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.

A Marathon Rant

It does not look like a good day for the annual Detroit Marathon. Rain will dog it most of the morning. C'est la vie. So much as I do watch, I'll watch from my living room window.

I like the Marathon for the sense of event it brings. I don't like it for tying up my street for twelve hours. Quite frankly, and to perhaps sound like a curmudgeon (I take pride in that) I have the moral right to come and go as I please outside of a true emergency. Everyone does; it's a general interest, not a special interest. And a marathon isn't a crisis, it's a special interest. I'm not sure we ought to clog up city streets for such, even just a few hours a year. I should not have to ask police to move a barricade so that I can go wherever the hell I want to go when I want to go. No one should.

But it brings in money! All right. But it costs money too. Those barricades have to be set up and taken down. Those police officers have to be paid to, basically, stand around watching runners go by while real crimes are happening elsewhere. The streets have to be cleaned, three times so far this week. They were only cleaned once in my neighborhood the entire rest of the spring, summer, and fall. There are watering stations, medical stations, porta potties, and mile signs to be emplaced along with whatever other supporting regalia may be necessary. There are city employees tied up during the entire year planning all that. For, again, a special interest.

Okay, that ended up more of a rant than I meant. Honest! I will enjoy it well enough. But the instant that barricade goes down (I hear that will be about 11:30 from where I sit) I'm going to Burger King. That'll do more for the general economy than a footrace. And my stomach will love me.

With Good Reason

Yes sir, I can get cranky. You might have noticed that.

I've gotten so comfortable using drive up ATMs that I almost never visit the lobby of a bank anymore. But sometimes I must.

Yesterday I must. Musted. Mustered. Ah, jeez, I had to actually go into the bank. It reminded me why I love my drive up ATM.

There was a line in the lobby.

And there were only two tellers available.

And they were both serving customers.

And both customers were on their cell phones when they ought to have had their attention on their business with the bank, thereby delaying everyone in line all the more as well as being rude to the tellers and the rest of us.

And I became cranky. With good reason, I think you'll agree.

I'm Turning Here

This may turn into a curmudgeon rant. Give me a minute and we'll see how it develops.

I hate, I absolutely despise, when people waiting at street corners to cross the street feel as though they must, they simply must, mind you, get as much of a head start on hiking across that street as possible. I don't see any other reason why they would crowd the roadway as much as they do.

As I approached Warren Avenue yesterday intending to turn right onto Trumbull, this nimrod stood more than on the corner. His toes were hanging off the cement and over the street. But here I am driving on Warren and needing the curb lane to turn, where I have the right of way mind you, yet if I get close enough to him to do that I risk brushing him back or clipping the guy with a bumper. I had to stay partially in traffic, blocking the second lane by about half, or I may have brushed against the man.

I should have been able to hit him, if there were any real justice in the world. Get the hell back away from the street when you aren't in the act of crossing it, Bullwinkle. That hacked me off.

Now, was I curmudgeon enough, or  nowhere nearly enough?

The Incredulous Curmudgeon

I can be a curmudgeon. I can be impatient. I can be astounded, outraged, and incredulous all at once too. Would you like to know, as my old friend Cloyce might say, "How could that be?"

It could be like this: I walked into a gas station the other day to pre-pay for my gas. I am increasingly using a debit card at the pump to avoid precisely the type of situations which I then encountered.

The woman in front of me was buying $100 worth of scratch off lottery tickets. That's frustrating when waiting in line for something simple - give me thirty bucks on pump four please - but it's how things are. I can accept that. And at least the woman asked for five $20 tickets; she could have wanted 100 one dollar scratch-offs, right? So it should still have been a quick transaction. 

Note the operative term, should have been. The attendant slid the tickets through the slot below the glass, and was given a debit or charge card for the purchase. But then - I still can't really believe it, and perhaps you can't fathom it - she slides them back along with a quarter and tells the man, "Scratch them off for me." She doesn't ask; she orders it. 

I think all three of us in line behind her openly groaned. The look she gave us in return in was, basically, um, ah, blank you. I was here first.

The attendant, equally astounded, took a moment to react, and I don't blame him. How exactly do you react when faced with an inherently bizarre demand? He finally shoved them back out at the purchaser and said, "You scratch them."

She grabbed her tickets and stormed out, all the time muttering about how rude people are. One guy behind me clapped as she left.

I should have joined him. But what was in it's turn funny was the attendant, as I paid him, held up the woman's coin and remarked with a grin, "And she forgot her quarter!"

Hotel Snob

I joke from time to time about wanting to become a curmudgeon. There are days however when I actually believe I'm becoming one. 

With my job I sometimes have overnight trips. When this happens I do not stay in dives but I don't stay in five star places either. I'm not going to name the places I'm talking about because I know how internet algorithms work and do not want to be inundated with pleas and queries about how to make things better. I don't want the bother and I recognize that it could all be just me.

Anyway, on one such overnighter this year I found the coffeemaker not quite right, and the shower water not quite hot enough, and the cable selection not quite what I would have liked, and the pillows not quite fluffy enough, and the this and the that and the other thing. But intellectually, I know there really wasn't anything wrong with anything. It was all good. Then at my next stay at a similar inn I found myself thinking the same things all over again.

So am I in fact becoming a curmudgeon or simply a hotel snob? Not that either are truly admirable qualities I suppose. I simply feel I can justify curmudgeonly behavior a bit more readily.

The weather curmudgeon

Perhaps I am making too much of this. But perhaps just the same it's part of the reason I have trouble believing the weather forecasters. 

As I was doing a typical old guy thing and checking the weather report early this morning, something I do virtually every day almost immediately upon waking, I saw that the temperature was 21 degrees Fahrenheit. Yet something called the 'real feel' of the temperature is 26.

Pray, doesn't that mean that it's 26 outside?

Honestly, how else are we supposed to take it? They're saying that it's 21 but it feels like it's 26. Then it's 26, not 21. 

If it feels 26 outside why don't we say that it's 26 outside? I mean that's five flippin' degrees difference. Am I missing something or just being cranky today?

Curmudgeon mild

I have nothing against the hipsters or whatever the current batch of up-and-coming young challengers to the daily status quo are, really. And maybe I am just becoming an older guy less interested in innovation, increasingly simply wanting things to stay the same. But I gotta admit I don't typically get whatever happens to be new at any given time.

As my neighborhood gentrificates (is that a word?) new shops are opening. I won't name names because I really don't want to hurt their business intiatives. I don't really mean to pass harsh judgments either. But as I look at what passes for their attraction I don't always get their point.

One such store offers what we would have once called eclectic or eccentric items. Ok, so be it. But it strikes me as nothing more than a second hand store more bizarrely stocked. Odd paintings and statuettes and, for my taste, simply strange furnishings and the like. I wouldn't call it wrong, to be fair. I wouldn't even call its wares pigs with lipstick. But they are, well, weird.

Then there's the pizza parlor (I'm sure the owners would bristle at what that implies) which has all sorts of unusual toppings. I've tried several types, and they're honestly good. But at the end of the day it's overpriced hipster fare. Give me a Little Caesar's Hot and Ready first if I have any say, though I would go along and not rain on the parade if the majority of whom I was with wanted Pricey Hipster Pizza.

I want to stress I'm not calling anything wrong here. But I do wonder if my elders looked on me the same way when the roles were reversed although, quite honestly, I don't recall ever deviating significantly from the standards of the times at any time. So call this rant Marty: curmudgeon mild. It kind of fits.

Another curmudgeon rant

Here's another curmudgeonly rant. Why? Because I feel like it.

There's a local deli which I like a lot, and once a week I allow myself to buy lunch there. Yesterday was that day for this week. I waited patiently, at least, I waited patiently outwardly, behind the only person ahead of me as I arrived at the deli counter. Bear in mind that there's a large display board with prices, situated behind the counter in plain view of everyone. Bear in mind also that virtually anybody should have the basic ability to figure out, at least roughly, what they're spending while they're spending it.

The person ahead of me asked for two pieces of chicken. They were placed in an open container before her, left open as she had indicated she was ordering more. Yet before continuing her order she asked, "What's my total so far?"

I inhaled deeply. I so very much wanted to step up to her and say, "Excuse me. See that board up there, the one that says two pieces of chicken are five dollars?"

"Yes."

"See how many pieces of chicken are in front of you?"

"Yes, two."

"THEN YOUR TOTAL SO FAR IS FIVE DOLLARS!"

I mean, really.

A curmudgeon's rant

I see no point in changing anything, not my habits, not my attitudes, just to change them. It borders on senseless and, quite frankly, is arguably childish.

There's nothing wrong with change per se either, I'll admit. And sometimes change is good and necessary. That being the case, why change? is still a fair question to ask.

Expand your horizons, perhaps? Well, what if the horizon isn't all that clear? Besides, what's wrong with what I'm doing now? I realize that either question calls for a certain amount of extrapolation and introspection. It's ultimately all in the details. But remember the question is, why change simply to change?

When we took the kids out for ice cream I almost always got black cherry. Why? Because I liked it. Why try something new when you know you can get what you know you like?

Am I being obstinate? Sure I am; but aren't you being equally obstinate in ordering me to change? I mean, what's it to you? It's not like I'm doing anything immoral (on the ice cream question, anyway). I have the right in that sphere to order what I want; what argument do you really have against me?

It might be nice to change. Okay, but it might be nice to get what you want too. It's a wash; wait, no it isn't. It's my right to do what I want among legitimate moral choices. What you think I should do means nothing. It's only you being bossy.

Don't try to change me just because you think the change is good. That's all there is to it.

Rant over.

The advantage of the curmudgeon

I have said before that I want to be a curmudgeon. You may wonder why someone so lovable as myself might actually wish to become such a person.

Go ahead. Ask. I'm waiting, so long as a curmudgeon may deign to ask.

Deign. What a delightfully curmudgeonly word when said snidely. I deign to ask that. I deign thou to deny me my right to ask that.

You do not. Ask, that it is. Nor deny me my right to respond. I shall answer anyway. I shall deign (ha, ha, ha) to answer your unasked address.

It is because I am increasingly aged. That, by itself, allows me to ask questions ordinarily dismissed as impertinent. I am increasingly older. Therefore, I am increasingly curmudgeonly. All will love me and despair!

You see, curmudgeons are loved because they are curmudgeons. They are too old to be held accountable, let alone responsible. They ask all the questions no one else will ask because they will not be seen as impertinent. Old curmudgeons are always seen as cute. You. Lose.

That's why I want to be a curmudgeon. I'm ahead of the curve.

Change? Why?

I see no point in changing anything just to change. It borders on senseless, quite frankly, and is arguably childish.

There's nothing wrong with change per se either, I'll concede. Still, that being the case, why do it at all? is a fair question to ask.

Expand your horizons, perhaps? Well, what if the horizon isn't all that clear? Besides, it becomes fair to ask in answer to that, what's wrong with I'm doing now? I realize that either question calls for a certain amount of extrapolation, as it's ultimately all in the details. But remember the question is, why change simply to change?

When we took the kids out for ice cream I almost always got black cherry. Why? Because I like it. Why try something new when you can get what you know you like?

Am I being obstinate? Perhaps; but aren't you being equally obstinate in ordering me to change? I mean, what's it to you? It's not like I'm doing anything immoral (on the ice cream question, of course). Further, as I have the right in that sphere to order what I want, what argument can you possibly have against me?

It might be nice to change. Okay, but it might be nice to get what I want too. It's almost a moral wash; wait, no it isn't. It's my right to do what I want among legitimate moral choices. What you think I should do merits nothing for your position. It's only you being bossy.

Maybe I should have labeled this becoming a curmudgeon to the nth degreee. But so be it. Leave me alone where I've the right be left alone; that's all I ask.

Rudeness at the gas station

I've opined before that I'm intent on becoming a curmudgeon; indeed, that I welcome it. Something which I saw this morning only solidifies that desire. I witnessed something which just plain infuriates me.

Actually, this same thing has happened several times over the years. It's just kind of coming to a head lately.

As I pulled into the neighborhood gas station, not for gas but for a coffee and a paper, I dutifully and rightfully pulled into a parking space over to the side. As I walked to the door, this inconsiderate boor, also not buying gas, parked right in front of the door, to run in a grab a pack of cigarettes. This action effectively blocked access to half the gas pumps, as well as semi-blocking the station door.

Again, this has happened often over the last several years. The more I see it the more it rankles me. It's. Just. Rude. The world ain't all about you, dude. Be considerate of people; park to the side where you're supposed to if you aren't buying gas.

This missive surely doesn't fully express my ire. But if I'd had a walking cane, I sure would have been waving it at him malevolently.

Being a curmudgeon is cute.

You may ask, especially after yesterday's missive, why someone so lovable as myself might actually wish to become a curmudgeon.

Go ahead. Ask. I'm waiting, so long as a curmudgeon may deign to ask.

Deign. What a delightfully curmudgeonly word. I deign to ask that. I deign thou to deny me my right to ask that.

You do not. Ask, that it is. Nor deny me my right to respond. Yet I shall answer. I shall deign (ha, ha, ha) to answer your unasked address.

It is because I am increasingly aged. That, by itself, allows me to ask questions ordinarily dismissed as impertinent. I am increasingly older. Therefore, I am increasingly curmudgeonly. All will love me and despair!

You see, curmudgeons are loved because they are curmudgeons. They are too old to be held accountable, let alone responsible. They ask all the questions no one else will ask because they will be seen as impertinent. The old curmudgeons will be seen as cute. You. Lose.

That's why I want to be a curmudgeon. I'm ahead of the curve.

I've decided I want to be a curmudgeon

I like to complain about the cold even though it's supposed to be this cold this time of year and the fact is obvious to everyone. This has the added advantage of giving me the chance to complain about something else: turning on the furnace. It costs so much to heat the house that we ought to conserve and just dress warmer instead of ratcheting up the thermostat. It is in those examples why I find curmudgeonly behavior so much fun. You can complain about anything and everything.

Today's music is nothing but noise merely because it isn't the music I like. Country isn't like it was back in the day, neither is rock, and why don't they play the big bands anymore? Today's styles are an affront to the eye: you should dress like we did in the good old days. They never existed, of course, and that's all part of what's wrong with the world too.

The bed is too hard or too soft...the sun is too bright or it's too cloudy outside...work is too slow until it's too busy...I could go on and on. And while it might irritate folks to listen to me they will remember me. You know him; he's the guy that complains about everything.

So you see, there's a reason for this, a method to my madness. It is by becoming a curmudgeon that I become immortal. So don't think I'm just a crank.

Or on second thought, go ahead and do that. Then I shall have your poor and inconsiderate attitude to crab about too.