Immigration

Let me admit up front that I'm soft on illegal Mexican immigration (IMI) or, if you prefer, _______.
I think that any illegal immigrant convicted of a crime should be punished and deported, but someone needs to tell the Donald that statistically speaking, immigrants of all sorts are less likely to commit a crime than the native born. Were I in the country illegally I'd be a model, low profile guest, for obvious reasons.

The blank space at the end of the first sentence is provided for those of you that prefer a more politically correct term. It's tough keeping up with politically correct terms. They seem to evolve and adapt even faster than the super cooties regularly featured in apocalyptic news stories. You know, the ones that we're constantly being told could fuel the first world-class pandemic of the new millennium? It would probably be wrong to develop this analogy further and compare the snowflakes obsessed with politically correct terminology to the rats that carried the fleas that caused the Black Death, so I won't. Anyway, I've already drifted off topic.

IMI's, or more properly, IHI's (illegal Hispanic immigrants), because these folks, particularly lately, often are from countries located south of Mexico (which incidentally is the title of my next album) have my sympathy because I can easily construct alternate realities with my powerful reality distortion field. In my head, smartypants, in my head -- I know they're not real.

Premise of my reality distortion: Canada is to the US as the US is to points south. Say that in spite of our northern neighbor's abominable climate they were the most prosperous (so far...) and freest (well...) country in the world and our situation is roughly equivalent to Mexico and points south. What would life in these United States be like?

Insert sound of harp strings being strummed while image on screen goes all wavy, here.

The Gubmint and the gubmints of our reality distorted USA would be world famous for, and have a long history of, good old fashion third world corruption. Bribery at every level would be considered a cost of doing business, the lubricant that keeps the wheels of commerce and gubmint turning. John and Jane Doe would live in a world where the playing fields are rarely level. Everybody pays to play.

[Aside: I'll bet a bottle of pop, a Mexican Coke made with real sugar (it really does taste better), that Juan and Juana Garcia would enthusiastically trade their current situation for the current situation of our abused and downtrodden 99%. "I just hate my new iPhone, I wonder if I can get out of my contract... aw, geez, the barista screwed up my coffee, again!"]

Reality distorted Canada would not be all that different than the real Canada. It would have a much larger economy and may or may not have real Canada's socialized healthcare system. But other than that, it probably wouldn't be much different than it is now. It also wouldn't be much different than the real USA...

Carter and Emma Smithe, of the Toronto Smithes, don't party like they did when they were still in school, in fact, what with careers and kids and all, a second glass of beer (Carter) or wine (Emma) at dinner is about as twisted as they're likely to get  these days. But once in a great while, they stash the kids somewhere safe for the weekend and get a room with a jacuzzi. Carter (weed) or Emma (blow, the munchies make you fat) might even indulge in some recreational pharmaceuticals. It's not as if they go out of their way to score, but occasionally Bachus tosses a treat in their direction... See what I mean?

But the reality distorted America, the pay to play America mentioned above, a third worldish version of America, would suck sweaty socks. Carter and Emma's occasional dabbles with drugs, not to mention the needs of their fellow Canadians that are more enthusiastic consumers of legally prohibited substances, would be a nightmare for John and Jane Doe. That's because they just happen to hail from Anyfreakintownnearthenorthernborder, USA.

Real Canada took a pass when real America tried banning alcohol. Things didn't work out very well in real America but real Canada couldn't manufacture and sell booze fast enough. Gubmints will be gubmints however and both real America and real Canada, after evaluating the lessons of Prohibition both decided to prohibit recreational pharmaceuticals anyway.

So, in Juan and Juana Garcia in John and Jane Doe's reality distorted version of the USA, the drug cartels that so efficiently supply recreational pharmaceuticals to reality distorted Canada for fun and profit, ensure John and Jane will lead, um, interesting lives. This is the unpleasant side effect of criminal organizations that make so much money they can corrupt a given culture at every level.

John and Jane both work in the energy sector. He's a roughneck working in the oil/natural gas fields and she's a low-level secretary. Before you accuse me of being a sexist, remember this is an America that's been reality distorted to mirror real Mexico. Real Mexico is an unabashedly mucho-macho place. John would prefer that she stay home with their five kids (they are good, traditional Catholics) but they need the money. John doesn't make all that much money because the Gubmint runs the nationalized energy sector and you don't make good money without knowing the right people. He wouldn't have a job at all if he didn't know some of the right people.

John and Jane are worried and scared. The cartels have made everything worse. Innocent bystanders are regularly killed. Reporters that tell the truth are regularly killed. The cops are more or less owned by the cartels. John and Jane have a teenage son that has bling bedecked buddies with lots of girlfriends who have offered to introduce him to their version of the right people. One of his gorgeous daughters has caught the eye of a local thug.

A good friend of John and Jane, who has known them both since they were kids, is quite aware of their situation because they have stayed in touch over the years. He's a newly minted citizen of our reality distorted Canada. His rich, well-connected parents sent him to college there to become a petroleum engineer knowing that if he did well and got a job offer or two he'd be provided with a path that could eventually lead to citizenship, and it did,

In a recent phone discussion with his friends the Doe's, after being updated about their current situation, he offered to pay whatever it would take to get them and their kids across the border, illegally. They could figure out a way to stay once they got there.

Were I John or Jane I'd start packing.

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016


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Kindness & Communication (Hair Helmets, Part 2)

To review: Last week's column was about hair helmets with a couple of (hopefully) amusing wanderings down side alleys to see where they led. My original intent was to make fun of not only hair helmets but other methods that we allegedly rationally driven homo sapiens employ to improve our chances of mating and reproducing.

However, my plan, as happens often as not, fell apart. Hair helmets wound up being the only contrivance discussed, and when I got to the end, I was suddenly seized by a strong notion that I should've also discussed what, if anything, sets us apart from our fellow animals. Which I will...

But first (it's not you, it's me) I want to get into how this sort of thing happens, since it will no doubt continue. Don't say, gentlereaders, that you've never been warned.

I've mentioned in at least one of my columns, and should and will add to what you will find by clicking on the Read This First Please or Glossary tab of my site, that my writing style is an edited stream of consciousness. That is, though I start out with a notion ranging from vague to specific, I give my muse and an imagined gentlereader free reign to gently push me in whatever direction feels right.

However, I then edit ruthlessly, guided by the twin goals of clarity and humor, sometimes deleting entire columns. F.Y.I., I've deliberately and officially stopped referring to my posts as posts. They are now and henceforth, my columns. After all, I've yet to miss a week since (self) publishing my first column on 7.23.15., just like a real columnist, who actually gets paid. This change in nomenclature serves two purposes.

First, it helps me to maintain the discipline necessary to prove to a syndicator, publisher, editor, agent, Google AdSense etc. (I really need to find the time and inclination to do whatever I need to do to make some money from this. As it is, I'm having too much fun just writing love letters to my daughter, son-in-law, and my grandkids -- the Stickies -- to hopefully occasionally be reread after I'm long gone) that I'm a worthy investment.

Second, I'm faking it 'till I make it. I'm acting as if. I'm keeping hope alive. I'm, uh, maintaining a good attitude. You know, doing all that sort of stuff you're supposed to do to be successful at something that the people who make a successful living teaching people how to be successful at something advise us to do. I'm also subtly and secretly manipulating and hypnotizing my gentlereaders to look past the sale and assume I'm destined to be a wildly successful writer so they will stick with me and tell all of their friends they should be following me. Shhh...it's a secret.


Yes, Virginia, I do think we are more than just another animal that happens, fortunately for us, to live at the top of the food chain. However, I also think it's very important that we don't forget, so to speak, where we come from. Scott Adams, the man that cranks out my favorite daily comic strip, Dilbert, and also writes a blog, not to mention an occasional book, says we're easily manipulated moist robots. He also maintains that we mostly use our rational abilities to justify our irrational, emotionally driven behaviors after the fact. In my semi-humble opinion, he's right.

Big but.

There are two ginormous characteristics homo sapiens have that separate us from our fellow animals. There are arguably, and probably, more. And who knows? Maybe the folks that claim dolphins and/or elephants and/or _____  function at a level equal to, or even superior to us, are correct (though I have my doubts). And, of course, many people the world over understand and cherish the meaning, importance, and significance of the deceptively simple phrase, good dog.

For the sake of simplicity and clarity, though, I'm going with communication and kindness.

Communication first. You don't have to be human to communicate successfully, in a limited way, with your fellow _____ . In fact, it's possible for all sorts of creatures to communicate, in a limited way, with all sorts of other others who communicate, in a limited way, with each other.

I'm sorry, I'll stop (GRIN).

A full blown language, on the other hand, even a very simple one with a limited vocabulary, creates a network. Language is the wiring, so to speak, that links my mind to your mind to their mind. This was the first internet and just like the current electronic, ever growing, planet-spanning one, it increased our processing power exponentially.

Writing and reading eventually supplemented oral tradition and made it easier for each new generation to build on what went before.

Had computers never been invented, we would still (and did) be able to do a lot of amazing things. After all, 7.3 billion heads are better than one.

Pooping indoors and disappearing the results by gently pushing on a tiny handle. Effortless access to sparkling clean hot and cold water by turning some tiny wheels. Climate control via pushing some tiny buttons. Et cetera. We take for granted what our not too distant ancestors would've declared to be magic, and then tortured and/or killed a bunch of folks to mitigate the bad juju.

Life is, and always will be, subject to unpredicted crap storms. Utopia will never be just around the next bend. But as you're working your butt off, plotting and scheming and hoping while impatiently waiting for your financial position to improve, you'll always find a way to keep the utilities turned on.

Kindness? Yup, kindness. That is, if you expand the definition of kindness. If you include everything from the evolutionary advantages that resulted from tribal cooperation to choosing to be the grup in the room to the teachings of the ethical and spiritual traditions that state we must love and take care of each other.

Yes, other species cooperate to get stuff done, particularly stuff that ensures the survival of the group.

But we can consciously decide to at least try to get along with that moron we work for, and not just for the sake of ourselves. We can do it for our family, our fellow slaves, our customers, our patients, or our _____ -- or not.

Every kid on the playground knows who's cool, who's OK, and who's a bully.

"Wo, oh, what I want to know, is are you kind?" (from the song "Uncle John's Band").

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016


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Hair Helmets

Why are homo sapiens obsessed with their head hair? The obvious answer would seem to have a biological/evolutionary explanation. A healthy head of hair is an indicator of yute and overall good health. In spite of our relatively large, highly developed brains that enable us to do amazing things such as visit the moon and, well, brain surgery, we're still the playthings of our DNA. Our DNA is all about survival, reproduction and driving us to mate with (or at least, watch, often goofy TV shows and movies about) superior looking specimens of the species.

I get that. And I would remind you, and myself, that no matter how smart we might think we are, or, how above or over all that sort of thing we might think we are, we're not. Caution: Ignoring, or worse yet refusing to acknowledge your inner infidel, may be hazardous to your health (and life and job and relationships and...).

Big But.

Everywhere I look I see hair helmets. Creations, constructions and colors further and further removed from anything Mother Nature's Hair and Nails, LLC has ever produced. The Donald is our national poster child for this cult, and make no mistake, it is a cult. How else to account for something that generates such dedication, time, and expense?

[Aside: Speaking of the Donald, his orange complexion would seem to suggest he's an Oompa Loompa. No, seriously, think about it. This would also explain why a man who will turn 70 years old in June has hair that seems to vary in color from washed out blond to almost Peep yellow. This could be the result of constant coloring to hide his naturally green hair.

Now, Oompa Loompas are generally short in stature and the Donald is tall. This begs more than one question. Is he a native Loompalandian with a glandular disorder? If so, this would seem to disqualify him from becoming president. If he is a native Loompalandian, was he ever naturalized? If not, does he have a green card? Was his father or mother born in the USA and married to, or at some point hooked up with, a native born Loompalandian? If so, doesn't this place the Donald in the same situation he placed Senator Cruz in when he suggested that Mr. Cruz might have eligibility issues?

Most importantly, why are none of the rabid watchdogs of the press trying to get to the bottom of this mess? But that's not what I want to talk about, so let's move on.]

My definition of a hair helmet is a much broader than the traditional conception. That is, a television news anchorperson whose hair looks as though it's made out of fairly rigid vinyl and would only move ever so slightly in a tornado. Or come completely off, like a, well, a helmet and possibly become a dangerous, sharp-edged projectile.

My definition: A hairstyle, regardless of color, rigid or otherwise, that crosses a fine line whereupon said hairstyle becomes the first thing you notice about someone, you can't help but being aware of it at all times, rarely flattering.

A beacon of hair, if you will. A hairstyle that causes its owner to resemble a floor lamp without a shade.

The fine line I mentioned is determined by the amount of contrast, or the lack thereof, between a given hairstyle and the overall look of the subject. For example, a rigidly coiffed, blue haired, little old lady with minimal makeup and a conservative outfit works just fine.

However, a little old lady with minimal makeup, a conservative outfit, and waist length, elaborately curly, grape Kool-Aid colored hair -- not so much.

So, how did we go from being understandably influenced by our DNA to hair helmets? I propose two reasons. First, a significant downside of living in the information age is the fact that we're more exposed to advertising, both overtly and subliminally, than ever before. A great deal of advertising is dedicated to pushing products for managing our manes. Second, our head hair, at least theoretically, provides a means for anyone to compensate for the genetic crime of not being as attractive as professional pretty people that are so attractive that they can make a living from it, often just by reminding us that we can't. But -- with the purchase of the right health and/or beauty aid -- we may not have to wither away empty, alone, and childless, after all.

[Another Aside: About advertising. I, like most people, find most advertising, to be a pain in the butt. I'm amazed that it's even possible for an hour of alleged programming on broadcast TV to include 20 minutes or so of advertising, but not from a legal standpoint. The viewers, not The Gubmint, should determine what's acceptable. The viewers hold all the power, literally, in the palm of their hands: CLICK! What amazes me is that anyone puts up with it, considering there is no shortage of alternatives.

However, I'm a grup and a sexy seasoned citizen so I know there is definitely no such thing as a free lunch. Yes, we're knee deep in adverts, and it's not possible to be engaged in the modern world without encountering them hither, thither, and yon (don't that sound way cooler than here, there, and everywhere?).

Yes, they're often annoying, stupid and downright offensive. But they provide us with no shortage of often annoying, stupid and downright offensive content at everyone's favorite price -- free and no charge. Occasionally, they're the only portion of the content that ain't annoying, stupid and downright offensive. Were I less empathetic and attuned to the feelings of my fellow homo sapiens, I would say that whining about advertising is like bragging about how you vote in every election with one breath and then complaining about the quality of political incumbents with the next. But I'm not, so I won't. And Besides, that's not what this column is about.]

Sorry, what was I talking about? DNA...hair helmets...the Donald (alpha male)...advertising (environmental input) that easily exploits fundamental biological drives...

Wait a minute, is the only difference between us and all the other animals on the planet just a matter of degree?

Sheesh, this got depressing fast, and I didn't even see it coming. This is going to require a part two to explore what, if anything, does set us apart from the rest of the animals.

Anyway, I've got to run, I've got an important appointment and I have to do my hair.

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016


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