Reparations

Reparations to all, and to all a good life!

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                              [Image by Richard Duijnstee from Pixabay]               

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering 

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?" -William Shakespeare


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

Some people, and at least one candidate for president, support the payment of reparations to Native Americans for the depredations that they suffered at the hands of those that "discovered" America and then gradually turned it into the USA by displacing and/or killing many of those who didn't realize they needed to be discovered.

Other people, and other people currently running for president, support paying reparations to African-Americans as compensation for the fact that their ancestors were victims of the obscenity that was slavery.

While I can see their point I don't support their position.

Trying to determine a set of rules and procedures that would satisfy everyone while the purple press did what it does — choose sides and gin up outrage to capture clicks, eyeballs, and revenue — would create yet another hot mess that would never be resolved.

Compromise and solutions, for this and no shortage of other issues and problems, are likely to remain unresolved till those of you that are Millies and Zoomers take over and show the world how it's done.

Careful though, that's what we Boomers told our predecessors we were going to do and yet here we are. If I didn't know better — thanks to the wisdom of the woke — I would think this was the nature of the beast.

But of course, that sort of thing has been debunked. The beast has no nature, everything is a mere social construct and a return to the garden is just a matter of sufficient informed tweaking and experimentation.

There's no reason why we can't start tweaking and experimenting right now, which brings me to personal reparations. 


One of modern America's undeniable strengths, and preoccupations, is taking each other to court in the pursuit of justice.

Even those of us that live in Flyoverland, well, most of us, will talk to a lawyer or two before deciding which of our many, many guns will be needed to resolve a vexing problem.

What if the moron with the enormous, crazy-eyed, four-legged, bark, bark, barking manure spreader desperately in need of a dog whisperer next door won't listen to reason?

Just place a call to Dewey, Suem, and Howe (Free Consultations!). 

What if we could get some judge in one of the more lawsuit friendly states (not to mention any names...) to allow a lawsuit seeking personal reparations to go forward under tort law?

A jury of someone's peers, like the ones that keep finding that the weed killer Roundup causes cancer in spite of overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary, could award punitive damages.

Voila! personal reparations are a thing.

According to the website of the law firm Allen, Allen, Allen & Allen (Protecting the injured since 1910), "Punitive damages are damages intended to punish the tortfeasor and also send a message to the community that the tortfeasor’s conduct will not be tolerated in the community."

Punish the tortfeasors and send a message to the community! Yeah, baby!

[Alle, Allen, Allen & Allen? Tortfeasor? You're just going for the cheap joke!]

What's your point, Dana?


Now, I realize that the more allegedly "rational" (yet another social construct created by the white, heterosexual, patriarchal suppressors (WHPS) among you will object on the grounds that tort law doesn't apply, or that at the very least new case law will need to be developed, legislation may be needed, and of course the Supremes will have, inevitably, to weigh in.

So what? Law schools, many of which are woke, keep churning out newly minted lawyers in debt up to the roots of their hair.

This would be a chance for them to go to work for nonprofit foundations set up to create a whole new branch of law and make a name for themselves while also making a living and working for a nonprofit employer, the dream of many an awakened Millie and Zoomer.

After all, even The Gummit can only absorb so many new lawyers.

One of the primary objections to reparations for oppressed groups is how do you determine who legitimately is a member of a given group? This idea solves that problem. An entire industry will evolve to aid individuals in proving that they're entitled to some dough. Yet more new jobs.

And as they used to say in commercials: put that checkbook away, there's more!

As Americans continue to come to their senses and reject the notion of rugged individualism and embrace victimhood (for everyone but the WHPS of course) personal reparations will make it possible for everyone to get even while simultaneously redistributing America's wealth.

For example, oppressed women of all genders and multiple intersectional victimizations could sue the men in their lives on an individual, case by case basis. Employees could go after employers. Fine arts and psychology majors could sue the schools that granted them their useless, wildly overpriced diplomas.

On and on it will go, a bloodless American version of the ever-expanding beheadings of the Frech Revolution. History will label this era the Great Levelling.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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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 an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. 

Cranky don't tweet. 

Dirty Words and Tot Tossing

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and approximately 39.9% of all grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. 

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"... and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."
-Thomas Hobbes

[Gentlereaders: Mr. Mehlmauer is still in Washington D.C. Although he's no longer scheduled to testify at the Donald's impeachment inquiry he remains in town to do a bit of, um, consulting work for the FBI but expects to return this week. What follows is a new and improved version of a column originally published 8/12/15.]



George Carlin and his famous seven dirty words that you can’t say on TV routine literally changed the world. Mr. Carlin’s routine was, and still is, a comic masterpiece. However, it's a perfect illustration of one of my generations — Boomers, OK? — more unfortunate tendencies: tossing the tot out with the Jacuzzi water.  

                                                  *     *     * 

We Baby Boomers grew up in an era of unprecedented affluence and scientific advances. We took this for granted; we thought this was normal.

Although we studied history in some form or fashion, at least in theory, all through grade school and high school, for most of us the water off a duck's back metaphor applied. Then as now, as always I suspect, anything that happened before we were born was ancient history.

Even if the Greatest Generation (my parents) and the Silent Generation that followed had made a more determined effort to keep our feet on the ground it probably wouldn’t have done much good.

They were our parents.

Most parents are wired to want the best for their kids, even parents that turn out to not be very good at being parents. Most parents will continue to want the best for their kids, even the kids that turn out to not be very good at being human offspring and opt for the high functioning chimpanzee track.

Most parents think (hope) their kids are special and continue to tell them so, even once they realize their kids may be as flawed as they are, or even more so.

The Greats and the Silents thought the Boomers were special. They were amazed, and grateful, to be sharing a reality with us that was in many aspects even better than the dreams that had sustained them through the Great Depression and the Second World War.

They told us we were special and that we had at least the potential to accomplish things they couldn't even imagine. After all, America put men on the moon less than a decade after JFK made it a national goal, clearly, the future was so bright the sunglasses industry wouldn’t be able to keep up with demand.  

I wish they had told us more about how lucky we were. I wish my parents had told me more about what the Depression and the Second World War had been like for them personally... although I probably wouldn't have paid much attention.

But if you were lucky enough to come of age taking food, clothing, shelter and oh, I dunno, antibiotics for granted? bread lines and fighting a world war that we could’ve lost resulting in enslavement if you were lucky death if you weren’t, is like, hard to relate to man.

Thanks, mom and dad but look at all the stuff that's still wrong with the world, you need to get out of the way, we've got a utopia to build and we're in a hurry. We need to blow up a lot of the goofy beliefs you hold that are standing in the way of us establishing heaven on earth.

For example, words are words, why are you so uptight about words?

* * *

Which brings us to "dirty" words and tot tossing. Words, obviously, are symbols. The word tree is not a tree, it's a label.

If we were to decide that tree spelled backward, eert, was a better label and this new word caught on with our fellow speakers of English, trees could become eerts. The superfluous e would probably fall off in short order.

Words are just words Mr. Carlin assured us. Hunny look! ain't doze erts budafull? 

Bullsh... Balderdash!

Words are the building blocks of language, language enables the networking of human minds, the networking of human minds enables us to survive, with a touch of style, in a reality that is, as you may have heard, "...solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short."

Words, their meanings, and how they are used are important in the same way that the composition of building materials, and how they are assembled, determines whether your home is a hut or a house.  

Words have power. How much, and what kind of power, depends on their context and meaning.

How you use words supplies the context and shapes the meaning. I've been known to use the phrase, what the hell. I've also been known to use the phrase, WTF. I use the world-famous acronym WTF here because I respect the power of the f-bomb and because the acronym works better within the context of this essay.

When profanity is no longer profane, when "dirty words" are just words and everything goes (don't be judgy!) Moynihan's "defining deviancy down" becomes a race to the cultural bottom.

When there's nothing left to measure yourself against or rebel against nihilism and despair spread faster than fake news on social media.  

If words are just words why is the psychic shrapnel from F-bombs tossed by tots more lethal than the psychic shrapnel of F-bombs tossed by truck drivers? Why do we want to toss the tots into a Jacuzzi and wash their mouths out with soap?  

                                        Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me a coffee.  

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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 an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. 

Cranky don't tweet.

My First Triggering

Image by engin akyurt from Pixabay

[Gentlereaders, Mr. Mehlmauer is currently busy in Washington D.C. attempting to ascertain why he's been subpoenaed to testify in the Donald's impeachment inquiry, please accept our apologies. This column was originally published on 2/18/11.] 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and approximately 39.9% of all grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. 

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I am quite sure now that often, very often, in matters concerning religion and politics a man's reasoning powers are not above the monkey's" -Mark Twain


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When my first triggering occurred, that is to say, the first time I (accidentally) triggered someone, the oldest of you that have arrived so far was only seven.

When I was but a wee lad... No, actually till I was at least in my late twenties, it was possible to engage in mildly heated political discussions, as much for the fun of it as anything else, without feeling that civil war was inevitable.

Not that it was possible to do so with everyone. There's a reason many people recommend against discussing politics (and religion) at the dinner table and elsewhere.

However, with certain relatives and friends, particularly with a bunch of individuals I didn't go to college with, late-night political debates, that were often as not fueled by alcohol, were a thing.

Lines had to be drawn and observed but it was the intellectual equivalent of a friendly sports rivalry. No need to take it particularly seriously.

                                               

I married in my early thirties after a couple of years of managing a fleet of someone else's ice cream trucks in Texas. As to Texas, there was much in the way of partying, little in the way of debate, intellectual or otherwise. Hello Tom and Kitty, wherever you are.

Once married the endless party ended. My bride came pre-equipped with a kid and marriage, serious partying, and kids don't mix very well in my semi-humble opinion.

Late-night passionate debates didn't make a comeback either. I married a sick chick (I'm talking physically sick, but a veritable force of nature...) and betwixt helping to keep her alive, supporting my daughter (your mother or grandmother) and my gift for working my ass off while avoiding the burdens of financial success—I usually went to bed early.


Then I blinked three times and I was a widower and a grandfather. One evening in 2008 I found myself having dinner with a friend and a traditional married couple (one male, one female) in their mid-twenties.

This was my first encounter with triggering someone and triggering wasn't even a thing yet. I've always been a man ahead of my time.

After dinner, and over coffee and pie, a debate broke out over I remember not what. Although there's a slight chance that I may not be entirely correct, I have a vivid memory of intellectually dominating.

It was me v. my friend and the male half of the young couple. I was thoroughly enjoying myself and was confident that there was no danger that my opponents would challenge me to a duel. But I confess I neglected to note that storm clouds were building in the psyche of the young woman in question.

Hooge mistake.


In my defense, her participation in the discussion was virtually nil. However, I still might have been convicted had she charged me with political incorrectness which was, and remains, in vogue. Is political incorrectness subject to a statute of limitations?

Fortunately, Twitter and Facebook were still picking up steam and weren't yet that big a deal, at least here in Flyoverland. Trolls were merely malevolent mythological monstrosities.

And for that matter, Trigger was the answer to a trivia question. What was the name of Roy Rogers's horse?

[Roy who?]

Never mind, Dana.


Anyways, at some point, while I was not paying the attention that I—a man who had been successfully married for 21 years and who had learned many lessons the hard way—should have been paying, there was an explosion and I and my dining companions were riddled with psychic shrapnel.

"She leapt to her feet and stormed out of the restaurant in a huff." That's not a quote from a selection of mediocre fiction, that's exactly what happened. Really.

Although he was young and, relatively speaking, they had not been married very long he knew the rules. He leapt to his feet and followed.

"Now see what you've done," said my remaining companion, reacting to the no doubt baffled look on my face. "Hey, is that our server?"

"Did we just get stuck with the check?" I replied.


The young husband returned to the table as my older friend and I were in the process of splitting the check, calculating the tip, and discussing which one of us, if either, was going to act as a collection agent to recover the cost of their food.

The young wife had decided to wait for him in their car. Although the storm had apparently passed, ominous dark clouds lingered.

He, politely and diplomatically... well, long story short, it was explained to me that she passionately disagreed with me.

Although she lacked the rhetorical skill—and most importantly in my semi-humble opinion a command of the relevant facts to contest whatever it was I was on about—she knew she was right and she knew I was a bully. Case closed.

That's not exactly how he put it but that's exactly what he said.

Although I confess my heart wasn't in it, I apologized for being a boor and fled the scene of the drama ASAP.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me a coffee.  

                                                   *     *     *

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 an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to. Cranky don't tweet. 

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer