Wanted: Grownups

                                         Image by Sergio Pavlishko 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.

Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Jeffrey will toss a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.  

About 

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"My father would take me to the playground, and put me on mood swings"                                                                                                        -Jay London

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

The four stages of life are kid, callowyute, grup, and sexy senior citizen. If you're interested, I define all four categories in my glossary. This week's column is about grups, more commonly called grownups. 

In my glossary, I only explore the etymology of the word grups. I don't say much about what choosing to be a grownup means. Paradoxically, being a world-class grownup includes knowing when to allow one's inner kid, even inner callowyute, to come out and play. 

This is important, but having brownies for breakfast, like much sinning, is no longer sinful, or even much fun, once it becomes normal. A grup knows that. Excessive sinning is as boring, and as potentially self-destructive, as excessive piety. 

During the course of my kid and (very early) callowyute stages, life was less complicated than nowadays. Rulebooks ruled. 

By the time I hit peak callowyutishness the social fabric was fading and fraying faster than my favorite pair of bell-bottom jeans.

However, I had a firm foundation to stand on that was built when I was a kid. Also, the people who had built that foundation were not about to go down without a fight just because a significant cohort of Boomers made tossing the tot out with the Jacuzzi water their raison d'etre.

Push back from grups keeps the playground from demonstrating what would've happened if the flies of The Lord of the Flies not only hadn't been rescued but had been joined by a swarm of shipwrecked females.  

Dumb luck, no risk of being drafted to fight in various, misguided "limited wars" since Vietnam, recreational pharmaceuticals, as well as unprecedented prosperity and technical advances enabled many Boomers to enjoy an extended adolescence (callowyutence) including me, your semi-humble correspondent.  

Many of us grew up, eventually. But many of us are still at it to one degree or another. And many of us refuse to gracefully exit the stage and give the kids a chance — the Donald and Uncle Joe (78!) come immediately to mind — while we either spend their inheritance and/or continue to run up hooge bills they will eventually have to pay. 

A quick bit of googlin' revealed that as of early 2019 The Fedrl Gummit's unfunded liabilities totaled roughly $122,000,000,000,000. State and local unfulfillable promises adds another $5,000,000,000,000.

Apropos of nothing much, I once knew a little girl named Trillion.   

Previously, callowyutence normally ended relatively early for most due to the manifestation of random negative life events like recessions, depressions, and wars. 

Also — as a result of thousands of years of trial and error — there were all sorts of H. sapiens that thought that getting a job and then getting married and then reproducing and then trying to stay married sounded like the way to go.

BIG BUT, In 1965 the callowyutes began pushing back against the grups and started cultivating callowyutence as a lifestyle choice.

We meant well, we really did.  

In our defense, all sorts of things did need to change. Female H. sapiens needed to be liberated to choose what sort of grup they wish to be. Wife and mother, Supreme Court Justice, both, or something else.

Blacks were long overdue for the Civil Rights Act of '64 and the Voting Rights Act of '65... but that was primarily a pre-Boomer accomplishment. However, Boomers did do a lot of marching, protesting, and singing in support of various minority groups and causes. 

When our gay friends started opening closet doors from the inside most of us didn't freak out. It's slowly dawning on society that it's likely that some people, including the Ls, the Bs, the Ts, and the plusses may just be born that way, not manufactured.  

Now, given the limited impact of the Great Recession of 2008 on the Boomers, its outsized impact on the three succeeding generations, and the plague we're currently battling, one would hope common sense and compromise would make a comeback in the Republic.  

However...

The alleged death of God, however conceived; the rise in popularity of us v. them identity politics; the seemingly indefatigable toxic Wokies; the notion that there's no such thing as truth or human nature, just convenient constructs built on the fly and mandated by the Pasty Patriarchs; the...

[Ahem.]

Thanks, Dana. Fellow grups and sexy senior citizens (you know who you are) please feel free to add to my list or make one of your own. The widely forecast blue wave didn't happen and it would appear that no one needs to fear being dragged in front of a Truth and Reconciliation Tribunal.

[What's that got to do with...]

Choosing to be the grup in the room? While I'm not advocating a return to 1950s America I am advocating a personal search for truth and reconciliation. The playground's no fun when it's run like the Island of Lost Boys.

[Another Island? A psychologist might say...] 

All I'm saying is that a philosophy of life built around If It Feels Good Do It and May the Biggest Victim Win won't work/isn't working and ain't going to end well. 

Any grownup knows that. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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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.

Note: If ya click on an Amazon ad, thus opening a portal to Amazon, and buy anything, Lord Bezos will toss me a few pence in my direction and you won't have to feel guilty about enjoying my work — well, hopefully — for free. Win/Win.

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

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.

  

       

   

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.