Saturday, November 7, 2015

Dude...

This post is addressed to a young man that recently turned 15. I and the other grups in your life have been rendered stunned and slack-jawed. How is this possible? How is it possible that my first grandkid, a boy that was born just a few months ago, will be driving in another year and our worries and anxieties are about to become worries and anxieties squared?

The first bit of unsolicited advice, the subject of this post (be forewarned, there will be more) I would offer you is hidden in what I just wrote. Unless you're the type of person that can create a new life and then walk away and leave the heavy lifting to others (and you're not) once you make a life, or even just become responsible for one, there's no going back.

You will be, on the best days, at least mildly obsessed with this kid until the day you die. There will be a limited (if you're lucky) amount of days when it feels like you've had your heart ripped out of your chest without the benefit of an anesthetic.

Moral considerations aside, at least for the moment, the technology for preventing unintentional impregnation is available at just about any convenience store. There's a morning after pill available at most drug stores in the event that passion overrides rational choice, as your DNA hopes it will. I know that acknowledging that a huge, honking factor in any world-class romance/hormone saturated world-class case of the hots, particularly among the newly fecund -- your DNA's determination to replicate at any cost -- is a world-class buzzkill. It's also settled science, ignore it at your own peril. The bottom line is that you can't escape biology, and at this point in your life, your actions are just as likely to be determined by what mother nature wants as they are to be the rational choices you need to make to avoid having to decide what your take is on abortion. While I'm at it can I get a shout out for STDs! Nature's own all-natural souvenirs of ill-considered fornication.

Please be careful. Your DNA has an unfair advantage that makes anything the New England Patriots can dream up seem pathetic in comparison. You may have heard that the human brain is not fully mature until a given human is about 25 or so, more of that settled science stuff. More importantly, the last area of your little gray cells to reach full maturity is the prefrontal cortex, the part that you make (hopefully) rational decisions with. You're gonna' be obsessed with sex -- be it just lust, a need to nest, or something in between -- for several years before the "smart" part of your brain catches up.

It gets worse.

You are part of a culture that has gone from a fairly rigid, conservative, sexually repressive view of the subject in question to an if it feels good do it, sexually drenched culture in a very short time. While you were born into the later culture and take it for granted, there are all sorts of grups out there that have lived through some version of both and feel as though the baby got tossed out with the bathwater. And though we've lost our consensus we have to share the planet with cultures that advocate standards that we consider to be hopelessly primitive; they think we embody the morals of the infamous dwellers of Sodom and Gomorrah. What a mess.

Before I continue I must deal with some housekeeping. If any of my tens of readers are annoyed by a post written specifically for a kid young man who is very important to me, sorry, but it's partially your fault. If you did a better job of promoting this blog and growing my audience, I would have to worry about alienating my huge following, my advertisers, and my publisher. Unfortunately, I don't have this problem. so I can write what I please.

Also, you've no doubt noticed the word grups in my second sentence. This ain't a typo it's just me and my love of invented words again. I vaguely remember an episode of the original Star Trek TV show in which the kids on some distant planet fear growing up because you turn into a grup -- which turns out to be a grown up -- and grups kill callowyutes (kids). Oh, and callowyutes has nothing to do with Star Trek, it's what happens when the word yutes (youths), from the movie My Cousin Vinnie, has a chance to marinate for a few years in the three pounds of neural cells that live at the top of my body.

And now, back to our show.

There's another major reason to avoid unintentional impregnation, the potential for dramatically negative effects on the kid. Multiple reputable studies by multiple reputable social scientists and the organizations they work for (and common sense...) have drawn the same conclusion: The best way to ensure that your kid grows up to be successful and well-adjusted is to raise them in one of those boring old traditional mom and dad marriages.

Now, this doesn't mean that a kid from a non-traditional relationship can't also grow up to be successful and well adjusted. This is a damn good thing because it's estimated by the Pew Research Center that currently slightly less than half of the kids in the USA are growing up in an Ozzie and Harriet (look it up) sort of household. There isn't actually an Ancient Chinese Curse (but there should be) that goes: May you live in interesting times.

I would posit that the most important moral and ethical consideration here is not whether or not you fornicate, though if you choose to I highly recommend fornicating with someone(s) you're at least deeply in like with, but that's another post. What's most important is that you avoid replicating your DNA with little or no thought as to what sort of quality of life Dude Jr. is going to have.

Have an OK day.



[P.S. Gentlereaders, I've experimented and will continue to experiment with various formats, column lengths, and the like. While my primary motivation was/is developing my writing style, I've always given (minimal) consideration to what I thought a potential publisher and/or advertiser might want to see. 

One of the reasons I don't run ads on my website anymore is the fact I've decided to just let the column happen and go where it (and Marie-Louise) wishes it to go. 


If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth sharing and/or worth a buck or three, fine. If not, so be it.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)


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

                                                                                    














Sunday, November 1, 2015

This Is Embarrassing...

This is a free bonus post. You will not be charged extra.

It looks as if the fact that I accidentally rendered what should've been this weeks post into Tralfamadorian is just the tip of an iceberg of issues. Having spent the better part of last week as a guest of the Tralfamadorians has caused even more problems than I realized.

The guys assured me that their excellent, high speed, WiFi connection was totally secure and that I should feel free to use it and the Chromebook they loaned me to do anything that I would be comfortable doing in my highly fortified lair here in the Ohio mountains.

But now I've got cascading problems because everything I did on their ship was rendered in to Tralfamadorian and I sent out some emails, among other things, written in a language that is used by only a handful of secret scholars that work for the actual powers that be on this planet and the resulting mess is much worse than I realized.

Also, the post in question was a collection of short subjects but I can only remember one of them. You see the Tralfamadorians have, what they claim, is a much more sophisticated version of a Neuralizer, the device the Men In Black used in the movies of the same name to erase memories of people's encounters with the MIB.

I was assured, by no less a person than the Braylyn him or her (it's complicated) self that only stuff they considered to be classified would be blocked out and that any side effects would be negligible. Well, I'm here to tell you, I'm having all sorts of memory issues and as to other side effects, well, don't get me started.

I was left with a customer service number to call in case of problems but when I call the phone is answered by what I can only assume is someone from Tralfamadore's equivalent of a third world Asain country. They speak a language that sounds like squeaks and whistles to my ear and the only thing I can make out is an occasional, "Hello, my name is Sally."

The only topic I can remember is that I wanted to recommend Scott Adam's blog to my tens of gentlereaders.

Now, pointing my limited readership to the blog of one of the world's most successful cartoonists (he's the guy behind Dilbert if you didn't know) might not be the best possible marketing move on my part. I mean, being a successful cartoonist with a strip that's literally published all over the world ought to be enough for anybody.

But no, he also publishes books and writes an interesting blog. But as I clearly state under my Welcome Who Is This Guy Anyway tab, my goal is to provide enlightened infotainment to my gentlereaders. Mr. Adams offers the best explanation I know of for the success of the Donalds current reality TV project, The Republicrat Primary Show

Scott Adams, a trained hypnotist, and both a student and master practitioner of what Dale Carnegie called how to make friends and influence people, uses the Donalds rise to explain and illustrate how to sway the masses primarily via emotional manipulation.

He even provides his readers with the titles of the books that can serve as textbooks if you wish to put your own home study course together.

At this point, I could easily generate several paragraphs, and I think I did, giving you my take on Mr. Adams take but since he does it so well it would be like putting legs on a snake. Instead, permit me to take a shortcut around that potential mountain of bonkercockie and arrive in Bottomlineburgh having saved us both some time and trouble.

As you're probably aware, it's settled science to state that we homo sapiens react to sensory input, of any sort, gut first brain later. This, as far as I know, is my own term, and it's also a deliberate, vast oversimplification on my part that reduces the results of multiple fields of study to a catchphrase.

I'm not embarrassed to go even farther and reduce a catchphrase to an acronym, GFBL. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do in the service of his gentlereaders.

GFBL simply refers to the fact that, on the whole, we react emotionally, instinctually, physically, intuitively, automatically, etc. (this is a measurable phenomenon) before we (hopefully) react rationally and logically.

Mr. Adam's thesis is that the Donald, as well as no shortage of other folks, deliberately employ techniques that take advantage of this knowledge. The only defense we have is to know how it's done and who is doing it. I will be exploring the subject in future posts but Dilbert's creator can easily explain the Donald to you in the meantime.

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.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)



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


Saturday, October 31, 2015

The Missing Chapter

I just pulled up this week's post for FRBP (final review before publishing) and discovered it was written in what I at first thought was a foreign language. While trying to make sense of this development, I suddenly went into flashback mode. I mean, I think it was flashback mode, It was my first flashback. It was just like the ones on TV.

There I was, buzzing around the planet in a UFO, I had been abducted by aliens, cool. It all came back to me in a rush of disjointed images. I'll detail my experiences in a future post, but the bottom line, for now, is that the only probing I experienced was an extended interview by an academic from the planet Tralfamidore. We ate warm, homemade, chewy chocolate brownies, swirled with peanut butter, and washed 'em down with ice cold whole milk.


Also, they loaned me a Chromebook, at my request, so I could work on the post you should be reading instead of the one you are. The problem with that idea was that I didn't realize that the empathy beam I'd been exposed to when I went through quarantine would result in my composing in Tralfamidorian without even realizing it.


So now I'm sitting here with a glass of flat Asti Spumante and trying to work with a Tralfamidorian to English translation app that I got for free from Cnet that needs a lot of work. I'm never gonna' get the translation done in time to hit my deadline so I'm posting the third chapter of my novel, it's all I've got on hand.


MEMco, our parent company, mandates a just in time inventory system. 



Update: 11.30.17

As part of an ongoing project that involves rereading, updating and tweaking my accumulated columns it was discovered that the chapter of my novel referenced above had vanished and that the three paragraphs above had turned black, blue, and red. These are the colors of the flag of the planet Tralfamadore.

I've filed a complaint with the various and sundry relevant agencies of the Tralfamadorian government to try and find out if someone from Tralfamadore is responsible for this and why it happened.

Unfortunately, for me at least, Tralfamadore long ago evolved into a world where all wants and needs are effortlessly met via technologies we Earthlings can only dream of.

In short order this utopia became quite boring, rather like I picture Heaven to be. I think this is why our literature, sacred and profane, is chock full of angels. Angels are bored citizens of Heaven looking for something to do.

Anyway, Tralfamadore solved this problem by making everyone on the planet a bureaucrat in good standing of any government agency they please with the right to switch jobs whenever they please so they don't get bored again.

Tralfamadore is a planet of bureauons that deliberately screw with each others lives for something to do. Sounds counterintuitive I know, but who are we to judge never having had to suffer life in a genuine utopia?

Long story short, whether or not I ever get an answer, or if I do that It'll make any sense, is a crapshoot at best.

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.]


©2015/2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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