Your Tax Dollars At Work

                                               Image by Liselotte Brunner 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 — A Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Viewing on a decently sized computer monitor recommended for maximum enjoyment.

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About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Collecting more taxes than is absolutely necessary is legalized robbery." 

                                                                                          -Calvin Coolidge 

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

According to Merriam-Webster...

Boondoggle: a wasteful or impractical project or activity often involving graft. 

California's train to nowhere — full disclosure, the preceding and following italicized phrases have been used by all sorts of writers in the know whose articles have preceded this one — is the very definition of a boondoggle.  

The nation that built a transcontinental railroad (6 years) and landed a man (twelve of 'em in fact) on the moon (8 years) can't build a railroad from here to there in California.

What follows is the Crank's Digest version of the story. The full story would require a column of at least 10,000 words. I'm a rabid reader and current events freak but even I wouldn't be interested in reading such a column, much less writing one. 

I suspect the only thing it would be good for is as a sleep aid. 

[Wait-wait-wait. Why are you writing about the train to nowhere at all? Is that still a thing? If I remember correctly Governor Moonbeam was the one that got the ball, if not an actual train rolling, back in, lemme think, musta been...]

It's still a thing. Apparently, it's harder to kill than Covid in a New York nursing home. 

Jerry Brown, who ran California for two consecutive terms, twice, and an extremely fortunate man in that he was romantically linked to Linda Ronstadt back in the day — ironically considered to be a fiscal conservative at the time — signed legislation authorizing the money to study building a high-speed rail system in the Sunshine State in 1982. 

California's been trying to build a local railroad for 38 years. 

They've been at it for so long there's a Wikipedia entry entitled History of California High-Speed Rail. It's a very long entry. 

[You're using the word entitled incorrectly, it should be titled. I would've thought that...]

I'm fully aware of that but I'm invoking my poetic license. If I were king and/or the Earth was less hostile to gentlepersons...

[Gimme a break.]  

If the Peoples Republic of California should actually manage to complete the latest drastically dumb downed-version of The Never-Ending Public Works Project (currently scheduled for 2029) I propose it should be called the Jerry Brown Sorta/Kinda High-Speed Railroad.

Here's hoping Mr. Brown, who would be 91 years old, is still around and gets to pound in the last (gold foil-wrapped) spike at the opening ceremony — assuming he could lift a sledgehammer). 

[Perhaps they could use a Nerf-spike and a Nerfhammer. Um, listen, you've been at this for a while now, and, well, what happened to a Cranky's Digest version of this dispiriting tale of American wussification.]

Having just reread the Wikipedia entry referenced above and reviewed my other exhaustive research I'm so dispirited I've decided to wrap this baby up and inventory the liquor cabinet. 

[You don't have a liquor cabinet...]

Yes, but I do have a poetic license, remember?

It depends on who you ask but as best as I can tell The Fedrl Gummit and the gummit of California have, so far, spent more than $6,000,000,000. 

Former President Obama pledged to contribute $3,500,000,000 of other people's money as part of his efforts to blunt the effects of the Great Recession, but the Donald issued a stop payment order on the last billion or so and has asked for a 2.5 billion refund given that no track has actually been laid.

 

California's legislature has gone to war with the state gummit agency that refuses to stop spending other people's money on a railroad that has laid no track. 

While there's no use crying over spent money, I'd like to propose that The Fedrl Gummit hold a lottery and give away the billion bucks. Print the name of each state on a ping-pong ball, put 'em all in a big red, white, and blue sack and have Miss Ms. America...

[Do we still have a Miss Ms. America?] 

And have him/her/them reach in and pull out a winner. The winning state will divvy up the money equally among its citizens in lieu of the stimulus checks that we've been mentally spending for months now that have yet to leave the Swamp.

"The checks are in the mail! Or at least they will be if Orange Hitler stops screwing around and gets out of my our way." Nancy Pelosi 

[Fake news! You made that up!]

Yeah, but it's still true.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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In The Event of My Death

                                                 Image by Gerd Altmann 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

"Millions long for Immortality who don't what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon. -Susan Ertz

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

My late wife, Ronbo, was one of those odd sorts of people that in spite of the fact that logic, reason, and (shudder) "lived experience" clearly demonstrate that the glass is half empty, consistently maintained that it was half full. 

"Well, that sucks, but look on the bright side..."

"What if there is no bright side" was my standard response. 

"There's always a bright side, you just have to look for it."

Although she never succeeded in converting me to a Half Fuller we did agree on a compromise position: it could always be worse. While I've made it clear that I wish to be cremated and that I want 99% of my ashes used as fertilizer or compost I've occasionally reconsidered.

It would be extremely cool to have a modest headstone that said:

                                            Marcus Mehlmar

                                         (Mark E. Mehlmauer)

                                      8/26/53 - 8/28/2054

                                    

                                     It Could Have Been Worse

Ronbo, a.k.a. Ronnie (not another nickname, she was named after her uncle Ronnie), who's currently residing in an urn in my living room although she's supposed to be residing in Lake Erie (sorry, Ronbo, we'll get to it...) could be next to me. 

                                          Ronnie L. Mehlmauer

                                          1/6/52 - 1/8/2006

                                           This was only a test

[(Shudder)? Lived experience? 99% of your ashes? This was only a test?]

Thanks for asking, my hallucinatory but charming literary device. Permit me to explain.

The phrase lived experience, as some of our society's more delicate flowers nowadays would put it, triggers me. 

While my fellow Deplorables and I were preoccupied with surviving and assisting our progeny in doing the same, the Wokies were spreading the intellectual virus that is the cult of Wokism on America's college campuses. 

It spread remarkably rapidly. Primary and high schools, the media, Hollywood, and HR departments were devastated by this pernicious pandemic.

The formerly harmless phrase lived experience has been weaponized. It now means, don't confuse me with facts, my mind's already made up. That is to say, debate/reason/logic/etceteric are tools the Pasty Patriarchy employs to dominate and suppress... well, everyone.

"I don't care what reactionary right-wingers say, I'm a victim, and penis or not, my lived experience is that in my heart of hearts I'm a woman, so I should be allowed to compete against biologically female athletes."

[Feel better now?]  

In fact, I do.  

As to wanting 99% of my ashes used for compost or fertilizer, that's simply my way of saying thanks to the planet I lived on/kept me fed for 101 years. "Thanks for all the food and beautiful flora. Please recycle me to help maintain the system now that I'm gone."

[Okay, but what about the other 1%?]

Well, actually, I'm referring to what would amount to a mere pinch of the former me. I would like said pinch to be added to the contents of a large joint and passed around and smoked by whoever would care to take a hit on me. 

Inhaling is strongly encouraged but merely going through the motions by those who can't or won't is acceptable. 

[Why on Earth do you...]

Potheads, current and former ones like myself, will understand. Those with addiction issues (be honest, you know who you are...) are encouraged to raise the joint like they're making a toast, say something nice (but mean is okay too, as long as it's funny), and then pass it on. 

[But why...]           

Because for a minute or two, and although I regret it (Well... mostly. Me, Fred I., Ron P., John H., and especially Alexsandra B., did have a helluva lotta fun), weed was quite important to me at one time. 

This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test.

Ronnie Lee — Six, then Oesch, and finally, Mehlmauer — was a preemie who was given oxygen to help her breathe because of underdeveloped lungs. Too much oxygen is as harmful as not enough for preemies and Ronnie was given too much.

Thus began a lifetime of slowly but steadily ever-worsening health problems. The road to hell can be accidentally paved with good intentions.    

In spite of the fact she wasn't supposed to live past the age of __ (the year kept shifting as she kept getting older in spite of the judgments of experts) she lived for 54 years and two days.  

In spite of the fact she was told she couldn't have any kids she had one anyway and thus the Stickies came to be.

When she had a near-death experience she was brought up short of where the light seemed to be taking her and a voice told her it wasn't her time. "Go back, love God, and help others." She took her marching orders literally as many can attest. 

For obvious reasons, we probably talked about death more than most couples. Because she was who she was Ronbo thought that This Was Only a Test was an appropriate epitaph.

[The title of this column would seem to indicate this was supposed to have been about...] 

They don't call me the garrulous geezer for nothin'. Besides, didn't you read my tombstone? I'm not going to die till 2054 so what's the hurry?

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 PayPal or plastic.    

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

Cranky don't tweet.

   

 

  

   

 

Grey Text and a Very Grey Politician

                                              Photo by Bernard Hermant on Unsplash

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

"This is why LGBT people of color don’t really trust the white gays. Yes, I said what I said. Period." -Charles Blow (New York Times columnist commenting on the estimate that 28% of LGBT people voted for Trump)

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

Being a world-class web surfer ain't easy. My late wife used to occasionally call me Johnny Five. "Need Input!" 

Attempting to upload enough knowledge to make sense of the world and live a full and virtuous life shaped by love and intelligence requires commitment.

Question: Are easily readable websites too much to ask for?

Given that traditional books published in the dead trees format have a long and storied history of using clean and clear easily readable text so as to make them easy to read, shouldn't the he/she/them behind a given website be aware of this proven concept?

Given that the Goog has dumbed down its motto, Don't Be Evil, but still generates uncluttered, easy to read (if not necessarily easy to understand...) company websites, shouldn't the he/she/them behind a given website... etc.    

[Johnny Five? Need Input? What's with the 80s movie reference?]      

I'm trying to relate to a younger audience. Hmm... I wonder if I could find a justification for inserting a clip from Back to the Future?

[The 80s ended thirty years ago, grandpa.]

Are you sure? Just kidding. I'm talking about the 80s because that's when the web took off and cool and cutting edge started crowding out clean and clear. 

[The web was a 90s thing.]

Are you sure? Just kidding. Regardless, lighter and lighter shades of grey text now turn up all over the place. Two or three times a year, after being triggered by struggling to read grey text on some website, I go a-googlin' in search of fresh justification but the answers are always the same. Bottom line: cool and cutting edge (which in certain circles apparently means grey type) trumps clarity.

I take no comfort from the fact that my exhaustive research reveals that many people agree with me. I was more or less cool, occasionally even hip, for a couple of minutes and I know that part of the fun is looking down on/ignoring the uncool masses so I don't expect anything to change anytime soon. 

[When were you cool, in the 80s?] 

From September 1965 till June of 1984 (a long story that's included in my memoirs). I've been battling anachronisity ever since. 

[You've put it off long enough. Let's get this over with.]

Heavy sigh...

I'm writing this, this particular paragraph, on Wednesday, 11/4/20. The Citizens of the Republic have cast their ballots but the endless election and the endless coverage, chaos, and controversy continue. 

If I'm elected king (I remain cautiously optimistic) I shall decree that in-person voting shall begin on Monday of the week prior to "the Tuesday next after the first Monday in the month of November." 

Absentee ballots will not be available till the first of October and must be received by the Monday mentioned above. Postmark be damned. Absentee voting is only permitted for a narrowly defined subset of voters who can't vote in person.

All states must have a system in place to count, verify, and submit (at the latest) all votes by noon of the day after the actual election. Any leftover, unprocessed votes will then be destroyed.

That's it. No Exceptions. No more bullpoop. 

A nation that put men on the moon and _________, (insert your favorite accomplishment here) can surely conduct a quick, clean election in the country that can boast of having the world's oldest continuous democracy.   

Thursday morning. The states are still counting and lawsuits are being filed. 

Hoo-Boy...

   

Friday morning. The states are still counting and lawsuits are being filed. 

At the moment it's looking more and more like Uncle Joe may win. If so, I wish him luck. Having demonstrated, for almost 50 years, that he's a man of um, great flexibility, perhaps happy, malarky-free days are here again.

I wish the nation luck as well. Here's hoping that if Uncle Joe wins he manages to keep it together, physically and mentally, for four years. A simple twist of fate and the leader of the free world will be a giggling San Francisco progressive.

Regardless, with a bit of luck, the Repubs will hang on to the Senate. Divided government, when both parties suck sweaty socks, (insert Martha Stewart voice clip, here) is a good thing. 

Surely, given that the pollsters were wrong yet again, that Al Sharpton is incensed because the Donald's share of the Black vote has risen yet again, that AOC is incensed because so many Latinos voted for the Donald yet again, that...

[All right already!]   

I was just going to point out that perhaps the Citizens of the Republic, the majority of us anyway, aren't as actually divided as the Wokies claim we are/want us to be. Yes, Martha, that's also a good thing. 

Saturday morning. The states are still counting and...

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.