BIG NEWS

As a curmudgeon, I can whine with the best of them. And, after a lot of whining, I GOT THE USE OF THE CURMUDGEON REPOR SITE BACK. 

So you can let this site go - all future action will be back on familiar Curmudgeon Repor turf: Curmudgeonrepor.blogspot.com. 

Sorry for all the interim confusion. Blame fractious curmudgeons. 

Pneumatic Tubes

We old farts fondly remember those magical vacuum tube systems in department stores. The kindly sales lady filled out your purchase form, took your money, placed it in a space-age doohickey and whoosh it would zip away. 

I never thought much of where it zipped. All I knew was that your change would come whizzing back and off you'd go. 

For a kid, it was magic. Clearly, for the central operator, it was Frankenstein. 

Monkeys

I've been on the web again. Apparently, these twins ordered monkeys, having collected the right amount of cereal box tops. 

The poor monkeys arrived in plain cardboard boxes, apparently an acceptable packaging scheme of the day. Astonishingly they do seem in generally good health. 

The kid on the right is rightly happy with his monkey, which looks robust. The kid on the left got one that seems to be  clinging to life. But these little guys were tossed in packages, thrown on a ship aimed for the U.S. Of A. 

These were the 20s. Anything goes. 

Tiger, the Wonder Cat

Curmudgeons aren't big on feelings and emotions and all that crap. 

But there is Tiger, the Wonder cat. He is 10 years old today. He rules the universe, he commands the neighborhood, indoors he plays like a kitten. 

He is beyond belief. The local vet can't get him to stop purring long enough for a heart test. 

Heart test? This little guy is beyond that. He's a trouper, and, like we curmudgeons, not about to quit. 

They Still Permit Massachusetts Driving

Although I ran across this picture wandering the Internet and its location wasn't specified, I just know, deep down in my soul, that it was taken in Massachusetts. 

Last week I revealed the secret instructions all Massachusetts drivers receive, so it would come as no surprise whatsoever that some enterprising driver managed this feat. 

There is just no way to hide from them. 

Stadium Sound

It's the sixties. You are the most popular rock & roll group in the world. You are playing Shea stadium in New York. Apparently a big thing in the 60s.

I'm talking about, of course, the Beatles. They played their hearts out. And they couldn't hear each other over the screaming fans.

Re-read that last bit: they couldn't hear each other.

They, before "wall of sound" technology, had guitars plugged into those little speaker boxes. And used them to the max. But, we're talking a stadium filled with screaming fans, and the band's sound couldn't drown out the fan's sound.

Ringo once said he just smiled and banged away, hoping he was at least close to the singing. 

Beautiful. 

Baiting Siri

Anybody with a reasonably modern iPhone now has Siri standing at the ready to help. For those of you who have actually mastered the use of Siri - well done!

I find Siri somewhat limited. Half my queries go right over her head and I end up having to type my questions in as if she wasn't there. And you don't want to piss her off by insulting her capabilities because the next time you say "set the alarm for 6am tomorrow" she will probably quietly set it for 7pm a week from Thursday just to get even. 

And it's remarkably easy to confuse Siri. I mostly do it by simply asking her to search for something - the answers she comes up with! Hilarious. And wrong virtually every time (the Google lady is much more accurate). 

So, I spend my time baiting Siri. Like asking her to tell me the name of a song on the car radio while she is watching the phone line. She sort of smokes a little and dials a random number. 

Always good for a laugh while driving. 

The Visiminder

You are looking at a still from that grand scifi movie The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. A surprisingly domestic scene for a movie about alien invaders, I just had to take this shot for the stove. 

Yes, the stove. It was 1956. Tappan had just introduced this fine stove, the Visiminder. You'll note the burners are to the back, affording some convenient workspace up front for utensils and such. And unlike way too many modern stoves, the controls are up front, not on the back panel where you have to reach over whatever is cooking to adjust them. 

In addition, the stove had two ovens, a broiler, a "Visitimer," a "Visiguide" (a quick reference guide right there on the stove for the correct temperature for various meats) and 5 (count 'em) pilots. 

How do I know all this? You're no doubt thinking my family had one while I was growing up. Not so!

It was the stove in my current home in 1985 when we bought it. It was still going strong. 

You Rang, Sir

I miss this. The butler - no doubt named Jeeves or Hobson or some such - appearing 'on your six' quietly wondering what he could do to satisfy your current whim. Or you giving the bellpull in the drawing room a quick tug for a refill of your postprandial brandy. 

I say I miss that, but of course, 'missing' suggests I ever had it. Sadly, only in my dreams. Many curmudgeons WISH we had faithful butlers, but we do not. We are way too cheap. 

And thus, Sainted wives - a tad mercurial, but they have their moments. 

There Will Always Be The New Yorker

When Pictures Say 1,000 Words

Cowboys & Indians

You no doubt suspect that, because of our age, we old fart curmudgeons are fans of classic 1950s Cowboy & Indian movies. Nothing could be further from the truth.

In addition to being incredibly lame, these movies merely serve to remind us of a very sorry chapter in our history...unless you're into manifest destiny and ethnic cleansing and all.

To see them pop up on TV - with or without John Wayne - is just an unpleasant reminder of how insensitive American thinking was even in the 1950s: Cowboys were always the good guys and those pesky Indians the bad guys.
       

Let's face it - the only worthy Cowboys & Indians show was F Troop.

They Still "Drive" In Massachusetts

Lest we ever forget what it is to drive in Massachusetts, I have obtained a top-secret instructional document from their driving test.

It speaks for itself.

So, should you be innocently driving about and you encounter this sign:

                   

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Math

Let's face it, not everyone is cut out for mathematics. Infamously, even the talking Barbie doll once proclaimed "math is HARD."

Back in my school days - when men were men and brains were required - it was a lucky day if we could bring our slide rules to a test. Today, you can bring calculators, textbooks and your personal math coaches along.

For this doomed math student, there is no hope. Fancy calculator in hand, he has arrived at that point in time when he should consider switching majors. Or maybe think about a vocational school.

The Ben Matlock Legal Degree

There are people who scoff at how much Matlock I watch. Hah! They scoff. Well, I now have the last, er, scoff.

I just received my official Matlock legal aid degree. Hah! I scoff back. Granted it has absolutely no courtroom standing, but requires only 50 Captain Crunch box tops, and looks real impressive mounted on the wall of my office in the provided frame with the look of real wood. People who used to ignore me now seek my "professional" legal advice.

You are taught how to claim never having lost a case (one of the key Matlock tenets), especially seeing as how you never really take up what might be called a "case." The course also instructs you on how to acquire a good ole boy southern accent AND how best to dye your hair silver. You make sure the TV in the waiting room runs a loop of Matlocks and the money just pours in. 

Beautiful.

Shopping? Let's Go - Chop Chop

The other day I heard those words dreaded by men of all ages:  "Dear, would you like to go shopping with me?"

Who does this? When a guy needs a few more #8 flat head Phillips screws, he doesn't call a close friend to ask if they want to go shopping. First off, guys don't go "shopping;" they go buying. They know the store they need, the area where such parts are and poof poof, the necessary things are bought and promptly brought home.

Women? It is "shopping." It is a social occasion since you're about to wander about a store (virtually any store will do) checking everything out.

This disparity has produced that sad, emasculated class of "men" who sit in malls holding on to their wife's purses while she and her dearest friends "shop."

You will NEVER catch a curmudgeon doing anything of the sort. We prefer turning it all into a useful sport.

Loose Ends....Literally

As you can see here, I have been obsessing over people who should be able to easily comment on any given post for the past 3 years. Turns out, my late December research paid off as I got more comments on the last week of the Repor than any other issue ever.

And as the New Yorker points out, I'm not alone.




But wait, there's more. The New Yorker illuminates the  curmudgeon philosophy quite often.  Frankly, as seen here, we think ALL vegetarians are idiots. It takes the New Yorker, however, to perfectly capture the sentiments of idiot vegetarians all around us. People who make ordering lunch a cringeworthy experience.




Finally, not part of the Curmudgeon Societé Generale Handbook, but admirably illustrating our métier:

It's Alive...

All of a week ago, a bunch of us youthful type curmudgeons (recently retired, new to Medicare, etc.) declared the Curmudgeon Societé Generale dead.

To seal the deal, we mounted a ceremonial Curmudgeon Handbook book burning party. I even let them burn my own humble chapter - Trash is the Last Resort.  We were on a youth-related tear, the youngest of us, at 55, reminding us what pre-retirement desk sitting resilience used to be.

Oddly, the following morning I got a visit from two esteemed former Curmudgeon Societé Generale representatives.  As I seem to recall, they had convenient single syllable names that could be suitably approximated by the odd grunt. They also had a certain economy of movement, seeing as how they were unencumbered by necks.

The message was simple: publish the final few articles "in the can" and I would be permitted continued use of my extremities.  And thus, "the Repor That Wouldn't Die" series has been born. Happily, Hanz and Franz can't read, so I may wander from strict Societé Generale regulations now and again.

Hey, we're young and we're passionate (mostly about our next meal, but it's a start).