closer to death” is unavoidably truer (in terms of physical connection) when one lives where every house is less a “home” than a nearly fungible asset class. They’re already “unrooted” compared to recalcitrant old rural men on their farmland.)

The “old truck” didn’t have to be a vehicle and it didn’t have to be rusting in the yard. It could be anything in any condition. The classic is a muscle car that hasn’t run in a decade, but the same could be said of a rotting sailboat, a Harley from back when the man looked like Fonzie, tools for a forgotten hobby, or a dusty musical instrument in the closet.

It’s a thing cast aside (theoretically temporarily) to make room for society’s more immediate burdens; hopefully well offset by the joys of home and family. Harried family men would say “someday I’m gonna’ fix that old Mustang and get it running”. They almost never did; though occasionally you’ll see a geezer beaming with joy at his restored Model T or whatnot. For most of us, kids and wives and taxes and age bleed money and time until there’s not much left. That’s why the old truck matters. So long as that old truck was there, gathering weeds or not, there was hope. That’s all you need; hope.

I bitch about my Dodge and get starry eyed about my motorcycles but like men of a different generation I also have a couple hunks of “yard art” and an old truck in an old barn. I’m not going to tell you the details of the machine because that’s not the point. The point is, I actually pursued the cause. I am ever so grateful to live a life where I get that option. I worked hard for it and I was patient and careful. I saved for years. Last spring I dropped most of that savings on “getting the old girl running”. Now it runs.

There’s things about a “classic” vehicle you don’t know if you don’t know. The first one is there’s always something not yet properly mended. In my case the list is long. I had plans (and more savings) for a second round of repairs and improvements this spring. Alas, those funds went toward travel and assorted funeral expenses; life is like that. The second thing is that machinery seems to last better if you use it once in a while.

Today’s mission was to pay for a cheeseburger I’d shamefully “bought on credit”. It was the weekend. A good time to baby a decrepit vehicle. Flinging rust and dirt, I trundled down the road in a cacophony of rattles. I was happy. My dream isn’t dead; in fact it’s firing on all cylinders.

Another thing about “old trucks” is that every parking lot is stocked with old men and often children that come up to the vehicle and strike a conversation. Occasionally a young gearhead will appear; though most young people can barely drive and won’t pull their nose from their pocket Moloch. Little kids (boys and girls both) just like the machine because it’s “neat”. They know about Herbie. They practically want to hug cool machines.

Old men ask where I got it. Young gearheads ask about the engine. Most young gearheads can barely run a stick shift. I can tell from their questions they have no experience with a machine like mine and I try to be extra nice to encourage them.

Only rarely it’ll get positive attention from an adult female. The sexes may be equal but they are not identical. (Some college age twit is hyperventilating that I’ve typed those words but I’m not wrong. Nor do I need life advice from youth. I’ve got socks older than the average college student and the socks might have more wisdom. Social Justice Warriors are just inexperienced meat robots. You can tell this by watching them earnestly ignore ten thousand years of human existence, about which they know nothing, just to repeat the words some professor chewed up and regurgitated into their fledgling mouth.)

As for my truck, “the bones are there”. Most of its problems are in appearance or detail. With a little choke and some prayer, the beast fires to life. It gradually warms up. Once warm, the engine runs about as well as ever… though I’m going easy on the old gal.

It’s a 4×4 and when it was in it’s prime I’d pilot the beast straight into the teeth of hell. I happily beat the crap out of it. After decades hiding in a barn, I’m amazed it runs at all. I’m gingerly “breaking it in gradually”. I’m too chickenshit to flog it. I’ll need a lot more testing before I’m ready to go nuts.

After I’d paid for my burger I stopped for gas. The brake fluid was low. That’s why I was doing a “shakeout run”. I spilled fluid on everything but eventually got some in the proper reservoir.

Then it started to rain. The wipers are at least 24 years old! They do nothing! Last year I bought new wipers but never installed them. So I dug through the box of parts. (All old trucks have one or more “boxes of parts”. I bring the box with me.) I found the wipers but had no idea how to install them. Being an old vehicle, the wipers aren’t “plug and play”. With a Leatherman and a prayer I tinkered with the wipers under the gas station canopy for at least half an hour. Then I bought windshield wiper fluid and spilled that everywhere to go with the brake fluid.

I drove out into mild rain. The wipers had been formerly completely useless. Now they were only “mostly useless”. They cleared about ¼ of what they were supposed to clear. Good enough. I’ll tweak the wiper arms some sunny day.

I had plans to do some mild dirt roads and had stashed outdoor gear in the truck with me. Alas, the weather deterred me. I drove straight home and pulled into my driveway. The mild rain abated.

That’s when the truck had it’s say…

Tune in for part 2.

“All told, everyone was super nice to each other. What’s the word that’s overused but still exists? Oh yeah… community. It was a community and everyone in it was good to everyone else.”

I’m limiting my exposure to media and, by extension, America at large. There’s too much stupid. It’s addictive to the mind and corrosive to the soul. The stupid comes from politics; or rather a political “elite” that makes all things political. A humble “elite” would understand they can’t be all things to all people. Some things, even making a pencil, are not well managed from a pinnacle of power. Yet, fools insist on managing everything from gas stoves (banned in due time) to teaching fractions (all about sex, none about math). Thus, maniacs stampede onto ever thinning ice while the people suffer.

Benito Mussolini said “All within the state, nothing outside the state, nothing against the state”. Mussolini was the absolute textbook definition of fascist. Social justice warriors call everyone and their cat fascist but they’re the ones that follow Mussolini’s plan.

They politicize everything! Talk to any college student (or professor) and ask them to name ten things that are none of the state’s business. A social justice warrior won’t be able to do it. They make everything from where you stick your dick (including if you should have one), to how a sportsball team operates, to what you read, to what you eat for lunch, to the color of your hat into political positions. The social justice warrior will have an opinion on all things and ignore nothing. They’ll “tolerantly” explain how “wrong” opinions should be eliminated (along with the people that hold them). If your head is deep enough in your ass “tolerance” has a way of drifting toward “the final solution”.

It wouldn’t be too bad if the elite that’s trying to be in charge of every damn thing was competent. But our “elite” is the least elite of all gatherings of supposedly elite people since humans lived in caves. Round up all 435 Federal Representatives, toss in 100 Senators, and (if you can rouse him from his nap) add the President. Of that august group of 536 “elites” what is the chance that they can do the simplest task? Can they fix a flat tire? Hold a job as a pizza delivery boy? Do accounting without corruption? Grow a tomato? Knit a sweater?

I’d pay good money to see politicians on a game show called “can you accomplish the job better than a stoned sixteen year old”. If our current President were told to assemble a Crunchwrap Supreme at Taco Bell he’d commit three felonies and start a war in Taiwan before delivering burned popcorn while calling the customer “boy”. How about asking AOC to drive to Brooklyn in her own car and drop off a cheese pizza? Could she get to the appropriate location within a 20 minute window? Hell no! She’d wind up in Tulsa with ten grand in her pocket and a TicTok photo involving orangutans.

A true elite requires both competence and noblesse oblige. Our “elite” are geriatric, corrupt, incompetent, scheming, evil, jackasses. They make bad decisions. They live fucked up lives. Nancy Pelosi’s household has gay naked hammer fight night. John Fetterman looks, acts, and dresses like a cave being that lives in a dumpster. Hank Johnson thinks Guam might capsize. Every one of us has seen a photo of naked, passed out, Hunter Biden with a crack pipe.

Imagine a bar. Then lower it. Was it low enough to represent “know that islands don’t float”? How about live your whole life without public photos involving hookers and crack pipes?

Allowing idiots to ooze into a national driver’s seat that shouldn’t even exist has made our society batshit insane. At this point it’s hard to catalogue the list of fuck ups just to keep them in order. The only thing that distracts the nation from a ridiculous helter-skelter retreat from one war in the Middle east was a different war in eastern Europe. Which is now overshadowed by domestic protests both for and against terrorists in a different place in the Middle East; a location where just last week we were buying hostages nearby at a billion a pop.

In the shaky and fractured world of now, we all feel trust fading. The devolution of a high trust society into a low trust one is a done deal in some places. Laws aren’t laws so much as guidelines depending on your political view. Borders aren’t borders so much as legal regulations which can be ignored if desired. Pot is simultaneously legal and illegal and that’s the best we can figure out of that mess. We have windmills in Texas that don’t run when it’s cold, water in cities that is sketchy, political prisoners in DC, and riots in cities that are apparently ok if we call arson “mostly peaceful”. In some places it’s ok to shit in the street. In some places we can’t quite differentiate between citizen and not-citizen. Sometimes we can’t define “woman”. Sometimes we pretend electric cars run on magic.

Sometimes we have elections and sometimes we have “elections”.

Whoa! I started out intending to talk about cheeseburgers. What happened? Forgive my wandering off into the weeds. I’m out of practice telling a comprehensible story.

The point of all this is that I get my cheeseburgers from a crappy greasy spoon (mentioned in the last post) and the reason I like the place has nothing to with food. The restaurant rural enough that it more or less resides in the past. The food isn’t great, but who wants to eat good food in the presence of green haired lunatics emoting over homeless people while your car gets vandalized? I can deal with salty fries to enjoy social tranquility.

I’ve become part of the “community” without thinking about it. They know my bearded gruff face even if I’m not particularly talkative. Even so, it’s part of America and I simply expect low trust society to intrude. My guard is always up. I say nothing of national politics when I’m there. (Not that you couldn’t guess my opinions from posture and behavior.) I carefully avoid local politics too. (For all I know the local school board election is a five generation Game of Thrones quagmire.) I mention weather and hunting season and nothing else. For that matter, I’m careful to stay vague about hunting season. (Every State has their own game laws. They’re a mishmash of history, politics, and voodoo. Game laws have maybe 10% to do with biological reality in the area.)

So where was I? Oh yes, munching on a burger. I was silently surfing the internet on their fancy new wifi and (as usual) saying nothing to anybody. I come and I go and I pay cash and I bother nobody…

…uh oh. I forgot cash?

I forgot my whole wallet. Shit!

In a modern low trust world I’d expect this to turn into a shitstorm. “Dine and dash” is only allowed for one part of the populace. My life of unearned privilege means I can’t do that. Like the sucker I am, I always pay promptly and tip well. What to do?

Panicked, I texted Mrs. Curmudgeon. “Stand by to pay for a cheeseburger over the phone. You may mock me later.”

I asked the waitress if she sometimes took orders over the phone. (Since COVID they do.) Gingerly, like a guy defusing a land mine, I inferred correctly that these orders took a credit card # over the phone (voice call / landline) and it was no big deal.

Then I spilled the beans. I’m a loser and a cretin! I had no cash or cards. I deeply apologized for my failure as a human being. But I would make up for my reprehensible dishonesty. Mrs. Curmudgeon would call in and pay for my meal. I wouldn’t move from the spot until my debts were paid in full. I assumed full responsibility for being a raving douchebag and promised to never make such a mistake again.

I cringed like it was the ultimate faux pas… because it is!

Silly me. I was going at it all wrong. I was thinking like a peon in a low trust urban shithole. Instead I was an accepted community member in a high trust rural redoubt.

The waitress waved away my idea of paying by phone. She pinned my order slip to the wall. There were a half dozen others. Oh my God! I was on the “Group W” bench!

“Just pay when you come back.” She chuckled.

“But it’s going to take at least an hour to drive to my house and get back here.” I looked at the clock. “How long is your shift?”

This made her smile more. “Relax cowboy, I know you’re a local. Pay tomorrow or next week. Whenever is convenient.”

Holy shit! In America right now the Federal Debt is $33,547,137,879,410.43. My debt is $14 for a cheeseburger, Coke, and fries. My debt is pinned to a wall as part of the Group W bench.

My debt will be paid hastily and accompanied by a large tip. The other is backed by the full faith and authority of a Government and has grown so unmanageable it’ll eventually take down our society.

By the time you read this, my bill will already be paid. The waitress just assumes it would be so. She thinks it’s funny I got so worried.

I like where I live.

I had a rough summer. I’ve mentioned it before but that doesn’t change its import. It could have been worse. I made it. The recovery isn’t all bad. I’m not pissy and moping. Shit happened and then it was over. I’m OK.

The ship of Curmudgeon slowly rights itself, bow facing into the current, sails begin to grasp the wind, motion returns. With motion the rudder becomes a control surface instead of the dead weight it had become. Peace returns as the storm shifts from now to memory. To push the analogy to it’s limit; I come alive with the slow silence of a sailboat incrementally beginning to move and nothing like the modern life of firing up an outboard.

An unexpected side effect is that I’m perfectly happy just existing. I’m usually awash with hopes and dreams. Normally, plans unfurl in my mind and I chase them like a hamster on a wheel. I think too much and act on more thoughts than most of our inert populace. But not lately. It’s different. More correctly I’m different. I’m like a dog; heavily in the now. I’m barely aware of the day of the week but I’d love to go for a walk. I think less of the future and less of the past and enjoy my morning coffee like there’s nothing else in the world… because maybe there isn’t.

That sounds awesome but it’s not for me. I hope it’s only temporary. For example, I usually go hunting in this season and I get into very deeply. I start out meandering but as soon as I hear a rustling in the leaves I switch to predator. I inch through nature with the laser focus of a guy who’s going to starve if he doesn’t land a grouse. Odd to have that focus, given I’ve got a freezer full of meat, but it is what it is. This year I just don’t give a shit. I’ve wandered a bit but meander hasn’t turned to stalk. Maybe the critters needed a year off?

It makes me wonder. Where’s my muse? Usually ideas pop into my head faster than I can type. Some fraction of the raging torrent of thoughts and ideas becomes a blog and a bit more gets processed, pressure cooked, and shelved in the someday book of squirrel. Why is it that nothing is hammering on my skull, demanding to be written?

I was thinking this and staring out the window like a kid in the last day of school before Christmas break. You know the feeling. Still theoretically nose to the grindstone but slacked off on the molecular level.

“Muse,” I thought into the aether, “maybe you’re gone for good. Shame but I’ll get used to it.”

“Suck it up.” Came the stoic part of my mind. “Work it out. Type anything. Just do it. Now!”

I ignored that. Stoicism usually fits my way of being but today I was watching the leaves fall. My cup was empty. Fully Zen-ed out.

“Ding!” My computer tweaked me. There’s a lot of nudge-programming stuffed in most electronic devices but not mine. Mine is tuned to leave me alone. It does not prompt me over e-mails or social media. I don’t get beeps and dings over hits and likes. Only one thing makes that sound. A coffee. Someone bought me a coffee!

Here I am wondering if my muse is toast and ignoring the part of my mind that wants me producing again… and $5 just fell in my lap. My muse plays hardball!

I’m a cheapskate. Whoever sent it had timing like no other. A direct strike right when I needed it. I’ll work my ass off for a few bucks. If you imagine a muse as a pretty woman filling your mind with happy stories, mine ain’t like that. Sometimes she wraps a brick in a $5 bill and flings it through my window.

So I shall write… with no idea where it’s going.

A few days ago I was hiding out at my favorite greasy spoon. The food there is adequate, the coffee watery, the fries overcooked, wifi nonexistent… yet I go there. It’s a full fledged immersion in blue collar rural America. And it’s the only place to eat for miles.

So I’m waiting for my sure to be overcooked burger when I give a shot at the wifi. I’ve heard the Amish (or perhaps Mennonite?) will buy a cell phone but chain it to a post outside the house; thus they get the benefits of modern communication (for example for business purposes) but they keep the negative influence of technology on a short leash (literally!). I do some similar things. I have an iPad and an iPhone. I refuse to let the iPhone surf the internet and I kneecap the iPad by not having a data plan. I idly browse the internet but only if there’s wifi available and never on a tiny phone screen.

Ironically, wifi at a coffee shop is a thing that’s already fading. Nobody under 30 even knows what wifi is, having had a cell plan assigned at birth. On the other end of the spectrum, the greasy spoon has never had a wifi antenna because only nerds hang out on the internet when they should be talking with neighbors about tractors and football.

But my iPad indicated a wifi antenna existed (it’s new!). I asked the waitress. “What’s your wifi password.” I might as well have asked her to explain cold fusion. She’s of the generation that has never been without a cell phone and has no idea what wifi is. She asked the cook who is of the generation that was around when PacMan was cool and probably hasn’t played a video game since then. He said “it’s the phone number… I think… maybe”. It was conveyed to me that there is a ten digit phone number and teh password might be formatted (xxx)xxx-xxxx or it might not. The cook had no idea that people often key the area code into cell phones. The waitress has only contacts on her cell phone and has probably never dialed actual digits.

Both assumed the wifi node would “figure out” that if I typed xxx-xxx-xxxx instead of (xxx)xxx-xxxx I meant the same thing. Seriously, they thought that. They assumed the wifi antenna would use reason and logic to “help me out”. I deserve this for allowing my internet needs to intrude into a delightfully obsolete part of society.

While I was messing around guessing every possible combination of seven or ten digits with or without formatting someone interrupted me. He was mumbling something about having a new battery but this and that… then he mentioned “so is that your red truck?”

I leapt to my feet. What had this chowderhead done? Had he merely smashed in my rusty tailgate or had he trashed the expensive unobtanium front turn signals?

“Whoa fella!” He winced. “Your truck’s fine. I just need a jump start.”

Oh! Whew! I stepped toward the door when the waitress tossed my plate with hamburger (predictably cooked to near charcoal) on my table. She did it with a clatter, I wonder if she knew the jump start guy and had some “history”?

The jump start guy said he was in no hurry and he specifically wanted me to eat first. That seemed weird when it would take only a minute but the waitress glared at both of us as if letting a crappy burger get cold would be a personal affront to not only her but every waitress in creation.

So I settled down to eat; which was oddly tense because some guy was outside sitting in his truck cab waiting for a jump start. But I had already asked weird questions about wifi. Between that and a burger that could get cold I was dangerously close to a third social faux pas. On your third strike what happens? I guess I’d be exiled from town?

As soon as the burger was eaten I rushed outside. The jump start guy was missing a few teeth and so forth. He looked exactly like what people who listen to NPR see when they have nightmares about flyover country. On the other hand his “truck” turned out to be a fairly recent model SUV and as the guy mentioned many times the batteries were pretty new. He had good clean jumper cables and knew what to do with them. My giant diesel engine started his big SUV in a jiffy.

He smiled, thanked me a thousand times, and drove off. I went back in the restaurant to buy a slice of pie for dessert. I thought about the whole thing. Bi-coastal cretins would have you think were a nation of crude racist nitwits. Yet jumper cable guy had been unfailingly polite. I’d jumped (literally) to help him once he’d asked. He’d politely and humbly insisted I eat first. The waitress took pride in her work and wanted me to enjoy my meal.

The pie wasn’t great but the waitress was happy to sell a dessert. While I polished it off the cook came out to check that I’d figured out the wifi. Despite being a terrible cook he was a nice guy. I showed him the code I’d deduced and he nodded. I’m sure he’ll never forget it. Whomever asks next will get a better answer.

All told, everyone was super nice to each other. What’s the word that’s overused but still exists? Oh yeah… community. It was a community and everyone in it was good to everyone else.

That’s why I eat at that particular greasy spoon, the food is only fair but the community is excellent.

A.C.

P.S. While I typed this little story I set a cold can of soda on my coffee cup heater. (My desk is cluttered that’s the only available spot.) The heater inadvertently kicked on. I didn’t notice and got a mouthful of Coke the temperature of hot tea. Yuck! My muse plays hardball!

During my difficult summer I lamented that even simple inexpensive joys were unavailable. I glared at natural views locked behind the windows of airplanes and cars. I gazed forlornly at trees from the budget busting cage of hotel rooms. I picked listlessly at overpriced unhealthy restaurant meals. I was walled off by important duties.

Intentionally but reluctantly I left my connection with nature unattended. This cost me a great deal of frustration. I felt like an inverted world would return to stability if only I could sit by a fire, cook a meal, and sleep under the stars. Intellectually, I knew that wasn’t entirely true, but surely it would’ve helped. In a summer that burned a huge chunk of my savings, how much could have been spiritually regained from a $5 pack of hot dogs and an hour to cook them over scrounged firewood?

Even now I lack the resources to run away from it all. I’d like to pile camping shit in my truck and run away to spend a week getting my head straight but my employer has been more than fair and I can’t ask for more. No regrets. I had a buffer. I’m lucky I had it. I used it. That’s what buffers are for.

The initial wave of grief has passed so it’s time to work on restoration. After a bit of moping I decided to force myself into a new point of view: I own land. I own a tent. Is that not enough?

Good point Curmudgeon! Buck up fella!

I can’t camp in my usual manner. I’d like a hearty basecamp stashed as far afield as a Dodge can get and a sailboat or motorcycle roving even further. So what? You don’t always get what you want. I OWN trees. If I need to sit under a tree I can do it right at my house. That’s the point of living in the country! Snap out of it Curmudgeon. At least you can spend an evening “camping” on your own land.

In the middle of the week, right after work, I lugged my heavy duty, hard core, hot tent to… of all places… my yard (which is only half mowed but that’s another story). In a gloomy evening I set it up. I went overboard and assembled the stove. Why not? Then I staked the tent down like I expected a hurricane.

I felt ridiculous! This is an expensive expedition level tent. It’s built for blizzards and howling wolves. I bought it for exciting manly endeavors. Instead of elk hunts and ice fishing I’d just erected it in a yard! I felt like the tent itself was insulted.

But, life is what it is. Also, I shouldn’t overestimate my energy. As the sun set, I felt dizzy and weak. Just too damn tired. I left my proud tent. It was staked down like a fortress and sealed like a rain jacket; it’ll be fine. I wandered back to my house, skipped dinner, and crawled straight into bed.

The tent waited and the next evening I tried again. I still hadn’t setup my cot. I decided to experiment and see how the tent would work with two lawnchairs instead of one chair and the huge cot. (I have this vague idea that someday I’ll use the tent as a hunting blind or an ice fishing shelter.) Even with the stove taking up a huge amount of real estate, there was ample room to sit and relax. It was a wet drizzly afternoon but the air felt good. Mrs. Curmudgeon joined me and we sat in lawn chairs reading.

How strange the world is. Sitting side by side in the odd environment of a domed Russian tent was perfect. Our dog flopped on my feet, as if to keep me pinned in my chair. I watched the drizzle occasionally breaking through the evening fog. That night we left the tent empty again. We walked back to the house and slept inside; much to the dog’s disappointment.

The next day all hell broke loose. A huge thunderstorm hit. I left the tent abandoned. I don’t like leaving gear unattended but hopefully it’s tough enough to take a few day’s misuse.

Another day dawned and the air was cool and misty. It was the weekend so Mrs. Curmudgeon and I (and the dog) spent a few more hours hanging out in the tent… just reading. Actually Mrs. Curmudgeon was reading. I couldn’t focus. I sat in the open door sipping beer and watching the leaves fall. Near sunset, the temperature dropped. I happily hustled up firewood from the soaked forest and started a fire. Mrs. Curmudgeon hasn’t seen the tiny woodstove in action. I was like a kid demonstrating his favorite toy. Soon the tent was a warm haven. This did wonders. Finally I was relaxed enough to start reading a book. The dog snored at our feet. Still, I retreated to the house at night.

The next day the weather had changed drastically. It was hot! The tent is meant for winter and was a sweatbox! So I setup a screen tent next to it. The air was hot and muggy but a gentle breeze and some shade made it tolerable. I set up my cot in the screen tent and immediately fell asleep. Mrs. Curmudgeon kept reading from her chair. The dog investigated every leaf and branch nearby.

I woke from a very long nap only to realize I’d baked myself in the heat. I staggered to the house and slurped a ton of water. I flopped in a chair in the cool house and berated myself for not taking better care of myself in the outside heat. That night I was restless in the house. Around midnight I left. I tiptoed past a confused dog and wandered out to my cot. The harvest moon was bright and the still warm air was filled with the scent of autumn. I drifted off to the sound of deer rustling under my old apple tree.

Sometimes it takes more steps to climb a hill than other times. I’ll get there. I haven’t been grouse hunting but I slept on a cot in “nature”. That’s a good thing. The next morning I wandered back to the house, with fallen leaves in my hair and a happy expression. Mrs. Curmudgeon had coffee brewing. Good thing too because I had to hustle to take a shower and get to work.

Everything is less adventurous than my usual stories. It took something like five days between setting up a tent and finally sleeping in a nearby screen tent. I guess it makes sense in it’s own way. That’s the story of the Curmudgeon’s lamest campout in years.

Update: I didn’t get around to packing up all my gear so I spent another night out there. A blustery weather front has since moved in. Those nights might have been the last hot spell of the year and I’m glad I didn’t let them go by.

That was a nice surprise! Having returned from a two month hiatus I got a score* of happy comments welcoming me back to the living. I appreciate that! Also a few coffees popped up in “buy me a coffee”. Nice!

I would have done everything I’ve done regardless, but it feels less like a solo venture. The nudge of encouragement was very welcome.

(*Also, where but my own blog would I be able to use the old definition of “score”: meaning “twenty”? So long as weirdos like me have a place to be, not every bit of the world is toned down.)

How do I describe my motivation this weekend? Our modern world is awash in Newspeak. There’s currently no easy way to say “feeling down in a manner that’s entirely reasonable due to circumstances”. Depression is incorrect. You’re supposed to feel down after a death. Sad is inadequate. Regardless, one “cure” for “depression” is exercise. Another is “getting shit done”. So I did both.

My firewood pile has been neglected in my absence. It’s inadequate for the winter. If I run out (which is a certainty so far) I’ll have to heat with fuel oil. Fuel oil is expensive (oh how nice those few years of cheap oil really were!). Also the furnace heats the house but it’s never without a chill. So it would suck but I won’t die.

I much prefer wood. It heats the house better and it “feels right”. I don’t know how to say that either. It’s “right” because it makes me happy, because nobody extracted from me a fortune in taxes for a tree, because it’s local, because it’s traditional… because it works absolutely fine even though it’s age old technology. For all those reasons I guess.

So I fired up my woodsplitter and started stacking. It’s hard work. Time and stress has taken it’s toll. I’m a little more out of shape than I’d like. I’m older than I was.

But I did some stacking on a blustery Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t much but it was some. Then I rested.

On Sunday it was light drizzle, good weather to sit inside feeling sorry for myself. Instead I stacked more wood. It was a little chilly and a little rainy but as my grandma used to say “what do you care if it rains, you won’t melt”.

Every woodsplitter generates a pile of cast off bits of wood as it’s used. These are parts and hunks that are too small to stack, bigger than sawdust, and usually half rotten or otherwise useless. It includes lots of bark and a fair amount of dirt. Wood is natural in all it’s organic messiness. I raked the pile onto a shovel, pushed it away from my woodshed, and lit it. It took forever for the wet bark to catch but it eventually did. I kept splitting and stacking while the little fire smoked and sputtered.

Then the skies opened up and all hell broke loose! I wound up sitting inside my rickety woodshed. I parked a lawnchair near the open doorway (there is no door) and sat just beyond the storm. There was enough heat coming off the fire to warm me… barely.

Outside the rain was very cold… approaching sleet. It rained hard. Every now and then I’d throw another couple shovel loads of waste wood onto the fire; getting soaked in the process.

I drank a beer and watched the world wash away. Exercise is good for you. A warm fire in a rainstorm might be all you need.

I didn’t stack a full supply for the winter. I’m only human and I use a lot of wood in a winter. I’m barely halfway there.

But I’m in better shape than when I started. I mean that in every sense of the word.

I hope your weekend was as fruitful as mine.

Two months.

A person I loved has died. I stand on shaky legs; missing the “before”, uneasy in the bereft “after”.

It was both too long and too short; I suppose whatever increment elapsed was the correct increment. Death is always on schedule to God.

I’m changed. I humbly reflect that I’m not the first to suffer this way. It doesn’t do any good at all. All I really know is it hurts and there’s no going back. This summer has literally cost a life.

I’ve done my best. Support for everyone. A firm handshake, warm words, desperately mustered confidence, a weak smile, a heartfelt hug, tears, a joke… whatever is needed and whatever I could muster. I’ve received the same. I clicked back into communities I’d long ago abandoned. Old relations were renewed in the crucible of loss. People I barely know told me about when I was “about so high”; holding up their hands as if time is all about height.

It has not been easy. No man is an island but I’m closer than most. People don’t like islands. The urge to saddle up and ride away was unbelievably strong. I stayed put. People need that. This is one of the times I exist for the benefit of others.

Personally, I wanted only isolation. The sincerity of good people expressing the deepest sympathy for my experience wore me down. They wouldn’t understand and they meant well, so I just smiled and took it.

The ceremony was meant to heal and it did; at least a little. A monument was placed. Good kind words were recited. They carefully kept the sod from the hole; to be replaced in short order. It was. The sod will take root again. So will I after a walk in the forest; or perhaps a dozen walks.

It is mandatory and cruel, but also true and beautiful, that one must re-enter the world of the living. I will re-enter my world on terms I understand. I’m an ill fit for the world where they had nice sandwiches and people reciting memories of my childhood. I see now the love to be found in community. I rejected that path decades ago. A price I paid without truly knowing its value. No regrets, but sometimes you visit your hometown to remember you belong nowhere in particular.

I’m back at my homestead. I’m tired, broke, exhausted, and spent. So many adjectives. They all hint at depletion. Emotionally, financially, physically, spiritually… where there was once surplus, there is emptiness.

I’m surprised how much I suffered by forced interaction with society. It was a time of sorrow but it was only a couple months after all. How weird and apart am I really? Miles on the highway, nights in hotels, small crowds. I’m not truly a hermit. Yet this time I felt every mile separating me from my homestead like a rope tugging me back. I found it hard to think among all the noise. It’s hard to be sorrowful in our corrupt and degraded world. It’s a maelstrom for a mourner; or at least one like my loner self. I could not roam the mountains and gain strength. Paperwork and social functions and places to be and things to approve and stuff to know… it was all a blur. So noisy. So aggressive. TVs everywhere. Seething sophistication layered over reasoned simplicity. Everything not political is fiscal; nobody sits and thinks. Does anyone read a book anymore? The more I see of modernity the more I wonder how anyone thrives in it? I suppose they don’t. A lot of limping damaged souls out there.

But the crisis has passed. I will slowly rebuild the peace I’d heretofore stacked high. I had it for use in times like these and I’m glad I had it. In one memorable conversation I called it “a truckload of chill”. It served me in good stead. Depleted yet eternal, peace is always there if you seek it. I may have to consult with the trees about the details. They’re a patient sort. They’ll understand and guide me right. In due time, I will once again be in synch with nature.

Everything sucked, but I’m going to be OK.

Last night I dreamed of ice fishing. It was the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in 13 days and among the very few since all this started (I keep count). I did not dream of loss. I caught a trout.

That’s a good sign!

Yesterday I saw a malfunctioning e-sign adjacent the highway. My first thought was “what would a squirrel do with that”? Another good sign.

The worst is over. Thank you all for your patience.

A.C.