The Curmudgeon Speaks

The things which irritate an old man...

As I took my morning walk today I noticed a car with a bumper sticker that said, 'I'd rather be riding transit'. And my first thought was, then why aren't you? Why don't you sell that thing, give the cash to the government to put towards transit, and then take the damn bus where you want to go. They're all over the place. I see them every day. Stop signaling whatever virtue you mean to shame me over and put your money where your mouth is.

Then it hit me. You don't want your money to go to transit without a pile of mine to keep it company.

Well, guess what? I don't want to take transit. I want to take my money (which I earned and you did not, by the way), buy me a car, and go wherever the hell I want to go whenever the hell I want to do it. And I do not want nor expect any of your cash for that right.

In other words, blow that empty posturing out your nose, and keep your hand out of my pocket.

The Near Detention

Possibly the closest I came close to detention in high school was during my freshman year. But doggone it, I was in the right. I was.

It was May and we were in Gym class. It was warm, so the instructor took us outside to play softball. I'll call the gym teacher Miss Cloyce just to give her a name, and because, yes, I'm still upset about the injustice 51 years later. I suppose I can hold a grudge.

Be all that as it may, in my first at bat that day I singled. The next batter hit a ground ball to the kid playing first. Now, in baseball and softball, when you're on first and there's a ground ball you have to run for second base. It's called being 'forced': because it's a grounder the batter has the primary right to first base. This means a runner already occupying that base is forced to vacate. Make sense? If not, take my word for it. But you can look it up if you like.

Now in this case, the first baseman fielded the ball, took three steps, and touched first base with her foot. That meant the batter was out. But since the batter was out, I no longer had to surrender first. I could have returned to it as there was no longer a legal runner behind me. I was not 'forced'. That means that in order for me to be put out I had to be tagged with the ball, because I had two safe spots I could choose between. 

After the opposing player touched first, which I obviously saw, I continued towards second anyway. She threw to second. The second baseman caught the ball and touched the base. I slid; he did not tag me. So I was safe, under the rules of the game.

Miss Cloyce called me out because the throw from first beat me (which it did) and the kid playing second touched the bag ahead of me with control of the ball (which is true). But neither address the rules of baserunning.

I took exception. I pleaded my case, arguing to a degree which likely shocked my peers (believe it or not, I was a quiet kid, at least in ninth grade) that no, I was safe because a tag was required because the force was off. Miss Cloyce said I was wrong. I was not. I insisted upon this point quite vehemently.

I kept it up until she barked, "Say one more thing and you get detention." I sputtered and stammered, but went to the bench, muttering. The students nearby gave me a wide berth, shocked at my angry display.

To be fair, I know you shouldn't harshly argue with a teacher (even gym teachers count as teachers, I suppose) so I do admit that Miss Cloyce had to play the detention card, for the sake of discipline and respect. But dammit, I was safe.

Ushered Out Twice

My brother Phil had a good friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who spent about twenty years as a reservist with the Detroit Police. He never did much more than cover at baseball and hockey games but hey, it helped the regular cops out. 

Once Cloyce was working at a baseball game at old Tiger Stadium when, as part of his rounds, he stopped by the DPD office under the stands. The sergeant, indicating a sad looking fellow sitting over to the side, told Cloyce to escort the guy from the premises for public drunkenness. So Cloyce did. 

About three innings later Cloyce was back by the patrol room, and the sergeant told him to show another guy the door. The same guy, in fact. "Isn't he the one I took out before?" Cloyce asked. 

"He bought another ticket and came back in," the sergeant answered with a shrug. Warning the drunk not to return a third time or he'd face a night in jail, the sergeant gave him over to Cloyce. 

Cloyce spent the rest of the game keeping a sharp eye out for the miscreant. He didn't want his own reputation soiled if the guy actually did get back in the ballpark.

Being Mercenary

One old and tired criticism of Christians is that we are 'only' mercenary. It asserts we only strive to do good so that we can sort of buy our way into Heaven while avoiding the punishment of Hell.

Setting aside the point that there's nothing terribly wrong with such an idea - do we actually want to teach that it's better to do evil if you're so inclined rather than do good from less than perfect convictions? - the criticism avoids the generally accepted fact that people are encouraged to be mercenary in other ways, for much less important goals.

Aren't we mercenary in pursuing a job or career path? To seek a nice house in a nice neighborhood? When on the athletic field? In finding a soul mate? While shopping for cool new things or deciding what to have for dinner? In all these areas and countless others aren't we seeking what is good for us, however mundane? Yet in looking for eternal joy we aren't supposed to consider what's good for us, what will make us truly happy?

Absurd. As a practical matter, I'm fine with someone not breaking into my house simply because he fears jail time. It would be better if he weren't to become a thief for the sake of higher ideals: respect for others and personal discipline for a start. Yet whether out of fear or a clear understanding and acceptance of moral good, he would have acted rightly either way.

Being merely mercenary can never condemn a man. It is less than perfect, yes. But if it slips us through the Pearly Gates and keeps the old homestead secure, I should think it worth the trade.

Memorial Day Reflection

Today is the day where we remember those who gave their lives for our country defending our nation in war. I think this year I want to especially remember those who died because of the wars and battles they fought while not having actually been killed facing the enemy.

I'm thinking specifically about me Pops youngest brother, me Uncle John. While he didn't die until 2005, I don't think he ever completely left Vietnam. I believe there were others in similar trials who even after they came home were still fighting. They deserve our thoughts and prayers too. Give them a minute this Memorial Day.

The Voice in the Casino

Discipline. That's what it's all about. Discipline.

I get the urge to go to the casino a couple of times a year. Typically I indulge it once. Yesterday was that day, I hope, anyway, for 2026.

There's a small casino in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, just up the road a piece from our second home there. It isn't a very big gambling den. I've seen Seven Elevens that are larger in fact. But it's close by when we're in da U.P. and the small size has its charm. 

Typically I play video poker. I know the odds are in the house's favor with any type of gambling (me Pops always said that the winners didn't build the casinos), and perhaps I'm playing a stupid psychological trick on myself, but with poker I feel I have at least a modest amount more control over the game. I can choose what to hold and play hunches, for whatever tiny advantages those strategies may offer. With straight out slot machines, you just pull a lever (push a button these days) and hope.

My budget is twenty bucks. Once that's gone, I'm gone. You can play for as long as an hour on that if you're judicious, and have a bit of luck. Usually I quit when I'm 10-15 dollars behind. That's when I tell myself that this is stupid and cash out what's left.

Yesterday my $20 was gone in about five minutes. Sighing heavily, I thought, heck, I'm on vacation. I'll play another twenty. That's pretty much how the casinos want you to think I'm sure, and for whatever reason gullibility took over. I fed the machine another Jackson.

It was gone relatively soon, although I managed about 20 minutes of play that time around. Mildly upset at myself for losing forty bucks, I started to leave. "Put in another $20," the voice in my head told me.

"Why? I'm already down $40."

"Just put in another twenty," I was assured.

Half disgusted that I was allowing me to talk myself into something stupid, I gave the poker machine another greenback. I hit the draw button and was dealt four kings, a thirty dollar win at the level I was playing. That gave me a $49 credit. "Now cash out," that same voice told me.

I did. That left me 11 dollars down, within my usual loss range. 

You can play games at a casino, and you can listen to the voice in your head. But they each require discipline. That's the key.

Not Exactly Spring Weather

It's still rather cool in Hessel, cooler than normal even though it's late May in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. There are no buds on the trees, and a few piles of dirty snow are evident from road and driveway clearing due to the unusual snowfall in the area last winter. Today's high is only supposed to be 52, along with clouds, drizzle and windy conditions. I may just order a pizza rather than try to grill outside, and my reading may be inside by a window instead of out in the garage or on the front porch. Oh, I'll layer my clothes and read in the garage for a while, to be sure, because you can't beat the sound of soft rain on a tin roof. But you know what?

It's still Hessel, and a bad day in Hessel is better than a good day at work. Especially if you have a boss like mine. What an ogre.