Beware of Darkness (beware of darkness), 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)

[Gentlereaders, I've been working on straightening out the various and sundry temporal kerfuffles caused by a technically challenged Tralfamadorian and a balky Wayback Machine that resulted in the loss of a day and a half of my life, which resulted in my publishing last Monday afternoon instead of the Saturday before last. Though this column is 24 hours late, be assured that everything is now back to normal and that Saturdays, 11:07 EST, is still the official publication day and time.]



Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies, 

Darkness and Tralfamidorians were the subjects of my last letter/column. To summarize, I explained that due to the result of the efforts of a technically challenged Tralfamidorian field interviewer I lost a day and a half of my life. 

Also, I explored the current dark trend in entertainment (specifically TV and movies) that feels like Darth Vader has been appointed cosmic program director. This trend is due, at least in significant part, to people without spiritual or philosophical compensations confronting the fact they are never going to wake up/cross a line/win the _______/etc. one magic day and be, happy. 

While I began with the Tralfamidorians I didn't go into much detail about them so let me begin by clearing that deck. Once I finish with that bit of literary housekeeping I'll provide some further illumination concerning the darkness that pervades our entertainment. 


I've mentioned the Tralfamidorians (and Tralfamidorian technical trauma) once before, in late 2015. My column was published a day late because of technical problems that occurred during a week-long visit with my favorite space race.

While Tralfamidorian tech is light years beyond Earth's relatively primitive version, it's still deployed by imperfect, fallible entities, not all that different than we are.

Last time, my problems were caused by a Tralfamidorian to Earthish translation program and a side-effect generating Neuralizer (which I've since found out was due to fact that an Earth2 instead of an Earth3 coded Neuralizer was used).

It all worked out in the long run though. Tralfamidorian customer service upgraded me to scheduled "abductions" even though I was far short of enough abduction miles to do so via normal protocols.

Last week's problems were exacerbated by a slightly miscalibrated Wayback Machine overdue for scheduled maintenance. The Wayback Machine is outdated technology in need of an upgrade and/or a competitor, but the lawyers at patent litigation machine Mr. Peabody, LLC, are very good at what they do.

Besides, as everyone knows, bouncing around in time seems to create problems by definition. I'm old enough to know better.

Your humble but lovable columnist was able to finally get the Tralfamidorians to agree to permit me to write an entire column about Tralfamidorians/alien abductions/etc. They promise me it will be censored as gently as possible.


Some more on bewaring of darkness. Last week I mentioned the more paradox. This is my way of describing how we're genetically/evolutionarily/commnsensically wired to seek more. More food and I'll live to see another weekend, not just another hump day. More sex means more offspring, having sex, which leads to more offspring. More not only ensures survival, it makes us feel happy, which makes us want to survive. 

Until relatively recently, the primary preoccupation of most H. sapiens on the planet Earth was finding enough -- more was gravy. Finding enough still preoccupies many.

Once we have the basics covered, I'm talkin' food/clothing/shelter, and we have a chance to catch our breath, it occurs to us that life is still a constant struggle, just less so. Though I own a sassy McMansion containing myriad overstuffed closets and refrigerators the _______ growing in my/on my _______ may turn out to be malignant.  

[Doesn't malignant sound like it's, well, malignant? Sorry...] 

Now, as I mentioned last week, if you're fortunate enough to subscribe to some sort of religious and/or philosophical belief that includes an afterlife in which one becomes a permahappy (at last!) -- right away (Christianity), eventually (via reincarnation), -- you have a shield to ward off darkness. Or, you could implement the secret of happiness. 

However, no matter what you believe and no matter how you feel most of the time -- life's still a bitch and you're still gonna' die. How you deal with these facts is up to you; you're gonna' need some occasional dark catharsis. However, I maintain that the ever-increasing total number of citizens on this planet that have enough, or more than enough, has a downside. 

You may have enough, or more than enough. But you may not have a religion, reject my version (or someone else's) of the secret of happiness, or are just drifting because you won't (or can't) decide what game you wish to play and what the rules of the playground are.

Not picking a game can be a good game, but it gets old, quickly. Also, not picking a game renders one much more vulnerable to stumbling into potholes of darkness. 

It's really quite simple, pick your game and you will be instantly happier. 

Or, alternatively, don't pick a game, don't decide what the rules are. Who needs rules? be free. Embrace darkness/chaos/nihilism. Move to Hollywood and make "realistic" entertainment. Beware of accidentally overdosing on your own cynicism. 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.

           



      

Beware of Darkness (beware of darkness)

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 to solve the problem and 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)

[Gentlereaders, please forgive the fact this column is late. The rumor that I was once again abducted by aliens from Tralfamadore is true. For the record, the Tralfamidorians are a very gentle and civilized race. Their "abductions" are scheduled at the abductees convenience. Their probe consists of providing their guests with ice cold whole milk and fresh from the oven peanut butter swirled brownies while asking pointed questions. 

Unfortunately, while their technology is bulletproof, their field interviewers (FI) are chosen for their entity skills and are notoriously technochallenged. Long story short, my FI punched the wrong settings into the Wayback machine and now my life is running almost a day and a half late. Sorry.]  


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I recently watched a "Netflix Original" movie called Small Crimes. I discovered it accidentally while surfing around for a food movie, my current supply of acceptable food TV programs being temporarily exhausted. Fortunately, new TV shows, new episodes of existing shows and new movies, are always in the pipeline. Unfortunately, most aren't worth watching.

A food movie or (much more likely) food TV? Yes. And no, I'm not referring to food porn. See, I eat most of my meals alone in my lair/garret for a variety of reasons not interesting enough to bother you with and I like to watch TV shows while I eat. Always have. Movies are my (distant) second choice.

[No, I'm not lonely, so let's set that tired old cliche' aside immediately. There are six people that I love (and a very stupid cat that I have mixed feelings about) living downstairs at the moment. Sometimes I eat with them (the people, not the cat), mostly I don't. It's complicated, but as I mentioned, not interesting.]

As I have aged I've become quite picky about TV shows. I don't know that it's because I've become all that much smarter or more sophisticated. I am certain that hedonic adaptation (a cool way to say jaded) and formulaic, same old-same old writing has a lot to do with it.

Also, of course, the need to fill all that time on all those channels that result in shows like the one that features people with geographically induced speech impediments that hunt alligators for a living.

Also, of course, the need to fill all that time on all those channels that result in shows like the one that features people, one man and one woman per episode, who meet for the first time when they are taken to an appropriately primitive/scary/dangerous/etc. location.

They take off all of their clothes and spend the next 21 days trying to survive while making their way to where they will be picked up. All of the couples apparently have deformed genitals and all of the women apparently suffer from deformed breasts. Everyone has nice bums though.

Full disclosure -- I've only watched the show for about half a minute, a half dozen times or so. Channel surfing flotsam you see. A quick bit of googling turned up the fact there are no million dollar prizes and I was unable to discover if they all suffer from the same disease.

[Disease? What disease? Where did that come from? asks Dana, imaginary gentlereader.]

Simple logic. If they all suffer from deformed genitals, and, all the women have deformed breasts, and, all the newly formed couples are willing to appear on the same TV show, and, they can't win a bunch of money, and, they are all so deformed that while they are willing to get naked on TV but their genitals (and the women's breasts) must be pixilated out because they're so offensive, obviously, it must be a show about the victims of some sort of disease that, while it deforms genitals and women's breasts, mercifully doesn't affect the rest of the body. It must be a very empowering experience for the victims.

[Dana stares at me for a couple of beats while blinking rapidly and then says, They aren't diseased, the producers use pixelation so the audience can't see the couple's genitals or the women's breasts.]

Dana obviously makes no sense whatsoever. Why would you take your clothes off in front of (potentially) the whole world if you didn't want people to view your naughty bits? Sheesh. Well, anyway, this column is about unremittingly dark entertainment, not diseased exhibitionists, so I'll move on.


The movie, the "Netflix Original" movie called Small Crimes mentioned above, is Netflix blurbed as "He thought he could move on, but the past isn't done with him yet. A darkly comic study of redemption and consequences."

Now, my life can be described as a darkly comic study with no shortage of significant consequences. However, I don't have/haven't had much need for redemption. It's not because I'm not a sociopath/psychopath, it's because I've gone out of my way, for the most part, to only sin against myself and leave my fellow H. sapiens out it as much as possible.

I mention this because I wish to point out that I'm wired this way, that it's my nature. It does not require a daily moral/ethical struggle against the forces of darkness. Fortunately for me, and mine, and the other kids on the playground, I'm a nice guy.

I'm not bragging. I think most of us, given a decent milieu, a decent zeitgeist, are nice people.

[Granted, I could've said, under the right circumstances, but milieu and zeitgeist sound much cooler, don't you think? Sorry, you know how I get...].

We all have our dark/hypocritical sides of course. But we have to share the playground with the other kids which serves (for most of us at least) to help keep us on the (more or less) straight and narrow. Life is occasionally a horror movie, life is occasionally bliss. Mostly it's just another boring/overscheduled/stressful (talk about cognitive dissonance!) day.

So, why is so much of our entertainment, so dark?

 "He thought he could move on, but the past isn't done with him yet. A darkly comic study of redemption and consequences."

At the risk of being accused of being a spoiler, Bonkercockie! There's very little comedy and nobody is redeemed of anydamnthing. The antihero protagonist looks the consequences of his dickish deeds in the eye -- and then doubles down. After wreaking havoc all throughout the movie he has a chance to walk away, with a pocket full of money -- but doubles down again. Surprise! this ain't gonna' end well.

As to the totally inaccurate blurb: I guess it's better than, "A depressing, occasionally slightly funny movie with a depressing ending about a few days in the life of a dick." That is, if you're Netflix, you paid for the movie, and you'd like someone to actually watch it.

[Dana, Marie-Louise, and Iggy, nervously looking past each other and at the ground, share in an awkward silence.

Sorry, sometimes you absolutely must call a spade a spade, or, a d-word a d-word. Note how quickly my auto censor kicked and switched to d-word. We must be ever vigilant lest we drain profanity of its power by treating all words as if they were the same.]

But, as usual, I've taken you for a (hopefully entertaining) drive down Digression Drive before finally getting to the point. Why is so much of our entertainment, so dark? That's easy, the More Paradox.


In most of the USA, and much of the rest of the world, a daily life and death struggle just to get by is no longer job one. In fact, this planet now has a weight loss industry, and business is good. In fact, America (having lived here for 63 39 years this is the country I'm particularly familiar with) has the most prosperous poor people on the planet, probably the most prosperous poor people of all time.

We're wired genetically/evolutionarily... common sensically to want more. More food/sex/toys/etc. because more might keep me alive for the rest of the week and not just for the rest of today.

BIG BUT.

It's our nature to believe that once we obtain enough more, that will finally be enough, and we will be happy. However, once we have enough, which is clearly to be preferred to not enough, we still aren't happy. Or rather -- we're happy sometimes, unhappy other times; mostly we drift between the two -- just like we did before we had more.

Dark entertainment provides cathartic compensation for anyone and everyone that realizes at some point they will never be happy all the time, that you can't have happy without unhappy. That is, everyone.

The bad news is that if you don't believe that there's an afterlife waiting, where you will finally be happy, or if you don't know the secret of a happy life (someone(s) to love who loves you back, and interesting work) you may require increasingly dark entertainment to cope with the knowledge you will not, at some specific point, be happy.

That's a RBFD, and that's why there's gonna' be a 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.

The State of the Zeitgeist (2)

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,

Zeitgeist: the general intellectual, moral, and cultural climate of an era (Miriam-Webster).

Interesting word, zeitgeist. I'm a word lover (you best get out of Dodge, word lover! we don't want yer kind 'round here!) and there are many words I like, zeitgeist for example, just because of their sound and irregardless of their meaning.

Irregardless is another, which, according to the word police, isn't even a word. The word regardless, which means without regard, does not require the prefix, ir-, because it's redundant. Prefixes aren't supposed to be redundant.

For the record, I obtained this information from a website called GrammerBook.com. While I'm willing to concede that they may be technically correct, I have a valid poetic license and I'm not afraid to use it.

Anyway, they also maintain that sneaked is technically correct (as opposed to snuck), so, grain of salt. I sneaked some candy from the Stickies Easter baskets? Seriously? Obviously, snuck is the proper choice.

And we're back. I confess I'm slightly uncomfortable with the way I have used/ am about to use the Z word. Merriam-Webster uses the word era and this implies a large, dusty tome with many black and white photographs and voluminous footnotes.

I'm offering up a snapshot from a smartphone (with a decent camera) that probably will never generate a hard copy. Which is my way of saying that I acknowledge that defining a period of history as a particular era, while one is living in it, may be a fool's errand.

A sudden, dramatic, world class development, like WW3, because the chubby charmer currently enslaving North Korea wakes up in a bad mood because he failed to launch his missile the night before in spite of the best efforts of a drop dead gorgeous bed warmer/slave (I've heard rumors) and initiates a complicated series of events beginning with all of the sushi restaurants in Hawaii being contaminated with radioactive fish and ends in our next world war (hey, it could happen) and snap! we're living in an entirely different era than the one we woke up to this morning.

However, I maintain that my poetic license permits me to use zeitgeist because we're living in an, well, era, that at least to those of us who are attempting to cope with it, is marked by daily floods of dizzinformation and an ever increasing velocity in the pace of our lives. In fact, a never-ending sprint would seem to be the default pace, even for those of us who are trying to drag our feet.

So, it doesn't feel like we're living in the _______ era (that's like, so yesterday, but please feel free to insert the word of your choice) because we're moving so fast that we not only don't have time to catch our breath, we must maintain a heads-up posture at all times so as not to be flattened by some new technology that's about to disrupt our lives.

In other words, it feels like we live in a succession of mini-eras (an era of eras?) because things, the zeitgeist, can change so rapidly and dramatically.

In other words, I plan on regularly writing state of the zeitgeist columns and everything above explains why, and justifies the fact, that I plan on using the word zeitgeist instead of using a boring word like snapshot.


And now, grandstickies and gentlereaders, a zeitgeistian observation based on a news story I recently stumbled on that completely coincidentally continues the theme of my last column, How to Build a Snowflake.

[Waitwaitwait, this will just take a sec', and after all, I AM the Flyoverland Crank and this IS the "wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer. (Garrulous: given to prosy, rambling, or tedious loquacity; pointlessly or annoyingly talkative -- Miriam-Webster). 

If you google the word zeitgeistian, not only will no dictionary defend its legitimacy, Google will ask you, Did you mean: zeitgeist? However, there are several entries that use the word AND an "images for zeitgeistian" entry that will provide you with hundreds, perhaps thousands of pictures.  
Therefore, I, the future King of America, declare zeitgeistian to be a word.]

Last week's column, How to Build a Snowflake, was about a trend in some colleges and universities to emphasize social justice and protecting the delicate sensibilities of their students. This new development is quite different from the fearless pursuit of truth and the development of the intellectual tools needed to discover it as practiced by old school schools.

On the delicate sensibilities front, it just so happens that the students at Youngstown State University are in midst of taking finals.

Youngstown, Ohio, is a formerly vibrant rust belt town that is still bleeding population 40 years after the steel mills started disappearing. To their credit, many locals who don't plan on leaving refuse to accept the status quo and are trying to create a renaissance. Some who left, and achieved success elsewhere, have returned and joined the struggle.

This is a not uncommon phenomenon in Flyoverland, which is why I find the following, which made the news this past week, depressing.

In order to help the students cope with finals, which is apparently, for Millennials at least, the equivalent of trying to swim across the Mediterranean to escape the carnage in Syria, puppies and kitties -- via a sort of pop-up petting zoo -- and massage therapists are being provided to help the delicate flowers through this difficult period. Can finals cause PTSD?

I wonder if this class, whose "final projects -- which includes history boxes, interpretive dance, poster presentations, video presentations and more -- ..." also included a stressful final.   

My parents, who had to deal with the Great Depression and the Second World War, thought they had it tough. 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.

  

How to Build a Snowflake

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-Grand-Stickies,

"The great majority of college students want to learn. They're perfectly reasonable, and they're uncomfortable with a lot of what's going on." Mr. Haidt, a psychologist and a professor of ethical leadership at New York University's Stern School of Business, tells me during a recent visit to his office. "But on each campus there are true believers who have reoriented their lives around the fight against evil."

The quote above is from a Wall Street Journal article and is the result of an interview. Bari Weiss, of Pittsburgh (with an h) did the interview and wrote the article. I mention Pittsburgh (with an h), and my hometown, simply because I thought certain unnamed readers of mine might find this fact interesting.

Dr. Haidt is the guy who wrote the book The Righteous Mind, the one I keep finding reasons to mention as it's life/world changing shtuff. The sort of shtuff that would help Western civilization in general, and the USA in particular, slow its decline until I become king (or failing that, I'm deleted and don't have to worry about it anymore).

But this column isn't about the decline and (potential) fall of Western civilization in general/the USA in particular so...

[BIG BUT. Before I forget, for those of you who are interested in why we've become so polarized in this country and what we can do about it but don't want to read/spend your hard earned money on/spend your hard earned time on Haidt's entire book, consider the 99 cents option. And no, you don't need to buy a Kindle, you can download a free app to read it.]

What this column is about is the fact that professor Haidt is ideally situated to explain the Snowflakes and Snowflakism. He's a psychologist working at the bleeding edge of his field, social/moral psychology, and a college professor who deals with Snowflakes for a living.

Grandstickies, you will be considering college in a few years. Your kids, my great-grandstickies, should the forces of darkness prevail, may grow up in a world frozen in place by Snowflakes. Thus, Snowflakism, this ideological fascism -- political correctness taken to its logical extreme -- is of maximum interest to me. I also find it fascinating in a, WOW! now that's a trainwreck! sort of way.


Mr. Haidt is the founder of something called the Heterodox Academy, an organization of scholars of various and sundry political and philosophical viewpoints, that promotes exposing college students to various and sundry political and philosophical viewpoints.

Why? Haidt's research indicates that in 1995 professors identifying themselves as politically/philosophically left-leaning outnumbered those on the right, two to one. Now the ratio is 5 to 1. In some fields, the ratio is 15 to 1.

This wouldn't much matter if these folks were the open-minded seekers of truth that I imagine most of them think they are. Also, I'm sure many of them actually are. However, many have become fervent disciples of a civic religion that seek converts in the student body.

Haidt, a former self-identified liberal, who now calls himself a centrist, explains this new religion  thusly. The left used to believe that social justice meant a level playing field, for everyone, regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation, etc. I, a former liberal, but now a wild-eyed libertarian, can confirm this. In fact, I'm still very much a proponent of the level playing field school of social justice.

Nowadays, social justice often means equal outcomes. Why? Because, as Dr. Haidt puts it, the strict orthodox position now is that everyone is racist [or sexist, or Islamophobic, or _______ ] due to unconscious bias, and everything is racist [or sexist, or...] because of systemic racism [or sexism, or...]. As Ms. Weis puts it, "That makes justice impossible to achieve..." which means, as Haidt points out, "...you're setting yourself up for eternal conflict and injustice."

Social justice fundamentalists are, well, fundamentalists. Like any sort of fundamentalists, while their behavior may appear to non-believers to be odd at one end of the scale, insane at the other, to them it's just a logical extension of their fundamental premise. That is to say, social justice (a God even more powerful than Mother Earth) is impossible to achieve because there's no such thing as a level playing field. That's because everyone, including them, is biased by nature.

Therefore, not only is everyone a victim of some sort (except for white heterosexual males of course), every-one must be ever-vigilant, self-criticizing, self-flagellating acolytes stained by the mortal sin of being born a human being.

What happens when overprotected kids raised by over-protective (helicopter) parents show up on campus where they're taught that (Ms. Weis again) "...white privilege has replaced original sin, the transgressions of class and race and gender are confessed not to priests but 'the community,' victim groups are worshiped like gods, and the sinned-against are supplicated with 'safe spaces' and 'trigger warnings?'

Voilà -- snowflakes.

Dr. Haidt maintains, as do I, that the purpose of higher education is to expose students to all sorts of viewpoints and give them the tools to rationally decide on what they believe to be true. He believes that any given college or university should be required to state, up front, whether they're officially an old school school (devoted to the search for truth, whatever that turns out to be), or if their raison d'être is the pursuit of social justice. Considering the cost of higher education this would seem to be both financially and philosophically important.

I knew when I started writing this that I would end with an example of how Snowflakism justifies the use of violence, and other forms of repression, such as pooping on the free speech rights of heretics. See, if God (no matter how bizarre your conception) has revealed the truth to your particular cult, you must protect yourself from contamination and do all in your power to convert the infidels to save them from the clutches of Satan. Google: ISIS and/or Spanish Inquisition.

Anyway, just in time, a report from the You Just Can't Make This Shtuff Up department hit my desk. In Portland, Oregon an anonymous email was received by the organizers of the annual 82nd Avenue of Roses Parade from a member in good standing of The International Union of Perpetually Protesting Protesters and Professional Victims of This, That, and The Rotational Other Thing.

It seems that that the Multnomah County Republican Party (obviously a bunch of Nazis in chamber of commerce clothing) had secured the 67th spot in the parade and were planning on marching because they were under the delusion that even fascist pigs are free to express themselves in the land of the free.

The email stated that the Repubs had better be excluded from the parade or else. "You have seen how much power we have downtown and that the police cannot stop us from shutting down roads so please consider your decision wisely." And my favorite part, "This is non-negotiable." Just how does one go about negotiating with an anonymous terrorist?

The parade was canceled. 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.

Courage (or better yet, Fortitude)

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,

"Your Majesty, if you were King, you wouldn't be afraid of anything?" -Dorothy
"Not nobody, not nohow!" -Cowardly Lion

"99% of life is showing up." -Woody Allen

Courage, or better yet, fortitude, is the fourth and final cardinal virtue that all virtues hinge on. For the record, as best as I can tell, what Mr. Allen actually said was, "80% of success is showing up." However, there are many variations of it floating around and the one I like best is the one above.

My personal variable variation, which varies according to mood, energy level, and pending or potential crisises (I know, I know, it's technically crises) is, "99% of life is showing up, be prepared for the worst but hope for the best and you will occasionally be pleasantly surprised." I then kick off the covers (well, usually), get out of bed, and launch another day. Fortitude.

If we consult Wikipedia we find, "Courage is the choice and willingness to confront agony, pain, danger, uncertainty or intimidation." Also, "In some traditions, fortitude holds approximately the same meaning.

Fortitude: strength of mind that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain or adversity with courage (Merriam-Webster's definition, my italicization).

[Waitwaitwait, fortitude? You think that getting out of bed in the morning requires fortitude? Dana, imaginary gentlereader, speaks/sneers.]

Yes. Many people, not you and I, or most of my gentlereaders of course, but for many people, yes. Many people, upon awakening, will in short order be subject to a set of feelings that can be measured on a sliding scale that ranges from a general uneasiness at one end to a full blown panic attack at the other.

[The why and wherefore of this phenomenon (that is, why our brains are wired this way) can be discovered in one of the best books you've probably never heard of titled, "The Neurotic's Guide to Avoiding Enlightenment" by Chris Niebauer.]

"Prudence and justice are the virtues through which we decide what needs to be done; fortitude gives us the strength to do it." -Scott P. Richert

The Cowardly Lion's version of courage is a rather traditional one, heroic courage. And who doesn't like, or want to be, a hero? Well, mostly -- context is everything.

I'm so chronologically old that as a callowyute I lived through the transformation of the American hero to the American anti-hero. We went from one extreme to another in a remarkably short time. No, I'm not saying that we should turn back the clock to the era of John Wayne, Roy Rogers and happily married young couples with twin beds. Of course, the Duke did make some great movies but there's much to be said for more realistic heroes and more realistic entertainment.

Most of us are unlikely to ever be traditional heroes, that is, a rescue a child from a burning building/medal of honor/Iliad-Odyssey/famous for at least 15 minutes sort of hero. Also, in my semi-humble opinion, thrill seeking is thrill seeking. In the (often imprudent) pursuit of an adrenaline rush, there's a fine line to be drawn betwixt courageous fun, and stupid.

BIG BUT.

[Iggy, imaginary grandsticky appears and asks for permission to toss tiny toy parachutists off of the (sorta/kinda) balcony (it's complicated) of my third-floor lair/garrett. Marie-Louise, my drop dead beautiful muse strolls in, displays her newly manicured and elaborately, but tastefully decorated fingernails for my approval and begins to scratch my back with her left hand as she reads over my right shoulder.]

If, "Courage is the choice and willingness to confront agony, pain, danger, uncertainty or intimidation." Also, "In some traditions, fortitude holds approximately the same meaning.

And if, "Prudence and justice are the virtues through which we decide what needs to be done; fortitude gives us the strength to do it."

Then I maintain it's possible to be a courageous hero, with a small h, every day. Do your job.

Now, I'm not only talking about dragging your butt to your crappy (hopefully not, but not unlikely) job or your politically correct, hidebound, chock full of unionized/tenured mediocrities (hopefully not, but not unlikely) school.

Doing your job means taking care of business, doing the right thing, get 'er done, _______ (insert your favorite motivational cliche, here).

Or, choose not to. Just be honest about it and stop making excuses. Refuse to be another boring victim with another boring victim story. There's always going to be someone else that's worse off than you, lots of them in fact. Given that that's a given, the only question is, now what?

Let us consider the unhappy student and the unhappy employee mentioned above.



If you're callowyute and in school, and even if you're smart in non-intellectual ways, or majoring in partying, or are clearly destined to be an athletic demigod, or just too damn cool for school -- here's a cold/hard reality check for ya' honey.

Three things.

One, your head ain't gonna start to pop outta your ass until you're at least 25 and you're not gonna realize just how true this is until you're at least 25. This ain't a matter of opinion, this is scientific fact. This radically increases the chance that choices made before/if this happens are potentially fatal. Please be careful.

Two, you're probably not going to be rich in a minute because you are your generation's answer to Bill Gates or Michael Jordan. It's not because you're not special, it's because this is the nature of reality.

Three, welcome to the global economy. A college degree, other than for STEM majors, is in most cases what a high school diploma used to be (usually with student loan debt) -- it might qualify you for a retail management trainee program.

And no, you don't necessarily need a bachelor's degree for a decent life. But without at least a high school diploma and technical training in a skill that's needed in the real world, or unless you're one of the minority of entrepreneurs that aren't ground to dust in the marketplace, will need to master the intricacies of the current version of the welfare state if you wish to avoid living under an overpass.

Do your job, which is learning to do a job.


[Dana, imaginary gentlereader speaks. Yeah? well, I have an OK job but I hate it. I'm a grup. I don't cheat on my spouse. We take care of my mom 'cause we're trying to keep her out of a nursing home. I "take care of business," But I'll tell ya' what, I'm tired most of the time. I sure don't feel like a hero.]

Well, if it makes you feel any better, according to the Gallup people you have a lot of company. They consistently report that less than a third of your fellow Americans feel engaged at work. Which means (says Mr. Obvious), most of us are faking it. Which means, lots of chances to choose to be a hero.

For most of us, most of the time, life's hard. It takes fortitude to keep going once we realize that we aren't going to wake up one morning and suddenly be HAPPY (or rich, or good looking or _______). At this point, we make a choice, whether we realize it or not. We choose to be victims or heroes.

Victims choose: excuses, never actually choosing, suicide (quick or slow, gun v. addiction), ignoring the fact literally millions of others are worse off than they, passing on their misery to others whenever possible, victimizing others whenever possible, etc.

Heroes choose: Simply to make the best of any given day, person, or situation while often falling short. Kicking the covers off every morning knowing that while the day may suck sweaty socks odds are they'll get through it and if they look hard enough odds are there will be something to smile about. 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.

       

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.