Saturday, September 12, 2020

Phobophobia

                                             Image by Sarah Richter from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

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

About 


Glossary 


Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I may have made a tactical error not going to a physician for 20 years. It was one of those phobias that didn't pay off." -Warren Zevon


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

The original title of this column was Phobiaphobia, not Phobophobia. I was reflecting on the currently fashionable practice (which has lost its charm) of appending the word phobia to other words to create a verbal weapon for use in the culture wars.

For example, Islamophobia, homophobia, transphobia, fatphobia — that sort of thing.

Since I find this a somewhat repellent practice, I thought I was suffering from a phobia-phobia. That is to say, the fear that the Wokies will never run out of words they can combine with phobia so as to keep expanding their arsenal of weaponized words.  

Since I'm a (more or less) conscientious columnist I went a-googlin' to discover if some other witty wordsmith had already coined phobiaphobia. It turns out that while it is used here and there, phobophobia is a commonly used term by psychologists and no shortage of other people 

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and according to psychology, there is a fear of phobias. Since I really am a (more or less) conscientious columnist I'm going to abandon phobiaphobia lest I be accused of deliberately sowing confusion in a very confusing/confused era. 

[Fatphobia? Who's afraid of fat people?

Speaking as a man who doesn't go to Dunkin Doughnuts for the coffee, certainly not I. Do you consider yourself calorically challenged, Dana?

[I'm a clever literary device, I'm whatever your gentlereaders need/want me to be.]


Methinks it's time to repair to my enormous private library and consult my collection of dictionaries. It's distressingly dusty despite diligent dusting by a designated dogsbody but the fireplace, huge grandfather clock, and small herd of overstuffed chairs make it one of the most comfortable rooms in Cas de Chaos. 

[Library? What library? Are you talking about your Merriam-Webster Google App?]

Did you know cryophobia is the fear of ice or cold? I need to talk to someone, clearly, I should be taking heavy drugs.  

According to Merriam-Webster, a phobia is "an exaggerated usually inexplicable and illogical fear of a particular object, class of objects, or situation"   

Since my distaste/disgust for the phobification of certain words is explicable and logical, and there's no fear involved, it would seem I don't have either a phobiaphobia or suffer from phobophobia. 

Phew. The heavy drugs I anticipate will be necessary to control my cryophobia is a cross enough to bear. 

The bad news is that according to Merriam-Webster (I've always wondered what  his/her/their first name is?) phobification is so common it's considered to be something called a noun combining form and defined as:  

1: exaggerated fear of _______ 

2: intolerance or aversion for _______

I added the blank spaces for clarity's sake. In other words, adding the noun phobia to the noun of your choice is so common that Mr./Ms./? _______ Merriam-Webster has been forced to tweak the definition of phobia. 

[You know, if you were half as witty as you think you are a lot more of your regular readers would be willing to buy you a coffee.] 


Phobification turns something nebulous and undefined into a verbal cudgel wielded by Wokies to bludgeon their (actual or perceived) enemies, and often, each other.

[Huh?] 

Well, "an exaggerated usually inexplicable and illogical fear of a particular object, class of objects, or situation" jibes with how Harvard Medical School defines a phobia -- "A phobia is a persistent, excessive, unrealistic fear of an object, person, animal, activity or situation."  

The clear and well-written article linked to above explains that a real phobia is an often serious medical condition that should be diagnosed and treated by a professional. 

Compare that article to this one from Psychology Today that notes that a "lack of inclusion of same-sex couples and particularly ethnically diverse couples in the entertainment industry, marketing materials, and advertisements" subtly demonstrates how homophobic our society is. 

Apparently we don't share cable providers and she's accessing the Chinese version of the internet. 

Also, she uses the story of the baker who refused to bake a cake for a same-sex couple (and who was persecuted/prosecuted for better than six years) as a blatant example of homophobia. What's the fear of gentlepersons with religious convictions called? Or the fear of spending your money at some other bakery?


In the spirit of if ya can't beat 'em join 'em I thought I had invented a new phobia based noun combing form, caucaphobia: the exaggerated fear of or intolerance or aversion for white H. sapiens.

However, I went a-googlin' and discovered it's already in use so I'm trying to come up with a phobia that would also simultaneously include straight, old, and cisgender males. Stay tuned.   

[But caucaphobia sounds like...]

Once I do I plan to apply to the Intersectional Inquisition for approval as a member of a certified victim group. I bet there's some money in that, or at least some heavy drugs. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Share this column or give me a thumb (up or in my eye) below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with your debit/credit card.    

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Cranky don't tweet.


  

Saturday, September 5, 2020

Fall Is Falling

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood Episode

                                                Image by JamesDeMers from Pixabay            

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

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

About 


Glossary 


Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Fall is my favorite season in Los Angles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees." -David Letterman  


Dear Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders), 

This morning, as I was perambulating about my neighborhood, fall fell.

Well, not so much fell as subtly slid in and sat down like a locally well-known sinner slinks into church after a soul-searing Saturday night, late yet again, and sits close to the door he/she/they just gently closed in order to effect a quick exit.

[Alliterate much? What on Earth are you on about now?] 

As much as possible, and what I'm on about is that although (hopefully) brightly colored leaves and frosty morns are still a ways off... 

["Frosty morns?" Gimme a break!]

I'm waxing poetic, Dana, you unrefined philistine.

[Whatever.]

Well said. Anyways, although the window air conditioners that randomly sprout from the walls of Casa de Chaos like acne vulgaris on a callowyute are still gently humming...  

[For the love of...]

Leaves, hither and thither, have begun to turn and fall.

[Crab apples on the ground have started to rot. Fruit flies gather 'round 'cause they like 'em a lot.] 


I heard a handful of hovering, honking geese approaching and my heart was hardened by hoar frost. 

[Oh please! It was 71 degrees!] 

Well, yeah, but nevertheless I did have a mild panic attack. You know how much I hate winter. I was rooting through my little grey cells and trying to remember if I had any valerian tea at home when they flew over. A half dozen geese in a half V formation (\), headed northwest.

Phew. It's just the boys/girls/um, gang? getting the band back together and working out the logistics for their annual Dixie tour. I've still got time to stock up on hot chocolate, check the blanket inventory, verify if there's enough rock salt in the mudroom, investigate the disappearance of the snow shovel, verify that no one drank the emergency brandy, install plastic sheathing on certain troublesome windows, etceterows. 

[You realize, of course, that the word Dixie might cause you to run afoul of the Intersectional Inquisition?]

Oh well, too late now. 


The Stickies have returned to school in meatspace and cyberspace. "Poppa the printers out of ink again." School busses look like they're transporting surgeons that don't get along.

Wait... you Stickies have returned to school? Now that I'm officially pushing 70 I sometimes get confused. Technically speaking I'm writing to the Stickies, well, mostly I'm writing to their future selves, but...

[We've talked about this. Mostly you're writing to/for your gentlereaders so for the sake of simplicity you... Get a grip and take your pills. Next thing you know you'll be known around the hood for screaming, "Get off my lawn!" at feral cats when you go out to get the mail.] 

Let's hope not, I'm...

[While we're on the subject, some of the neighbors have noticed you spend most of your waking hours in comfortable robes.]

Only because people would think I was weird if I wore one of my togas or kimonos. My slippers have sturdy soles in case I need to go outside and I wear clothes when I go walking or have to go (shudder) shopping. 

[So far at least.] 


Speaking of the neighbors, my favorite Morman (my 80-year-old next-door neighbor, not the sixties sitcom) just bought himself a trike to celebrate his recent retirement. Not one of those three-wheeled bikes with a basket on the back, I'm talking three-wheeled motorcycle.    

He's given up driving truck once or twice a week to maintain his driving chops and I guess the thrill of being the owner/operator of two enormous riding lawn mowers is gone so he got himself a Can-Am Spyder. 

Rock on Harlan. 


I've heard that birdwatching has enjoyed a renaissance of sorts because of the Wuhan flu lockdown. I've had a growing fascination with the last of the dinosaurs for a while now but so far it's one of those many things I keep threatening to do more about than I'm actually likely to do. 

In the course of the morning segment of my (theoretically) twice daily walks I often find myself walking down a certain street that's saturated with starlings. I swear the flock gets a little larger with each passing week.

Shades of Alfred Hitchcock.

I went a-googlin' and discovered that the distant ancestors of modern birds had teeth and that Ohio's starlings are infamous for their rapacious and aggressive behavior. 

What if some of 'em have mutated and now have teeth from eating genetically modified food? If you come across a headline like Ohio Man Killed by a Murmuration of Murderous Starlings it might not be clickbait. Gotta go, I'm working on a movie script.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Share this column or give me a thumb (up or in my eye) below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with your debit/credit card.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.



Saturday, August 29, 2020

Kamala Harris For President

                                                                Image by RJA1988 from Pixabay   

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

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

About 


Glossary 


Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I'm not talking about the neo-Nazis and the white nationalists, because they should be condemned totally." -Donald Trump


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

[Kamala Harris For President! Are you skimping on your meds again so you can afford to have pizza delivered once a week? 

Wait-wait-wait... Is this just your face-saving way of dropping out of the race? Are you no longer running for king? I've heard nothing from CNN or Fox.]  

No, Dana, I...

[And she's not running for president she...]

Don't think so huh? She's... nevermind. No, Dana, I'm still running. My formal endorsement is a purely defensive maneuver inspired by Scott Adams, the IUPPPP&PVOTTOT, Antifa, and Black Lives Matter. 

[Huh?]

In 2016, Mr. Adams (the Dilbert dude) had his lucrative corporate speaking engagements dry up and he started receiving death threats for predicting that Daffy Donald would win and explaining how the Donald so easily manipulates his fellow H. sapiens to get his way.

This was in spite of the fact he went out of his way to not endorse the Donald, and also made it clear he normally doesn't even vote. 

Adams, having achieved FU level wealth quite some time ago, nowadays devotes a lot of his time to trying to teach the world why H. sapiens are fundamentally irrational creatures that rarely act rationally and how to best use this information. 

In fact, like Jonathon Haidt, who proved this clinically several years ago, he points out that often as not we use our rational abilities to rationalize our irrational behaviors. 


For the record, nowadays Mr. Adams is a self-acknowledged Trump supporter and does plan to vote for the first time in many years. Two of his reasons are Uncle Joe's cognitive challenges and because he (or his handlers) are still playing the debunked Fine People Hoax card, among others.  

He's also mentioned the destruction of the ISIS caliphate and points out that prior to the plague the economy was booming and African Americans were enjoying record employment levels that Uncle Joe and the Obamanator could only dream of.

Anyways... Mr. Adam's formally endorsed the Hilliam in 2016. Given that allegedly rational people came after him in spite of the fact he clearly and unambiguously made it clear he was not endorsing the Donald, it was the rational (and funniest) thing to do. 

Especially since, figuratively and literally, people who wore a certain red baseball-style cap were (and continue to be) beat up on a regular basis in the name of social justice.   

Especially since, figuratively and literally, the Wokies have devolved to the point they're now setting things on fire, the rational thing to do is endorse Uncle Joe's regent before he hits the wall and/or is elbowed aside. 

[Wait-wait-wait, regent?]

Merrian-Webster - 1: a person who governs a kingdom in the minority, absence, or disability of the sovereign (my emphasis)

Substitute republic rapidly degenerating into a democracy for kingdom and it works perfectly.

[But what if the Orange One triumphs?]  

There are no mobs of red-hat-wearing Trumpets running wild in the streets. Win/win (survive/survive).  


Speaking of the Dilbert dude, I'd like to personally thank Scott Adams for being one of the talking heads I follow — although we frequently disagree and his ego... well, nevermind — to suss out what's really going on.   

See, as I've written before, my life has been a case study in how to be a day late and a dollar short. I'm an un-syndicated columnist (a pretentious blogger?) in an era in which trusted publications, reading, and word-blogging are rapidly being replaced by (often videoized) podcasts and video-blogging.

As for me, I agree with Daphne du Maurier. "Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard."

[Stick in the mud!]  

Thank you, Dana. Guilty as charged. 

Although I've always personally been a voracious reader, and now I'm a writer, I don't take this, well, personally. Depending on who you ask, as much as "half of the human brain is directly or indirectly devoted to processing visual information." 

I have mixed feelings about the podcasts that are more like broadcast radio shows (i.e., no video) because they make it possible to add yet another task/distraction to our multitasked lives and ever-diminishing attention spans.

[Huh?]

Are you gonna' tell me you don't know at least one someone who can't seem to function without never-ending audio (and/or video) input? 

[Oh.] 


[Is there a point on the horizon my blatherskitish buddy? You're about out of allocated words.] 

Well, I'm just glad that Scott Adams, and no shortage of others with a clue and who are more motivated than I, are willing to tweet and stream and appear as guests and write lengthy non-fiction books and teach classes and give talks and lectures and etceteratures. 

Your semi-humble correspondent is grateful that he's not the only one that thinks Western Civilization ain't all bad. I'm content to write my semi-humble little column aware that Adams, as well as the members of the Intellectual Dark Web, are trying hard to save the republic (and the world...) from itself.  

 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Share this column or give me a thumb (up or in my eye) below. If my work pleases you you can buy me some cheap coffee with your debit/credit card.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Cranky's Facebook page.

Cranky don't tweet.