Manhood (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Manhood coerced into sensitivity is no manhood at all." -Camille Paglia


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This letter is addressed to a specific individual (who shall remain nameless) who knows who they are and why I'm writing this. For the duration of this letter, they will be called Anonmy (short for anonymous) 'cause it's vaguely humorous (humy?) and I'm all about finding the humy in a given situation.


Dear Anomy,

Believe it or not, I get it. All male H. sapiens between (roughly speaking) the ages of 16 and 25 have to deal with what you're dealing with. Always have, always will. The age of the onset and the end of this particular stage varies. For some, it starts earlier, as in your case. For some, it ends later but not, I predict, in your case.

I refer to the transition from boy to man. The age range I've chosen isn't based on a particular study I'm going to link to...

Big But
Studies do report that males, roughly betwixt the ages of 16 and 25 commit the most homicides. The whys and wherefores depend on who you ask.

Settled science (and Simon) says that the average H. sapiens brain isn't fully developed till about the age of 25, particularly the area of the brain responsible for inhibiting impulses and making smart decisions.

Interestingly, car insurance companies seem to have figured this out before science officially did.

As hard as it probably is for you to fathom, I was once 16 to 25. Been there, done that. For some, it never really seems to end. Fortunately, for most of those sorts, the problem slowly fades to grey if they manage to stay alive and out of jail, and they mellow out considerably with age.

Finally, these are the peak years of your callowyute stage. While that's perfectly normal, until you advance to early gruphood you're as incapable of fully grasping your situation as a 6-year-old is as incapable of grasping what it will be like to be 16.

For the record, there are some wildly misinformed, narrow-minded souls loose in the world that maintain to this day that my callowyute period lasted into my early thirties. In my defense... nevermind, it's extremely complicated.


As I said, I went through it, but under much different circumstances than the ones you are experiencing. Although the American culture had begun fragmenting it was still early days. I was raised by parents that had survived WW2 and the Great Depression, an experience that left them humbled and grateful. They managed to impart a little of this to me when I was a callowyute; I've (ever so slowly) learned, and verified, the lessons life taught them since.

They could only dream about the lifestyle that you and I take for granted. They would be absolutely delighted, were they still around, that their sacrifices helped to make the life you and I live possible.

When I was coming up, America was still very much a Judeo-Christian nation that (mostly/more or less) believed in (some version of) God and a set of personal Rules&Regs that are more or less summarized by the Ten Commandments.

This way of being, seeing and living was pounded into me (occasionally literally) by Sister Mary McGillicuddy, Father Bing Crosby, and their crew, in the course of my eight years of Catholic Grade schooling at Our Lady of Sorrows elementary school. Although I was incapable of appreciating the firm foundation I stood on as a kid, I do now.


You, on the other hand, are a product of postmodern America and America's postmodern, politically correct public education system.

Teachers unions. Gummit Rules&Regs that just keep on coming. A hooge horde of professional bureaucrats to enforce said Rules&Regs. Platoons of pussified parents (and their lawyers) perpetually protecting Paul, Polly, and Per (short for Person) from potential triggering by everdamnthing. More lawyers. And saints preserve us, anti-vaxxers.

You, on the other hand, are the product of glowing screens that don't play the Star Spangled Banner when it's time for all good people to go to bed, tell you good night, and sign off till morning. Of course, it's too early to accurately predict the long-term effects, if any, of 24x7 electronic media access. We were told we were doomed 'cause of all the TV we watched. I had several moms besides the real one. Donna Reed, Ozzie's wife (not the one you're thinking of), Mrs. Cleaver, and Josie Carey (among others, look 'em up if you're interested).

I used to think that your generation's version of rock-n'-roll (call it what you want, "...it's still rock-n'-roll to me") was probably going to cause brain damage. But Rock was to Swing as Rap is to Rock. That is to say, the current version of the same concept. If your parent's music doesn't suck, at least till you're old enough to appreciate its few redeeming qualities, you may, not necessarily but you may, have "issues" (GRIN).

On the other hand... Oh, crap, wait a sec'. One, two, three, four... Yup, I'm already over the word limit. I'll have to continue this next week. Poppa loves you.

(To be continued...)

Have an OK day. 

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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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 12.15.18 I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Transgenderism (Part Two)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Rejecting your gay or transgender child will not make them straight. It will only mean that you will lose them."   -Christina Engela


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Stickies, 

Lets review. I ended last week's letter thusly:

As far as I'm concerned, as long as no one is getting hurt (that doesn't want to be), the door is closed, and the window treatment prevents me (and anyone else) that doesn't/shouldn't want to know what people get up to in private from hearing/seeing what people get up to in private -- have at it.

But when they insist on getting in my face, and/or demanding everyone's approval, that's a/the horse of a different color, Dorothy. Which is why there's going to be a part two.

This is part two. First, the low-hanging fruit.


There are men who have decided they are women but ain't going to dose themselves with chemicals or submit to surgery and I - don't - care. I personally don't know (as far as I know...) anyone who has chosen to live this way but if I should cross paths with such an individual I would treat them the same way I do everyone else. I'd take them as I find them and hope that they were a fellow gentleperson. If not, depending on the circumstances, I'd act accordingly.

[For the record, I did have a casual acquaintance, in the late 70s, with a gay gentleperson who enjoyed performing in drag but dressed like a (quite stylish) man when he wasn't on stage. I'm not mentioning this just to point out that I had gay friends, and a gay roommate for a year, long before it was cool for a straight man to have gay friends.]

Big But
There are men who have decided they are women but ain't going to dose themselves with chemicals or submit to surgery that have also decided that since as far as they are concerned they are women they have the right to compete in women's athletic competitions. This is a thing, it's already happening, regulatory bodies have started to go along.

This - is - nuts. If the emperor has a penis and the requisite amount of testosterone in his system but likes to wear a tasteful dress, and enjoys being a girl, good for her. But a cheat and bully by any other name is still a cheat and a bully.


Please re-read the first full paragraph at the beginning of this letter, I'll wait...

Okay? Good. Alright, open-minded and tolerant is one thing, forced acceptance quite another. While Stinky McGardle has as much right to hang out on the playground as anyone else, Lulu Lollobrigida, heartbreaker in training, has the right to flee the sandbox when Stinky turns up. She doesn't have the right to ban Stinky from the sandbox, or anything else for that matter. He doesn't have the right to demand she stay.

Lulu, who is being well raised by good parents, would never make fun of Stinky (who is actually a good kid that's being poorly raised by bad parents) as a lot of her friends do.

[In fact, a childless couple, Stinky's uncle Johan and his wife, Gretchen, will shortly take Stinky into their home, much to the relief of his reprobate parents, and eventually adopt him (after essentially paying them off). Stinky will turn out to be a very bright, if eternally socially awkward soul, who eventually becomes a doctor, a pediatric brain surgeon that works full time at Shriner's hospital and fills in at St. Judes on the weekend. He will mary Lulu and have three perfect children after bumping into her while volunteering at a homeless shelter. Lulu is a nurse with a Ph.D. that coordinates health care services for all the homeless shelters in the city of Golden Glow, state of Winnemac. She chooses Edmund's (Stinky's real name) brand of cologne for him and regulates its use as he has a tendency to go overboard.]


Leave us set aside Lola and Stinky's inevitable destiny for the moment and return to the here and now. Stinky and Lola both have the right to make use of the playground. All rights come with corresponding responsibilities. The most fundamental responsibility of any right is to acknowledge that all the kids on the playground have the same rights.

The second most fundamental corresponding responsibility, in fact, it may be tied for first, is that Stinky and Lola have to be constantly seeking compromises that allow both of them to enjoy their rights, as much as is practically possible, without stepping on each other's toes.

Maximum freedom requires a certain minimum of rules to ensure maximum enjoyment of the playground by the maximum number of kids.

Lola and Stinky, neither of whom is a jagoff or a bully, have found a way to share the playgrounds amenities peacefully by employing common sense.


We are minorities of one. Like snowflakes (I speak meteorologically), while having much in common, for all intents and purposes, we are unique. The overwhelming majority of H. sapiens on the planet Earth feel that there's me, and there's everyone else... and that their version of reality is the correct one.

This is why compromise is hard and complicated -- and unavoidable -- if we'd like to spend our brief time on the playground enjoying ourselves instead of endlessly bickering. Carrying on like spoiled children with chips on their shoulders competing in the Grievance and Victimology Olympics (which take place every four seconds, not every four years).


Aw geez, I'm already over my word limit... Lookit, if you enjoy being a girl but your naughty bits are clearly those of a male H. sapien (or vice versa), feel free to believe that biology is a social construct having no basis in reality. If you can "pass," feel free to use the women's room (or vice versa). But use a stall and keep the door closed. Do your business, and keep your business, to yourself.

Better yet, lobby for the addition of a third standardized restroom: Men, Women, Optional. While you're at it demand locker/slash changing rooms with the same designations.

Want to be accepted? In any given social situation choose to be the highest functioning high functioning primate in the room, and make the world a better place for everyone.

By the way, my three-way system compromise is a win/win/win/win. Middle of the road Normies who like things as they are, win. Transgender folks, win. Progressives can opt for Optional and send up a virtue signal, win. Righties of all stripes can honor/be made comfortable by traditional designations, win.

Compromise, don't demonize. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
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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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but from last week's column (12.15.18) forward I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Transgenderism (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Transgender doesn't need to imply loud." -Kubra Sait


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

Hopefully, by the time you Great-Grandstickies read this society will have figured out who is to be called what -- and who is to be classified as what -- to help all the kids on the playground to get along because I don't see it happening any time soon.

"I want the playground to have minimum rules and maximum fun. I want just enough rules to give everyone an equal shot at some swing time and neutralize the bullies." -me

[Geeze, how many times are you going to use that quote? It's bad enough that you go around quoting yourself. Couldn't you at least...]

Well excuuuse me, Dana. For the record, I don't use it all that often. Furthermore, these missives are letters to my progeny and it's important, to me at least, that they know where I'm coming/came from. I don't understand why...

[Well, I don't understand why...]

[Could we please stop zees abzurd beeckering and get on with ze column? Theenk of ze bad example you set for Iggy!]

Point taken, Marie-Louise.

The quote above neatly sums up my stand on politics, culture, economics, etceteromics. That is to say, I'm a wild-eyed libertarian with a bleeding heart and conservative impulses.

The thing is, for all the kids on the playground to get along reasonably well, their needs to be agreement as to what the minimally necessary rules are.


For several years now I've been making what I thought was a harmless joke. I've used it in previous letters and it's evolved with time. To be completely candid I stole it from Jim, of Barb and Jim fame. Aurora Barb and Jim, not Barb and Jim from the last house on left (side of Rt. 5 -- or is it Rt. 7?), anyways...

The latest version is, "I'm a beautiful, 39-year-old African-American lesbian woman named Coco (that looks remarkably like Hale Berry) trapped in the body of an aging, white, seemingly cisgendered heterosexual male. Feel my... pain.

[And now you need to stop because you're inflicting pain...]

Yeah, so I'm told. But I'm not making any promises.


See, there are men, well, biologically male H. sapiens anyway, who haven't had surgery and/or hormone therapy who consider themselves lesbians and wish to/are partner(ing) up with biologically female H. sapiens that are lesbians. At least if they can find one that's agreeable.

Hoo-boy.

When I heard about this I went a-googling and discovered it's true. It's not only true, according to this article 77% of transgender folks report that their sexual orientation is something other than straight. Which means that most of the men who become/say that they are women and most of the women that become/say that they are men are having sex with are, um, hopefully having fun? And no one is getting hurt unless they want to be. You learn something every day if you pay attention.

I also discovered an article by a female H. sapien who calls her column/article/blog/? PolelifeandPussy (yeah, seriously), that's about an apparent war that's broken out between transwomen and radical feminists that have issues with women that sport "lady cocks" (yeah, seriously).

I also discovered that trans advocates call radical feminists who think that transgender women should be excluded from "female spaces and organizations" (Wikipedia) TERFs. That is to say, trans-exclusionary radical feminists; this phrase is not uttered with love -- hence the war.

And then it dawned on me that I'm a TEAF. Who knew?


See, I'm a feminist if you define feminist as someone that believes in equal rights for women. By the way, I'm for equal rights (and responsibilities) for everyone, but I'm not a radical feminist.

Also, I've got a hooge problem with male H. sapiens that call themselves female H. sapiens but who have decided not to submit to either surgery or chemistry (not that I don't blame 'em) to physically render themselves female H. sapiens...

Big BUT,

feel that competing against female H. sapiens in athletic events is perfectly fair. And yes, Virginia/Vern, this is a thing.

So, that makes me a TEAF, a trans-exclusionary athletic feminist (for the record I'm not at all athletic, this gets so confusing...) and would seem to indicate that I'm at war with trans advocates and radical feminists since I'm a non-radical feminist that believes in equal rights (and responsibilities) for everyone.

Hoo-boy, which way's Switzerland?


I don't want to be at war with anyone over this sort of thing. As far as I'm concerned, as long as no one is getting hurt (that doesn't want to be), the door is closed, and the window treatment prevents me (and anyone else) that doesn't/shouldn't want to know what people get up to in private from hearing/seeing what people get up to in private -- have at it.

But when they insist on getting in my face, and/or demanding everyone's approval, that's a/the horse of a different color, Dorothy. Which is why there's going to be a part two. Poppa loves you.

(To be continued...)

Have an OK day. 
Please scroll down to react, comment, or share.


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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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but from this column forward I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Loosing My Religion (Part Six -- the end)

...or, the importance of the transcendent, part two. It's a long one.

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"There are some things you have to give up to the higher power" -Jimmy Smits




Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

In last week's letter, I brought up the concept of the power of a higher power as conceived and practiced by those seeking to be restored to sanity via the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and like-minded groups.

I mentioned that as far as I'm concerned this is employing the power of transcendence to repair one's life. I also mentioned that I think everyone needs to find a higher power of some sort, even hardcore atheists, to live the best possible sort of life.

While I did mention my own particular version of tapping into the power of a higher power I didn't explain how/why I think everyone can.


I don't claim to know all that much about a given twelve-step programs concept of a higher power. I've discussed it with AA people in general, Nana in particular. Someone told me it didn't matter who or what your higher power was, it could be a tree, as long as you accepted that there was a higher power that would/could assist you in getting sober if you were open to the possibility.

Since this was a natural fit with my belief, detailed last week, that all there is, is, the Great Big Sticky whatever the f-word (GBSWF) manifesting itself, I "got it" immediately. It provided clarification/justification to my concept of who/what God is, which in the intervening years has grown stronger and clearer.

[Wait a second, how is this a natural fit with...]

Well, I failed to mention, Dana, last week I mean, was that I believe it's possible for anyone to tap into the power of the GBSWF, I guess that's my idea of a higher power. I also believe there are all sorts of ways to access this power ranging from the purely spiritual to the purely secular and/or at all sorts of levels betwixt the two.


[Could you be a little more vague please?]

Oh, hell yeah, you know me, but I'm gonna shoot for clarity. I make no promises though.

At the risk of being accused of having a keen eye for the obvious, my friends the recovering drunks told me that it doesn't matter, specifically, what your higher power is as long as you conceive of it as something that will keep you on the straight and narrow and moving towards a worthy goal of some sort. Sobriety for example.

And you don't have to be a drunk or a druggie to access a/your higher power.

Say you're a drunk, any sort of addict really, and the thing that has you by the ass is just not that much fun anymore. In fact, it may be ruining your life. It may be screwing with the lives of people that you allegedly care about.

Try as you might, you haven't been able to stop. A twelve step group will try and teach you, among many, many other things, that you need a higher power to help you out.

Conveniently, a lot of folks believe in God, the most traditional, go-to higher power. Surely, a being that is infinite in every possible way has the ability to help ya out. You just have to figure out what your concept of such a being is, what the rules of the game are as far as you and the big G. go, and ask to borrow a cup of grace.

Pay it back, and forward, by living a life that would make your mom happy, that she would brag about. Unless, of course, your mom's a basket case. The good news is that finding a substitute whom you'd like to make smile is easy (don't forget you). The bad news is that finding another mom, a real mom (or a dad...), is hard. You can deal with it though, you have a higher power to help you out.


"Well, I believe in something like God, but I'm confused/uncertain/etcetern as to the details."

Piece of homemade caramel apple pie. "I act as if God exists" -Jordan Peterson. I interpret this as meaning I believe that morality/ethics/etceterics exist and that I'm going to be a good dude/dudette because I have to share the playground with the other kids. And I know that 99% of the time, if I'm honest with myself, I somehow know what the right thing to do is. It's like I have a higher power.


[Is that John Lennon I hear singing Kumbaya, verse 23, in the background. There ain't no God, there ain't no higher power, it's just yours truly trying to get through another day in paradise without getting my body or soul dumped into the car crusher down at the local scrap yard.]

Dana, spreading the sunshine as always huh? where are your trusty companions?

[Marie-Louise was just here a second ago... I don't know where she disappeared to. We just got back from dropping the Igmeister off at school. Which reminds me, the principal wants you to call, something about a BB gun?]

Great. Thanks. Listen, you've got a goal or two, right? I'm talkin' biggies, not going out for lunch.

[Sure, in fact, I've got a lengthy bucket list. Number one is...]

And I know for a fact that you have morals and ethics, and that you regularly commit to being a better person and to try harder to always do the right thing, particularly when you're loaded, yes?

[Sure, but...]

Cool, ever stop to think about the fact that you have goals and aspirations and that they're a completely abstract phenomenon? that they help keep you on the straight and narrow and out of an institution? that you just plain feel better when you heed their call? that when you surrender to just aimlessly drifting through the day indulging the appetite of the moment you feel like shit?

[Um...]

Still don't believe in a higher power?

The end. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
Please scroll down to react, comment, or share.


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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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

Loosing My Religion (Part Five)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"I think people sleepwalk through their lives, and for me, I wanted to embrace everything. And that meant the agonizing pain and the transcendence, and you can't have one without the other."   -Aisha Tyler


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

I met Nana/Ronbo/Ronnie in Austin, Tejas in either late March or early April of 1985 (it's complicated). Suffice it to say, we later declared that April 7th was the day we'd celebrate for what turned out to be the next 21, almost 22 years.

She died on January 10th, 2006 in the Cleveland Clinic, primarily the result of the accumulated side effects of years and years of taking corticosteroids to keep her lung disease from killing her.

Accidentally being given penicillin (she was allergic) the previous Spring in one of our local hospitals here in Hootervile, Ohio didn't help.

Ironically, her lung problems were the result of being a preemie placed in a pure oxygen to help her breathe and develop her lungs. Medical science discovered the hard way that too much oxygen for preemies is as bad as not enough.

Think about it: She was accidentally rendered permanently ill by well-meaning docs. She was kept alive by a medicine, prescribed by well-meaning docs, that eventually helped to kill her. She was accidentally helped to find the exit by being given a medication, prescribed by a well-meaning doc and/or administered by a well-meaning nurse, that she was highly allergic to.

Big BUT

Having had to fight all her life just to keep her lungs pumping -- she was tired. When Dude the first was born she predicted that she would hang on for five more years, so that he'd remember her, and then she was outtahere. Dude 1 was five years and two months old when she left. She was cool like that.

[With all due respect, what's this got to do with you losing your religion? If I remember correctly you turned your back on Catholicism way back...]

Well, she was a drunk and had discovered the power of a higher power, and that was my first exposure to that particular concept.

[Huh?]


She was sober when we met and surprisingly enough remained so. Had she been a practicing drunk when we met I wouldn't be writing this letter, at least not to yinz guys. I've no problem with people that occasionally get drunk; I've never cared much for full-time drunks, even when I was a full-time pothead.

I was a mildly self-righteous pothead, with rules; I've hinted at that in the past. As I mentioned, I'll be writing more about that in the future. Anyways... Very long and complicated story short, a fundamental tenet of Alcoholics Anonymous is that a given drunk (or any sort of addict for that matter) needs a higher power to find their way back to sanity.

A traditional version of God, a highly abstract and/or esoteric version, or something in between -- whatever works to serve as a conduit to what I call the transcendent.

All that said, the subject of this letter is not about beating alcoholism/addiction, it's about the importance of transcendence, for everyone (part one).


Your religion, their religion  -- or the lack thereof -- is up to you/them. If organized religion doesn't work for you there are no shortage of other paths available, including atheism. I believe that everyone, even atheists, need a higher power to live life to the fullest. That's the subject of my next, and final, letter on this subject. What follows below needs to come first.

Personally, I believe that one or the other of two things is true. I'm going to die and that's that. Now I exist, now I don't. See ya. Take care. Or, I'm going to be reabsorbed back into what I call the Great Big Sticky Whatever the Fuck (GBSWF).

[Note: current column and meatspace policy dictates that I use the F-bomb sparingly so as to preserve its power. The way things are going at the moment, by the time you're grups this word will have long been rendered completely innocuous. Your loss.]

Very long story short I believe that, all that is, is, "God" manifesting itself. Think of it this way. If you're God, by definition infinite and unlimited it all ways, what's the one thing you would lack? Limitation. What else would there be to do but manifest yourself in every possible way and enjoy the show?

[Show! Tell me, did you enjoy having Cancer! What the hell are...]

Well, Dana, everyone enjoys a good tragedy as much as a good comedy. Perhaps the best show is one in which everyone has a part but forgets they're playing a part till they snap out of it, till they wake up, till the house lights come up and they are -- enlightened?

I've had a rather intense taste or two of this sort of thing, but it's never lasted long enough for me to feel certain of anything, not even long enough to write a self-help book. Or start a cult. Good money in cults. I've often wondered if I could start a lucrative, nice cult that didn't damage my followers in any way. A person's got to make a living.

For the record (I'll deny this if my cult ever gets off the ground) while I did create the term Great Big Sticky Whatever the F-word, the concepts are not mine. They've been around for millennia. I'd suggest checking out Daoism, Alan Watts (before he sank too far into hippyism), and Eckhart Tolle, but there are lots more. Oh, and beware of cults, most don't seem to be very nice. Poppa loves you.

To be continued... and ended, next week.

Have an OK day. 
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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. Or starting a cult.

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Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

Loosing My Religion (Part Four)

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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

- Glossary  

- Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"There is a kind of mysticism to writing." -Irvine Welsh


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Next up: My Philadelphia period. I managed to get through my freshman and sophomore years in a public high school with minimal damage. In the summer of '69, less than a month before I was due to start my junior year, my dad died.

This was not as horrible as it sounds, at least for me. And no, I'm not a cold-blooded sociopath, nor was he some sort of wild-eyed psychopath. I cried a bit, of course, but...

See, he married late and had a bunch of kids. I was the fifth of seven. He was 58 when he died and I was 16. Frankly, he was more like a benignly indifferent grandfather to me than a dad at that point. I bear him no ill will; he was more dad like till I was nine or ten. He took me to several Pittsburgh (with an h) Pirate games during the half minute or so that I was a baseball fan (roughly from five to seven years of age).

My favorite thing about going to (now long gone) Forbes field was riding a streetcar to and from the game and eating frozen custard. Mine is not an athletic sensibility. I...

Marie-Louise spits out a Sacre bleu!
Dana launches a snort of derision.
Iggy giggles.

Fine then. I did one more year of high school in my rich Burb -- in a brand new school that was more like a college campus than a high school -- and then me, my mom, and my two younger brothers moved in with my older brother who lived in suburban/almost rural Philadelphia.

That's a very complicated story; what follows is the condensed version. 


Senior year. Not a rich Burb. Working 25 hours a week in a small supermarket (my big brother the butcher got me the job). Mont Clare Market was a short story, perhaps a novella, unto itself.

In the course of five years, I went from a rich and sophisticated eighth grade in a Catholic grade school to a rich, somewhat less sophisticated public high school to a middle class and decidedly unsophisticated senior year.

The good news was that my final year of high school was easy as I was a bit ahead of my fellow classmates. I'm not bragging, it was dumb luck. I confess that with the possible exception of eighth grade, I never worked hard in school.

[Well, I did work hard obtaining my sporadically accumulated 39 college credits, but that was by choice, not compulsion.]

There were vague discussions about college but none of the grups in my life lobbied for that path, some were almost hostile. Vague notions of communes or NYC were replaced by a desire to get my diploma, work full time in the small supermarket, and get my own place. And so I did.

[What happened to religion? asks Dana.]

Iggy has left for school. Marie-Louise sweeps out of my subconscious in a huff (she loves dramatic exits/entrances).


As far as religion goes...

[Finally!]

...my vague, ill-defined notions of God were replaced, at some point, by an interest in Eastern mysticism. It was a significant part of Boomer culture, various rock stars were involved, and the bookstores were full of ancient Eastern texts. LSD was credited with sometimes bestowing immediate, if temporary, enlightenment.

It was a RBFD in certain Boomer circles for a few minutes. The circles are much smaller nowadays. While I was, and remain, spiritually/mystically/whateverly minded, my efforts at "seeking enlightenment" were half-assed, at best.

As my teens became my twenties I slowly but steadily became what I now call a hippie with a job. I smoked too much weed but always had a job, a car, and my own apartment. Eastern religion/mysticism/etcetersicism became a sort of hobby. I never stopped reading about it but didn't pursue it with any real vigor.

I eventually tried LSD hoping for a shortcut to Nirvana but apparently never stumbled on the real deal as I only had one brief hallucination, one time. Uphoria, giggling, vibrant music and colors. It was rather like taking an intense, long-lasting version of weed, combined with speed, that suppressed your appetite rather than giving you the munchies.

[Preview: Now that weed is becoming legal there will soon be a letter about weed specifically, recreational drugs in general.]


In my early thirties, I met and married Nana. I all but gave up recreational pharmaceuticals. Nana came pre-equipped with a kid and kids and drugs don't mix. The next 30+ years were spent keeping Nana (a.k.a. Ronbo) alive as long as I could, avoiding career success, and then helping your mom and dad/grandmother and grandfather to launch a life.

As this is being written that project continues but at the moment they're doing most of the work and providing most of the financing. I'd be fu screwed without 'em as I'm struggling with some health problems and an inadequate retirement income at the moment.


The good news is that on the God/religion/enlightenment front I've made a bit of progress and I think I've finally got a clue or two. Poppa loves you.

To be continued...

Have an OK day. 
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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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

Loosing My Religion (Part Three)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."
                                                                                 -Allen Saunders                                                                                                   

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

My eight years of Catholic education (which took place when nuns still had hair on their chests) was over. Next up: freshman in a public high school. Most vivid memory: culture shock(s).

No, I didn't have to wear a tie. Changing classes or going to the restroom didn't involve marching. Not once did a nun waltz part way into the boy's room demanding we keep the noise down.

[For the record, the nun in a boys restroom scenario would make a great scene in a movie. Picture a half dozen or so frightened/embarrassed little boys attempting to become one with a urinal to preserve what they could of their modesty/dignity.]

Big BUT

There was gym class twice a week. Showering buck naked with a bunch of dudes, at varying stages of physical development was bad enough. The pre and post shower Lord of the Flyish dramas in the locker room were worse. Running a cross-country course for the first time in my life -- four times during the first report card period, for a grade -- was worse yet.

Going from staying inside for recess to try and be the first one to finish the current Agatha Christie novel that our impromptu book club was reading -- to running Cross-Country -- was like a 300 pound 17-year-old momma's boy trying to make it through Marine boot camp.

And don't get me started on girls in mini-skirts! Why I remember...

[What, has any of this got to do with religion?]

It's a reflection of my charmingly eccentric personality. Not to mention it serves as the literary equivalent of color commentary in a sports-obsessed nation. Not to mention that the phrase not to mention (followed by a mention) makes no sense, Dana.

[Hoo-boy...]

Before moving on I must mention one other thing. Had I gone to a Catholic high school I would've had an entirely different life. Obtaining the best grades I was capable of would have been demanded; there would've much pressure to go to college.

The majority of my unionized public school teachers couldn't care less if I worked hard or not and whether or not I went to college was between me and my parents. In retrospect, I don't take this personally. Tomatoes v. Tomahtoes. I sorta/kinda wish I had opted for the tomahto track but then again, I suspect I've had a more interesting life than the average bear.

And of course, I was blessed with/there wouldn't have been Ronbo, Valencia Procrastinatia, and the Stickies.


Ninth grade was a transition year as far as me and organized religion are concerned. One doesn't just turn one's back on eight years of indoctrination, that began when I still believed in Santa, just like that. At least this one didn't.

I joined a Catholic-based youth organization for kids that also didn't go to a Catholic high school along with my new best friend, Glenn S., who was in the other eighth grade of the same Catholic grade school I had just left behind. It was a large school. Social rules dictated that one's social sphere revolved around the kids you spent the day trapped sitting in the same classroom with.

We had quickly become foxhole buddies to survive public high school and riding a  school bus to same. The bus was yet another Lord of the Flies situation, but not as bad as gym class. We were best buds for quite a while, but no longer. He got normal years before I did.


The group, that I can't remember the name of, mandated doing a lot of "volunteer" work in various officially approved charitable situations. The only vivid memory that comes to mind is trying to feed a 300-year-old woman at a nursing home who kept yelling at me for not doing it right.

I can't remember when I stopped showing up, for the youth group or Mass. At some point, my mom acquiesced (she was in charge of that sort of thing) but I've no memory of exactly when.

My ill-defined belief is some sort of God became even more ill-defined as I drifted through/survived high school. My goals were to get laid, graduate, get laid, and then do something, um, cool. "Hit the road," or join a commune, or move to New York City and become a writer, etc.

[For the record, while I liked to read I hadn't actually written anything, not even tried really. As to why I thought I needed to move to NYC, and/or how this would result in my becoming a writer... Well, let's just say it seemed like a good idea at the time.]

I wound up living and working in a grocery store in suburban, almost rural, Philadelphia. Poppa loves you. To be continued...

Have an OK day. 
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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. PATREON is a company that makes it possible for fans to support all sorts of "creators" via PayPal and plastic. You can donate just once by "pledging" a monthly amount and then canceling after your first payment.

In fact, you can cancel at any time for any reason. Regardless, if you like what you just read, please share it. Buttons below...

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and items of interest there.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

Loosing My Religion (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 to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

- Glossary  

- Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"My religions is very simple. My religion is kindness." -Dalai Lama

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

OK, where was I... Oh, yeah, transitioning from an old-school, blue-collar, relatively grubby inner-city neighborhood (currently suffering from gentrification) to the Burbs. Eighth and final year of a Catholic education. Rich (relatively speaking) peers, cutting grass.

FYI, old-school is a relative term. Old-school to me is ancient history to you. I'm referencing the end of the Black & White Ages when everything was morphing into the current era.

I'm rather lucky, I think, and so are you by extension, to have incarnated at that point. I clearly remember a  different America. An America (yes, of course I know it was flawed, get over yourself utopians) that had reached its highest crest so far before descending into our current trough. I wonder if I'll live long enough to experience another crest?

Anyways...


For a variety of reasons -- the primary one being many of my new, more prosperous friends had older sibs in college where the late sixties was shifting into high gear -- I was suddenly a step or two closer to what I had read about in The Saturday Evening Post but hadn't really affected my life all that much yet.

[Well... while still living on the Sou' Side a Pittsburgh (with an h) I did sport a pair of sunglasses that looked like the granny glasses John Lennon sometimes wore. I bought 'em at Nevin's Five & Ten for 89 cents; broke 'em in short order.]

However, mine/ours was a relatively small and sheltered revolution. The only thing I had to rebel against was church and school, which in my mind/life at the time was the same thing.

I was against the "establishment" (whatever that was) and viewed anyone over thirty with suspicion, as any right-thinking callowyute should. But I lead a relatively conventional life. I knew of no one that did drugs until my junior year in high school, even alcohol. Making a baby before getting married was still a disgrace and often resulted in being forced to get married.


I wasn't an atheist, I wasn't even an agnostic. I believed in some sort of ill-defined God. My revolution was about not wanting to wear a tie every day, which was actually about not liking to go to school.

My revolution was about having had it up to here with seemingly endless Rules & Regs, saints, sins, and ceremonies. Interestingly, many of those saints and some of those sins have since been repealed.

I didn't figure out till much later that want I wanted was a personal relationship with God. What the Catholic church offered was a command and control sort of religion with all sorts of intermediaries between God and me.

Our/my vaguely defined sense of us v. them got us Masses in English. This victory proved that it was only a matter of time till we'd fix everything. I speak here of not only the church but also the "establishment" (whatever that was).

Ironically, the only time I remember feeling close to God when I was a kid was when, at a traditional mass or ceremony, my consciousness would float away on a cloud fueled by a pipe organ, Latin chanting, candles, and the light of elaborate, stained glass windows.

I didn't have to worry about this on Sunday's, but if this happened while attending Mass or one of the interminable special ceremonies with my class, it often resulted in a smack on the back of the head, much to the amusement of my peers, by a vigilant nun who assumed I was up to no good.

"Folk Masses" in well-lit rooms and executed in English with acoustic guitars were cool in concept but rather dreary in reality.


And then, two things happened that turned out to be major league milestones. Of course, I had no idea that they were till some years later. Wouldn't it be cool if we were aware of all the crap that turned out to be hugely important crap at the time it was happening, and not in retrospect?

Think about it, we...

[Cough, cough.]

Thanks, Dana, point taken. Thing number one was the fact that my parents could not afford to send me to the Catholic high school that all my new sophisticated friends were going to (well, the guys, it wasn't coed).

Thing number two was the resulting culture shock from attending a public school for the first time in my life. I thought it would be cool to get away from the Catholic education system (no ties...) and sow some wild oats.

I was mostly wrong. Poppa loves you.

To be continued...

Have an OK day. 
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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. PATREON is a company that makes it possible for fans to support all sorts of "creators" via PayPal and plastic. You can donate just once by "pledging" a monthly amount and then canceling after your first payment.

In fact, you can cancel at any time for any reason. Regardless, if you like what you just read, please share it. Buttons below...

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and items of interest there.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

Losing My Religion (Part One)

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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

- Glossary  
- Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Religion consists of a set of things which the average man thinks he believes, and wishes he was certain." -Mark Twain


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When I was a kid, specifically during my Sister Mary McGillicuddy period (first through seventh grade) it was made clear to me that to succeed in life and in death (go to heaven) it was necessary that I follow a number of specific rules to the best of my ability.

I was assured by (and reinforcement was provided by) my parents, Sister M., Father Fitzgibbon, the Catholic Church, American culture in general, and the culture of the Sou'Side a Pittsburgh (with an h) specifically -- that this was true.

Turns out that life is slightly more complicated than that and...

[No kidding, Einstein. I'll bet when you found out Santa Claus wasn't real you wound up in therapy.]

Dana! you're back! I was beginning to think you guys moved to some other would-be writers subconsciousness.

[Nope, we're still here. The Cancer thing was just too depressing for me to deal with so I took some time off. Nothing personal. Between dealing with school, adolescence, and band practice Iggy's totally preoccupied.]

What about Marie-Louise?

[She's still here but she's gone part-time. She asked me to tell you she's still doing her best to keep you inspired but she's had to take on another client, who actually makes money from their writing, because she's fallen behind on her rent. Nothing personal. She's quite busy.]

Oh.


Now, when I was 13, my parents moved part two of their brood of seven to the burbs. Group one had moved on but group two, whose first member, me, incarnated after a five-year gap still had to be dealt with. My parents purchased their first and only house. It was too small, and they couldn't really afford it, but it got us out of the city.

This was a step up from a series of too small houses and apartments that they had rented in the city (Pittsburgh, with an h). Life changing stuff. We lived in what was a very modest enclave of a very rich suburb and I spent my last year of Catholic grade school, eighth grade, going to school with kids that lived in a different world than I did.

These were the children of people that had graduated from college but had not majored in things like psychology or fine arts (unlike many of their kids, my buds, were about to do). They were the offspring of doctors and lawyers and um, pharmacists (you thought I was going say Indian chiefs, admit it). Mike C_____'s dad was a VP at Pepsi. Much to my surprise, I was not shunned.

There was music in the Cafes at night, -- and although we were too young for that, the church hall a really cool jukebox -- revolution in the air (dated boomer cultural reference). I was secretly in love with a girl named Cindy whose last name I can't remember; I was over my failed summer romance with Monica T.


It was 1966 and the revolution referenced above was primarily a cultural one that went too far but that's another story. My personal revolution, the one that occurred in my relatively naive and sheltered little world, was centered around the Catholic church.

See, this was year eight of wearing a tie, endless rules & regs, marching to the bathroom like a little soldier (or convict), every-one getting a smack on the palm with a wooden ruler if no-one would confess to talking while Sister Mary McGillicuddy was out of the room (less painful than getting shunned by the other prisoners), regularly scheduled elaborate church rituals/endurance contests, the occasional psycho-nun...

[Psycho nun?]

I could tell ya stories, Dana. For example, Sister Egg Noodle (not her real name) praying to a picture of the founder of her order that our schools CYO basketball team would beat the team of our arch-rival, St. Emerentiana. Those poor bastards had to start every school day by attending mass so of course, most of 'em were not quite right.

They did have very cool varsity jackets, however.


Where was I... oh yeah, eighth grade. Same sort of nuns (mostly, there were notable exceptions), changing church (the mass is going to be in English?!?).
Father Fitzgibbon v. Father Bing O'Malley. 

Most importantly, traditional mostly blue-collar kids replaced by mostly white-collar kids. Poppa loves you. To be continued...

Have an OK day. 
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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. PATREON is a company that makes it possible for fans to support all sorts of "creators" via PayPal and plastic. You can donate just once by "pledging" a monthly amount and then canceling after your first payment.

In fact, you can cancel at any time for any reason. Regardless, if you like what you just read, please share it. Scroll down to share or leave a comment.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and items of interest there.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

News That You Can Use (No. 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 to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Winter is nature's way of saying, 'Up yours.'" -Robert Byrne


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This letter/column will probably be of more interest to my current gentlereaders than to the eventual yous but you might find something of value here.

- To my gentlereaders who live north of the Mason-Dixon line and have the good sense to regard the approach of winter (appropriately) with fear and loathing, the forecasts are in.  

NOAA predicts precipitation will range from below average to average. Temperatures, will be above average. Works for me. 

On the other hand... "Contrary to the stories storming the web, our time-tested, long-range formula is pointing toward a very long, cold, snow-filled winter..." -Peter Geiger, Editor, and Philom, Farmers Almanac. 

[Purple Journalism Alert: the quote above is from a Fox New website story. The actual quote is, "Contrary to some stories floating around the internet..." Someone at FOX sexed it up. Fair and balanced? Perhaps, but what about accuracy? My emboldening by the way.]

But then again... The Old Farmer's Almanac, not to be confused with the Farmers Almanac, says that "This winter we expect to see above-normal temperatures almost everywhere in the United States..."

Having been temporarily living in Canada's deep south for the past 33 years (Northern Ohio) and having seen my life flash before my eyes on more than one occasion (my vision obscured by horizontal snow showers) I predict it will snow heavily at the worst possible times and probably not on Christmas.

The Sun will rarely be visible. It's most likely to come out early in the morning and shine directly into the eyes of people who would rather be home in a warm bed as they are driving to work.

What are the four seasons of Northern Ohio? Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter, Construction. Thank you! thank you very much!


News That You Could Have Done Without...
...But the Purple Press provided saturation coverage nevertheless.

Now, while the following is also primarily directed at my gentlereaders, my Grandstickies may find it interesting from a historical perspective. I wonder if the Purple Press will still be devolving or have stabilized by the time they read this?

As this is being written, a news story about the ancestors of Senator Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts, currently one of several hundred politicians tirelessly teasing the public about a possible run for the presidency in 2020, is currently "trending."

That is to say, unless you're pursuing enlightenment in a cave in the Himalayas, you've encountered this story -- and the tempest in a teapot it has generated -- here, there, and even way over there.

This wily woman, a veritable soda cracker (white and salty), has been claiming for decades to be 1/32 Cherokee. That's what her saintly mama told her, and after all, she does have high cheekbones.

Of course, she did this out of pride. It wasn't an attempt to advance her career by playing a minority card, which can sometimes serve to assist a given individual in climbing the ladder of America's complicated meritocracy.

Having had it with the racist/sexist/eteceterist attacks by her political enemies, including the tweeter-in-chief himself, she released the results of a DNA test. It provided  "strong evidence" that six to ten generations ago a Native American and an individual of European descent, distant relatives of Ms. Warren, made the beast with two backs.

In other news, America recently marked the 17th anniversary of the war in Afghanistan.


Latest From the You Can't Make This Shtuff Up Desk
Kimberly-Clark, the firm responsible for the United Kingdom's most popular brand of kleenex, Kleenex Mansize -- "confidently strong, comfortingly soft" -- have seen the error of their ways. Thanks to a flock of politically correct twitterers tweeting on Twitter the offensive name has been changed to Kleenex Extra Large.

One can only hope that the marketing minion that came up with the clever new name was appropriately rewarded.

A spokesmanperson for the company made clear that "Kimberly-Clark in no way suggests that being both soft and strong is an exclusively masculine trait, nor do we believe the Mansize branding suggests or endorses gender inequality."

Ain'tcha glad they cleared that up?

Personally, as an H. Sapien with the letter M on my birth certificate, were I a twitterer I'd request that they'd start selling an American version of the product in question. I, and I'm certain I'm not alone, would love a larger (perhaps even slightly more substantive) tissue.

I prefer my tissues with added lotion so I hope they provide that option as well. I'd like to suggest a name and tagline. Kleenex Extra Large Whipped Tissues -- the tissued with extra softness whipped in. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.
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©2018 Mark Mehlmauer