Grups v. Snowflakes

I've always wondered who it was that thought up the idea of getting an advertiser to pay a given radio station to regularly state something like: This broadcast is coming to you live from the studios of The Flyoverland Crank. The Flyoverland Crank -- bringing you enlightened infotainment since July! Pure genius. A business pays the given radio station, that they and their competitors already pay to run commercials, a premium, so that they will be mentioned briefly, but regularly, throughout the day.

If the radio station wasn't effectively competitive, wasn't attracting enough listeners to justify the premium, the money would go to a station that was. Competition.

If the advertiser wasn't effectively competitive, wasn't attracting enough customers to generate the money needed to pay the radio station a premium, one of their rivals might. Competition.

When cut-throat capitalism is working the way it should, the consumers win, the consumer has the power -- no customers, no money -- bankruptcy. We Earthlings fortunate enough to live in a country that has a sorta/kinda free market economy are the beneficiaries of cut-throat capitalism, and we love it. We love living in the most prosperous society the world has ever seen. We love the myriad choices. We love the competitive prices. We love the jobs generated...

...Until the alarm clock goes off, or the payment's due, or we lose our job, or fail as an entrepreneur. Or if the philistines/the 1%/the dean/the boss/or dad just don't/doesn't appreciate our delicate sensibilities, and the fact that snowflakes need to be nurtured (and subsidised) lest they melt in the heat generated by the daily struggle for three all natural, organic hots and an adjustable Tempur-Pedic cot.

Well then, then capitalism/the market/the system/the rat race -- sucks sweaty socks.

This is when the grups (grownups) are separated from the snowflakes.

We're the grups! We know that every coin has a head and a tail. We've been around those often cited proverbial blocks and came in last at more damn rodeos than we care to admit. We deal with it. We take care of business, it's in the job description. We do the work, raise the kids, pay the bills, fight the wars (or, lucky us, more likely just support the ones that do), we care for the aging parents.

I'm a grup, but I've no interest in demonizing snowflakes. I do enjoy making fun of them though, I hope they will do me the honor of returning the favor. Humor trumps demonizing. Just thinking about an aging, mostly bald, chubby guy with a ponytail that's been espousing socialism for decades makes me smile. Gazillionaire actors with left wing politics, of any age or appearance, who haven't had to work at a real job since they were part-time food service workers while attending drama school make me laugh out loud.

On a vaguely related note: For the record, I've no idea where William Devane stands on anything, or if he's a gazillionaire, or what he's like in real life, but I think it should be illegal for actors to encourage people to buy gold and silver. "What's in your safe?" Unfulfilled dreams and empty promises, but thanks for asking Bill!

Some good news for snowflakes still involved with the 1% movement. If you happen to live on the planet Earth, work full time, and make at least $9.09/hr., congrats, your yearly income is greater than 99% of your fellow Earthlings. That is, assuming you define full time the traditional way, 40 hours per week, and not the Obamacare way, which is only 30 hours. But prosperity, and even living in a country that has a nationwide obesity epidemic (and you thought there was nothing new under the sun), doesn't seem to do much to help us to all get along.

You've no doubt noticed we seem to be a country devolving into warring factions. The national consensus was always a fragile structure (involving much duct tape) because we're a nation of all sorts of people from everywhere and anywhere. For that to work without employing the traditional methods, murder and subjugation, a system is needed that grants the "other guy" the same freedom and liberty we want for ourselves. Live and let live.

This was the point of the American experiment, an experiment that many others have since attempted, with mixed results. All things considered, it's amazing it's worked out for us as well as it has. We nearly exterminated the folks that we expropriated a continent from. We enslaved Africans. We had to fight a civil war because of that one. Learning nothing much, we devised another obscenity, Jim Crow. We're still trying to fix that to everyone's satisfaction. In spite of these and no shortage of other screwups, we somehow managed to become the most prosperous country the world has ever seen, so far. And we're relatively free. And we twice elected an African-American to the most powerful job on Earth, which would not have been possible without Mr. Obama capturing approximately the same average percentage of white voters as any democratic presidential candidate in modern times.

We can take comfort in the fact we've done some good. That we may have moved a few rungs up the ladder in the direction of being truly civilized -- history will tell. That we're still trying.

I've read that scholars say that various cultures in the ancient Mideast thought that as we move forward in time we're facing the past, that the future is behind us. In other words, that we walk through life backward. This was because they valued the past, as I read somewhere recently, a little too much. This meme would seem to stand in start contrast to the way the modern world in general, America in particular, views life. We believe we're facing forward and racing forward. Who has time to worry about history? We're constantly running behind while simultaneously trying to stay one step ahead of the information tsunami.

I think most of us have more in common with the citizens of the ancient cultures of Mesopotamia and Eygpt than we realize. They walked backward through life, we run backward through life. The cult of victimhood encourages us to run backward while never taking our eyes off of what happened to us -- or whatever groups we've decided we're part of -- last week, last month, last year, etc. This process doesn't even stop at the womb. Look what happened to my parents, my grandparents, my ancestors, my country, my _____. Please feel free to fill in the blank with the grievance(s) of your choice.

Learn (from) history. As you may have heard, it will save you from having to relearn lessons someone else already learned the hard way. But the past is gone, the future is a maybe. Turn around, now, before something or someone smacks you in the back of the head.

Have an OK day.                                                                                      

©Mark Mehlmauer 2015



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I

When I'm the King Of America... (No. 2)

...I'm going to bring back Sunday blue laws. I've stated in a past post ("The 6.5 Commandments") that I don't support blue laws, but I've changed my mind. With no disrespect intended to any Type A types that thrive on the hyperactive pace of our current culture, or at least claim to, I suspect most of us would like a chance to catch our breath, smell the coffee, read the book, watch the game, etc.

Please Note: Sunday sports, particularly professional football and the enormous industry that supports it, will be exempted.

I'm not a sports fan. In fact, there's a false rumor loose in the realm that claims I've stated that if Lenin were alive today he would say that sports is the opiate of the masses. However, I firmly believe that professional sports serve a vital function -- as (mostly) harmless entertainment. ISIS, ISIL, Daesh, DAISH, Da'esh, Daech, Khilafat, the Islamic State -- or whatever their being called this week (just don't dare say Islamic terrorists) -- openly embraces murder, kidnapping, slavery and posting beheading videos on the web. In spite of Mr. Obama's assurances that his policies are shrinking this tumor, common sense seems to indicate it's still growing. Dr. Crank prescribes escapist entertainment, lots of it. Particularly on America's newly minted official day off.

Also, football, particularly American-style football, serves as a (mostly) harmless outlet for the violent tendencies we've inherited from our evolutionary predecessors. They are alive and well and living in comfortable apartments in obscure, but safe and long-established neighborhoods deep within the homo sapien brain. Ignore them at your peril.    

Irony Alert: American-style professional football, our most popular sport, often criticized for how violent it is, is played by highly-paid, elite professionals and the violence is (usually) limited to the playing field. Professional football in most of the rest of the world, a sport approved by eight out of ten moms because it's allegedly not a violent sport, is played by highly-paid, elite professionals, and the violence is (usually) limited to the spectators. Occasionally, people are killed.

Now, having promised in the past to be a benevolent tyrant (BT), a promise I intend to keep, I hesitate to reimpose Sunday blue laws. I believe the playground should have as few rules as possible, just enough to maintain order, maintain the playground, and neutralize the bullies.

(Incidentally, I consider bullies to be not only the thugs that seek power over others by physical force or social dominance. Bullies are also the kids that are prepared to cheat, steal, lie, etc. -- to engage in whatever unethical or immoral behavior is necessary to win at a particular game. The kids that don't play fair. You've been warned.)

However, as your king, 'tis my duty to keep a wary eye on the big picture. This includes monitoring the emotional health of the subjects of my realm. After all, since God him/her self (a BT must acknowledge political correctness lest they rouse the rabble) has bestowed this office upon me I must do all in my power to keep thee happy, and well adjusted.

Aside: The preceding paragraph perfectly illustrates why the concept of rule by divine right is so popular with me and my fellow kings. Note how easy it is to justify my being the boss of you while acting like I'm doing you a favor, and hinting that being the king is a divinely mandated burden that I'm willing to deal with for your sake. While the world has mostly/sort of/technically moved beyond kings there's no shortage of kings in disguise. I once had a boss that was a saint on Sunday and a scheming weasel the rest of the week. He honestly believed that his McMansion and well-fed bank accounts were earthly manifestations of divine approval. Otherwise, God wouldn't have gone to the trouble of personally supplying him with so many "blessings."

Now, if thou wert behaving thy selves, I wouldst not be forced to intervene in thine humble but busy little lives. Busy, busy little lives. Hence, we therefore proclaim that...

(It was at this point that my muse, thankfully, administered a psychic slap to the back of my head. This served to jolt me out of the embarrassing slide into kingly pomposity on display in the preceding paragraphs. We SMACK! I, apologize.

I'm going to bring back Sunday blue laws to give my subjects an excuse to take a day off without feeling guilty, having to worry about your competitor being open, to discourage your boss/employee/bill collectors, etc., from calling you. Please think of it as a gift and not yet another rule imposed upon you by The Gubmint, or the gubmint, for your own good. A committee of prominent citizens appointed by the governor of each state will decide on the rules; public opinion will serve to keep them in line so they reflect the wishes and values of the citizens of each state. Obviously essential services will have to be provided but a Sunday premium will have to be paid to reward those who have to work while letting the free market do its magic to minimize the amount of people that have to.

Sample Rule: Donut shops will only be permitted to open until noon. Churches are encouraged (but not required) to have only two services, 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m, that are no more than one hour long so that those attending the later service have time to purchase donuts on the way home. Recommended dosage is no more than two donuts for each person living in a given household.

Let's be a shining city on a hill the rest of the world looks to for guidance.

(The following sentence will be more infotaining if you have enough imagination to hear it spoken with some sort of foreign accent, in your head. Warning: Speaking it out loud may lead to a charge of political incorrectness, for which King Crank accepts no responsibility.)

"Those crazy, greedy Americans! The only reason they have the largest GDP on the planet is because they work their asses off 24/6 -- but they sure know how to take a day off to enjoy it.

Have an OK day.                                                                                      

©Mark Mehlmauer 2015



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Melting Pot, Conclusion

What follows will make more sense in you read parts one and two.

'Tis the fall of 1966 and our unsophisticated little inner-city refugee finds himself in a suburban school. He is, to put it mildly, pleasantly surprised.

Being a relatively normal 13-year old hormone saturated male with relatively normal teenage insecurities I had picked up on the fact, within about two seconds, that this sea of strangers I had just been introduced to all seemed to be better coiffed and clothed than I was. Not good.

However, a kid named Ed, whose desk was next to the one I had been assigned to had, without prompting from our nun/teacher, or any other grup for that matter, had appointed himself my guide to all things eighth grade, smart class. There was ample time for information exchange as we were assigned our textbooks (and this years catechism text) and briefed on the policies and procedures of my new school in general, this class in particular.

He was handsome, perfectly coiffed blond, and fit. He wore a bright red, crushed velvet, v-necked pullover shirt with leather laces in the V. I would describe this particular shirt as tacky and pretentious if I saw it today, but hey, it was the sixties. I was a, um, not handsome, slightly portly, product of the working class with a "regular boys haircut" from the Sou-side barber school. You know, the one up the street from Antknees fodder's shoe repair shop. I had a lazy eye. He treated me as though I was as pretty as he was.

Sister whatever her name was (sorry s'ter) sent us outside at midmorning for recess. No carefully engineered for safety, lawyer resistant playground equipment. No equipment at all, just a grass covered field. This was a nicer, and larger, version of the tiny, asphalt coated, no equipment schoolyard I was used to. The only equipment we had, in either case, was our imaginations. Of course, grass stains were preferable to road rash, but mum wouldn't have any grass stains to deal with, well, not from school anyway (I wasn't a total nerd). In either case, when it was too cold, or the schoolyard was covered with snow, we spent recess in the same classroom we were caged in, with the exception of lunchtime, for the rest of the day. No gym, but no obesity epidemic either, go figure...

At this point, Ed introduced me to various fellow classmates, all of whom, every single one of them, had divided into a handful of groups that were standing around talking to each other. Not a single one was playing at something. Several had remained inside. Some were already studying, some were reading novels, some were just talking, as we who liked to get out of the building were. I didn't have to engage in various games that held no interest for me to prove my manhood? I could, instead, just stand around, talking, or participate in a group walk around the block, while talking? This was quite popular for some reason though there were no vaguely sleazy hangouts with pinball machines in the back room to visit, just suburban homes.

What was all the talking about? The war (Vietnam), folk masses, Bob Dylan, the war, was it true that the rock group called the Monkees had been created out of thin air (sacrilege!) just to make money by evil corporate types? the war, hippies, the pill, the civil rights movement, the war, the meaning of the lyrics of the song "Mellow Yellow," the war, the Beetles, who was "going" with whom, singles (99 cents), albums ($2.99), groups (rock artists) and their songs...on and on and on. There was a soft revolution going on and the goal was nothing short of utopia. There was surprisingly little talk about sex, but this was a much more innocent time, at least for young Catholics raised to believe any form of sex outside of marriage was likely to get you sent to hell. Getting pregnant was a disgrace and got you sent to a facility for fallen girls so the world didn't have to deal with you. Divorce was the exception, not the rule. And for some reason, Agatha Christie mystery novels were all the rage in the smart eighth grade and paperbacks were traded like playing cards. And talked about of course.

By a decade or so later, everything had turned to crap. Disco was here, AIDS was just around the corner, and no shortage of pop culture icons were addicted, dead, or debased.

What happened?

While attempting to build a utopia, with an unrealistic timetable and poorly drawn blueprints, we tipped over the melting pot and set the consensus on fire.

The fire, fueled by hubris, historically unprecedented prosperity, the birth of the information age, mind-expanding drugs, and the manic pace of modern life, science and technology, that continues apace -- didn't destroy the consensus, it reduced it down to it's component parts. We became the culture of unbalanced factions James Madison warned us about.

The USA was carefully crafted to be a democratic republic, a representative form of gubmint, ruled by law -- as opposed to a democracy, a direct form of gubmint, ruled by the majority. This was because it was/is/should be obvious, that in a democracy, well-meaning/not so well-meaning (and no shortage of freaking crazy) people can band together and 51% of the folks can legally decide to behead the other 49%.

Or, decide that free speech is not permitted when a given majority decides that the words of a given minority constitute a microaggression, are politically/morally/intellectually/_______ly incorrect, or even just cause a severe case of the vapors.

Houston, we have a problem.

Have an OK day.                                                                                    

©Mark Mehlmauer 2015


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