Spring Sailing 2021: Part 04: Boat Physics

Posted on January 16, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

[Warning: This and ensuing posts have nautical language when I do nautical things. This is necessary. There are things on a boat which simply don’t exist elsewhere. Sorry if the vocabulary is weird. It simply has to be. Outside of universities and socialist economic theory, one must use the right words to describe things as they actually are.

Rest assured, I’ll do it as little as possible. If an audience (or I) cannot picture the meaning of “a tender craft on a broad reach”, the story dies. Nor should we get pedantic about technical verbiage. I’m trying to share my experiences; not maintain a concise Captain’s journal. I’m a novice. I only know the words I needed to know to have built what I’ve so far constructed.

So let’s all chill please. If you’re a true sailor, please forgive that I use “rope” and “line” interchangeably and sometimes mistake a “tack” for a “jibe”. I know it hurts if you’re a pro, but either remark in helpful kindness so we can all learn or pack that shit up and flush it so the rest of us can have fun. As always, thanks for understanding.]

It’s true that I woke up shaky, but it’s also true that fire heated, percolated, coffee cures all. My little folding campstove simply shines at this task. It was my first test of the secret fuel which would never cause me trouble in a State park; pallet wood.

State Parks frown on importing wood for the very good reason that you’re hauling all sorts of tree pathogens to the camp along with your firewood. Pallet wood, being kiln dried, is pathogen free and perfectly acceptable. A note about pallet wood: process it first so you’re not filling the firepit with nails and shit. Show some damn class!

With kiln dried wood, cut to length and placed lovingly in my fold up campstove, I can regulate the percolator’s temperature like a boss! If I do my part, my percolator never makes bad coffee.

Three cups, sipped slowly and with great relish, cured all that ailed me. I made and sipped a fourth for good measure. I refused to hurry. I was there for a purpose and the purpose was not served by faffing about. It was a fine morning to sit still and let the soul heal.

Then came the fun part; sailing! It was a true adventure. They say “small boat = big adventure”. I don’t have much sailing experience so I don’t know for sure. I default to assuming I’m a whiny little bitch. Regardless, every time I sail on my tiny homemade boat I have butterflies in my gut as I leave shore, there are invariably a few moments of near terror, and I return feeling like I climbed Everest, flew to Mars, and fought an ice giant! Adventure indeed!

The boat ramp was empty; which is good because I took my time. As I sorted ropes (lines) and fretted over my lost bailing sponge, I was approached by a husband and wife. The fellow had been pondering building a “Puddle Duck Racer”. Mine was the first and only one he’d seen in real life. I sympathize because the first one I saw in real life is the one I built.

People who build boats are an odd breed. I have barely scratched the surface of this particular madness and I can see the rabbit hole goes deep.

I’m a loner in the hinterland. Fate has kept me isolated from the like-minded madmen with whom I’d like to share my halfwit novice theories. Yet here one one such fellow. Happy to have met one of the species, I shared all sorts of ideas about epoxy, wood selection, and the curse of “brightwork.” He was having fun too. Eventually his wife looked bored and we quit talking. Shame, because I was ready to break out the campstove, brew up a pot of coffee to share, and settle down to talk all day. So was he.

They left, him reluctantly and her eagerly. I returned to my efforts. This was the springtime shakedown cruise for my little boat. I critically assessed the cumulative effects of four year’s wear and tear. I was pleased. I’ve beaten the hell out of this little ragamuffin of a craft and it looks more or less fine. I’ll do a bit of sanding and painting sometime soon and she’ll be “like new.”

I mounted the mast (“stepped it”) and rigged everything that needed rigging (mostly that means dragging the sail out of the roof mounted sewer pipe I use to carry it on my truck and trying it to the mast). I backed my old utility trailer into the water, floated the boat off the trailer, tied off to a little dock, and parked my truck. That alone encompasses like 200 ways you can fuck up. I did it all with a minimum of fuss; though slowly.

There was a mild breeze as I launched onto “Soon To Be Renamed By SJW’s Lake” so I had high hopes to sail right off the dock with some level of style. I kicked off hard but all of the sudden the wind died.

You might not know this but sailboats are a fuckin’ mess without wind. No wind… no no force. No force… no control. They don’t just stop moving, they stop making sense. You might as well be a leaf in a pond. Almost uniquely, I sail completely without a motor. Most boats are motorboats and even most sailboats have motors; which would graciously restore motion and therefore steering. It must be a very handy crutch. I hoisted the sail but the boat just spun around in circles 50’ from the dock.

I cursed and reached for the oars. (Oars will propel the boat well but deploying 7’ oars in an 8’ boat with a sail/mast/boom in the way is a royal hassle. Try to build a model train while sitting in a bathtub that’s slowly spinning. It’s like that.)

Drifting in dead calm water, I pondered “I wish I had a better oar plan.” Then boom! Poseidon whacked me like Mohammad Ali slipping a jab to the ribs. The sail inflated, the whole boat pivoted wildly. I dropped the oars to grab the mainsheet (that’s the rope that controls the boom which controls the sail’s position). I got that under control but the boat inexplicably went into a wild spin. Eventually I realized my ass was pushing the rudder hard to port.

For a moment I thought I’d lose it. The boat had a grip on the wind and was trying to tear a hole in the lake. However, once I got the rudder under control with one hand and adjusted the mainsheet with the other, everything came into focus. The boat blasted across the waves like a charging rhino.

Jesus but what there’s a lot of energy to be had with a simple sail! Accustomed to big trucks and motorcycles, I’m no stranger to managing pure power, but a sail is a whole different animal. Power doesn’t come to you like the controlled throttle of a motor… it comes at you cold and hot. Silence, the chirping of a bird, then you’re teleported into a Metallica concert that’s trying to drown you.

It took all my point headed skills to adjust to a very fluid situation. Sometimes the air is a slippery cube of ice sweetly chilling your drink. Other times it’s a blast furnace coming for your face.

Eight feet is a small boat. Shit gets wild.

Posted in Spring_2021, Walkabout | 4 Comments

Spring Sailing 2021: Part 03: The Right Universe

Posted on January 15, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

There is a theory that’s popular among physicists, writers, and lunatics. Supposedly, we inhabit just one of an infinite arrays of universes. Multiverse theory serves more purposes than a device for sci-fi writers. It’s a way to make sense of the insensible.

I feel like we passed from a tense but logical world into a new and far more illogical one. Do you feel it too? This universe, where I seem to have landed by chance, lacks the bounds within which I grew up. Did an unfortunate phase shift send my presence from a stable Republic to a chaotic oligarchic mess? What really happened at roughly at 3 am EST on November 4th, 2020?

How often has this happened; both for good or ill? Haven’t I benefited from the occasional shift from one inescapable path to another, entirely unexpected, new world? Who, mired in the mindset of the Cold War, expected it to end with the dissolution of the mighty USSR? Hardly a shot fired to resolve a stalemate that had been dragging us all, inch by inch, toward total thermonuclear war.

Mutually assured destruction didn’t happen. Rejoice! It was a bullet dodged!

What about the karmic balance? If a bullet can be dodged, can’t we also stupidly leap into the path of one? We certainly have done so. Is that not what vexes me?

Yet, is the balance worthwhile? Who am I to fret that the universe tilted on its axis? It put a potato in the big chair but in my youth it let us duck the noose on complete and instantaneous radioactive annihilation. Not such a bad bargain.

Furthermore, didn’t we know this was coming? Who didn’t glimpse this reality on the horizon? Wasn’t it always at the very least a possibility? I feel like I was thrown bodily into the pit of sketchy votes and a puppet president run by God knows who, but I should have seen it coming. The hints were always there. Nobody has believed vote counts in Chicago since Al Capone walked the earth. More recently, didn’t we go through a trial run on this very thing with words like “hanging chad” and “determine voter intent” in 2000? Didn’t Hillary scream bloody murder and agitate for “faithless electors” in 2016? Everything flows downhill into 2020.

Nor do presidents emerge from the mess looking clean. Didn’t we have an impeachment process in 1998? Why wouldn’t this lead to two or three more shots at the same thing in 2019 and 2021? Nixon’s issues are minor compared to the stink of the last few decades. We have chosen as a society to deliberately obfuscate the voting process. We have chosen to resolve political differences with lawfare. Was 2020 when it really hit the fan or just the moment it was so tainted that nobody seriously denies it. Polls say roughly half of Americans have the same concerns as I. There aren’t enough deplatformed Twitter accounts to put that genie back in the bottle.

As you can tell from my writing, I was still out of sorts. I’d barely ventured from my remote homestead back into a sliver of multiverse assigned me and it had been both good (happy people at a bar) and bad (a rough night’s sleep).

I imagine a loop and I’m in it. A reliving of past misery. Carter’s Malaise Version 2.0. The year dawned with inflation, Iranian expansion, and gas shortages. The parallels abound. Will Kabul become Saigon? Will there be price controls at the pump? Why the fuck not? Might as well start listening to disco, revert to making gutless cars that rust out before the payments are done, and turn all video games into pong. Yuck! All that stuff sucked. I don’t want to do it again. Then again I’m not in charge of such things.

I reflected on my bad, jittery, unsettled night. Somewhere there’s a Curmudgeon in another universe. That fool never left the bar. He went for it. He didn’t coyly take a mere sip and then slide into his tent like a cautious exhausted geezer. He was full on dancing on tables and getting into fights until he was kicked out at 1:00 am to vomit in the grass by a desolate ATV trail. He crawled off to lay in misery until the dawn found him; human wreckage lying in the grass. I know that guy. I’ve been that guy. He’s a damn maniac.

That was my explanation! I had a bad night because the son of a bitch in another universe drank so hard his hangover bled across the cosmic realms! Somewhere he was sleeping it off the mother of all hangovers! I, having carefully chosen the path of a milquetoast, was suffering indirect second order effects of his wild indiscretions.

Asshole!

Posted in Spring_2021, Walkabout | 2 Comments

Spring Sailing 2021: Part 02: Bad Night

Posted on January 14, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

My defenses were low. Civilization, or want of it, had worn me down. Lest I overindulge, I fled the happy bar and arrived at my campsite 10 minutes later.

I loathe reservations. I loathe online reservations. I’d much prefer free dispersed camping. But I had to admit reservations were handy this time. I rolled past the unattended gate booth, ignored a complex self check-in kiosk, and drove straight to “Tent Site 11B” on the “Forgettably Named Campground.” It was one of two campgrounds in “Generic State Park”; nestled in the embrace of “Average National Forest.”

It took me a bit to back my huge truck, with it’s tiny trailer, into the spot. A kid on a bike pedaled down the road I’d blocked. “I can wait.” He cheerfully offered while I maneuvered.

Such patience! Would that all adults emulate such civility.

By now I was really dragging. I felt like lying on the dirt right then. The mosquitoes would’ve liked that!

12:26. That’s pretty good! As an experiment, I timed myself setting up camp. Just under twelve and a half minutes to setup a Gazelle T4 tent (full rainfly installed, staked every possible point) and furnish it with a Teton XXL cot, Teton XXL mattress, and a sleeping bag. That’s “no bullshit” setup time. It was prepared like a hotel room, with a pillow and everything. I could have done it faster if I’d been in better condition.

Essentials managed, I stumbled down to the lake. En route, I found potable tap water and marveled at the ease of “mellow camping.” I was a bit embarrassed that I hadn’t imagined on-site water. I had a water filter in my pocket. I’d been planning to drink lake water like a fucking animal.

The lake was gorgeous. Sunset was nigh and it was “smack me on the forehead and call me uncle Mike” pretty. I sat there until it was dark.

Back at camp the mosquitoes were heavy. Of three Thermacells, only one functioned. Luckily, one was enough.

I took one sip… I mean it, just one sip of whiskey. Boom! I was done. All the accumulated stress was coming out at once. 2020 was a bad burrito I can’t digest.

It hit me like a baseball bat to the head; 2021 is five months into not being any better than the shitstorm that proceeded it.

This isn’t getting better.

Sitting on my chair, watching a little fire of processed pallet stock I was like “come up or go down, but do something.” I ditched dinner plans and opted for a self-heating MRE. It tasted fine and I even liked the enclosed lemonade mix. Nothing came up. Nothing went down. I turned in soon after.

The campsite was silent. Loons on the lake cried in lust. My cot was pure luxury (as always). Yet, I suffered. Stress worked through my system. Mind racing, stomach weak, sore back, aching legs, knotted shoulders… all of it simply the stress of a shitty experience. It started when “two weeks to flatten the curve” unleashed witch hunters in my world and it hasn’t yet ended. The nation didn’t just fail a “Jews in the attic” experiment; it gleefully ratted them out and shot itself in the head during the celebration.

Uneasy rest led to uneasy dreams which led to a quiet dawn. I hadn’t slept well but I awoke with greater peace. Perhaps I’ll never digest the whole thing but I suppose every dawn is a new life. At the very least, I’d seen joyous mask-free revelers and subsequently laid still. A bad moment had passed.

I spent all morning percolating coffee over pallet wood and thanking my lucky stars I wouldn’t have to return to “society” for a while.

Posted in Spring_2021, Walkabout | Leave a comment

Spring Sailing 2021: Part 01: Meat Raffle

Posted on January 13, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

[This post (or rather series of posts) was composed several months ago. It made it to the ‘net after a long period of gathering dust; first on paper and then on a hard drive. Seasons later, I resurrected it and brought it back to life in its current form. That’s OK. Not all things are “breaking news”.]

Life is always beautiful on Instagram, or so they say. So too, bloggers downplay their stresses and highlight the positive. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I don’t discuss it much on my blog but 2021, the second iteration of an infinitely disappointing 2020, wears on me. I’ve got my shit together quite well compared to average. However, today’s baseline has declined in ways that would be unthinkable only a few years before. My relative serenity only means I’m the smartest kid on the short bus.

In short, I was stressed out. I turned to nature; which is rarely a bad move. I packed my camping shit and…faced one emergency after another for days. I finally departed several days late, out of sorts, and in the wrong State. I’d packed dirty clothes instead of clean, I was wearing pig shit caked boots, and my arms were sore from manhandling air conditioners. In the truck’s mirror, I was haggard.

The long drive was a good thing. After a while, things began to look up. I stopped thinking of gasoline shortages. I packed away concerns about our geriatric potato of a president and his statistically improbable record breaking vote tally. (There will be a lifetime of second order, “unexpected”, denied, derailed, and obfuscated effects to watch slowly emanating from that particular event. Like ripples in a pond after some lunatic hurled a huge rock into it, the pond itself becomes the chaos. What was initially encapsulated at a single origin will not remain so.)

I began to smile. So long as I kept the truck’s radio off, a society of monkeys faffing over COVID was invisible. In nature, our stupidity is nowhere to be seen. I forgot it all. I was looking at the trees.

By chance I was in a deciduous forest. All these leaves…dead at Thanksgiving, green now. Ten thousand little photosynthetic miracles per tree. A thousand trees to the acre. Six hundred and forty acres to the mile. Mile after mile of hope. Life is beautiful. It’s easy to miss if you aren’t looking. I was glad to be looking again.

I trundled through lands you could legitimately call uninhabited; or at least barely inhabited. Such are the places I prefer.

My intended restaurant for a well earned afternoon burger was closed. Many places are closed now. Many places are closed all over the nation. Many places are closed in many nations. Maybe the lights are going out in Rome. Maybe they’re already gone. Hard to tell. There’s a lot of ruin in a society and you never officially know the seed corn is gone until you can’t plant on the tilled fields. Whomever serves as our barbarian Odoacer is well beyond the breach. He’s busy trampling the rich complacent naive society that let him in the door. I, a dweller in the hinterland, only interact with his madness when I interact with our damaged society. Buying a cheeseburger in Provincia Britannia is nearly impossible. I’d have to try the next town; in 60 miles.

Sixty miles later I stopped at the only possible option. In the interest of anonymity, let’s call it “Lost Canyon Bar and Liquor.” There weren’t many cars in front. I had my doubts. Luckily, I had plenty of camp food. If this didn’t pan out, I’d still have all the calories I need. There are worse fates.

I almost turned away. I’m glad I didn’t.

As soon as I entered, I was hit with a great, chaotic, loud, wave of pure joy. The place was packed! Young and old, fat and slim, men and women… everyone was either drunk or working on it. The stereo was blasting crappy classic rock. There was a great deal of consumption going on; cheap beer, microbrews, shots, sketchy vodka based concoctions, and (surprisingly) Pepsi.

Everyone was jovial. Kids were threading through elders, who moved at such a different speed as to appear immobile. The kid’s game was a combination of tag, Calvinball, and “Steal Uncle Mike’s Potato Chips.” Dogs trailed the kids, stealing potato chips secondhand. Uncle Mike, completely sauced, was complaining about the cost of chips while everyone bought him drinks that cost more than the chips.

A harried waitress took my order.

“Busy day?”

“Sure is!” She beamed. She went on to explain that COVID had “fucked her” (her words not mine) but that lately fishermen and trail riders were trying their best to drink two year’s worth of beer in one. She was the owner.

The mystery of the empty parking lot was solved when I saw a couple dozen ATVs parked out back. The reason for the Pepsi was that most ATVs are now multiple seat UTVs. Designated drivers is a thing well accepted and now expanded to the off-road realm. As long as you can strap uncle Mike’s drunk ass in the passenger seat and find one sober person to manage the wheel, everything will be fine.

I sat at a picnic table in the sun. Some lady circulated among the tables with a basket full of money and slips of paper. For a few bucks she’d hand you a slip with a number. When she sold enough, she’d head to the bar and spin a wheel.

“Meat Raffle! Who had number 12?”

Someone would cheer and hand over their slip of paper. Soon this evolved into players too tipsy to walk handing the ticket to a random kid. The kid would stampede to the bar like they were on fire and return, eyes gleaming, with a big packet of steaks and brats and chops. I didn’t even have ice in my cooler on this trip. Also I have two full freezers at home. Even so, I wished I could participate. God bless American flyover country where 20 pounds of meat is a glorious win.

I decided “Meat Raffle” would be an excellent name for a bluegrass band.

A couple guys started gathering horseshoes. I was sitting near the end of the horseshoe pitch. (Is it called a “pitch”?) “Horseshoe Concussion” would be a good name for a death metal band.

Sensibly, I moved.

After an adequate hamburger, a delicious cold beer, and joyously watching several Meat Raffles, I started to rethink my plans. My destination camp was seven miles away. The bartender announced a special on Jaegerbombs. Uncle Mike lit up a Marlboro. It smelled delicious.

Red Alert! When I start thinking “I’d like a Jaeger and a smoke” it’s danger time!

The waitress could tell. “Want another drink?”

“When do you close?” It was 4 pm.

“We close at 1 am.”

DEFCON 1! Incoming missile sighted on radar!

If I was still there at 4:15 pm I’d be there at 1:00 am. Unlike Uncle Mike, I had no way to get to the campsite once I was mentally immobile.

The waitress read my mind. “Tempted?”

“God yes!” Mustering every bit of self control, I left a huge tip and fled.

Posted in Spring_2021, Walkabout | 2 Comments

Spring Sailing 2021: Part 00: Timeshift

Posted on January 12, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

It is -30 Fahrenheit and a snowstorm is raging. These are conditions when you silently think “this is not a drill” and then (if you’re prepared and this isn’t your first rodeo) go about the humdrum business of living in a brutal environment. Curmudgeon Compound is secure. The pipes are thawed, the lights are on, the driveway is cleared of drifts, and the woodstove is roaring.

The current cold snap is nearly a week old. I’ve barely left the house and have no plans to do more. There are blustering fools who’ll say “-30 ‘aint that bad”. They are wrong.

It’s officially winter; not far away a truck went through the ice. Bummer. Of two occupants, one is among the living and the other is something of a punchline. That was a few days ago. This cold will improve the ice; too late to help for the first explorers of course, but subsequent ice fishermen will surely approve of the updated ice conditions. This is why it’s wise to stay put near the warm fire; possibly have a nip or two of liquor. Don’t play on lakes in -30 blizzards unless you know what you’re doing. Hint: if you die, you didn’t know what you were doing. God gave us January in the north as a mini vacation from the frenzy of warm climes. Here we can hibernate with a good drink and a hot fire. No need to tilt at windmills during a maelstrom.

The extra time at hand became an opportunity. I decided to sift through a dusty old hard drive. I found half a story written in the spring of 2021. I never finished or posted it. As I read it, I remember the winter-weary, Covid stressed, feel of the ebbing winter of 2020-2021. Shall I call it week 52 of a few weeks to flatten the curve. Shall I call it “winter of death Mark 1?” Whatever it was, I was exhausted.

So much happened in the second year of Covid madness. We are pushed and shoved toward the panicked feel of “immediacy”; not by accident, but to make us more pliable. It’s easy to forget this is a multi-year panic now. Each step forward and each step back was treated, at the time, as if it mattered. Yet almost nothing actually changed. Things got so much better. Things got so much worse.

Regardless, in the midst of a society crawling up it’s own ass I sought solace. I had a lovely sailing trip on the cusp of spring. Some of this was typed at the time; the intent was to share the fun. I’m going to fill in the gaps with memory so you get the story too. My recollection might be a bit hazy, but then again what’s the purpose of a bitter winter storm if not to reminisce about springtime past?

Enjoy…

Posted in Spring_2021, Walkabout | 1 Comment

Pack Your Shit, We’re Going Camping Soon

Posted on January 11, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Did you like your Christmas present? I posted fifteen consecutive days of handmade satirical whimsy. I never mentioned COVID, any politician, or exhorted you to buy stuff (save a tiny hint that I do azppreciate tips).

Now, weeks into 2022, we’re trying to decide if it’ll be 2020 part 3 or a legitimately new year. The jury is still out. I expected to go back to normal topics of blogging; “the stupid shit this or that dumbass politician advocates will have stupid results”, “inflation sucks but it’s not exactly a surprise”, “Paul Krugman is wrong about economics like an icicle enema is cold”… you know, the usual.

I couldn’t do it. It’s winter. It’s a season of deeper connection.

I like winter. Winter puts bullshit in a cage. Folks will roll bullshit in a tube and smoke it like a fine cigar… but it won’t catch fire in the winter. It’ll work all through spring, summer, and fall… but winter is when you interact well with the real world or collapse. That’s why I like the season of cold; it’s a season of reality. That’s why most people hate it. Nationwide (planet-wide?) people have gone so far off the rails that shoveling snow exceeds their mental state. Why shovel snow when they can postulate a universe where snow doesn’t exist? For one thing your car’s in a ditch! Embracing clueless space-cadet thinking in this season is like taking a children’s nursery rhyme seriously. “We’re considering taxing unrealized gains.” “Ha ha ha, that’s cute. Now grow up and haul firewood; it’s going to be cold tonight.” Childish imaginary notions don’t work on anyone who’s recently hauled firewood in deep snow.

I know what’s real. Snow is real. The dwindling firewood pile is real. The cycle of life is real. My old dog is dead and our new puppy loves to play in the snowdrifts. Love is real. Family is real. Rolling about in politics is not just unreal but self-destructive.

I’ll admit it. President Potato had me on the ropes in late 2021. Never in my life has any president has been so personally opposed to my continued existence. Putin may be a real life James Bond villain but it’s Biden that specifically wants me dead. President Declining Intellect lost patience with me, tried to fire me, and wants me to die. Not very charitable of the man.

The good news is karma sometimes works fast. I went camping and came back renewed in spirit. Biden declined in popularity to the point where he rates somewhere between explosive diarrhea and getting hit in the balls with a hammer. The bastard rants that I’ll experience “a winter of severe illness and death” and that I deserve it. Jumping Moses, who talks like that! Even if it’s true, would you say that? Would you say that to a cancer patient? “You’re gonna’ get leukemia and die and you had it coming!” Would anyone with a shred of dignity walk up to a perfect stranger and condemn them to a “winter of death”? What kind of demented asshole would speak like that?

He said his piece and toddled off to his safe space in Delaware where he’s become “the president less popular than Carter”. He’ll hide in his basement, just as he campaigned; emerging only to fuck up monumentally. Perhaps quarterly they’ll pump him full of whatever keeps him standing and he’ll venture forth to do his master’s bidding; sowing destruction and hate like the whiny little bitch he is.

Meanwhile, I refuse his admonitions. I’m a free man. I’m immune to the Potato’s exhortations because I make my own choices. I see it play out in real time; one of us is an angry shambling zombie and the other stacks righteous firewood with a smile on his face. The Puppet at the Podium thinks I’ll die. It is him that’s seeing death. It’s looking back from his own mirror. One of us is doing well, one of us is a punchline.

By the way, Biden wasn’t always the angry declining miserable bastard he is now. Don’t get me wrong, he was always reprehensible; but he used to have a wicked sharp delivery. Like him or hate him, it was once impressive to watch his flim flam artistry; his was the slick pitch of a finely tuned and impressively corrupt used car salesman. Now, it’s different. He signed a deal with the devil. He got to be president through means somewhere between murky and outlandish. Does anyone think he was the best choice among 350 million Americans? Does anyone really like the guy? He exists as much as a warning as anything. He seized control just in time to lose himself. Hubris forced his 79 year old mind to inhabit a world it cannot manage. His 50 year old brain was smart but the ensuing decades of corruption was a price too high. Victim of a self inflicted Faustian bargain, he’s dying and it’s pissing him off. I’m not and that pisses him off too. I’m the guy who’s comfortable with his own soul. I fixed the plumbing last night, using my own tools and own intellect. I’m not a slave to power. I’ll never be a fuckin zombie.

Rather than talk about “the trees” to avoid the forest, I paused blogging for a while. Why not? I don’t draw a salary for all that writing and I like watching my birdfeeder. Now that I’m back I don’t want to do “usual topics”. I will leave that for the F***book and Twatter crowd.

If you’re still in the scrum, have at it! More power to ya! I’m enjoying a seasonal reprieve but that’s not to say you’ve got to join me in my insolent peace.

My next several posts are a ten(-ish) part story of camping and sailing. I started writing it in spring of 2021. I never finished. I’m rectifying that. Based on my faulty memory and what I’d already saved on disk, I shall post an escapist (and true) story.

Remember, the story was written before President Potato went fully apeshit. It was written before he ordered me to die. It was written back when we were all exhausted by covid panic but Jihad against the unvaccinated was only a conspiracy theory. As with so many things these years, the difference between unrealistic conspiracy theory and true reality is about six months. Personally wishing harm on someone due to the presence or absence of an injection was still understood as evil when I wrote this story. The taboo hadn’t yet fallen.

Such a short number of months yet so much damage. Back then Australia wasn’t filling up concentration camps and Biden wasn’t hunting for Jews in the attic… yet. When editing, I left in frets and observations that haven’t aged well. They represent the true things of the time. So much water has flowed under the bridge that it’s good to observe what has actually happened. Somewhere between a third and half the population has been trained into behavior they’d never have formerly considered. To do so they must reject their own memories. Everything must be a panic. Urgent. Unprecedented. To kill a jew in 1938 you must be swept up in the fervor of 1938. I preserve the observations of a slightly different and saner world; so that you too may remember it.

Remember, a mad world doesn’t make you mad. As your mother used to say “if all your friends jumped off a cliff would you?” It’s now 2022 and now you know. Seemingly everyone jumped off the cliff. Have you?

If you must, build a boat. If it becomes necessary, it will be your salvation. Sail it to rationality.

A.C.

P.S. I realize too late the title seems to imply a camping trip with my new hot tent. (I mentioned my new camping gear at the following links; 1, 2, 3, 4, pics.) Sorry, I already had the sailing story half written and when the thermometer hit -37 (!) I bowed out of camping plans. There’s a time to test new gear. Temperatures that’ll freeze the balls off a wolverine are not the right time.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 14: No Dream For You

Posted on January 2, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

This is it! It’s the last post in Murdertrout, Chapter 8 of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are welcome. Tips via the PayPal link to the right are also welcome but always optional.

Happy New Year

Brett and Cindy high fived and danced around the fire and spilled popcorn. Brett had just lived his life’s goal and Cindy had realized her’s wasn’t far off. The Curmudgeon beamed. How many people make it almost to their endzone just in time to forget the point of the game? All it took was a nudge. The kids were going to be OK.

“Wait a minute,” Cindy panted after their impromptu celebration. “What about you?”

“Meh,” The Curmudgeon shrugged. “I’ve had lots of dreams and goals. Some came true. I’ve nothing to complain about.”

“That’s not good enough.” Cindy poked him with a popcorn filled hand. “We had great dreams and pursued them. In fact, I’m going to buy cutoffs tomorrow!” Brett and The Curmudgeon gave the situation a glance and nodded approvingly. “That’s right dammit,” she enthused, “I’m hot. And I have a van!”

The Curmudgeon hoped she’d lose the train of thought but she didn’t.

“So, we both had inspiration. We had great goals and we’re attaining them. What about you?”

The Curmudgeon sighed. There was no escaping it.

“OK fine, I was inspired by Orwell.”

“Who?” Cindy asked.

“The guy who wrote 1984?” Brett asked.

“Animal Farm.” The Curmudgeon smiled bleakly. “I want to do what he did. Write a satirical allegory using animals to represent human shortcomings and the illogic of their actions. That’s my goal.”

Brett and Cindy exchanged a glance.

Cindy put her hand on The Curmudgeon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry dude, a satirical allegory using animals…” She was at a loss for words.

“…is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Brett finished.

“Yeah, sorry but nobody’s going to read it.” Cindy added.

She walked off to sleep off her drunkenness in her van. Brett yawned and collapsed asleep in his lawnchair.

The Curmudgeon stared at the fire until it died down. “Stupid kids.” He mumbled, before he too fell asleep.

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 13: Daisy Dukes And Anacondas

Posted on January 1, 2022 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Please enjoy the next post in Murdertrout, Chapter 8 of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. Comments are welcome. Tips via the PayPal link to the right are also welcome but always optional.

Happy New Year.

As the sun set and The Curmudgeon tossed more wood on the fire, Brett slumped forward in his seat and started snoring. In any binge of drinking there comes a time when one can’t make it home. Cindy acknowledged that moment. She also recognized that the moment had passed, unnoticed, several beers ago.

She glanced at the red cooler, now empty and turned on its side near the News Van. There was a half full blue cooler, still upright, not far from The Curmudgeon’s reach. How much beer had he supplied? Did he simply drive around with several cases at all times? Who carries enough booze to start a party at will? What else was packed in his truck? The important thing was nobody could drive anywhere.

“Not driving home.” Cindy mumbled.

“Same here.” The Curmudgeon agreed. His eyes looked as sharp as ever but he was carefully using her welded tripod to support himself while he tended the fire.

“Stuck in the woods.” Cindy worried.

“Stuck? Hogwash! One is never stuck in the woods. They are at home in the woods… or should be.” The Curmudgeon beamed. “Also,” he patted Brett’s sleeping form fondly, “the lad here needed to celebrate victory.”

“To victory!” Cindy toasted them both.

Striking a pose (while desperately clutching the tripod lest he fall over) The Curmudgeon stood tall and shouted at the nearby stream. “We have met murdertrout! We have defeated them in battle! We have saved the trans-species raptor! We are big damn heroes!”

Cindy had a laughing fit so loud it woke up Brett.

The Curmudgeon had wandered off to his truck again. He returned with three thick blankets and distributed them. To Brett he handed a canteen of water. “Drink this stud! You’re gonna’ need it.”

Brett had never been called a stud by anyone, in jest or not. He slurped greedily.

The Curmudgeon figured he’d done pretty well for Brett. He’d turned stupidfish into murdertrout, gotten the lad blinding drunk, and was hydrating him in advance of the Old Testament hangover the lightweight was sure to experience tomorrow. After the drinking… the suffering.

Given the limp soyboy he’d been presented with, the drunk, battered, murdertrout wrestling creature he’d formed out of such raw material wasn’t half bad. He had one more trick up his sleeve; the thinking of thoughts.

The Curmudgeon hunkered by the fire. Abandoning the lawnchair to which he’d formerly seemed welded. He pushed aside some burning branches to make a bed of coals and whipped out a strange tinfoil disk. “Jiffy Pop,” he explained, “we will have popcorn and talk of deep things.”

The two students joined him, hunkering in blankets near the fire… watching as the magic of Jiffy Pop popcorn bloomed before them. There could have been no better magic spell and no more appropriate shaman for this place or this time.

When Cindy reached for the first bite, The Curmudgeon held the popcorn back. “There is a fee!” He chuckled. “Tell us who inspired you. What do you want to be?”

“I should graduate in a year…” She began, but The Curmudgeon waved her off.

“That’s not inspiration! Who did you want to be? What’s your big damn hero?”

She winced, a lifetime in education had taught her never to reveal her true feelings; ideally never to have any. The Curmudgeon waved the popcorn enticingly. Finally she decided to let it out.

“Daisy Duke.” She admitted, glancing around lest someone hear.

The Curmudgeon graciously presented the popcorn. Having said such a thing aloud, the rest of the words fell out. “She had this bitchin’ jeep and was super cool. She saved her meathead brothers all the time. She drove just as fast and…” Her face turned red.

“And?” The Curmudgeon prompted.

“And she was hot.” Cindy admitted.

The Curmudgeon opened his mouth to speak but once uncorked, Cindy’s story demanded to be heard. She simply couldn’t stop. “After that I liked Mr. T. From the A-Team. Dude was built like a brick shithouse. What girl can turn that down? And he had a van. Sure, they were a team but the van was his. Talk about confidence! They drove around doing good deeds and blowing shit up…”

She tapered off. The Curmudgeon opened his mouth again but Cindy wasn’t done. “I wanna’ drive too fast, and have a van, and do good deeds, and blow shit up. I know…” Cindy announced with finality. “…it’s stupid.”

Brett looked like he was going to say something. Odds are it was going to be unwise so The Curmudgeon talked over him. “That’s an excellent dream Cindy!” He smiled magnanimously. “It’s a dream you can attain but one not too dull. You already drive like Daisy Duke. I saw you come into the parking area like your van was on fire. Heck, you’ve got a van too. All that’s left is a good deed and a couple explosions. Maybe drive it to a place that’s had a disaster and… I dunno, give out water bottles or some shit? There’s nothing stupid about it at all. You’ve got a great dream!”

Cindy had never considered a dream to be something one attained. Dreams were an idea discarded in adulthood.

“Being adult doesn’t mean being bland.” The Curmudgeon continued, speaking as if he heard her inner thoughts. “Get in your van, buy some water bottles…” He was on a roll now, sounding like a preacher at a sermon. “Get a pair of cutoffs and go comfort some redneck after his trailer got hit by a tornado.”

She’d never ever thought such things before, yet there it was. Her idea wasn’t unattainable and it wasn’t stupid.

“What about explosions?” Brett asked around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Haw haw haw…” The Curmudgeon laughed. “Mr. T was a maniac but Daisy was a redneck. Every redneck knows how to blow shit up. Do some good deeds first…” He waved his finger. “… but then buy some Tannerite and have at it. Good harmless fun. A wonderful goal and you’re halfway there. Go get it.”

Cindy beamed. Her entire lifetime of getting hazed and hassled in the education system evaporated. Her goal wasn’t dumb, it was a thing to do. How simple he made it seem.

“And you?” The Curmudgeon waved his pan of popcorn at Brett.

“Jim, from Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.” He admitted sheepishly.

“Who?” Cindy asked, causing both men to groan.

“So that’s where all this came from?” The Curmudgeon scratched his chin. “Riparian ecologist, documentary…”

Brett shrunk, like Cindy he’d been trained to avoid having exceptional ideas.

“Who’s Jim?” Cindy interrupted.

“Remember the anaconda?” The Curmudgeon enthused. “That was amazing!”

“What’s Mutual Of Omaha?” Cindy demanded.

“You know about the anaconda?!?” Brett was excited; he’d been explaining pennyfarthings so long he assumed he had nothing in common with anyone.

“Today’s a special day for you my friend.” The Curmudgeon reached out and started shaking Brett’s still sore arm. “You had an awesome life goal and today you attained it. Congratulations!”

Cindy was typing into her phone. “Wait a minute! I thought this whole thing was my idea!”

“The van was your idea.” Brett countered.

Cindy had been sure she’d been the driving force all along. Brett had been a pawn in her plans! Insurance and wild animals? That was a thing!?! She was about to get righteously pissed. Before her fuse could be lit, The Curmudgeon grabbed the phone from her hands, fiddled about, and handed it back to her.

“The anaconda?” Brett asked.

“Oh yeah!” The Curmudgeon grinned.

“Holy shit!” Cindy jumped from her chair. The video was too exciting and she couldn’t stand still. “Lasso an anaconda from a horse? What a boss!”

“Brett just did it.” The Curmudgeon prompted.

Cindy’s eyes lit up. “He’s right! Murdertrout is the same thing. You’re a legend!” She gave Brett a huge tipsy hug. “You stud!”

Brett, who hadn’t been thinking of the obvious parallels, blinked like a deer in headlights. He’d just been called a stud twice in an hour, once by an actual living human girl. Non-ironically! An actual living human girl who might be interested in looking hot and could pull it off was non-ironically calling him a stud! This was the top of the mountain. He was at the peak of life!

He’d largely forgotten about Jim years ago… yet it was absolutely true. He’d done it! He’d been dragged underwater while filming a wildlife documentary. The experience was a lot less heroic in real life than on the screen… it smelled worse and involved a fair amount of pain. Yet he’d done it! Almost entirely by accident, he’d done it!

The Curmudgeon settled back in his seat. Mission accomplished. Two souls plucked from the safe, pointless, bureaucratic playpen of a University and dropped in the superior world of actual life. Silently, he welcomed two new members to his dwindling tribe of real people.

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 12: Murdertrout

Posted on December 31, 2021 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Please enjoy the next post in Murdertrout, Chapter 8 of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. Comments are welcome. Tips via the PayPal link to the right are also welcome but always optional.

Merry Christmas and happy reading.

Men, Cindy concluded, were idiots. But she let them coax her into playing the rough draft of the video. She setup a projector aimed at the van door while The Curmudgeon gallantly produced a third folding chair. Was there anything he didn’t have stashed in that truck?

They joyously began watching the video of something they’d just seen in real life, a mystery none of them explored. Sometime around then a third (or was it fourth?) six pack was breached. There was a chill in the air but The Curmudgeon kept the fire roaring and they moved their chairs closer to the flames.

Cindy had jotted notes and started planning a narrative script. They started the video at the beginning to watch it a second time; this time with narration. It began with their already recorded intro.

“Hello, I’m Cindy Leachman and I’m delighted to welcome you to Untamed Monarchy, a documentary about America’s most interesting animals. First, a word from our sponsor ‘Incremental Insurance’”.

“Are you a dumbass who keeps wrecking your car?…”

A few seconds later, the audio reverted to the ambient sounds of nature. Cindy tried to make up narration on the fly.

“Here we see the raptor, which clearly thinks and acts as if it were an Eagle, responding to the music.”

Brett happily nodded along. The Curmudgeon suggested they refrain from explaining exactly what music they’d used, based on the logic that “a fisherman never tells.”

“Now we can see that the fish are responding to audio cues. While modern science hasn’t yet established a causality, it appears to be related to pollution. Perhaps more funding for a second season of Untamed Monarchy can explore this mystery.”

Brett was no longer nodding along. His jaw was set in a grim line.

Ignoring the projection, The Curmudgeon shifted in his chair to watch Brett. Cindy was busy with ad hoc narration.

“An unexpected tragedy befalls my brave colleague as the stupidfish pull him down along with the trans-species raptor.” She continued.

For this section she’d shifted the action to slow motion and zoomed in. It was still a rough cut but it was obvious that she knew what she was doing. When she was done with it, the scene would look like it’d been done by Hitchcock. To build tension, she’d cut to a close up of a single hawk feather, floating on the water. It was only a half second of raw footage but she’d slowed it way down and subtly tinted it red, as if to suggest blood. This extended the length of time when Brett and the Hawk were submerged.

She continued making up narration. “We all know the risks a Riparian Ecologist takes in their never ending quest to save nature. Death is always looking over our shoulder as they master pH and hydrology. This seems like the end! Will our esteemed colleague perish in the grip of stupidfish? Before we find out, a word about collision insurance. Are you an absolute dipshit who keeps running into stuff with your car? Do you find it a hassle to pay for endless bodywork? If so, Incremental Insurance has a plan for you…”

The Curmudgeon was now watching Brett intently. Brett was fuming.

Cindy noticed too, she’d never seen Brett so mad… or drunk. What the heck?

“Stop!” The Curmudgeon ordered.

Cindy hit pause.

“Cindy, your narration tells it exactly like it happened.” The Curmudgeon explained.

“Yeah, so?” Cindy was confused.

“Hasn’t college taught you anything? People hate the truth.” He waved vaguely at the tipsy fellow who was glaring at the van/projection screen like it had kicked him in the head. “Look at Brett here. You’re killin’ the man!” Brett’s jaw dropped. Now he was split between being livid at the video and proud to be called a man.

“Restart at the beginning, let me have a shot at it.” The Curmudgeon reached out for the remote. Brett stood up, tripped over several empties, and headed off to pee on a tree. Quietly, so only Cindy could hear, the Curmudgeon whispered. “Watch Brett, write down whatever sentences make him smile.”

“But that’s not scientific, or journalistic!” Cindy was shocked.

“Nice van you got. Wanna’ keep it?” The Curmudgeon countered.

By the time Brett wandered back, Cindy was on board with the plan. The Curmudgeon had the remote, Cindy was clutching a notepad, and Brett had been demoted to unwitting lab rat.

They began again; “Are you a dumbass who keeps wrecking your car?…” The video asked.

A few seconds later The Curmudgeon cut in. “Here we see the first video evidence of a trans-species raptor. Note that it unquestionably acts as if it were an eagle. It’s a scientific fact that if a bird thinks it’s an eagle, then it is an eagle.”

Cindy glanced at Brett, who was grinning ear to ear.

The Curmudgeon charged on with his narration. “Trans-species raptors, which are brave and beautiful, are rare these days, because of racism.”

Brett nodded in approval.

As the video continued The Curmudgeon laid it on thick. He added random buzzwords without concern whether they made sense in this context or not. He claimed scientific knowledge that didn’t exist. He stated opinions as fact, facts as opinion, and declared that anyone who didn’t have a long track record of support for theories which had only been spoken aloud just then, was a literal Nazi.

There were a few bits of video that didn’t match the story he was telling. The Curmudgeon paused and encouraged Cindy to mark the time of those sections so that she could delete misinformation.

Some of The Curmudgeon’s narration came out in ways that were the complete opposite of actual events but which fit the visuals. That was irrelevant to him. As he explained, a witness to events is never as good an account as a properly edited video. After all, she was a white person and therefore her recollections would have the unavoidable taint of privilege. This made perfect sense to Brett and Cindy. Whether it did to The Curmudgeon is a mystery, he simply acted like he believed it and let you form your own conclusions.

As he talked, he’d glance at Brett. Brett was a perfect, if unknowing, arbiter of the truth. He’d spent years steeped in University groupthink like a teabag in a pot. He smiled whenever The Curmudgeon mentioned a politically correct notion. He frowned whenever The Curmudgeon deviated from whatever was required of the University belief system. He was a perfectly tuned human weathervane.

At the slightest hint of discomfort on Brett’s part, The Curmudgeon would hit the pause button and reformulate. “Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Let me try again.” He’d rewind the video a minute or two back and narrate again; usually in a way that bore no resemblance to what he’d said just a minute ago. Invariably, Brett preferred the second explanation. He would nod in approval and Cindy made sure to cross out the first attempt and scribble down the second as carefully as she could.

It was perfect! The script was aimed like a cruise missile at the “Brett demographic”. The Brett demographic, a hive mind of confirmation bias encircled by a cadre of mid-wit gatekeepers, clearly loved being reassured it was right. If the Curmudgeon’s explanations bore little resemblance to true events, who cared? As long as his story merged seamlessly with Brett’s preconceived notions, it was, by definition, true… and also delightful!

There was a big pause at the scene where Brett went under the water. This was to be the climax of the story.

“What a catastrophe! The stupidfish have attacked our producer, brave and honorable Brett Alverson. He’s almost certainly going to die…”

Brett was frowning. Hardly skipping a beat, the Curmudgeon paused and rewound.

He spent a few seconds thinking over how to tell the story and then smiled. It was a wicked smile. He gave Cindy a knowing wink. She couldn’t wait to find out what happened to Brett and the stupidfish!

“In a catastrophic turn of events, Brett Alverson, esteemed researcher and highly respected riparian ecologist is attacked by murdertrout!”

Cindy’s jaw dropped. Brett’s eyes went wide. Seeing the reaction, The Curmudgeon paused.

“Murdertrout?” Brett inquired. “I thought they were stupid?”

“Did they not bite you?” The Curmudgeon reasoned.

Brett began to smile. It was a great big beatific smile. It’s one thing to be pecked at by little stupid fish, it’s another thing entirely to face an onslaught of murdertrout!

The Curmudgeon continued. “Murdertrout are the most dangerous creatures in this environment. They’ve been known to kill Grizzly Bears and damage bridge abutments.” Brett was nodding vigorously. “While more research is needed to ascertain why some fish become vicious, brutal, aquatic death machines…” Brett’s smile faded a bit. “…it’s likely caused by global warming.” Brett began to clap and laugh.

Cindy was delighted. This version was far better than her unemotional retelling of events! Despite the fact that all three of them had witnessed the same thing, she was already forgetting what she’d formerly believed. Clearly, The Curmudgeon had delved into the true heart of the matter. Brett, of course, had been won over completely with the word murdertrout. From his point of view, everything The Curmudgeon said was henceforth perfect and unassailable truth. The Curmudgeon, for his part, was clearly enjoying his own show. Playing off Brett’s existing opinions and more or less ignoring faulty human memories was a brilliant choice. It made everything so much more fun!

It was all lies. It was total bullshit. Therefore, it was completely believable and the unquestionable truth! Brett and Cindy were going to be rock stars of the documentary profession!

All too soon, the video came to an end. Brett applauded like he’d just seen the best performance in human history. Cindy set down the pencil and grinned. It all made so much sense. It wasn’t stupidity at all. It’s pure science. If a bird thinks it’s an eagle that’s exactly what it is. Anyone who disagrees is racist. Riparian ecologists are practically Indiana Jones. Murdertrout are caused by global warming. Brett had heroically saved the long oppressed trans-species victim of historic trout dominance. Car insurance is awesome.

It fit together so well. She chuckled at the Curmudgeon. That scamp! Setting them up to get all distracted by misinformation when they first met. Blathering on about stupidity and water conditions when he already knew everything came from global warming and racism; what a joker! If he’d simply explained it correctly as soon as they met, everyone would have gotten along fine right from the start. In fact they were great friends. His initial rants about water pollution and tossing pinecones was just a test of their loyalty to The Science. What a silly fellow! And what a nice guy too!

There sure were a lot of beer bottles under her lawnchair. Where’d they come from? She hoped The Curmudgeon wouldn’t run out.

It was a glorious shared moment of triumph. Brett was beaming. Cindy was grinning. Everyone was happy. The script was already written out. She’d type it up exactly like The Curmudgeon had said and read it into a microphone. They’d be ready to ship the first episode in no time. How easy it had been! When this documentary was released, it was going to be a viral hit.

His work done, The Curmudgeon wandered off to piss on a tree.

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Squirrels: Chapter 8: Part 11: Male Bonding

Posted on December 30, 2021 by AdaptiveCurmudgeon

Please enjoy the next post in Murdertrout, Chapter 8 of Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels. Comments are welcome. Tips via the PayPal link to the right are also welcome but always optional.

Merry Christmas and happy reading.

It was clear that The Curmudgeon considered getting wet and scraped up to save the life of a college student and a demonstrably confused bird just barely a worthwhile exchange. It was also clear that he’d faired much better than Brett. He had a few cuts and scrapes but his thicker clothes, heavy boots, and work gloves had spared him the worst of it. Unlike Brett, he carried himself like a man who’d been attacked by wild animals before. He was darned near nonchalant about a cut on his brow that was bleeding all over. Brett, meanwhile was whimpering like a kicked dog.

“Uh… thanks.” Brett gasped.

Cindy turned off the camera and pivoted toward the Curmudgeon; who produced a sopping wet bag of M&Ms before she could find some way to blame him for Brett’s condition.

Cindy, gradually realizing that she was expected to care about her fellow man, helped Brett up and led him to her lawnchair. He slumped in it with the kind of exhaustion only a ride in the spin cycle can generate. She turned to the other chair and frowned to see The Curmudgeon already seated. She shrugged, it was his chair after all.

“Cindy, please go to my truck and grab a beer from the red cooler. One each for you and Brett here if you wish.” He glanced at Brett. “Also grab the first aid kid next to the passenger side door.”

She nodded and hustled off.

By the time she returned, Brett was looking better. Without asking, The Curmudgeon popped the top on two beers and handed one to Brett. “Any time you almost die but don’t… you’ve earned a beer.” He intoned sagely.

Brett nodded and clutched his beer. If every documentary filming session was like this, he would be dead within the month.

“Or a hell of a lot tougher.” The Curmudgeon grinned, as if he could read Brett’s thoughts. They clinked their bottles together and both men smiled. It was Brett’s first moment of shared male comradery after a good solid beating. He was exhausted, he’d nearly drowned, he was soaked to the bone, and he was bruised all over but he felt a strange new emotion too. He felt pride.

As for The Curmudgeon, various things had tried to kill him so often he hardly noticed. Slightly battered was more or less his normal state. Even so, he had an uncharacteristically charitable notion. Brett, in his opinion, was a gutless schoolboy and preening twit, yet he’d just gotten his ass handed him by nature. Each well deserved beating is an ideal opportunity for personal growth. Perhaps the lad wasn’t completely hopeless? Now was the perfect time for a mentor to give a positive nudge, maybe the boy could still become a man?

“You look like six miles of washboard on a flat tire. Clean your wounds.” He tossed the first aid kit to Brett.

This was The Curmudgeon’s idea of a positive nudge.

Brett had no idea how to administer first aid to anyone for any reason. He started pawing through the box. Being entrusted with his own welfare was another new sensation. It was actually quite pleasant. After a lifetime of being coddled, he savored the interesting experience of being in the presence of a man who considered Brett’s welfare to be entirely Brett’s problem.

Cindy wondered what the two men were thinking about. Of course, her feminine mind could not plumb the primal caveman depths of the bonding The Curmudgeon intended. She opened her mouth to speak but The Curmudgeon moved quickly to distract her with another bag of M&Ms.

Brett had found alcohol wipes. They were the least dangerous of the many things in The Curmudgeon’s first aid kit. The kit was ominously comprehensive and clearly well used. The Curmudgeon apparently had the knowledge to use, and for some reason the continuing need, to do a surprising amount of cutting, stitching, and other things best left to the medical profession. For example, The Curmudgeon not only had a scalpel but an impressive array of them! And there were other things too. Some of which were probably illegal without a medical license. Taken as a whole, they made the alcohol wipes seem tame and inviting.

Brett winced as he swiped across a slash where a trout, which barely have teeth, had indeed taken a bite.

“Nice cut!” The Curmudgeon enthused.

Brett grinned. All men need to hear their various injuries are laudable. Testosterone is the difference between an unpleasant minor cut and a coveted battle scar.

“I thought you were a goner. You must be a hell of a swimmer.” The Curmudgeon continued.

Brett, who really was a good swimmer, began to grin. “Yeah.” He dabbed an alcohol pad on another tiny trout bite. It stung… which was the closest thing to the rush of battle Brett had ever experienced. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Cindy, please bring Brett another beer, he’s going to need it.” The Curmudgeon had decided to hasten the process. First comes battle, then comes drinking. His eyes twinkled as Brett unconsciously chugged his half full beer to prepare for the incoming one.

Twenty minutes later, Brett was on his third beer and loudly relating his story to the two people who’d just watched it. The Curmudgeon beamed; from a boy to a man. Even stupid has a purpose.

After his third beer was done, The Curmudgeon loaned Brett dry clothes. Soon Brett was dressed in carefully laundered and bone dry clothes that were twice his age. The clothes had lived through far more adventures than Brett ever would. The shirt had been patched three times. Who patches a t-shirt? The jeans fit reasonably well, had even more patches, and were twice as thick as anything Brett had ever worn.

A man dressed like this might as well be wearing armor. Brett reflected on the fact that The Curmudgeon was relatively unscathed. Apparently dressing like a farmer had certain advantages. After all, Brett looked like he’d been attacked with a cheese grater while the The Curmudgeon looked the same as always.

The Curmudgeon’s truck apparently had an endless supply of clean dry clothes because the Curmudgeon changed into dry clothes too. During that process, Cindy had gotten a gander at the kind of hairy ass that makes theories about Sasquatch seem plausible. Then she nearly passed out when The Curmudgeon saw her peeking. Completely unperturbed, he blew a kiss her way and continued dressing. Gross! She shook the thought out of her head but was sure she’d have nightmares for a week.

Shortly thereafter, The Curmudgeon announced that it was only right and proper that men who’d been in battle should now eat steak. Fortunately for them, he was just the man to handle the situation. He began gathering wood for a fire.

Brett, who hadn’t gotten to eat the sandwich his mom made, didn’t complain.

Cindy disappeared into the van to exorcise the mental image of Sasquatch ass by doing crude first draft video editing. Whatever those two idiots were up to, she wanted nothing to do with it.

Cindy was a whiz and had a 40 minute rough cut of their first episode pieced together in no time. She hopped out of the van to find Brett wearing a faded shirt that said “Pobody’s Nerfect”, patched jeans, and decrepit Chuck Taylors. He was on his fifth beer and enjoying it as only a true lightweight could.

Before she could mock Brett’s ridiculous appearance, The Curmudgeon handed her a plate with freshly cooked steak. “Elk.” He explained. It smelled delicious.

They all shut up and ate. Cindy and Brett normally would have embarked on a discussion of the merits of hunting but it was just too damn tasty.

For desert, The Curmudgeon came up with a bag of homemade cookies, more chocolate, and another six pack. Wait! Was that another six pack? Cindy started counting empties and indeed it was. She lost the train of thought as The Curmudgeon laughed with Brett, who was telling a lame joke about a train and some dude on an old timey bicycle. “It’s not a bicycle, it’s a pennyfarthing!” The Curmudgeon roared, to Brett’s delight.

Posted in Chapter 8 - Murdertrout, Lesbian Squirrels | 3 Comments