Let's review, gentlereaders. Last week I posited the following notion. Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans. My position is that if I've learned anything about the nature of reality it's that this is undeniably true. I'm certain there is no shortage of folks who would disagree with this statement, in whole or in part. It's not my style or intention to pick a fight with those who disagree with me on this or any other matter (see, Please Read This First). I may be wrong. I confess that I'm wrong about something with disturbing regularity. That's why I pointed out that if you don't think the notion is true, which I regard as both fundamental and irrefutable, you might wish to spend your valuable time and energy reading or doing something else. There will not be a part three so I hope I don't loose you, assuming you're still there.
I also pointed out, but not as clearly as I might have, that whether I'm right or wrong may not make much difference to you. If you believe in an afterlife where you will still be you, the individual entity that is reading this, then there must be a method to the madness and all that's needed is to pick the right explanation, and live accordingly. If you think death = oblivion it's possible to logically defend living any sort of life you please -- as long as you are willing to minimize or reject those pesky notions of morality and ethics.
Now, being a spiritual and philosophical agnostic, which I define as trying to keep an open mind and soul so I don't get caught comfortably napping if/when truth knocks on the front door, I'm unable to find respite in either of these two positions. Therefore, I've thought a lot about how to live, accordingly. Getting old has provided long-sought clarity. And I'm glad.
The literal meaning of the phrase life is what happens to you while you're making other plans is not hard to grasp for almost anyone over the age of seven or so. It's interesting that modern psychology has confirmed this bit of traditional wisdom. My corollary -- You don't have all that much control over your life. You never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly -- is what separates the SSC's (sexy seasoned citizens) from the callowyutes, though I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule.
When I was a callowyute I had no problem understanding that in spite of my best efforts my plans often wouldn't work out and that I wouldn't live forever -- intellectually speaking. But it didn't matter because I had years and years and years to fashion a happy, successful life. And, of course, people do die young but I certainly wouldn't be one of them.
Then I walked around the block several times and one day I realized that I might not someday be a rockstar after all. I personally have known a lot of people who have died and most have not gone peacefully in their sleep. Years and years and years went by in the blink of an eye. So, finding only limited solace in either the spiritual or the sensual realms (saints gotta' eat; libertines discover that too much pleasure is as boring as too much of anything), knowing that I could be dead before the next keystroke or that I might live for another forty years -- what to do?
First of all, relax, and try to enjoy the book/game/show/circus/______.
Personally, I imagine that I'm the hapless main character in an excellent novel, a dark comedy. I enjoy dark comedy, as long as there is at least one likable character that's trying to find their way to the light. I've been taking one step forward, and two steps back, ever since a world-class crapstorm rolled through my life in the spring of '05. This was really pissing me off until I tripped over a couple of truths someone had left on the trail I was on (it's hard to avoid tripping, even falling, when your walking backward).
Wait a minute! I don't have that much control over my life, I never have. No one does. I don't feel all that old, most days anyway, but with each passing day, I'm moving deeper into the wrong end of the actuarial tables. Formerly vague notions have become cold hard facts.
Those lucky bastards I know that at least seem to be having a much easier time of it than I have/had/will have crapstorms of their own to deal with. There are literally billions of my fellow Earthlings who consider me the lucky bastard, and I am, in comparison to them.
[Wait a sec', says the imaginary gentlereader that peers over my left shoulder are you saying limited time and narrowed options are good things?]
Yes, absolute blessings, in light of the fact no one gets out of here alive, but I forgot to acknowledge the gift of reduced energy. Once you grasp, not intellectually but in the very marrow of your bones, that your time is limited, that all you can do is all you can do, and that you can't fix everything by throwing enough energy at it -- what is truly important to you, and the best way to spend your time, will become clear. Your life might still suck sweaty socks but those trips around the block taught you to be grateful for what you have second, by second, by second because it could always be worse, and it might even get better if you wait long enough. I don't know about you but I'm prepared to keep waiting right up to the moment the reaper shows up because I'm certain that if I decided to hasten the process Publishers Clearing House would show up at my door because someone thought it would be funny to enter my name so I'd wind up back on their mailing list and be inundated with even more pointless dead tree format junk mail in my mailbox -- inhale -- and the last words I'd hear as I was floating away would be, "Somebody go get Poppa, there's a man at the door with balloons and a check!"
Second of all (there's a first of all back there somewhere...) be a hero. Most grups are heroes, the world needs heroes. If you're a grup, odds are one of the reasons you keep getting out of bed in the morning, maybe the primary reason, is in service to someone (spouse? kids? grandkids?) or something (your work? your art? your _____?) that you regard as being at least as important as yourself. Thanks.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Saturday, January 30, 2016
Saturday, January 23, 2016
I'm Glad I'm Old (Part One)
...Well, mostly. There are, of course, certain downsides to being sixty-something in spite of the fact that sixty-something is the new 39. My eyesight is slowly getting worse, and so is my hearing. Of course, my hearing loss is primarily due to all those rock concerts I went to when I was a hippie with a job (and a fondness for personal hygiene) in the seventies, not the advent of my geezerhood. I'm cool like that. Though I live with other age-related maladies, none of them are life-threatening -- at least that I know of -- I admit I have a tendency to ignore my medical problems until they become medical issues. For the sake of clarity, in my version of reality, issues is a word that does not have the exact same meaning as the word problems. To me, issues are problems that have gotten out of hand.
In my defense, my late wife had health issues, lots of 'em. They were not age related, they began at birth and were caused by the fact she was born prematurely and subsequently administered oxygen therapy because of underdeveloped lungs. The good news is that this kept her alive, the bad news is that the therapy itself damaged her lungs and eyes and led to lifelong healthproblems issues, for her and no shortage of other preemies. So be it. However, during our 21 years together she spent a lot of time dealing with doctors and a lot of time in the hospital. Here's hoping you (and I) don't ever have to endure something of a similar nature. I found out the hard way that there is no shortage of well-intended quackery loose in the world and why hospitals accidentally kill hundreds of thousands of people every year. I admit to a (semi) irrational fear of the American medical establishment.
Except for Dr. John Bellany, an avowed atheist. If it turns out he and I (agnostic) are wrong, he will still be welcomed into heaven with the cosmic equivalent of a ticker tape parade. As for me...well, I'm cautiously optimistic, but there will definitely not be a parade.
[What? Oh...yes Marie-Louise, I do seem to be drifting over the fog line, thanks. But certain things really do need to be said.]
Other than the increased likelihood of health problems/issues the only other objection I have to getting old is dealing with ennui, or, been there done that/is that all there is? syndrome. I suspect that I may be even more at risk for this sort of thing than the average old fart because I suffer from early onset ennui, which I've had since I was 16. Rather than bore you with the details I would point you to a song entitled, "Is That All There Is," composed by Leiber and Stoller. The definitive version was recorded by Peggy Lee and can be found on YouTube. Check out the recorded (skip the live) version, orchestration by Randy Newman. It's hard to believe that this was a top 40, award-winning song, particularly in comparison to the dreck that's on the radio these days. I also remember...
[Sacre' bleu! (For the record, I understand real French people don't actually use this phrase but far be it from me to pass up a cheap joke.) You claim to be glad you're old but so far all you've talked about is illness and ennui!]
Sorry, M-L, I was just clearing the decks, here comes the glad part, sort of.
The thing I enjoy the most about getting old is being comfortable in my (wrinkling, stretch marked, skin tagged, etc.) own skin -- literally and figuratively. As concerns the literal state of my skin -- and teeth and hair and my lazy eye and an advanced case of disappearing butt syndrome and no shortage of other imperfections that all continue on a forced march in the wrong direction -- so be it, so it goes, it is what it is, c'est la vie and the hell with it. I'm mentally/emotionally/philosophically at ease in my own skin because the following cosmic truth was revealed to me via a styrofoam cup filled with diet Mountain Dew purchased from a Dairy Queen in Deadwood, SC when I was a driftin' and a searchin' for my roots that had the following message printed on the side. Do you have any idea how rare it is to find diet Mountain Dew available fountain style?
Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans.
If this is not obvious to you, yet or still, for whatever reason, stop reading now. I don't want to waste your limited and valuable time. Sorry, but I believe I'm living on the planet Earth and that you're living on the planet Denial and I don't want to waste your time. Take care, see ya when, and if, you get back.
As you ride the river of life, if you live long enough and/or are smart enough to have mastered all the prerequisites necessary to obtain your SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizen) credential, you will be blessed by grasping the ramifications of the statement above. An enlightenment of sorts will take place. Some, unable to deal with what may, at first, be like a sucker punch to the gut, will flee to planet Denial, never to return. Others will need time to adjust before accepting the inevitable.
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
You may be dead before reaching the end of this _______ (you can hear the tone of the heart monitor going from beep-beep-beep to beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee in your head).
You may live for years and years, and I hope you do, assuming you're fortunate enough to have good reasons to keep getting out of bed in the morning. While this may not seem like we've gotten to the glad stuff yet, it is, and I will explain in detail why, in my next post.
[Marie-Louise stomps out the room, cursing in French under her breath.]
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
If you're not starting to a glad buzz yet, I'm sorry, the deck clearing is over. Please consider the following. If you believe in an afterlife of some sort it doesn't really matter if I'm right or wrong. Most folks that believe, believe in a version of one of the following two scenarios. Either you'll keep coming back until you get it right and achieve nirvana. Or, you will be judged, and 99.9% of you will be welcomed into paradise. Warning: There is a theologian or two that might quibble with my take on the matter.
God is infinite, by definition, which implies that she has an infinite capacity for love and forgiveness and doesn't share your distaste for those hoopleheads that don't believe in the same rules of the road that you do. Also, 99.9% you know in your heart that you're doing the best you can, so relax, and keep up the good work(s).
Or, if you believe death = oblivion you'll have nothing to worry about since there will no longer be a you. If your wrong, the 99.9% rule still applies.
Next week I'll tell you how I try to live, accordingly.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
In my defense, my late wife had health issues, lots of 'em. They were not age related, they began at birth and were caused by the fact she was born prematurely and subsequently administered oxygen therapy because of underdeveloped lungs. The good news is that this kept her alive, the bad news is that the therapy itself damaged her lungs and eyes and led to lifelong health
Except for Dr. John Bellany, an avowed atheist. If it turns out he and I (agnostic) are wrong, he will still be welcomed into heaven with the cosmic equivalent of a ticker tape parade. As for me...well, I'm cautiously optimistic, but there will definitely not be a parade.
[What? Oh...yes Marie-Louise, I do seem to be drifting over the fog line, thanks. But certain things really do need to be said.]
Other than the increased likelihood of health problems/issues the only other objection I have to getting old is dealing with ennui, or, been there done that/is that all there is? syndrome. I suspect that I may be even more at risk for this sort of thing than the average old fart because I suffer from early onset ennui, which I've had since I was 16. Rather than bore you with the details I would point you to a song entitled, "Is That All There Is," composed by Leiber and Stoller. The definitive version was recorded by Peggy Lee and can be found on YouTube. Check out the recorded (skip the live) version, orchestration by Randy Newman. It's hard to believe that this was a top 40, award-winning song, particularly in comparison to the dreck that's on the radio these days. I also remember...
[Sacre' bleu! (For the record, I understand real French people don't actually use this phrase but far be it from me to pass up a cheap joke.) You claim to be glad you're old but so far all you've talked about is illness and ennui!]
Sorry, M-L, I was just clearing the decks, here comes the glad part, sort of.
The thing I enjoy the most about getting old is being comfortable in my (wrinkling, stretch marked, skin tagged, etc.) own skin -- literally and figuratively. As concerns the literal state of my skin -- and teeth and hair and my lazy eye and an advanced case of disappearing butt syndrome and no shortage of other imperfections that all continue on a forced march in the wrong direction -- so be it, so it goes, it is what it is, c'est la vie and the hell with it. I'm mentally/emotionally/philosophically at ease in my own skin because the following cosmic truth was revealed to me via a styrofoam cup filled with diet Mountain Dew purchased from a Dairy Queen in Deadwood, SC when I was a driftin' and a searchin' for my roots that had the following message printed on the side. Do you have any idea how rare it is to find diet Mountain Dew available fountain style?
Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans.
If this is not obvious to you, yet or still, for whatever reason, stop reading now. I don't want to waste your limited and valuable time. Sorry, but I believe I'm living on the planet Earth and that you're living on the planet Denial and I don't want to waste your time. Take care, see ya when, and if, you get back.
As you ride the river of life, if you live long enough and/or are smart enough to have mastered all the prerequisites necessary to obtain your SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizen) credential, you will be blessed by grasping the ramifications of the statement above. An enlightenment of sorts will take place. Some, unable to deal with what may, at first, be like a sucker punch to the gut, will flee to planet Denial, never to return. Others will need time to adjust before accepting the inevitable.
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
You may be dead before reaching the end of this _______ (you can hear the tone of the heart monitor going from beep-beep-beep to beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee in your head).
You may live for years and years, and I hope you do, assuming you're fortunate enough to have good reasons to keep getting out of bed in the morning. While this may not seem like we've gotten to the glad stuff yet, it is, and I will explain in detail why, in my next post.
[Marie-Louise stomps out the room, cursing in French under her breath.]
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
If you're not starting to a glad buzz yet, I'm sorry, the deck clearing is over. Please consider the following. If you believe in an afterlife of some sort it doesn't really matter if I'm right or wrong. Most folks that believe, believe in a version of one of the following two scenarios. Either you'll keep coming back until you get it right and achieve nirvana. Or, you will be judged, and 99.9% of you will be welcomed into paradise. Warning: There is a theologian or two that might quibble with my take on the matter.
God is infinite, by definition, which implies that she has an infinite capacity for love and forgiveness and doesn't share your distaste for those hoopleheads that don't believe in the same rules of the road that you do. Also, 99.9% you know in your heart that you're doing the best you can, so relax, and keep up the good work(s).
Or, if you believe death = oblivion you'll have nothing to worry about since there will no longer be a you. If your wrong, the 99.9% rule still applies.
Next week I'll tell you how I try to live, accordingly.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Glossary
As you have no doubt noticed, unless you're a new gentlereader, I have a fondness for words that I've either stumbled on, created or distorted, that may not be available in your preferred dictionary, be it in either the electronic or dead trees format. I've defined most of them before, sometimes at length, usually briefly. Here, for your edification, and for new readers, is a list, with definitions and commentary.
Gentlereader(s): Gentle reader is an archaic literary convention used by authors in the past when they wished to address a reader directly. Having fallen out of favor, I've highjacked it and turned it into one word. When I write I always imagine that one of my gentlereaders is peering over my left shoulder to remind myself to write for real people that live in the real world. My right shoulder is reserved for my muse, Marie-Louise (pronounced Mah-ree'-Loo-eze, and with a French accent if you can do a credible one) who is left handed and prefers to be on that side so that she can scratch my back when I please her. Please stick to your assigned shoulder as Marie-Louise is picky about such things, and though slow to anger, can be a real bitch on occasion.
Bonkercockie: Bonkercockie means the same as BS, at least in my world. If you google it you will discover the inventor attributes other meanings to it as well.
Snifigant: A corruption of significant. The phrase, significant other, seems to be waiting around every corner, and anxious to say hello, not just when I'm reading but also when I'm processing video input as well. I'm not certain, but I think it's a coping mechanism that originated in my subconscious. Also, it just feels and sounds, right.
Tralfamadore: Home planet of the aliens that briefly abducted me; referenced by Kurt Vonnegut in several of his novels. (See Chapter Three,10.31.15 & This is Embarrassing, 1.1.15) Their idea of probing is to conduct friendly interviews facilitated by serving their guests warm, homemade, chewy chocolate brownies swirled with peanut butter and washed down with ice-cold whole milk.
Hooplehead: Uncertain etymology. Used by David Milch, in the best TV show of all time, Deadwood, to mean fool, dope, hick etc.
Sucks Sweaty Socks: Means exactly what you think it means. I've no idea where I got this one but I'm certain I didn't originate the term. Unfortunately, when researching the term for this post I stumbled on the fact that it has sexual fetish connotations, which sucks some of the fun out of it as far as I'm concerned. However, to me, it means the exact same thing as saying that _____ sucks, but it sounds more civilized.
The Gubmint: The federal government of the United States.
the gubmint: State and local government entities in the United States.
Callowyutes: Combination of the word callow, which according to Merriam-Webster is a "young person who does not have much experience and does not know how to behave the waygrownups grups behave" and yutes. Yutes is how Vinny pronounces the word youths in "My Cousin Vinny." I claim credit/blame for this one.
Grups: Grownups.Stolen borrowed from "Miri," an episode from the first season of Star Trek starring Kim Darby whom I didn't have an affair with in the 70's.
GFBL: Gut first, brain later. A phrase that neatly sums up, and vastly oversimplifies, a concept promulgated by several scientific disciplines that homo sapiens react instinctively, intuitively, automatically etc. first and rationally (hopefully) later. I claim credit/blame for this one, the acronym or the phrase, not the concept. I may have to rename or abandon it if it's confused with the enteric nervous system.
Buhwhuddle I know?: I claim credit/blame for this one.
Snowflakes: Individuals whose psyches have been corrupted by being awarded participation/ everyone is a winner/everyone gets a prize trophies that use terms such as microaggression and safe space, and sign petitions calling for the rewriting of the first amendment with a straight face. When I'm king I plan to appoint a blue-ribbon panel whose purpose is to discover if the person that first used the word in this context can be discovered in order to award them thePresidential Medal of Freedom King Cranks Medal of Common Sense.
Strategery: Nope, it's not strategy spelled wrong. Will Ferrell, (playing Bush, in case you've missed it) made the word famous when he used it in a Saturday Night Live sketch that satirized the Bush/Gore presidential debates. It became so popular it was used by people in the Bush administration. I use it for the same reason they did, it's funny.
Bigfeets: A new one that may or may not survive. Purely coincidental in that people debate whether or not bigfeets ever existed and/or if they still do. In my world, it serves two purposes. First, just the sound of it is funny. Second, it's my all-purpose word for, um, interesting individuals that may be more high functioning chimpanzee than homo sapien. Hey, it's just occurred to me that we're all (well, most of us) homos. If you're gay please feel free to use the expression on protest signs or banners at gay pride parades. Suggested wording: We're All Homo (Sapiens)!
Have an OK Day: This is from a post entitled, "When I'm the Kind of America" posted on 9.16.15 that explains why I prefer OK days to nice days.
The Secret of Life: The secret of life, for homo sapiens on the planet Earth anyway, is that so-called real life is just high school with money. This is my variant, and I don't even know if it's original to me, of an aphorism used by many, in many different ways, and in many different contexts. The blue-ribbon panel mentioned above will also be charged with trying to discover if any one person can be credited with creating this aphorism so they may also be awarded the King Cranks Medal of Common Sense. All decisions of your friendly neighborhood benevolent tyrant are final.
Please Note: This post was written by me, Mark Mehlmauer. Until recently, I've used various assumed names -- ever since Mullah Omar issued a fatwa sentencing me to death because of...well, it's complicated. Anyway, I thought I was off the hook when his death was confirmed last July, so I felt free to start this blog. Nobody's more aware of the Taliban's poor sense of humor than me because ...well, that's also complicated, so I should have resisted using Omar as part of my pen name as a sort of inside joke. Long story short, negotiations have been successfully completed, the fatwa has been lifted, and having only limited use of one of my legs ain't the big deal I thought it would be.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Gentlereader(s): Gentle reader is an archaic literary convention used by authors in the past when they wished to address a reader directly. Having fallen out of favor, I've highjacked it and turned it into one word. When I write I always imagine that one of my gentlereaders is peering over my left shoulder to remind myself to write for real people that live in the real world. My right shoulder is reserved for my muse, Marie-Louise (pronounced Mah-ree'-Loo-eze, and with a French accent if you can do a credible one) who is left handed and prefers to be on that side so that she can scratch my back when I please her. Please stick to your assigned shoulder as Marie-Louise is picky about such things, and though slow to anger, can be a real bitch on occasion.
Bonkercockie: Bonkercockie means the same as BS, at least in my world. If you google it you will discover the inventor attributes other meanings to it as well.
Snifigant: A corruption of significant. The phrase, significant other, seems to be waiting around every corner, and anxious to say hello, not just when I'm reading but also when I'm processing video input as well. I'm not certain, but I think it's a coping mechanism that originated in my subconscious. Also, it just feels and sounds, right.
Tralfamadore: Home planet of the aliens that briefly abducted me; referenced by Kurt Vonnegut in several of his novels. (See Chapter Three,10.31.15 & This is Embarrassing, 1.1.15) Their idea of probing is to conduct friendly interviews facilitated by serving their guests warm, homemade, chewy chocolate brownies swirled with peanut butter and washed down with ice-cold whole milk.
Hooplehead: Uncertain etymology. Used by David Milch, in the best TV show of all time, Deadwood, to mean fool, dope, hick etc.
Sucks Sweaty Socks: Means exactly what you think it means. I've no idea where I got this one but I'm certain I didn't originate the term. Unfortunately, when researching the term for this post I stumbled on the fact that it has sexual fetish connotations, which sucks some of the fun out of it as far as I'm concerned. However, to me, it means the exact same thing as saying that _____ sucks, but it sounds more civilized.
The Gubmint: The federal government of the United States.
the gubmint: State and local government entities in the United States.
Callowyutes: Combination of the word callow, which according to Merriam-Webster is a "young person who does not have much experience and does not know how to behave the way
Grups: Grownups.
GFBL: Gut first, brain later. A phrase that neatly sums up, and vastly oversimplifies, a concept promulgated by several scientific disciplines that homo sapiens react instinctively, intuitively, automatically etc. first and rationally (hopefully) later. I claim credit/blame for this one, the acronym or the phrase, not the concept. I may have to rename or abandon it if it's confused with the enteric nervous system.
Buhwhuddle I know?: I claim credit/blame for this one.
Snowflakes: Individuals whose psyches have been corrupted by being awarded participation/ everyone is a winner/everyone gets a prize trophies that use terms such as microaggression and safe space, and sign petitions calling for the rewriting of the first amendment with a straight face. When I'm king I plan to appoint a blue-ribbon panel whose purpose is to discover if the person that first used the word in this context can be discovered in order to award them the
Strategery: Nope, it's not strategy spelled wrong. Will Ferrell, (playing Bush, in case you've missed it) made the word famous when he used it in a Saturday Night Live sketch that satirized the Bush/Gore presidential debates. It became so popular it was used by people in the Bush administration. I use it for the same reason they did, it's funny.
Bigfeets: A new one that may or may not survive. Purely coincidental in that people debate whether or not bigfeets ever existed and/or if they still do. In my world, it serves two purposes. First, just the sound of it is funny. Second, it's my all-purpose word for, um, interesting individuals that may be more high functioning chimpanzee than homo sapien. Hey, it's just occurred to me that we're all (well, most of us) homos. If you're gay please feel free to use the expression on protest signs or banners at gay pride parades. Suggested wording: We're All Homo (Sapiens)!
Have an OK Day: This is from a post entitled, "When I'm the Kind of America" posted on 9.16.15 that explains why I prefer OK days to nice days.
The Secret of Life: The secret of life, for homo sapiens on the planet Earth anyway, is that so-called real life is just high school with money. This is my variant, and I don't even know if it's original to me, of an aphorism used by many, in many different ways, and in many different contexts. The blue-ribbon panel mentioned above will also be charged with trying to discover if any one person can be credited with creating this aphorism so they may also be awarded the King Cranks Medal of Common Sense. All decisions of your friendly neighborhood benevolent tyrant are final.
Please Note: This post was written by me, Mark Mehlmauer. Until recently, I've used various assumed names -- ever since Mullah Omar issued a fatwa sentencing me to death because of...well, it's complicated. Anyway, I thought I was off the hook when his death was confirmed last July, so I felt free to start this blog. Nobody's more aware of the Taliban's poor sense of humor than me because ...well, that's also complicated, so I should have resisted using Omar as part of my pen name as a sort of inside joke. Long story short, negotiations have been successfully completed, the fatwa has been lifted, and having only limited use of one of my legs ain't the big deal I thought it would be.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Barry Dyngles
From Wikipedia: "The Texas Legislature meets in regular session on the second Tuesday in January of each odd-numbered year. The Texas Constitution limits the regular session to 140 calendar days."
Also: "As a sovereign country (2014), Texas would be the 12th largest economy in the world by GDP."
So, the 12th largest economy on the planet Earth, GDP $1.65 trillion bucks, which was a country for a minute before becoming one of the United States, is a state whose legislature only gets together for less than four months, every other year. The legislators are paid $7,200 bucks per year plus a per diem of $150 bucks a day when the legislature is in session. Not a very good way to make a living.
Texas is a very pleasant place to live, jobs are plentiful and Southern hospitality is alive and wellI. See, I lived there once, briefly. But it was long enough to discover that from May to September, no matter where you go in this state that seems to go on forever, it's hot enough to melt your brain. Otherwise, I'd be planning/hoping/scheming/praying to get my butt out of Ohio and parked in Tejas asap, rather than ensconced South of the Mason-Dixon, but still well north of Texas. The exact location must remain a secret. As you can well imagine, highly fortified secret mountain lairs are not only hard to find and keep secret, once the word gets out that someone is looking for one in the neighborhood, prices start going up.
Now, while Texas is a free market paradise compared to Ohio, which has a good deal to do with the vibrant state of its economy, the gubmint is not exactly short on rules and regulations. For example, lotteries are strictly forbidden -- except for the one run by the gubmint. Casinos are illegal -- except for the Kickapoo Lucky Eagle Casino operated by the Kickapoo Traditional Tribe of Texas, formerly known as the Texas Band of Traditional Kickapoo. The original band broke up when its frontman died from an overdose of Kickapoo Joy Juice.
Bingo and raffles are heavily regulated and restricted to non-profit organizations. You can bet on horsies (as my brother Mike would put it) running in circles. This is regulated by the state gubmint and has a democratic component to it as well. The voters in a given county must vote to approve a new race track.
And then we have game rooms, which feature machines remarkably similar to slot machines. They are legal only if they offer prizes that are worth less than five bucks, no cash permitted. However, the state legislature has not seen fit to update and/or clarify the relevant law in spite of the fact that there's a low-intensity war going on between entrepreneurs that open and operate very popular game rooms (that award cash prizes) and local law enforcement agencies. The operators are always on the lookout for novel legal justifications. Seems that they often reopen soon after being raided and the lawyers are making good money from all the lawsuits. I've been unable to discover if the legislature has not acted because the game rooms are popular and they wish to leave well enough alone and/or if the brief window of time they have to pass legislation causes them to prioritize any efforts to keep the citizens of Texas on the straight and narrow.
Wikipedia says that if Ohio was a country they would have the 25th largest economy on the planet, with a GDP of $526 billion bucks -- one-third the size of Texas. In Ohio, we who have the dubious advantage of a full-time legislature, have been spared the discomforts of gambling ambiguity. Our full-time legislature, whose members are paid $60,584 bucks per year, have seen to that. Like Texas, the gubmint has a lock on lotteries. As in Texas, we have horsies running in circles, a few casinos instead of just one, non-profit raffles and bingo. All heavily and carefully regulated.
We alsohave had game rooms. Unlike Texas, when these started popping up all over the place and employing various angles to get around modest prizes, no cash rules (to the delight of their patrons) our full-time legislators wasted no time in cranking out a law to erase any ambiguity and the hammer was brought down on the miscreants by local officials that stepped up to enforce the law. And get on the evening news.
Which brings us to the unfortunately named restaurant, Barry Dyngles Pub.
I've never been there though it's located not all that far from my secret lair. This fact doesn't imply either approval or disapproval. I've not been to many places of business, local or otherwise, and don't maintain a list of firms I've no intention of ever visiting. However, the establishment in question recently had what might be it's 15 minutes of fame. It ran a promotion, still does I assume, a game called, "The Queen of Hearts." It didn't invent the game, it can be purchased at businesses that supply such things to bingo halls and the like. I'll spare you the details other than to say that it has simple rules and a jackpot that can build up, over time, to a snifigant amount via the purchase of tickets, one dollar at a time. When the jackpot kept rolling over, and over, and reached $1.8 million before finally being won, it became a news story. The bottom line is that customers were coming out of the woodwork as the excitement ratcheted up. Success! More business than they could handle. Where we gonna' park all these cars? We're gonna' need help from the local cops! The sort of problems an entrepreneur dreams of having.
Wait a minute...is this even legal?
Yup. Turns out that if you pay for the supplies needed to run the game and don't make a dime off of it, the game that is, you're welcome to the money coming in from all those extra customers. A success story in the rustbelt! Even the gubmint got excited. They wasted no time in demonstrating their willingness to do whatever it takes tomake Ohio the financial powerhouse it was before the collapse of the steel industry keep the citizens of the Buckeye State on the straight and narrow. Somehow, in spite of having four different entities keeping an eye on the four different forms of gambling allowed in Ohio (casinos, horse racing, charitable games and the Ohio lottery) nobody is officially in charge of making sure a local upscale barbecue joint ain't getting away with something.
Not to worry.
The state legislators ($60,584 yr.) that are members of the Joint Committee on Gaming and Wagering are looking into the matter. I think that the kerfuffle in question is best summed up by a quote from an article I found that was published by the paper of record of the Cambridge Ohio Micropolitan Statistical Area, population 40,876. I swear on my honor as a former cub scout, current blogger, your dilettante about town, and a man with 39 certifiable college credits that nothing in next paragraph is made up.
According to The Daily Jeffersonian, "The game has been deemed legal, though it is subject to regulation by the state's liquor control office" -- you can buy a beer at Barrys -- "inspector general and tax officials. County prosecutors also could pursue legal action, if they believe laws have been broken. Otherwise, there are no state requirements for the game."
Well, not yet.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Also: "As a sovereign country (2014), Texas would be the 12th largest economy in the world by GDP."
So, the 12th largest economy on the planet Earth, GDP $1.65 trillion bucks, which was a country for a minute before becoming one of the United States, is a state whose legislature only gets together for less than four months, every other year. The legislators are paid $7,200 bucks per year plus a per diem of $150 bucks a day when the legislature is in session. Not a very good way to make a living.
Texas is a very pleasant place to live, jobs are plentiful and Southern hospitality is alive and wellI. See, I lived there once, briefly. But it was long enough to discover that from May to September, no matter where you go in this state that seems to go on forever, it's hot enough to melt your brain. Otherwise, I'd be planning/hoping/scheming/praying to get my butt out of Ohio and parked in Tejas asap, rather than ensconced South of the Mason-Dixon, but still well north of Texas. The exact location must remain a secret. As you can well imagine, highly fortified secret mountain lairs are not only hard to find and keep secret, once the word gets out that someone is looking for one in the neighborhood, prices start going up.
Now, while Texas is a free market paradise compared to Ohio, which has a good deal to do with the vibrant state of its economy, the gubmint is not exactly short on rules and regulations. For example, lotteries are strictly forbidden -- except for the one run by the gubmint. Casinos are illegal -- except for the Kickapoo Lucky Eagle Casino operated by the Kickapoo Traditional Tribe of Texas, formerly known as the Texas Band of Traditional Kickapoo. The original band broke up when its frontman died from an overdose of Kickapoo Joy Juice.
Bingo and raffles are heavily regulated and restricted to non-profit organizations. You can bet on horsies (as my brother Mike would put it) running in circles. This is regulated by the state gubmint and has a democratic component to it as well. The voters in a given county must vote to approve a new race track.
And then we have game rooms, which feature machines remarkably similar to slot machines. They are legal only if they offer prizes that are worth less than five bucks, no cash permitted. However, the state legislature has not seen fit to update and/or clarify the relevant law in spite of the fact that there's a low-intensity war going on between entrepreneurs that open and operate very popular game rooms (that award cash prizes) and local law enforcement agencies. The operators are always on the lookout for novel legal justifications. Seems that they often reopen soon after being raided and the lawyers are making good money from all the lawsuits. I've been unable to discover if the legislature has not acted because the game rooms are popular and they wish to leave well enough alone and/or if the brief window of time they have to pass legislation causes them to prioritize any efforts to keep the citizens of Texas on the straight and narrow.
Wikipedia says that if Ohio was a country they would have the 25th largest economy on the planet, with a GDP of $526 billion bucks -- one-third the size of Texas. In Ohio, we who have the dubious advantage of a full-time legislature, have been spared the discomforts of gambling ambiguity. Our full-time legislature, whose members are paid $60,584 bucks per year, have seen to that. Like Texas, the gubmint has a lock on lotteries. As in Texas, we have horsies running in circles, a few casinos instead of just one, non-profit raffles and bingo. All heavily and carefully regulated.
We also
Which brings us to the unfortunately named restaurant, Barry Dyngles Pub.
I've never been there though it's located not all that far from my secret lair. This fact doesn't imply either approval or disapproval. I've not been to many places of business, local or otherwise, and don't maintain a list of firms I've no intention of ever visiting. However, the establishment in question recently had what might be it's 15 minutes of fame. It ran a promotion, still does I assume, a game called, "The Queen of Hearts." It didn't invent the game, it can be purchased at businesses that supply such things to bingo halls and the like. I'll spare you the details other than to say that it has simple rules and a jackpot that can build up, over time, to a snifigant amount via the purchase of tickets, one dollar at a time. When the jackpot kept rolling over, and over, and reached $1.8 million before finally being won, it became a news story. The bottom line is that customers were coming out of the woodwork as the excitement ratcheted up. Success! More business than they could handle. Where we gonna' park all these cars? We're gonna' need help from the local cops! The sort of problems an entrepreneur dreams of having.
Wait a minute...is this even legal?
Yup. Turns out that if you pay for the supplies needed to run the game and don't make a dime off of it, the game that is, you're welcome to the money coming in from all those extra customers. A success story in the rustbelt! Even the gubmint got excited. They wasted no time in demonstrating their willingness to do whatever it takes to
Not to worry.
The state legislators ($60,584 yr.) that are members of the Joint Committee on Gaming and Wagering are looking into the matter. I think that the kerfuffle in question is best summed up by a quote from an article I found that was published by the paper of record of the Cambridge Ohio Micropolitan Statistical Area, population 40,876. I swear on my honor as a former cub scout, current blogger, your dilettante about town, and a man with 39 certifiable college credits that nothing in next paragraph is made up.
According to The Daily Jeffersonian, "The game has been deemed legal, though it is subject to regulation by the state's liquor control office" -- you can buy a beer at Barrys -- "inspector general and tax officials. County prosecutors also could pursue legal action, if they believe laws have been broken. Otherwise, there are no state requirements for the game."
Well, not yet.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Bigfeets
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| Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay |
In a previous post, I used the phrase gut first, brain later. I explained that this was me vastly oversimplifying a concept accepted by mainstream science. We react emotionally and viscerally first, rationally (hopefully) later. Assuming you accept the validity of the theory of evolution, this makes perfect sense. If you don't, well... God bless us, everyone.
It's a typical day in the stone age. Og and the boys are out and about hunting. Marge and the girls are gathering -- and/or taking care of the kids, and/or doing the laundry, and/or cooking and cleaning, and/or attending a Rockerware party, and/or...
Now, Og and the boys are having a slow day and a friendly but animated argument has broken out about last nights rockball game. It started because Ug, who had won a bet with Og, began teasing Og about the fact that every time Og loses a rockball bet he rants about the poor quality of the officiating in the NRL.
They're walking through a wooded area, and not paying attention, when they stroll into a clearing and unexpectedly encounter a band of Bigfeets entering the clearing at the exact same moment from the opposite direction.
Bam, fight or flight time baby.
The homo sapiens adrenal glands shift into overdrive faster than the Billary can spin out a lie to explain why they _____ (insert your favorite scandal here). The Bigfeet's adrenal glands probably do the same. Well, that's assuming they have adrenal glands. For some reason, scientists have been unable to compile much in the way of reliable data on them.
Actually, there are only two facts that everyone seems to agree on. First, Bigfeets somehow emit a reality distortion field that has the curious effect of making any photographs or video footage of them appear as though they are at least a couple of hundred yards away. Also, the image captured always looks grainy, shaky and poorly lit.
Second, that they stink. It would seem that the latter feature would not serve them well, not now, or not when Fred and Barney roamed the Earth. As to the first, there's much controversy and speculation because it's hard to say with any certainty what the specific effects of the reality distortion field are on anything or anyone other than the technology mentioned above.
Meanwhile, back in the clearing...
The homo sapiens are having the exact same reaction they would've had upon suddenly and unexpectedly encountering a wooly mammoth with a tuskache or a brace of Jehovah Witnesses -- fight or flight.
But suppose their instinctual reaction had been to organize a nonprofit to raise money to fight tusk decay. Or suppose, upon encountering a band of bigfeet their instinctual reaction was to quickly but discretely dab a bit of cologne under each nostril, smile, and say something like, "Nice coat! I'll bet that thing keeps ya' warm! Say, if you guys are up for a bit of species to species interaction there's a watering hole at the terminus of that path over there where we can get a cold one. First round's on us!"
We (homo sapiens) might not exist, and this blog might be authored by a Bigfoot.
We like to think that we're past all that, that we would choose to react via some form of the latter scenario, and we just might. But that's just because we live (most of us anyway) in a different milieu than Og, Ug, and the boys.
If we're waiting at a bus stop in our comfortable and reasonably safe 'burb or small town, or even if we should meet a Bigfoot in the large city we live in or commute to every day, we know that, rationally, a Bigfoot (think, oh Idunno, big scary smelly homeless mildly aggressive panhandler?) is unlikely to attack and kill us.
But she might.
Our time tested fight or flight app will launch, but we may not even notice unless things get ugly and it shuts down all of our other apps and ratchets us up to survival mode.
Or, perhaps we don't notice it because it's a background program that never shuts down anymore. Perhaps it's running all the time, at least at a low level, and that's why we don't notice it unless/until things get stupid. Perhaps this is one of the many side effects of a high-speed informationally overloaded life.
Perhaps this is why Xanax is the most prescribed psychiatric drug in the USA.
Walking into the lobby of the ginormous highrise we work in, the app in question fires up again as we approach the elevators. Ug, Og, and the boys had to think twice before chasing lunch into a cave because God only knew what might be lurking in the darkness.
So, we enter the crowded but blessedly well-lit elevator full of strangers (potential threats one and all), automatically check for the most defensible spot and face forward like everyone else to avoid making eye contact. And just as the door to the cave/coffin starts to close (gulp!) someone yells, in a friendly voice, "Hold the elevator, please!"
Somebody helpfully sticks their arm out, the doors reverse direction, and the big scary smelly homeless mildly aggressive panhandler nimbly steps into the cave/coffin.
She doesn't face forward.
Grinning from ear to ear she scans the cave/coffin like a politician or someone recently recruited by Amway and makes eye contact with as many people as possible. As the elevator starts to ascend she says, "Oops, my bad!" and then turns around and presses the button for every - single - floor. She turns around again and resumes grinning and scanning.
You can almost smell the adrenalin.
When the elevator stops on the second floor a startled receptionist witnesses everyone on a crowded elevator car trying to exit simultaneously. They all make a beeline to his desk, including our new friend, who keeps cheerfully repeating, "Where's the party?" as she looks around inquisitively. They silently ask the receptionist to call security with their eyes and facial expressions.
He's on it.
Have an OK day.
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©2017 Mark Mehlmauer (The Flyoverland Crank)
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