Transgenderism (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Transgender doesn't need to imply loud." -Kubra Sait


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

Hopefully, by the time you Great-Grandstickies read this society will have figured out who is to be called what -- and who is to be classified as what -- to help all the kids on the playground to get along because I don't see it happening any time soon.

"I want the playground to have minimum rules and maximum fun. I want just enough rules to give everyone an equal shot at some swing time and neutralize the bullies." -me

[Geeze, how many times are you going to use that quote? It's bad enough that you go around quoting yourself. Couldn't you at least...]

Well excuuuse me, Dana. For the record, I don't use it all that often. Furthermore, these missives are letters to my progeny and it's important, to me at least, that they know where I'm coming/came from. I don't understand why...

[Well, I don't understand why...]

[Could we please stop zees abzurd beeckering and get on with ze column? Theenk of ze bad example you set for Iggy!]

Point taken, Marie-Louise.

The quote above neatly sums up my stand on politics, culture, economics, etceteromics. That is to say, I'm a wild-eyed libertarian with a bleeding heart and conservative impulses.

The thing is, for all the kids on the playground to get along reasonably well, their needs to be agreement as to what the minimally necessary rules are.


For several years now I've been making what I thought was a harmless joke. I've used it in previous letters and it's evolved with time. To be completely candid I stole it from Jim, of Barb and Jim fame. Aurora Barb and Jim, not Barb and Jim from the last house on left (side of Rt. 5 -- or is it Rt. 7?), anyways...

The latest version is, "I'm a beautiful, 39-year-old African-American lesbian woman named Coco (that looks remarkably like Hale Berry) trapped in the body of an aging, white, seemingly cisgendered heterosexual male. Feel my... pain.

[And now you need to stop because you're inflicting pain...]

Yeah, so I'm told. But I'm not making any promises.


See, there are men, well, biologically male H. sapiens anyway, who haven't had surgery and/or hormone therapy who consider themselves lesbians and wish to/are partner(ing) up with biologically female H. sapiens that are lesbians. At least if they can find one that's agreeable.

Hoo-boy.

When I heard about this I went a-googling and discovered it's true. It's not only true, according to this article 77% of transgender folks report that their sexual orientation is something other than straight. Which means that most of the men who become/say that they are women and most of the women that become/say that they are men are having sex with are, um, hopefully having fun? And no one is getting hurt unless they want to be. You learn something every day if you pay attention.

I also discovered an article by a female H. sapien who calls her column/article/blog/? PolelifeandPussy (yeah, seriously), that's about an apparent war that's broken out between transwomen and radical feminists that have issues with women that sport "lady cocks" (yeah, seriously).

I also discovered that trans advocates call radical feminists who think that transgender women should be excluded from "female spaces and organizations" (Wikipedia) TERFs. That is to say, trans-exclusionary radical feminists; this phrase is not uttered with love -- hence the war.

And then it dawned on me that I'm a TEAF. Who knew?


See, I'm a feminist if you define feminist as someone that believes in equal rights for women. By the way, I'm for equal rights (and responsibilities) for everyone, but I'm not a radical feminist.

Also, I've got a hooge problem with male H. sapiens that call themselves female H. sapiens but who have decided not to submit to either surgery or chemistry (not that I don't blame 'em) to physically render themselves female H. sapiens...

Big BUT,

feel that competing against female H. sapiens in athletic events is perfectly fair. And yes, Virginia/Vern, this is a thing.

So, that makes me a TEAF, a trans-exclusionary athletic feminist (for the record I'm not at all athletic, this gets so confusing...) and would seem to indicate that I'm at war with trans advocates and radical feminists since I'm a non-radical feminist that believes in equal rights (and responsibilities) for everyone.

Hoo-boy, which way's Switzerland?


I don't want to be at war with anyone over this sort of thing. As far as I'm concerned, as long as no one is getting hurt (that doesn't want to be), the door is closed, and the window treatment prevents me (and anyone else) that doesn't/shouldn't want to know what people get up to in private from hearing/seeing what people get up to in private -- have at it.

But when they insist on getting in my face, and/or demanding everyone's approval, that's a/the horse of a different color, Dorothy. Which is why there's going to be a part two. Poppa loves you.

(To be continued...)

Have an OK day. 
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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.

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©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but from this column forward I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Loosing My Religion (Part Six -- the end)

...or, the importance of the transcendent, part two. It's a long one.

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"There are some things you have to give up to the higher power" -Jimmy Smits




Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

In last week's letter, I brought up the concept of the power of a higher power as conceived and practiced by those seeking to be restored to sanity via the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and like-minded groups.

I mentioned that as far as I'm concerned this is employing the power of transcendence to repair one's life. I also mentioned that I think everyone needs to find a higher power of some sort, even hardcore atheists, to live the best possible sort of life.

While I did mention my own particular version of tapping into the power of a higher power I didn't explain how/why I think everyone can.


I don't claim to know all that much about a given twelve-step programs concept of a higher power. I've discussed it with AA people in general, Nana in particular. Someone told me it didn't matter who or what your higher power was, it could be a tree, as long as you accepted that there was a higher power that would/could assist you in getting sober if you were open to the possibility.

Since this was a natural fit with my belief, detailed last week, that all there is, is, the Great Big Sticky whatever the f-word (GBSWF) manifesting itself, I "got it" immediately. It provided clarification/justification to my concept of who/what God is, which in the intervening years has grown stronger and clearer.

[Wait a second, how is this a natural fit with...]

Well, I failed to mention, Dana, last week I mean, was that I believe it's possible for anyone to tap into the power of the GBSWF, I guess that's my idea of a higher power. I also believe there are all sorts of ways to access this power ranging from the purely spiritual to the purely secular and/or at all sorts of levels betwixt the two.


[Could you be a little more vague please?]

Oh, hell yeah, you know me, but I'm gonna shoot for clarity. I make no promises though.

At the risk of being accused of having a keen eye for the obvious, my friends the recovering drunks told me that it doesn't matter, specifically, what your higher power is as long as you conceive of it as something that will keep you on the straight and narrow and moving towards a worthy goal of some sort. Sobriety for example.

And you don't have to be a drunk or a druggie to access a/your higher power.

Say you're a drunk, any sort of addict really, and the thing that has you by the ass is just not that much fun anymore. In fact, it may be ruining your life. It may be screwing with the lives of people that you allegedly care about.

Try as you might, you haven't been able to stop. A twelve step group will try and teach you, among many, many other things, that you need a higher power to help you out.

Conveniently, a lot of folks believe in God, the most traditional, go-to higher power. Surely, a being that is infinite in every possible way has the ability to help ya out. You just have to figure out what your concept of such a being is, what the rules of the game are as far as you and the big G. go, and ask to borrow a cup of grace.

Pay it back, and forward, by living a life that would make your mom happy, that she would brag about. Unless, of course, your mom's a basket case. The good news is that finding a substitute whom you'd like to make smile is easy (don't forget you). The bad news is that finding another mom, a real mom (or a dad...), is hard. You can deal with it though, you have a higher power to help you out.


"Well, I believe in something like God, but I'm confused/uncertain/etcetern as to the details."

Piece of homemade caramel apple pie. "I act as if God exists" -Jordan Peterson. I interpret this as meaning I believe that morality/ethics/etceterics exist and that I'm going to be a good dude/dudette because I have to share the playground with the other kids. And I know that 99% of the time, if I'm honest with myself, I somehow know what the right thing to do is. It's like I have a higher power.


[Is that John Lennon I hear singing Kumbaya, verse 23, in the background. There ain't no God, there ain't no higher power, it's just yours truly trying to get through another day in paradise without getting my body or soul dumped into the car crusher down at the local scrap yard.]

Dana, spreading the sunshine as always huh? where are your trusty companions?

[Marie-Louise was just here a second ago... I don't know where she disappeared to. We just got back from dropping the Igmeister off at school. Which reminds me, the principal wants you to call, something about a BB gun?]

Great. Thanks. Listen, you've got a goal or two, right? I'm talkin' biggies, not going out for lunch.

[Sure, in fact, I've got a lengthy bucket list. Number one is...]

And I know for a fact that you have morals and ethics, and that you regularly commit to being a better person and to try harder to always do the right thing, particularly when you're loaded, yes?

[Sure, but...]

Cool, ever stop to think about the fact that you have goals and aspirations and that they're a completely abstract phenomenon? that they help keep you on the straight and narrow and out of an institution? that you just plain feel better when you heed their call? that when you surrender to just aimlessly drifting through the day indulging the appetite of the moment you feel like shit?

[Um...]

Still don't believe in a higher power?

The end. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
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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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

Loosing My Religion (Part Five)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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 to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"I think people sleepwalk through their lives, and for me, I wanted to embrace everything. And that meant the agonizing pain and the transcendence, and you can't have one without the other."   -Aisha Tyler


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

I met Nana/Ronbo/Ronnie in Austin, Tejas in either late March or early April of 1985 (it's complicated). Suffice it to say, we later declared that April 7th was the day we'd celebrate for what turned out to be the next 21, almost 22 years.

She died on January 10th, 2006 in the Cleveland Clinic, primarily the result of the accumulated side effects of years and years of taking corticosteroids to keep her lung disease from killing her.

Accidentally being given penicillin (she was allergic) the previous Spring in one of our local hospitals here in Hootervile, Ohio didn't help.

Ironically, her lung problems were the result of being a preemie placed in a pure oxygen to help her breathe and develop her lungs. Medical science discovered the hard way that too much oxygen for preemies is as bad as not enough.

Think about it: She was accidentally rendered permanently ill by well-meaning docs. She was kept alive by a medicine, prescribed by well-meaning docs, that eventually helped to kill her. She was accidentally helped to find the exit by being given a medication, prescribed by a well-meaning doc and/or administered by a well-meaning nurse, that she was highly allergic to.

Big BUT

Having had to fight all her life just to keep her lungs pumping -- she was tired. When Dude the first was born she predicted that she would hang on for five more years, so that he'd remember her, and then she was outtahere. Dude 1 was five years and two months old when she left. She was cool like that.

[With all due respect, what's this got to do with you losing your religion? If I remember correctly you turned your back on Catholicism way back...]

Well, she was a drunk and had discovered the power of a higher power, and that was my first exposure to that particular concept.

[Huh?]


She was sober when we met and surprisingly enough remained so. Had she been a practicing drunk when we met I wouldn't be writing this letter, at least not to yinz guys. I've no problem with people that occasionally get drunk; I've never cared much for full-time drunks, even when I was a full-time pothead.

I was a mildly self-righteous pothead, with rules; I've hinted at that in the past. As I mentioned, I'll be writing more about that in the future. Anyways... Very long and complicated story short, a fundamental tenet of Alcoholics Anonymous is that a given drunk (or any sort of addict for that matter) needs a higher power to find their way back to sanity.

A traditional version of God, a highly abstract and/or esoteric version, or something in between -- whatever works to serve as a conduit to what I call the transcendent.

All that said, the subject of this letter is not about beating alcoholism/addiction, it's about the importance of transcendence, for everyone (part one).


Your religion, their religion  -- or the lack thereof -- is up to you/them. If organized religion doesn't work for you there are no shortage of other paths available, including atheism. I believe that everyone, even atheists, need a higher power to live life to the fullest. That's the subject of my next, and final, letter on this subject. What follows below needs to come first.

Personally, I believe that one or the other of two things is true. I'm going to die and that's that. Now I exist, now I don't. See ya. Take care. Or, I'm going to be reabsorbed back into what I call the Great Big Sticky Whatever the Fuck (GBSWF).

[Note: current column and meatspace policy dictates that I use the F-bomb sparingly so as to preserve its power. The way things are going at the moment, by the time you're grups this word will have long been rendered completely innocuous. Your loss.]

Very long story short I believe that, all that is, is, "God" manifesting itself. Think of it this way. If you're God, by definition infinite and unlimited it all ways, what's the one thing you would lack? Limitation. What else would there be to do but manifest yourself in every possible way and enjoy the show?

[Show! Tell me, did you enjoy having Cancer! What the hell are...]

Well, Dana, everyone enjoys a good tragedy as much as a good comedy. Perhaps the best show is one in which everyone has a part but forgets they're playing a part till they snap out of it, till they wake up, till the house lights come up and they are -- enlightened?

I've had a rather intense taste or two of this sort of thing, but it's never lasted long enough for me to feel certain of anything, not even long enough to write a self-help book. Or start a cult. Good money in cults. I've often wondered if I could start a lucrative, nice cult that didn't damage my followers in any way. A person's got to make a living.

For the record (I'll deny this if my cult ever gets off the ground) while I did create the term Great Big Sticky Whatever the F-word, the concepts are not mine. They've been around for millennia. I'd suggest checking out Daoism, Alan Watts (before he sank too far into hippyism), and Eckhart Tolle, but there are lots more. Oh, and beware of cults, most don't seem to be very nice. Poppa loves you.

To be continued... and ended, next week.

Have an OK day. 
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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. Or starting a cult.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer