Fake News

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

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

The subject of this week's column was supposed to be courage, the last of the four cardinal virtues. It's done, but needs to be drastically revised and will be published next week. 

See, one of the members of my (still) freakishly large household decided to take a (hopefully temporary) sabbatical and is now living in West (by God) Virginia. Long story short (and no, I'm not gonna' bore you with the details) this has rendered me a very unhappy camper. That's all I have to say about that.

When I pulled up the column you're supposed to be reading for the usual last minute check (after ignoring it for the mandatory minimum marinating cycle of at least 24 hours) before hitting the publish button I found it to be somewhat snarky, and bitchy.

[You? snarky and bitchy... shocking! Dana, my imaginary gentlereader, speaks. Marie-Louise, my gorgeous, and somewhat more sympathetic muse is gently scratching my back with her world-class, award-winning fingernails. Iggy, imaginary grandsticky, is nowhere to be found.]  

Promoting the practice of one of the cardinal virtues in a snarky and bitchy tone is, to put it mildly, a somewhat counterproductive exercise. 

So, I've graciously decided to give myself a 24-hour extension, which is why I find myself writing a column on Easter Sunday when I should be downstairs violating my low-carb eating regimen with abandon. Yes gentlereaders, I'm that dedicated (and besides, they know down there that if someone doesn't save me some chocolate there will be hell to pay.)




In the midst of my morning routine (slurping down a large mug, or two, of Cafe' Bustelo Espresso Ground Coffee while skimming a selection of carefully/efficiently/logically arranged websites that serve to provide me with what I call a zeitgeist snapshot, seven days a week) I found something I wanted to write about.

[It's not you, it's me. In my defense, the process described above includes comic strips.]

My preferred local paper had an article about "... more than 100 protesters..." (101 or 999? and this is the better local paper) who were participating in a rally to demand that the Donald release his tax returns.

While they were at it, "Several... speakers...," that is, an unnamed local "economics professor" and unnamed "members of the local " _______ County Young Democrats discussed how the nation's income inequalities are hurting education, mental-health services and job growth; the damaging effects of cutting funding to PBS, the arts, Meals on Wheels and many other vital social programs; and the president's low approval rating."

The article's (written by a local reporter) last line is, "The Associated Press contributed to this report." This is because the author breathlessly leaps back and forth between the local rally and national coverage, presumably provided by the AP, of rallies all over the country for people that want the Donald to release his tax returns.

Quotes from nationally known anti-Trumpers (Democrats all) are intermingled with local quotes and the vaguely attributed diatribe quoted above. The effect, surely unintentional, is that without a careful reading, one would assume that unless the Donald releases his tax returns ASAP, civil war, and perhaps the collapse of Western civilization as we know it, is imminent.

A local reporter, who probably has a degree in journalism, submitted an article to an editor, who probably has a degree in journalism, and both work for an editor-in-chief (who, by the way, probably has a degree in journalism).

"Several... speakers...," that is, an unnamed local "economics professor and <unnamed> members of the ______ CountyYoung Democrats discussed how the nation's income inequalities are hurting education, mental-health services and job growth; the damaging effects of cutting funding to PBS, the arts, Meals on Wheels and many other vital social programs; and the president's low approval rating."

I don't have a degree in journalism (though I do have 39 certified college credits), but can easily envision myself as a widower (because I am) who inherited a newspaper from my late wife (which I didn't) and am much more comfortably situated than I actually am (because though I'm already 39 I wake up every day assuming the life I'm clearly entitled to is just around the corner).

[The preceding paragraph is a beard for some actual details which could get me killed.]

Now, were I the fortunate individual described above, I would call a meeting of all the relevant parties and ask some questions.

What's the name of the local economics professor? surely a phone call or two could unravel this mystery.

Which members of the _______ County Young Democrats spoke at the rally? I'm sure they would like to get their names in a democratic-leaning newspaper that publishes in an overwhelmingly democratic region

Did we actually have someone there or did you guys just piece this story together afterward?

You're aware that the funding cuts referred to are only proposed cuts right? You're aware the republicans have proposed cutting off the Public Broadcasting System people for decades and that it never actually happens, right?

You realize that the phrase "and many other vital social programs" turned this front page story into an editorial, right? Why did we not point out that the local rally was a local non-event, and instead make it sound like it was a vital part of a national protest? A national protest whose theme seemed to be since he won't release his tax returns, he must be guilty of something, that is, he's guilty until proven innocent.


My wealthy widower persona only scratches the surface. The article is a biased, unprofessionally written, and a hit piece from beginning to end. I'd love to give you more details, gentlereaders, but I was only half kidding about how the details could get me killed. Piss off the wrong people here in our happy little valley and your life can suddenly become very unhappy, and me and mine are stuck here for the moment. And for the record, I didn't vote for the orange dude, I'm a libertarian.

What have we learned, Dorothies?

Pay attention. "Fake news" is usually too good/crazy to be true news and often easily debunked via your favorite search engine/dutch uncle (or auntie, of course) of choice. It's the alleged real news you gotta watch out for. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

Adventures in Shopping...

... at my local full service -- expensive except for the stuff on sale that you have to pay full price for if you don't have a key tag or a card to prove you willingly signed up for them to keep track of what you buy and sell the information to whomever they please -- supermarket.

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

“Star Trek characters never go shopping.” -Douglas Coupland

Dear (eventual) Stickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I've decided to cover the last of the cardinal virtues, courage, next week. What follows is an Andy Rooney like semi-rant that flowed out of me in virtually one sitting. By the time you're grups, this will probably seem like ancient history as grocery shopping for you will consist of dictating a grocery list to Alexa's granddaughter and waiting for the grocery drone to arrive minutes later.

I had returned to the scene of the crime for the second day in a row, in spite of my dislike of shopping of almost any sort, because my first visit had proven to be disappointing. I was feeling productive because I had already been to Walgreens to pick up a scrip to treat my leprosy (you don't want to know) and had marshaled enough self-discipline to also visit Dollar General for assorted sundries.

My beloved Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) was on sale. My equally beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread was on sale as well. I consider both products to be vital staples.

While my shopping buzz was still buzzing I continued my quest, perhaps I could execute a three-peat.


Background: The day before I had decided to walk on the wild side and purchase double my normal weekly supply of each product and get four loaves of bread as well as four jugs of tea. However, I was only able to secure two loaves of bread after deciding to pass on the only other loaf available which was gently (but who knows by what or by whom?) squashed.

Noting that the Schwebel's section of the bread aisle had a disheveled, picked-over look, I deduced that the bread man had not yet stopped by for his daily visit. For the record, the preceding sentence is not sexist in nature.

I worked in supermarkets for ten years and have been shopping in them for more decades than I would care to admit. I have never encountered a bread woman and if you are, or know of one, please accept my insincere apology. Since the job consists of driving a huge step-van here, there and clear over there, no matter the weather, and dragging huge racks of bread in and out of all sorts of stores, many run by very unpleasant people, I just assume women are too smart to subject themselves to this sort of daily grind.

And now that I think about it, I've never encountered a woman who drove a linen service truck for a living either. However, I confess I don't know much about that particular business and I've never worked in a commercial laundry (though I have spent a lot of time in laundromats) so I won't bring it up.

So anyway, I did my other shopping, which went well except for the fact that there were only two jugs of Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) left on the shelf. When I had crossed everything off my list I found myself at the opposite end of the store from where I started, where the restrooms are? Being a man of a certain age, I popped in for a preventative, um, rest.

When I came back out (No Shopping Carts Beyond This Point, Alarm Will Sound!) I walked all the way back to the other side of the store to see if the bread person had stopped by, no luck. I mention this only to demonstrate my devotion to my beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread, which I can't recommend enough.

I headed for the checkout counters and took care of business. This part of the trip went well except for the fact that as I passed the service desk on my way out of the store, I realized that I had left a winning four dollar scratch-off ticket in Betty's console, yet again. Betty is my minivans name, by the way, short for Betty Boop.


So today, feeling both (uncharacteristically) optimistic and productive, I again ventured into my local full-service (see paragraph one) supermarket. I arrogantly waltzed by both the hot prepared foods and bakery department with nary a glance. I'm no newbie -- while they both look and smell awesome, the actual taste of the pretty and perfectly presented goodies, in most cases, is a bit of a letdown.

I entered the bread aisle and my heart leaped, the Schwebel's section was stocked to the max! With a spring in my step (well, sorta, I had a hip replaced three months ago) I strode down the aisle only to discover a yawning, empty gap where the Country Potato Bread should be. My spirits began to plummet but then I remembered it was Wednesday, perhaps there was hope after all.

[Just in case you're unaware, bread people, like doctors, don't work on Wednesday because they (unlike most doctors) have to work on Saturdays which is why so many of them belong to the teamsters union.]

See, bread delivery technicians usually over-deliver bread on Tuesdays and Saturdays to tide a given outlet over till Thursday/Monday.

Anyways, the store's bakery was just a few steps away, the one that sells all the pretty products that rarely taste as good as they look? And there was a clerk behind the counter who didn't suddenly pretend to be busy as I approached to avoid making eye contact.

I inquired if she knew if there was any extra Schwebel's Country Potato bread "in the back" as it was on sale but there was none on the shelf. She looked baffled but she spotted her supervisor and asked her if there was any Schwebel's Country Potato bread in the back. This woman; likely overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated by her boss, spouse, and kids -- who looked like her feet hurt -- said, "Lemmylook," and exited, stage left.

She returned in a flash with a single loaf of bread, brightly wrapped in colorful cellophane, handed it to the clerk and re-exited stage left in the same motion. The clerk approached me with a big, bright smile and proudly handed me a loaf of Giant Eagle Homestyle Potato bread. A product whose everyday price is cheaper than the price of my beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread is when its on sale -- and tastes like it.

"Thanks, but ...,  see ...,  that is ...,  hey, thanks a lot! 'preciate it," sez I.

Resisting the urge to squash the loaf in question via an armpit or tossing it in a freezer as dark clouds begin to gather over my soul I gently placed the offending loaf on the shelf in the empty space where the Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) was supposed to be but wasn't.

As I approached the service desk on my way out of the store and as I was reaching for the winning (four dollars) scratch-off ticket that I had remembered to bring with me this time I saw them.

Near the door, a very young, very attractive, very worried-looking, very heteronormative looking young couple was feeding coins into the Coinstar machine. She was so pretty (and wearing an actual dress!) that I was instantly drowned by a tsunami of _______.*

[*_______: non-existent word denoting a heart-achy/nostalgic/bittersweet/I'm gonna die/I own socks older than she is sort of feeling.]

Without breaking stride, I pulled the lottery ticket from my t-shirt pocket with my left hand while simultaneously reaching into my right pants pocket and scooping up the change that I knew I would find there and pivoted in their direction.

When I was close enough I announced my presence with an, "excuse me," tossed my coins into the sorting tray, handed him the lottery ticket and said, "every little bit helps" and darted (well sort of, the hip thing) towards the exit door. I glanced over my shoulder as I was going through the door and she blessed me with a brief, cautious, black cloud banishing smile before quickly turning away. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

Temperance (Part Two)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

To review, in part one I started off down the main trail but I branched off on a path that led to a critique of H. sapiens tendency to (often with the best of intentions) impose their idea of temperance on other H. sapiens.

This confused my imaginary grandsticky, Iggy, who thought that temperance simply meant refraining from eating an entire box of Girl School cookies in one sitting.

I further muddied the water by making reference to something I call social sanctions which I  didn't define or explore. Thus the need for a part two. 

I'm going to put the thin mints in the fridge for the moment and start with social sanctions. "Some things should be prohibited, some things should be regulated, everything else should be tolerated (but not necessarily socially sanctioned)." -me

Some kids should be banned from the playground (prohibited), and rules are needed for sharing the playground (regulated). Little Timmy's unfortunate habit of picking his nose, anywhere and everywhere, is best curbed by social sanctions.

[Which has exactly WHAT to do with temperance? asks Dana, my imaginary gentlereader.]

"Patience is a virtue." -Sister Mary McGillicuddy

 Wikipedia: "Temperance is defined as moderation or voluntary self-restraint."

Banning Timmy from the playground would constitute cruel and unusual punishment. Who among us hath not picked their nose upon occasion?

Nose picking regulations would be difficult to enforce, and who would want to police nose pickers? Yes, I know you know someone that probably would, but the first sentence of the job description should state that anyone who volunteers for the job should not be considered.

Social sanctions, which in this case would involve Timmy being verbally abused (picked on, GRIN) for his unfortunate habit, would, most likely, take care of the problem. Social sanctions would, most likely, induce "voluntary self-restraint." In the unlikely event Timmy persisted, it would clearly signal the need for intervention by a grup before Timmy became bully meat.

Unfortunately, social sanctions don't work nearly as well among allegedly well-adjusted grups on the playground commonly referred to as the real world. I understand that we've lost a good deal of our cultural consensus (I speak only of American culture, mine is a somewhat parochial life). We need to find a way to socially sanction the ill-mannered.

Shouldn't good manners in our current environment be more important than ever? If we're all busy doing our own thing, if we're to all be non-judgemental, non-haters, don't we at least need good manners to keep from killing each other? Shouldn't good manners be a virtue? I'm not talking about using the correct fork, I'm talking about minimizing friction in everyday encounters. Why are there don't be a hater t-shirts but not "Don't be Ill-mannered" t-shirts?

After rereading Temperance (Part One), and the above, it's dawned on me that my Marie-Louise, my beautiful muse, has a method to her madness. Last week I explored the importance of society treading lightly and thinking heavily before imposing its version of temperance upon its members via the force of law. Beware the law of unintended consequences.

Above, I discuss judiciously applied social sanctions. This is a way to encourage temperance without using the hammer of the force of law. Anything goes is not the way to go. We need social sanctions lest we all degenerate into bigfeets (see glossary).

[Gentlereaders -- for the record, the story that I recently unmercifully pummeled a loud talker with a cell phone in a tiny, overheated waiting room at doctor's office is completely untrue. I practiced good manners (and temperance) by informing the receptionist where she could find me and fled to another room.] 

And now some thoughts on temperance -- moderation or self-restraint -- as a virtue applied by an individual to their own lives

[Finally! sez Dana.]

People who practice one of the more traditional organized religions are provided with a framework that includes ethical/moral rules and guidelines that by their nature prescribe moderation and self-restraint. Gray areas to be clarified via prayer and/or clergy.

The rest of us must draw our own lines. I maintain that in the practice of this and all virtues, cardinal and otherwise, that 98.39% of the time (non-psychotic) H. sapien grups know what behavior is virtuous. Callowyutes, starting at about the age of seven, usually know as well, but only 78.39% of the time which is why they need clear-eyed grups to supervise them carefully.

[Iggy opens his mouth to speak, I cut him off.]

I know what you're going to say, I say, or rather, what you're going to ask. Why should you, or anyone for that matter, practice temperance? Why not eat an entire box of girl scout cookies in one sitting? especially thin mints.

The answer is, sometimes you should, mostly, you shouldn't.

Occasionally, tossing temperance out the window and consuming an entire box of GS cookies in one sitting is just what the physician prescribed. If you've been too self(or other)-disciplined, or, self(or other)-disciplined for too long, an imbalance in the universe is created. Everything contains/creates its opposite. This is the nature of reality, there's no white without black and change is the only constant.

If you love and enjoy thin mints (or anything else) but never, ever, eat them because you're fanatically devoted to eating low carb (or any of a hundred other reasons), the universe, seeking to restore balance before there's an explosion, will send you a steady stream of revenue seeking girl scouts.

It doesn't matter if it takes two cookies or two sleeves of cookies to defuse the bomb and restore balance.

However, if you decide to embrace the life of a libertine and start purchasing your thin mints by the case (FYI, Keebler Grasshoppers are even better than what the GSs offer) this will also create a disturbance in the force.

Besides the obvious downside, rapid and significant weight gain, one will discover the truth about libertinism -- repeated indulgence is boring. Sorry stickies, reality is self-regulating in that devoting one's life to the perpetual pursuit of pleasure, without multiple interludes of work and boredom, is like listening to a song consisting of one uninterrupted note.

To keep the pleasure perpetually percolating requires ever increasing levels of stimulation and life on Earth only provides so many levels before you hit your head on the ceiling. Beyond this lies madness and/or addiction.

Temperance, will help to keep you from killing yourself (accidentally or otherwise). Temperance, will help to keep you from being killed by one of the other kids on the playground. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

 

Temperance (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (Eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Wikipedia: "Temperance is defined as moderation or voluntary self-restraint."

"Moderation in all things," Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Temperance, not a commonly used word these days, is the next cardinal (hinge) virtue I wish to explore. I think I mentioned (in some form, I'm too lazy to look it up) a few columns back that, "The term cardinal comes from the Latin cardo (hinge); the cardinal virtues are so called because they are regarded as the basic virtues required for a virtuous life." -Wikipedia again. All virtues hinge on the cardinal virtues.

If I didn't, I just did. If I did, consider yourself refreshed, or oriented if you just got here. (Where have you been? I've been at this since 7/15 @ theflyoverlandcrank.com. No wonder I've yet to go viral...)

On the rare occasion I do encounter the word temperance, the first thing I think of is The Woman's Christian Temperance Union (WCTU, I've no idea why).

[Iggy, my imaginary grandsticky, speaks. Poppa, like, what's this WCTU thing? Yes, enlighten us, please, you know you want to, Sez Dana, imaginary gentlereader, somewhat sarcastically I note. Marie-Louise, my beautiful muse, scratches my back reassuringly, so I know I'm on the right path.]

The WCTU, founded in the late 1800's, was is (they still exist) part of the temperance movement, folks who refrain from the use of alcohol and other recreational pharmaceuticals and support the gummits and The Gummit restricting the use of, or the banning of, same.

The WCTU, quite influential at one time, is one of the reasons the USA completely prohibited the use of alcohol, via the 18th amendment, from 1920 to 1933.

The temperance movement has religilous (I know it's misspelled, far be it from me to not opt for the lame joke) roots. Generally, they don't counsel moderation in the use of recreational pharmaceuticals, they promote abstinence, not using them at all. Which should surprise no one. And of course, there's much to be said for personally deciding to not drink or drug and advising others to do the same.

Abstinence isn't technically moderation. But if you're an alcoholic or a drug addict it's the only virtuous/rational choice. Your excessive drinking or drugging will not only eventually kill you, it's likely to literally/figuratively kill or maim plenty of other kids on the playground along the way. Abstinence, for you, is temperance (voluntary self-restraint), not to mention, the prudent thing to do.

BIG BUT.

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (maybe...).

The good ladies of the WCTU, concerned with all the victims of substance abuse, not just the abuser, fought for, and succeeded in, (temporarily) banning alcohol. The WCTU defines temperance as "moderation in all things healthful; total abstinence from all things harmful." Not a bad personal philosophy.

However, when you start banning the other kids on the playground from this, that, and the other behavior, even with the best of intentions, things can get ugly, fast. Intemperately imposing your, or your religion's, rules and regs on all the other kids, even with the best of intentions, may make things worse by creating new problems.

While sharing the playground requires rules and grups (the rule of law), to ensure the kids have maximum fun (liberty --  and all that founding father's shtuff) you need just enough rules and grups.

 Wikipedia: "Temperance is defined as moderation or voluntary self-restraint."
"Moderation in all things," Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The rule of law + (restrained by) temperance = maximum freedom, but, maximum freedom - (unrestrained by) temperance = chaos.

A happy/healthy playground requires the rule of law (and morality, and good manners, and tolerance, and patience, and security, and...). And the drawing of fine lines. 

That is, deciding on what sorts of behavior we all agree should be punished, and how, in spite of the fact H. sapiens have always done it/will continue to do it anyway. 

That is, refraining from punishing behavior that, while we may punish ourselves for it, or believe that our God will, H. sapiens have always done it/will continue to do it anyway.

Fine lines, but clearly drawn, well thought out lines. For example, I rarely drink, and I don't care much for drunks. I also don't want my grandstickies and great-grandstickies to be drunks. However, even once I become the King of America, I won't ban alcohol, for people 21 or older.

Because I don't care if they (or anyone else) enjoy a drink once in awhile. I don't care if they (or anyone else) occasionally gets drunk, as long as they don't drink and drive. Because I'm a sexy seasoned citizen (see glossary) and I know shtuff.

I know that while murder should be prohibited, for what should be (hopefully) obvious reasons. I also know about the law of unexpected consequences. I know that prohibiting the use of alcohol (and all sorts of things) created a profitable black market for thugs and turned ordinary folks into criminals. I know that The Gummit spent a lot of time, money, and lives trying to stop something that can't be stopped. I know...

[Dana: Yeah? well, there's always gonna' be murderers and...]

Fine lines, clearly drawn. Some things should be prohibited, some things should be regulated, everything else should be tolerated (but not necessarily socially sanctioned). All three categories require consideration of the law of unintended consequences and the fact that ours is a nation designed primarily to maximize liberty (not democracy, but that's another column).

[Iggy, who looks puzzled, speaks: Um, like, I don't get it, Poppa. I thought temperance meant something like not eating a whole box of Girl Scout cookies at one time? Yeah, and what the hell does socially sanctioned mean? adds Dana.]

It does, sticky one, it does, but my style is edited stream of consciousness. Inhale -- Once I got rolling on the liberty v. forcing other people to adopt one's version of temperance via force of law, and, the law of unexpected consequences, and, social sanctions (which, I'm not going to get into, because, it's time to go and I'll save that for part two, whereupon, I will also address the question you posed that made use of your excellent Girl Scout cookie analogy) it became obvious that temperance would require a part two -- breathe. Poppa loves you.

[Iggy: Oh.  Dana: Sheesh.  Marie-Louise: scratch, scratch]

Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

The State of the Zeitgeist

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

We interrupt our series on the cardinal virtues to bring you this zeitgeist update.

The Donald's reality show has been running for a couple of months now -- all day, every day. There's no getting away from it unless you're a self-sufficient prepper living in the wilderness with a broken short-wave radio.

"All politics is theater." I went a-googlin' and couldn't discover anyone to attribute this to, but it's a very commonly used expression and it rings true to me. I think the expression requires updating to all politics is showbiz. The word showbiz more accurately expresses the spirit of our time. Showbiz implies cutting edge flash and fakery, with a tinge of sleaze. The word theater is too dignified.

[Warning: possible excessive use of metaphors ahead.]

P-T., (pre-Trump) American politics was, and by many folks still is, viewed as follows. Politics is hardball (again, unattributable) and most politicians can't be trusted, it's the nature of the beast. However, it's only the truly corrupt ones, the ones that are only in it for the money/power, that are a real threat.

The rest are sausage makers, and while you might love sausage, particularly the All-American hot dog, most of us wouldn't want to take a tour of, much less work in, a slaughterhouse -- but someone's got to make the sausage.

We're not naive. We understand that a sausage maker is going to get some blood on their hands. Sausage making (and democracy) is messy. We're cool with that, as long as the butcher doesn't add too much fat and keeps his thumb off the scale.

The blood, or at least enough of it, will come out in the wash, that is, at election time. Also, we pay for full-time, lean and hungry, impartial investigators, the fourth estate (what we used to call the press, more commonly now referred to as the media), to monitor the sausage makers, 24 x 7 x 365.25.

At election time, proud, well-informed Americans, meticulously prepared by a world-class education system, upon which we lavish an ever increasing amount of money, carefully and rationally choose the best man person for the job.

In my semi-humble opinion, the three paragraphs after the metaphor warning above, are accurate. After that, not so much. The media, in general (like politicians, in general), are viewed unfavorably by the public for a reason. Many of us find many of them to be biased and/or condescending. Many of us find many of them to be ratings and profits chasing infotainers.

As to why people keep (re)electing the wrong people, that is, anyone you wouldn't vote for, the reasons are legion. Schools are an easy target since overall they seem to keep getting worse. "There's too much money in politics!" is a perennial favorite. That's a good one since it enables us to not only demonize the candidate we don't like, we can also demonize the source of their money.

You may have indeed gone to a crappy grade/high school. You may have gone deeply into debt to attend a crappy college. Even if it wasn't crappy, there's a very good chance you picked the wrong major. Hey, you were 18, you didn't know, well, crap. Your parental units telling you that you would regret your choice later convinced you that you had made the right choice.

Man... if you knew then what you know now. Wouldacouldashoulda. You know, if...

BIG BUT.

Fact is, many people are not all that well informed. Fact is, many most people, most of the time, decide (emotionally, intuitively) first, rationalize later. Gut first, brain later. Not you and I, of course, but most people. This is bleeding edge science,

Anyway, not being well informed can be the most rational course of action. You constantly feel overwhelmed and exhausted because  _______ , and there ain't much you can do about that right now. And statistically speaking, your opinion/vote is insignificant anyway.

The Donald knows this. The Donald is the P.T. Barnum ("Without promotion, something terrible happens... nothing!") of politics. The Donald's not so secret secret is that he speaks directly to your heart, not your brain. Your heart may reject him, but it can't ignore him. The opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference.

Who do you know that's indifferent to the Donald?

[Dana, my imaginary gentlereader, speaks. Oh yeah, what about Obama? He...]

Barack "no drama" Obama was elected to be the POTUS in spite of having less executive experience than a convenience store manager (not an easy job by the way) because the American people calmly and rationally considered his carefully thought out and logically presented positions and made their choice, right?

Bonkercockie!  

The housing bubble exploded and America was knocked on its ass. Some people are still trying to get up. Iraq was a sorta/kinda win but Afghanistan wasn't/still isn't and many were wondering/are wondering if both had been a bloody and expensive mistake. A frenzy of finger-pointing broke out (that's still going on) and Mr. hope and change could, and did, blame everything that's wrong on planet Earth on Dubya. And continued to do so, years after Dubya moved back to Texas and picked up a paint brush.

So America voted for the other major party, and not the party that offered up John McCain who also had a very thin resume. Another professional politician, with decades of experience -- who had also never actually run, anything. If H. sapiens make rational decisions, why is the phrase, "I voted for the lesser of two evils" so commonly used? Is this the best a rational people can do?

Which is why, when I become king, only former state governors will be permitted to run for president. I know it sounds harsh, but it's for your own (irrational, emotional) good.

Now, if you still think that H. sapiens are rational creatures, consider the following. I'm not smart enough to have figured out that we're subject to what I call gut first, brain later on my own. I simply read about the opinions and discoveries of other people. I particularly credit Jonathan Haidt and Scott Adams.

If I'm aware that the Donald's not so secret secret is his gift for going straight for the gut because that's how you actually influence people to do what you want them to do (how they vote, for example). And if I'm aware that the Donald's often (seemingly) irrational statements, tweets, etc. are part of his game, then surely the highly educated, highly experienced, worldly-wise, cynical media have figured this out as well.

And yet... Instead of pointing out the game to the public when he says something outrageous or crazy, instead of pointing out he's a master of emotional manipulation, most can't help but jump on the bait like starving jackals.

"OMG! how could he say such an obviously untrue/crazy/ignorant/etc. thing? We've done a fact check and... "

Who is acting rationally? Who keeps reacting irrationally? Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

Justice (Part Two)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

OK class, let's review.

In Justice (Part One) I discussed the cardinal (hinge) virtue, justice. I posited that its importance is self-evident. I argued that kids in particular, and everyone else in general, are obsessed with justice. That the obsession is summarized by/captured by/epitomized by/etc. the phrase That Ain't Fair!!! Please note the deliberate (and rare, for me at least) use of three exclamation points.

I mentioned the work of Jonathan Haidt, moral psychologist (and one of my heroes). Dr. Haidt's moral foundations theory lists six foundations, one of which is Fairness/Cheating. The relevant Wikipedia article puts it thusly, "Fairness or proportionality: rendering justice according to shared rules; opposite of cheating. Their bolderization, my italicization. 

[I just made up a new word, bolderization. If you don't believe me, look it up. Oh wait, you can't, it doesn't exist. Bolderization: clicking the bold button of a word processor in order to render a word in a bolder way than other words. GRIN.]

Dr. Haidt, incidentally, didn't weave his theory from whole cloth. His work is based on numerous, and ongoing (check THIS out) experiments and studies. You should also read one of his books, "The Righteous Mind." Life-changing, mind -blowing shtuff written in clean, clear English (as opposed to psychobabble).

Anyway, please note the phrase, "rendering justice according to shared rules." In part one I pointed out that we've lost our consensus, that the late sixties ushered in something I call the Great Fragmentation. I ended the column by asking, "So, how do the members of a fragmented culture agree on what constitutes just and fair?"

[Just who is this we've you speak of cranky one? asks Dana, imaginary gentlereader.]

Good question. Hmm... I guess, no, I know, that when I talk about us, or we, I'm usually referring to muh fellow maricans (Lyndon Johnson saying, my fellow Americans). More broadly, the cultures and people of the West. I really should define my terms more in light of political correctness. Citizens of the planet Earth, please accept my insincere apology.

OK. In this particular case, I'm talking about the fragmentation of American culture. I'm also wildly oversimplifying some of Dr. Haidt's conclusions (sorry doc) and adding a few of my own. Read the book folks, you'll thank me.

H. sapiens (not just maricans) are tribal. This is because belonging to a tribe dramatically increases the chance we might live long enough to reproduce and raise our kids. It dramatically decreases the chance we will be killed and/or eaten before having a chance to do so. Also, get enough people on your team and the next thing you know you'll have civilizations and flush toilets and the like.

It's the drive responsible for us v. them. At one extreme it's total war and the demonization of the enemy. At the other, it's the drive behind competitive sports, which serve as a (usually) harmless outlet. See where I'm going here?

It's the reason why up until the sixties, America -- mostly white, mostly Christian, mostly sharing the same playground, and often preoccupied by wars with them and/or struggling to get three hots and a comfortable cot, were (sometimes more, sometimes less) on the same team.

And then the Boomers came of age in an era of unprecedented prosperity and security. A lot of wonderful things happened.  These ranged from the country officially acknowledging the obscenity of slavery and Jim Crow (mostly and eventually) and passing civil rights legislation, to landing on the moon.

Incidentally, these laws and landing on the moon were accomplished by the Greatest Generation, not by the Boomers, who will go down in history for, well, um... oh, I know! Rock n' Roll! And personal computers. Now we all have a home or pocket version of technology originally developed by the..., um, never mind.

But what happens when a generation of callowyutes, raised to take unprecedented prosperity and security for granted, go through the rebellious/idealistic (some anyway)/I ain't gonna' be like my parental units/I hope I die before I get old adolescent (which we now know typically lasts to the age of 25 or so) stage? And let us not forget to mention relatively easy access to the pill (can you say sexual revolution?) and mind-altering drugs.

Well...

[Oh, one second. Yes, we/they were raised taking the possibility of nuclear annihilation for granted (duck and cover) and we/they might also be drafted and die (the males anyway) in Vietnam.

BIG BUT.

By adolescence most realized that if the nukes were launched we'd probably all be dead anyway. Get under your desk, put your head between your knees, and kiss your ass goodbye. Ishhkabibble. As for Vietnam, pursue a deferment or learn to love (and live with) our neighbors to the North.]

Well, what happens is team America -- left, right, and (ever-shrinking) center -- starts fragmenting into cliques/gangs that divide up the playground like a prison yard.

A lot of water passes under the proverbial bridge. H. sapiens will be/were H. sapiens. And here we are.

We can go a-googling 24x7 and prove anything. How? simple. If you want to believe something you'll ask yourself if you can believe it, then you'll go looking for confirmation. You will, inevitably, find some and then you (well, not you or me of course, but most people) will stop looking.

If you don't want to believe something you'll ask yourself if you must believe it, then you'll go looking for reasons not to. You will, inevitably, find some and then you (well, not you or me of course, but most people) will stop looking.

This is the second most important thing the book taught me. That's a tease 'cause you really should read the book.

Modern tech provides a TV channel and/or a website for every taste, from the sublime to the warped and twisted. New sorta-social media platforms appear every couple of eye blinks. Sorta-social? Yup, choose your friends, real and virtual, tweak your settings (or not, the machine will do it anyway). Poof! your own customized playground of the like-minded, and you don't even have to leave the house.

[So, how do we reach agreement on anything? For example, on what constitutes justice. And what about the other cardinal virtues? Iggy, imaginary grandsticky, poses a question.]

Compromise, don't demonize. Breathe. Electronically fast -- turn off your computer and smartphone for 24 hours and go for a walk, read a book, make brownies, go to your grandstickies eighth-grade band concert.

America's newfound and ever-worsening polarization is fueled by demonization (Haidt) and the 24x7 flow of dizzinformation (me). Poppa loves you.

[Compromise!?! How can you compromise with the devil's minions!?! An imaginary troll has wandered into my personal zeitgeist. BANG! Marie-Louise, my muse, unhesitatingly pulls her piece from her garter holster, blows it's head off, and calmly begins scratching my back.]

Have an OK day.


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

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


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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

Justice (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

If we should deal out justice only, in this world, who would escape? No, it is better to be generous, and in the end more profitable, for it gains gratitude for us, and love. -Mark Twain


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Warning: If you're a regular reader who doesn't much care for my constant references to sharing the playground with the other kids, you're gonna' really hate this column. I'll understand if you choose to bail at this point, although I don't think it would be the prudent thing to do (GRIN).

All the kids have to share the playground and the majority of kids are hardwired with an obsession that I call That Ain't Fair!!! syndrome.

Please note the deliberate use of three exclamation points. Please note that an obsession with fairness is an obsession with justice. Please note that when callowyutes reach the grup stage in the life cycle of H. sapiens the obsession remains. However, it's often, but not necessarily, muted by life's lessons.

[Aside: I chose the word obsessed because in my experience, having been an actual kid several thousand years ago and currently living with four of them in my freakishly large household, obsessed is accurate. Also, even the most mildly mannered grup is acutely aware of justice, or more likely, injustice. As I have  pointed out previously, Earth's a very rough neighborhood.]

So, where does this obsession come from? If you're of a traditional religious bent, there's an excellent chance that you think that it, like everything else, comes from God.

Most psychologists (I know, I know, grain of salt) now believe that we're not born with blank slates, that we arrive already programmed (so to speak) with certain basic information.

Jonathan Haidt is a moral psychologist (and one of my heroes) who has made it his life's work to identify what are the fundamental tenets of what he calls the moral mind. He believes, as do I, that newbie H. sapiens arrive here already wired with these fundamentals.

Note that an atheist, or a fundamentalist, or something in betwixt might find some common ground here. Don't demonize, compromise (DDC).

[This video, a TED talk, not only explains where he's coming from, it explains the difference betwixt progressives and conservatives, and why they're so antagonistic towards each other, in 18 minutes and 32 seconds. You have to listen closely, he talks too fast.]

Now, regardless of where you think this "obsession" comes from, as long as you accept that Justice is a thing and that it affects all of us to one degree or another, you see why it's a cardinal (hinge) virtue. I must also point out that religious or non-religious, left, right or center, and regardless of skin tone, that consideration of the virtues, particularly the four cardinal ones, just might provide some common ground in these unhinged times -- DDC.

[It occurs to me that I didn't explicitly point this out two columns ago when I began this series, this finding common ground theme, which is one of the primary reasons I'm on about the virtues. It's hard out here for a Garrulous Geezer.]

                                                        * * *

So, just what is justice anyway?

Well, besides being "your one-stop-shop for the cutest & most on-trend styles in tween girl's clothing" Justice is...

(Insert sound of car tires screaming from a panic stop, here.)

Okay, wait a sec'. Why is a store that sells glad rags for girls called Justice? 

The Justice Mission
To positively IMPACT and EMPOWER our associates, ALL GIRLS and those that love them by creating authentic connections through FASHION and FUN.

Or... how to say absolutely nothing with 22 words.

And we're back.

My old buddy Merriam-Webster offers up a deluge of definitions for justice. I choose 2a: the quality of being just, impartial, or fair.

[Well duh! What's yer point? Dana the imaginary gentlereader is awake. Marie-Louise, my muse, has taken Iggy (imaginary grandsticky) and gone shopping for new shoes -- yet again.]

My point is that though the definition is rather open-ended and vague, it works because we do have an intuitive grasp of just what justice is. One will encounter gray areas, one will always encounter gray areas.

But I maintain that 98.39% of the time that you will know instantly what's fair, what would be just, in any given situation. Careful, the devil lives in the remaining 1.61%.

Incidentally, I also maintain that one also knows, 98.39% of the time, whether or not what you're doing, have done, or plan on doing -- is right or wrong. This applies to all of the virtues and will be the subject of a column once I get through them.

[Dana: So what's your prob Bob, I... ]

The problem is, besides the 1.61% problem, well, let me put it this way. When I was a kid, I divided my free time (weather permitting) betwixt the 12th street and the 22nd street playgrounds (the former being larger and with more shtuff to do and the latter having a tiny swimming pool).

Kids in the dark ages were also obsessed with justice (fairness) but we shared in a consensus that's now shattered.

The same "rules" (more or less) that ensured justice (including punishment) and fairness applied at both playgrounds -- and at home, in school, in the neighborhood, at your friend's house, etc.

While hardly a utopia (substance abuse, child abuse, racism, bullies, etc.), beyond the formal (statutory) laws, there was rough agreement as to what the social laws were.

[HUGE BUT, Not that they all made sense. If you weren't a person of pallor you suffered from discrimination, ranging from mild to insane. Given groups of people of pallor looked down on other groups of people of pallor. Stupid (behavior) was as stupid (behavior) is.]

Jump to the late sixties. Well-meaning boomers, raised taking an (overall) unprecedented level of prosperity and security for granted (remind you of anyone), start tossing tots out with the jacuzzi water. The Great Fragmentation Begins.

So, how do the members of a fragmented culture agree on what constitutes just and fair? Stay tuned for part two.

Poppa loves you.
Have an OK day.


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

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



©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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