Courage (or better yet, Fortitude)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

"Your Majesty, if you were King, you wouldn't be afraid of anything?" -Dorothy
"Not nobody, not nohow!" -Cowardly Lion

"99% of life is showing up." -Woody Allen

Courage, or better yet, fortitude, is the fourth and final cardinal virtue that all virtues hinge on. For the record, as best as I can tell, what Mr. Allen actually said was, "80% of success is showing up." However, there are many variations of it floating around and the one I like best is the one above.

My personal variable variation, which varies according to mood, energy level, and pending or potential crisises (I know, I know, it's technically crises) is, "99% of life is showing up, be prepared for the worst but hope for the best and you will occasionally be pleasantly surprised." I then kick off the covers (well, usually), get out of bed, and launch another day. Fortitude.

If we consult Wikipedia we find, "Courage is the choice and willingness to confront agony, pain, danger, uncertainty or intimidation." Also, "In some traditions, fortitude holds approximately the same meaning.

Fortitude: strength of mind that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain or adversity with courage (Merriam-Webster's definition, my italicization).

[Waitwaitwait, fortitude? You think that getting out of bed in the morning requires fortitude? Dana, imaginary gentlereader, speaks/sneers.]

Yes. Many people, not you and I, or most of my gentlereaders of course, but for many people, yes. Many people, upon awakening, will in short order be subject to a set of feelings that can be measured on a sliding scale that ranges from a general uneasiness at one end to a full blown panic attack at the other.

[The why and wherefore of this phenomenon (that is, why our brains are wired this way) can be discovered in one of the best books you've probably never heard of titled, "The Neurotic's Guide to Avoiding Enlightenment" by Chris Niebauer.]

"Prudence and justice are the virtues through which we decide what needs to be done; fortitude gives us the strength to do it." -Scott P. Richert

The Cowardly Lion's version of courage is a rather traditional one, heroic courage. And who doesn't like, or want to be, a hero? Well, mostly -- context is everything.

I'm so chronologically old that as a callowyute I lived through the transformation of the American hero to the American anti-hero. We went from one extreme to another in a remarkably short time. No, I'm not saying that we should turn back the clock to the era of John Wayne, Roy Rogers and happily married young couples with twin beds. Of course, the Duke did make some great movies but there's much to be said for more realistic heroes and more realistic entertainment.

Most of us are unlikely to ever be traditional heroes, that is, a rescue a child from a burning building/medal of honor/Iliad-Odyssey/famous for at least 15 minutes sort of hero. Also, in my semi-humble opinion, thrill seeking is thrill seeking. In the (often imprudent) pursuit of an adrenaline rush, there's a fine line to be drawn betwixt courageous fun, and stupid.

BIG BUT.

[Iggy, imaginary grandsticky appears and asks for permission to toss tiny toy parachutists off of the (sorta/kinda) balcony (it's complicated) of my third-floor lair/garrett. Marie-Louise, my drop dead beautiful muse strolls in, displays her newly manicured and elaborately, but tastefully decorated fingernails for my approval and begins to scratch my back with her left hand as she reads over my right shoulder.]

If, "Courage is the choice and willingness to confront agony, pain, danger, uncertainty or intimidation." Also, "In some traditions, fortitude holds approximately the same meaning.

And if, "Prudence and justice are the virtues through which we decide what needs to be done; fortitude gives us the strength to do it."

Then I maintain it's possible to be a courageous hero, with a small h, every day. Do your job.

Now, I'm not only talking about dragging your butt to your crappy (hopefully not, but not unlikely) job or your politically correct, hidebound, chock full of unionized/tenured mediocrities (hopefully not, but not unlikely) school.

Doing your job means taking care of business, doing the right thing, get 'er done, _______ (insert your favorite motivational cliche, here).

Or, choose not to. Just be honest about it and stop making excuses. Refuse to be another boring victim with another boring victim story. There's always going to be someone else that's worse off than you, lots of them in fact. Given that that's a given, the only question is, now what?

Let us consider the unhappy student and the unhappy employee mentioned above.



If you're callowyute and in school, and even if you're smart in non-intellectual ways, or majoring in partying, or are clearly destined to be an athletic demigod, or just too damn cool for school -- here's a cold/hard reality check for ya' honey.

Three things.

One, your head ain't gonna start to pop outta your ass until you're at least 25 and you're not gonna realize just how true this is until you're at least 25. This ain't a matter of opinion, this is scientific fact. This radically increases the chance that choices made before/if this happens are potentially fatal. Please be careful.

Two, you're probably not going to be rich in a minute because you are your generation's answer to Bill Gates or Michael Jordan. It's not because you're not special, it's because this is the nature of reality.

Three, welcome to the global economy. A college degree, other than for STEM majors, is in most cases what a high school diploma used to be (usually with student loan debt) -- it might qualify you for a retail management trainee program.

And no, you don't necessarily need a bachelor's degree for a decent life. But without at least a high school diploma and technical training in a skill that's needed in the real world, or unless you're one of the minority of entrepreneurs that aren't ground to dust in the marketplace, will need to master the intricacies of the current version of the welfare state if you wish to avoid living under an overpass.

Do your job, which is learning to do a job.


[Dana, imaginary gentlereader speaks. Yeah? well, I have an OK job but I hate it. I'm a grup. I don't cheat on my spouse. We take care of my mom 'cause we're trying to keep her out of a nursing home. I "take care of business," But I'll tell ya' what, I'm tired most of the time. I sure don't feel like a hero.]

Well, if it makes you feel any better, according to the Gallup people you have a lot of company. They consistently report that less than a third of your fellow Americans feel engaged at work. Which means (says Mr. Obvious), most of us are faking it. Which means, lots of chances to choose to be a hero.

For most of us, most of the time, life's hard. It takes fortitude to keep going once we realize that we aren't going to wake up one morning and suddenly be HAPPY (or rich, or good looking or _______). At this point, we make a choice, whether we realize it or not. We choose to be victims or heroes.

Victims choose: excuses, never actually choosing, suicide (quick or slow, gun v. addiction), ignoring the fact literally millions of others are worse off than they, passing on their misery to others whenever possible, victimizing others whenever possible, etc.

Heroes choose: Simply to make the best of any given day, person, or situation while often falling short. Kicking the covers off every morning knowing that while the day may suck sweaty socks odds are they'll get through it and if they look hard enough odds are there will be something to smile about. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

       

Fake News

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and gentlereaders), 

The subject of this week's column was supposed to be courage, the last of the four cardinal virtues. It's done, but needs to be drastically revised and will be published next week. 

See, one of the members of my (still) freakishly large household decided to take a (hopefully temporary) sabbatical and is now living in West (by God) Virginia. Long story short (and no, I'm not gonna' bore you with the details) this has rendered me a very unhappy camper. That's all I have to say about that.

When I pulled up the column you're supposed to be reading for the usual last minute check (after ignoring it for the mandatory minimum marinating cycle of at least 24 hours) before hitting the publish button I found it to be somewhat snarky, and bitchy.

[You? snarky and bitchy... shocking! Dana, my imaginary gentlereader, speaks. Marie-Louise, my gorgeous, and somewhat more sympathetic muse is gently scratching my back with her world-class, award-winning fingernails. Iggy, imaginary grandsticky, is nowhere to be found.]  

Promoting the practice of one of the cardinal virtues in a snarky and bitchy tone is, to put it mildly, a somewhat counterproductive exercise. 

So, I've graciously decided to give myself a 24-hour extension, which is why I find myself writing a column on Easter Sunday when I should be downstairs violating my low-carb eating regimen with abandon. Yes gentlereaders, I'm that dedicated (and besides, they know down there that if someone doesn't save me some chocolate there will be hell to pay.)




In the midst of my morning routine (slurping down a large mug, or two, of Cafe' Bustelo Espresso Ground Coffee while skimming a selection of carefully/efficiently/logically arranged websites that serve to provide me with what I call a zeitgeist snapshot, seven days a week) I found something I wanted to write about.

[It's not you, it's me. In my defense, the process described above includes comic strips.]

My preferred local paper had an article about "... more than 100 protesters..." (101 or 999? and this is the better local paper) who were participating in a rally to demand that the Donald release his tax returns.

While they were at it, "Several... speakers...," that is, an unnamed local "economics professor" and unnamed "members of the local " _______ County Young Democrats discussed how the nation's income inequalities are hurting education, mental-health services and job growth; the damaging effects of cutting funding to PBS, the arts, Meals on Wheels and many other vital social programs; and the president's low approval rating."

The article's (written by a local reporter) last line is, "The Associated Press contributed to this report." This is because the author breathlessly leaps back and forth between the local rally and national coverage, presumably provided by the AP, of rallies all over the country for people that want the Donald to release his tax returns.

Quotes from nationally known anti-Trumpers (Democrats all) are intermingled with local quotes and the vaguely attributed diatribe quoted above. The effect, surely unintentional, is that without a careful reading, one would assume that unless the Donald releases his tax returns ASAP, civil war, and perhaps the collapse of Western civilization as we know it, is imminent.

A local reporter, who probably has a degree in journalism, submitted an article to an editor, who probably has a degree in journalism, and both work for an editor-in-chief (who, by the way, probably has a degree in journalism).

"Several... speakers...," that is, an unnamed local "economics professor and <unnamed> members of the ______ CountyYoung Democrats discussed how the nation's income inequalities are hurting education, mental-health services and job growth; the damaging effects of cutting funding to PBS, the arts, Meals on Wheels and many other vital social programs; and the president's low approval rating."

I don't have a degree in journalism (though I do have 39 certified college credits), but can easily envision myself as a widower (because I am) who inherited a newspaper from my late wife (which I didn't) and am much more comfortably situated than I actually am (because though I'm already 39 I wake up every day assuming the life I'm clearly entitled to is just around the corner).

[The preceding paragraph is a beard for some actual details which could get me killed.]

Now, were I the fortunate individual described above, I would call a meeting of all the relevant parties and ask some questions.

What's the name of the local economics professor? surely a phone call or two could unravel this mystery.

Which members of the _______ County Young Democrats spoke at the rally? I'm sure they would like to get their names in a democratic-leaning newspaper that publishes in an overwhelmingly democratic region

Did we actually have someone there or did you guys just piece this story together afterward?

You're aware that the funding cuts referred to are only proposed cuts right? You're aware the republicans have proposed cutting off the Public Broadcasting System people for decades and that it never actually happens, right?

You realize that the phrase "and many other vital social programs" turned this front page story into an editorial, right? Why did we not point out that the local rally was a local non-event, and instead make it sound like it was a vital part of a national protest? A national protest whose theme seemed to be since he won't release his tax returns, he must be guilty of something, that is, he's guilty until proven innocent.


My wealthy widower persona only scratches the surface. The article is a biased, unprofessionally written, and a hit piece from beginning to end. I'd love to give you more details, gentlereaders, but I was only half kidding about how the details could get me killed. Piss off the wrong people here in our happy little valley and your life can suddenly become very unhappy, and me and mine are stuck here for the moment. And for the record, I didn't vote for the orange dude, I'm a libertarian.

What have we learned, Dorothies?

Pay attention. "Fake news" is usually too good/crazy to be true news and often easily debunked via your favorite search engine/dutch uncle (or auntie, of course) of choice. It's the alleged real news you gotta watch out for. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

Adventures in Shopping...

... at my local full service -- expensive except for the stuff on sale that you have to pay full price for if you don't have a key tag or a card to prove you willingly signed up for them to keep track of what you buy and sell the information to whomever they please -- supermarket.

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

“Star Trek characters never go shopping.” -Douglas Coupland

Dear (eventual) Stickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I've decided to cover the last of the cardinal virtues, courage, next week. What follows is an Andy Rooney like semi-rant that flowed out of me in virtually one sitting. By the time you're grups, this will probably seem like ancient history as grocery shopping for you will consist of dictating a grocery list to Alexa's granddaughter and waiting for the grocery drone to arrive minutes later.

I had returned to the scene of the crime for the second day in a row, in spite of my dislike of shopping of almost any sort, because my first visit had proven to be disappointing. I was feeling productive because I had already been to Walgreens to pick up a scrip to treat my leprosy (you don't want to know) and had marshaled enough self-discipline to also visit Dollar General for assorted sundries.

My beloved Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) was on sale. My equally beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread was on sale as well. I consider both products to be vital staples.

While my shopping buzz was still buzzing I continued my quest, perhaps I could execute a three-peat.


Background: The day before I had decided to walk on the wild side and purchase double my normal weekly supply of each product and get four loaves of bread as well as four jugs of tea. However, I was only able to secure two loaves of bread after deciding to pass on the only other loaf available which was gently (but who knows by what or by whom?) squashed.

Noting that the Schwebel's section of the bread aisle had a disheveled, picked-over look, I deduced that the bread man had not yet stopped by for his daily visit. For the record, the preceding sentence is not sexist in nature.

I worked in supermarkets for ten years and have been shopping in them for more decades than I would care to admit. I have never encountered a bread woman and if you are, or know of one, please accept my insincere apology. Since the job consists of driving a huge step-van here, there and clear over there, no matter the weather, and dragging huge racks of bread in and out of all sorts of stores, many run by very unpleasant people, I just assume women are too smart to subject themselves to this sort of daily grind.

And now that I think about it, I've never encountered a woman who drove a linen service truck for a living either. However, I confess I don't know much about that particular business and I've never worked in a commercial laundry (though I have spent a lot of time in laundromats) so I won't bring it up.

So anyway, I did my other shopping, which went well except for the fact that there were only two jugs of Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) left on the shelf. When I had crossed everything off my list I found myself at the opposite end of the store from where I started, where the restrooms are? Being a man of a certain age, I popped in for a preventative, um, rest.

When I came back out (No Shopping Carts Beyond This Point, Alarm Will Sound!) I walked all the way back to the other side of the store to see if the bread person had stopped by, no luck. I mention this only to demonstrate my devotion to my beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread, which I can't recommend enough.

I headed for the checkout counters and took care of business. This part of the trip went well except for the fact that as I passed the service desk on my way out of the store, I realized that I had left a winning four dollar scratch-off ticket in Betty's console, yet again. Betty is my minivans name, by the way, short for Betty Boop.


So today, feeling both (uncharacteristically) optimistic and productive, I again ventured into my local full-service (see paragraph one) supermarket. I arrogantly waltzed by both the hot prepared foods and bakery department with nary a glance. I'm no newbie -- while they both look and smell awesome, the actual taste of the pretty and perfectly presented goodies, in most cases, is a bit of a letdown.

I entered the bread aisle and my heart leaped, the Schwebel's section was stocked to the max! With a spring in my step (well, sorta, I had a hip replaced three months ago) I strode down the aisle only to discover a yawning, empty gap where the Country Potato Bread should be. My spirits began to plummet but then I remembered it was Wednesday, perhaps there was hope after all.

[Just in case you're unaware, bread people, like doctors, don't work on Wednesday because they (unlike most doctors) have to work on Saturdays which is why so many of them belong to the teamsters union.]

See, bread delivery technicians usually over-deliver bread on Tuesdays and Saturdays to tide a given outlet over till Thursday/Monday.

Anyways, the store's bakery was just a few steps away, the one that sells all the pretty products that rarely taste as good as they look? And there was a clerk behind the counter who didn't suddenly pretend to be busy as I approached to avoid making eye contact.

I inquired if she knew if there was any extra Schwebel's Country Potato bread "in the back" as it was on sale but there was none on the shelf. She looked baffled but she spotted her supervisor and asked her if there was any Schwebel's Country Potato bread in the back. This woman; likely overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated by her boss, spouse, and kids -- who looked like her feet hurt -- said, "Lemmylook," and exited, stage left.

She returned in a flash with a single loaf of bread, brightly wrapped in colorful cellophane, handed it to the clerk and re-exited stage left in the same motion. The clerk approached me with a big, bright smile and proudly handed me a loaf of Giant Eagle Homestyle Potato bread. A product whose everyday price is cheaper than the price of my beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread is when its on sale -- and tastes like it.

"Thanks, but ...,  see ...,  that is ...,  hey, thanks a lot! 'preciate it," sez I.

Resisting the urge to squash the loaf in question via an armpit or tossing it in a freezer as dark clouds begin to gather over my soul I gently placed the offending loaf on the shelf in the empty space where the Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) was supposed to be but wasn't.

As I approached the service desk on my way out of the store and as I was reaching for the winning (four dollars) scratch-off ticket that I had remembered to bring with me this time I saw them.

Near the door, a very young, very attractive, very worried-looking, very heteronormative looking young couple was feeding coins into the Coinstar machine. She was so pretty (and wearing an actual dress!) that I was instantly drowned by a tsunami of _______.*

[*_______: non-existent word denoting a heart-achy/nostalgic/bittersweet/I'm gonna die/I own socks older than she is sort of feeling.]

Without breaking stride, I pulled the lottery ticket from my t-shirt pocket with my left hand while simultaneously reaching into my right pants pocket and scooping up the change that I knew I would find there and pivoted in their direction.

When I was close enough I announced my presence with an, "excuse me," tossed my coins into the sorting tray, handed him the lottery ticket and said, "every little bit helps" and darted (well sort of, the hip thing) towards the exit door. I glanced over my shoulder as I was going through the door and she blessed me with a brief, cautious, black cloud banishing smile before quickly turning away. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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