Death or taxes?

I'm thinking, I'm thinking. 

Does anyone ever get pleasantly surprised by his or her income tax calculation? I certainly don't. 

As a freelancer, my income fluctuates annually. Last year I worked almost every single day and managed to have a good year. Not that it felt good, with car trouble and the withering failures of the dishwasher, A/C, water heater, and smaller appliances. The only appliance in the house that has not been replaced at least once is the oven, and I'm keeping an eye on that in case it gets any ideas. 

The upshot of my earned income, of course, is that I have to pay an enormous amount of taxes. I like to think it's going toward missiles to finally end the 50-year war Iran declared on us, but it's probably going to a Minnesotan learing center. 

The comic strip Cathy used to have a running bit where her accountant could tell the heroine where her tax money was actually being used, and it was always some stupid, frivolous thing, like color-coded staplers for the Department of Agriculture. It was funny, but I would take stupid and frivolous over the fraud that has been consuming vast amounts of American citizens' pay.

This year it was recommended to me that, as there had been some changes to the tax code, that it might be wise to let a professional run the numbers rather than taxpaying software, as I have used the past few tax seasons. That brought me to the door of a local branch of a well-known financial service that I will call McTax's (with apologies to McDonald's). 

I do not want to go through the ensuing confusion, delays, and frustrations, but I will say:

1) What has taken weeks could have been resolved in hours for far less than the $500 I got soaked;

2) It is possible that my tax software might have gotten me the same painful result, but I guarantee it would not have been worse; and

3) I have gotten takeout from a sandwich shop that had cockroaches, been in bars where I thought I might die, and been at the mercy of a crazy, nervous dentist, but none of these made me feel less confident in an establishment than the four "professionals" staffing the office of McTax's.

Well, lesson learned, I guess, or leared as they say in Minneapolis. Now we have another reason to push hard to sell the house, as I am going to have a hard time paying taxes from last year and no way to put down an advance on taxes for this year. Selling the house would solve that issue.

But the oven had better not get any funny ideas. 

Education and frustration.

Year in, year out, we hear the same laments from people who have put some distance between themselves and high school. 

"WHY DID I HAVE TO STUDY X? I'VE NEVER USED IT!"

Values for X include science (biology, physics, chemistry), foreign languages, writing, or history, but mostly math (algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus).

I have an answer for the question, but people don't like it. That answer is:

It wasn't for your benefit, stupid; it was to find the kids who would do well in it and go on to make great contributions to society -- and lots of money. 

I absolutely count myself in with the stupids on this. For all the good higher mathematics has done me, I might as well have spent those hours in school playing miniature golf or watching game shows. So I am not without sympathy to their complaint. And they are not really stupid, although they are complaining out of ignorance here.  

They need to understand that this is a downside of universal public education -- the kids all get tossed into the various subject pools, and the ones with the interest and aptitude -- and support at home -- will swim. Everyone has to take algebra, biology, etc. so we can find the future engineers, mathematicians, doctors, chemists, and so on. 

A tailor-made system where every child is eased into what he knows and likes best might seem ideal, but like most ideals it is impossible in practice. What the kvetchers would prefer in fact is to have never had to study these things, but we need people who understand them -- and how else will we produce them? 

It doesn't mean that the kids who struggle in math or English are useless dummies. Hardly. They may feel like way when they struggle, and I sure as hell did in trigonometry. It doesn't mean that they have nothing to offer. It just means that they don't have a knack for that kind of subject. Even most smart kids if pressed to study higher mathematics to its limits will reach a level where it becomes a fight. 

Schools used to know this. They used to have plenty of vocational training for kids who really weren't interested in college but could make a good, even great living doing other things. Then we all got buffaloed into thinking everyone had to go to college except for the hopelessly stupid. Those people we could look down on.

This has led to the sidelining of vocational classes and the ballooning of college costs and college debt. It also has led to the foolish disregard of occupations that once held esteem in our culture, jobs that required knowledge and skill but not a degree. 

So when I call someone who complains about having had to study algebra in high school stupid, I don't mean they were stupid about math. I mean they're being stupid about this particular question. 

All fall down.

Temperatures have been in the low 50s overnight this week, and you know what that means! 

I'm mostly past the age where my clothes have to be seasonal, beyond the point of survival. My last Hawaiian shirt went to the charity box as a gift to my wife. Now it's someone else's problem. Everything else is just layers. 

But then there's plaid. I have a short-sleeve plaid shirt, but a part of me will always think of plaid as being the color scheme for thick cotton shirts, thus the kind that you leave in the closet until the first day of autumn. And not crazy colorful plaid, either -- they don't wear that stuff in Quito or Honolulu, you know. I mean plaid based on black + one other color.

The sad thing is, that with the loss of my Hawaiian shirt, I only have one other really summery number, a very bright blue that's quite airy and good for the heat. But it also must be ironed after washing, or it looks like it was balled up under the car seat from September to May. That's an issue because 1) I'm lazy and 2) the dog is scared of the steam iron. That hissing really bothers him. Consequently I have worn that blue shirt once this summer, and at the rate things are going it may not come out of the closet again. 

There's another problem with happy colors, and that's you just look dumb wearing them if your countenance is very serious. I used to wear lighthearted ties to work sometimes for that very reason -- to remind me that if I went around grumpy with, say, my Looney Tunes tie, I would look like a fool. And then I got sacked. And then no one was wearing ties anymore. And then I was working from home. So now I just go around grumpy anyway, and wear dark colors. 

This is a lot more than I intended to say about clothes, and I apologize if I've wasted your time. If it made you grumpy, put on a Hawaiian shirt and smile. There's still almost a month of summer to go. 

Stick it to the man!

 

If it was fun, they'd call it play.

So how about that? No sooner do I say I'll restart the blog when work fills up my week. Well, it's good, but it's also bad, because if I'm not writing it means I have no spare time, and indeed that's how I've felt. Work has been -- well, you can guess. 

While I was taking my recent leave -- of my senses -- I actually got into a regrettable scrape with one of my freelance clients. I'd done work for them before, always for a flat fee. Watch out for that flat fee, boys and girls; it is seldom a good deal. Nevertheless, I liked the people and the work, so even though they didn't pay that well I was willing to take the job again, cleaning up copy. 

Well, everything went wrong. You see, they were no longer using the same writers as in the past, and the new one was terrible. This caused me to spend about twice as much time on the project as in the past. We know time is many things, including:

• fleeting
• relative
• of the essence

But most important, time is 

• money

So when they told me I had to go back and make changes in part of the job I'd already returned, I lost my temper. These changes were caused by stylebook decisions they'd recently made, something I had forgotten about, and I argued that they had pushed me to minimum wage already and I was about to sink below that. They responded that they were sorry I was unhappy and it was best if we part ways.

The next day I sent an e-pology, and wished them luck. I do not like blowing my stack and take no pleasure in it. But I wouldn't work for them again even if they'd have me, which they wouldn't.

So that was one client down. 

This week has been a whole other kettle of crap, but I'm glad that the memory of regret for letting my anger get the better of me is still fresh. I'm way too old to expect anything good to come of tantrums. 

 

WHO at work?

(Today’s blog entry is brought to you courtesy of guest blogger Theda Blurg, Ph.D., professor of Grievance Studies at Mailen University, whose pronouns are wa/hoo. I give you Dr. Theda.)

🏫🏫🏫

Shut up. 

So I'm riding the road on my electric bicycle because I don't drive some planet-killing machine from hell like you, and I see this:

I would like to hope that this so-called "utility work" was something really utile, like removing all natural gas hookups on the block, but I knew better than to get my hopes up. Then I saw something that was really disgusting -- the most offensive, the most foul, most rank pile of sexism to pop up in front of my face since the all-male remake of Mamma Mia! at the college. 

Can you believe it? MEN WORKING! Not only does this sign debase the contributions of women, but the other 29 genders as well! As if only cisgender, undoubtedly white men ever work! You can almost hear the sneers from those morons as a little girl or trans boy asks if they could grow up to run cable in freezing January weather. "Oh, no, little girly person," they'd say, sneeringly, "this is man's work!"

Of course I immediately ran over to the sign and set it on fire. Well, I tried to, anyway, but I don't use fossil fuels (did you know butane is a fossil fuel? No? You need to do better) and rubbing two sticks was getting me nowhere. I had to make do with kicking it over and doing my cleansing dance of destruction on it, which was such a hit at the library ball last year. Then I spat on it, but I forgot I was wearing my mask. Still, it was satisfying. 

So if you see a sign like this, remember to take action! Sexism, racism, homophobia, all the bad -isms and -obias will only thrive if we don't burn them to the ground! 

🔥🔥🔥

(Thank you, Dr. Theda. I took the liberty of cutting off the last 1,850 words of your essay. And I'd like to thank the example set for me by our federal, state, and local governments, wherein one hires crazy people and celebrates their craziness and then is shocked when they do crazy things.)

Meme Joe Greme.

Yep, we're forced by circumstances to rely on memes again today! But in a way, isn't everything just a meme? Isn't a movie just a long-form meme? Aren’t serial TV shows just one, long, punctuated meme?

Look back in irritation.

So here we are, at the start of a new year. 

This is it!

Before we go charging into 2023, I thought I'd have one last glance backward. I thought that, rather than a roundup of the things that made me and many others absolutely insane with fear or fury this year, I'd just note a few things that were memorably annoying, at least as far as I am concerned. As they say (and Benny Hill once quoted), it's the little things that hurt. You can sit on top of a mountain, but you can't sit on top of a pin. 

In no particular order: 

😠 Americans can't pronounce monsieur

This one's for my wife. The French makeup company Lancôme (part of Paris-based L'Oréal) released a new mascara called Monsieur Big, and all her favorite online influencers have been pronouncing the first word MON-sewer. Even one in Louisiana, a state founded by French people, where they don't pronounce Baton Rouge BAYten ROOgee. Merriam-Webster has no other pronunciation for monsieur except slight variations of the French meh-syeur. What happened? Doesn't anyone take French in high school anymore? 

😠 Whoop/whup

Ain't these people never watched wrestling? When you want to beat someone up, you want to whup him, not whoop him. To whoop is "to utter a whoop in expression of eagerness, enthusiasm, or enjoyment". If someone says he wants to whoop somebody's ass, it sounds more like he wants carnal knowledge of said end, not to leave the imprint of a boot on it. The whoop/whup menace is not as common as the inability to spell whoa that I mentioned early in December, but it's always a show of ignorance. Whup too is in the dictionary -- let's resolve to look words up before we use them this year!

😠 Political infection 

Twice I have dropped out of groups on social media that specifically demanded NO POLITICS of their memberships. People can't help themselves. In one case it was a group dedicated to old comic books, and Trump seemed to still own these people's thoughts a year after he left office. In the other, a group about the history of my home town, one member who was also a moderator kept slipping in PETA propaganda. It's like a mania. 

😠 Loving villains

Disney has been leading the pack on this, of course; in its efforts to squeeze every nickel from every bit of intellectual property it owns, it's been doing films, novels, graphic novels, and whatnot celebrating the bad guys. We've also seen it with films like Joker and Black Adam. The bad guys never seem to choose wickedness out of overwrought ambition or greed or even the left's favorite hatred to hate, prejudice; they're forced into being evil. Great, now do Hitler. 

😠 Recipe introductions 

You go online for a mac & cheese recipe -- a recipe that takes five ingredients and four numbered instructions -- and the author first has to tell her life's story. Thanks for the recipe, but I don't understand why you went to all that trouble, writing all that. I almost gave up hope until I saw the header INGREDIENTS and realized I was saved. The personal touch is great, but usually a paragraph or two is plenty. 

😠 Affirmation dumps

Don't get me wrong -- I much prefer people who want to spread hope and cheer to those who want to cackle as the world burns. But you can't just dump and run. People say the darndest things about expecting the universe to magically respond to their desires if they desire them enough. If I politely explain that this is not my experience, or ask a question, I get ignored or brushed off. You have to be able to defend those posts to an honest inquiry, not just put them out there to perfume the air. 

😠 Owned truth

This one goes back to Jim McGreevey's shameful exit in New Jersey -- anytime someone introduces "my truth" or dismisses your facts as "your truth," expect a humungous pile of crap to follow. If it's not the truth, it is a lie. This seems to get worse every year.

😠 Really bad portmanteaux

Kidult. Manscaping. Beergarita. Foodlegger. Caucacity. Some are fine and fill a niche. Most, like these, have little wit and less sense. Unless beergaritas are really good; you'll have to tell me. 

😠 Christmas cards

I'm sorry, but I think we have to let this one go. Every year I send them out and get fewer back as people just give up. We all can stay in touch online, at least enough to know who's alive. Most of the cards we get aren't even signed, and may have been ordered through something like Shutterfly. Mine may be the first human hands to hold the card. Maybe we can send out a handful of cards for people we really can't stay in touch with without mail (old folks in the home, for example, or people working at Port Lockroy), but for the rest, I think this is one tradition we ought to drop.

That's my list, and I'd love to hear your pet peeves. I have a longer list of things that are really awful, but I'd guess most of those are on your list, too. On to 2023, which I can only hope will be no more tragic and horrible, and less annoying. 

Evil machinations vs. puppy.

So my neighbor, the one who will be led out of his house or place of business one day with a raincoat over his head -- not that I'm rooting for it; I just expect it -- added his latest entry into the dog-hating Olympics last week, and it really made a stink. 

No, seriously. 

He's always hated my dogs, even though we keep them on our property and always, and I mean always, clean up after them. I've even cleaned up after other dogs on the block in the hope of being neighborly -- and, it must be confessed, for fear of being blamed for something neither I nor my canine chums did. 

This guy has never liked me, actually, long before we had dogs. Looking way back, I think it may be because I didn't accept his invitation to a house party for the neighborhood and never explained why. I couldn't. The fact was I was putting down the drink, and couldn't risk being at a function like that. He never asked about it -- but he's said a thing to me since except to scream angry words about anything else. 

I can accept that. If that was the cause, I wish I'd handled it better, but who knows? It wasn't his business what I was doing. He never had another neighborhood party, so I think it wasn't a success anyway. Did he blame me, thinking I was giving him the high hat? I had nothing against him.

Now it's been so long it just seems impossible to ask. While I was going about my business, he was getting tied in his own private Gordian Knot. I just pray that he finds something better to do with his mind. 

But he oughtn't pick on my dogs. 

Last Saturday I had Izzy out first thing in the a.m. and was walking past his place when I was stunned by an exceptionally strong scent of garlic. I figured the crows had ripped up his trash bags again, but trash pickup was the day before. I turned my handy flashlight on (real dark in the mornings now) and lo and behold, he had sprinkled chopped garlic all the way up his property line on both sides of the sidewalk. 

Now, this is interesting for a couple of reasons. The first is that this would be the second time he'd ever done anything on his lawn by his own labor in decades; he hires people to cut it and only once has ever been seen to fertilize it. For a guy who doesn't give a damn about the grass, he sure gets mad about the dogs. 

And that's the other thing. He yelled at me and the late Fazzy once, and all Fazz was doing was lying on his lawn for a moment as we passed by. Sure, my dogs have gone on the grass by the sidewalk, but that's what they do. It's not illegal. It's not even avoidable. They sometimes pick a spot fast as lightning. But none of my dogs has ever made it a habit to go on his grass, because they're just getting started when we set out or they are almost home, and they want to put a little distance between themselves and HQ when they go. I do know some other regulars whose dogs make his lawn a common spot (my lawn too), but I have to suspect the garlic ploy was directed at me after his hysterics. He always pretends to be a nice guy around others, inasmuch as he is able (which is: not much). 

So, okay, about that garlic. Garlic is bad for dogs, but not really dangerous in tiny amounts. Dogs dislike it. Onions too -- I've seen them rear back from all things Amaryllidaceae. I'm not sure he did it the best way (there's a method for garlic spray at this site that seems more economical), but whatever. He put enough down to repel me, personally. 

At first I was angry about this and wanted to do something to him. I thought about little signs along the grass saying Follow me for more recipes! Or a large sign that said DOG HATER LIVES HERE. I thought about adding some lettuce and tomato, too; really get the meal started. But finally I realized I was doing exactly what he does -- sitting in my house and seething at others -- and I started laughing. It's just stupid. If he'd ever asked me to avoid his grass, or put up a little friendly notice about it, I'd have taken my dogs into the street to stay away, but no -- that's not how he does things. He sulks and fumes until any slight becomes a monstrous injustice and must be avenged. 

Anyway, once I knew Izzy was not going ingest any of the garlic, we resumed walking past his place on the public sidewalk. 

There's a punchline to this. Repellent scent be damned: Izzy was very curious about this garlic thing, and finally decided what to do about it -- starting Sunday morning, he's been peeing on it regularly. He never did on their lawn before. Maybe he wants to kill the scent. But when I saw him doing that, I was torn between laughing out loud and breaking into song ("Did you ever know that you're my HEEEEEERRROOOO?"). Now he's made it a regular weeing ground. 

I'm not going to let this guy infect me with whatever he's got. He can have mental illness or something, but it's only contagious if I let it be.

However, if he escalates to rat poison, as some do, and my dog gets some of it, I may be blogging from the lockup. A man has to draw the line somewhere. 

Can you blame him?

 

Sorry!

I was having trouble with Google Docs, because most people have trouble with Google Docs unless they spend a lot of time using Google Docs, but I have avoided that because I hate Google Docs. Nevertheless, it is sometimes the price I pay for working from home. Thing is, I thought I had screwed something up for a client because of my inexperience, and I apologized. The client asked me why I was apologizing, since I had done nothing wrong. 

I explained that I had just passed a big wedding anniversary, an if I had a secret to being a good husband it would be: Apologize first and ask questions later. 

"Just assume I'm sorry and then tell me what I did!"

There have been times when I've taken a different approach. Early on in our marriage, I usually thought: Well, if it was something important, I'm sure she'll tell me. This only prolongs the agony, at least for me, because she could fume a lot longer than I could ignore. She's of Irish descent, you know, and they can hold a grudge five hundred years after they're dead. 

Later, when I got more used to the things that really triggered this fury, I might think: I know what I did wrong but I feel embarrassed enough without rehashing it, so if I act contrite maybe it will go away. Oh, no, brother -- another rookie mistake. They never forget. They may forgive, but they never forget. (I'm not sure if I'm talking about the Irish or wives here, but it probably applies to both.)

My next tactic, going on the offensive ("What did I do wrong NOW?"), gets it out in the open, but not in a constructive way. It takes much longer for the whole situation to find resolution when you go from 0 to shouting in five seconds.

In the end, I have found that when I encounter The Scowl or the Wall of Cold, it's best to brace myself for whatever and ask what the problem is. Most of the time it's actually not me, but if I don't crack the ice I'll have to wait for the explosion. 

On the other side of the coin, when my wife does something that makes me sore, I usually just suck it up and refuse to talk about it. Never complain, never explain, right? Unless it's a real doozy, in which case I may go do something constructive, like clean up the cellar, in the LOUDEST WAY POSSIBLE.

Maybe my real secret to marriage is that both parties have to be able to put up with each other's BS. It takes two to tango, as they used to say, and everyone is full of BS sometimes. But if one side won't tango, there's not much that can be done. 

Dominant species.

I hate to keep krexing about nature, but I've come to think that the dominant species on Earth ultimately will not be humans nor cockroaches nor mosquitoes nor bacteria. I think it's going to turn out to be crabgrass. 

As far as grass goes, this stuff is mean. You try to pull it, you can't get it all. You try to poison it, and half of it stays green. You put down all kinds of chemicals, and back it comes next year. 

When all of us are gone, and our Kentucky bluegrass, our fescue, our Bahia, our buffalo and Bermuda and creeping bentgrass are toast, the crabgrass will still be here, annoying whatever mammal still lives. 

I can see it becoming an evil species, like the giant carrot man from the vegetable uprising episode of Lost in Space. 

Yeah, that guy.

While retaining its evil crabgrassy ways, it will leave Earth to go pester other life forms throughout the galaxy, impossible to ignore, get rid of, or isolate. It won't take over planets or displace other sentient life; it will just move in and not leave, like the galaxy's unemployed brother-in-law. 

At least that's how it looks to me today. Is there no hope? Why, yes, there might be, thanks to our friend BG Bear, who posted this: 

Kill it with fire! I'm not sure if this little number is available anymore, but flaming weed killers can be bought at large hardware and yard outlets. 

It's either that or we nuke the crabgrass from orbit. Easy choice, you ask me. 

Vender bender.

 

Resentment.

It's St. Joseph's feast day again! St. Joseph is my confirmation saint, and a very good one to keep an eye on, especially for those of us going through Lent. 

As I've noted before, we don't know much about St. Joseph, but we are confident that he fulfilled the mission of his life uprightly, and therefore that he didn't have resentments about the way things turned out. He certainly could have. There he is, perhaps the most decent man on earth, and he has to devote his life to a mission he did not choose, fleeing to Egypt, fleeing back from Egypt, hearing terrifying prophecies, losing Jesus in the temple, etc. But when he was told to do something by God, he did it without arguing. You can't say that for most of the prophets and saints.

I was thinking about resentments this week, and how giving them up has been a major work of my adulthood. This week I was watching a video by Fr. Mike Schmitz on Ascension Presents about having to do things we don't like, and how this often leads to the same ol' place: resentment. The point that stuck with me seemed quite psychologically sound: 

Resentment is that anger, that frustration, solidified. It's not a living thing. Anger is a living thing; frustration is a living thing; grief is a living thing. Resentment is a frozen thing. It's something ... frozen in time. And it can't move. It can't grow. It's not a living thing. 

While strong and negative feelings from unhappy events can change and pass away, in other words, resentment can't, and that's why it's so awfully destructive.

So, for the rest of Lent, I think it'd be good for me to unfreeze my resentments and let them pass along the way, and stop new ones from forming like dirty hunks of ice on the side of the road. Hey, spring is almost here -- time to end the freezing and start new life. 

Where is the returns department?

WOMAN DEMANDS TO SEE MANAGER

WARWICK, NY -- Noted consumer and activist Kaitlynn Schweack demands to see the manager regarding the new year that has just begun two days ago. 

"I have a number of complaints with this so-called 2022 that need to be addressed by a higher up, and I mean right this minute," said Schweack, known in area stores for expecting "prompt and adequate service".

"First of all, this supposed new year is extremely shopworn, to say the least," she continued. "I mean, look at this mess. It's still got these Brazilian floods and other clear evidence of climate chaos, totally unresolved from the previous model. There's still knuckle-dragging morons with guns all over the country. You can see signs of financial crisis right here all along the edge. And look! There's still COVID all over it! You call this new?"

Schweack further stated that this was probably a reconditioned or refurbished year, falsely being sold as new, and the store should be ashamed of itself. 

"Like all of us, when I go to get a new year, I want something clean and unsullied," she told reporters. "Not this thing! Sully sully sully! I demand satisfaction. I and my 20,000 followers on TikTok, I might add,"

The store's "no refunds, no returns" policy, clearly marked on signs and packages, was also considered objectionable by the noted consumer. 

"That's against federal and state law, you know," said Schweack. "I don't care who you are. Your signs cut no ice with me. Now, am I going to get a really NEW new year, or do we have to escalate this further?"

At press time there was no indication that anything would or possibly even could be done to satisfy the demands of Schweack and her supporters. 

Christmastime is here!

 I'm back! And slightly lamer than ever!

ho ho ho

What a year this has been. So full of... Crap, mostly. But worry not! Your old friend Fred is here to try to pick up the thread on Your Daily Dose of Vitamin Fred. Why? Because you're showing signs of grippe, my friends, as well as catarrh and pox and housemaid's knee. All these are well known to be caused by a deficiency of vitamin F.

But mainly, because I missed you! 

In a nutshell, for those who have not followed the whine trail through the comments on the site of the Great Lileks, or just been personally close enough to hear me, we got a new puppy named Izzy in the summer and he is part cupid and part angel of doom. Mostly all dog, but there are issues beyond mere dogginess. Elder dog Tralfaz has not been well, but that's another story. There was a financial crisis, and much gnashing of teeth (gnash gnash). Which reminds me--I haven't been to the dentist in ages. So it's been a tough year. I'm sure I'll be addressing a lot of this stuff in bite-size pieces going forward.

I'm still crushed for time, as in under the famous Letterman 80-ton hydraulic press, so I don't think I'll be able to revive the Wednesday book feature anytime soon. If I do, I'll finally stop calling it the Humpback Writers. 'Twas a silly name.  

Anyway, that's all for today, and thanks for visiting. Going forward we can expect to see the usual snide remarks, dopey anecdotes, goofy commentary, and poorly rendered cartoons. Hope to see you around!

A little love and a lotta hate.

Today I'd like to address a more serious, more meaningful topic than I did yesterday, when I discussed dingbats running around accusing people of racism. I don't have time for that silliness on a Monday morning. No, today I wish to address those things on which there is no middle ground; things that generate devotion in a few while sparking hatred and disgust in the rest. 

What inspired this topic was this:

I accidentally brought home a bag of hazelnut coffee from the store, a bag someone had left on the shelf with normal human coffee. I didn't realize it until much later when I saw it in the cabinet at home. Then it went straight off to the local food pantry before it could cause any harm. 

I dislike hazelnut coffee more than any other flavored coffee. My wife does even more so, for reasons I discussed the last time I addressed the hazelnut menace almost four years ago. I actually like hazelnuts, but that overwhelming odor mixed with coffee is just no good. I think many people feel the same way. In fact, it's one of those things that a small group loves beyond measure while the rest abhor with a hatred that makes Emperor Palpatine look like St. Francis. 

What else fits this profile? How about anchovies? Fans of anchovy pizza are few but strong in their desires, which is why anchovy pizza can still be found. The Anti-Chovy party is just as strongly opposed. My wife has a friend in the former camp who can't get her preferred pie because the rest of the family is in the latter camp and won't stand for it. Just the odor ruins the meal, like the guy who nukes fish in the lunchroom microwave. Maybe that's just an American reaction, though; people in Italy seem to enjoy their anchovies. I wonder -- do other regional foods like surströmming, haggis, and lutefisk enjoy wide popularity in their native countries, or are they also mostly shunned as they are here?

Veganism as a class should fit into this, although there is a buffer group of vegetarians. Are the vegetarians further divided between those who think vegans are cool because they're hard-core and those who think vegans are jerks who act all superior because they snub ice cream? Since there is an in-between question, we'll have to say that while some vegan foods do fit into this little-love/lotta-hate divide, veganism itself doesn't.

So what does? Well, it's not just ingestibles that cause this strong divide. Many niche interests do. Without going into miscellaneous fetishes, I think we can list these:

Opera

Bridge (contract or auction)

Wicca

Insects

Swedish cinema

Fly-tying

Most of these are harmless pursuits, but all of them leave me cold. I'd rather spend a night in solitary confinement than have to deal with any of them for an evening. But I don't condemn anyone for liking them -- no, not even the Swedish cinephiles.

What do you think? Do you know of anything that a few people adore that all others despise? 

Tricky day for knight.

 

He never said "tropical."

Remember: A resentment is an expectation that has been mugged.

Kvetch and release.

Just in case you were wondering, I thought I'd fill you in on my latest peeves. Not my mass peeves, the things that are driving everybody crazy, like government and stupid ideas and cancel culture and whatnot. You look on social media and everyone is running around with his hair on fire. They all know how to run the world, but not one of them can run his own life.

Well, I don't know how to run the world, but I also admit I don't know how to run my life. So here are...

The Peeves

Missing Gloves

Where did all the gloves go? When the stupid Chinese Death Virus was inflicted on the world by the government of China, mask mandates started to pop up quickly, but people were also told to wear latex or similar gloves for safety. The glove issue became so big that news stories on glove litter in shopping center lots were seen throughout the land. Satirical videos on how to throw away latex gloves were found on the Internet. A few months later, poof -- all the gloves had disappeared. No one was wearing them in stores anymore. Why was this? What happened? No one seems to even know. One day a sign went up demanding masks but not mentioning gloves, and then no one was wearing gloves. Was this a mistake? Were gloves the key all along? No one knows, no one cares, just keep moving and hope that the virus goes away. 

Dog Stick Addiction

I'm starting to think my younger dog, Nipper, has a stick issue. He can't pass one by. He stashes sticks all over the yard. I check to see if he's peeing and find him chewing a stick. "What the -- Where the hell did that come from?" He can't just stop at one stick, no; he has to keep looking for more until he's pulled inside, and even then he'll try to sneak a small one in by hiding it in his mouth. "Whatcha got there?" "Nrfng." There's always splinters in his fuzz. He may need stick rehab. It's not just a bad habit -- it's a stickness. 

Guys Blowing Past Stop Signs

No one with little kids or dopey dogs prefers to live on a major thoroughfare, where guys drive like crazy, but living on a side street that parallels a major thoroughfare is almost as bad. Guys trying to avoid the cops go on your street, blow through stop signs, and double the speed limit. I think they've all seen the Fast and Furious movies too many times. They should stick to a film series closer to their own selves -- Dumb and Dumber.

Old Man Winter and Stupid Governor Ruining Plans

I was supposed to meet some friends Thursday morning for an outdoor socially-distant kaffeeklatsch, but I was running a little late because I had called in Tralfaz's thyroid prescription to the vet (on Tuesday) and when I got there was told no one had filled it. I texted my chums to say I might be late, and they said that it was so cold they decided to move to the McDonald's. When I got there they were standing around inside -- because New York's Governor Dumbwad still has the no-indoor-dining rule in place that he imposed in December. Never mind that transmission rates on indoor dining are minuscule, or that the holidays are over. No matter what the data are, I suspect Cuomo will not lift restrictions until Biden bribes him to make things look good in New York. Which, by the way, they are not -- I'm told the hospitals in the Hudson Valley are as bad as they were last April. It's not the restaurants that caused it. But now I'm back on the larger mass peeves. 

Speaking of my dog's unfilled prescription....

Unfilled Prescriptions

I called my own prescription for my back medication to the doctor on Wednesday. This is for the crippling pain I suffered almost a year ago; the doctor has me on duloxetine, an antidepressant that obviously isn't working for me as an antidepressant but has worked wonders for my neuropathic pain. The problem was, the doctor only wanted to give me a 30-day supply with one refill; the insurance company insisted that I get a 90-day supply at least, and the pharmacist was caught in the middle -- and no one told me this was going on. I found out Friday, when I was out of meds and went to get them. The doctor's office was closed when I called. And duloxetine can have significant withdrawal effects. Finally the pharmacist sold me a four-day supply for a sawbuck to get through the weekend, like a pusher. Has this ever happened to you?

And on top of all this...

Someone Used the name The Peeves

I thought that the Peeves would be a perfect name for a band of middle-aged suburban grumps, and guess what -- apparently a band in Chicago is already using the name. There goes my chance to cash in on my bad temper by starting a middle-class MOR rage-punk band. 

Oh, well -- must find gratitude, adjust attitude, and not throw punches. In the words of the philosophic band Yes, release all! Or abandon all hope for your brother!