Purposeful Polarization (& Beguiling Bonkercockie)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Purposeful Polarization (corollary -- beguiling bonkercockie), I stumbled on this phrase in a Wall Street Journal article. I've been following the seemingly endless attacks on the Donald, via the media and the Depublicans, fascinated by the deluge of if/then stories (if this should turn out to be true, then...) and unattributed (but trust us, we trust the leakers) leaks.

I refer specifically to (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy. It turns out the Donald isn't the Hitler of the 21st century (well, so far, it's early yet). It turns out that he's not crazy after all (well, so far, it's early yet), at least not consistently. While he does regularly say (or tweet) crazy shtuff, even some of his many enemies have begun to figure out it's often crazy like a fox/strategic in nature.

While the crazy and Hitler memes were only base hits, (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy is a home run. Our left-leaning infotainment industrial complex and the Depublicans are having a good deal of success tying the Donald to the Pooteen and (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy.

They've managed this in spite of the fact no actual crimes, so far at least, have yet to be uncovered. That's world-class Purposeful Polarization using a where there's smoke there's fire attack. However, the smoke, in this case, may just be a fog of spin and dizzinformation

 [Gentlereaders, please, bear with me. If you're sick of hearing about (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy you might be contemplating clicking off to elsewhere in cyberspace at this point. However, this letter/column isn't about (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy, it's about Purposeful Polarization.]



The WSJ article referenced above, Anti-Trump Democrats Invite Chaos, is a short editorial written by Ted Van Dyk who doesn't work for the paper and is described as being "...active for more than 40 years in Democratic administrations and campaigns..." succinctly states a list of reasons why our good friends on the left consider our newly appointed special prosecutor and calls for the Donald's impeachment to be justified.

He also succinctly demolishes them as there's no there, there -- the if/thens and leaks referenced above. He warns his fellow Depublicans that if they are successful in sidelining the Donald they could wind up with a true conservative in charge, which he considers to be a step backward from what they want. The Donald ain't a conservative, he's, well, the Donald. Personally, I think he's as surprised as the rest of us that he got elected, but that's another story.

Mr. Van Dyk's point is that the Depublicans (and America) would be better served if they were to find a way to compromise with the Donald on solutions for America's problems instead of perpetually pursuing Purposeful Polarization. (Sorry -- OK, not really.)

Mr. Van Dyk doesn't define purposeful polarization. In fact, he uses it only once, and towards the end of his article. He states that if we're to find some sort of rational compromise, "...purposeful polarization must give way to constructive engagement." Somebody needs to put that message on a t-shirt. To quote me (someone's gotta do it), "Compromise, don't demonize."


And then, talk about perfect timing (for my purposes at least), the Donald's proposed (he ain't the king, the 535 selfless representatives of the people have to pass it) 2018 budget hits the street. Let the games and the bonkercockie begin!

The Donald's man at Management and Budget, Mick Mulvaney, unleashes the $4,100,000,000,000 buck beast upon the world and takes his show on the road to promote it. Like most of its modern predecessors, and in the time-honored tradition of The Gummit, it's a vast tome containing some truth and a lot of lies financial projections and assumptions extending out for a decade. In other words, it's chock full of guesstimates and ignores the fact we choose an administration every four years, not ten.

Cue the Cacophony.

The opposition party, and everyone/anyone who will, at least theoretically, be receiving less largess from Uncle Sugar, predict the end of civilization as we know it. The Infotainment Industrial Complex (IIC) tends to agree.

Fortunately, the objectivity and truth obsessed contingent of the IIC, the press, steps in to save us from ourselves. "Trump seeks to slash $3.6 trillion of spending in austere budget" according to a reuters.com headline from 5.23.17.

"By Roberta Rampton | WASHINGTON

U.S. President Donald Trump asked lawmakers on Tuesday to cut $3.6 trillion in government spending over the next decade, taking aim at healthcare and food assistance programs for the poor in an austere budget that also boosts the military."

This is not an editorial, this is allegedly straight news. Note she (I hope I'm using Ms. Rampton's preferred pronoun and honorific) also uses the decade (five congressional and two presidential elections from now) gambit.

Ms. Rampton and Mr. Mulvaney (the budget whisperer) crunch the same numbers. He predicts a balanced budget -- ten years from now. She slyly, but clearly, informs us that the Donald is going to expand the military and abuse the poor to pay for it -- over the course of the next ten years.

So, my dearest grandstickies and great-grandstickies, I wish you luck. At the moment the adults seem to be leaving the room at an ever-accelerating pace. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, my favorite part, spending cuts by The Gummit aren't spending cuts. They're cuts to the amount of scheduled spending increases that The Gummit automatically increases each year. And no, I'm not making this up.

Two-thirds of, The Gummint, spending occurs on autopilot and includes scheduled increases. For example, the Donald's draconian, austere budget calls for spending $408,000,000,000 on Medicaid in the 2018 budget. This will be "cut" to only $688,000,000,000 by 2027. And no, I'm not making this up either. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

.


























    

Beware of Darkness (beware of darkness), Part Two

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

[Gentlereaders, I've been working on straightening out the various and sundry temporal kerfuffles caused by a technically challenged Tralfamadorian and a balky Wayback Machine that resulted in the loss of a day and a half of my life, which resulted in my publishing last Monday afternoon instead of the Saturday before last. Though this column is 24 hours late, be assured that everything is now back to normal and that Saturdays, 11:07 EST, is still the official publication day and time.]



Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies, 

Darkness and Tralfamidorians were the subjects of my last letter/column. To summarize, I explained that due to the result of the efforts of a technically challenged Tralfamidorian field interviewer I lost a day and a half of my life. 

Also, I explored the current dark trend in entertainment (specifically TV and movies) that feels like Darth Vader has been appointed cosmic program director. This trend is due, at least in significant part, to people without spiritual or philosophical compensations confronting the fact they are never going to wake up/cross a line/win the _______/etc. one magic day and be, happy. 

While I began with the Tralfamidorians I didn't go into much detail about them so let me begin by clearing that deck. Once I finish with that bit of literary housekeeping I'll provide some further illumination concerning the darkness that pervades our entertainment. 


I've mentioned the Tralfamidorians (and Tralfamidorian technical trauma) once before, in late 2015. My column was published a day late because of technical problems that occurred during a week-long visit with my favorite space race.

While Tralfamidorian tech is light years beyond Earth's relatively primitive version, it's still deployed by imperfect, fallible entities, not all that different than we are.

Last time, my problems were caused by a Tralfamidorian to Earthish translation program and a side-effect generating Neuralizer (which I've since found out was due to fact that an Earth2 instead of an Earth3 coded Neuralizer was used).

It all worked out in the long run though. Tralfamidorian customer service upgraded me to scheduled "abductions" even though I was far short of enough abduction miles to do so via normal protocols.

Last week's problems were exacerbated by a slightly miscalibrated Wayback Machine overdue for scheduled maintenance. The Wayback Machine is outdated technology in need of an upgrade and/or a competitor, but the lawyers at patent litigation machine Mr. Peabody, LLC, are very good at what they do.

Besides, as everyone knows, bouncing around in time seems to create problems by definition. I'm old enough to know better.

Your humble but lovable columnist was able to finally get the Tralfamidorians to agree to permit me to write an entire column about Tralfamidorians/alien abductions/etc. They promise me it will be censored as gently as possible.


Some more on bewaring of darkness. Last week I mentioned the more paradox. This is my way of describing how we're genetically/evolutionarily/commnsensically wired to seek more. More food and I'll live to see another weekend, not just another hump day. More sex means more offspring, having sex, which leads to more offspring. More not only ensures survival, it makes us feel happy, which makes us want to survive. 

Until relatively recently, the primary preoccupation of most H. sapiens on the planet Earth was finding enough -- more was gravy. Finding enough still preoccupies many.

Once we have the basics covered, I'm talkin' food/clothing/shelter, and we have a chance to catch our breath, it occurs to us that life is still a constant struggle, just less so. Though I own a sassy McMansion containing myriad overstuffed closets and refrigerators the _______ growing in my/on my _______ may turn out to be malignant.  

[Doesn't malignant sound like it's, well, malignant? Sorry...] 

Now, as I mentioned last week, if you're fortunate enough to subscribe to some sort of religious and/or philosophical belief that includes an afterlife in which one becomes a permahappy (at last!) -- right away (Christianity), eventually (via reincarnation), -- you have a shield to ward off darkness. Or, you could implement the secret of happiness. 

However, no matter what you believe and no matter how you feel most of the time -- life's still a bitch and you're still gonna' die. How you deal with these facts is up to you; you're gonna' need some occasional dark catharsis. However, I maintain that the ever-increasing total number of citizens on this planet that have enough, or more than enough, has a downside. 

You may have enough, or more than enough. But you may not have a religion, reject my version (or someone else's) of the secret of happiness, or are just drifting because you won't (or can't) decide what game you wish to play and what the rules of the playground are.

Not picking a game can be a good game, but it gets old, quickly. Also, not picking a game renders one much more vulnerable to stumbling into potholes of darkness. 

It's really quite simple, pick your game and you will be instantly happier. 

Or, alternatively, don't pick a game, don't decide what the rules are. Who needs rules? be free. Embrace darkness/chaos/nihilism. Move to Hollywood and make "realistic" entertainment. Beware of accidentally overdosing on your own cynicism. Poppa loves you. 

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

           



      

Beware of Darkness (beware of darkness)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original to solve the problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

[Gentlereaders, please forgive the fact this column is late. The rumor that I was once again abducted by aliens from Tralfamadore is true. For the record, the Tralfamidorians are a very gentle and civilized race. Their "abductions" are scheduled at the abductees convenience. Their probe consists of providing their guests with ice cold whole milk and fresh from the oven peanut butter swirled brownies while asking pointed questions. 

Unfortunately, while their technology is bulletproof, their field interviewers (FI) are chosen for their entity skills and are notoriously technochallenged. Long story short, my FI punched the wrong settings into the Wayback machine and now my life is running almost a day and a half late. Sorry.]  


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I recently watched a "Netflix Original" movie called Small Crimes. I discovered it accidentally while surfing around for a food movie, my current supply of acceptable food TV programs being temporarily exhausted. Fortunately, new TV shows, new episodes of existing shows and new movies, are always in the pipeline. Unfortunately, most aren't worth watching.

A food movie or (much more likely) food TV? Yes. And no, I'm not referring to food porn. See, I eat most of my meals alone in my lair/garret for a variety of reasons not interesting enough to bother you with and I like to watch TV shows while I eat. Always have. Movies are my (distant) second choice.

[No, I'm not lonely, so let's set that tired old cliche' aside immediately. There are six people that I love (and a very stupid cat that I have mixed feelings about) living downstairs at the moment. Sometimes I eat with them (the people, not the cat), mostly I don't. It's complicated, but as I mentioned, not interesting.]

As I have aged I've become quite picky about TV shows. I don't know that it's because I've become all that much smarter or more sophisticated. I am certain that hedonic adaptation (a cool way to say jaded) and formulaic, same old-same old writing has a lot to do with it.

Also, of course, the need to fill all that time on all those channels that result in shows like the one that features people with geographically induced speech impediments that hunt alligators for a living.

Also, of course, the need to fill all that time on all those channels that result in shows like the one that features people, one man and one woman per episode, who meet for the first time when they are taken to an appropriately primitive/scary/dangerous/etc. location.

They take off all of their clothes and spend the next 21 days trying to survive while making their way to where they will be picked up. All of the couples apparently have deformed genitals and all of the women apparently suffer from deformed breasts. Everyone has nice bums though.

Full disclosure -- I've only watched the show for about half a minute, a half dozen times or so. Channel surfing flotsam you see. A quick bit of googling turned up the fact there are no million dollar prizes and I was unable to discover if they all suffer from the same disease.

[Disease? What disease? Where did that come from? asks Dana, imaginary gentlereader.]

Simple logic. If they all suffer from deformed genitals, and, all the women have deformed breasts, and, all the newly formed couples are willing to appear on the same TV show, and, they can't win a bunch of money, and, they are all so deformed that while they are willing to get naked on TV but their genitals (and the women's breasts) must be pixilated out because they're so offensive, obviously, it must be a show about the victims of some sort of disease that, while it deforms genitals and women's breasts, mercifully doesn't affect the rest of the body. It must be a very empowering experience for the victims.

[Dana stares at me for a couple of beats while blinking rapidly and then says, They aren't diseased, the producers use pixelation so the audience can't see the couple's genitals or the women's breasts.]

Dana obviously makes no sense whatsoever. Why would you take your clothes off in front of (potentially) the whole world if you didn't want people to view your naughty bits? Sheesh. Well, anyway, this column is about unremittingly dark entertainment, not diseased exhibitionists, so I'll move on.


The movie, the "Netflix Original" movie called Small Crimes mentioned above, is Netflix blurbed as "He thought he could move on, but the past isn't done with him yet. A darkly comic study of redemption and consequences."

Now, my life can be described as a darkly comic study with no shortage of significant consequences. However, I don't have/haven't had much need for redemption. It's not because I'm not a sociopath/psychopath, it's because I've gone out of my way, for the most part, to only sin against myself and leave my fellow H. sapiens out it as much as possible.

I mention this because I wish to point out that I'm wired this way, that it's my nature. It does not require a daily moral/ethical struggle against the forces of darkness. Fortunately for me, and mine, and the other kids on the playground, I'm a nice guy.

I'm not bragging. I think most of us, given a decent milieu, a decent zeitgeist, are nice people.

[Granted, I could've said, under the right circumstances, but milieu and zeitgeist sound much cooler, don't you think? Sorry, you know how I get...].

We all have our dark/hypocritical sides of course. But we have to share the playground with the other kids which serves (for most of us at least) to help keep us on the (more or less) straight and narrow. Life is occasionally a horror movie, life is occasionally bliss. Mostly it's just another boring/overscheduled/stressful (talk about cognitive dissonance!) day.

So, why is so much of our entertainment, so dark?

 "He thought he could move on, but the past isn't done with him yet. A darkly comic study of redemption and consequences."

At the risk of being accused of being a spoiler, Bonkercockie! There's very little comedy and nobody is redeemed of anydamnthing. The antihero protagonist looks the consequences of his dickish deeds in the eye -- and then doubles down. After wreaking havoc all throughout the movie he has a chance to walk away, with a pocket full of money -- but doubles down again. Surprise! this ain't gonna' end well.

As to the totally inaccurate blurb: I guess it's better than, "A depressing, occasionally slightly funny movie with a depressing ending about a few days in the life of a dick." That is, if you're Netflix, you paid for the movie, and you'd like someone to actually watch it.

[Dana, Marie-Louise, and Iggy, nervously looking past each other and at the ground, share in an awkward silence.

Sorry, sometimes you absolutely must call a spade a spade, or, a d-word a d-word. Note how quickly my auto censor kicked and switched to d-word. We must be ever vigilant lest we drain profanity of its power by treating all words as if they were the same.]

But, as usual, I've taken you for a (hopefully entertaining) drive down Digression Drive before finally getting to the point. Why is so much of our entertainment, so dark? That's easy, the More Paradox.


In most of the USA, and much of the rest of the world, a daily life and death struggle just to get by is no longer job one. In fact, this planet now has a weight loss industry, and business is good. In fact, America (having lived here for 63 39 years this is the country I'm particularly familiar with) has the most prosperous poor people on the planet, probably the most prosperous poor people of all time.

We're wired genetically/evolutionarily... common sensically to want more. More food/sex/toys/etc. because more might keep me alive for the rest of the week and not just for the rest of today.

BIG BUT.

It's our nature to believe that once we obtain enough more, that will finally be enough, and we will be happy. However, once we have enough, which is clearly to be preferred to not enough, we still aren't happy. Or rather -- we're happy sometimes, unhappy other times; mostly we drift between the two -- just like we did before we had more.

Dark entertainment provides cathartic compensation for anyone and everyone that realizes at some point they will never be happy all the time, that you can't have happy without unhappy. That is, everyone.

The bad news is that if you don't believe that there's an afterlife waiting, where you will finally be happy, or if you don't know the secret of a happy life (someone(s) to love who loves you back, and interesting work) you may require increasingly dark entertainment to cope with the knowledge you will not, at some specific point, be happy.

That's a RBFD, and that's why there's gonna' be a part two. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

The State of the Zeitgeist (2)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-grandstickies,

Zeitgeist: the general intellectual, moral, and cultural climate of an era (Miriam-Webster).

Interesting word, zeitgeist. I'm a word lover (you best get out of Dodge, word lover! we don't want yer kind 'round here!) and there are many words I like, zeitgeist for example, just because of their sound and irregardless of their meaning.

Irregardless is another, which, according to the word police, isn't even a word. The word regardless, which means without regard, does not require the prefix, ir-, because it's redundant. Prefixes aren't supposed to be redundant.

For the record, I obtained this information from a website called GrammerBook.com. While I'm willing to concede that they may be technically correct, I have a valid poetic license and I'm not afraid to use it.

Anyway, they also maintain that sneaked is technically correct (as opposed to snuck), so, grain of salt. I sneaked some candy from the Stickies Easter baskets? Seriously? Obviously, snuck is the proper choice.

And we're back. I confess I'm slightly uncomfortable with the way I have used/ am about to use the Z word. Merriam-Webster uses the word era and this implies a large, dusty tome with many black and white photographs and voluminous footnotes.

I'm offering up a snapshot from a smartphone (with a decent camera) that probably will never generate a hard copy. Which is my way of saying that I acknowledge that defining a period of history as a particular era, while one is living in it, may be a fool's errand.

A sudden, dramatic, world class development, like WW3, because the chubby charmer currently enslaving North Korea wakes up in a bad mood because he failed to launch his missile the night before in spite of the best efforts of a drop dead gorgeous bed warmer/slave (I've heard rumors) and initiates a complicated series of events beginning with all of the sushi restaurants in Hawaii being contaminated with radioactive fish and ends in our next world war (hey, it could happen) and snap! we're living in an entirely different era than the one we woke up to this morning.

However, I maintain that my poetic license permits me to use zeitgeist because we're living in an, well, era, that at least to those of us who are attempting to cope with it, is marked by daily floods of dizzinformation and an ever increasing velocity in the pace of our lives. In fact, a never-ending sprint would seem to be the default pace, even for those of us who are trying to drag our feet.

So, it doesn't feel like we're living in the _______ era (that's like, so yesterday, but please feel free to insert the word of your choice) because we're moving so fast that we not only don't have time to catch our breath, we must maintain a heads-up posture at all times so as not to be flattened by some new technology that's about to disrupt our lives.

In other words, it feels like we live in a succession of mini-eras (an era of eras?) because things, the zeitgeist, can change so rapidly and dramatically.

In other words, I plan on regularly writing state of the zeitgeist columns and everything above explains why, and justifies the fact, that I plan on using the word zeitgeist instead of using a boring word like snapshot.


And now, grandstickies and gentlereaders, a zeitgeistian observation based on a news story I recently stumbled on that completely coincidentally continues the theme of my last column, How to Build a Snowflake.

[Waitwaitwait, this will just take a sec', and after all, I AM the Flyoverland Crank and this IS the "wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer. (Garrulous: given to prosy, rambling, or tedious loquacity; pointlessly or annoyingly talkative -- Miriam-Webster). 

If you google the word zeitgeistian, not only will no dictionary defend its legitimacy, Google will ask you, Did you mean: zeitgeist? However, there are several entries that use the word AND an "images for zeitgeistian" entry that will provide you with hundreds, perhaps thousands of pictures.  
Therefore, I, the future King of America, declare zeitgeistian to be a word.]

Last week's column, How to Build a Snowflake, was about a trend in some colleges and universities to emphasize social justice and protecting the delicate sensibilities of their students. This new development is quite different from the fearless pursuit of truth and the development of the intellectual tools needed to discover it as practiced by old school schools.

On the delicate sensibilities front, it just so happens that the students at Youngstown State University are in midst of taking finals.

Youngstown, Ohio, is a formerly vibrant rust belt town that is still bleeding population 40 years after the steel mills started disappearing. To their credit, many locals who don't plan on leaving refuse to accept the status quo and are trying to create a renaissance. Some who left, and achieved success elsewhere, have returned and joined the struggle.

This is a not uncommon phenomenon in Flyoverland, which is why I find the following, which made the news this past week, depressing.

In order to help the students cope with finals, which is apparently, for Millennials at least, the equivalent of trying to swim across the Mediterranean to escape the carnage in Syria, puppies and kitties -- via a sort of pop-up petting zoo -- and massage therapists are being provided to help the delicate flowers through this difficult period. Can finals cause PTSD?

I wonder if this class, whose "final projects -- which includes history boxes, interpretive dance, poster presentations, video presentations and more -- ..." also included a stressful final.   

My parents, who had to deal with the Great Depression and the Second World War, thought they had it tough. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.