Adaptive Curmudgeon

I did a desperate thing. Facebook (I like to call it F***book) has local marketplace / social media bullshit. I went there.

Lord help me, but I did it.

I fuckin’ hate F***book! The interface is shitty and the information is pointless, incorrect, and ephemeral. It bitches at me about politics, dumbs down human interaction, and turned the best information communication technology in human history into a spybot floating in an ocean of emotional memes by weepy halfwits.

That said I found one (and only one) local person selling wood. There was a photo of a pile of wood on a trailer and a price. No other details. I sent a PM with my cell #, which I hated doing.

(I hate that my number is now forever F***book associated. This will almost certainly lead to push polling in 2020: “Hello, this is an important scientific survey: Do you think Trump is an asshole, a racist, or both an asshole AND a racist? If you didn’t vote for Hillary in 2016 how much do you suck? A little? A lot? Beyond belief? On a scale of 50 trillion to 100 trillion, how much do you want spent on light rail you’ll never get to use? How much free college do you want? All? Most? Almost all? Also, what do you think is the best solution to deplorable knuckleheads resisting rule by intellectually superior coastal city overlords? Execution? Extermination? Replacement? Or merely re-education and periodic beatings? Press one to make a donation to a politician who loathes you. Press two to hear this survey in Urdu. Thanks, for participating in our scientific poll.”)

But hey, winter’s coming. I did what I had to do.

I never got a call, or a text. A few days later I ventured back into F***book and found a F***book message waiting. They had wood.

OK, time for the song and dance. This is the part of the story where I try to figure out in which manner they’re going to screw me or flake out.

Them: “We have firewood for sale.”

Me: “Your ad says a $150 a cord.”

Them: “Yes, it’s firewood.”

Me: “A cord of wood is an amount in volume to 4′ x 4′ x 8′. Do you know this?”

Them: “The trailer is 2 cord. Firewood.”

Me: “Is it cut into 16″ lengths and split?”

Them: “Firewood, 16-24”.

Me: “Will you sell 2 cords, an amount of wood equivalent in volume to two stacks 4′ x 4′ x 8′ in size… of wood that’s cut 16″ long (no longer) and split?”

Them: “Firewood is $300.”

Lets face it; most human beings no longer pass the Turing test.

I decided to force the issue. “I have cash. Text me by noon or I’ll never buy firewood again.”

My phone beeped within 10 minutes.

“HAVE FIREWOOD. CAN DELIVER NOW.”

Wow, it sounded like someone was desperate. This usually means somone is behind on their alimony payments. Also, I was 100% certain they’d deliver less wood than promised and/or it would be a single uncut log, but there was no point in communicating further. I might as well ask our cat about the structure of the Federal Reserve bank.

I decided to roll the dice.

Stay tuned…

I decided to buy firewood. That means finding someone in my sparsely populated rural area that will work for money. Trees are coming out of our ears up here. The resource is plentiful. But it’s just plan tough to process it and a lot of our modern world is wrapped up in not doing dirty outdoor work.

I miss the classifieds, but they’re gone so no luck with that approach. Nothing posted at the local feed store or gas station. Everything here is word of mouth and I don’t know anybody.

Craigslist turned up what might be Frank’s forest based underworld lair. (If you don’t know about Frank pour a drink and begin reading Firewood Saga: Part 0. You’ll love the story.) I stayed the hell away from that mess! Aside from Frank, the rest was from far away. (Firewood is heavy, it doesn’t pay to truck it far.)

Then, miracle of miracles, I found a business card of a dude who collects Model Ts and (on the side?) sells firewood. I’ve kept that business card for years! I’ve bought firewood from him before and he’s a good egg. He always brings 2 cords in a hydraulic dump box. It is usually good wood (if split a little chunkier than I’d like) and he has never stiffed me. Every time I stack a cord of wood from him it’s the equivalent of 4′ x 4′ x 8′. It ‘aint cheap but he usually shows up with actual wood.

I set the card on my workbench, made a call using my landline. It’s a novelty using a landline. I never get to make a local call. For me it’s a local call to virtually nobody. Except the wood guy!

Annnnnd… he didn’t answer.

I left a message, but I had a feeling he never checks them. (I don’t check mine either.)

Three days later I decided to give it another shot. The bench was cleared. I’d cleaned up and the card was long gone. I’d saved that business card for years and then tossed it when I actually needed it. What a dumbass!

I fiddled with my phone and deduced the outgoing landline number. I called again. And again. And again.

And again.

And again.

The business card had a cell phone number too. I so very dearly wish I’d retained the cell number. I suspect he only answers his cell.

But I didn’t have the number. I suck.

The last few winters kicked my ass. This time I’m in it to win it. I’m not going into that dark night (again) without a goddamn fight.

I’ve been stacking wood every moment I get. The weather, however, has been uncooperative. Also, tragically, I’m only human. The latter is a hard limit. When I talk with people about firewood it’s a Rorschach test that tells me more about them than about firewood:

Me: “Been working pretty steady but I’m only up to 3 cords so far.”

Them: “Buck up little camper. I’m sure you’ll do it. You just need the right attitude.”

Translation: “I’m a nutless dipshit who’s never worked physically. I can’t do a goddamn thing on my own. My whole world view was formed during junior high group projects and it hasn’t changed. I am a pointless waste of oxygen that enjoys committee meetings. I think things are easy because they seem easy in my imagination. When the zombie apocalypse happens, I’ll be a dead by mid-afternoon and a shambling corpse pounding on your door by sunset.”

OR

Me: “Been working pretty steady but I’m only up to 3 cords so far.”

Them: “That sucks. Good luck doing as much as you can.”

Translation: “I’m a solid resident of reality. I’m not going to ask you to sign a petition, bitch about your choice of foods, or make fun of your truck. I’ve got my head straight and when the zombies come I’ll thin out the herd best I can. Now get the hell off my lawn.”

Anyway, I finally limped across the 3 cord threshold. It’s not enough for winter but getting there. That said, I’d like to ride into winter oversupplied… not “praying for global warming”.

I decided to throw money at it. Ugh, I shudder just thinking about it. What a revoltin’ development. I hate trying to do basic capitalism in America in 2019. It’s like my whole society forgot how to do anything. Honestly, if there was a way to buy a cord of firewood via Amazon and shipped from China… it might be worth it to avoid local yahoos.

But I set out to do the deed. Stay tuned…

My last post included some bitching about elementary and high schools (because they deserve it) but there’s always more to say. Dr. Profeta has sage advice about college:

“We need to encourage our kids to slow it down, to take a longer path to college, perhaps. Expose our kids to real education—the kind of education that comes with a W-2, a boss, getting up early and working late and interacting with people who can’t afford a higher education. Make them appreciate the life experiences that come with nailing a 2 x 4, washing dishes, wheeling people to X-ray, picking up garbage, answering telephones. Make them earn their spending money BEFORE college and decide on their own if they’d rather use it on alcohol, weed, a four-block Uber ride, or laundry and food.”

(Hat tip to Maggie’s Farm and askblog.)

Like most Americans, I have 1) a life and 2) common sense. Thus, I’ve been ignoring politics. It’s just too stupid lately. I’ve been stacking wood. Winter is coming.

It’s hard work and I’m doing every foot pound of labor myself. I’m a real deal, no bullshit, genuine, one man operation. There are other residents of Curmudgeon Compound but the dog’s too old and the rest have other priories. I’m not saying this to gripe. It’s my choice to cut wood. My goal is an optimistic shout out to other folks who also pull a load solo. The world isn’t all group projects and I rooting for the success of anyone who stands tall and tries their best.

Anyway it’s slow going. I finally racked up cord #3 and it was a struggle. I’ve felled, bucked, split, hauled, and stacked three full cords (9 face cords) and it still isn’t enough. But it’s what I’ve done. It’s many many tons more than the nothing I started with. (Last winter we ran out and it sucked!)

I felt the need to blog about my tiny little personal accomplishment so I logged on… only to realize everyone lost their Goddamn mind. Seriously, what the fuck’s going on out there?

First, my PredictIt feed showed a rise in one of the “impeach Trump” markets. I pondered what “Russia, Russia, Russia” claptrap is afoot this time. Did someone see Muller’s likeness in a piece of toast? Should I bet against them just to earn a pizza’s worth of smug winnings?

I surfed around investigating this round of perpetual butthurt and the lady doth protest too much methinks. It seems comically thin. Muller’s 2 year fruitless witch hunt is practically a model of prudent efficiency compared to today’s “breaking news” (which will probably be forgot faster than Epstein’s convenient demise). (Forgot about Epstein didn’t you?) Painting with a broad brush I sussed out that someone leaked something about an unnamed source who may or may not have directly witnessed a phone call that may or may not have said some shit… about Biden. Really? First of all it’s a legitimate topic of conversation but more importantly is there a worse hill to defend at all costs? Does nobody step back and think “am I doing a silly thing right now?”

As an analogy, when I’m using my chainsaw I maintain situational awareness. Fail that, and I won’t last long. I need total control over not merely the vicinity of the saw but also the big picture. Loose track of what you’re doing and you might sever something that’s holding several tons of tree without planning for the results. Gravity will kill you as fast as a kickback. Many people have wound up mashed into the ground and a few die every year. I propose DC is ignoring a world that merits situational awareness. By now, they wouldn’t know wise governance if it bit them on the ass.

I wanted to buy “NO”; wager a ten spot on sanity. But I held back. I literally thought to myself “is it wise to bet on sanity in 2019?” Nope! 2019 is not a time of sanity. I’d gladly bet against an impeachable offense but it’s not relevant. The House is in such a froth they’d happily impeach a ham sandwich on the grounds that it’s a supervillain from Jupiter. Count me out.

Off hand, I suspect this new foolishness benefits Trump. Each harebrained overstep is a slow pitch over his home plate. A giant outrageous eleven month bullshit explosion might be setting up a grand slam. If they push Cheeto Jesus from “squeak a narrow win” to “steamroller” it was self inflicted. I think Scott Adams said “all the democrats need to do is look sane”. He’s right and they don’t.

But what do I know? I’m just a dude who chops up trees.

Then I moved on to the more rational parts of the…

…what the fuck is this?

Apparently, Congress got super serious. Due to global warming, our lives hang in the balance. Because it’s an urgent matter of life and death they took testimony from a 16 year old with Asperger syndrome, obsessive-compulsive disorder, selective mutism, and a history of depression. (I’m not making that up, I took it from Greta Thunberg’s Wikipedia page.)

This shows nobody important buys global warming. When your ass is really on the line… you sure as hell don’t go seeking wisdom from a messed up 16 year old girl.

“Holy shit, I may have cancer.”

“We’re making arrangements for an oncologist right now.”

“Forget the oncologist. This is life or death! Only the very best advice will do. I need the emotional rantings of an autistic teenage girl!”

Ha ha ha… yeah, I know, not very PC of me. I’ll probably be pilloried for failing to properly genuflect but I’ll take that risk. After all, looking for logically consistent depth and wisdom from a distraught teenager is hilarious.

She’s a victim. It’s tragic really. Lemming-like masses of emotion huffing junkies told this kid she’s doomed and she’s too young and impressionable to know better. I sympathize. I went through it too (at a younger age and to a lot smaller degree). I was told the Russkies were going to drop the bomb, the looming ice age would freeze us, and overpopulation would make us all starve. I believed that stupid shit… when I was in elementary school.

Why? Because the fucking school told me all that crap! I remember reading a “school magazine” about how we’d have to eat ants in the coming times of starvation. They also helpfully pointed out I’d never get to own a car because there would be no fuel by the time I was 16. I’m not making it up, propaganda has been in schools for a long time. How was I to know they were full of shit?

Luckily I wasn’t totally surrounded by idiots. The only people that said ridiculous shit were voices on TV and a few of my flakier school teachers. My dad just shrugged and stacked wood and told me to chill out. Wise man.

Unlike Greta, I had the benefit of growing up to be well adjusted. I ignored spastic yahoos and became a real adult. I wasn’t saddled with a handful of untreated maladies and used as someone’s unholy meal ticket.

I skipped Greta’s emotional testimony. I won’t participate in that level of creepiness. The kid’s a victim. A movement that gets off on emotional testimony has her wound up tight and is using her like a meat puppet and that’s not right.

When an eight year old (still reading from Wikipedia) gets depressed and lethargic, stops talking and eating, and is diagnosed with three (three!) difficult conditions… you get the kid some decent treatment. You don’t use them as a battering ram. Good grief, show some kindness and let the kid have a normal life. She should be fretting over the prom or getting a driver’s license or playing video games or doing whatever stupid pointless crap teenagers normally do. The mind boggles at such cruelty.

As for Congress. Those fuckers are complicit. Kids are just kids. They don’t know shit. Everyone knows that!

I’ve got socks older than Greta Thunberg. I won’t take advice from someone that tragically unbalanced and youthfully naive. Call her back when she’s 30. When she can drive, hold a job, raise a family, and has a trade other than weepy grandstanding she might have intellectual value. Congress should interview adults with degrees in chemistry and a track record of wise prediction. If they were really worried about global warming that’s exactly what they’d do.

Everyone’s nuts and I’m going back off line. I’ve got wood to cut. Winter is coming.

A.C.

(BTW: This post’s title is not meant to weigh down the far more thoughtful Woodpile Report with my baggage.)

I’ve been monitoring the presence of a lonely (hungry?) stray cat bumbling about the periphery of my homestead. We’ve named it Tardo based on the fact that it’s dumb. It’s not just dumb but immensely so. Suppose you took two opposing party politicians and chained them to each other. Then suppose you provided your politician sandwich with an expense account, cocaine, and an Uzi. The cat has less common sense than that!

While the family has declared that its official name is Tardo, I sorta’ call critters whatever they ought to be called at the moment. It’s a cat, it’s too dumb to know it’s own name anyway. As it tries (ineptly!) to integrate into our homestead’s social scene (which requires making peace with our pre-existing outdoor cat “Evil” and trying not to die due to nature) I’ve been rooting for it. If it shows enough sense to settle in, it’ll have a good life.

It’s a toss up if it’ll work out. Some things are so stupid you wonder how they ever came into being. (See: Congress, AMC Gremlin, and Racewalking.) For the last several days, I’ve been calling the cat whatever name seems to best represent it’s current level of dumbass.

“C’mere Tardo, I’ve got food.”

“Yo! Null Set, get the hell off my truck!”

“Hey, Dialtone, quit trying to nap where I’m stacking the wood. You’re gonna get crushed!”

“Listen up Common Core, you have to eat the food, not stand in the bowl meowing.”

“Hey, Fart Blossom, have you been rolling in the mud? You look like a pig’s doormat.”

“Fer crissakes, Paul Krugman, you can’t lounge on the anvil of a 27 ton hydraulic ram while I’m splitting wood!”

That last one might have been too mean. I wouldn’t expect a cat to know the name of an economist so wrong that he’s practically a reverse compass, but maybe the critter could just tell. I’d gone a bridge too far and he gave me a foul look. It was as if was saying “How dare you compare me to that imbecile. I may be a cat so dumb I fell in a mud puddle but at least I don’t wave around a bullshit Nobel prize while being fantastically wrong. I’m outta’ here.” Then he stalked off into the woods.

I haven’t seen the cat for a few days. I fear it’s toast. Perhaps I should’ve stuck with his earlier nickname “Owlbait“?

A man who tried to fight a grizzly bear in Banff National Park was recently fined $4,000. It’s not the Babylon Bee and there’s nothing more to the story than the headline. You can read the whole thing for further details (and photos!) but there’s no surprise. I’m sure you already guessed there was alcohol involved. The article will confirm it.

Of course, the judge and park people get all “hand wringy” about how this traumatized the bear and various other crap. They barely stop short of rambling about Gaia and global warming… but maybe that part got cut by the newspaper editor.

For example, there’s a quote about how this dipshit will “create an aggressive animal that obviously has the ability to do a lot of harm to humans and the public in general”. Nope! A grizzly bear already has the ability to do a lot of harm. It was born a fuckin’ grizzly and it’ll die one. It has the ability to do harm every step of the way. That’s why you don’t fight ’em.

What the drunk numbnuts did accomplish is making a bear that’s deeply confused. The bear is probably thinking “WTF was that all about?” I’m sure all its bear friends are making fun of it; “you ran away from a human? Why?”

The judge also added that the fine “is a strong message to other individuals who, for whatever reason, would think to engage in this kind of behaviour”. Bwa ha ha… yeah we all need a message to tell us not to mess with things that can rip us in half. Just the other day I was thinking of stuffing thirty badgers down my jock strap but then I though “what message would a judge give over this action” and I thought better of it. After this maybe society will send messages to people who stick their head’s in wood chippers, piss on arc welders, and bungee jump using chain.

As you can tell, I think the judge’s explanation is unnecessary. Initiating shirtless inebriated hand to hand combat with grizzlies is a self correcting problem. Dudes this dumb just don’t last long.

Regardless, I like to think there’s a living room somewhere with a framed copy of the fine. If you had that document wouldn’t you hang it up? “$4000 penalty for fighting grizzly bears“. They might want to hurry because this dude’s not going to last long.

It would become a family heirloom. “Oh yeah, that framed document is from Uncle Ed back in 2019. He died shortly after that in a bizarre event involving a cement mixer, three orangutans, a fifth of whiskey, and eleven car batteries. All they found was his femur. It was in a tree. God rest his soul.”

Nothing on the video was news to me, you probably know it too. But it sure feels good to hear it repeated so have fun watching it. My favorite quote: “Pestilence, war, famine, and death are on the decline.” (I’d pay good money to hear a few 2020 candidates say that at a podium!)

(Hat tip to Maggie’s Farm.)

A random stray cat has been hanging around for several weeks. This happens on homesteads. Cats sometimes just disappear and sometimes other cats just show up. Exceptionally stupid ones get stuck in outbuildings. During recent rainstorms “Interloper cat” was stuck in my garage roof for 3 days. Dumbass!

When I finally figured out the fool was stuck in there, I enlisted a kid to help me put up a ladder and drag it down from the rafters. Instead of running away when I grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, it purred and practically climbed into my shirt pocket. I inspected it carefully. It looks youngish, not quite fully grown but close, healthy, well groomed, skinny but not starved, no collar or tag. Possibly it’s someone’s pet that made bad decisions in life to end up at my homestead and it can’t find it’s way home. Or maybe it was born semi-feral in a time of ample food and has lucked out so far?

Winter is coming. The critter’s been hanging around for weeks and it appears to have absolutely no “wildness” or common sense. I doubt the idiot can catch enough mice to feed itself. I nicknamed it “Retarded Dumbass Extreme” while the kid and I fished it out of the roof. (I stand by my assessment.)

Our resident cat has been trying to dissuade it but it’s old and small and has failed. If you want to hold territory you must defeat invaders. Fail at that and you cede control to them. This is true of all organisms from slime mold to humans; with cats (in my opinion) being closer to mold than noble creatures like dogs.

The two cats had a “negotiation” by a campfire. They’ve come to some sort of detente and seem to coexist well enough now. I think they’ll get along. There’s not a lot of bullying or the kind of fighting that causes injuries. (I won’t abide animals really fighting hard on my property. It’s uncool and harshes my mellow. I’ll step in to settle the situation if necessary.)

Also we always have too many mice and my pre-existing cat (who’s name I forget and I just call it “Evil”) isn’t keeping up. It’s getting old and it was never a great mouser anyway.

I made my decision and announced it. I might as well feed the new cat. If “Owlbait” here is still around in a month, it’s officially our cat.

Mrs. Curmudgeon vetoed my names; “Interloper Cat”, “Retarded Dumbass Extreme”, and “Owlbait” were all rejected. She rechristened it “Tardo” which does seem appropriate. “Tardo” and our other cat “Evil” wound up eating side by side and not fighting. That’s a good sign.

In a month, if it’s still here, it goes to the vet for the standard “feral cat to outdoor mouser/pet” upgrade pack. Basically I’ll spring for whatever shots it needs and neutering.

The kids and I watched the new cat adjust while I outlined the vet schedule. Kids need to learn by example what’s entailed with adopting various critters. Before the kids left I had to add a bit of wisdom:

“When someone gives you free food and a place to stay, even if they do it out of kindness as I’m doing right now, sooner or later they’ll cut your balls off. Remember that.”

I hope the kids remember what I said; they’ll need that wisdom in life. Tardo just purred.