As a slightly younger man, all right, as a much younger man, I sorta/kinda believed in utopia. I say sorta/kinda because even as a somewhat idealistic callowyute my head was not far enough up my, um, tailpipe to believe that a utopia of any sort was actually possible. It was just a case of yutefull idealism coinciding with the societal and cultural upheavals of the late sixties.
It began early on. In the course of my eight years of Catholic grade school, I was constantly being reminded that God wanted me, no, required me, to help the less fortunate -- even the pagans -- if I expected to have a chance to get my sinful butt into heaven. (I was never directly told that other alleged Christians who weren't Catholic were essentially pagans, but it was implied.) However, I was also taught that going to heaven was just the cheese on the fries. It was just as important that I do all in my power to establish a heaven on Earth. For example, the church fully supported the civil rights movement and the abolition of the obscenity that was/is Jim Crow. It was made abundantly clear to me that this should be, no, was, my position as well.
It wasn't just talk, we were expected to walk the walk, literally. Seemed like we were always going door to door peddling something to raise money for this, that and the other charity. It occurs to me that my grandkids, who attend public schools, are also peddling something or other every time I turn around. However, it's always about raising money to pay for some extracurricular activity they're involved in that's not covered by taxes or the seemingly endless fees for this, that and the other thing. Hmmm...
This eight years of my life referenced above coincided primarily with the early sixties but slopped over into the late sixties. I point this out because making reference to "the sixties" is a very common phenomenon. And while most of you that hadn't been born yet are justifiably tired of the dated cultural references (sorry...), I rarely hear anyone talking about the fact that the early sixties was a radically different era than the late sixties.
See, the early sixties was mostly the fifties, part two. But the seeds of the late sixties had been planted and were starting to sprout. Fear not, I'm not going to belabor this point with a lengthy thesis, that would not serve to get me where I'm headed. If you were there, or at least have a working knowledge, compare and contrast "I Want to Hold Your Hand"/ "Helter Skelter," or, Martin Luther King/Black Panthers. If you weren't, or don't, sorry, your gonna' have to do some homework. I...
[Is this rambling bonkercockie going somewhere? inquires Marie-Louise. She's in a foul mood today and has yet to scratch my back, not once.]
Patience, ma cherie, patience. I'm just laying out the groundwork necessary to make the first of my two points. First point: I get it, I understand why Bernie Sanders is so appealing to callowyutes. Also to limousine liberals, many of whom have never made the transition to grouphood.
I had/have (but it's evolved) an idealistic ethical system that began when it was pounded into me (sometimes literally) from the age of 6 to the age of 13 by the Sisters of Charity. By the time I had reached the end of what I thought, at the time, was my sentence, it was officially the late sixties. As I slowly but steadily drifted into another large sect, people who used to be Catholic, I simultaneously got caught up it the secular religion of the moment, what for lack of a better term, I'll call the yute movement.
I use the term yute movement (a phrase not original to me), an ideology that included several different strains of thought, some of which contradicted each other, because it was powered by callowyutes. Teenagers (a group invented by America in the fifties) and twenty-somethings rose up and sank their orthodontically coddled teeth into the hands of their enablers. "Don't trust anyone over thirty."
[Reminder, if my slightly unconventional vocabulary proves confusing, the Glossary tab of The Flyoverland Crank might help.]
So, though I don't feel the Bern, I get it. Many of us coddled boomers, flush with the untested knowledge every new generation has that they can and will do a better job than the previous one, were let loose on the world oblivious to the fact it was (relatively) free market capitalism that made possible the unprecedented affluence that we took for granted, due to our shallow grasp of history and economics. Many of us became socialists and armchair revolutionaries -- for a minute. Most of us got over it. To quote something Winston Churchill didn't actually say, "If you're not a liberal when you're 25, you have no heart. If you're not a conservative by the time you're 35, you have no brain." Though he didn't actually utter the words the misquote lives on because there is wisdom in it. Yutefull idealism is, fortunately, still a common, though not universal phenomenon.
Unfortunately, some didn't, get over it I mean. For example, Bernie Sanders, a professional outsider who has been a member of a very powerful club that has only 535 members, for 25 years. I believe Mr. Sanders believes what he says. I also believe I'm still a sorta/kinda idealist, but I'm a grup, and grups face facts. Free market capitalism, with all its flaws, and despite the warped versions of it practiced in places like China (where they cross out the word free), has lifted, and continues to lift, literally billions of people out of poverty. Democratic Socialism has given us Greece (remember Greece?) and an economically stagnant Eurozone a half step ahead of recession. Which is my second point.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Saturday, March 19, 2016
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Random Ramblings of an Old Crank
- 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
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.
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
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, 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.
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