The Missing Chapter

I just pulled up this week's post for FRBP (final review before publishing) and discovered it was written in what I at first thought was a foreign language. While trying to make sense of this development, I suddenly went into flashback mode. I mean, I think it was flashback mode, It was my first flashback. It was just like the ones on TV.

There I was, buzzing around the planet in a UFO, I had been abducted by aliens, cool. It all came back to me in a rush of disjointed images. I'll detail my experiences in a future post, but the bottom line, for now, is that the only probing I experienced was an extended interview by an academic from the planet Tralfamidore. We ate warm, homemade, chewy chocolate brownies, swirled with peanut butter, and washed 'em down with ice cold whole milk.

Also, they loaned me a Chromebook, at my request, so I could work on the post you should be reading instead of the one you are. The problem with that idea was that I didn't realize that the empathy beam I'd been exposed to when I went through quarantine would result in my composing in Tralfamidorian without even realizing it.

So now I'm sitting here with a glass of flat Asti Spumante and trying to work with a Tralfamidorian to English translation app that I got for free from Cnet that needs a lot of work. I'm never gonna' get the translation done in time to hit my deadline so I'm posting the third chapter of my novel, it's all I've got on hand.

MEMco, our parent company, mandates a just in time inventory system. 

Update: 11.30.17

As part of an ongoing project that involves rereading, updating and tweaking my accumulated columns it was discovered that the chapter of my novel referenced above had vanished and that the three paragraphs above had turned black, blue, and red. These are the colors of the flag of the planet Tralfamadore.

I've filed a complaint with the various and sundry relevant agencies of the Tralfamadorian government to try and find out if someone from Tralfamadore is responsible for this and why it happened.

Unfortunately, for me at least, Tralfamadore long ago evolved into a world where all wants and needs are effortlessly met via technologies we Earthlings can only dream of.

In short order this utopia became quite boring, rather like I picture Heaven to be. I think this is why our literature, sacred and profane, is chock full of angels. Angels are bored citizens of Heaven looking for something to do.

Anyway, Tralfamadore solved this problem by making everyone on the planet a bureaucrat in good standing of any government agency they please with the right to switch jobs whenever they please so they don't get bored again.

Tralfamadore is a planet of bureauons that deliberately screw with each others lives for something to do. Sounds counterintuitive I know, but who are we to judge never having had to suffer life in a genuine utopia?

Long story short, whether or not I ever get an answer, or if I do that It'll make any sense, is a crapshoot at best.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

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©2015/2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

I'm an Unrepentant Wild Eyed Free Marketeer

In spite of the fact meteorologists have access to plenty of data and no shortage of hi-tech tools they are regularly wrong. Everyone knows why, variables.

If a butterfly flaps its wings in... well, you know the rest. We're pretty good at predicting the weather one to three days out, but beyond that, the farther out you go the more butterflies you have to keep an eye on. If one of Mothra's smaller relatives flies through even a short-term forecast, you're screwed

Economists have the same problem to deal with, variables. They build computer models designed to predict where the economy is headed. Or, they try and predict what might happen if this or that policy is implemented.

Now, like it or not, you're part of an ever-expanding, ever interconnecting global economy. There are roughly 7.1 billion souls on this planet trying to get the most bang for their Bucks, Euros, Rubles and the like -- 24/7/365. That's an awful lot of folks and potential spending decisions to account for.

The Federal Reserve System of the United States of America, where they pull the levers and adjust the dials, never issued a bulletin prior to the Great Recession warning that the economy was about to crash. Turns out that selling houses to millions of people that can't afford them can get ugly, and fast.

Who Knew?

It gets worse. The study of economics is the study of macroeconomics and microeconomics; the big picture as opposed to the local, independently owned, car repair facility that recently ripped me off...

Well Duh! exclaims a gentlereader, everyone knows that!

Settle down, I'm working here! No, everyone doesn't know that, they're busy leading busy/crazy/hectic lives and hoping that whose ever job it is to figure out the best way to keep the economy on track has a clue, but that's not my point.

What I was going to say was that since these divisions are two sides of the same coin, this introduces another layer of complexity. Also, if you happened to stumble into the bar where your local economists like to hang out after work, the arguments that are most likely to lead to a brawl are about macroeconomic issues.

The study of microeconomics has generated a good deal of consensus. Macroeconomics, on the other hand, has not -- and probably never will.

There are two reasons for this: Economists with radically different ways of viewing how the world works, proposing theories from radically different starting points, that's the first one.

The other is that a theoretically objective, unbiased professional can't set up an experimental economy in a laboratory and start tinkering to see what happens. Like meteorologists, they must rely on computer modeling and, well...please refer to paragraph two.

So...

Though major paradigm shifts in hard science can turn a given field of study on its head, these are, to put it mildly, few and far between. A chemistry major may show up for class on some random day and be startled to find that her favorite (married) professor has turned his back on academia and accepted a lucrative job offer from DuPont because his grad student girlfriend is pregnant and now there are doctors and lawyers to be paid.

However, she's highly unlikely to discover that the professor's replacement wants her to forget about all this atoms and molecules drivel and instead begin studying the basic principles of magic and alchemy.

On the other hand...

The next time she shows up for what's turned out to be her least favorite elective, macroeconomics, which was being taught by the newly impregnated grad student who's on leave due to medical and legal problems -- it wouldn't be particularly shocking if the new professor announced that although she will gracefully continue to teach university approved mainstream Macroeconomics 101, she's a communist and frankly thinks it's a bunch of bonkercockie.

But you can trust her professionalism and objectivity.


Meanwhile, off campus...

The market -- free, sorta free, heavily regulated, and/or all of the above -- continues to (seemingly) perform miracles on a daily basis This is true in spite of the obvious fact it's not perfect, it will never lead to utopia -- and no one's actually in charge.

How? 7.1 billion souls doing what needs to be done to survive, and when possible, with a little style.

Adam Smith explained the who/what/when/where/why (coincidentally) the same year America was born, but all he did (besides inventing modern economics) was formally codify what had been going on since Og (master spear maker, lousy hunter) made a deal with Ug (master hunter, lousy spear maker).


Og and Ug accidentally invented free trade. By specializing in what they were good at instead of trying to do everything themselves, both improved their lives exponentially. The market they created was self-regulating -- as long as they both played it straight.

If Og's Spears and Stuff dealt in sharp, durable spears and Ug's Meats and Things fulfilled their pledge to trade in only fresh, healthy meat it was a win-win. Og was an idealistic socialist and thought Ug was a mean-spirited, selfish libertarian. Ug was a rugged individualist who thought Og was a hopelessly naive dork. So what?

It gets better.

Both Og and Ug started trading with other specialists and free trade went viral. Since many people were good at the same things, businesses had to find a way to lure customers into their cave instead of the other guys. Competition was born and it also went viral.

Only the specialists that provided the best service or products survived, the rest were driven out of business and had to find another specialty. The customer wins and the failed specialists drive innovation by specializing in something else, occasionally something that nobody else had thought of.

The innovators occasionally made a cave full of money, occasionally changed the world. A few of the winners retired, moved to a larger cave with a great view and doted on their grandkids. The rest prepared to fight off the inevitable competition.

Wait a sec', Self-regulating?

Yup. Think about it. Two grocery stores at opposite ends of a small town are locked in competition. Both seek to offer consumers the ideal mix of price and service, the customers will unsentimentally decide on the winner, the loser will go out of business.

Or, the loser (necessity is a mother) will come up with a new angle and like the fake wrestler in a fake wrestling match, who clearly should be dead, will rise from the canvas and secure victory. Or maybe just become a laundromat with a bar where you can get loaded and meet chicks/dudes.

Ah ha! But then the survivor will have stumbled into a monopoly and that's why we need the gubmint or even The Gubmint to step in, The Gubmint has tons of economists on the payroll, The Gubmint...

...Needs to manage the safety net, make sure no one's getting cheated, enforce contracts and property rights, and lock up or kill the bad guys. (PERIOD)

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Sunday

Hey...I like hey, when it's used as a social convention I mean. It's particularly handy at work. First pass: Howyadooin? Get that over with as best you can. Howyadooin requires a thousand words, no, a short book, but I'm in a hurry.

Next, and subsequent passes: Hey. Verbally punctuate and shape it any way you please. Hey. Hey! Heeey.... A very handy word. One syllable social lubrication. But I am in a hurry, as I said. I just began with hey, for no particular reason... and well..., well anyway, I'm back now.

The reason I'm in a hurry is that I've just decided that the post that I had prepared will not be available until Sunday. There's a whole bunch of mostly boring reasons for this, as well as what follows.

Starting this Sunday, Sunday is my official day to post. In addition to the boring reasons referenced above, it's been suggested to me by someone I trust, that the sort of stuff I write about and the way I write it goes well with Sunday morning, coffee and bagels, the Sunday paper... I know you can feel it., smell it.

Well, I do anyway and that's why I'm cranking this out (relatively speaking) and I'm going to post it in just a second (I'm a relatively slow writer) to meet a self-imposed deadline that's important to me.

And...

I'll write something every day between now and Sunday just to see what happens and as a peace offering if you get into this before I have a chance to beef it up, and you're disappointed.



Wednesday afternoon: Define (some of) Your Terms, Sir

Bonkercockie -- I stumbled on this word while wandering around the web and it was love at first sight. I didn't care what the definition might turn out to be. As it turns out the creator was easily located via googling, and the definition is a flexible one. I like to use it in place of B.S. because that feels obvious and natural to me, but the inventor uses it in other ways as well.

Hooplehead -- Often credited to the creator of the best TV show ever made, Deadwood, it looks as though the word was abroad in the world long before David Milch (sort of) popularized it. While my research indicates the definition is noncontroversial (fool, dope, hick etc. -- as seems obvious) the etymology is somewhat vague.

Gentlereader --  A somewhat archaic term that is actually two words I like to combine into one. It dates to Victorian times and is a device an author uses to directly address a reader. I combine the words just because I like the look and feel of the result.

I think we should all strive to be gentlepersons, and this will the subject of an eventual post. I always write with an imaginary gentlereader looking over one shoulder and my muse over the other. From my perspective, it's a way of saying thanks for taking a few minutes from your life to bother reading what I have to say.


Thursday Morning -- Nuns

When I was a kid my worldview was shaped by nuns. I'm an old dude so this means that I'm talking about an era when nuns still had hair on their chests and were proud of it.

I didn't care much for nuns at the time, and even though my feelings have changed somewhat, I have no doubt that one or two of the good sisters I spent nine months out of the year with, for eight years running, were at least mildly psychotic.

Fortunately, one or two were probably saints. Most would probably be less than pleased that I grew up to be agnostic. I say most because I'll betcha a bottle-a-pop that at least one of those bizarrely dressed women was secretly agnostic.

The reason my feelings have changed is that from my current perspective, that of an adult (more or less), I can now appreciate that as a group, they were an invaluable part of my life, even the nuttier ones.

They were part of a culture that believed (as I still believe) that kids were adorable little infidels in need of civilizing. Some handed out corporal punishment, as did some parents, too frequently. Some, like some parents, not enough. But you knew where you stood and you knew what the rules were.

They had the temerity to believe that a few thousand years of Western Civilization, warts and all, had come up with a system of morality, ethics, politics -- even common courtesy -- that worked and was one of the many reasons we callowutes were damn lucky to be able to take the USA for granted.

Finally, though they were members in good standing of an often hidebound institution, they, the ones that taught me at least (from '59 to '67), had no fear of discussing the "real" world and how it worked -- I believe they called it Social Studies. They also were strong supporters of the civil rights struggle and made it clear that I better be as well.

But for the record, by the time I reached ninth grade and switched to the public school system because my parents couldn't afford to send me to a Catholic high school, I no longer believed there was a place called Limbo.


Friday Morning -- Billary

This is the last installment of this transitional post, the transition from publishing on Wednesdays to publishing on Sundays. I can write publishing with a straight face because the button that you click on to post your post via Blogger is labeled Publish.

And no, I didn't stay home from work and life yesterday to watch Billary testifying, nor did I stay up all night to watch a recording of it of some sort. I checked in yesterday from time to time.

I began my day today in the usual fashion -- with a large cup of coffee and the perusal of multiple websites, a carefully crafted collection of key (Aw geez, there he goes again) websites designed to provide me with a snapshot of what's going on. I do this every morning, seven days a week, and it takes about an hour and a half.

Some folks might find this appalling, perhaps even mildly disturbing. I could easily justify the practice by claiming that I do it because I'm a columnist and it's part of the job considering the nature of my writing, and that would be partially true.

However, I would be doing this even if I were incapable of generating a single intelligible sentence. In my defense, the process includes comic strips. Also, an hour and a half is the absolute limit because my brain starts melting at that point so it's time to push away from the desk and return the coffee I've been renting back to mother nature. But that's not what I want to talk about.

Billary's Benghazi bonkercockie is what I want to talk about, but barely briefly. Turns out that Billary sent an email to Chelsea (estimated net worth, $15,000,000. I wonder how she's managed that?) -- 45 minutes after issuing a statement blaming mobs that went nuts over the famous YouTube video for the murder of some of her fellow Americans -- clearly stating that an "Al Qaeda-like group" was responsible for the murders. There are other emails and records that name the specific group, Ansar al-Sharia, and state that the attack was a carefully planned terrorist operation.

Billary and the Obama administration, the folks that assured us they had taken care of this Al Qaeda thing, spent the next couple of weeks sticking to the video story, and then when they couldn't anymore, blamed, and continue to blame, the attempted coverup mistake on the chaos and confusion surrounding the incident.

Mr. O. was re-elected a few months later. Billary, confronted with the facts stated above, stuck with the chaos and confusion defense. The New York Times website's story about the hearing this morning was headlined Four People Died, Clinton lied Benghazi Engages Clinton in Tense Session.

"I did not have sexual relations with that woman..."
"Yup, yup, yup, it was a vast right-wing conspiracy!"

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll 

Just the Facts -or- Ohio and Weed

"Just the facts, Ma'am." The Information Age is clearly upon us. Never have so many had such easy access to so much information. Now that so many of us have ready access to the cold, hard facts of a given matter we are much more likely to form our opinions and policies, in the public as well as well as private spheres, from documented reality and not our personal prejudices and sticky, convoluted emotions.

The paragraph above is 99.9% unadulterated bonkercockie.

The Information Age is wonderful for weirdos like me. I'm thinking of starting a narrowly focused support group for dilettantes and current events junkies that have no interest in celebrity journalism. Keep an eye out for our micro-niche website.

Also, the internet can be a Godsend to anyone in need of the cold, hard facts necessary to deal with cold, hard objects or processes. For example, recalcitrant lawnmowers, or, how to make sunny side up eggs without breaking the yolks long before the dipping toast is ready, and the yolks turn into cold, hard objects.

However...

The inexhaustible high-pressure firehose of information available in real time often as not leaves us on our butts, gasping for air. If highly respected, highly educated economists, after 20 years or more of formal education can draw radically different conclusions as to what works best for the most, how are we mere mortals to decide?

If I want to purchase a particular product through Amazon and the reviews of previous purchasers are wildly contradictory, what should I do? My second example is even more complicated than it seems because I've strolled around the block often enough to know that something even most folks seem to agree on may lead me to conclude most folks are nuts.


This brings us to Weed and the Buckeye State. The good citizens of Ohio will shortly be voting on whether or not to end the prohibition of Cannabis. Sort of.

When the USA passed a constitutional amendment prohibiting the use of alcohol for consciousness altering purposes that occasionally lead to unconsciousness, it caused such a chaotic kerfuffle (somebody stop me) that it led to a capitalization. It wasn't an era of prohibition, it was the Prohibition Era. Ken Burns thought it worth a documentary.

Cannabis prohibition does and will continue to merit the attention of scholars, the media, The Gubmint etc, but it's not been Prohibition II.

 Mainstream Americans were not suddenly deprived of a socially acceptable (within limits) practice. White collar types have never been (in)famous for three joint lunches, (most) blue collar types for a quick joint and a beer after work before heading home for dinner with Marge and the kids. Dad must've worked hard today, look at him eat!

Though cannabis prohibition has needlessly trashed no shortage of our fellow citizens lives the worst damage has occurred south of the border, courtesy of those zany drug cartels that get so much press.

That's why cannabis prohibition has remained the law of the land for roughly a century in spite of the inherent difficulties involved in trying to stop folks from growing, selling and/or smoking a weed. But this is the Information Age, and having easy access to all that information enables us to repeal or amend goofy laws and get on with our lives -- after jacking everything up.

Several of the states have either effectively legalized weed or are working on it. The federal law that prohibits this remains in place. When it comes to laws The Gubmint (the Feds) trumps the gubmint (state and local). The folks currently in charge of The Gubmint are too busy screwing  up foreign policy and working hard to make sure we have a slow growth, politically correct economy to care about weed. But what if the next administration has different priorities?

In Ohio, ten groups of crony capitalists put up money to pay for a petition drive and bought themselves a motion that will appear on the ballot next month. The motion proposes that the state legalizes weed and helpfully supplies a slate of Rules&Regs for legal weed -- to be added to the state's constitution.

These Rules&Regs give the ten groups the exclusive right to grow the weed that will eventually be purchased by Ohio consumers. They're now paying for commercials to promote its passage. The commercials reassure the folks that a monopoly will not be created, that the ten authorized growers will compete with each other -- honest, we swear -- so that consumers will get the best possible prices.

They're technically correct. What they're proposing is a cartel, not a monopoly. Well, why not? We've certainly been well served by the world's most well-known cartel, OPEC.

The motion, if passed, will enshrine the right of these guys to be the only ones in Ohio to legally grow weed to sell, in the Ohio constitution. Citizens will be permitted to cultivate their own plants and maintain a stash as long as they don't exceed explicitly specified quantities -- and if they buy a $50 permit so the gubmint can keep an eye on them. The cronies will permit you to grow your own as long as you're not trying to compete with their non-monopoly.

The Ohio legislature, no doubt miffed that a group of would-be oligopolists is trying to have their oligopoly embedded the state's constitution, could've just passed a law that said weed is legal for everyone over 21, if you sell it you have to pay sales tax, and we're going to let the free market figure out the details. We can always step in later if the market messes it up.

Instead, they've placed their own measure on the ballot. This one forbids building a business monopoly into Ohio's constitution. Sounds good. Also, it gets them out of having to vote yes or no on weed. Unfortunately, it allows for placing motions on the ballot that would let voters decide that a given monopoly can become part of the constitution. Huh?

It gets worse. Both motions could pass. One that sets up a monopoly, and one that says you can't do that in Ohio -- except for when you can. Let the litigation begin!

But thanks to the fact we're living in the Information Age you now know what's up and it all makes perfect sense, right?

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll 









         

The 6.5 Commandments

I know that officially there are ten commandants, but I'm only going to discuss 6.5 of them. See, three and a half commandments all presume a firm belief in a Judeo-Christian concept of God. I'm an agnostic so I'm can ignore them, at least for the purposes of this article.

I bear no ill-will to believers and hope they feel the same about me. I hope we both are thankful to be living in a country designed to accommodate us both, in theory, if not always in fact. While I'm spreading the sunshine let me also go on record and state that I also don't care if you're an atheist or a believer in a spiritual tradition that falls outside of the Judeo-Christian one assuming you're prepared to peacefully share the playground with all the other kids and not bully, or behead, anyone that disagrees with you.

Why does an agnostic want to discuss 6.5 commandments? In a polarized nation egged on by a hyperventilating media, why wouldn't I want to discuss behaviors most of us more or less agree on?

To answer the obvious question, the half of a commandment is the one that tells us to observe the Sabbath. I don't believe in blue laws. Nor do I expect a world that is evolving a 24/7 culture to be able to agree with everyone taking the same day off.

However, I highly recommend observing a personal sabbath, even a half sabbath (halfasab?). I know that hard-charging 24/7 types will find this a ridiculous notion. Keep moving, rust never sleeps. OK, but trust me on this dude, take a break once in awhile. If you don't, sooner or later some part of you is going to turn on the rest of you, and I don't mean that in a good way.

Or one of these days when you show up at the playground, you may find a bunch of other kids are hiding in the bushes with a stockpile of sticks and stones.

Next, we're told to honor our mom's and dads. It takes an unusually long time for us to mature in comparison to most species and to be able to function on our own. Common sense, if not love, suggests we at least humor our parental units.

Not all parents are worth honoring, but most are, in spite of the fact they're not perfect like us. However, parents also need to honor their kids. This is accomplished simply by choosing to do your job. It's not an opinion it's a scientifically proven fact -- a kid that has an involved mom and dad is more likely to succeed, on every level. And by the way, kids need parents, not grown up friends.

Don't kill anybody. For most of us, this is an easy one. Even when killing is sanctioned by the traditional justifications  -- self-defense, war, and capital punishment -- most of us are reluctant to kill another human being, even when it's morally or logically justifiable. Good. If this notion puzzles you, seek help.

Don't commit adultery. To me, and I suspect I'm not alone in this, adultery is having some form of sex (all forms of sex are sex, even the one Bill Clinton pretends isn't) with someone other than your spouse. Unless you both genuinely agree to an open relationship, and I suspect this is rare (and often sad), it's wrong. You can justify it any way you want, you're betraying the most intimate relationship possible between two human beings.

Considering the kerfuffle concerning gay marriage (I love alliteration, sorry if you find it annoying) I guess I should mention it. I don't think the Supremes had any business ruling on this issue, or on abortion for that matter.

I think abortion should be legal, but only during the first trimester. I could care less what consenting adults are doing behind (hopefully) closed doors. However, I'm a firm believer that individual states should decide on playground rules not specifically mentioned in the Constitution, as the Constitution specifically mentions.

Don't steal. I didn't realize, until I did a bit of research, that many Jewish scholars interpret this to mean don't kidnap. Most of us view it as a proscription against taking someone's stuff. This one's about as easy to agree with as don't kill anybody.

Interesting that radical, bloodthirsty revolutionary types with wildly divergent goals regard murder and kidnapping as essential components of a terrorist's toolbox.

Don't lie. Well, that's how it was taught to me, deliberately over-simplified by various nuns belonging to the order of the Sisters of Charity because I was just a kid. I'm now familiar with the meaning of don't bear false witness. It's wrong to lie if you do so out of a desire to deliberately alter or hide facts that need to be revealed if justice is to be served.

Lies of social lubrication are not only not wrong, it's easy to make a case for their vital role in society and relationships. No, as a matter of fact, those pants make your butt look awesome. We must draw fine lines. Navigating through shades of gray is often difficult, but Reality is usually presented to us in shades of gray -- rarely in crisp, clean black and white.

Finally, don't covet ________. Coveting ain't the problem, it's what you do next. You may not agree with my interpretation of do not covet but to me, since it's impossible to not have desires and since trying to suppress them only makes them stronger, what you do next is what's important.

What I try to do is note how quickly I respond in a primitive, me-wanta, chest-thumping sort of way and then remind myself that civilized behavior is indeed a very thin veneer. I don't try to suppress my desires, but I do try to take the high road and not act on the inappropriate ones.

The gentlereader scratches his/her/hir(?) head. How do know what the high road is, as pertaining to this or any other commandment? I maintain that 99.9% of the time you'll know, assuming you can be honest with yourself. As for that .1% of the time, all you can do is the best you can do.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Stupid Shit

In spite of all the media attention and numerous newly launched investigations, we don't know the answer to the two most important and interesting questions concerning the Volkswagen scandal - Who did it and Why.

A person, or persons, unknown (can't you hear a newscaster or somebody's spokesperson voice?), via software, enabled diesel powered VW's to turn on pollution control technology during emission testing to achieve desired and/or legally mandated results. These controls didn't actually function during everyday driving. Thus, VW owners could enjoy better mileage, performance and engine life than would've been possible if the controls were turned on.

You get a cool comfortable cruise and a self-righteous, saving the planet buzz.

Well duh! exclaims certain gentlereaders, the Why is self-evident, it's stated in the last sentence of the first paragraph. But I'm after a different Why. I want to know Why the Who (or more likely,They) did it considering that it must have occurred to the Who/They that if they got caught it could result in not only getting canned but also having to learn how to successfully take a shower in certain institutions (rule #1, if you drop the soap, leave it).

Then, just as he, she, ze (see previous post) or they were falling asleep on the night of the day he, she, ze or they came up with the idea, wouldn't you think that it occurred to, um...someone, that if the plot were to be revealed it could bring the whole company down?

I'll be following this story closely because I want to know if this was someone's carefully crafted plan, that if they carefully calculated the risk of getting caught and concluded it was worth it. Or, did somebody, perhaps a whole chain of somebodies, just do something stupid without thinking things through.

Which brings us to the folks that recently replaced the transmission in my van, Betty.

Huh?

Bear with me, all will soon become clear.


One morning I was on my way to work. I stopped at a red light and was waiting to turn left. I was the first person in the left turn lane and there were two or three cars waiting patiently behind me. When the light turned green I removed my foot from the brake and pushed on the gas pedal. Nothing happened. Or rather, my engine gently roared, as if I had placed the transmission in neutral, which I hadn't.

Long story short, my tranny (and I'm not referring to my friend Roscoe) had passed away quietly and without complaint. If Betty had been aware that this crucial member of the team had been manifesting any symptoms she had chosen to keep this knowledge to herself. Sweet, and what fresh hell is this?

Hilarity ensued. The story ends with yours truly being given a ride to work in the back of a police car ("...sorry sir, it's policy."), The best part was when we pulled up to the main entrance (I admit, it was my idea) and my uniformed chauffeur got out to open the car door for me.


Yet another long story short, the van was repaired at Porter's Auto Wrecking and Service, 1793 N.Main St., Niles, Ohio, 44446  a local facility. When my son-in-law picked it up he pointed out that someone had apparently hit the driver's side of the front end, causing what looked to be relatively minor damage.

Oh, yeah...uh, well, the a guy that drives the Toms Tools Truck  a truck for one of our vendors accidently backed into your van. He's died since, but I'm sure his son will take care of it, here's his number. If he won't do right by you, we'll take care of it, and then sue the estate to recover the money.

Yup, he really did die. Yup, they didn't feel any need to mention the accident before being prompted. And yup, the son told us to go pound salt since we were clearly making the whole thing up and just trying to rip off his dead father.

And yup, Porter's, upon being informed of this and the fact that I had to spend $200 bucks at another facility (over and above the $1400 bucks I had already paid them) to get a headlight, left front turn signal assembly (used) and a battery (new). so I could actually use the vehicle, never mind the body damage -- saw an opening and decided that the issue was between me and the dead guy, and also declared that I should go pound salt.

They didn't put it that crudely, I confess I was the one that got a little crude.

They were somewhat preoccupied with trying to not look directly at me while keeping an eye on the frightened looking customer standing nearby, who was keeping an eye on me. Now, while I know the who, what, when (more or less) and where, why is a mystery.

Having endured a somewhat unpleasant decade that began in the spring of 2005, I'm in denial in that I refuse to believe that God/the cosmos/bad karma/etc. are responsible because that might mean I've begun another decade that's going to suck sweaty socks.

As to why the dead guys son chooses to dishonor his father's memory, or why the repair shop took the high road at first, or why they don't split the difference and craft an honorable compromise -- who knows? People do stupid shit when money is involved, even relatively trivial sums.You can take that to the bank.

The name of the repair shop and the tool vendor has been crossed out so that I can avoid being on the receiving end of a lawsuit. My lawyer says I'm on the side of the angels; he's urging me to report the non-reported accident to the local police. I'm going to see my car insurance guy this week and get his opinion. I haven't made a claim in a decade, so I'm hoping that if I do I won't have a rate increase or be canceled. I figure that if he leaves me holding the bag at least I'll be forewarned that I may have indeed begun another decade of sweaty sock sucking.

Since the above is about a thousand words, my unofficial limit, I won't mention that I paid extra to have my power steering pump replaced, along with the tranny, and that the unnamed facility forgot to top off the power steering reservoir. Anyway, it was only short about half a quart. If you had the radio turned up you could hardly hear the pump gasping for more fluid on turns.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Political Tidbits

Depending on whose numbers you trust, somewhere between a quarter and a third of Republicrats would like to see the Donald become our next president. This is in spite of the fact the King of Combovers publicly disparaged one of his (zir) rivals, the formidable Carly Fiorina (in this day and age!) based on her (hir) looks. "Look at that face. Would anyone vote for that?"

Were I not as high-minded as I am I would urge my tens of readers to search the web for easily available pictures of the Donald's combover caught by the wind, but I'm above that sort of thing.

Also, somewhere between a quarter and a third of Depublicans would like Bernie Sanders to be the nation's next CEO. The 74-year-old Mr. Sanders, a left-wing activist and politician for most of his (zirs) adult life, has more executive experience than Mr. Obama (who became president, twice, without having any). He (ze) ran the sprawling metropolis of Burlington, Vermont, currently the 870'th largest metropolitan area in the US, as mayor, for eight years in the eighties.

He (ze) taught political science for a minute and then landed in Congress in 1991, where he's (ze's) been ever since. Even the mathematically challenged, a group that includes me, can deduce that Mr. Sanders has been a proud member of The Gubmint (aka The Leviathan) for 24 years.

The Wall Street Journal recently estimated that Mr. Sanders spending proposals have a tab of $18,000,000, approximately the same amount as our ever-expanding national debt. Of course, you have to take the estimate with a grain of salt considering what a sleazy tabloid the WSJ is. I'll wager he (ze) doesn't want to spend more than 10 or 12 trillion dollars of other people's money to turn the US into a socialist paradise.


- I'll bet that Donna Braquet won't be supporting the Donald. She's (ze's) the director of The Pride Center at the University of Tennessee. The Pride Center "...provides support, resources, and a community space for UT's LGBTQQIA and ally students, faculty, and staff...".

Ms. Braquet has come up with a way to spare us all the indignity of being tagged with offensive and potentially inaccurate gender-specific pronouns. Being a public-spirited blogger, it was my intention to delve into the many creative pronouns Ms. Braquet has cleverly coined (out of some very thin air) to deal with this problem. However, it seems that even my 39 college credits are not enough of a foundation to grasp the many subtleties involved.

I'm going to have to travel to Knoxville and attend a seminar or two before I feel comfortable expounding on, and being able to use with confidence, newly minted pronouns such as ze, zir and of course, xyr.


- Wayne Crews, who turned in his (zirs) report (Ten Thousand Commandments) for the Competitive Enterprise Institute a few months ago (and reportedly got an A) writes that "If it were a country, U.S. regulation would be the world's tenth-largest economy." Mr. Crews estimates that the total cost of complying with all the Rules & Regs is not quite $1,900,000,000,000 per year.

Seems like a lot but he (ze) says that The Gubmint only spends a paltry $60,000,000,000 a year to make sure we're following the rules, so we must be getting away with murder. While I'm in Knoxville learning to master politically correct personal pronouns I'm going visit the economics and political science departments to see if anyone can explain to me who is paying for the cost of complying with all those Rules & Regs. Personal federal income tax revenues only amount to a paltry $1,400,000,000,000,per year; I'm starting to think that someone, perhaps a lot of someones out there, is/are getting royally screwed.


- Since The Gubmint only spends $60 ,000,000,000 a year to see if we're in compliance with The Gubmint's rules it's probably occurred to some of you that __________ (please feel free to write in the name of anyone that's on your Too Stupid to Live list) is probably getting away with something and that perhaps you could be the one to bring them to justice. Hmmm, if only you had access to all those Rules & Regs.

Well, you do! Just head on over to federalregister.gov and dive in. Anyone can easily access the first million rules, a 2010 milestone, and, however many have been added since. Happy hunting!


- Finally, an apology and some giving credit where credit is due. First, the credit. The concept behind a Too Stupid to Live list was not developed by me, but rather by an ex-friend of mine, Mike R. I can't emphasize the following enough: It's a joke.  Neither one of us maintains such a list and I hope you don't either.

That said, though Mike and I are no longer friends he (ze) deserves credit for the joke, and if by some miracle I should ever make any money off of this particular post, I will track him (zir) down and give it to him (zir). I miss you Mikey, but it's just too hard to be your friend.

As for the apology, I wish to apologize to anyone in the LGBTQQIA community that I have inadvertently offended via the gender-specific pronouns used in any of my columns as well as my great not too shabby American novel that I swear I'll finish if my column ever starts making money.

I've attempted to atone for my sins by placing what I think is the pronoun Ms. Braquet would approve of in parentheses next to the offensive ones in this column. Also, note that I've turned gentle reader into gentlereader in spite of the fact there is no such word as gentlereader. My only justification is that I want to, but I think Ms. Braquet should inspire us all to get creative and update our worn out old language.

Oh poop, I just realized that (the?) Braquet might be offended by my use of Ms. and Donna. After all they both, it would seem, unfairly assume femaleness. I also used Mr. a couple of times, I gotta get my ass to Knoxville...

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

When I'm the King of America

When I'm king, the insipid phrase have a nice day will officially be changed to — have an OK day. Hang in there (no exclamation point please) will also be acceptable, but have an OK day has a certain ring to it. Life is sometimes brutal, sometimes nice, but mostly, it's just SBDD (same bonkercockie, different day). So, Omar, how was your day? Well, some of it was nice, some of it was brutal, mostly it was somewhere in between. It was OK. I didn't win the lottery, but I wasn't tortured and killed. I hung in there.

"Have a nice day!," saith the fast-food worker as she shoves the bag containing my (often jacked up) order in my general direction while not making eye contact because her focus has already shifted to the next customer and she's hoping to get the drive-thru window closed before I ask for salt, a bunch of it. 

I always ask for a bunch, so that if I get lucky, I may get two or even three packets instead of one before she snatches her hand away and the window slides shut. Now, if I'm in a reckless mood, or I'm feeling annoyed because I've tapped on the window and received a what are you still doing here glare before she reluctantly slides the window back open, I may exercise the nuclear option. 

As she reluctantly hands me my salt packets (apparently salt volume is the key determinant of profit or loss in the fast-food industry) I'll call up the warmest smile I can muster and say, "I'm sorry, may I have a few more, please? I define food as a salt delivery mechanism" in a charmingly self-effacing tone. I've even been known to chuckle. From the look on her face, I'd have to say that having to hand me salt (again!) has ruined her perfectly nice day.  

This is the second most effective way I know of to gently remind a fast-food employee associate (though chances are it will, at best, be a subliminal reminder) that there's a customer — the source of all revenue  — right here, right now, and in spite of the odds, seeking satisfaction. 

Sometimes, you have to look for it, you'll get an almost startled reaction. Wow, it's one of those sources of all revenue! I've heard stories, but I never thought I'd actually have to do more than toss the bag at them and chirp, Have a nice day!  

I know, I know, she works hard for the money and is definitely not being overpaid. I have a similar problem. However, no customers = no pay. If you want me to have a nice day, gimmiesumsalt, and don't jack up my order. Say thank you and I'll dance at your wedding (or divorce). 

What's the number one most effective way to gently nudge an FFA onto the same level of reality as oneself? Order a sundae, and ask them to make it with half strawberry and half chocolate syrup. Awkward pause. But...but there's no button for that! Hilarity ensues. You may get to meet the manager on duty.

Now, if I manage to get more than one salt packet, with a minimum of hassle, this will indeed be, at the very least, a nice moment. If I get a thank you (for giving up some of my hard-earned money), I'll know it's a sign from God and buy some scratch-off lottery tickets. Maybe I'll win big and man, wouldn't that be a nice day? 

Alternatively, it could turn ugly and snowball downhill into a brutal day via not enough salt, a jacked-up order, flat soda pop, stale buns, fries that have cooled off and reverted to their natural state (plastic), etc. And, of course, having to deal with me could nudge her day in a brutal direction.

The point is... There's a point? Yes, smartypants, there's a point. Me and Destiny (I feel as if I've come to know her) have fairly limited control over whom or what wanders into our personal reality zones and sparks a nice or brutal moment or day. Also, nice or brutal can easily morph into their opposites. 

If I win big in the lottery it might ultimately result in my degeneration into a perverted libertine and slobbering drug addict, which would be (mostly) a bad thing. If I were to be kidnaped by ISIS operatives and tortured for information because they've mistaken me for the head of the drone pilot training program but I was rescued by Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his team, that would be a nice thing and me and my work might go viral.

However, Destiny and I (who, for the record, is 76, and will be introducing me to her friends and parents when we go mall walking tomorrow), having rejected society's misguided embrace of the elusive and capricious nice day concept, choose to embrace having an OK day, and hope you do as well. 

Brutal days are going to happen to you in spite of lucky charms, prayers, and positive affirmations. Nice days are going to happen to you in spite of curses, your boss, The Fedrl Gummit, or the gummits. As long as you're not dead, no matter what happens it could always be worse, and it might even get better. But there's only so much you can do about it, so why not split the difference and strive for an OK day? OK blunts the brutal and nurtures the nice.

On a personal note, Destiny and I have decided to get married, probably next June. All of my readers are invited but please RSVP and be aware that no one will be admitted without a gift. Hang in there.

 

Round and Round and Round We Go

I'm a tweaker. No, not that kind of tweaker, I'm a post tweaker, by which I mean that I tweak my posts, not that I'm a consumer of recreational stimulants. I'm sorry to bother you with this but due to the fact my readership has snowballed (there are literally tens of people reading my work) I feel that I must be transparent about how I do things so as not to violate the trust of my readers. The fact is, I don't hesitate to make changes to anything you'll find written here.

Why? Kaizen. No, that's not a battle cry (KAI-ZEN!) it's a philosophy, and an attitude of sorts. I define it as continuous tweaking, the purpose of which is continuous improvement. I'll spare you a lecture on the who/what/when/where/why of the word because it would be boring and besides, I'm eminently unqualified to do so.

Let's just define it as a Japanese business philosophy that posits that continuous improvements (tweaking) are one of the best ways to deal with one of life's immutable laws, rust never sleeps. Toyota is really good at this sort of thing, I try to be. I don't think twice about changing my words around if I think that a given change enhances clarity or meaning, or might be funnier. So if you should have occasion to reread something you found here and it's different, well, don't be alarmed, it's me, not you.

Finally, it may be worth your while to reread anything you happened to have liked in the past, it might be better. It might not, but then you can rant about what a hoople-head I am. Kick me, spare your dog.

In my personal version of Kaizen, facts are very important. Sometimes, what is written in stone may turn out to be false and may require the services of your stone carver of choice for updates. However inconvenient this may be there's no way around it, not if you believe, as I do, that continually tweaking facts to reflect reality as it is, not as what we'd like it to be, is of the utmost importance.

I would like to rent a larger, nicer house than the one I do but if I refuse to acknowledge that I'm living in the best house I can currently afford, I risk creating a downward spiral that could end with me living in the back of my van. Though the van is paid for, my house is more comfortable and has a bathroom.

Now, when I, my snifficant others and/or the other kids on the playground have to hammer out how we're going to solve a given problem or deal with a given phenomenon, trying to agree on the facts of the matter is the place to start. If we can't agree on what's actually going on, we can't agree on a rational course of action or a solution.

The Donald, the preferred presidential candidate of wrestling and reality show fans everywhere, has assured himself, at the very least, a place in American history in part by exploiting recent violent tragedies perpetrated by illegal immigrants. He, along with our who needs context when there's blood in the water media, often ignore one inconvenient fact.

Multiple studies (feel free to google among yourselves) have come to the conclusion that immigrants, legal or not, are less likely to commit crimes of all sorts, than the natives. Round and Round and Round we go.

So, are cops deliberately killing African Americans? Is the Black Lives Matter movement correct in asserting that they are and that this justifies people chanting, "Pigs in a blanket, fry 'em like bacon," during protest marches? We don't know.

There are no legally mandated national reporting requirements for the FBI to create a database to try and answer the question. This doesn't prevent people on either side of the question from quoting from what statistics there are in order to promote their cause. But not only do we not truly know, there's no objective effort underway to find out, at least that I'm aware of. Round and Round and Round we go.

We do know that African-Americans, roughly 13% of the population of the US, commit slightly more than half of all murders and that they are mostly killing other black folks. More than 90% of murdered African-Americans are killed by other African-Americans.

Obviously, the average black citizen is just as unlikely to be a killer as the average white citizen, considerably less than 1% of the 13% I would think. Finding a solution to this factual problem would seem to be of benefit to both blacks and whites. So what. If you bring it up you're a racist if you're white, and if you're black, an uncle Tom. Round and Round and Round we go, where we stop, nobody knows.

"Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passions, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence." John Adams

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

      

The Denali/McKinley Controversy

There has been much passionate debate, wailing, teeth gnashing, rending of garments and the like over a seemingly endless controversy that has divided the nation since 1975.

The denizens of King Crank's Lair -- myself and my cadre of semi-loyal followers (you are no doubt familiar with the phrase, ...like herding cats) -- being residents of Mr. McKinleys Ohio (well, technically) are no exception. Personally, my unwavering position is written in stone -- one way or another, I don't care. I've maintained this position consistently since I first became aware there was a controversy, a few hours ago.

Being a self-identified current events junkie (see Introduction) I've been aware of the impending name change for a couple of days or so. I realize, however, that many of you, having an actual life, may be completely unaware of not only the name change but the controversy behind it as well.

Not to worry. In keeping with this blog's theoretical mission statement (by which I mean there is no actual mission statement but hey, it could happen) I present the following in the spirit of public service.

The Mount McKinley moniker was chosen by William Dickey, an explorer from Seattle who was leading some gold prospectors around and "discovered" a huge mountain. When Mr. Dickey and his buds returned to the lower 48 (do you suppose that the Hawaiians ever refer to the mainland as the eastern 48? I'm just askin'...) he wrote an article for the New York Sun newspaper about his adventures in the Klondike gold rush.

He states in his article that the first news he heard on the way out of the wilderness was that William McKinley had been nominated by the Republicrats to be president. He states that "we" decided to name the mountain after the nominee, meaning that he and his buds, based on no authority that I can find, took it upon themselves to re-name the largest mountain in North America.

Rename? Yup. According to Wikipedia, the Indians that lived there called it Denali. A German, Ferdinand von Wrangel, who ran things in Alaska for the Russians for a minute named it Tenada. The commonly used name, by the Russians, was Bolshaya Gora (big mountain). The first English name was Densmore's Mountain, Mr. Densmore being a local gold prospector. There are even more names available, but we'll stick with the more commonly used ones.

There's even an unconfirmable, but generally accepted story, that Mr. Dickey, an advocate of a gold monetary standard, named the mountain after McKinley (also a supporter of the gold standard) to mess with the heads of a bunch of prospectors he knew that supported McKinley's Depublican opponent and famous proponent of a silver standard, William Jennings Bryan.

A couple of US Geological Service reports in the early 1900s used the name Mount McKinley and when President Mckinley was assassinated in 1901, to honor him, Congress officially named the mountain after him -- 16 years later.

If the Depublicans had put that much work into Obamacare we'd have a system like Singapore's. That's how things stood until all hell broke loose in 1975. Well, maybe only a suburb of hell, certainly not center city hell.

The local Alaskan officials in charge of such things petitioned the federal officials in charge of such things to change the name back to what the Indians, who were there first after all, called the mountain -- Denali.

Into the breach stepped Ralph Straus Regula. Mr. Regula was a congressperson that proudly represented the people of Canton, Ohio from 1973 to 2009. President McKinley, though born in Niles, Ohio moved to Canton after the Civil War and the rest is, well, history.

Oh, before I forget, there's a very nice memorial in Niles that's well worth a visit if you're into that sort of thing. Also, you can visit his restored childhood home that's on the main street of town, just a few blocks from the memorial.

I just spent an all-nighter trying to find out why no one seems to care that apparently the McKinleys were the first people in the world to have a house covered with vinyl siding but I can find no mention of this fact anywhere. Rest assured I will not rest until I get to the bottom of this.

Sorry...where was I? Oh yeah, Mr. Regula. The congressperson, despite having a productive career in Congress, managed to find the time to block the name change by a series of procedural maneuvers over the years. Personally, I think a more productive use of his time would've been finding a way to change the official spelling of the word maneuvers; but you have to choose your battles and Mr. Regula was determined that President McKinley should retain the honor bestowed by Congress and fought valiantly to prevent the denaming of the mountain.

He persevered in spite of the fact Mr. McKinley had never visited Alaska or is even linked to the state or it's majestic mountain in any particular way. Well, he was the president of the country it was part of. At the time of his death, there were about 60,000 souls living in the Last Frontier, that's about the size of The Jewel of the Midwest -- Warren, Ohio (right up the road from Niles), before the local economy collapsed and they lost a few folks (20,000, more or less).

The Gubmint never sleeps. President Obama, consistent in his policy to ignore Congress whenever he knows he's right, engineered the denaming to create a sort of commercial for a three-day global warming road show in Alaska; Rob Portman, Senator (R.-OH), has reportedly issued no less than five tweets in protest.

Keep up the good work guys. Incidentally, denaming is the official technical term for changing the name of a national landmark back to one of the names it had before it had an official US Gubmint name.

By the way, it's Denali, not Mount Denali because Denali translates as, "The Big One" or "The High One" so it would be like calling it Mount The Big One or Mount The High One. Apparently, the local Indians weren't particularly creative when it came to naming things. But considering that Alaska was one of the first states to decriminalize weed, they may have been somewhat prescient.

 Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Marvin the Martian

Recently, Holman Jenkins, in his Business World column in the Wall Street Journal, wrote a piece entitled "Tesla is a Compliance Company." His point was that Elon Musk's electric car company is not based on an entrepreneur identifying or creating a market for a product or service and then getting rich, or at least make a living, by supplying that product or service (the traditional free-market route).

He maintains that Tesla generates cash flow by exploiting the system of Gubmint subsidies (carrots) and mandates (the club stick) designed to get us to buy electric cars and save the world from the alleged menace of global warming, and I agree. But that's not what I want to talk about.

I went looking for Mr. Musk's incentives and motivations. Is he in it for the money? Mr. Musk made his first fortune when he and his brother put together a web software company called Zip2 (that no longer exists) and when it was sold off he pocketed $22,000,000.  Personally, I would've retired at this point and assumed the lifestyle I was born for: rich dilettante.

You see, regression therapy has enabled me to discover that I was kidnaped by gypsies as an infant from my wealthy but dissolute family that ultimately refused to pay my ransom (it's complicated) and I was eventually won by my "father" in a poker game in the Gem Saloon in Deadwood, SD.

When he sobered up the next day he realized his mistake. Being a house painter with a large family and a modest income, the last thing he needed was another kid to feed. But his wife (my "mother") and some of his other kids thought I was cute and convinced him to keep me. But that's not what I want to talk about.

Mr. Musk, now a nouveau riche techie, spent about half of his first fortune to become a co-founder of what eventually became PayPal. When the smoke cleared this time he walked away, at the ripe old age of 32, with $165,000,000. But that's not what I want to talk about.

A few years later Mr. Musk invested in, and eventually gained control of, Tesla Motors. To stay busy during the interim, he created SpaceX, a company that delivers supplies to the International Space Station via SpaceX designed and built rockets. But that's not what I want to talk about.

What I want to talk about is why Mr. Musk started SpaceX. It wasn't because he's one of those moguls that can't ever make enough money. It was to fulfill a dream. He believes, as do I, that to survive man needs to find a way to colonize other planets.

 This is not original to him, and certainly not to me -- any number of other dreamers have come to the same conclusion by varied paths for various reasons. Mr. Musk, however, decided to do something about it. The purpose of SpaceX is to lower the cost of, and advance the technology needed to, eventually, colonize Mars. How cool is that!

A theoretical reader erupts. "COLONIZE MARS! Have you lost your mind Pufendorf! (a former nom de plume...). We're up to our ass in alligators because someone forgot to drain the swamp and you want to... ."

"HEY, hey! settle down," replies the Pufenator, in a forceful but nevertheless gentlemanly tone.

Let me explain.

I believe that individuals (as well as personkind for that matter) function best, are more alive, more -- human -- when they are striving for goals, large and small. I also believe that having shared goals takes some of the edge off of our endless struggle to get along with others. This applies to our relationships with snifficant others as well as to all the other kids on the playground.

Mr. Musk wants to go to Mars (and beyond) because, as the Discovery channel never seems to tire of pointing out, there are no shortage of potential catastrophes capable of providing us with the same fate as our late lamented friends, the dinosaurs.

Also, what if the reason we've yet to be contacted by another race, in a universe large enough to make even a Super Sized WallyWorld look small, is because it's common for a given species to be obliterated before they can spread to another planet?

I want to go to Mars and beyond because there's something in it for almost all the kids on the playground and any goal that can pull people together in these fragmented times is certainly worth consideration.

Gaia worshiping climate warriors, cricket eaters, and tree huggers would welcome a chance for Mother Earth to rid herself of some of her ungrateful parasites.

Far right, freedom obsessed wingnuts could live on a planet that features limited gubmint, where the locals get to create all the rules not specifically mentioned in the Cosmic Constitution (crazy huh?). When Texas was a country people from the US in need of a geographical cure could paint GTT, gone to Texas, on their houses and discretely vacate the neighborhood. GTT could now mean gone to Tralfamadore.

There's never a shortage of people who want to get out of Dodge.

And if you elect to stay you could help tear down all the abandoned houses in your neighborhood and fill the empty lots with gardens, already a popular pastime in certain areas of Flyoverland.

Have an OK day.


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©2015 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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