Let's review, gentlereaders. Last week I posited the following notion. Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans. My position is that if I've learned anything about the nature of reality it's that this is undeniably true. I'm certain there is no shortage of folks who would disagree with this statement, in whole or in part. It's not my style or intention to pick a fight with those who disagree with me on this or any other matter (see, Please Read This First). I may be wrong. I confess that I'm wrong about something with disturbing regularity. That's why I pointed out that if you don't think the notion is true, which I regard as both fundamental and irrefutable, you might wish to spend your valuable time and energy reading or doing something else. There will not be a part three so I hope I don't loose you, assuming you're still there.
I also pointed out, but not as clearly as I might have, that whether I'm right or wrong may not make much difference to you. If you believe in an afterlife where you will still be you, the individual entity that is reading this, then there must be a method to the madness and all that's needed is to pick the right explanation, and live accordingly. If you think death = oblivion it's possible to logically defend living any sort of life you please -- as long as you are willing to minimize or reject those pesky notions of morality and ethics.
Now, being a spiritual and philosophical agnostic, which I define as trying to keep an open mind and soul so I don't get caught comfortably napping if/when truth knocks on the front door, I'm unable to find respite in either of these two positions. Therefore, I've thought a lot about how to live, accordingly. Getting old has provided long-sought clarity. And I'm glad.
The literal meaning of the phrase life is what happens to you while you're making other plans is not hard to grasp for almost anyone over the age of seven or so. It's interesting that modern psychology has confirmed this bit of traditional wisdom. My corollary -- You don't have all that much control over your life. You never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly -- is what separates the SSC's (sexy seasoned citizens) from the callowyutes, though I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule.
When I was a callowyute I had no problem understanding that in spite of my best efforts my plans often wouldn't work out and that I wouldn't live forever -- intellectually speaking. But it didn't matter because I had years and years and years to fashion a happy, successful life. And, of course, people do die young but I certainly wouldn't be one of them.
Then I walked around the block several times and one day I realized that I might not someday be a rockstar after all. I personally have known a lot of people who have died and most have not gone peacefully in their sleep. Years and years and years went by in the blink of an eye. So, finding only limited solace in either the spiritual or the sensual realms (saints gotta' eat; libertines discover that too much pleasure is as boring as too much of anything), knowing that I could be dead before the next keystroke or that I might live for another forty years -- what to do?
First of all, relax, and try to enjoy the book/game/show/circus/______.
Personally, I imagine that I'm the hapless main character in an excellent novel, a dark comedy. I enjoy dark comedy, as long as there is at least one likable character that's trying to find their way to the light. I've been taking one step forward, and two steps back, ever since a world-class crapstorm rolled through my life in the spring of '05. This was really pissing me off until I tripped over a couple of truths someone had left on the trail I was on (it's hard to avoid tripping, even falling, when your walking backward).
Wait a minute! I don't have that much control over my life, I never have. No one does. I don't feel all that old, most days anyway, but with each passing day, I'm moving deeper into the wrong end of the actuarial tables. Formerly vague notions have become cold hard facts.
Those lucky bastards I know that at least seem to be having a much easier time of it than I have/had/will have crapstorms of their own to deal with. There are literally billions of my fellow Earthlings who consider me the lucky bastard, and I am, in comparison to them.
[Wait a sec', says the imaginary gentlereader that peers over my left shoulder are you saying limited time and narrowed options are good things?]
Yes, absolute blessings, in light of the fact no one gets out of here alive, but I forgot to acknowledge the gift of reduced energy. Once you grasp, not intellectually but in the very marrow of your bones, that your time is limited, that all you can do is all you can do, and that you can't fix everything by throwing enough energy at it -- what is truly important to you, and the best way to spend your time, will become clear. Your life might still suck sweaty socks but those trips around the block taught you to be grateful for what you have second, by second, by second because it could always be worse, and it might even get better if you wait long enough. I don't know about you but I'm prepared to keep waiting right up to the moment the reaper shows up because I'm certain that if I decided to hasten the process Publishers Clearing House would show up at my door because someone thought it would be funny to enter my name so I'd wind up back on their mailing list and be inundated with even more pointless dead tree format junk mail in my mailbox -- inhale -- and the last words I'd hear as I was floating away would be, "Somebody go get Poppa, there's a man at the door with balloons and a check!"
Second of all (there's a first of all back there somewhere...) be a hero. Most grups are heroes, the world needs heroes. If you're a grup, odds are one of the reasons you keep getting out of bed in the morning, maybe the primary reason, is in service to someone (spouse? kids? grandkids?) or something (your work? your art? your _____?) that you regard as being at least as important as yourself. Thanks.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Saturday, January 30, 2016
Saturday, January 23, 2016
I'm Glad I'm Old (Part One)
...Well, mostly. There are, of course, certain downsides to being sixty-something in spite of the fact that sixty-something is the new 39. My eyesight is slowly getting worse, and so is my hearing. Of course, my hearing loss is primarily due to all those rock concerts I went to when I was a hippie with a job (and a fondness for personal hygiene) in the seventies, not the advent of my geezerhood. I'm cool like that. Though I live with other age-related maladies, none of them are life-threatening -- at least that I know of -- I admit I have a tendency to ignore my medical problems until they become medical issues. For the sake of clarity, in my version of reality, issues is a word that does not have the exact same meaning as the word problems. To me, issues are problems that have gotten out of hand.
In my defense, my late wife had health issues, lots of 'em. They were not age related, they began at birth and were caused by the fact she was born prematurely and subsequently administered oxygen therapy because of underdeveloped lungs. The good news is that this kept her alive, the bad news is that the therapy itself damaged her lungs and eyes and led to lifelong healthproblems issues, for her and no shortage of other preemies. So be it. However, during our 21 years together she spent a lot of time dealing with doctors and a lot of time in the hospital. Here's hoping you (and I) don't ever have to endure something of a similar nature. I found out the hard way that there is no shortage of well-intended quackery loose in the world and why hospitals accidentally kill hundreds of thousands of people every year. I admit to a (semi) irrational fear of the American medical establishment.
Except for Dr. John Bellany, an avowed atheist. If it turns out he and I (agnostic) are wrong, he will still be welcomed into heaven with the cosmic equivalent of a ticker tape parade. As for me...well, I'm cautiously optimistic, but there will definitely not be a parade.
[What? Oh...yes Marie-Louise, I do seem to be drifting over the fog line, thanks. But certain things really do need to be said.]
Other than the increased likelihood of health problems/issues the only other objection I have to getting old is dealing with ennui, or, been there done that/is that all there is? syndrome. I suspect that I may be even more at risk for this sort of thing than the average old fart because I suffer from early onset ennui, which I've had since I was 16. Rather than bore you with the details I would point you to a song entitled, "Is That All There Is," composed by Leiber and Stoller. The definitive version was recorded by Peggy Lee and can be found on YouTube. Check out the recorded (skip the live) version, orchestration by Randy Newman. It's hard to believe that this was a top 40, award-winning song, particularly in comparison to the dreck that's on the radio these days. I also remember...
[Sacre' bleu! (For the record, I understand real French people don't actually use this phrase but far be it from me to pass up a cheap joke.) You claim to be glad you're old but so far all you've talked about is illness and ennui!]
Sorry, M-L, I was just clearing the decks, here comes the glad part, sort of.
The thing I enjoy the most about getting old is being comfortable in my (wrinkling, stretch marked, skin tagged, etc.) own skin -- literally and figuratively. As concerns the literal state of my skin -- and teeth and hair and my lazy eye and an advanced case of disappearing butt syndrome and no shortage of other imperfections that all continue on a forced march in the wrong direction -- so be it, so it goes, it is what it is, c'est la vie and the hell with it. I'm mentally/emotionally/philosophically at ease in my own skin because the following cosmic truth was revealed to me via a styrofoam cup filled with diet Mountain Dew purchased from a Dairy Queen in Deadwood, SC when I was a driftin' and a searchin' for my roots that had the following message printed on the side. Do you have any idea how rare it is to find diet Mountain Dew available fountain style?
Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans.
If this is not obvious to you, yet or still, for whatever reason, stop reading now. I don't want to waste your limited and valuable time. Sorry, but I believe I'm living on the planet Earth and that you're living on the planet Denial and I don't want to waste your time. Take care, see ya when, and if, you get back.
As you ride the river of life, if you live long enough and/or are smart enough to have mastered all the prerequisites necessary to obtain your SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizen) credential, you will be blessed by grasping the ramifications of the statement above. An enlightenment of sorts will take place. Some, unable to deal with what may, at first, be like a sucker punch to the gut, will flee to planet Denial, never to return. Others will need time to adjust before accepting the inevitable.
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
You may be dead before reaching the end of this _______ (you can hear the tone of the heart monitor going from beep-beep-beep to beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee in your head).
You may live for years and years, and I hope you do, assuming you're fortunate enough to have good reasons to keep getting out of bed in the morning. While this may not seem like we've gotten to the glad stuff yet, it is, and I will explain in detail why, in my next post.
[Marie-Louise stomps out the room, cursing in French under her breath.]
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
If you're not starting to a glad buzz yet, I'm sorry, the deck clearing is over. Please consider the following. If you believe in an afterlife of some sort it doesn't really matter if I'm right or wrong. Most folks that believe, believe in a version of one of the following two scenarios. Either you'll keep coming back until you get it right and achieve nirvana. Or, you will be judged, and 99.9% of you will be welcomed into paradise. Warning: There is a theologian or two that might quibble with my take on the matter.
God is infinite, by definition, which implies that she has an infinite capacity for love and forgiveness and doesn't share your distaste for those hoopleheads that don't believe in the same rules of the road that you do. Also, 99.9% you know in your heart that you're doing the best you can, so relax, and keep up the good work(s).
Or, if you believe death = oblivion you'll have nothing to worry about since there will no longer be a you. If your wrong, the 99.9% rule still applies.
Next week I'll tell you how I try to live, accordingly.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
In my defense, my late wife had health issues, lots of 'em. They were not age related, they began at birth and were caused by the fact she was born prematurely and subsequently administered oxygen therapy because of underdeveloped lungs. The good news is that this kept her alive, the bad news is that the therapy itself damaged her lungs and eyes and led to lifelong health
Except for Dr. John Bellany, an avowed atheist. If it turns out he and I (agnostic) are wrong, he will still be welcomed into heaven with the cosmic equivalent of a ticker tape parade. As for me...well, I'm cautiously optimistic, but there will definitely not be a parade.
[What? Oh...yes Marie-Louise, I do seem to be drifting over the fog line, thanks. But certain things really do need to be said.]
Other than the increased likelihood of health problems/issues the only other objection I have to getting old is dealing with ennui, or, been there done that/is that all there is? syndrome. I suspect that I may be even more at risk for this sort of thing than the average old fart because I suffer from early onset ennui, which I've had since I was 16. Rather than bore you with the details I would point you to a song entitled, "Is That All There Is," composed by Leiber and Stoller. The definitive version was recorded by Peggy Lee and can be found on YouTube. Check out the recorded (skip the live) version, orchestration by Randy Newman. It's hard to believe that this was a top 40, award-winning song, particularly in comparison to the dreck that's on the radio these days. I also remember...
[Sacre' bleu! (For the record, I understand real French people don't actually use this phrase but far be it from me to pass up a cheap joke.) You claim to be glad you're old but so far all you've talked about is illness and ennui!]
Sorry, M-L, I was just clearing the decks, here comes the glad part, sort of.
The thing I enjoy the most about getting old is being comfortable in my (wrinkling, stretch marked, skin tagged, etc.) own skin -- literally and figuratively. As concerns the literal state of my skin -- and teeth and hair and my lazy eye and an advanced case of disappearing butt syndrome and no shortage of other imperfections that all continue on a forced march in the wrong direction -- so be it, so it goes, it is what it is, c'est la vie and the hell with it. I'm mentally/emotionally/philosophically at ease in my own skin because the following cosmic truth was revealed to me via a styrofoam cup filled with diet Mountain Dew purchased from a Dairy Queen in Deadwood, SC when I was a driftin' and a searchin' for my roots that had the following message printed on the side. Do you have any idea how rare it is to find diet Mountain Dew available fountain style?
Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans.
If this is not obvious to you, yet or still, for whatever reason, stop reading now. I don't want to waste your limited and valuable time. Sorry, but I believe I'm living on the planet Earth and that you're living on the planet Denial and I don't want to waste your time. Take care, see ya when, and if, you get back.
As you ride the river of life, if you live long enough and/or are smart enough to have mastered all the prerequisites necessary to obtain your SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizen) credential, you will be blessed by grasping the ramifications of the statement above. An enlightenment of sorts will take place. Some, unable to deal with what may, at first, be like a sucker punch to the gut, will flee to planet Denial, never to return. Others will need time to adjust before accepting the inevitable.
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
You may be dead before reaching the end of this _______ (you can hear the tone of the heart monitor going from beep-beep-beep to beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee in your head).
You may live for years and years, and I hope you do, assuming you're fortunate enough to have good reasons to keep getting out of bed in the morning. While this may not seem like we've gotten to the glad stuff yet, it is, and I will explain in detail why, in my next post.
[Marie-Louise stomps out the room, cursing in French under her breath.]
You don't have all that much control over your life, you never have. You are definitely going to die. You need to live, accordingly.
If you're not starting to a glad buzz yet, I'm sorry, the deck clearing is over. Please consider the following. If you believe in an afterlife of some sort it doesn't really matter if I'm right or wrong. Most folks that believe, believe in a version of one of the following two scenarios. Either you'll keep coming back until you get it right and achieve nirvana. Or, you will be judged, and 99.9% of you will be welcomed into paradise. Warning: There is a theologian or two that might quibble with my take on the matter.
God is infinite, by definition, which implies that she has an infinite capacity for love and forgiveness and doesn't share your distaste for those hoopleheads that don't believe in the same rules of the road that you do. Also, 99.9% you know in your heart that you're doing the best you can, so relax, and keep up the good work(s).
Or, if you believe death = oblivion you'll have nothing to worry about since there will no longer be a you. If your wrong, the 99.9% rule still applies.
Next week I'll tell you how I try to live, accordingly.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Glossary
As you have no doubt noticed, unless you're a new gentlereader, I have a fondness for words that I've either stumbled on, created or distorted, that may not be available in your preferred dictionary, be it in either the electronic or dead trees format. I've defined most of them before, sometimes at length, usually briefly. Here, for your edification, and for new readers, is a list, with definitions and commentary.
Gentlereader(s): Gentle reader is an archaic literary convention used by authors in the past when they wished to address a reader directly. Having fallen out of favor, I've highjacked it and turned it into one word. When I write I always imagine that one of my gentlereaders is peering over my left shoulder to remind myself to write for real people that live in the real world. My right shoulder is reserved for my muse, Marie-Louise (pronounced Mah-ree'-Loo-eze, and with a French accent if you can do a credible one) who is left handed and prefers to be on that side so that she can scratch my back when I please her. Please stick to your assigned shoulder as Marie-Louise is picky about such things, and though slow to anger, can be a real bitch on occasion.
Bonkercockie: Bonkercockie means the same as BS, at least in my world. If you google it you will discover the inventor attributes other meanings to it as well.
Snifigant: A corruption of significant. The phrase, significant other, seems to be waiting around every corner, and anxious to say hello, not just when I'm reading but also when I'm processing video input as well. I'm not certain, but I think it's a coping mechanism that originated in my subconscious. Also, it just feels and sounds, right.
Tralfamadore: Home planet of the aliens that briefly abducted me; referenced by Kurt Vonnegut in several of his novels. (See Chapter Three,10.31.15 & This is Embarrassing, 1.1.15) Their idea of probing is to conduct friendly interviews facilitated by serving their guests warm, homemade, chewy chocolate brownies swirled with peanut butter and washed down with ice-cold whole milk.
Hooplehead: Uncertain etymology. Used by David Milch, in the best TV show of all time, Deadwood, to mean fool, dope, hick etc.
Sucks Sweaty Socks: Means exactly what you think it means. I've no idea where I got this one but I'm certain I didn't originate the term. Unfortunately, when researching the term for this post I stumbled on the fact that it has sexual fetish connotations, which sucks some of the fun out of it as far as I'm concerned. However, to me, it means the exact same thing as saying that _____ sucks, but it sounds more civilized.
The Gubmint: The federal government of the United States.
the gubmint: State and local government entities in the United States.
Callowyutes: Combination of the word callow, which according to Merriam-Webster is a "young person who does not have much experience and does not know how to behave the waygrownups grups behave" and yutes. Yutes is how Vinny pronounces the word youths in "My Cousin Vinny." I claim credit/blame for this one.
Grups: Grownups.Stolen borrowed from "Miri," an episode from the first season of Star Trek starring Kim Darby whom I didn't have an affair with in the 70's.
GFBL: Gut first, brain later. A phrase that neatly sums up, and vastly oversimplifies, a concept promulgated by several scientific disciplines that homo sapiens react instinctively, intuitively, automatically etc. first and rationally (hopefully) later. I claim credit/blame for this one, the acronym or the phrase, not the concept. I may have to rename or abandon it if it's confused with the enteric nervous system.
Buhwhuddle I know?: I claim credit/blame for this one.
Snowflakes: Individuals whose psyches have been corrupted by being awarded participation/ everyone is a winner/everyone gets a prize trophies that use terms such as microaggression and safe space, and sign petitions calling for the rewriting of the first amendment with a straight face. When I'm king I plan to appoint a blue-ribbon panel whose purpose is to discover if the person that first used the word in this context can be discovered in order to award them thePresidential Medal of Freedom King Cranks Medal of Common Sense.
Strategery: Nope, it's not strategy spelled wrong. Will Ferrell, (playing Bush, in case you've missed it) made the word famous when he used it in a Saturday Night Live sketch that satirized the Bush/Gore presidential debates. It became so popular it was used by people in the Bush administration. I use it for the same reason they did, it's funny.
Bigfeets: A new one that may or may not survive. Purely coincidental in that people debate whether or not bigfeets ever existed and/or if they still do. In my world, it serves two purposes. First, just the sound of it is funny. Second, it's my all-purpose word for, um, interesting individuals that may be more high functioning chimpanzee than homo sapien. Hey, it's just occurred to me that we're all (well, most of us) homos. If you're gay please feel free to use the expression on protest signs or banners at gay pride parades. Suggested wording: We're All Homo (Sapiens)!
Have an OK Day: This is from a post entitled, "When I'm the Kind of America" posted on 9.16.15 that explains why I prefer OK days to nice days.
The Secret of Life: The secret of life, for homo sapiens on the planet Earth anyway, is that so-called real life is just high school with money. This is my variant, and I don't even know if it's original to me, of an aphorism used by many, in many different ways, and in many different contexts. The blue-ribbon panel mentioned above will also be charged with trying to discover if any one person can be credited with creating this aphorism so they may also be awarded the King Cranks Medal of Common Sense. All decisions of your friendly neighborhood benevolent tyrant are final.
Please Note: This post was written by me, Mark Mehlmauer. Until recently, I've used various assumed names -- ever since Mullah Omar issued a fatwa sentencing me to death because of...well, it's complicated. Anyway, I thought I was off the hook when his death was confirmed last July, so I felt free to start this blog. Nobody's more aware of the Taliban's poor sense of humor than me because ...well, that's also complicated, so I should have resisted using Omar as part of my pen name as a sort of inside joke. Long story short, negotiations have been successfully completed, the fatwa has been lifted, and having only limited use of one of my legs ain't the big deal I thought it would be.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Gentlereader(s): Gentle reader is an archaic literary convention used by authors in the past when they wished to address a reader directly. Having fallen out of favor, I've highjacked it and turned it into one word. When I write I always imagine that one of my gentlereaders is peering over my left shoulder to remind myself to write for real people that live in the real world. My right shoulder is reserved for my muse, Marie-Louise (pronounced Mah-ree'-Loo-eze, and with a French accent if you can do a credible one) who is left handed and prefers to be on that side so that she can scratch my back when I please her. Please stick to your assigned shoulder as Marie-Louise is picky about such things, and though slow to anger, can be a real bitch on occasion.
Bonkercockie: Bonkercockie means the same as BS, at least in my world. If you google it you will discover the inventor attributes other meanings to it as well.
Snifigant: A corruption of significant. The phrase, significant other, seems to be waiting around every corner, and anxious to say hello, not just when I'm reading but also when I'm processing video input as well. I'm not certain, but I think it's a coping mechanism that originated in my subconscious. Also, it just feels and sounds, right.
Tralfamadore: Home planet of the aliens that briefly abducted me; referenced by Kurt Vonnegut in several of his novels. (See Chapter Three,10.31.15 & This is Embarrassing, 1.1.15) Their idea of probing is to conduct friendly interviews facilitated by serving their guests warm, homemade, chewy chocolate brownies swirled with peanut butter and washed down with ice-cold whole milk.
Hooplehead: Uncertain etymology. Used by David Milch, in the best TV show of all time, Deadwood, to mean fool, dope, hick etc.
Sucks Sweaty Socks: Means exactly what you think it means. I've no idea where I got this one but I'm certain I didn't originate the term. Unfortunately, when researching the term for this post I stumbled on the fact that it has sexual fetish connotations, which sucks some of the fun out of it as far as I'm concerned. However, to me, it means the exact same thing as saying that _____ sucks, but it sounds more civilized.
The Gubmint: The federal government of the United States.
the gubmint: State and local government entities in the United States.
Callowyutes: Combination of the word callow, which according to Merriam-Webster is a "young person who does not have much experience and does not know how to behave the way
Grups: Grownups.
GFBL: Gut first, brain later. A phrase that neatly sums up, and vastly oversimplifies, a concept promulgated by several scientific disciplines that homo sapiens react instinctively, intuitively, automatically etc. first and rationally (hopefully) later. I claim credit/blame for this one, the acronym or the phrase, not the concept. I may have to rename or abandon it if it's confused with the enteric nervous system.
Buhwhuddle I know?: I claim credit/blame for this one.
Snowflakes: Individuals whose psyches have been corrupted by being awarded participation/ everyone is a winner/everyone gets a prize trophies that use terms such as microaggression and safe space, and sign petitions calling for the rewriting of the first amendment with a straight face. When I'm king I plan to appoint a blue-ribbon panel whose purpose is to discover if the person that first used the word in this context can be discovered in order to award them the
Strategery: Nope, it's not strategy spelled wrong. Will Ferrell, (playing Bush, in case you've missed it) made the word famous when he used it in a Saturday Night Live sketch that satirized the Bush/Gore presidential debates. It became so popular it was used by people in the Bush administration. I use it for the same reason they did, it's funny.
Bigfeets: A new one that may or may not survive. Purely coincidental in that people debate whether or not bigfeets ever existed and/or if they still do. In my world, it serves two purposes. First, just the sound of it is funny. Second, it's my all-purpose word for, um, interesting individuals that may be more high functioning chimpanzee than homo sapien. Hey, it's just occurred to me that we're all (well, most of us) homos. If you're gay please feel free to use the expression on protest signs or banners at gay pride parades. Suggested wording: We're All Homo (Sapiens)!
Have an OK Day: This is from a post entitled, "When I'm the Kind of America" posted on 9.16.15 that explains why I prefer OK days to nice days.
The Secret of Life: The secret of life, for homo sapiens on the planet Earth anyway, is that so-called real life is just high school with money. This is my variant, and I don't even know if it's original to me, of an aphorism used by many, in many different ways, and in many different contexts. The blue-ribbon panel mentioned above will also be charged with trying to discover if any one person can be credited with creating this aphorism so they may also be awarded the King Cranks Medal of Common Sense. All decisions of your friendly neighborhood benevolent tyrant are final.
Please Note: This post was written by me, Mark Mehlmauer. Until recently, I've used various assumed names -- ever since Mullah Omar issued a fatwa sentencing me to death because of...well, it's complicated. Anyway, I thought I was off the hook when his death was confirmed last July, so I felt free to start this blog. Nobody's more aware of the Taliban's poor sense of humor than me because ...well, that's also complicated, so I should have resisted using Omar as part of my pen name as a sort of inside joke. Long story short, negotiations have been successfully completed, the fatwa has been lifted, and having only limited use of one of my legs ain't the big deal I thought it would be.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Barry Dyngles
From Wikipedia: "The Texas Legislature meets in regular session on the second Tuesday in January of each odd-numbered year. The Texas Constitution limits the regular session to 140 calendar days."
Also: "As a sovereign country (2014), Texas would be the 12th largest economy in the world by GDP."
So, the 12th largest economy on the planet Earth, GDP $1.65 trillion bucks, which was a country for a minute before becoming one of the United States, is a state whose legislature only gets together for less than four months, every other year. The legislators are paid $7,200 bucks per year plus a per diem of $150 bucks a day when the legislature is in session. Not a very good way to make a living.
Texas is a very pleasant place to live, jobs are plentiful and Southern hospitality is alive and wellI. See, I lived there once, briefly. But it was long enough to discover that from May to September, no matter where you go in this state that seems to go on forever, it's hot enough to melt your brain. Otherwise, I'd be planning/hoping/scheming/praying to get my butt out of Ohio and parked in Tejas asap, rather than ensconced South of the Mason-Dixon, but still well north of Texas. The exact location must remain a secret. As you can well imagine, highly fortified secret mountain lairs are not only hard to find and keep secret, once the word gets out that someone is looking for one in the neighborhood, prices start going up.
Now, while Texas is a free market paradise compared to Ohio, which has a good deal to do with the vibrant state of its economy, the gubmint is not exactly short on rules and regulations. For example, lotteries are strictly forbidden -- except for the one run by the gubmint. Casinos are illegal -- except for the Kickapoo Lucky Eagle Casino operated by the Kickapoo Traditional Tribe of Texas, formerly known as the Texas Band of Traditional Kickapoo. The original band broke up when its frontman died from an overdose of Kickapoo Joy Juice.
Bingo and raffles are heavily regulated and restricted to non-profit organizations. You can bet on horsies (as my brother Mike would put it) running in circles. This is regulated by the state gubmint and has a democratic component to it as well. The voters in a given county must vote to approve a new race track.
And then we have game rooms, which feature machines remarkably similar to slot machines. They are legal only if they offer prizes that are worth less than five bucks, no cash permitted. However, the state legislature has not seen fit to update and/or clarify the relevant law in spite of the fact that there's a low-intensity war going on between entrepreneurs that open and operate very popular game rooms (that award cash prizes) and local law enforcement agencies. The operators are always on the lookout for novel legal justifications. Seems that they often reopen soon after being raided and the lawyers are making good money from all the lawsuits. I've been unable to discover if the legislature has not acted because the game rooms are popular and they wish to leave well enough alone and/or if the brief window of time they have to pass legislation causes them to prioritize any efforts to keep the citizens of Texas on the straight and narrow.
Wikipedia says that if Ohio was a country they would have the 25th largest economy on the planet, with a GDP of $526 billion bucks -- one-third the size of Texas. In Ohio, we who have the dubious advantage of a full-time legislature, have been spared the discomforts of gambling ambiguity. Our full-time legislature, whose members are paid $60,584 bucks per year, have seen to that. Like Texas, the gubmint has a lock on lotteries. As in Texas, we have horsies running in circles, a few casinos instead of just one, non-profit raffles and bingo. All heavily and carefully regulated.
We alsohave had game rooms. Unlike Texas, when these started popping up all over the place and employing various angles to get around modest prizes, no cash rules (to the delight of their patrons) our full-time legislators wasted no time in cranking out a law to erase any ambiguity and the hammer was brought down on the miscreants by local officials that stepped up to enforce the law. And get on the evening news.
Which brings us to the unfortunately named restaurant, Barry Dyngles Pub.
I've never been there though it's located not all that far from my secret lair. This fact doesn't imply either approval or disapproval. I've not been to many places of business, local or otherwise, and don't maintain a list of firms I've no intention of ever visiting. However, the establishment in question recently had what might be it's 15 minutes of fame. It ran a promotion, still does I assume, a game called, "The Queen of Hearts." It didn't invent the game, it can be purchased at businesses that supply such things to bingo halls and the like. I'll spare you the details other than to say that it has simple rules and a jackpot that can build up, over time, to a snifigant amount via the purchase of tickets, one dollar at a time. When the jackpot kept rolling over, and over, and reached $1.8 million before finally being won, it became a news story. The bottom line is that customers were coming out of the woodwork as the excitement ratcheted up. Success! More business than they could handle. Where we gonna' park all these cars? We're gonna' need help from the local cops! The sort of problems an entrepreneur dreams of having.
Wait a minute...is this even legal?
Yup. Turns out that if you pay for the supplies needed to run the game and don't make a dime off of it, the game that is, you're welcome to the money coming in from all those extra customers. A success story in the rustbelt! Even the gubmint got excited. They wasted no time in demonstrating their willingness to do whatever it takes tomake Ohio the financial powerhouse it was before the collapse of the steel industry keep the citizens of the Buckeye State on the straight and narrow. Somehow, in spite of having four different entities keeping an eye on the four different forms of gambling allowed in Ohio (casinos, horse racing, charitable games and the Ohio lottery) nobody is officially in charge of making sure a local upscale barbecue joint ain't getting away with something.
Not to worry.
The state legislators ($60,584 yr.) that are members of the Joint Committee on Gaming and Wagering are looking into the matter. I think that the kerfuffle in question is best summed up by a quote from an article I found that was published by the paper of record of the Cambridge Ohio Micropolitan Statistical Area, population 40,876. I swear on my honor as a former cub scout, current blogger, your dilettante about town, and a man with 39 certifiable college credits that nothing in next paragraph is made up.
According to The Daily Jeffersonian, "The game has been deemed legal, though it is subject to regulation by the state's liquor control office" -- you can buy a beer at Barrys -- "inspector general and tax officials. County prosecutors also could pursue legal action, if they believe laws have been broken. Otherwise, there are no state requirements for the game."
Well, not yet.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
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Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Also: "As a sovereign country (2014), Texas would be the 12th largest economy in the world by GDP."
So, the 12th largest economy on the planet Earth, GDP $1.65 trillion bucks, which was a country for a minute before becoming one of the United States, is a state whose legislature only gets together for less than four months, every other year. The legislators are paid $7,200 bucks per year plus a per diem of $150 bucks a day when the legislature is in session. Not a very good way to make a living.
Texas is a very pleasant place to live, jobs are plentiful and Southern hospitality is alive and wellI. See, I lived there once, briefly. But it was long enough to discover that from May to September, no matter where you go in this state that seems to go on forever, it's hot enough to melt your brain. Otherwise, I'd be planning/hoping/scheming/praying to get my butt out of Ohio and parked in Tejas asap, rather than ensconced South of the Mason-Dixon, but still well north of Texas. The exact location must remain a secret. As you can well imagine, highly fortified secret mountain lairs are not only hard to find and keep secret, once the word gets out that someone is looking for one in the neighborhood, prices start going up.
Now, while Texas is a free market paradise compared to Ohio, which has a good deal to do with the vibrant state of its economy, the gubmint is not exactly short on rules and regulations. For example, lotteries are strictly forbidden -- except for the one run by the gubmint. Casinos are illegal -- except for the Kickapoo Lucky Eagle Casino operated by the Kickapoo Traditional Tribe of Texas, formerly known as the Texas Band of Traditional Kickapoo. The original band broke up when its frontman died from an overdose of Kickapoo Joy Juice.
Bingo and raffles are heavily regulated and restricted to non-profit organizations. You can bet on horsies (as my brother Mike would put it) running in circles. This is regulated by the state gubmint and has a democratic component to it as well. The voters in a given county must vote to approve a new race track.
And then we have game rooms, which feature machines remarkably similar to slot machines. They are legal only if they offer prizes that are worth less than five bucks, no cash permitted. However, the state legislature has not seen fit to update and/or clarify the relevant law in spite of the fact that there's a low-intensity war going on between entrepreneurs that open and operate very popular game rooms (that award cash prizes) and local law enforcement agencies. The operators are always on the lookout for novel legal justifications. Seems that they often reopen soon after being raided and the lawyers are making good money from all the lawsuits. I've been unable to discover if the legislature has not acted because the game rooms are popular and they wish to leave well enough alone and/or if the brief window of time they have to pass legislation causes them to prioritize any efforts to keep the citizens of Texas on the straight and narrow.
Wikipedia says that if Ohio was a country they would have the 25th largest economy on the planet, with a GDP of $526 billion bucks -- one-third the size of Texas. In Ohio, we who have the dubious advantage of a full-time legislature, have been spared the discomforts of gambling ambiguity. Our full-time legislature, whose members are paid $60,584 bucks per year, have seen to that. Like Texas, the gubmint has a lock on lotteries. As in Texas, we have horsies running in circles, a few casinos instead of just one, non-profit raffles and bingo. All heavily and carefully regulated.
We also
Which brings us to the unfortunately named restaurant, Barry Dyngles Pub.
I've never been there though it's located not all that far from my secret lair. This fact doesn't imply either approval or disapproval. I've not been to many places of business, local or otherwise, and don't maintain a list of firms I've no intention of ever visiting. However, the establishment in question recently had what might be it's 15 minutes of fame. It ran a promotion, still does I assume, a game called, "The Queen of Hearts." It didn't invent the game, it can be purchased at businesses that supply such things to bingo halls and the like. I'll spare you the details other than to say that it has simple rules and a jackpot that can build up, over time, to a snifigant amount via the purchase of tickets, one dollar at a time. When the jackpot kept rolling over, and over, and reached $1.8 million before finally being won, it became a news story. The bottom line is that customers were coming out of the woodwork as the excitement ratcheted up. Success! More business than they could handle. Where we gonna' park all these cars? We're gonna' need help from the local cops! The sort of problems an entrepreneur dreams of having.
Wait a minute...is this even legal?
Yup. Turns out that if you pay for the supplies needed to run the game and don't make a dime off of it, the game that is, you're welcome to the money coming in from all those extra customers. A success story in the rustbelt! Even the gubmint got excited. They wasted no time in demonstrating their willingness to do whatever it takes to
Not to worry.
The state legislators ($60,584 yr.) that are members of the Joint Committee on Gaming and Wagering are looking into the matter. I think that the kerfuffle in question is best summed up by a quote from an article I found that was published by the paper of record of the Cambridge Ohio Micropolitan Statistical Area, population 40,876. I swear on my honor as a former cub scout, current blogger, your dilettante about town, and a man with 39 certifiable college credits that nothing in next paragraph is made up.
According to The Daily Jeffersonian, "The game has been deemed legal, though it is subject to regulation by the state's liquor control office" -- you can buy a beer at Barrys -- "inspector general and tax officials. County prosecutors also could pursue legal action, if they believe laws have been broken. Otherwise, there are no state requirements for the game."
Well, not yet.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2016
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Bigfeets
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| Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay |
In a previous post, I used the phrase gut first, brain later. I explained that this was me vastly oversimplifying a concept accepted by mainstream science. We react emotionally and viscerally first, rationally (hopefully) later. Assuming you accept the validity of the theory of evolution, this makes perfect sense. If you don't, well... God bless us, everyone.
It's a typical day in the stone age. Og and the boys are out and about hunting. Marge and the girls are gathering -- and/or taking care of the kids, and/or doing the laundry, and/or cooking and cleaning, and/or attending a Rockerware party, and/or...
Now, Og and the boys are having a slow day and a friendly but animated argument has broken out about last nights rockball game. It started because Ug, who had won a bet with Og, began teasing Og about the fact that every time Og loses a rockball bet he rants about the poor quality of the officiating in the NRL.
They're walking through a wooded area, and not paying attention, when they stroll into a clearing and unexpectedly encounter a band of Bigfeets entering the clearing at the exact same moment from the opposite direction.
Bam, fight or flight time baby.
The homo sapiens adrenal glands shift into overdrive faster than the Billary can spin out a lie to explain why they _____ (insert your favorite scandal here). The Bigfeet's adrenal glands probably do the same. Well, that's assuming they have adrenal glands. For some reason, scientists have been unable to compile much in the way of reliable data on them.
Actually, there are only two facts that everyone seems to agree on. First, Bigfeets somehow emit a reality distortion field that has the curious effect of making any photographs or video footage of them appear as though they are at least a couple of hundred yards away. Also, the image captured always looks grainy, shaky and poorly lit.
Second, that they stink. It would seem that the latter feature would not serve them well, not now, or not when Fred and Barney roamed the Earth. As to the first, there's much controversy and speculation because it's hard to say with any certainty what the specific effects of the reality distortion field are on anything or anyone other than the technology mentioned above.
Meanwhile, back in the clearing...
The homo sapiens are having the exact same reaction they would've had upon suddenly and unexpectedly encountering a wooly mammoth with a tuskache or a brace of Jehovah Witnesses -- fight or flight.
But suppose their instinctual reaction had been to organize a nonprofit to raise money to fight tusk decay. Or suppose, upon encountering a band of bigfeet their instinctual reaction was to quickly but discretely dab a bit of cologne under each nostril, smile, and say something like, "Nice coat! I'll bet that thing keeps ya' warm! Say, if you guys are up for a bit of species to species interaction there's a watering hole at the terminus of that path over there where we can get a cold one. First round's on us!"
We (homo sapiens) might not exist, and this blog might be authored by a Bigfoot.
We like to think that we're past all that, that we would choose to react via some form of the latter scenario, and we just might. But that's just because we live (most of us anyway) in a different milieu than Og, Ug, and the boys.
If we're waiting at a bus stop in our comfortable and reasonably safe 'burb or small town, or even if we should meet a Bigfoot in the large city we live in or commute to every day, we know that, rationally, a Bigfoot (think, oh Idunno, big scary smelly homeless mildly aggressive panhandler?) is unlikely to attack and kill us.
But she might.
Our time tested fight or flight app will launch, but we may not even notice unless things get ugly and it shuts down all of our other apps and ratchets us up to survival mode.
Or, perhaps we don't notice it because it's a background program that never shuts down anymore. Perhaps it's running all the time, at least at a low level, and that's why we don't notice it unless/until things get stupid. Perhaps this is one of the many side effects of a high-speed informationally overloaded life.
Perhaps this is why Xanax is the most prescribed psychiatric drug in the USA.
Walking into the lobby of the ginormous highrise we work in, the app in question fires up again as we approach the elevators. Ug, Og, and the boys had to think twice before chasing lunch into a cave because God only knew what might be lurking in the darkness.
So, we enter the crowded but blessedly well-lit elevator full of strangers (potential threats one and all), automatically check for the most defensible spot and face forward like everyone else to avoid making eye contact. And just as the door to the cave/coffin starts to close (gulp!) someone yells, in a friendly voice, "Hold the elevator, please!"
Somebody helpfully sticks their arm out, the doors reverse direction, and the big scary smelly homeless mildly aggressive panhandler nimbly steps into the cave/coffin.
She doesn't face forward.
Grinning from ear to ear she scans the cave/coffin like a politician or someone recently recruited by Amway and makes eye contact with as many people as possible. As the elevator starts to ascend she says, "Oops, my bad!" and then turns around and presses the button for every - single - floor. She turns around again and resumes grinning and scanning.
You can almost smell the adrenalin.
When the elevator stops on the second floor a startled receptionist witnesses everyone on a crowded elevator car trying to exit simultaneously. They all make a beeline to his desk, including our new friend, who keeps cheerfully repeating, "Where's the party?" as she looks around inquisitively. They silently ask the receptionist to call security with their eyes and facial expressions.
He's on it.
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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©2017 Mark Mehlmauer (The Flyoverland Crank)
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Sunday, December 27, 2015
Christmas 2015
Well, Christmas has come and gone. A certain young woman of my acquaintance, who had relatively recently turned 13, relatively recently revealed to me that the result of her recent reflections regarding the holiday has resulted in some remarkable revelations. Sorry, I'll stop.
Now that she's no longer a child, she's noticed that though Christmas still rocks, it's just not the same as it was last year -- when she was still a kid. We had this conversation about a week before Christmas and sheremarked mentioned to me that last year at this same time (2014) her emotions had begun ramping up to what by Christmas Eve was what I would've called, when I was her age, a full blown Purple Leptic Fit, or at the very least, a nervous breakdown.
For the Record: When and where I was but a wee lad, several thousand days ago, a Purple Leptic Fit meant the same thing that flipping out or freaking out does now. Googling the phrase will point you to novelist Chuck (Note: Effective illustration of the potential long-term side effects of the plague of moniker malpractice currentlyravaging the realm infecting the culture) Dickens "Great Expectations." However, when I was 12, and living on the Sou-side a Pittsburgh, the only book of Chucks that I was familiar with at the time was the famous novella, "A Christmas Carol." I hadn't read it, I've yet to read it, but I have seen most of the movie versions including the best one, Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol, an animated musical. Move along, move along, no snobby literary allusions to see here folks.
Anyway... I responded to my favorite trumpet playing, cook, interior decorator, and future lawyer by pointing out, as gently as possible, that unfortunately this was the nature of the beast in question. At some point the magic starts fading and we feel like we're missing something because we're unlikely to experience Christmas with quite the same intensity ever again. However, if we're lucky, we'll have access to some kids still young enough to go as berserk as we once did in the week leading up to the holiday. Better a thrill once removed than no thrill at all. What I failed to point out -- in my defense it was because I hadn't yet read a brilliant article in the Wall Street Journal by a Clare Ansberry that's about believing in Santa Clause -- was that parents go to exhausting and expensive lengths to perpetrate this happy hoax because, "... Christmas often represents their own fondest childhood memories." That, "It signifies the all-too-short time in a child's life when everything is good and nothing impossible." Exactly. Therefore, a good egg, such as herself, can look forward to doing her duty and participating in the hoax for the rest of her life. She doesn't even need to have her own kids to do so.
So of course, this got to me thinking about hedonic adaptation. (It's not you, it's me, I've always been like this.)
According to Wikipedia: "The hedonic treadmill, also known as hedonic adaptation, is the observed tendency of humans to quickly return to a relatively stable level of happiness despite major positive or negative events or life changes."
Now in case you haven't been paying attention, or have an actual life, studies have been conducted, books and articles written, hypotheses and conclusions debated, etc. Fear not, gentlereaders, I'm not about to offer up a lecture on the subject. As is the case regarding the myriad subjects that I, your dilettante about town, am interested in, I'm singularly unqualified to do so. This used to be a source of some embarrassment to me -- the fact that I'm not an expert, specialist, go to guy, or the like -- as concerns, well, anything. However, one of the many unexpected compensations of getting old, at least for me, is finally figuring out just what it is I'm about, and accepting it. Also, I've found comfort in that bit of folk wisdom that states that an expert is a bonkercockie artist at least 50 miles from home.
Anyway... Notice that the definition offered up by Wikipedia doesn't say that if you win a large enough prize in a lottery or some similar sort of endeavor and realize one of my (and I have reason to suspect many other people's) fondest dreams, F.U. level wealth...
Or, that if you get hit by a bus, and it takes a year or two to successfully(more or less) put Humpty Dumpty together again, that you will be happy. It says that you will "quickly return to a relatively stable level of happiness."
The good news is this phenomenon is widely studied, researched and documented; you can add it to your Facts are Stubborn Things list; you should keep it in mind. The bad news is that if you were miserable by nature before the life-altering event, odds are you will still be miserable after the smoke clears and you return to your stable level. On a side note, I highly recommend that if, "Money is the root of all evil" is on your Stubborn Things list that you cross it off and write: Money has the potential to be the root of much evil or good, but more importantly, the lack of enough money to fund a modest and virtuous lifestyle sucks sweaty socks.
What have we learned Dorothy?
It's not you, It's me.Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause. You really should read, or resuscitate and re-read, a remarkably relevant previous post, my first, The Pursuit of Contentment.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Now that she's no longer a child, she's noticed that though Christmas still rocks, it's just not the same as it was last year -- when she was still a kid. We had this conversation about a week before Christmas and she
For the Record: When and where I was but a wee lad, several thousand days ago, a Purple Leptic Fit meant the same thing that flipping out or freaking out does now. Googling the phrase will point you to novelist Chuck (Note: Effective illustration of the potential long-term side effects of the plague of moniker malpractice currently
Anyway... I responded to my favorite trumpet playing, cook, interior decorator, and future lawyer by pointing out, as gently as possible, that unfortunately this was the nature of the beast in question. At some point the magic starts fading and we feel like we're missing something because we're unlikely to experience Christmas with quite the same intensity ever again. However, if we're lucky, we'll have access to some kids still young enough to go as berserk as we once did in the week leading up to the holiday. Better a thrill once removed than no thrill at all. What I failed to point out -- in my defense it was because I hadn't yet read a brilliant article in the Wall Street Journal by a Clare Ansberry that's about believing in Santa Clause -- was that parents go to exhausting and expensive lengths to perpetrate this happy hoax because, "... Christmas often represents their own fondest childhood memories." That, "It signifies the all-too-short time in a child's life when everything is good and nothing impossible." Exactly. Therefore, a good egg, such as herself, can look forward to doing her duty and participating in the hoax for the rest of her life. She doesn't even need to have her own kids to do so.
So of course, this got to me thinking about hedonic adaptation. (It's not you, it's me, I've always been like this.)
According to Wikipedia: "The hedonic treadmill, also known as hedonic adaptation, is the observed tendency of humans to quickly return to a relatively stable level of happiness despite major positive or negative events or life changes."
Now in case you haven't been paying attention, or have an actual life, studies have been conducted, books and articles written, hypotheses and conclusions debated, etc. Fear not, gentlereaders, I'm not about to offer up a lecture on the subject. As is the case regarding the myriad subjects that I, your dilettante about town, am interested in, I'm singularly unqualified to do so. This used to be a source of some embarrassment to me -- the fact that I'm not an expert, specialist, go to guy, or the like -- as concerns, well, anything. However, one of the many unexpected compensations of getting old, at least for me, is finally figuring out just what it is I'm about, and accepting it. Also, I've found comfort in that bit of folk wisdom that states that an expert is a bonkercockie artist at least 50 miles from home.
Anyway... Notice that the definition offered up by Wikipedia doesn't say that if you win a large enough prize in a lottery or some similar sort of endeavor and realize one of my (and I have reason to suspect many other people's) fondest dreams, F.U. level wealth...
Or, that if you get hit by a bus, and it takes a year or two to successfully(more or less) put Humpty Dumpty together again, that you will be happy. It says that you will "quickly return to a relatively stable level of happiness."
The good news is this phenomenon is widely studied, researched and documented; you can add it to your Facts are Stubborn Things list; you should keep it in mind. The bad news is that if you were miserable by nature before the life-altering event, odds are you will still be miserable after the smoke clears and you return to your stable level. On a side note, I highly recommend that if, "Money is the root of all evil" is on your Stubborn Things list that you cross it off and write: Money has the potential to be the root of much evil or good, but more importantly, the lack of enough money to fund a modest and virtuous lifestyle sucks sweaty socks.
What have we learned Dorothy?
It's not you, It's me.Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause. You really should read, or resuscitate and re-read, a remarkably relevant previous post, my first, The Pursuit of Contentment.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Grups v. Snowflakes
I've always wondered who it was that thought up the idea of getting an advertiser to pay a given radio station to regularly state something like: This broadcast is coming to you live from the studios of The Flyoverland Crank. The Flyoverland Crank -- bringing you enlightened infotainment since July! Pure genius. A business pays the given radio station, that they and their competitors already pay to run commercials, a premium, so that they will be mentioned briefly, but regularly, throughout the day.
If the radio station wasn't effectively competitive, wasn't attracting enough listeners to justify the premium, the money would go to a station that was. Competition.
If the advertiser wasn't effectively competitive, wasn't attracting enough customers to generate the money needed to pay the radio station a premium, one of their rivals might. Competition.
When cut-throat capitalism is working the way it should, the consumers win, the consumer has the power -- no customers, no money -- bankruptcy. We Earthlings fortunate enough to live in a country that has a sorta/kinda free market economy are the beneficiaries of cut-throat capitalism, and we love it. We love living in the most prosperous society the world has ever seen. We love the myriad choices. We love the competitive prices. We love the jobs generated...
...Until the alarm clock goes off, or the payment's due, or we lose our job, or fail as an entrepreneur. Or if the philistines/the 1%/the dean/the boss/or dad just don't/doesn't appreciate our delicate sensibilities, and the fact that snowflakes need to be nurtured (and subsidised) lest they melt in the heat generated by the daily struggle for three all natural, organic hots and an adjustable Tempur-Pedic cot.
Well then, then capitalism/the market/the system/the rat race -- sucks sweaty socks.
This is when the grups (grownups) are separated from the snowflakes.
We're the grups! We know that every coin has a head and a tail. We've been around those often cited proverbial blocks and came in last at more damn rodeos than we care to admit. We deal with it. We take care of business, it's in the job description. We do the work, raise the kids, pay the bills, fight the wars (or, lucky us, more likely just support the ones that do), we care for the aging parents.
I'm a grup, but I've no interest in demonizing snowflakes. I do enjoy making fun of them though, I hope they will do me the honor of returning the favor. Humor trumps demonizing. Just thinking about an aging, mostly bald, chubby guy with a ponytail that's been espousing socialism for decades makes me smile. Gazillionaire actors with left wing politics, of any age or appearance, who haven't had to work at a real job since they were part-time food service workers while attending drama school make me laugh out loud.
On a vaguely related note: For the record, I've no idea where William Devane stands on anything, or if he's a gazillionaire, or what he's like in real life, but I think it should be illegal for actors to encourage people to buy gold and silver. "What's in your safe?" Unfulfilled dreams and empty promises, but thanks for asking Bill!
Some good news for snowflakes still involved with the 1% movement. If you happen to live on the planet Earth, work full time, and make at least $9.09/hr., congrats, your yearly income is greater than 99% of your fellow Earthlings. That is, assuming you define full time the traditional way, 40 hours per week, and not the Obamacare way, which is only 30 hours. But prosperity, and even living in a country that has a nationwide obesity epidemic (and you thought there was nothing new under the sun), doesn't seem to do much to help us to all get along.
You've no doubt noticed we seem to be a country devolving into warring factions. The national consensus was always a fragile structure (involving much duct tape) because we're a nation of all sorts of people from everywhere and anywhere. For that to work without employing the traditional methods, murder and subjugation, a system is needed that grants the "other guy" the same freedom and liberty we want for ourselves. Live and let live.
This was the point of the American experiment, an experiment that many others have since attempted, with mixed results. All things considered, it's amazing it's worked out for us as well as it has. We nearly exterminated the folks that we expropriated a continent from. We enslaved Africans. We had to fight a civil war because of that one. Learning nothing much, we devised another obscenity, Jim Crow. We're still trying to fix that to everyone's satisfaction. In spite of these and no shortage of other screwups, we somehow managed to become the most prosperous country the world has ever seen, so far. And we're relatively free. And we twice elected an African-American to the most powerful job on Earth, which would not have been possible without Mr. Obama capturing approximately the same average percentage of white voters as any democratic presidential candidate in modern times.
We can take comfort in the fact we've done some good. That we may have moved a few rungs up the ladder in the direction of being truly civilized -- history will tell. That we're still trying.
I've read that scholars say that various cultures in the ancient Mideast thought that as we move forward in time we're facing the past, that the future is behind us. In other words, that we walk through life backward. This was because they valued the past, as I read somewhere recently, a little too much. This meme would seem to stand in start contrast to the way the modern world in general, America in particular, views life. We believe we're facing forward and racing forward. Who has time to worry about history? We're constantly running behind while simultaneously trying to stay one step ahead of the information tsunami.
I think most of us have more in common with the citizens of the ancient cultures of Mesopotamia and Eygpt than we realize. They walked backward through life, we run backward through life. The cult of victimhood encourages us to run backward while never taking our eyes off of what happened to us -- or whatever groups we've decided we're part of -- last week, last month, last year, etc. This process doesn't even stop at the womb. Look what happened to my parents, my grandparents, my ancestors, my country, my _____. Please feel free to fill in the blank with the grievance(s) of your choice.
Learn (from) history. As you may have heard, it will save you from having to relearn lessons someone else already learned the hard way. But the past is gone, the future is a maybe. Turn around, now, before something or someone smacks you in the back of the head.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
I
If the radio station wasn't effectively competitive, wasn't attracting enough listeners to justify the premium, the money would go to a station that was. Competition.
If the advertiser wasn't effectively competitive, wasn't attracting enough customers to generate the money needed to pay the radio station a premium, one of their rivals might. Competition.
When cut-throat capitalism is working the way it should, the consumers win, the consumer has the power -- no customers, no money -- bankruptcy. We Earthlings fortunate enough to live in a country that has a sorta/kinda free market economy are the beneficiaries of cut-throat capitalism, and we love it. We love living in the most prosperous society the world has ever seen. We love the myriad choices. We love the competitive prices. We love the jobs generated...
...Until the alarm clock goes off, or the payment's due, or we lose our job, or fail as an entrepreneur. Or if the philistines/the 1%/the dean/the boss/or dad just don't/doesn't appreciate our delicate sensibilities, and the fact that snowflakes need to be nurtured (and subsidised) lest they melt in the heat generated by the daily struggle for three all natural, organic hots and an adjustable Tempur-Pedic cot.
Well then, then capitalism/the market/the system/the rat race -- sucks sweaty socks.
This is when the grups (grownups) are separated from the snowflakes.
We're the grups! We know that every coin has a head and a tail. We've been around those often cited proverbial blocks and came in last at more damn rodeos than we care to admit. We deal with it. We take care of business, it's in the job description. We do the work, raise the kids, pay the bills, fight the wars (or, lucky us, more likely just support the ones that do), we care for the aging parents.
I'm a grup, but I've no interest in demonizing snowflakes. I do enjoy making fun of them though, I hope they will do me the honor of returning the favor. Humor trumps demonizing. Just thinking about an aging, mostly bald, chubby guy with a ponytail that's been espousing socialism for decades makes me smile. Gazillionaire actors with left wing politics, of any age or appearance, who haven't had to work at a real job since they were part-time food service workers while attending drama school make me laugh out loud.
On a vaguely related note: For the record, I've no idea where William Devane stands on anything, or if he's a gazillionaire, or what he's like in real life, but I think it should be illegal for actors to encourage people to buy gold and silver. "What's in your safe?" Unfulfilled dreams and empty promises, but thanks for asking Bill!
Some good news for snowflakes still involved with the 1% movement. If you happen to live on the planet Earth, work full time, and make at least $9.09/hr., congrats, your yearly income is greater than 99% of your fellow Earthlings. That is, assuming you define full time the traditional way, 40 hours per week, and not the Obamacare way, which is only 30 hours. But prosperity, and even living in a country that has a nationwide obesity epidemic (and you thought there was nothing new under the sun), doesn't seem to do much to help us to all get along.
You've no doubt noticed we seem to be a country devolving into warring factions. The national consensus was always a fragile structure (involving much duct tape) because we're a nation of all sorts of people from everywhere and anywhere. For that to work without employing the traditional methods, murder and subjugation, a system is needed that grants the "other guy" the same freedom and liberty we want for ourselves. Live and let live.
This was the point of the American experiment, an experiment that many others have since attempted, with mixed results. All things considered, it's amazing it's worked out for us as well as it has. We nearly exterminated the folks that we expropriated a continent from. We enslaved Africans. We had to fight a civil war because of that one. Learning nothing much, we devised another obscenity, Jim Crow. We're still trying to fix that to everyone's satisfaction. In spite of these and no shortage of other screwups, we somehow managed to become the most prosperous country the world has ever seen, so far. And we're relatively free. And we twice elected an African-American to the most powerful job on Earth, which would not have been possible without Mr. Obama capturing approximately the same average percentage of white voters as any democratic presidential candidate in modern times.
We can take comfort in the fact we've done some good. That we may have moved a few rungs up the ladder in the direction of being truly civilized -- history will tell. That we're still trying.
I've read that scholars say that various cultures in the ancient Mideast thought that as we move forward in time we're facing the past, that the future is behind us. In other words, that we walk through life backward. This was because they valued the past, as I read somewhere recently, a little too much. This meme would seem to stand in start contrast to the way the modern world in general, America in particular, views life. We believe we're facing forward and racing forward. Who has time to worry about history? We're constantly running behind while simultaneously trying to stay one step ahead of the information tsunami.
I think most of us have more in common with the citizens of the ancient cultures of Mesopotamia and Eygpt than we realize. They walked backward through life, we run backward through life. The cult of victimhood encourages us to run backward while never taking our eyes off of what happened to us -- or whatever groups we've decided we're part of -- last week, last month, last year, etc. This process doesn't even stop at the womb. Look what happened to my parents, my grandparents, my ancestors, my country, my _____. Please feel free to fill in the blank with the grievance(s) of your choice.
Learn (from) history. As you may have heard, it will save you from having to relearn lessons someone else already learned the hard way. But the past is gone, the future is a maybe. Turn around, now, before something or someone smacks you in the back of the head.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
I
Saturday, December 12, 2015
When I'm the King Of America... (No. 2)
...I'm going to bring back Sunday blue laws. I've stated in a past post ("The 6.5 Commandments") that I don't support blue laws, but I've changed my mind. With no disrespect intended to any Type A types that thrive on the hyperactive pace of our current culture, or at least claim to, I suspect most of us would like a chance to catch our breath, smell the coffee, read the book, watch the game, etc.
Please Note: Sunday sports, particularly professional football and the enormous industry that supports it, will be exempted.
I'm not a sports fan. In fact, there's a false rumor loose in the realm that claims I've stated that if Lenin were alive today he would say that sports is the opiate of the masses. However, I firmly believe that professional sports serve a vital function -- as (mostly) harmless entertainment. ISIS, ISIL, Daesh, DAISH, Da'esh, Daech, Khilafat, the Islamic State -- or whatever their being called this week (just don't dare say Islamic terrorists) -- openly embraces murder, kidnapping, slavery and posting beheading videos on the web. In spite of Mr. Obama's assurances that his policies are shrinking this tumor, common sense seems to indicate it's still growing. Dr. Crank prescribes escapist entertainment, lots of it. Particularly on America's newly minted official day off.
Also, football, particularly American-style football, serves as a (mostly) harmless outlet for the violent tendencies we've inherited from our evolutionary predecessors. They are alive and well and living in comfortable apartments in obscure, but safe and long-established neighborhoods deep within the homo sapien brain. Ignore them at your peril.
Irony Alert: American-style professional football, our most popular sport, often criticized for how violent it is, is played by highly-paid, elite professionals and the violence is (usually) limited to the playing field. Professional football in most of the rest of the world, a sport approved by eight out of ten moms because it's allegedly not a violent sport, is played by highly-paid, elite professionals, and the violence is (usually) limited to the spectators. Occasionally, people are killed.
Now, having promised in the past to be a benevolent tyrant (BT), a promise I intend to keep, I hesitate to reimpose Sunday blue laws. I believe the playground should have as few rules as possible, just enough to maintain order, maintain the playground, and neutralize the bullies.
(Incidentally, I consider bullies to be not only the thugs that seek power over others by physical force or social dominance. Bullies are also the kids that are prepared to cheat, steal, lie, etc. -- to engage in whatever unethical or immoral behavior is necessary to win at a particular game. The kids that don't play fair. You've been warned.)
However, as your king, 'tis my duty to keep a wary eye on the big picture. This includes monitoring the emotional health of the subjects of my realm. After all, since God him/her self (a BT must acknowledge political correctness lest they rouse the rabble) has bestowed this office upon me I must do all in my power to keep thee happy, and well adjusted.
Aside: The preceding paragraph perfectly illustrates why the concept of rule by divine right is so popular with me and my fellow kings. Note how easy it is to justify my being the boss of you while acting like I'm doing you a favor, and hinting that being the king is a divinely mandated burden that I'm willing to deal with for your sake. While the world has mostly/sort of/technically moved beyond kings there's no shortage of kings in disguise. I once had a boss that was a saint on Sunday and a scheming weasel the rest of the week. He honestly believed that his McMansion and well-fed bank accounts were earthly manifestations of divine approval. Otherwise, God wouldn't have gone to the trouble of personally supplying him with so many "blessings."
Now, if thou wert behaving thy selves, I wouldst not be forced to intervene in thine humble but busy little lives. Busy, busy little lives. Hence, we therefore proclaim that...
(It was at this point that my muse, thankfully, administered a psychic slap to the back of my head. This served to jolt me out of the embarrassing slide into kingly pomposity on display in the preceding paragraphs.We SMACK! I, apologize.
I'm going to bring back Sunday blue laws to give my subjects an excuse to take a day off without feeling guilty, having to worry about your competitor being open, to discourage your boss/employee/bill collectors, etc., from calling you. Please think of it as a gift and not yet another rule imposed upon you by The Gubmint, or the gubmint, for your own good. A committee of prominent citizens appointed by the governor of each state will decide on the rules; public opinion will serve to keep them in line so they reflect the wishes and values of the citizens of each state. Obviously essential services will have to be provided but a Sunday premium will have to be paid to reward those who have to work while letting the free market do its magic to minimize the amount of people that have to.
Sample Rule: Donut shops will only be permitted to open until noon. Churches are encouraged (but not required) to have only two services, 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m, that are no more than one hour long so that those attending the later service have time to purchase donuts on the way home. Recommended dosage is no more than two donuts for each person living in a given household.
Let's be a shining city on a hill the rest of the world looks to for guidance.
(The following sentence will be more infotaining if you have enough imagination to hear it spoken with some sort of foreign accent, in your head. Warning: Speaking it out loud may lead to a charge of political incorrectness, for which King Crank accepts no responsibility.)
"Those crazy, greedy Americans! The only reason they have the largest GDP on the planet is because they work their asses off 24/6 -- but they sure know how to take a day off to enjoy it.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Please Note: Sunday sports, particularly professional football and the enormous industry that supports it, will be exempted.
I'm not a sports fan. In fact, there's a false rumor loose in the realm that claims I've stated that if Lenin were alive today he would say that sports is the opiate of the masses. However, I firmly believe that professional sports serve a vital function -- as (mostly) harmless entertainment. ISIS, ISIL, Daesh, DAISH, Da'esh, Daech, Khilafat, the Islamic State -- or whatever their being called this week (just don't dare say Islamic terrorists) -- openly embraces murder, kidnapping, slavery and posting beheading videos on the web. In spite of Mr. Obama's assurances that his policies are shrinking this tumor, common sense seems to indicate it's still growing. Dr. Crank prescribes escapist entertainment, lots of it. Particularly on America's newly minted official day off.
Also, football, particularly American-style football, serves as a (mostly) harmless outlet for the violent tendencies we've inherited from our evolutionary predecessors. They are alive and well and living in comfortable apartments in obscure, but safe and long-established neighborhoods deep within the homo sapien brain. Ignore them at your peril.
Irony Alert: American-style professional football, our most popular sport, often criticized for how violent it is, is played by highly-paid, elite professionals and the violence is (usually) limited to the playing field. Professional football in most of the rest of the world, a sport approved by eight out of ten moms because it's allegedly not a violent sport, is played by highly-paid, elite professionals, and the violence is (usually) limited to the spectators. Occasionally, people are killed.
Now, having promised in the past to be a benevolent tyrant (BT), a promise I intend to keep, I hesitate to reimpose Sunday blue laws. I believe the playground should have as few rules as possible, just enough to maintain order, maintain the playground, and neutralize the bullies.
(Incidentally, I consider bullies to be not only the thugs that seek power over others by physical force or social dominance. Bullies are also the kids that are prepared to cheat, steal, lie, etc. -- to engage in whatever unethical or immoral behavior is necessary to win at a particular game. The kids that don't play fair. You've been warned.)
However, as your king, 'tis my duty to keep a wary eye on the big picture. This includes monitoring the emotional health of the subjects of my realm. After all, since God him/her self (a BT must acknowledge political correctness lest they rouse the rabble) has bestowed this office upon me I must do all in my power to keep thee happy, and well adjusted.
Aside: The preceding paragraph perfectly illustrates why the concept of rule by divine right is so popular with me and my fellow kings. Note how easy it is to justify my being the boss of you while acting like I'm doing you a favor, and hinting that being the king is a divinely mandated burden that I'm willing to deal with for your sake. While the world has mostly/sort of/technically moved beyond kings there's no shortage of kings in disguise. I once had a boss that was a saint on Sunday and a scheming weasel the rest of the week. He honestly believed that his McMansion and well-fed bank accounts were earthly manifestations of divine approval. Otherwise, God wouldn't have gone to the trouble of personally supplying him with so many "blessings."
Now, if thou wert behaving thy selves, I wouldst not be forced to intervene in thine humble but busy little lives. Busy, busy little lives. Hence, we therefore proclaim that...
(It was at this point that my muse, thankfully, administered a psychic slap to the back of my head. This served to jolt me out of the embarrassing slide into kingly pomposity on display in the preceding paragraphs.
I'm going to bring back Sunday blue laws to give my subjects an excuse to take a day off without feeling guilty, having to worry about your competitor being open, to discourage your boss/employee/bill collectors, etc., from calling you. Please think of it as a gift and not yet another rule imposed upon you by The Gubmint, or the gubmint, for your own good. A committee of prominent citizens appointed by the governor of each state will decide on the rules; public opinion will serve to keep them in line so they reflect the wishes and values of the citizens of each state. Obviously essential services will have to be provided but a Sunday premium will have to be paid to reward those who have to work while letting the free market do its magic to minimize the amount of people that have to.
Sample Rule: Donut shops will only be permitted to open until noon. Churches are encouraged (but not required) to have only two services, 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m, that are no more than one hour long so that those attending the later service have time to purchase donuts on the way home. Recommended dosage is no more than two donuts for each person living in a given household.
Let's be a shining city on a hill the rest of the world looks to for guidance.
(The following sentence will be more infotaining if you have enough imagination to hear it spoken with some sort of foreign accent, in your head. Warning: Speaking it out loud may lead to a charge of political incorrectness, for which King Crank accepts no responsibility.)
"Those crazy, greedy Americans! The only reason they have the largest GDP on the planet is because they work their asses off 24/6 -- but they sure know how to take a day off to enjoy it.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
Melting Pot, Conclusion
What follows will make more sense in you read parts one and two.
'Tis the fall of 1966 and our unsophisticated little inner-city refugee finds himself in a suburban school. He is, to put it mildly, pleasantly surprised.
Being a relatively normal 13-year old hormone saturated male with relatively normal teenage insecurities I had picked up on the fact, within about two seconds, that this sea of strangers I had just been introduced to all seemed to be better coiffed and clothed than I was. Not good.
However, a kid named Ed, whose desk was next to the one I had been assigned to had, without prompting from our nun/teacher, or any other grup for that matter, had appointed himself my guide to all things eighth grade, smart class. There was ample time for information exchange as we were assigned our textbooks (and this years catechism text) and briefed on the policies and procedures of my new school in general, this class in particular.
He was handsome, perfectly coiffed blond, and fit. He wore a bright red, crushed velvet, v-necked pullover shirt with leather laces in the V. I would describe this particular shirt as tacky and pretentious if I saw it today, but hey, it was the sixties. I was a, um, not handsome, slightly portly, product of the working class with a "regular boys haircut" from the Sou-side barber school. You know, the one up the street from Antknees fodder's shoe repair shop. I had a lazy eye. He treated me as though I was as pretty as he was.
Sister whatever her name was (sorry s'ter) sent us outside at midmorning for recess. No carefully engineered for safety, lawyer resistant playground equipment. No equipment at all, just a grass covered field. This was a nicer, and larger, version of the tiny, asphalt coated, no equipment schoolyard I was used to. The only equipment we had, in either case, was our imaginations. Of course, grass stains were preferable to road rash, but mum wouldn't have any grass stains to deal with, well, not from school anyway (I wasn't a total nerd). In either case, when it was too cold, or the schoolyard was covered with snow, we spent recess in the same classroom we were caged in, with the exception of lunchtime, for the rest of the day. No gym, but no obesity epidemic either, go figure...
At this point, Ed introduced me to various fellow classmates, all of whom, every single one of them, had divided into a handful of groups that were standing around talking to each other. Not a single one was playing at something. Several had remained inside. Some were already studying, some were reading novels, some were just talking, as we who liked to get out of the building were. I didn't have to engage in various games that held no interest for me to prove my manhood? I could, instead, just stand around, talking, or participate in a group walk around the block, while talking? This was quite popular for some reason though there were no vaguely sleazy hangouts with pinball machines in the back room to visit, just suburban homes.
What was all the talking about? The war (Vietnam), folk masses, Bob Dylan, the war, was it true that the rock group called the Monkees had been created out of thin air (sacrilege!) just to make money by evil corporate types? the war, hippies, the pill, the civil rights movement, the war, the meaning of the lyrics of the song "Mellow Yellow," the war, the Beetles, who was "going" with whom, singles (99 cents), albums ($2.99), groups (rock artists) and their songs...on and on and on. There was a soft revolution going on and the goal was nothing short of utopia. There was surprisingly little talk about sex, but this was a much more innocent time, at least for young Catholics raised to believe any form of sex outside of marriage was likely to get you sent to hell. Getting pregnant was a disgrace and got you sent to a facility for fallen girls so the world didn't have to deal with you. Divorce was the exception, not the rule. And for some reason, Agatha Christie mystery novels were all the rage in the smart eighth grade and paperbacks were traded like playing cards. And talked about of course.
By a decade or so later, everything had turned to crap. Disco was here, AIDS was just around the corner, and no shortage of pop culture icons were addicted, dead, or debased.
What happened?
While attempting to build a utopia, with an unrealistic timetable and poorly drawn blueprints, we tipped over the melting pot and set the consensus on fire.
The fire, fueled by hubris, historically unprecedented prosperity, the birth of the information age, mind-expanding drugs, and the manic pace of modern life, science and technology, that continues apace -- didn't destroy the consensus, it reduced it down to it's component parts. We became the culture of unbalanced factions James Madison warned us about.
The USA was carefully crafted to be a democratic republic, a representative form of gubmint, ruled by law -- as opposed to a democracy, a direct form of gubmint, ruled by the majority. This was because it was/is/should be obvious, that in a democracy, well-meaning/not so well-meaning (and no shortage of freaking crazy) people can band together and 51% of the folks can legally decide to behead the other 49%.
Or, decide that free speech is not permitted when a given majority decides that the words of a given minority constitute a microaggression, are politically/morally/intellectually/_______ly incorrect, or even just cause a severe case of the vapors.
Houston, we have a problem.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
'Tis the fall of 1966 and our unsophisticated little inner-city refugee finds himself in a suburban school. He is, to put it mildly, pleasantly surprised.
Being a relatively normal 13-year old hormone saturated male with relatively normal teenage insecurities I had picked up on the fact, within about two seconds, that this sea of strangers I had just been introduced to all seemed to be better coiffed and clothed than I was. Not good.
However, a kid named Ed, whose desk was next to the one I had been assigned to had, without prompting from our nun/teacher, or any other grup for that matter, had appointed himself my guide to all things eighth grade, smart class. There was ample time for information exchange as we were assigned our textbooks (and this years catechism text) and briefed on the policies and procedures of my new school in general, this class in particular.
He was handsome, perfectly coiffed blond, and fit. He wore a bright red, crushed velvet, v-necked pullover shirt with leather laces in the V. I would describe this particular shirt as tacky and pretentious if I saw it today, but hey, it was the sixties. I was a, um, not handsome, slightly portly, product of the working class with a "regular boys haircut" from the Sou-side barber school. You know, the one up the street from Antknees fodder's shoe repair shop. I had a lazy eye. He treated me as though I was as pretty as he was.
Sister whatever her name was (sorry s'ter) sent us outside at midmorning for recess. No carefully engineered for safety, lawyer resistant playground equipment. No equipment at all, just a grass covered field. This was a nicer, and larger, version of the tiny, asphalt coated, no equipment schoolyard I was used to. The only equipment we had, in either case, was our imaginations. Of course, grass stains were preferable to road rash, but mum wouldn't have any grass stains to deal with, well, not from school anyway (I wasn't a total nerd). In either case, when it was too cold, or the schoolyard was covered with snow, we spent recess in the same classroom we were caged in, with the exception of lunchtime, for the rest of the day. No gym, but no obesity epidemic either, go figure...
At this point, Ed introduced me to various fellow classmates, all of whom, every single one of them, had divided into a handful of groups that were standing around talking to each other. Not a single one was playing at something. Several had remained inside. Some were already studying, some were reading novels, some were just talking, as we who liked to get out of the building were. I didn't have to engage in various games that held no interest for me to prove my manhood? I could, instead, just stand around, talking, or participate in a group walk around the block, while talking? This was quite popular for some reason though there were no vaguely sleazy hangouts with pinball machines in the back room to visit, just suburban homes.
What was all the talking about? The war (Vietnam), folk masses, Bob Dylan, the war, was it true that the rock group called the Monkees had been created out of thin air (sacrilege!) just to make money by evil corporate types? the war, hippies, the pill, the civil rights movement, the war, the meaning of the lyrics of the song "Mellow Yellow," the war, the Beetles, who was "going" with whom, singles (99 cents), albums ($2.99), groups (rock artists) and their songs...on and on and on. There was a soft revolution going on and the goal was nothing short of utopia. There was surprisingly little talk about sex, but this was a much more innocent time, at least for young Catholics raised to believe any form of sex outside of marriage was likely to get you sent to hell. Getting pregnant was a disgrace and got you sent to a facility for fallen girls so the world didn't have to deal with you. Divorce was the exception, not the rule. And for some reason, Agatha Christie mystery novels were all the rage in the smart eighth grade and paperbacks were traded like playing cards. And talked about of course.
By a decade or so later, everything had turned to crap. Disco was here, AIDS was just around the corner, and no shortage of pop culture icons were addicted, dead, or debased.
What happened?
While attempting to build a utopia, with an unrealistic timetable and poorly drawn blueprints, we tipped over the melting pot and set the consensus on fire.
The fire, fueled by hubris, historically unprecedented prosperity, the birth of the information age, mind-expanding drugs, and the manic pace of modern life, science and technology, that continues apace -- didn't destroy the consensus, it reduced it down to it's component parts. We became the culture of unbalanced factions James Madison warned us about.
The USA was carefully crafted to be a democratic republic, a representative form of gubmint, ruled by law -- as opposed to a democracy, a direct form of gubmint, ruled by the majority. This was because it was/is/should be obvious, that in a democracy, well-meaning/not so well-meaning (and no shortage of freaking crazy) people can band together and 51% of the folks can legally decide to behead the other 49%.
Or, decide that free speech is not permitted when a given majority decides that the words of a given minority constitute a microaggression, are politically/morally/intellectually/_______ly incorrect, or even just cause a severe case of the vapors.
Houston, we have a problem.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Melting Pot, Part Two
What follows will make more sense if you read part one.
On the first day of eighth grade, I was randomly assigned to the smart class. Had I been placed in the dumb class (which we weren't supposed to call the dumb class), as I should have, I would've probably had a whole different life. While the smart class was indeed made up of smart kids, the dumb class was just everyone else, the ordinary kids -- with the exception of a few aggressively-stupid boys. Testosterone poisoning + stupidity = aggressively-stupid.
When I was 13 I thought this phenomenon was limited to boys. Turns out that girls are so much smarter than boys -- and women so much smarter than men -- that boys and men are often too stupid to spot an aggressively-stupid female. Men should be grateful that the feminist movement has made it socially acceptable for women to openly be as aggressively-stupid as men -- if they choose to reveal it to us. Makes 'em slightly less dangerous.
So, it's the first day of school, eighth grade, and I show up as required. I'm not a happy camper. I'm introverted, somewhat shy, and this is a new school. I don't know anyone, and though I love to read -- I'm willing to check out anything and everything for at least a minute -- I'm no scholar. I'm living in suburbia for the first time in my life and the school building seems huge.
Interesting paradox in that the densely packed, densely Catholic inner city neighborhood I came from had small Catholic grade schools, several of them. My new school drew from a much larger geographic area that wasn't nearly as densely populated and a given family was just as likely to be Protestant (or Satanists for all I knew at the time) as Catholic. Where I came from there were (mostly) Catholics, Protestants, and heathens. We Catholics were right, and assured a place in heaven, as long we followed all the rules. The many, many rules. Everyone else was wrong and probably going to hell, but it wasn't polite to tell them. We loved them anyway, and that's why one of our seemingly endless fund-raising drives each year was devoted to saving Pagan Babies.
Many of the many, many rules have radically changed, or vanished, since I was a kid. I can't help but wonder if there's a get out of hell free card available for anyone that died in sin before a priest could get there to punch their ticket to paradise.
Now, though it may seem as though I'm digressing my butt off what I'm actually doing is trying to paint a picture with words, to contrast my life before eighth grade with what came next. Though officially a typical, conservative Catholic grade school, run by a nun that had the sensibilities of a USMC Drill Instructor, there was music in the cafes (church social hall) at night and revolution in the air. And I was randomly placed in the "smart" class of eighth graders because though I had been properly registered by my mum, no one had decided which eighth grade I should be in and added my name to the appropriate list. Instead, two nuns had a brief conversation and it was decided on the spot to put me in with the smart kids and see what happened. They could always dumb me down later if necessary.
Well, I managed to hold my own, in spite of Algebra. For the first time in my life, I had more than one teacher for the entire day. We didn't change classes, we changed teachers. We had a very cool nun come in to teach us Algebra, which took the edge off of that particular nightmare. We had a male lay teacher come in for Science, my first experience with a teacher that wasn't a woman. He wasn't nearly as cool as our Algebra nun, but the girls thought he was a cutie. Curiously, I can't remember either of their names or the name of the nun we had for all of our other classes. I can recall the names of almost all the other nuns and teachers I had up until this point, and most of my high school teachers as well. This puzzles me because it was the best year of school I ever had. I can't remember the name of the nun I had in first grade, but I've probably blocked it out because I was so traumatized (GRIN). There's a vicious rumor that claims one of my older sisters once had to unclench my fists from a wrought iron fence that I had latched onto in a futile attempt to keep from going to school that I refuse to either confirm or deny. However, it serves as a perfect illustration of how I felt about formal schooling as a child.
Returning to the fall of '66...it was the kids that made eighth grade my favorite school year. I was triply disadvantaged because they were, first, as a group, much more worldly, sophisticated and downright cooler than I was. They had older siblings in high school and college that were in the thick of the late sixties. My older sibs were out of high school and living, working and making babies in the real world. Not a one of them even lived in a commune. Also, many had parents that were professionals of some sort that made a lot more money than my blue collar dad and stay at home mom. And most of them were smarter than me. But I got lucky.
They were nice. They liked me. I liked them. They, the Algebra nun, a rebellious young priest, and my mum, who had subscriptions to Look, Life, and The Saturday Evening Post, opened my eyes to a whole new world. And next week I will finally explain what all this has to do with melting pots and mosaics.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
On the first day of eighth grade, I was randomly assigned to the smart class. Had I been placed in the dumb class (which we weren't supposed to call the dumb class), as I should have, I would've probably had a whole different life. While the smart class was indeed made up of smart kids, the dumb class was just everyone else, the ordinary kids -- with the exception of a few aggressively-stupid boys. Testosterone poisoning + stupidity = aggressively-stupid.
When I was 13 I thought this phenomenon was limited to boys. Turns out that girls are so much smarter than boys -- and women so much smarter than men -- that boys and men are often too stupid to spot an aggressively-stupid female. Men should be grateful that the feminist movement has made it socially acceptable for women to openly be as aggressively-stupid as men -- if they choose to reveal it to us. Makes 'em slightly less dangerous.
So, it's the first day of school, eighth grade, and I show up as required. I'm not a happy camper. I'm introverted, somewhat shy, and this is a new school. I don't know anyone, and though I love to read -- I'm willing to check out anything and everything for at least a minute -- I'm no scholar. I'm living in suburbia for the first time in my life and the school building seems huge.
Interesting paradox in that the densely packed, densely Catholic inner city neighborhood I came from had small Catholic grade schools, several of them. My new school drew from a much larger geographic area that wasn't nearly as densely populated and a given family was just as likely to be Protestant (or Satanists for all I knew at the time) as Catholic. Where I came from there were (mostly) Catholics, Protestants, and heathens. We Catholics were right, and assured a place in heaven, as long we followed all the rules. The many, many rules. Everyone else was wrong and probably going to hell, but it wasn't polite to tell them. We loved them anyway, and that's why one of our seemingly endless fund-raising drives each year was devoted to saving Pagan Babies.
Many of the many, many rules have radically changed, or vanished, since I was a kid. I can't help but wonder if there's a get out of hell free card available for anyone that died in sin before a priest could get there to punch their ticket to paradise.
Now, though it may seem as though I'm digressing my butt off what I'm actually doing is trying to paint a picture with words, to contrast my life before eighth grade with what came next. Though officially a typical, conservative Catholic grade school, run by a nun that had the sensibilities of a USMC Drill Instructor, there was music in the cafes (church social hall) at night and revolution in the air. And I was randomly placed in the "smart" class of eighth graders because though I had been properly registered by my mum, no one had decided which eighth grade I should be in and added my name to the appropriate list. Instead, two nuns had a brief conversation and it was decided on the spot to put me in with the smart kids and see what happened. They could always dumb me down later if necessary.
Well, I managed to hold my own, in spite of Algebra. For the first time in my life, I had more than one teacher for the entire day. We didn't change classes, we changed teachers. We had a very cool nun come in to teach us Algebra, which took the edge off of that particular nightmare. We had a male lay teacher come in for Science, my first experience with a teacher that wasn't a woman. He wasn't nearly as cool as our Algebra nun, but the girls thought he was a cutie. Curiously, I can't remember either of their names or the name of the nun we had for all of our other classes. I can recall the names of almost all the other nuns and teachers I had up until this point, and most of my high school teachers as well. This puzzles me because it was the best year of school I ever had. I can't remember the name of the nun I had in first grade, but I've probably blocked it out because I was so traumatized (GRIN). There's a vicious rumor that claims one of my older sisters once had to unclench my fists from a wrought iron fence that I had latched onto in a futile attempt to keep from going to school that I refuse to either confirm or deny. However, it serves as a perfect illustration of how I felt about formal schooling as a child.
Returning to the fall of '66...it was the kids that made eighth grade my favorite school year. I was triply disadvantaged because they were, first, as a group, much more worldly, sophisticated and downright cooler than I was. They had older siblings in high school and college that were in the thick of the late sixties. My older sibs were out of high school and living, working and making babies in the real world. Not a one of them even lived in a commune. Also, many had parents that were professionals of some sort that made a lot more money than my blue collar dad and stay at home mom. And most of them were smarter than me. But I got lucky.
They were nice. They liked me. I liked them. They, the Algebra nun, a rebellious young priest, and my mum, who had subscriptions to Look, Life, and The Saturday Evening Post, opened my eyes to a whole new world. And next week I will finally explain what all this has to do with melting pots and mosaics.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Melting Pot (Part One)
I don't remember what grade I was in or which nun it was, but I have this specific memory of being told that the concept of America as a melting pot was wrong, that a more accurate way to describe it was as a mosaic. I've encountered this particular refinement to this particular metaphor many times since, but this was the first time. Sorta/kinda missing the point (hey, I was a kid) I decided that I liked the melting pot analogy better because it conjured up a vivid image of a huge cauldron, boiling and bubbling, powered by an intense fire, flames licking up the sides. A melting pot, or at least what I thought a melting pot should look like, having never actually encountered one. And no, my imagination didn't include people being tossed into the pot. You've clearly watched too many horror movies.
I didn't care for mosaics, as an art form I mean. I still don't, but considering my extremely limited knowledge of the visual arts, about which I'm going to do something one of these days (I've been getting psyched up for this project for better than forty years, so I'm ready), I feel obliged to throw in a buhwhaddle I know?
I say sorta/kinda because I knew what she meant. She explained that what she was talking about was that while there was truth to be discerned in the melting pot meme, in her opinion, America was more like a mosaic because while we held certain truths to be self-evident and that there was such a thing as American culture, we could all fit into the big picture without having to give up what it was that made us different from each other. Well, mostly.
But I took that for granted. Not intellectually, but intuitively. Within the bubble of my childhood, which, being a kid, I thought included everyone else, this was the way of the world, well, the way of the USA anyway. I'd been made aware that the Godless Commies of the countries behind the Iron Curtain (BOING! another vivid image) didn't see things that way.
See, I somehow managed to get through my preschool years and then grade school, until the eighth grade, with kids from all sorts of ethnic backgrounds (in the early 1960s) without having a clue that various groups were locked in power struggles with each other, like the ones you see in the movies. Not even black folks (they were called negroes at the time), though admittedly, there were not a lot of black people in my bubble.
This was in spite of the fact these were politically incorrect times and we thought it normal to use words like dago, pollock, mick and the like. I didn't hear the n-word very often, but that was only because, as I mentioned above, I didn't have much contact with African-Americans. I had no idea, at the time, that this was because of segregation. The various Sisters of Charity that were in charge of my intellectual and moral development certainly made us aware of the civil rights movement. But that was something that was going on down South, wherever that was. That was about mean-spirited, narrow-minded rednecks that never got over having their butts kicked in the Civil war. President Kennedy and Martin Luther King were going to get that fixed. Then we would all be one big happy family, and did you know that George Washington Carver was a great scientist?
It was a very strong bubble. I remember, in the second grade, that when we got this new kid, the first black kid in our class, that we were fascinated by the novelty of it. He taught us to stick out our hands, palm up, and say, "Gimmie me five" and then you turn your palm to the ground and say, "On the n-word side." We loved it. It was almost as cool as the time Mrs. Barrett broke her dreaded yardstick (I had a lay teacher that year) over his ass and he shed not a single tear. Our hero!
In the summer of 1966, we moved from the inner city to the suburbs. As far as I know, it was primarily so my dad could be closer to work. If it was about "escaping the inner city," this was completely lost on me. I don't recall feeling like I had escaped from anything. But things sure were different.
We moved into what was probably the most humble section of a fairly affluent community and I had my last year of Catholic education, eighth grade; my parents couldn't afford to send me to a Catholic high school, and I was in the process of rejecting Catholicism anyway.
Ironically, it was a handful of prosperous little all-white suburbanites that introduced me to the societal upheaval that changed everything and has ever since simply been called the sixties. This was exciting stuff, we were going to change everything and save the world! I took to it like a duck to water. Fortunately, I had no access to recreational pharmaceuticals. Nobody under the age of 18 should, 25 would be better. I never cared much for alcohol, or cigarettes for that matter, which were available. Drugs were just starting to trickle down to the high school level, in my world at least, towards the end of my sentence there. But that's a subject for another post, and it will be.
Two quick items that have virtually nothing to do with this post but are vitally important. One: Yes I graduated, smart ass. As a matter of fact, I also have 39 officially certified college credits. Also, in case I should drop dead before I get around to expounding on the secret of life, here it is.
The secret of life: So-called real life is just high school with money.
Anyways...somebody tipped over the melting pot and set the world on fire. Some of it was for the good, but a good deal of it wasn't. We've definitely got ourselves a mosaic now buddy.
To be continued...
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
I didn't care for mosaics, as an art form I mean. I still don't, but considering my extremely limited knowledge of the visual arts, about which I'm going to do something one of these days (I've been getting psyched up for this project for better than forty years, so I'm ready), I feel obliged to throw in a buhwhaddle I know?
I say sorta/kinda because I knew what she meant. She explained that what she was talking about was that while there was truth to be discerned in the melting pot meme, in her opinion, America was more like a mosaic because while we held certain truths to be self-evident and that there was such a thing as American culture, we could all fit into the big picture without having to give up what it was that made us different from each other. Well, mostly.
But I took that for granted. Not intellectually, but intuitively. Within the bubble of my childhood, which, being a kid, I thought included everyone else, this was the way of the world, well, the way of the USA anyway. I'd been made aware that the Godless Commies of the countries behind the Iron Curtain (BOING! another vivid image) didn't see things that way.
See, I somehow managed to get through my preschool years and then grade school, until the eighth grade, with kids from all sorts of ethnic backgrounds (in the early 1960s) without having a clue that various groups were locked in power struggles with each other, like the ones you see in the movies. Not even black folks (they were called negroes at the time), though admittedly, there were not a lot of black people in my bubble.
This was in spite of the fact these were politically incorrect times and we thought it normal to use words like dago, pollock, mick and the like. I didn't hear the n-word very often, but that was only because, as I mentioned above, I didn't have much contact with African-Americans. I had no idea, at the time, that this was because of segregation. The various Sisters of Charity that were in charge of my intellectual and moral development certainly made us aware of the civil rights movement. But that was something that was going on down South, wherever that was. That was about mean-spirited, narrow-minded rednecks that never got over having their butts kicked in the Civil war. President Kennedy and Martin Luther King were going to get that fixed. Then we would all be one big happy family, and did you know that George Washington Carver was a great scientist?
It was a very strong bubble. I remember, in the second grade, that when we got this new kid, the first black kid in our class, that we were fascinated by the novelty of it. He taught us to stick out our hands, palm up, and say, "Gimmie me five" and then you turn your palm to the ground and say, "On the n-word side." We loved it. It was almost as cool as the time Mrs. Barrett broke her dreaded yardstick (I had a lay teacher that year) over his ass and he shed not a single tear. Our hero!
In the summer of 1966, we moved from the inner city to the suburbs. As far as I know, it was primarily so my dad could be closer to work. If it was about "escaping the inner city," this was completely lost on me. I don't recall feeling like I had escaped from anything. But things sure were different.
We moved into what was probably the most humble section of a fairly affluent community and I had my last year of Catholic education, eighth grade; my parents couldn't afford to send me to a Catholic high school, and I was in the process of rejecting Catholicism anyway.
Ironically, it was a handful of prosperous little all-white suburbanites that introduced me to the societal upheaval that changed everything and has ever since simply been called the sixties. This was exciting stuff, we were going to change everything and save the world! I took to it like a duck to water. Fortunately, I had no access to recreational pharmaceuticals. Nobody under the age of 18 should, 25 would be better. I never cared much for alcohol, or cigarettes for that matter, which were available. Drugs were just starting to trickle down to the high school level, in my world at least, towards the end of my sentence there. But that's a subject for another post, and it will be.
Two quick items that have virtually nothing to do with this post but are vitally important. One: Yes I graduated, smart ass. As a matter of fact, I also have 39 officially certified college credits. Also, in case I should drop dead before I get around to expounding on the secret of life, here it is.
The secret of life: So-called real life is just high school with money.
Anyways...somebody tipped over the melting pot and set the world on fire. Some of it was for the good, but a good deal of it wasn't. We've definitely got ourselves a mosaic now buddy.
To be continued...
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Republicrats v. Depublicans, Part Deux
The leader of the most transparent administration in American history has stepped up to the teleprompter once more. Demonstrating that when our way of life is menaced, even by our largest trading partner, Mr. Obama is prepared to act swiftly to protect us from the crafty, conniving Canucks. This is why it only took him seven years to rule that we're not about to let 'em build a pipeline to transport their nasty, tar sands-derived oil to refineries on the Gulf Coast.
Mr. O. made this courageous decision in spite of the fact the State Department has concluded that the pipeline will have no effect on global warming, one way or another because, one way or another, this oil has and will continue to be extracted, shipped and refined by somebody. His decision will ensure that boom times will continue for anyone involved in transporting oil via rail even though pipelines are proven to be more efficient, and considerably safer. He will not be swayed in spite of the fact constructing the pipeline would've generated a bunch of construction jobs, the exact number of which depends on whom you choose to believe. Anyway, as he has pointed out, these jobs would only last for a couple of years, though I must admit that the construction workers I know would be willing to trade a non-essential body part for a couple of years of well-paying, guaranteed work. As a matter of fact, I personally know of several citizens of Flyoverland who would be willing to sell one of their kidneys if it were legal...
...Which baffles me because the official unemployment rate is down again and many economists think that a 5% unemployment rate, allowing for all the folks in the process of trading a great job for an even better one, effectively constitutes full employment. I must have too many friends in low places.
The point is that despite the fact we Americans overwhelmingly support the building of the pipeline in poll after poll, Mr. Obama, once again is not afraid to ignore us, to save us from ourselves. He has courageously decided that we will not inflict Mother Earth with this particular 1,200 miles of pipeline even though we are already continuously expanding the 2,500,000 miles of pipes running under our feet. Now he has street cred he can use at the upcoming twenty-first meeting of the United Nations Climate Change Conference. Unlike the first twenty conferences, the world has a chance at reaching a workable consensus this time because China, that generates more carbon dioxide than the USA and Canada put together, recently promised that although the numbers will keep rising, they will peak soon and then start going down -- by 2030 at the latest. Barry made Jinping pinkie swear.
Meanwhile...
The Republicrats, the party of small government, continues their bipartisan alliance with Big sugar, and Big Gubmint Depublicans.
The Gubmint began subsidizing the American sugar industry in 1934, a temporary measure to aid farmers in the midst of the Great Depression. The price supports, quotas, and loans enjoyed by the industry, that the GAO says costs us almost $2,000,000,000 dollars a year, are alive and well 81 years later. Congress, demonstrating that they're capable of bipartisan cooperation when it's important -- or when it's needed to buy votes -- remains committed. For example, Marco Rubio, the Florida Republicrat senator running for president (alleged Rightie) and Al Frankin (proud Leftie, a Depublican of Saturday Night Live fame, that somehow became a senator from Minnesota) stand united to protect the sugar interests in their respective states. Which means that if you live in the USA, you're paying at least twice as much for sugar as the rest of the world. One of the rationalizations offered for this program is that it protects American jobs, and it does -- as long as the jobs are in the sugar industry. Unfortunately, the U.S. Dept. of Commerce estimates that every job protected in the sugar business results in three jobs lost in the candy business.
Egads! exclaims the gentlereader, how is this possible? Information Costs.
"The art of economics consists in looking not merely at the immediate but at the longer effects of any act or policy; it consists in tracing the consequences of that policy not merely for one group but for all groups." Henry Hazlitt
When the phrase information costs is used by an economist, it refers to the fact that a given weasel, or group of weasels, can gain an unfair advantage in the market because while the advantage may be huge for them, it often goes unnoticed by the market as a whole. This is because we must choose our battles carefully since it's impossible to win them all.
The market is us. Or rather, the market is us, interacting with -- us. Filthy rich, desperately poor, or somewhere in between -- we all make choices, from moment to moment. Which burger joint should I go to? Who should I marry? How much will I pay for sugar? Who should I vote for? We choose based on available information.
The good news is that we're living in the dawn of the Information age. The bad news is we're living in the dawn of the Information Age.
Time is the cost of information.
Having an actual life, a given gentlereader may be too damn busy to know, or care, how economists define the term information costs. Having an actual life, a given gentlereader may be too damn busy to know, or care, that sugar costs too much -- as long as it doesn't cost enough to matter to a given gentlereader.
Step One. The weasels donate some of the money you pay them to politicians.
Step Two. The politicians use the money to buy your vote and get elected and/or stay elected.
Step Three. The politicians pass laws that help the weasels maximize their profits.
Repeat.
Move along, move along -- nothing to see here but pillars of the community protecting American jobs.
Or, more succinctly:
The weasels make a killing by gently extracting a small amount of your money and giving some of it to politicians to buy your vote with your money.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Mr. O. made this courageous decision in spite of the fact the State Department has concluded that the pipeline will have no effect on global warming, one way or another because, one way or another, this oil has and will continue to be extracted, shipped and refined by somebody. His decision will ensure that boom times will continue for anyone involved in transporting oil via rail even though pipelines are proven to be more efficient, and considerably safer. He will not be swayed in spite of the fact constructing the pipeline would've generated a bunch of construction jobs, the exact number of which depends on whom you choose to believe. Anyway, as he has pointed out, these jobs would only last for a couple of years, though I must admit that the construction workers I know would be willing to trade a non-essential body part for a couple of years of well-paying, guaranteed work. As a matter of fact, I personally know of several citizens of Flyoverland who would be willing to sell one of their kidneys if it were legal...
...Which baffles me because the official unemployment rate is down again and many economists think that a 5% unemployment rate, allowing for all the folks in the process of trading a great job for an even better one, effectively constitutes full employment. I must have too many friends in low places.
The point is that despite the fact we Americans overwhelmingly support the building of the pipeline in poll after poll, Mr. Obama, once again is not afraid to ignore us, to save us from ourselves. He has courageously decided that we will not inflict Mother Earth with this particular 1,200 miles of pipeline even though we are already continuously expanding the 2,500,000 miles of pipes running under our feet. Now he has street cred he can use at the upcoming twenty-first meeting of the United Nations Climate Change Conference. Unlike the first twenty conferences, the world has a chance at reaching a workable consensus this time because China, that generates more carbon dioxide than the USA and Canada put together, recently promised that although the numbers will keep rising, they will peak soon and then start going down -- by 2030 at the latest. Barry made Jinping pinkie swear.
Meanwhile...
The Republicrats, the party of small government, continues their bipartisan alliance with Big sugar, and Big Gubmint Depublicans.
The Gubmint began subsidizing the American sugar industry in 1934, a temporary measure to aid farmers in the midst of the Great Depression. The price supports, quotas, and loans enjoyed by the industry, that the GAO says costs us almost $2,000,000,000 dollars a year, are alive and well 81 years later. Congress, demonstrating that they're capable of bipartisan cooperation when it's important -- or when it's needed to buy votes -- remains committed. For example, Marco Rubio, the Florida Republicrat senator running for president (alleged Rightie) and Al Frankin (proud Leftie, a Depublican of Saturday Night Live fame, that somehow became a senator from Minnesota) stand united to protect the sugar interests in their respective states. Which means that if you live in the USA, you're paying at least twice as much for sugar as the rest of the world. One of the rationalizations offered for this program is that it protects American jobs, and it does -- as long as the jobs are in the sugar industry. Unfortunately, the U.S. Dept. of Commerce estimates that every job protected in the sugar business results in three jobs lost in the candy business.
Egads! exclaims the gentlereader, how is this possible? Information Costs.
When the phrase information costs is used by an economist, it refers to the fact that a given weasel, or group of weasels, can gain an unfair advantage in the market because while the advantage may be huge for them, it often goes unnoticed by the market as a whole. This is because we must choose our battles carefully since it's impossible to win them all.
The market is us. Or rather, the market is us, interacting with -- us. Filthy rich, desperately poor, or somewhere in between -- we all make choices, from moment to moment. Which burger joint should I go to? Who should I marry? How much will I pay for sugar? Who should I vote for? We choose based on available information.
The good news is that we're living in the dawn of the Information age. The bad news is we're living in the dawn of the Information Age.
Time is the cost of information.
Having an actual life, a given gentlereader may be too damn busy to know, or care, how economists define the term information costs. Having an actual life, a given gentlereader may be too damn busy to know, or care, that sugar costs too much -- as long as it doesn't cost enough to matter to a given gentlereader.
Step One. The weasels donate some of the money you pay them to politicians.
Step Two. The politicians use the money to buy your vote and get elected and/or stay elected.
Step Three. The politicians pass laws that help the weasels maximize their profits.
Repeat.
Move along, move along -- nothing to see here but pillars of the community protecting American jobs.
Or, more succinctly:
The weasels make a killing by gently extracting a small amount of your money and giving some of it to politicians to buy your vote with your money.
Have an OK day.
©Mark Mehlmauer 2015
If you wish to like, react, leave a comment or share -- please scroll down.
Mobile gentlereaders, if I've pleased you, there's additional content to be found via laptop and desktop.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Dude...
This post is addressed to a young man that recently turned 15. I and the other grups in your life have been rendered stunned and slack-jawed. How is this possible? How is it possible that my first grandkid, a boy that was born just a few months ago, will be driving in another year and our worries and anxieties are about to become worries and anxieties squared?
The first bit of unsolicited advice, the subject of this post (be forewarned, there will be more) I would offer you is hidden in what I just wrote. Unless you're the type of person that can create a new life and then walk away and leave the heavy lifting to others (and you're not) once you make a life, or even just become responsible for one, there's no going back.
You will be, on the best days, at least mildly obsessed with this kid until the day you die. There will be a limited (if you're lucky) amount of days when it feels like you've had your heart ripped out of your chest without the benefit of an anesthetic.
Moral considerations aside, at least for the moment, the technology for preventing unintentional impregnation is available at just about any convenience store. There's a morning after pill available at most drug stores in the event that passion overrides rational choice, as your DNA hopes it will. I know that acknowledging that a huge, honking factor in any world-class romance/hormone saturated world-class case of the hots, particularly among the newly fecund -- your DNA's determination to replicate at any cost -- is a world-class buzzkill. It's also settled science, ignore it at your own peril. The bottom line is that you can't escape biology, and at this point in your life, your actions are just as likely to be determined by what mother nature wants as they are to be the rational choices you need to make to avoid having to decide what your take is on abortion. While I'm at it can I get a shout out for STDs! Nature's own all-natural souvenirs of ill-considered fornication.
Please be careful. Your DNA has an unfair advantage that makes anything the New England Patriots can dream up seem pathetic in comparison. You may have heard that the human brain is not fully mature until a given human is about 25 or so, more of that settled science stuff. More importantly, the last area of your little gray cells to reach full maturity is the prefrontal cortex, the part that you make (hopefully) rational decisions with. You're gonna' be obsessed with sex -- be it just lust, a need to nest, or something in between -- for several years before the "smart" part of your brain catches up.
It gets worse.
You are part of a culture that has gone from a fairly rigid, conservative, sexually repressive view of the subject in question to an if it feels good do it, sexually drenched culture in a very short time. While you were born into the later culture and take it for granted, there are all sorts of grups out there that have lived through some version of both and feel as though the baby got tossed out with the bathwater. And though we've lost our consensus we have to share the planet with cultures that advocate standards that we consider to be hopelessly primitive; they think we embody the morals of the infamous dwellers of Sodom and Gomorrah. What a mess.
Before I continue I must deal with some housekeeping. If any of my tens of readers are annoyed by a post written specifically for akid young man who is very important to me, sorry, but it's partially your fault. If you did a better job of promoting this blog and growing my audience, I would have to worry about alienating my huge following, my advertisers, and my publisher. Unfortunately, I don't have this problem. so I can write what I please.
Also, you've no doubt noticed the word grups in my second sentence. This ain't a typo it's just me and my love of invented words again. I vaguely remember an episode of the original Star Trek TV show in which the kids on some distant planet fear growing up because you turn into a grup -- which turns out to be a grown up -- and grups kill callowyutes (kids). Oh, and callowyutes has nothing to do with Star Trek, it's what happens when the word yutes (youths), from the movie My Cousin Vinnie, has a chance to marinate for a few years in the three pounds of neural cells that live at the top of my body.
And now, back to our show.
There's another major reason to avoid unintentional impregnation, the potential for dramatically negative effects on the kid. Multiple reputable studies by multiple reputable social scientists and the organizations they work for (and common sense...) have drawn the same conclusion: The best way to ensure that your kid grows up to be successful and well-adjusted is to raise them in one of those boring old traditional mom and dad marriages.
Now, this doesn't mean that a kid from a non-traditional relationship can't also grow up to be successful and well adjusted. This is a damn good thing because it's estimated by the Pew Research Center that currently slightly less than half of the kids in the USA are growing up in an Ozzie and Harriet (look it up) sort of household. There isn't actually an Ancient Chinese Curse (but there should be) that goes: May you live in interesting times.
I would posit that the most important moral and ethical consideration here is not whether or not you fornicate, though if you choose to I highly recommend fornicating with someone(s) you're at least deeply in like with, but that's another post. What's most important is that you avoid replicating your DNA with little or no thought as to what sort of quality of life Dude Jr. is going to have.
Have an OK day.
[P.S. Gentlereaders, I've experimented and will continue to experiment with various formats, column lengths, and the like. While my primary motivation was/is developing my writing style, I've always given (minimal) consideration to what I thought a potential publisher and/or advertiser might want to see.
One of the reasons I don't run ads on my website anymore is the fact I've decided to just let the column happen and go where it (and Marie-Louise) wishes it to go.
If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth sharing and/or worth a buck or three, fine. If not, so be it.]
©2015 Mark Mehlmauer (The Flyoverland Crank)
If you're reading this on my website (there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other shtuff there) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) or share -- please scroll down.
The first bit of unsolicited advice, the subject of this post (be forewarned, there will be more) I would offer you is hidden in what I just wrote. Unless you're the type of person that can create a new life and then walk away and leave the heavy lifting to others (and you're not) once you make a life, or even just become responsible for one, there's no going back.
You will be, on the best days, at least mildly obsessed with this kid until the day you die. There will be a limited (if you're lucky) amount of days when it feels like you've had your heart ripped out of your chest without the benefit of an anesthetic.
Moral considerations aside, at least for the moment, the technology for preventing unintentional impregnation is available at just about any convenience store. There's a morning after pill available at most drug stores in the event that passion overrides rational choice, as your DNA hopes it will. I know that acknowledging that a huge, honking factor in any world-class romance/hormone saturated world-class case of the hots, particularly among the newly fecund -- your DNA's determination to replicate at any cost -- is a world-class buzzkill. It's also settled science, ignore it at your own peril. The bottom line is that you can't escape biology, and at this point in your life, your actions are just as likely to be determined by what mother nature wants as they are to be the rational choices you need to make to avoid having to decide what your take is on abortion. While I'm at it can I get a shout out for STDs! Nature's own all-natural souvenirs of ill-considered fornication.
Please be careful. Your DNA has an unfair advantage that makes anything the New England Patriots can dream up seem pathetic in comparison. You may have heard that the human brain is not fully mature until a given human is about 25 or so, more of that settled science stuff. More importantly, the last area of your little gray cells to reach full maturity is the prefrontal cortex, the part that you make (hopefully) rational decisions with. You're gonna' be obsessed with sex -- be it just lust, a need to nest, or something in between -- for several years before the "smart" part of your brain catches up.
It gets worse.
You are part of a culture that has gone from a fairly rigid, conservative, sexually repressive view of the subject in question to an if it feels good do it, sexually drenched culture in a very short time. While you were born into the later culture and take it for granted, there are all sorts of grups out there that have lived through some version of both and feel as though the baby got tossed out with the bathwater. And though we've lost our consensus we have to share the planet with cultures that advocate standards that we consider to be hopelessly primitive; they think we embody the morals of the infamous dwellers of Sodom and Gomorrah. What a mess.
Before I continue I must deal with some housekeeping. If any of my tens of readers are annoyed by a post written specifically for a
Also, you've no doubt noticed the word grups in my second sentence. This ain't a typo it's just me and my love of invented words again. I vaguely remember an episode of the original Star Trek TV show in which the kids on some distant planet fear growing up because you turn into a grup -- which turns out to be a grown up -- and grups kill callowyutes (kids). Oh, and callowyutes has nothing to do with Star Trek, it's what happens when the word yutes (youths), from the movie My Cousin Vinnie, has a chance to marinate for a few years in the three pounds of neural cells that live at the top of my body.
And now, back to our show.
There's another major reason to avoid unintentional impregnation, the potential for dramatically negative effects on the kid. Multiple reputable studies by multiple reputable social scientists and the organizations they work for (and common sense...) have drawn the same conclusion: The best way to ensure that your kid grows up to be successful and well-adjusted is to raise them in one of those boring old traditional mom and dad marriages.
Now, this doesn't mean that a kid from a non-traditional relationship can't also grow up to be successful and well adjusted. This is a damn good thing because it's estimated by the Pew Research Center that currently slightly less than half of the kids in the USA are growing up in an Ozzie and Harriet (look it up) sort of household. There isn't actually an Ancient Chinese Curse (but there should be) that goes: May you live in interesting times.
I would posit that the most important moral and ethical consideration here is not whether or not you fornicate, though if you choose to I highly recommend fornicating with someone(s) you're at least deeply in like with, but that's another post. What's most important is that you avoid replicating your DNA with little or no thought as to what sort of quality of life Dude Jr. is going to have.
Have an OK day.
[P.S. Gentlereaders, I've experimented and will continue to experiment with various formats, column lengths, and the like. While my primary motivation was/is developing my writing style, I've always given (minimal) consideration to what I thought a potential publisher and/or advertiser might want to see.
One of the reasons I don't run ads on my website anymore is the fact I've decided to just let the column happen and go where it (and Marie-Louise) wishes it to go.
If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth sharing and/or worth a buck or three, fine. If not, so be it.]
©2015 Mark Mehlmauer (The Flyoverland Crank)
If you're reading this on my website (there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other shtuff there) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) or share -- please scroll down.
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