I need to teach someone else to take my pictures for me.
One might have difficulty seeing the flaws depending on the device one is using to view this page. Our statistics tell us that between 60-70% of you are using a mobile device, which means you’re not seeing the pictures as large as I am. Consider yourself blessed. These are not my best pictures by a long shot. Look at the catch in the eyes. You should only see one little spec of light there, not two, or something that appears elongated. The photo is out of focus. Every damn one of them.
That’s what I get for trying to take my own photos anymore. I considered tossing them all in the trash but thought this might make a good teaching moment. The lesson here is this: if you’re thinking about taking a selfie, don’t. Hand the fucking camera or phone (most likely) to someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing. You’re going to ruin the shot.
The problem with following that advice is that if you are like me there’s never anyone else around when you’re actually in the mood to take a picture, or have what you consider a good reason to take a picture. I figure it had been over a year since I last took any pictures of me, and since this is the very last day on which I am 55-year-old, then it is high time I took some for the sake of posterity. So, we did, and this is what we got out of it. Bah.
I’m blaming the interruptions. There was an interruption to go with every photo. Most of them had something to do with the dog Kat rescued from the middle of the street yesterday. Now, mind you, I’m glad she stopped and rescued the dog. I hate seeing where animals have been hit. Drivers are so heartless anymore. No one stops. No one bothers to see if the dog’s owner is nearby. Rescuing the dog was a good thing.
However, upon bringing him to our house she then turned around and went to school. I’ve been left to deal with the little guy. He’s been rather high maintenance so far. Our dog is three times his size. We have four cats who instantly took a dislike to him. His presence has made things challenging
So, it was snap a picture, run check on the commotion in the back bedroom. Snap another picture, hunt down and clean up where our visitor decided to poop. Snap another picture, and take the dog out to Grandpa Bob who took him to see if he’s been chipped. Snap another picture, respond to urgent email. Snap another picture … you get the idea.
Perhaps I could be excused for fucking up the focus if I were ten years old. I’m not, though. I know how to do this. But I didn’t. These pictures weren’t that important to me. They weren’t worth that extra five seconds. I have things to do.
I’m going to stop bitching about the photos now, even though that’s very much the old man sort of thing I do these days. Here are the pictures. Learn from them. Please. Don’t take pictures like this.
This is how I look when I’m writing. Sort of. Normally you’d just see the back of my head.
I only smoke when I’m stressed and trying to relax. I normally go outside, hence the cap. I’ve been stressed far too much lately. I’m probably going to die.
Music calms the savage beast, huh? I must be listening to the wrong thing.
Scotch, it’s what’s for dinner. And lunch. And sometimes breakfast.
Grumpy Old Man
Am I grumpy? I might be. But I think maybe sometimes it’s misinterpreted.—Harrison Ford
[one_half padding=”4px 10px 0 4px”]I don’t think of myself as a smoker. I don’t like cigarettes at all; can’t stand the damn things. I light my pipe when the situation around me is frustrating and I need to detach and focus on something that doesn’t involve sending my blood pressure further into the stratosphere. Surprisingly, the need to do so doesn’t occur as often as one might think. And yeah, I know it’s better to use a match than a lighter, but hey, expediency was important, not the quality of the smoke. If you’re going to bitch at me, go away. I’m grumpy.
It was determined long ago, before I was even 30, that I would eventually become a Grumpy Old Man. How that was evident at such a young age, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve always been fussy. I do know that I’ve always had a short fuse and very little tolerance for stupidity, which seems to have grown dramatically. In fact, I’m willing to bet that the world’s overly abundant ignorance is another contributing factor to my blood pressure issues. The universe should be paying for my medicine. Grumpy Old Man status has been achieved and the morons of the world, all seven billion of them, are to blame.
What I wouldn’t have guessed some 30 years ago is that there would be so very much Grumpy Old Man fodder; it’s everywhere. Let’s start with the idiots in the neighborhood who apparently don’t recognize a stop sign when they see it. The signs for the all-way stop are not hidden behind trees or difficult to see from a distance. No, the people running them are just completely selfish assholes who don’t give a damn about anyone’s safety, including their own. I may have been seen standing out in the street yelling at them more than once, hoping their cars blow up. Why? Because I’m a Grumpy Old Man.[/one_half]
[one_half_last padding=”4px 4px 0 10px”]I was recently complaining about the fools running the stop signs and someone referenced the character of Mr. Wilson from Hank Ketcham’s cartoon, Dennis the Menace. I can support that comparison. Mr. Wilson was someone who just wanted some peace and quiet in his retirement years, and low-and-behold the Mitchells move in next door and give birth to one of the brattiest little kids to ever don a pair of overalls and carry a slingshot. Understand, Dennis wasn’t even old enough for school. Why the hell did the kid have a slingshot? I can totally understand Mr. Wilson’s frequent frustration.
The world needs grumpy old men. If it weren’t for us, the rest of the world would be grabbing another beer and continually shouting, “Hey, watch this!” How do you think  terrorist groups are formed? There obviously were no grumpy old men around to slap the insolent jackasses upside the head when they first suggested killing large numbers of people for the attention. What were they thinking, that the collective peoples of the world would just say, “Oh, you poor thing, here, have a cookie?” No, the world responds by blowing the fucking morons to smithereens. Asswipes.
I am quite content to take on the Grumpy Old Man role; I’m settling into it and it feels as comfortable as an old sweater. At some point, I’m going to need a larger front porch on which I can set a rocking chair so that the visual impact of the role is complete. I’m also going to need a dog that growls at anyone smelling of fancy men’s perfume. Being a Grumpy Old Man is my right, my destiny, and I happily embrace this important social position. Now, hand me my pipe and stay the fuck off my lawn! [/one_half_last]
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