Dear Wall Street Journal

I was shadowbanned! I think...

Image by Eveline de Bruin 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  

"We live in a world where finding fault in others seems to be the favorite blood sport. It has long been the basis of political campaign strategy. It is the theme of much television programming across the world. It sells newspapers."                                                                                                        -Henry B. Erying 

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

{Wait-wait-wait. Dear WSJ? That's like writing Dear Congress, or Dear United States Army. Using a personal salutation when communicating with a company/organization is dumb.}

Hey, Dana, I get letters and emails from all sorts of faceless entities that begin with Dear Mark Mehlmauer, and then prattle on with phrases such as please cease and desist or the like. Now, where was I? 

I'm writing to thank you for when you (apparently) temporarily banned me from being able to comment on your news stories and editorials or even see the comments of my fellow subscribers. I use the word apparently because you did so without dropping me a line to explain why. Which, incidentally, I thought was rather rude.  

(For those gentlereaders not of a certain age, the phrase "drop me a line" is an archaic social convention from the dead trees era that means the same thing as text me, dm me, hit me up on _______, etc.)

I've been reading your world-class publication for decades, going all the way back to when I was a (pre-woke era) lefty, and I've been a paid subscriber to the digital version for I don't know how long now. This is in spite of the fact my retirement income is relatively modest and your monthly subscription fee is not. 

However, I continue to subscribe for the same reason I started reading the dead trees version of the WSJ prior to owning my first computer and when my local paper sold for 25¢. Your paper sold for a buck back then and store clerks would ask me why anyone would pay a dollar for a newspaper.

Answer: The high quality of the writing and the in-depth coverage.

As the years rolled by... flew by, years don't roll by anymore, most other newspapers drifted leftward as I drifted in the other direction but you didn't change... much. I'm not wild about the shopping feature stories:

"Buy Side from WSJ is a reviews and recommendations team, independent of The Wall Street Journal newsroom. We might earn a commission from links in this content." 

Last Minute Valentines Gifts (They'll Never Know You Procrastinated)

Or, the fashion features that feature fashions one (theoretically) may wish to buy. I'm still trying to unsee the one about men's underwear. However, articles about absurdly overpriced clothing that's laugh-out-loud funny, or looks like ordinary people's clothing but costs a hundred times as much, helps me to appreciate living in Flyoverland. 

But I get it, trying to keep the lights on and the reporters paid in an era wherein the news — though not necessarily real and/or mere narrative-serving propaganda and/or sensationalism — can be had for free can't be easy. 

I can count on you for traditional, objective journalism with news stories clearly delineated from your world-famous op-ed pages that were, and are, unabashedly conservative with a libertarian tinge, but with a willingness to publish opinions written by prominent and articulate individuals of the left. 

{As opposed to?}  

Most other publications and the wire services, whose allegedly straight news stories are often hard to distinguish from editorials. Publications that profess objectivity but follow a narrative so as to wake the unawokened. 

{Wire services?}

For gentlereaders not of a certain age... never mind. 

{Hold up there, Sparky, what's all this fanboyish blather have to do with you being grateful you weren't allowed to see other people's comments or post comments of your own?} 

I admit I was becoming addicted. I, who require readers to click over to Cranky's Facebook page if they wish to comment on my work so as to avoid having to moderate them, and for other reasons, found myself spending inordinate amounts of time reading comments on news stories and opinion pieces of particular personal interest. 

And then I started making comments in spite of the fact I consider both reading comments and commenting a waste of precious time. I don't wish to pass judgment on those who enjoy that sort of thing but surely we can find a better use of our time given that there never seems to be enough of it to go around. 

Everyone yelling at everyone else about everything, which is what commenting on news and opinion articles often is, or often quickly becomes, seems to be making everything worse. I'm no longer a commenter, my column is my comment on everything. Go on without me.

But I still think you were rude. 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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He Said, She Said, They Said, It Said

Life in the Dizzinformation Age.

Image by hakelbudel 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  

"Advances in automation, artificial intelligence and robotics, while increasing productivity, will also cause major upheavals to the workforce."                                                                                                     -John Hickenlooper

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

Sometimes I wonder if certain Luddites of my acquaintance are on to something.

"You could look it up!" -Casey Stengel... or James Thurber... or maybe Yogi Berra.

{You should look it up.}

I tried that, Dana. I was looking for the origin of the phrase you can look it up. No joy. What I found was that there's an out-of-print book called You Could Look It Up: The Life of Casey Stengel (my emphasis).  

Mr. Stengel was apparently well-known for frequently saying you could look it up to sports writers, hence the title of the book, but if I were the King Solomon of quote attributions I'd go with James Thurber. I'll spare you and my gentlereaders the details. I find them interesting but... 

{Yeah, fascinating, although I don't know or care who Casey Stengel is. I've heard of Yogi Berra but I wouldn't know who this James Thurber dude is if I ran over him with my car.}

Not to worry, Thurber, Stengel, and Yogi Berra for that matter are no longer with us but that's not the point. My point is that even though most of us can easily and instantly "look it up" nowadays, most of us don't. 

And if we do, we often discover that the answer we seek is elusive and we give up for the same reasons we don't "look it up" in the first place: who's got the time, motivation, or attention span to follow a given rabbit hole to the end?

DING!

{Sorry, dude, I've gotta check this notification.} 

While we carry around a virtual Library of Alexandria in our pockets neither Siri or Googella are very good librarians, often offering up multiple, conflicting answers when we ask a question.

{What a coinkydink, somebody's selling a collection of Yogi Berra baseball cards on eBay. Who's Googella?}

That's the name of the woman that responds when one says, "Hey, Google."

On the trail of an idea I had for a column I next googled the question, "Do people still say you can look it up?" 

{Why didn't you just ask Googella? You've got an Android phone, right?}  

Because I'm one of those Geezers who prefers using my computer to using my phone for such things and disembodied creatures such Googella, Siri, Alexa, or whoever are not welcome at Casa de Chaos. Remember, a vampire can't enter one's home without an invitation.  

I mostly use my phone as a phone. When I leave my cave, although I do bring my phone with me in case I need directions or have a massive heart attack or the like, it's often not even turned on. And even if it is, it's only permitted to notify me of incoming texts, and that's only because I set it to make this really cool BOING sound that I never tire of hearing.  

I prefer interacting in the real world without an electronic buffer betwixt me and it, and often as not, I don't even feel compelled to take pictures or record a video. 

{Huh. Well, do people still say you can look it up?}

I don't know. 

The first hit returned was the title of an article from GrammarBook.com titled You Can Look It Up. Summary: When reading you should look up every unknown word because your best guess might be completely wrong. 

{Words to live by... or read by anyways.}

Followed by: People also search for... (dead end).

Followed by: People also ask... (dead end). 

Followed by a hilarious and accurate definition of, "look it up" as supplied by the Urban Dictionary. 

Followed by: "8 Words That Totally Reveal You Are Not a Millennial," a 7-year-old article from Inc. magazine. I gave up. 

However, I did follow a fork in the road rabbit hole and discovered that the original Luddites weren't Luddites, there was no such person as "Ned Ludd," and that we're all using the word incorrectly.  

I found an excellent article published by Smithsonian Magazine in 2011 written by Richard Conniff titled What the Luddites Really Fought Against. Long story short, "...the original Luddites were neither opposed to technology nor inept at using it. Many were highly skilled machine operators in the textile industry."

England's "seemingly endless war against Napoleon’s France" caused food shortages and rising prices and "...on March 11, 1811, in Nottingham...British troops broke up a crowd of protesters demanding more work and better wages. That night, angry workers smashed textile machinery in a nearby village." This resulted in a violent, bloody labor dispute that lasted till 1816. 

You can look it up.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise.

 

Up, Up and Away

{In your beautiful balloon?}

Image by Susann Mielke 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  

"...aerial military surveillance dates back to the Civil War, when both the Union and the Confederacy used hot-air balloons to spy on the other side..." 

                                                                                         -Michael Hastings

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

When recently spooked by a hooge spy balloon launched by the People's Republic of China, that sailed across our republic, American politicians of all stripes responded promptly: by attacking each other. 

Uncle Joe decided to wait till it completed its mission before ordering it shot down over the Atlantic with a $400,000 missile to insure that no pieces/parts would land on innocent civilians. 

Fortunately, so far at least, Chinese dicktater Xi dada has shown restraint and not cut off the flow of any vital imports like designer sneakers. 

{I'll bet Tom Cruise could've just popped it with a big-ass bayonet mounted on the front of a F/A-18F Super Hornet.} 

Doubtless, Dana. Subsequently, when three more balloons were brought down, demonstrating to the Chicoms that messing with the USA might blow up in their faces I couldn't help but wonder if bored teenagers had found a way to warm up life in the frozen North. 

In their defense, it might've been an accident. When I was a teenager my baby brothers and I once accidentally fooled our subdivision into thinking that a strip of adjacent woods had caught on fire. 

I went a'-googlin' and discovered that even as you read this there are all sorts of balloons bob, bob, bobbin' along the bottom of the stratosphere launched by everyone from hobbyists to government agencies. Turns out you can buy one for about 12 bucks. I'm thinking about...

{Wait-wait-wait. Hold it right there, Sparky. You and your little brothers once "accidentally" set some woods on fire?}

No, definitely not, the neighborhood just thought we had, that the significant billows of harmless smoke that drifted out of the trees and into our hood might be the result of a fire or some other disaster. But given that any applicable statute of limitations has (hopefully, surely) expired by now I can explain your honor. 

{Please do.} 

It was 1966 and one of my older sisters had brought home her new husband, a Green Beret, to meet the family. 

{What's that got to do with setting the woods on fire?}

I repeat, we didn't set anything on fire. I must beg the court's indulgence, a bit of context is required if it pleases the court. 

{You may proceed.}

There was a patriotic hit song out at the time called The Ballad of the Green Berets. The Green Berets,  Wikipedia: "... are a special operations force of the United States Army." Due to the song, and other factors, the Green Berets were "having a moment" not unlike the one the Navy Seals are having nowadays.

To my little brothers and me, this guy was an American warrior right out of central casting. And he brought us green berets. And he told us some cool, toxically masculine inappropriate stories.  

We were in love.  

Now, as to exactly why he had brought a pair of official United States Army-issue smoke canisters/bombs (I don't remember how they were labeled) and gave them to us, I can't tell you. My guess is that being a semi-good ol' boy from the South combined with the aforementioned toxic masculinity led him to believe that boys will be boys and that we would be impressed and enjoy using them.

He was absolutely right. 

We took them into a modest-sized strip of woods behind our house and popped the tops on what looked like large, Army green (soda) pop cans and were shocked and awed. The amount of smoke them babies produced was amazing.

Totally cool. 

But then, thanks to a light breeze, significantly sized billows of smoke began rolling out of the trees and into our neighborhood. We beat a hasty retreat to the first and only house my parents ever owned, the first suburban house my little brothers and I had ever lived in.

Picture a teenage boy, his two younger brothers, a small crowd, and a couple of fire trucks. Firemen were combing the woods in search of where all that smoke was coming from. Fortunately, they didn't find it. 

I confess we were more frightened than exhilarated at that point but we got away with our accidental crime and the adults involved didn't rat us out. I apologize for whatever it cost the township to pointlessly dispatch two fire trucks but I'm sure it was less than $400,000 apiece. 

We were only accidental juvenile delinquents for a minute and grew up to be productive members of society.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise.