Grandpa, Tell Me 'Bout The Good Old Days

A clickbaity title, a question, and an answer.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

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

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device 

"Letters are among the most significant memorial a person can leave behind them." -Goethe

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

A question from a gentlereader: What do you mean when you say you're writing these letters to your grandkid's eventual selves? 

I'm just a grandpa, talkin' 'bout the good ol' da...

{Please, just stop.} 

Answer: While I'm delighted to report that the current crop continues to exceed my expectations, it's still relatively early and won't be fully ripened for a while yet. It's a rare H. sapien that's fully ripened before the age of 25 and it's not unusual for the process to last till the age of 30 or so, as it did in my case. 

They're free to read them now of course, and make of them what they will or won't, but it's not just a matter of them being mature enough to appreciate the wit and wisdom of their beloved grandfather. 

These letters are a sort of oral history that's being written in real-time. Instead of some present or future version of me being interviewed and recorded by someone else, I'm both interviewer and interviewee and I serve multiple constituencies.

{Interviewee?}  

What? That's a real word. I'm writing to the Stickies, their future selves, Stickies who haven't arrived yet, my current self ("Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers." -Isaac Asimov), my future self, and of course, my gentlereaders.   

I'm a Boomer born in the middle of my best century so far, baby...

{You can't help yourself, can you?}  

And I'm the fortunate/accidental beneficiary of a bunch of blessings.

My grandparents, on my father's side, were both immigrants from the now-defunct Austro-Hungarian Empire. He was a mechanic and she was a housewife. Mum's mom was a farm girl and her dad was a coal miner. 

I have/had no shortage of aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, and nieces and nephews. I came up in both gritty, inner-city Pittsburgh neighborhoods and a couple of green suburbs — both bulging with fellow Boomers and Boomerettes.  

My father was a painter (of walls and trim, not canvasses) and Mum was a stay-at-home mom, which at the time was the rule, not the exception. They had seven kids and when their luck held, just enough money to go around. Cash flow problems were a constant problem but we never went hungry and were never the poorest family in the neighborhood. 

I was lucky enough to be the product of a working-class family, not to be unusually attractive, and to not have achieved fame and/or fortune at a young age. 

{Lucky?} 

Lucky.

Pretty people, blessed/cursed by being born into a financially secure situation and/or stumbling into one as if on cue, often are not conscious of their dumb luck until misfortune inevitably bites them on the bum at some point. They may not appreciate what they have, or worse, take it for granted. They often are possessed by ideologies untempered by reality.  

Many, even if they paid attention in history class, are oblivious to the fact that until relatively recently most H. sapiens were somewhat preoccupied with where their next meal was coming from if they had managed to survive their childhood.  

I, having sometimes paid attention in history class, having roots/a perspective that stretches back to the late 18th century, having parents that lived through the Great Depression and WW2, having a life that stretches from the introduction of a vaccine for polio to men persons landing on the moon to supercomputers in everyone's pocket (and, God help us, social media mobs), to constant digital disruption and disintermediation to...

{What's polio?} 

And having experienced the traditional morality and lifestyles of the 1950s, participated in tossing the tot out with the Jacuzzi water in the late 1960s and 70s, and currently experiencing the revival of Marxism (Wokieness) in spite of 100,000,000+ H. sapiens murdered in the pursuit of a socialist utopia so far...

{Well, communism's never really been tried or properly implemented you know.}

I, eventually, came to understand the importance and utility of at least trying to keep an eye on the big picture, and maintaining an attitude of gratitude 24x7x365.  

Therefore, I write letters to the Stickie's eventual selves to hopefully spare them from learning at least some things the hard way while compiling an oral history as I go, before I go. 

{Um... Why don't you just talk to them while you await deletion?}  

I do, and I even attempt to wrap up my mini-sermons before their eyes start to glaze over, and keep in mind that the sermons you live tend to be much more effective than the ones you preach. 

But I don't see the harm in leaving behind a textbook of sorts while striving to provide a bit of enlightened infotainment for my gentlereaders. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Truthiness

Truth is a working hypothesis.

 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.     

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About

Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see." Edgar Allan Poe

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

The search for truth is a never-ending process which is why I maintain that a wise H. sapien should always consider "the truth"a working hypothesis. And speaking of truth, I titled this column Truthiness because I'm not above deploying clickbait occasionally. A tip o' the hat to the former Steven Colbert, who was quite funny. 

{Indeed. Well, thanks for clearing that up, Sparky. Let's go get a beer.}

In a minute, Dana. I want to expand on my premise, or to use one of the currently most popular words in podcasting (and elsewhere), I wish to unpack it. 

{More clickbait? If I truthfully promise to buy, could we...} 

I maintain that any scientist worth his/her/their salt, although they don't usually state it out loud, when discussing/declaring/declaiming a scientific fact or three, is aware that what they are saying is provisional, by definition.  

<DANA HEAVES HEAVY SIGH>  

{Do tell.}

That is to say, such and so is a hard, indisputable fact... until/unless we discover otherwise. A scientist worth his/her/their salt takes this for granted. The search for truth, particularly truth with practical applications that make getting out of bed in the morning slightly more pleasant for the average H. sapien is a noble pursuit.

Big BUT. 

The search for truth must never cease and desist as far as a true scientist/scholar/journalist/etceterist is concerned. This is also a noble pursuit, and it's what makes the game fun.

{Journalists? Like, seriously dude?}

There are still some real ones around although they're getting harder and harder to find. A bunch of them have landed on Substack and with a bit lot of luck may bring about a reformation of the profession. According to Wikipedia, the (tragically) awokened, The New Yorker, looks down its nose at Substack, so they must be doing something right.

Anyways... although the truth is undoubtedly important, often vital, frequently close enough is good enough. In fact, is often the best we can do. 

{You have a keen eye for the obvious, sir, now can we...} 

Patience is a virtue, my favorite literary device, permit me to continue unpacking. 

I began by mentioning that even scientific truth is provisional; an occasional minor/major paradigm shift is always possible. Everyone knows that it was once common knowledge (and common sense) that the Earth is orbited by the Sun, a fact confirmed by looking up occasionally. 

Keeping track of where and when provided all sorts of practical/useful applications. Copernicus put an end to that notion, but not until 1515, and it took better than a century (and turning an occasional heretic into a steak at the stake) before his truth was accepted.

Although everything changed, scientifically speaking, people still had to set their alarm clocks to get to work on time and have snow tires mounted on their cars in the fall (all-season radials are a fairly recent phenomenon).  

Close enough was good enough till we got to truthier truth, and along the way, we made the best of it. And speaking of being worth one's salt, any more or less well-adjusted grup knows to take everything with a grain of salt.

{And why, pray tell, have you gone on a truth ramble?}

Covid, Hunter Biden, the Mexican border, Nancy Pelosi... 

<INSERT SEVERAL HUNDRED PAGES OF ETCETEROIDS HERE> 

Nowadays, many people don't think twice about declaring unsettled questions settled and canceling heretics — while simultaneously weaponizing journalistic speculation, narratives, "settled science," and Wokie dogma — for secular-religious reasons and/or fun and profit.

{Huh?}     

For example, it looks like: 1) The WuFlu plague is a likely product of the Wuhan Institute of Virology, not a Chinese "wet market." 

2) That the Fauchmeister was/is funding gain of function research but with enough cutouts between him and it to provide him with plausible deniability. 

{There's no h in Faucmeister, in fact, it ain't even a real word... and that's the truth.}   

But until a few minutes ago the alleged fact-checkers and the high priests of the Intersectional Inquisition were certain both of these statements were false, and censored, cautioned, or canceled accordingly.  

On a related note, the highest-paid employee of The Fedrl Gummit, Dr. Fauci, recently said that he might retire after this year's midterm election and teach a class at Harvard's Kennedy School of Government called Statements, Press Releases, and Congressional Hearings: How to communicate without really saying anything that might bitecha on the bum later.

{There's no such word as bitecha, in fact, your "related note" is a complete fabrication and...}

Like many a Joe or Joan bag-o-donuts, he's concerned he might have to reduce his expenses or even take out a reverse mortgage to maintain a reasonably comfortable lifestyle. 

{Is this column finally "finished/complete/over?" Can we go get a beer now?}

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Feel free to comment and set me straight on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays, other things other days. Cranky don't tweet.

 

Vlad the Pooteen's Late-Life Crisis

Putin locks in his legacy

. 

                                Photo by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.   

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device 

"Europeans are really dying out!" -the Pooteen 

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

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin is 69 years old. A dicktater's dicktater, he's a fellow geezer who's one year older than me and one year closer to being officially old (70). He appears to be having a late-life crisis. 

{I suspect that once you hit 70 the rules are going to change.}

Not true, Dana. I'm a stickin' to muh guns, 70 is officially old. For the record, being a geezer/geezerette (age varies) is not necessarily a bad thing. 

And getting old -- at 70, actuarially speaking, you have less than ten years left -- is also not necessarily a bad thing. It merely means it's past time to look reality in the eye and make some decisions and contingency plans and ascend to the lofty level of Sexy Senior Citizen if this has yet to happen, assuming one is capable of transcending certain stereotypes.

{Wait a second...}

Nope, it will take an entire column to explain what I mean and I promise to write it, this column's about the Pooteen. It's not often that a certified, unrepentant dicktater sticks his/her/their head above the ground and begs to be boiled in bubbling oil.

"Vladimir Putin has gone from playing chess to playing poker," is a quote and an analysis. I wish I had come up with one of the variations on this theme being attributed to all sorts of people. I think it's obviously true but begs for an obvious question to be...

{Kudos for begs for, rather than the oft and incorrectly used, begs the.}

A cautious and dubious thanks, D. The question is, why? A senior moment? Drugs? 3d chess? Perhaps he's being blackmailed by Hunter Biden (or vice versa) and the three years (and lots of money) spent on trying to prove the Donald was being blackmailed by the Pooteen was a conspiracy within a conspiracy within...

{Oh my Go...}

Don't say it! The Stickies have been taught to say oh my gosh, so as not to offend traditional believers. And besides, As Dude used to say when he was a toddler, I wuz chust kiddin'.

{This column is turning into the literary version of a cute kiddie video.}

Perhaps we'll attract more gentlereaders. My money's on a late-life crisis. A late-life crisis is like a mid-life crisis, less common but potentially worse. Particularly when the he/she/they afflicted have money and power and the Pooteen has plenty of both.  

{If he's successful at conquering Ukraine will you start writing The Pooteen instead of the Pooteen?}

No. 

Now, when a given H. sapien has a late-life crisis, unless they have accumulated an unusually large amount of wealth, this is usually not that big a deal. 

Regardless, their more greedy loved ones have to weigh the cost of trying to get their sticky hands on it, and how much potential litigation will cost as opposed to what the reward might be. And, are he/she/they willing to accept the wrath of their relatives?   

  

Most late-life criseses consist merely of a given individual having second thoughts about how they spent their lives and what, if anything, is to/can be done. Most don't do much. 

They may not have the means to do much, and even if they do most have learned that to be wary of the law of unexpected consequences, know that you can't count on anything or anyone, and how quickly tides can turn. 

A person having a mid-life crisis is more likely to be unaware of the power of the law of unexpected consequences and willing to jump with a potentially poorly packed parachute... pal. 

Ah, but the Pooteen! 

Picture him waking up at 3 a.m. and getting up to pee, yet again, and then being unable to fall back asleep... 

There's something about that new guard...did I remember to turn on the alarm?...man, I could sure go for a cup of hot cocoa but I can tell the night shift thinks it's funny when I order one, it ain't easy being a bloodthirsty dicktater...I thought that by now I would've put the empire back together...is it just me or are the oligarchs not taking me seriously anymore?...ungrateful bastards...Uncle Joe must be even further gone than I thought, why on Earth would he try and cripple his domestic oil production and then expect the rest of us to make up for it...

Ooh! I've got a great idea! He picks up the phone. 

"Yes fearless leader?"

"Tell Minister Shoigu and General Gerasimov I want to see them, right now, and get Hunter Biden on the phone. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

P.S. Here's a fun fact for ya, kids. America, which was rapidly moving towards energy independence till Uncle Joe and the Greenies got control of the Swamp, spent $17,400,000,000 on Russian oil last year. But if they keep misbehaving, Uncle Joe is gonna officially shut 'em down. According to Reuters:

"Senator Ed Markey, a Democrat from Massachusetts, said U.S. purchases of Russian oil in 2021 would have delivered an estimated $17.4 billion to that nation. 'We cannot criticize Europe for its reliance on Russian energy, as we pour dirty oil money into Russia,'..."

{As opposed to clean oil money?}

Scroll down to share this column/access oldies. If you enjoy my work, and no advertising, please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal/credit-debit card.    

Feel free to comment and set me straight on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays, other things other days. Cranky don't tweet.