I Hope I Die Before I Get Old, Part Two

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This weekly column consists of letters written to my perspicacious progeny — the Stickies — to advise 'em now and haunt them after I'm deleted.

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC-65: Sexy Seasoned Citizens   

About 

Glossary 

Featuring {Dana}: Persistent auditory hallucination and charming literary device 

"Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal." -Ray Bradbury (from Fahrenheit 451) 

Dear Stickies (and gentlereaders),  

In part one, I declared that there's bad old and that there's good old. I explained bad old thusly:

"I don't ever want to be so old that maintaining my personal financial and ideological status quo is the primary reason I keep getting out of bed in the morning -- the pursuit of purpose and meaning, and fun, be damned. 

I know/have known/know of a lot of people who are younger than me but who are actually much older than I am. I'd rather be dead than be that sort of old."

{I know that I still think quoting yourself as often as you do is a bit creepy.}

Now, as to good old...permit me to begin with a disclaimer. 

Not that it's going to stop me, but unless/until/if you're good old you're not going to fully understand what I'm on about. Also, like many, perhaps most complex/subtle things, it can be pointed to or hinted at with mere words but must be experienced to be truly understood. 

Placing things in their proper perspective are words to live by, particularly nowadays. The seemingly ever-increasing speed of daily life + the never-ending information tsunami + the time-honored media (old and new versions) strategery called If it Bleeds it Leads = a seriously skewed perspective. 

{So we're skewed?}

Not necessarily, Dana. We can (try) to live like a stoic philosopher, or a recovering drunk/druggie, and change what we can while making the best of the rest. 

Big BUT, never forget that nirvana/heaven/utopia is ALWAYS going to be just around the next corner so (try) to relax, and make the best of the ride. It's going to be over much sooner than you think. 

If you're fortunate enough to become good old, which doesn't necessarily (but commonly does) have anything to do with being physically old, you will be blessed with Cosmic Geezer(ette) Perspective (CGP). 

"Memento mori (Latin for 'remember that you have to die') is an artistic or symbolic trope acting as a reminder of the inevitability of death." -Wikipedia

I first encountered the term when I bumped into it somewhere and read something about medieval monks keeping a skull in their cell to serve as a memory aid. Remember dude, heaven or hell is waiting for us all, best not wander off Straight&Narrow Blvd.

However (the Wikipedia article provides a broad overview), this "symbolic trope" is common all over the globe in widely varying cultures, has been for thousands of years, and doesn't necessarily refer to following all the Rules&Regs of a given ideology to obtain paradise forever and ever, amen. 

For many H. sapiens, including me, it serves as a reminder that no matter what comes next, or doesn't, you will eventually be deleted. 

{Not once H. sapiens figure out how to upload themselves to the cloud!}

Let's hope so, who wouldn't want to spend eternity as a ghost in a machine? Get away from that plug! Achieving CGP means — that no matter what's next, or isn't — acceptance. You now know in your very bones, so to speak, that you're gonna die, and you can live with that.   

For the uninitiated, looking death in the eye, can, and often does, bring on a panic attack. Holy shyte! I could wake up dead tomorrow... I could drop dead any second! I should do something! 

If you're one of those demented people who think H. sapiens are to "Gaia" as terminal cancer is to normal H. sapiens you'll be thrilled, right?

If you're one of those fortunate people (more or less) confident that heaven awaits, you'll double down on following the Rules&Regs as best you can and hope God is a forgiving sort with a sense of humor. 

If you're an atheist or an agnostic and have a panic attack you'll be able to easily reason yourself out of it, right? If not, medical science has developed a plethora of specialists and medications to assist you in living with this and any number of similar problems.   

CGP, on the other hand, is sorta/kinda enlightenment for the masses. The Sanskrit word nirvana literally translates to "blowing out." You know how when some really intense experience (good or bad) ends and you experience a deep, heartfelt sigh, PHEW! (for lack of a better word)?  

It's like that...combined with acceptance and a new perspective. The bad news is that it will come and go. The good news is that it keeps reasserting itself like an alarm clock with a snooze function that can't be disabled. I think that if it becomes permanent you will be enlightened, or close enough.      

If you were born with Must Be Used By _______ stamped on your bum how would you spend your time? 

{Say what?}

If you achieve CGP you won't know what your use-by date is but you will know you have one, it's inevitable, and that it might be any time now. It will feel, um...really real, as opposed to vague, abstract, and waiting for you somewhere beyond a distant horizon.

The good news is that there's no bad news. 

You may be in no hurry to die, but you won't be particularly upset that you're going to. All of the passions, fears, goals, duties, dreams, etc. will still be there, but the pot will be simmering, not boiling. 

Clarity. You will know what you still have to do, what you really want to do, and will balance them as best you can fully aware that life is what happens to you while you're making other plans so there's no point in getting upset about it, although you still will from time to time. 

"Good" implies "bad" and vice versa. Together they constitute an inseparable whole and there's just no way around it. All that you can do really is all that you can do. 

Deep inhale, blow out, laugh at yourself.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Like, Wow!

A Random Randomnesses Column

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This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny — the Stickies — to advise 'em now, haunt them after I'm deleted.

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC-65: Sexy Seasoned Citizens   

About 

Glossary 

Featuring {Dana}: Persistent auditory hallucination and charming literary device 

“To inspire himself, he lit up a marijuana cigarette, excellent Land-O-Smiles brand.” -Philip K. Dick, from The Man in the High Castle

Dear Stickies (and gentlereaders),  

Like, wow. I've written several columns that use the now apparently ubiquitous discourse marker (aka a filler, filled pause, hesitation marker, planner, or crutch) like. 

For the record, I wish to point out that I was like, being sarcastic.

However, I've recently encountered the word here, there, and occasionally even over there, and spoken out loud and repeatedly, by seemingly intelligent and rational people. Given how rapidly f-bombs are becoming f-firecrackers I expect it's only a matter of time before I encounter a demure, genteel-looking woman of a certain age exclaim — like, FUCK!  — while rooting through her purse in search of her car keys.

{That's sexist and agist! You can't...}

According to Wikipedia, "Christopher Hitchens described the use of the word "like" as ..."a particularly prominent example of the 'Californianization of American youth-speak.'" 

Indeed. The Boomer legacy continues. 

The recent off-off-year election (that I wrote about not long ago) here in the Buckeye state went off without a hitch, unlike the inevitable cluster coitus next year's national election is already shaping up to be. The post-election hitches, unfortunately, are legion.

Let the litigation begin! continue! 

While weed is now legal in Ohio ya can't just show up at any of the existing outlets that already sell medicinal weed and cop some chronic. From the Akron-Beacon Journal: "The Division of Cannabis Control must first set rules on licensing, product standards, packaging and more." 

They have nine months to do so, so I figure it will be a year or so... maybe.

"The state can't dole out additional licenses for another two years." Enter the Social Equity Program.

"This aims to help business owners who are disproportionately affected by the enforcement of marijuana laws. That includes people who are disadvantaged based on their race, gender, ethnicity or economic status.

"The law reserves 40 cultivation licenses and 50 dispensary licenses for these operators and provides them with grants, loans, technical assistance, and reduced license and application fees. The Department of Development is tasked with setting specific rules for the program."

If I were a lawyer I'd be salivating. 

{What about the abortion rights amendment to the Ohio Constitution?}

Passed. 56.6% yea, 43.4% nay. 

Big BUT, there were already various and sundry related legal actions tied up in the courts — the infamous six weeks with no exceptions for minor problems like rape, incest, or the mother's health law for example — prior to the vote, and more are being filed even as I write. 

But in the meantime, the same law that was in effect before the current kerfuffle remains in effect. Abortion is legal with certain civilized restrictions (such as no partial-birth abortions). 

{Then why on Earth...}

On a possibly related note, statewide primary elections are just around the corner.

If two people with two last names get married, do their kids have four last names? I went a-googlin' and can confidently report that I have no clue. In my defense, neither does anyone else. 

As best I can tell, there are no legal restrictions. Like gender choice and pronouns, you can follow your heart. 

Perhaps this will serve as a wakeup call to all the hes, shes, and theys out there to think twice before saddling their spawn with bizarre first names, or even traditional ones with mangled spellings likely to lead to a lifetime of peer abuse, psych meds, and therapy. 

On a practical note, filling out a form when one's last name is something like Smith-Jones-von Pufendorf-Garcia is clearly potentially problematic.

{Congress needs to step up and do something about this!}

Don't hold your breath. Congress can't seem to deal with truly important issues, like whether or not we should get rid of daylight savings time or make it permanent. On the bright side, twice a year the endless controversy gives reporters and commentators something to write about on slow news days.

This just in... henceforth December 7th will not only be famous for being Mark and Ronnie's wedding anniversary, Aunt Brenda's birthday, and some other thing... Oh yeah, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Today it's legal to smoke weed in Ohio. 

Big BUT, a few days ago it occurred to our five-foot-tall governor that there was no place to actually buy recreational weed — well, at least no government-approved, licensed, inspected, all fees paid outlets —and he has sprung into action. 

At his behest, the State Senate passed a new law, on December 6th, to replace the ballot initiative the hoi polloi passed last month that, among several other things: 

Cuts back on the amount of weed adults can grow in the privacy of their homes, raises the sin tax from 10 to 15%, permits local jurisdictions to add 3% on top of that, and allows existing dispensaries selling medical weed to start selling to the public — 90 days after (and if) he signs the new bill, as long as they comply with the new Rules&Regs.  

{I smell a rat... wait, if he signs?}

That's the smell of a new strain called Ratso Rizzo, my priest stopped by this morning. 

Ohio also has a full-time House of Representatives who will consider the new bill next week and who knows what sort of mischief they might get up to. Cluster coitus is always possible in Columbus. Irregardless, I'll bet the current black market merchants of the Devil's Weed are partying. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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In the Event of My Death

 Cheat Sheet No.1

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This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die." -Unknown 

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

I'll be turning 70 this year. As I've mentioned in previous letters/columns if I were to wake up dead on any given day, although an international tragedy, it wouldn't be shocking or unusual. 

After all, H. sapiens of all ages die every day, all H. sapiens die eventually, and according to World.Data.info "A male child born in the United States today will live to be 74.5 years old on average." If you haven't been paying attention, this statistic has been trending in the wrong direction.

{Yeah but you were born many thousands of days ago, lighten up. I'll bet you're not scheduled to meet the Grim Reaper for a while yet.}

He/she/they self-identifies as the Happy Recycler nowadays, it's a rebranding thing. 

For some mysterious reason, I've yet to become the wildly successful, beloved, well-known columnist that I obviously should be by now so it's also occurred to me that it also wouldn't be particularly shocking or unusual to wake up one day and discover that I'm 80 years old, still writing columns, and still waiting for fame and fortune to find me. 

And still telling myself that starting (later) today, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, or next ______ that I'm going to _______. That's human nature, mine anyway, although I strongly suspect I'm not the only one. 

So I plan to crank out a series of "cheat sheets" before my deletion.

(While I'm thinking of it, for the record, I've no idea if virtue, prayer, daily affirmations, positive thinking, etc. actually make any difference. But to be absolutely clear, all I ask for is good health and plenty of money. I'll take care of the rest.)

Anyways... given that I'm mortal, and given that I have no desire to be immortal via any sort of technology currently under development by those who think that living forever wouldn't be a profound bore... 

{What about some sort of spiritual immortality after your body is deleted?} 

Since I have no way of knowing with any certainty what's next I don't dwell on it. Perpetual bliss also sounds boring; being sentenced to perpetual torment by a loving (or even vindictive) God for my, or the average Joe, Joan, or J. Bagadonuts' mediocre sins, seems highly unlikely.

{What about reincarnation?} 

Boring. 

{So what do you think happens, and for that matter, what's life on Earth about for H. sapiens?}

I don't know what will happen. Big picture-wise I suspect not much, that there's only one whatever it is, that's what we call "God," and God's having a very vivid dream, us. In my semi-humble opinion, that's what life on Earth and the whole universe is (universes are?) about.

{Would you care to elaborate?}

No. 

A gentleperson must decide on such things for themselves. However, decide, or decide to not decide, the important thing is to leave each other alone about such things as much as possible. A semi-wise person of my acquaintance once said:

"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

{You can't...}

I can and I did. Cheat Sheets are a sort of distillation of all the stuff I would like to mention, or reiterate, to the Stickies and my daughter and son-in-law in the event of my sudden demise. Hopefully, this will provide some life guidance and provide comfort for their devastated hearts (and for the lack of cash left on the table).

This then is my introductory Cheat Sheet. Since the purpose of my Cheat Sheets is to make sure I say all the things I'd like to say while I'm still here to say them, and since this missive hasn't used up its word quota:

You've likely heard that there's no such thing as a free lunch. While this is mostly true, like most rules, there's an exception that a discerning individual should be aware of.

Sometimes, someone that loves you, or perhaps even an occasional stranger with a kind disposition, will provide a free lunch. The "price" is the pleasure your benefactor experiences and as you hopefully are aware, this sort of thing can supply a really good buzz.

Buy somebody's lunch occasionally... BUT, be circumspect. As you may have also heard, there's a sucker born every minute.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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In The Event of My Death

                                                 Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Millions long for Immortality who don't what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. -Susan Ertz

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

My late wife, Ronbo, was one of those odd sorts of people that in spite of the fact that logic, reason, and (shudder) "lived experience" clearly demonstrate that the glass is half empty, consistently maintained that it was half full. 

"Well, that sucks, but look on the bright side..."

"What if there is no bright side" was my standard response. 

"There's always a bright side, you just have to look for it."

Although she never succeeded in converting me to a Half Fuller we did agree on a compromise position: it could always be worse. While I've made it clear that I wish to be cremated and that I want 99% of my ashes used as fertilizer or compost I've occasionally reconsidered.

It would be extremely cool to have a modest headstone that said:

                                            Marcus Mehlmar

                                         (Mark E. Mehlmauer)

                                      8/26/53 - 8/28/2054

                                    

                                     It Could Have Been Worse

Ronbo, a.k.a. Ronnie (not another nickname, she was named after her uncle Ronnie), who's currently residing in an urn in my living room although she's supposed to be residing in Lake Erie (sorry, Ronbo, we'll get to it...) could be next to me. 

                                          Ronnie L. Mehlmauer

                                          1/6/52 - 1/8/2006

                                           This was only a test

[(Shudder)? Lived experience? 99% of your ashes? This was only a test?]

Thanks for asking, my hallucinatory but charming literary device. Permit me to explain.

The phrase lived experience, as some of our society's more delicate flowers nowadays would put it, triggers me. 

While my fellow Deplorables and I were preoccupied with surviving and assisting our progeny in doing the same, the Wokies were spreading the intellectual virus that is the cult of Wokism on America's college campuses. 

It spread remarkably rapidly. Primary and high schools, the media, Hollywood, and HR departments were devastated by this pernicious pandemic.

The formerly harmless phrase lived experience has been weaponized. It now means, don't confuse me with facts, my mind's already made up. That is to say, debate/reason/logic/etceteric are tools the Pasty Patriarchy employs to dominate and suppress... well, everyone.

"I don't care what reactionary right-wingers say, I'm a victim, and penis or not, my lived experience is that in my heart of hearts I'm a woman, so I should be allowed to compete against biologically female athletes."

[Feel better now?]  

In fact, I do.  

As to wanting 99% of my ashes used for compost or fertilizer, that's simply my way of saying thanks to the planet I lived on/kept me fed for 101 years. "Thanks for all the food and beautiful flora. Please recycle me to help maintain the system now that I'm gone."

[Okay, but what about the other 1%?]

Well, actually, I'm referring to what would amount to a mere pinch of the former me. I would like said pinch to be added to the contents of a large joint and passed around and smoked by whoever would care to take a hit on me. 

Inhaling is strongly encouraged but merely going through the motions by those who can't or won't is acceptable. 

[Why on Earth do you...]

Potheads, current and former ones like myself, will understand. Those with addiction issues (be honest, you know who you are...) are encouraged to raise the joint like they're making a toast, say something nice (but mean is okay too, as long as it's funny), and then pass it on. 

[But why...]           

Because for a minute or two, and although I regret it (Well... mostly. Me, Fred I., Ron P., John H., and especially Alexsandra B., did have a helluva lotta fun), weed was quite important to me at one time. 

This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test.

Ronnie Lee — Six, then Oesch, and finally, Mehlmauer — was a preemie who was given oxygen to help her breathe because of underdeveloped lungs. Too much oxygen is as harmful as not enough for preemies and Ronnie was given too much.

Thus began a lifetime of slowly but steadily ever-worsening health problems. The road to hell can be accidentally paved with good intentions.    

In spite of the fact she wasn't supposed to live past the age of __ (the year kept shifting as she kept getting older in spite of the judgments of experts) she lived for 54 years and two days.  

In spite of the fact she was told she couldn't have any kids she had one anyway and thus the Stickies came to be.

When she had a near-death experience she was brought up short of where the light seemed to be taking her and a voice told her it wasn't her time. "Go back, love God, and help others." She took her marching orders literally as many can attest. 

For obvious reasons, we probably talked about death more than most couples. Because she was who she was Ronbo thought that This Was Only a Test was an appropriate epitaph.

[The title of this column would seem to indicate this was supposed to have been about...] 

They don't call me the garrulous geezer for nothin'. Besides, didn't you read my tombstone? I'm not going to die till 2054 so what's the hurry?

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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The Bonfire of the Statuaries

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids (who exist), and my great-grandkids (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
                                                     - Image by? -

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                    About 

                                                  Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I'm not going to waste my time worrying about Confederate statues. That's wasted energy." -Charles Barkley 

"We have destroyed 80% of the statues. There is only a small amount left and we will destroy that soon." -Mullah Omar, Taliban Supreme Leader (deceased) 


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

Some Random Randomnesses...

- The Bonfire of the Statuaries (HT: WSJ Potomac Watch Podcast) continues and the IUPPP&PVTTTOT stands firm. There will be no peace until there is justice.

[What's the IUPPP...]

The International Union of Perpetually Protesting Protestors and Perpetual Victims of This, That, and The Other Thing.

Unfortunately, as to what sort of justice, actually implementable, that will restore peace remains ill-defined. I confess that I sometimes wonder if this is tactical, a never-ending jobs program for members of the IUPPP...etc.

However, virtue flags are flying, politicians are pandering, businesses not destroyed (by brick, fire, or plague) are donating — and Congress has threatened to pass yet another law.

Unfortunately or fortunately (one never knows...), Congress being Congress, and this being an election year, it's not going well.


In other news...

The following Random Randomness should be read aloud with your best Columbia School of Broadcasting voice.

In other news that you should have heard about but likely didn't, Antonio Gwynn, an 18-year-old African-American gentleperson from Buffalo, New York, spent ten hours cleaning up the trash and broken glass on (George?) Baily Avenue in Buffalo left behind by people protesting police brutality.

Mr. Gwynn's 15 minutes, the result of a local TV news feature, landed him a car, a year's worth of car insurance, and a free ride at a local college courtesy of some other gentlepersons.

Clarence, could you please send Frank Capra down long enough to make one more movie?


- If you're killed by a heavy, rotted out tree branch that lands on your head while you're communing with nature via a stroll in a sylvan setting is that "death by natural causes"?

 "_______ departed this life for the rest and comfort of the next one on... "

Once the plague began ravaging the realm I became one of those people I used to sneer at, a compulsive obituary reader. I was surprised to find that most people die from natural causes or apparently just drop dead. 

For the record, being of more or less sound mind I declare and affirm that even if I die peacefully in my sleep it is my wish that my obituary states that the cause of my death is under investigation. If my loved ones love me when asked they will reply, "I'm not at liberty to say," look troubled, and change the subject. 

- As I've recently written, much to my surprise I, who thrived as a hippie with a job for 13 years, seem to be turning into some sort of conservative. In my ongoing attempt to define exactly what sort of conservative I am I discovered that I'm a fusionist.

[Say what?]

Well, Dana, according to Wikipedia, "...fusionism is the philosophical and political combination...of traditionalist and social conservatism with political and economic right-libertarianism."

[What's up with all the italicizing?]

In the Wikipedia entry, those words are all links to other entries. As you know it's my editorial policy to use as few links as possible, with an emphasis on self-serving links.

[Self-serving?]

Yup. Links that bring up something from my website.

[Geesh.]

Anyways, the bad news is that according to the entry, the fusion has faltered and the formerly fraternal factions are now fighting fractious factions.

[Thus, the Donald. But why are you...]

Well, as you know, I'm running for king via a write-in campaign and it's occurred to me I need a name for my party. Branding and marketing, I'm told, are everything these days. So, I give you (insert fanfare, here):

The Live and Let Live party!   

BYOI (bring your own ideology) but let's start acting like adults trying to find a way to make their marriage work for the sake of everyone in the family.


- I hate my cable company.

Over the years I've shelled out a significant amount of money to  Roadrunner/Time Warner Cable/Charter Spectrum/Spectrum or whatever their name is this week.

If I owned a company that had a gummit granted monopoly on cable services in a given area where people paid to watch content that was one-third commercials,

and I charged extra for content that didn't,
and I could force people to pay for content they never watched,
and if I claimed my content was available on-demand, when it often wasn't,

AND,

If I were running a popular "premium" (costs extra) series and knew people had been waiting a week to see the latest episode and for some reason it wasn't available this week,

I'd post a simple e-note of explanation. I might even say sorry about that. I'd whistle all the way to the bank knowing I was rich and a nice guy/girl/they.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Xanax (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 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.

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Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Old friends pass away, new friends appear. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful; a meaningful friend -- or a meaningful day." -Dalai Lama. I wonder if his mom or his friends call him Dalai?


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

OK class, let's review. In last week's column, after spending an embarrassing amount of time promoting my -- New and Improved! -- website and its new features such as my Come On and Safari With Me tab where I post interesting shtuff I've found while web surfing -- inhale -- I initiated a new series of columns based on the following notion, what would I want to make sure I've said to My Dear Stickies if I knew my deletion from meatspace was imminent.

The first thing I thought of was the importance of finding (positive) meaning in life/in your lives. "..in order to find positive meaning in your life, you need a goal that you find valuable." Having run out of time I left you with a video clip from a lecture by Dr. Jordan Peterson who is not only much smarter than me, he also explains things better than I do.

If you haven't seen it yet go ahead and watch it now, I'll wait till you get back. If you're a dead trees reader, fret not (but you really should get over your..., well, nevermind). Anyway, now you're stuck with dealing with only my bonkercockie, without Dr. P. to help you out.

All right class, if everyone's ready we'll...

[Yeah-yeah-yeah, whatever. What's the point of anything? Why bother getting out of bed in the morning? 'Scuse me, I gotta' go find my Xanax. SOUND OF DOOR SLAMMING] 

Keep spreading the sunshine, Dana! Sorry, geez, I hope I didn't trigger you.

Anyways... The very first thing that comes to mind concerning the very first thing that I'd like to make sure I tell you about, that is, the importance of finding (positive) meaning in your life/in your lives is -- without meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals -- you're sunk. You're doomed, Your fresh meat for pill popping/pill pushing shrinks.

Now, the thing is... excuse me, the phones ringing again, I've been ignoring it but repeated re-calls to my freakishly large household may indicate that one of the denizens of Casa de Chaos really needs help. I'll be right back.

DISCLAIMER

This column in no way wishes to disparage licensed psychiatry, the practices of its licensed practitioners and/or patients that benefit from legally prescribed prescriptions. The author acknowledges that there are any number of legitimate psychiatric problems that require medication. In fact, personally knows many H. sapiens that might benefit from same. 

Sorry, it was some nameless, nervous, newly minted associate calling for my lawyers -- Dewey, Cheatham & Howell. They're always calling about something, claiming to be proactive. I think that they're just pro-billable hours.

As I was saying, the thing is, while of course there are no shortage of legitimate reasons for psych meds, if more H. sapiens consciously cultivated meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals it would make a considerable dent in the fortunes of Big Pharma.

[Enlighten us then oh Cranky one! (giggle). A glassy-eyed Dana speaks (with a slight but discernable slur). Where, pray tell, does one find said qualities in a world where everyone dies? Marie-Louise and Iggy each take an arm and gently escort him out of my consciousness.]


The answer to that question is the stuff books are made of, but I'm writing as if my deletion is imminent in case my deletion is imminent. Let me begin by pointing out that regardless of your feelings about any given traditional religion, automatically reject any claim that they're right and everyone else is wrong. God only knows what the truth is.

Big But

If the bulk of their dogma is primarily concerned with how to get along with the other kids on the playground in a civilized way without bullying anybody and leading a moral life more or less in line with the 6.5 commandments, well, judge not, lest you be judged.

Now, I'm not saying that in order for H. sapiens in general, or yinz guys in particular, to cultivate meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals that it's necessary to belong to a particular religious sect.

I am saying that regardless of the motivation of these folks -- to go to heaven, to stay out of hell, or just to cover their butts -- whatever, psychologically speaking the result is the same. I'm also saying that many people, not all but many, with a bit of effort, can get the same results -- or close enough. (However, I can't guarantee you'll get into heaven or even if it exists.)

What result? You'll keep getting out of bed and you'll keep trying, secure in the knowledge there may be a rainbow after the crapstorm passes.

The Bad News

If you've been around for more than a minute or two and paying attention, regardless of whether you're a glass-half-full, glass-half-empty, or a screw the glass gimme the bottle sort of person you know three things. 

First, paint rainbows all over your blues, crawl inside said bottle, or, seek moderation in all things -- life will sink its teeth into your cute ass at random intervals. Second, sooner or later, you're going to be deleted. 

Finally, when your response to the bad news is to declare the battle lost before it starts and pull the covers up over your head and go back to sleep and/or embrace despair/negativism/nihilism/postmodernism/etceterism the best you can hope for is stasis. That is, to be reliably miserable, and hope you don't get even worse. You know this.

The Good News

If you've been around for more than a minute or two and paying attention, regardless of whether you're a glass-half-full, glass-half-empty, or a screw the glass gimme the bottle sort of person you also know three other things.

First, as soon as you take a single step in the direction of reaching a defined goal -- be it cleaning up your room or the pursuit of enlightenment -- you'll feel good, or at least better than you were, and, you'll find life does have meaning, if only for a minute. When the meaning fades, set another goal. 

[If this doesn't work for you, then yes, you need to talk to someone. However, first look yourself in the eye and ask yourself if the reason you think life is meaningless is that it means you don't have to put away the chips, turn off the primary rectangle, and get a life. That it means you don't have to do anything besides feel sorry for yourself.]

Second, if you do get out of bed and try, there's at least a chance you, and your corner of the world, will get better/be better. If you don't, you, and it, definitely won't.

Finally, having taken the time and trouble to build/maintain a house with a well-stocked medicine cabinet and a storm cellar, when a reality snake sinks its fangs into your ass, you'll be ready. When the inevitable crap storm hits -- physical/psychological/financial/etceteralogical -- you'll be ready. You know this too.

There might even be a rainbow -- eventually. Poppa loves you.

[Since this already longish column has inadvertently turned into an hommage (pronounce with a French accent, oo' - maa... never mind, stop laughing Marie-Louise) of sorts to Dr. Jordan B. Peterson, a potential savior of Western Civilization (let's hope so), here's some tough love for ya, eh?


Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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