- I don't put links in my posts. If you've read what you'll find under the Please Read This First tab on my blog site then you already know why so I hate to bother you... But, I'm not saying that it won't ever happen, also, I'm thinking about creating a links tab, a sort of repository for links I think you might find useful. I shy away from placing them within the body of my posts primarily for the following reason. Personal experience and a bit of research lead me to believe that multi-tasking doesn't work very well, that we're at our best concentrating on one task at a time.
Now, many writers would slip a link in here somewhere that would send you to an article about the downsides of multitasking. You click on it, start reading, then encounter another link that looks interesting and click on that. A half an hour later you come to and find yourself reading an article about why people find comfort in picking their noses. You notice that it's getting late. If you're going to get out the door in time to meet some friends for lunch, you better get it in gear. One of the subjects that comes up for discussion at lunch is the frantic pace of life in the new millennium. You all agree that the internet can be a wonderful navigational aid, literally and figuratively, when you're trying to find the right path and stay on it. But you also agree that the firehose of information made available by clicking a button can knock you on your ass.
Then your cell phone makes that neat little noise you recently downloaded that signifies an incoming message. As you reach for your phone, the ringtone you've chosen so that you know your snifigant other is calling sounds off...
- Two great ideas for fixing the mess in Washington, neither of which are original to me. First, congressional term limits. Your future king's (me) detailed thoughts on the matter, can be found by clicking on the Essay-Before You Vote tab. This won't be easy, it requires a constitutional amendment and amending the constitution is hard, as it should be. It's worth the effort though.
Our democracy was set up as a republic (we choose somebody to vote yea or nay for us), fortunately for us, because the dead white guys that designed it were well versed in history. I'll spare you the specifics of their reasoning because the vast majority of Americans, of course, are already familiar with it. This is why we're so proud of the fact that we can be counted on to vote, and conduct our lives, ever mindful of our deep sense of history and the lessons we've learned from its careful study and consideration.
For that small minority of you that found/find the subject boring and would/will do something about it, if only you had the time, think of it this way. Modern technology could easily make it possible for us to have a direct democracy, that is, we could all log in and vote on anything/everything. So, your next door neighbor, the 400-pound alcoholic drug addict on disability that subscribes to the National Enquirer and Weekly World News and belongs to a cult that worships the Mother Goddess, Kim Kardashian, could gleefully directly vote yea or nay on all the important issues of the day while waiting for the flying saucer from the planet Tralfamadore to show up and offer a free ride to utopia.
That's why we have a republic. However, without term limits, an incompetent fool, who's just smart enough to steer enough (enough of other people's) money back to the citizens (or the powers that be) of their district - to buy another 2 years - might hang around 'till they drop dead. And, since congress runs on a seniority system, the longer they're in congress, the more (of other people's) money he'she or she'he can steer back to the citizens (or the powers that be) of their district -- to buy another 2 years.
[Aside: I've just figured out how to overcome (some of) my angst and confusion as regards personal pronouns. More than one enlightened feminist in the world objects to the convention of using him, his, etc. as the pronoun of choice in certain situations. Some writers have even resorted to always choosing the feminine form (pun intended) in such situations so that the reader will be impressed with the writers enlightened viewpoint. Example: When God created, um, people, she... I've done this myself but if I'm ever hauled into the Court of Political Correctness I'd have to confess that my motivation was that of a smart-ass, and not as an attempt to strike a blow for women's rights. Having seen the error of my ways, it's now my official policy to use he'she as a generic pronoun for any and all of my fellow humans that happen to look like they might be male (not to impose judgment or to imply, well, anything really). That goes for chicks too. We ran it through Mr. Peabdoy's Visa-Versa machine and we got she'he.
The second great idea for fixing the mess in Washington (admit it, you thought I forgot that I promised you two) wouldn't require an amendment, but we should pass one anyway so that's it's tough to get around it, is a requirement that all laws have a sunset provision. That is, at a certain date in the future, congress must reauthorize the law, or it's outta' here. Fool us once, shame on you, fool us twice, via that bogus piece of, um, legislation you snuck through the last time, shame on us.
I'm sorry this post turned out to be mostly political in nature, that wasn't my intention. Even I'm starting to find the endless stream of political news a bit tedious. However, if I were forced to define my writing style I would describe it as edited stream of consciousness, and my muse insists that this is the way to go. That's why you find me to be so fascinating and/or stupid.
- Some questions:
Almost every time I happen to catch a clip of Hillary Clinton giving a speech, she'he's yelling, why?
Am I destined for hell because if I ever meet God I'm going to ask him'her (crap, that's not gonna work...) why men have nipples?
Is it just me, or does Ted Cruz look like he'she's related to Lyndon Johnson?
London who?
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Saturday, March 12, 2016
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Memories
Our memories are often wrong. We are capable of vividly remembering stuff that never actually happened and/or wildly distorting something that did. I'm not going to offer up a single example of the many scientific studies that prove these notions because there are so many of them out there it would be like saying that science has proved conclusively that it occasionally rains. As far as your DAT (dilettante about town) has been able to determine, there are no rogue scientists, not even any of the ones with bogus Ph.D.'s that make a nice living writing books and appearing on talk radio shows, that claim otherwise -- at least as far as I can remember.
However, you're semi-fearless DAT (I'm not afraid to admit that I'm often afraid, but would remind you that often the only thing we have to fear is fear itself) is prepared to offer himself up, on the altar of science, via a personal example.
I vividly remember driving my '72 VW bug (back in 1972, the only brand new car I've ever owned), with the special paint job that my friend Waltah (Walter, he had a speech impediment), who worked in a body shop, had provided for me, along with a nice discount (thanks Walt), through Valley Forge National Historical Park one day...
[Real quick -- I use a spelling/grammar checker that often wants me to place commas in places that I don't want to, like between thanks and Walt for example. Even when I know it's (the software) technically correct (or more likely, suspect it might be) I tend to ignore it because, well, because I can. I apologise to anyone this may offend as I apologise to anyone offended by my mention of Waltah's speech impediment. Waltah also used to say plobaly instead of probably, which he and I both found to be hilarious. But you must remember political correctness was just a baby back then, and I must also point out that Waltah had slyly developed a few techniques for using his so-called problem as a way to charm the ladies. This was in addition to his awesome sideburns, a grooming technique that was quite popular at the time.]
...And I was following the much dreaded (by many of us at least) annual broadcast of the draft lottery, listening to it on my cars AM only radio (geeze I'm old). This method was only actually used in '69, '70 and '71 to determine who would be drafted, and possibly wind up in Vietnam. Prior to 1969 local draft boards determined who would be called up. The lottery was an attempt to make the process fairer because it was perceived that the draft board's power to hand out deferments that could keep young men out of what was, by this time, the highly unpopular Vietnam war, was often a rigged process.
For those of you who don't remember, or those of you too young to care, this was a RBFD (real big, um, freaking deal). Blue plastic capsules, one of which contained your birthdate, were chosen at random and matched to the number that determined the order in which The Gubmint would discover that you existed and send you a friendly note to ask you to stop in and see them because they were having trouble finding enough volunteers to fight the Godless Commies in a smallish country in S.E. Asia.
See, these tough little bastards, who had been at war with the round eyes (and each other) since they kicked their French colonial overlords out of the pool in 1954, after nine years of war that started after WW2 (you can't make this stuff up) were now at war with us in a proxy war that was actually the USA vs. the USSR. We actually won -- and then couldn't get out of there fast enough because by the time we did we had been there for two decades and almost 60,000 kids had died and a few hundred thousand more had been wounded, taken prisoner or are still missing. After we left, the tough little bastards that the USSR backed kicked the asses of the tough little bastards that we had backed, and whom we told to kiss off when they requested the help we had promised would be forthcoming if just this sort of thing happened. Then the now not necessarily happily united tough little bastards went to war with the tough little bastards in other smallish S.E. Asian countries and that continued, more or less, until 1989.
Fortunately for us, we (the USA) learned many valuable, costly lessons from the experience that have served us well right up to this very day. For the record, I regard the previous sentence as my all time personal best as concerns sarcasm. If there was such a thing as the National Sarcasm Awards, and there just might be once I become king, I'm certain I would be nominated for the coveted Smar' Tass of the Year award.
Anyway, I remember the day in question quite vividly...
[Day, what day? asks the gentlereader that peers over my left shoulder. What the hell are you...]
The draft lottery! You should start taking some of that ginkgo Biloba stuff. I was talking about the draft lottery. Don't you remember?
Sheesh! It was a warm spring day, my number was twenty-something, and I was in shock. I remember thinking/feeling that I would probably be cut down by Charlie (in the fall) as I was handing out melting Hershey bars to adorable Vietnamese kids, dripping with sweat as my feet rotted away in my combat boots.
Thirty seconds of research on the 'net reveals that my lottery took place on 2/2/72. You may have heard about what winter can be like in Valley Forge. Suffice it to say that even in the midst of a relatively mild winter, no one would actually experience a given day in February as a warm spring day.
Turns out my lottery number was 76. Turns out, If I had been drafted, I probably wouldn't have been called up until '73, but no one was drafted in '73. Turns out, Tricky Dick had been slowly but steadily pulling out troops since '69. Turns out, a tentative agreement had been reached to end the war by October of '72. Turns out, a cease-fire was announced in January 1973.
However. What I remember is a couple of years of daily checking the mail to see if Uncle Sam had sent me the inevitable greetings that I was convinced were, well, inevitable.
I gotta' go. It's time to take my gingko Biloba but I can't remember where I put It.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
However, you're semi-fearless DAT (I'm not afraid to admit that I'm often afraid, but would remind you that often the only thing we have to fear is fear itself) is prepared to offer himself up, on the altar of science, via a personal example.
I vividly remember driving my '72 VW bug (back in 1972, the only brand new car I've ever owned), with the special paint job that my friend Waltah (Walter, he had a speech impediment), who worked in a body shop, had provided for me, along with a nice discount (thanks Walt), through Valley Forge National Historical Park one day...
[Real quick -- I use a spelling/grammar checker that often wants me to place commas in places that I don't want to, like between thanks and Walt for example. Even when I know it's (the software) technically correct (or more likely, suspect it might be) I tend to ignore it because, well, because I can. I apologise to anyone this may offend as I apologise to anyone offended by my mention of Waltah's speech impediment. Waltah also used to say plobaly instead of probably, which he and I both found to be hilarious. But you must remember political correctness was just a baby back then, and I must also point out that Waltah had slyly developed a few techniques for using his so-called problem as a way to charm the ladies. This was in addition to his awesome sideburns, a grooming technique that was quite popular at the time.]
...And I was following the much dreaded (by many of us at least) annual broadcast of the draft lottery, listening to it on my cars AM only radio (geeze I'm old). This method was only actually used in '69, '70 and '71 to determine who would be drafted, and possibly wind up in Vietnam. Prior to 1969 local draft boards determined who would be called up. The lottery was an attempt to make the process fairer because it was perceived that the draft board's power to hand out deferments that could keep young men out of what was, by this time, the highly unpopular Vietnam war, was often a rigged process.
For those of you who don't remember, or those of you too young to care, this was a RBFD (real big, um, freaking deal). Blue plastic capsules, one of which contained your birthdate, were chosen at random and matched to the number that determined the order in which The Gubmint would discover that you existed and send you a friendly note to ask you to stop in and see them because they were having trouble finding enough volunteers to fight the Godless Commies in a smallish country in S.E. Asia.
See, these tough little bastards, who had been at war with the round eyes (and each other) since they kicked their French colonial overlords out of the pool in 1954, after nine years of war that started after WW2 (you can't make this stuff up) were now at war with us in a proxy war that was actually the USA vs. the USSR. We actually won -- and then couldn't get out of there fast enough because by the time we did we had been there for two decades and almost 60,000 kids had died and a few hundred thousand more had been wounded, taken prisoner or are still missing. After we left, the tough little bastards that the USSR backed kicked the asses of the tough little bastards that we had backed, and whom we told to kiss off when they requested the help we had promised would be forthcoming if just this sort of thing happened. Then the now not necessarily happily united tough little bastards went to war with the tough little bastards in other smallish S.E. Asian countries and that continued, more or less, until 1989.
Fortunately for us, we (the USA) learned many valuable, costly lessons from the experience that have served us well right up to this very day. For the record, I regard the previous sentence as my all time personal best as concerns sarcasm. If there was such a thing as the National Sarcasm Awards, and there just might be once I become king, I'm certain I would be nominated for the coveted Smar' Tass of the Year award.
Anyway, I remember the day in question quite vividly...
[Day, what day? asks the gentlereader that peers over my left shoulder. What the hell are you...]
The draft lottery! You should start taking some of that ginkgo Biloba stuff. I was talking about the draft lottery. Don't you remember?
Sheesh! It was a warm spring day, my number was twenty-something, and I was in shock. I remember thinking/feeling that I would probably be cut down by Charlie (in the fall) as I was handing out melting Hershey bars to adorable Vietnamese kids, dripping with sweat as my feet rotted away in my combat boots.
Thirty seconds of research on the 'net reveals that my lottery took place on 2/2/72. You may have heard about what winter can be like in Valley Forge. Suffice it to say that even in the midst of a relatively mild winter, no one would actually experience a given day in February as a warm spring day.
Turns out my lottery number was 76. Turns out, If I had been drafted, I probably wouldn't have been called up until '73, but no one was drafted in '73. Turns out, Tricky Dick had been slowly but steadily pulling out troops since '69. Turns out, a tentative agreement had been reached to end the war by October of '72. Turns out, a cease-fire was announced in January 1973.
However. What I remember is a couple of years of daily checking the mail to see if Uncle Sam had sent me the inevitable greetings that I was convinced were, well, inevitable.
I gotta' go. It's time to take my gingko Biloba but I can't remember where I put It.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Dilettantes & Geezers/Geezerettes
There is a new tab to found on my blog site labeled Glossary that may be of help, and not only for newer gentlereaders, but also those seeking clarification about various words and phrases that I've made up, corrupted, found laying around the internet, stolen or ...
[Well duh! exclaims Marie-Louise and my imaginary gentlereader, since this is your blog site it's painfully obvious to everyone that..]
Shush you two! Some of my gentlereaders read my posts via email subscription and others access me via my Facebook and Google+ pages. They have no way of knowing about updates to the blog site without me telling them. And by the way, I'll update the glossary as needed.
Anyway, as I was trying to say...
- I, your D.A.T. -- or -- Dilettante About Town (Merriam-Webster's online dictionary defines a dilettante as, ": a person whose interest in an art or in an area of knowledge is not very deep or serious"), find all sorts of subjects interesting. For the record, I find M-W's definition a bit harsh but I understand it. In my experience, dilettante is usually used as a pejorative. Think rich (inherited money) twit with minimal talent being humored/patronized because someone(s) in a given art or area of knowledge would like a share of that money.
While it's my fervent wish that this was an accurate description of my situation -- and it would be had I not been kidnapped from my wealthy but dissolute family by gypsies as an infant, setting in motion a series of events that culminated in my being won by my "father" in a poker game in the Gem Saloon in Deadwood, SD. -- sadly, it's not.
I'm sort of stuck with the word dilettante because although I would much prefer a word like polymath (: someone who knows a lot about many different things), or a phrase like Renaissance man (: a man who is interested in and knows a lot about many different things), these terms don't accurately apply to me for two reasons.
First, in my semi-humble opinion, although I think that I'm slightly smarter than the average bear, most people think they are as well. Second, I definitely don't know a lot about many different things.
However.
I've decided to come out of the closet and proudly embrace the fact I'm a dilettante and renounce any and all of the words potentially negative connotations. I'm not a rich twit. I'm a sort of downmarket version of a polymath or Renaissance man. I urge others to also proudly step out of the closet and declare themselves to be interesting (and/or interested) people who haven't been blessed with inherited wealth or genius.
- I'm on the cusp of geezerhood, a status I hope to maintain indefinitely, preferably right up to the moment I die peacefully in my sleep, because once you're a full blown geezer, that becomes your defining characteristic.
While my short-term memory has definitely deteriorated, I've done a great deal of research and soul searching and have come to the conclusion that it's within normal parameters for someone my age. By this I mean that this happens to everyone and it's not (hopefully) a symptom of some form of impending dementia. Since this state of affairs is highly unlikely to improve, however, I go to great lengths to maintain the status quo, as this is an important component of my plan to remain on the cusp of geezerhood. See, a geezer, or a geezerette, is an individual who has crossed a fine, not easily discernable line. The more noticeable the mental/psychological/emotional deterioration the more likely it is that you have crossed the line, dementia or not. I don't count physical deterioration because there's only so much to be done about that unless you have enough dough to pay for having yourself mannequinized, which comes with its own set of problems (have you seen Marie Osmond's lips?).
The most telling sign that you've crossed the line into geezerhood, and the most difficult to detect and acknowledge, is that you've turned into a caricature of your youthful persona. Unfortunately, while this may be obvious to almost everyone but you, you may be the last to know. After all, you don't see a geezer/geezerette looking back at you when you look into the mirror. While you may not be as pretty, or as energetic as you used to be, you don't look and feel half bad for your age. You're still reasonably sharp. A geezer/geezerette looks and acts like that mentally/physically wrinkled old uncle/ aunt you dread having to deal with at family gatherings. You're a sexy seasoned citizen.
An exhaustive list of the warning signs that you are, or are becoming, a caricature of your younger self, would fill a book. As a public service, I'm going to just mention two, one for males, one for females, that are of particular significance. If you're a man over the age of _____ or so (fine lines again) and you have a ponytail, an extremely obvious combover of some sort or poofy hair that's not nearly as poofy as it appears upon closer examination, careful, you may have started down the path of self-caricature. If you're a woman over the age of _____ or so, that regularly wears a flimsy tie-dyed (real or print) top without a bra, in public, you may have started down the path of self-caricature. It's not for me to judge, but...
Please do yourself, and the rest of us, a favor and settle on some sort of style that's age appropriate. It doesn't matter if you're a bit on the grungy side or striving for a haute couture look, as long as you look like a grup. Comfortable is a priority. Ladies, you don't, or should you strive, to look like your daughters or your ex-husband's trophy wife. Gentlemen, strive for just enough style to not embarrass your snifigant others. If you should have a trophy/noticeably younger wife, under no circumstances should she determine your look. Your risk looking like the result of a grup version of someone playing Barbies.
Have an OK day.
©MarkMehlmauer2016
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
[Well duh! exclaims Marie-Louise and my imaginary gentlereader, since this is your blog site it's painfully obvious to everyone that..]
Shush you two! Some of my gentlereaders read my posts via email subscription and others access me via my Facebook and Google+ pages. They have no way of knowing about updates to the blog site without me telling them. And by the way, I'll update the glossary as needed.
Anyway, as I was trying to say...
- I, your D.A.T. -- or -- Dilettante About Town (Merriam-Webster's online dictionary defines a dilettante as, ": a person whose interest in an art or in an area of knowledge is not very deep or serious"), find all sorts of subjects interesting. For the record, I find M-W's definition a bit harsh but I understand it. In my experience, dilettante is usually used as a pejorative. Think rich (inherited money) twit with minimal talent being humored/patronized because someone(s) in a given art or area of knowledge would like a share of that money.
While it's my fervent wish that this was an accurate description of my situation -- and it would be had I not been kidnapped from my wealthy but dissolute family by gypsies as an infant, setting in motion a series of events that culminated in my being won by my "father" in a poker game in the Gem Saloon in Deadwood, SD. -- sadly, it's not.
I'm sort of stuck with the word dilettante because although I would much prefer a word like polymath (: someone who knows a lot about many different things), or a phrase like Renaissance man (: a man who is interested in and knows a lot about many different things), these terms don't accurately apply to me for two reasons.
First, in my semi-humble opinion, although I think that I'm slightly smarter than the average bear, most people think they are as well. Second, I definitely don't know a lot about many different things.
However.
I've decided to come out of the closet and proudly embrace the fact I'm a dilettante and renounce any and all of the words potentially negative connotations. I'm not a rich twit. I'm a sort of downmarket version of a polymath or Renaissance man. I urge others to also proudly step out of the closet and declare themselves to be interesting (and/or interested) people who haven't been blessed with inherited wealth or genius.
- I'm on the cusp of geezerhood, a status I hope to maintain indefinitely, preferably right up to the moment I die peacefully in my sleep, because once you're a full blown geezer, that becomes your defining characteristic.
While my short-term memory has definitely deteriorated, I've done a great deal of research and soul searching and have come to the conclusion that it's within normal parameters for someone my age. By this I mean that this happens to everyone and it's not (hopefully) a symptom of some form of impending dementia. Since this state of affairs is highly unlikely to improve, however, I go to great lengths to maintain the status quo, as this is an important component of my plan to remain on the cusp of geezerhood. See, a geezer, or a geezerette, is an individual who has crossed a fine, not easily discernable line. The more noticeable the mental/psychological/emotional deterioration the more likely it is that you have crossed the line, dementia or not. I don't count physical deterioration because there's only so much to be done about that unless you have enough dough to pay for having yourself mannequinized, which comes with its own set of problems (have you seen Marie Osmond's lips?).
The most telling sign that you've crossed the line into geezerhood, and the most difficult to detect and acknowledge, is that you've turned into a caricature of your youthful persona. Unfortunately, while this may be obvious to almost everyone but you, you may be the last to know. After all, you don't see a geezer/geezerette looking back at you when you look into the mirror. While you may not be as pretty, or as energetic as you used to be, you don't look and feel half bad for your age. You're still reasonably sharp. A geezer/geezerette looks and acts like that mentally/physically wrinkled old uncle/ aunt you dread having to deal with at family gatherings. You're a sexy seasoned citizen.
An exhaustive list of the warning signs that you are, or are becoming, a caricature of your younger self, would fill a book. As a public service, I'm going to just mention two, one for males, one for females, that are of particular significance. If you're a man over the age of _____ or so (fine lines again) and you have a ponytail, an extremely obvious combover of some sort or poofy hair that's not nearly as poofy as it appears upon closer examination, careful, you may have started down the path of self-caricature. If you're a woman over the age of _____ or so, that regularly wears a flimsy tie-dyed (real or print) top without a bra, in public, you may have started down the path of self-caricature. It's not for me to judge, but...
Please do yourself, and the rest of us, a favor and settle on some sort of style that's age appropriate. It doesn't matter if you're a bit on the grungy side or striving for a haute couture look, as long as you look like a grup. Comfortable is a priority. Ladies, you don't, or should you strive, to look like your daughters or your ex-husband's trophy wife. Gentlemen, strive for just enough style to not embarrass your snifigant others. If you should have a trophy/noticeably younger wife, under no circumstances should she determine your look. Your risk looking like the result of a grup version of someone playing Barbies.
Have an OK day.
©MarkMehlmauer2016
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
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