Manhood (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

"Manhood coerced into sensitivity is no manhood at all." -Camille Paglia


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This letter is addressed to a specific individual (who shall remain nameless) who knows who they are and why I'm writing this. For the duration of this letter, they will be called Anonmy (short for anonymous) 'cause it's vaguely humorous (humy?) and I'm all about finding the humy in a given situation.


Dear Anomy,

Believe it or not, I get it. All male H. sapiens between (roughly speaking) the ages of 16 and 25 have to deal with what you're dealing with. Always have, always will. The age of the onset and the end of this particular stage varies. For some, it starts earlier, as in your case. For some, it ends later but not, I predict, in your case.

I refer to the transition from boy to man. The age range I've chosen isn't based on a particular study I'm going to link to...

Big But
Studies do report that males, roughly betwixt the ages of 16 and 25 commit the most homicides. The whys and wherefores depend on who you ask.

Settled science (and Simon) says that the average H. sapiens brain isn't fully developed till about the age of 25, particularly the area of the brain responsible for inhibiting impulses and making smart decisions.

Interestingly, car insurance companies seem to have figured this out before science officially did.

As hard as it probably is for you to fathom, I was once 16 to 25. Been there, done that. For some, it never really seems to end. Fortunately, for most of those sorts, the problem slowly fades to grey if they manage to stay alive and out of jail, and they mellow out considerably with age.

Finally, these are the peak years of your callowyute stage. While that's perfectly normal, until you advance to early gruphood you're as incapable of fully grasping your situation as a 6-year-old is as incapable of grasping what it will be like to be 16.

For the record, there are some wildly misinformed, narrow-minded souls loose in the world that maintain to this day that my callowyute period lasted into my early thirties. In my defense... nevermind, it's extremely complicated.


As I said, I went through it, but under much different circumstances than the ones you are experiencing. Although the American culture had begun fragmenting it was still early days. I was raised by parents that had survived WW2 and the Great Depression, an experience that left them humbled and grateful. They managed to impart a little of this to me when I was a callowyute; I've (ever so slowly) learned, and verified, the lessons life taught them since.

They could only dream about the lifestyle that you and I take for granted. They would be absolutely delighted, were they still around, that their sacrifices helped to make the life you and I live possible.

When I was coming up, America was still very much a Judeo-Christian nation that (mostly/more or less) believed in (some version of) God and a set of personal Rules&Regs that are more or less summarized by the Ten Commandments.

This way of being, seeing and living was pounded into me (occasionally literally) by Sister Mary McGillicuddy, Father Bing Crosby, and their crew, in the course of my eight years of Catholic Grade schooling at Our Lady of Sorrows elementary school. Although I was incapable of appreciating the firm foundation I stood on as a kid, I do now.


You, on the other hand, are a product of postmodern America and America's postmodern, politically correct public education system.

Teachers unions. Gummit Rules&Regs that just keep on coming. A hooge horde of professional bureaucrats to enforce said Rules&Regs. Platoons of pussified parents (and their lawyers) perpetually protecting Paul, Polly, and Per (short for Person) from potential triggering by everdamnthing. More lawyers. And saints preserve us, anti-vaxxers.

You, on the other hand, are the product of glowing screens that don't play the Star Spangled Banner when it's time for all good people to go to bed, tell you good night, and sign off till morning. Of course, it's too early to accurately predict the long-term effects, if any, of 24x7 electronic media access. We were told we were doomed 'cause of all the TV we watched. I had several moms besides the real one. Donna Reed, Ozzie's wife (not the one you're thinking of), Mrs. Cleaver, and Josie Carey (among others, look 'em up if you're interested).

I used to think that your generation's version of rock-n'-roll (call it what you want, "...it's still rock-n'-roll to me") was probably going to cause brain damage. But Rock was to Swing as Rap is to Rock. That is to say, the current version of the same concept. If your parent's music doesn't suck, at least till you're old enough to appreciate its few redeeming qualities, you may, not necessarily but you may, have "issues" (GRIN).

On the other hand... Oh, crap, wait a sec'. One, two, three, four... Yup, I'm already over the word limit. I'll have to continue this next week. 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.

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

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 12.15.18 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.] 

Transgenderism (Part Two)

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

"Rejecting your gay or transgender child will not make them straight. It will only mean that you will lose them."   -Christina Engela


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Stickies, 

Lets review. I ended last week's letter thusly:

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.

This is part two. First, the low-hanging fruit.


There are men who have decided they are women but ain't going to dose themselves with chemicals or submit to surgery and I - don't - care. I personally don't know (as far as I know...) anyone who has chosen to live this way but if I should cross paths with such an individual I would treat them the same way I do everyone else. I'd take them as I find them and hope that they were a fellow gentleperson. If not, depending on the circumstances, I'd act accordingly.

[For the record, I did have a casual acquaintance, in the late 70s, with a gay gentleperson who enjoyed performing in drag but dressed like a (quite stylish) man when he wasn't on stage. I'm not mentioning this just to point out that I had gay friends, and a gay roommate for a year, long before it was cool for a straight man to have gay friends.]

Big But
There are men who have decided they are women but ain't going to dose themselves with chemicals or submit to surgery that have also decided that since as far as they are concerned they are women they have the right to compete in women's athletic competitions. This is a thing, it's already happening, regulatory bodies have started to go along.

This - is - nuts. If the emperor has a penis and the requisite amount of testosterone in his system but likes to wear a tasteful dress, and enjoys being a girl, good for her. But a cheat and bully by any other name is still a cheat and a bully.


Please re-read the first full paragraph at the beginning of this letter, I'll wait...

Okay? Good. Alright, open-minded and tolerant is one thing, forced acceptance quite another. While Stinky McGardle has as much right to hang out on the playground as anyone else, Lulu Lollobrigida, heartbreaker in training, has the right to flee the sandbox when Stinky turns up. She doesn't have the right to ban Stinky from the sandbox, or anything else for that matter. He doesn't have the right to demand she stay.

Lulu, who is being well raised by good parents, would never make fun of Stinky (who is actually a good kid that's being poorly raised by bad parents) as a lot of her friends do.

[In fact, a childless couple, Stinky's uncle Johan and his wife, Gretchen, will shortly take Stinky into their home, much to the relief of his reprobate parents, and eventually adopt him (after essentially paying them off). Stinky will turn out to be a very bright, if eternally socially awkward soul, who eventually becomes a doctor, a pediatric brain surgeon that works full time at Shriner's hospital and fills in at St. Judes on the weekend. He will mary Lulu and have three perfect children after bumping into her while volunteering at a homeless shelter. Lulu is a nurse with a Ph.D. that coordinates health care services for all the homeless shelters in the city of Golden Glow, state of Winnemac. She chooses Edmund's (Stinky's real name) brand of cologne for him and regulates its use as he has a tendency to go overboard.]


Leave us set aside Lola and Stinky's inevitable destiny for the moment and return to the here and now. Stinky and Lola both have the right to make use of the playground. All rights come with corresponding responsibilities. The most fundamental responsibility of any right is to acknowledge that all the kids on the playground have the same rights.

The second most fundamental corresponding responsibility, in fact, it may be tied for first, is that Stinky and Lola have to be constantly seeking compromises that allow both of them to enjoy their rights, as much as is practically possible, without stepping on each other's toes.

Maximum freedom requires a certain minimum of rules to ensure maximum enjoyment of the playground by the maximum number of kids.

Lola and Stinky, neither of whom is a jagoff or a bully, have found a way to share the playgrounds amenities peacefully by employing common sense.


We are minorities of one. Like snowflakes (I speak meteorologically), while having much in common, for all intents and purposes, we are unique. The overwhelming majority of H. sapiens on the planet Earth feel that there's me, and there's everyone else... and that their version of reality is the correct one.

This is why compromise is hard and complicated -- and unavoidable -- if we'd like to spend our brief time on the playground enjoying ourselves instead of endlessly bickering. Carrying on like spoiled children with chips on their shoulders competing in the Grievance and Victimology Olympics (which take place every four seconds, not every four years).


Aw geez, I'm already over my word limit... Lookit, if you enjoy being a girl but your naughty bits are clearly those of a male H. sapien (or vice versa), feel free to believe that biology is a social construct having no basis in reality. If you can "pass," feel free to use the women's room (or vice versa). But use a stall and keep the door closed. Do your business, and keep your business, to yourself.

Better yet, lobby for the addition of a third standardized restroom: Men, Women, Optional. While you're at it demand locker/slash changing rooms with the same designations.

Want to be accepted? In any given social situation choose to be the highest functioning high functioning primate in the room, and make the world a better place for everyone.

By the way, my three-way system compromise is a win/win/win/win. Middle of the road Normies who like things as they are, win. Transgender folks, win. Progressives can opt for Optional and send up a virtue signal, win. Righties of all stripes can honor/be made comfortable by traditional designations, win.

Compromise, don't demonize. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
Please scroll down to react, comment, or share.


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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

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but from last week's column (12.15.18) 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.] 

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. 
Please scroll down to react, comment, or share.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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

[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.]