Potterville

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/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,

I begin most days with a cup of coffee and a quick review of a carefully selected gaggle of websites that present me with a sort of screen grab of what's going on in the/my world. The gaggle includes accuweather.com because it's not weather.com, the Weather Channels site. (It's complicated, not interesting, I'll spare you.)

I mention this because when I'm trying to find out what sort of weather is expected in my little corner of Flyoverland, I'm just trying to find out what sort of weather is expected in my little corner of Flyoverland.

I'd rather not see any advertising that my mom (God rest her soul), or female grandstickies, might find to be embarrassing if we happened to stumble on it simultaneously in search of the weather or anything else. For example, "... The Miracle Pill That Cured Dr. Phil's ED Permanently!"

Yikes!


Where to begin... I'll start with my mom. She was a country girl who wound up in the city and then the 'burbs and then the country again. She had one husband and seven kids. She lived through the Great Depression, WW2, and the sixties.

She died before I had finished extracting my head from my bum and I missed out on the chance to ask her all sorts of questions that hadn't even occurred to me before the extraction process was (well, more or less) complete.

Her pre-sixties, traditional upbringing was tempered by an open mind, a down to Earth sensibility, and a good sense of humor. I believe that if she were still around she would, like me, hesitate to censor/condemn our culture's preoccupation obsession with sex.

That is, she was no prude. She was well aware that boys will be boys pigs and that this was biology no need to take it personally. That women were hardly above this sort of thing, and perfectly capable of cultivating and enjoying the fact that we are all, in a certain sense, the slaves of our DNA.

Speaking of obsessed, I think of H. sapiens DNA, all DNA actually, as an obsessed one trick pony. Replicate! Replicate! Replicate! Be thou a pious fundamentalist, wild-eyed libertine, or row, row, rowing your boat down the middle of the stream, your DNA is poised and ready to jump out from behind the curtain/wall/rock (or scramble out from underneath the bed) when you're least expecting it.

BIG BUT.

While I'll admit when pressed, that I'm slightly older than 39, I'm still somewhat younger than 100. And yet... when I attended Catholic grade school girls were not permitted to wear patent leather shoes lest (gasp!) their underwear would be reflected in the shiny surface of their shoes (they were required to wear skirts or dresses).

[Dana, imaginary gentlereader appears. Whoa, cowboy! I think you've wandered off the trail. Where, exactly, are you headed?]

Alright... A quick reread of the above would seem to indicate you may have a point. Where I was headed, via the scenic route, was that I'm old enough to clearly remember what life in America was like before the late sixties when everything began changing at light speed.

Also, although I was raised by a traditional, pre-sixties mom, she was an open-minded, down to Earth sort of person that I credit with providing a solid foundation for me to stand on while I experienced the 60s and 70s and was trying to figure out how to be a grup. One of the things I figured out (slowly, painfully, haltingly) was that (stoned surfer voice) everything is not, like, relative man.

Grups need to draw lines. Grups with callowyutes must make sure their callowyutes know where the lines are, and why they are. There's much to be said for moderation in all things and every well-adjusted grup should intuitively understand why or seek help.

All sex, all the time, is as fraught with downsides as all repression all the time.

Fast forward to a few days ago. As I mentioned above, I opened the Accuweather site to check on the weather and was greeted by an ad for "...The Miracle Pill That Cured Dr. Phil's ED Permanently!" The ad featured a beautiful blond woman with the top half of her prominent boobs on display holding up a large, bright yellow banana. The caption was, "Sick of Finishing First?"

I repeat, Yikes!


I checked the URL... Yup, it's the Accuweather site. I pictured my mom, or Sister Mary McGillicuddy (if they were still around) checking on what the weather held in store for their day and encountering this advertisement. They would not even be mildly shocked (neither being delicate flowers) as they would've been back in the dark ages of a few decades ago. Far too many ads for ED and feminine hygiene products have flowed by under the bridge since then.

Eww! they would feel/think/say, and then calmly scroll to the relevant part of the page to acquire the desired information. Not I. I'd have (and I did) to click on the ad for myriad reasons, though I heartily agree with, Eww!

- Is it a fluke, a mistake, a hack, a humbug? Can't be real, right? Well, not on this site at least.

- Semantic confusion. Remember the caption, "sick of finishing first?" As I understand it, Dr. Phil, or anyone suffering from ED, couldn't finish first if they were unable to start in the first place. Not that I have any personal knowledge of this malady (knock on wood).

- Boobies! Boys will be pigs. As I instructed my daughter when she reached a certain age, all men all pigs, including me. Some men just hide it are just more civilized than others; all men should strive to be. Remember this.


So I clicked. It was even better/worse than I thought.

The navigation bar from the Fox News website (you know, in light of recent events... nevermind) followed by a headline -- Shocking News: Robin McGraw Reveals The Miracle Pill That Cured Dr. Phil's ED Permanently! Robin: "Special Thanks To Dr. Oz"

Then there's, featured in, which is followed by a bunch of logos for NBC, People, GQ, Dr. Oz, etc.

Then there's what looks like a newspaper article written by "Kate," a woman who, um, doesn't mince her words. If you read it, read the whole thing, it just gets better/even worse as you go, Eww! My favorite line was, "At first I was like: WTF, where do all those adult film stars get their stamina?" (You've no doubt wondered the same thing, right?)


Bottom line, it was a real ad in that there's an actual product you can buy, but everything in the ad itself is bogus. As I'm writing this there's another bogus ad that has begun running in the same space (the ads in the space are rotational) for a skincare product -- no bananas or boobies are involved, but the format is obviously a variation on a theme.

My point...

[Dana, Iggy, and Marie-Louise (who joined us at this point), cheer.]

My point is that although I'm a libertarian, by temperament and by choice, is that I have two questions. How does a culture wherein, more and more, the only agreed upon (more or less) restraints on behavior are legal ones, not devolve? How do we prevent Bedford Falls from becoming Potterville? 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 (3)

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/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,

What follows is a snapshot of my/our current zeitgeist. For purposes of clarification, my refers to me, our — varies.

The meaning of our primarily ranges from my extended family to my country, the USA, and points in between. Occasionally, and broadly speaking, "our" includes H. sapiens in general. I pledge to at least try to clearly differentiate. This applies/will apply to all of my State of the Zeitgeist columns.

[Just what are you on about now? inquires Dana, imaginary gentlereader.]

Your back! I cleverly reply. All three of my imaginary writing companions have been away on an extended "abduction" with my alien friends the Tralfamidorians.

Where's Iggy (imaginary grandsticky) and Marie-Louise (my drop-dead gorgeous muse)? I ask.

[Unpacking, and trying to find room to display the half a ton of cosmic tchotchkes they brought back with them.]

The point I'm trying to make about my/our is merely one of clarification. While my audience is a fairly small one I literally have readers from all over the planet Earth. Which sounds cool, and it is, but...

[THIS is clarification?]

Patience. I started blogging primarily as a way to leave a bit of me behind for my daughter and her snificant other, grown-up (eventual) grandkids and (potential, but virtually inevitable) great-grandkids. Also, the vague/slight possibility that I would go viral in some form or fashion and make some money.

I'm still waiting for the money to start pouring in. The ads on my site only pay slightly more than nothing if someone clicks on 'em. You gotta' have a lot more readers than I do to make money that way (via high volume clicking). But that's fine, I enjoy writing.

However, when I started, I didn't think about the fact that, at least potentially, I could reach anyone on the planet Earth who has internet access. Google, who provides a free and relatively easy to use platform for Bloggers called Blogger (clever, huh?) also provides statistics. My favorite one is how many people in a given country are reading my shtuff.

I'm basically just another mostly unknown writer here, there, and also, there. However, in the course of the last week, for example, folks from the US, Israel, France, Brazil, Indonesia, Russia, India, Germany, the UK, and China (China!), have read my column(s). There are other countries as well but Google only lists the top ten.

How cool is that! Well, I think it's cool.

Therefore, international gentlereaders, if you ever find me to be parochial or just another arrogant American, I (mostly) apologize. Also, I apologize to anyone that speaks/reads English as a second language for my tendency to mangle/invent words. OK, let us never speak of this again.


And now (finally), ladies and gentlemen, the State of the Zeitgeist, number three.

° A recent column of mine, Purposeful Polarization, was about how the Depublicrats and the majority of the members of the Infotainment Industrial Complex are attacking the Donald and attempting to bog his administration down by claiming that, with the help of Russia and the Pooteen, he stole our last presidential election.

Although his enemies, so far at least, are still light on actual evidence and heavy on speculation, they continue to be quite successful. One of the reasons for their success is one of the downsides of the living in the Dizzinformation Age. That is, the ability to spin information rapidly and widely, be it correct or otherwise.

There are, of course, endless new stories, memes, and developments — reported on, endlessly, by the endless news and social media. However, if the US was a radio station (Start your day with KUSA!) we would be in the midst of an all, the Donald, all the time marathon.

Healthcare and the tax code are a mess. The national debt increases daily. Underfunded/unfunded pension and social welfare promises keep expanding. The Donald tweets; Congress holds hearings and conducts investigations.


° In other news... it was widely underreported, barely mentioned in fact, that the cost of complying with The Gummit's rules and regs increased by 700,000,000 bucks from 2008 to 2016 while the tribune of the little people was in charge. If The Gummit's rules and regs were a country it would have the seventh largest economy on the planet Earth with a GDP of 1,700,000,000,000 bucks per year.

Mr. Obama likes to encourage the young and idealistic to pursue careers in the public sector, as opposed to the money-grubbing private sector that pays for the public sector. Mr. O. just spent 8,100,000 bucks on a new home in the Imperial Capital. He owns another home in California. He owns another home in Hawaii. I see his point.


° From the Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth Desk: The Donald has decided that America is withdrawing from the Paris Climate Accords. Fresh meat for professional wailers and gnashers.

His enemies declared that he had doomed Earthlings to eventual extinction. If anything, I'm understating their reaction. "Donald Trump Pulls US Out Of Paris Accord In Crushing Blow To Climate Fight" declared the Puffington Host.

He said that he was open to renegotiation. China is bringing coal-fired power plants online even as we speak (but promises to start cleaning up their act at some point down the road). He's got a problem with that. Me too.

For some reason, he also has a big problem with the provision that calls for handing over billions to that zany gang of famously effective bureauons at the United Nations to pay for developing sustainable power in third-world fever swamps.

Now personally, at the risk of being accused of peeing in the punchbowl, I feel the need to point out that our constitution clearly states that presidents can't sign a treaty without Senate approval.

Mr. O. says they can, and he did. Trust him, it's not technically a treaty, the provisions are non-binding. Question, If the provisions are non-binding, what's the point? See last week's column, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out, for the answer.


° On the endless freakin' hearings and investigations front, James Comey, the former head of the FBI recently, You're Fired!, by the Donald testified that... well... it depends on whose spin you trust the most. Mr. Comey did provide some moral clarity for the masses by explaining that when officials of The Gummit leak information, while this practice may be sleazy, if the info's not classified, it's legal. "Besides," he said, "I'm outta' here and I gotta' BOOK deal! Nah-nah-nah-NAH-nah!"  


° In celebrity news, a relatively obscure comedienne was condemned by various and sundry in various and sundry ways for crafting an image of herself holding the bloodied, severed head of the Donald. She apologized and invoked a, I thought it was funny but I didn't think it through, defense. Her "joke" led to various and sundry crazies to make death threats, whereupon she called a press conference and declared herself to be the victim of the week day hour last 15 minutes.


And then, in the midst of this contentious kerfuffle concerning budget cuts that aren't budget cuts and treaties that aren't treaties, legal leaks by J. Edgar Hoover Jr. and decapitated presidents -- evil losers murdered some more infidels in London for the crime of not being Muslims. 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.

   

Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?

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/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,

Dang! I missed Earth Hour! Again! (3/25/17, 8:30 pm)

Being a current events junkie is one of the reasons I spend (relatively speaking) a lot of time online.

[I use the phrase relatively speaking because I suspect, no, I know, that compared to the average smartphone addict (I still don't own a smartphone but I'm still sure it's inevitable) I'm strictly bush league. I still regularly read all sorts of things in dead trees format. I read entire ebooks while offline.]

When I go a-clickin' 'round the internet...

[Are there internet folk songs? A-clickin' 'round the internet, a-clickin' I do go!]

...I save all sorts of things for later viewing that may be something I would want to write about. I'm currently deleting my butt off in an attempt to keep my myriad saved sites under at least minimal control and I chanced upon the Earth Hour site.

In case you didn't know, Earth Hour is a movement, a website, and a nonprofit organization.

[Speaking of nonprofits, I'm constantly stumbling upon articles and videos of one sort or another about Millennials joining/starting nonprofit organizations. This is why I don't worry about where are all the jobs are going to come from in an increasingly automated world. Everyone can work for a nonprofit and sell merchandise/solicit donations from each other for a living while saving the world. Cool, huh?]

Earth Hour ("...together, let's #ChangeClimateChange"), in case you were unaware, promotes climate change awareness by encouraging the citizens of planet Earth to all turn off the lights, simultaneously, for an hour, once a year. It's a project of the World Wildlife Fund for Nature, which according to Wikipedia, is the world's largest conservation organization.

Now, I can almost hear my more cynical readers snorting in derision.

[Snorting? I'm sure there must be a better word for that varying noise H. sapiens emit when saying something like, "yeah (aforementioned noise), right" but I can't think of one.]

And, in this particular case, adding something about how much more made aware can we be about climate change. Perhaps even tossing in something about limousine liberals and their ilk saving the world by flicking a light switch once a year.

Not I. We must be ever vigilant, for snark and cynicism, like rust, never sleeps. While I'm somewhat skeptical about climate change and who/what is causing it (assuming it's an actual thing), I'm skeptical about everything, Particularly about planet-wide, big picture shtuff that requires complex, elaborate computer modeling. Particularly when various models predict various outcomes. Particularly since models are built by H. sapiens.

And, since I followed the global cooling predictions reported on by the likes of Time and Newsweek in the early 70s. Nowadays, this historical phenomenon is shrugged off by modern scientists who say that it was primarily the fault of a mistaken news media, not mistaken scientists. All the more reason to skeptical of everything, especially the news media.

[By the way, I can't recommend an attitude of general skepticism enough. In fact, I highly recommend an attitude that regards all knowledge as provisional and subject to radical revision, often when you're least expecting it. However, you don't have to be a jagoff (definition No. 2) about it. It can be done with a little style, like anything else.]


So anyway, I'd forgotten about Earth Hour altogether. It's not a hot topic here in Flyoverland. We've been somewhat sidetracked for the last several decades by our dismal economy, rusting empty factories, shrinking middle class  -- that sort of thing. Now we're dealing with an opioid epidemic that isn't just about addiction -- people are dropping dead with disturbing regularity in spite of the hundreds of billions we've spent/spend on Prohibition 2. A lot of people aren't just saying no.

[On the bright side, Prohibition 2 creates lots of good gummit and, The Gummit, jobs. Also, civil asset forfeiture helps to fund many local police departments, although some spoilsports keep whining about the constitution.]

However, as I mentioned above, while trying to get my eclectic collection of seemingly several million saved sites from which I could conceivably craft an eventual column of some sort, there it was, Earth Hour.

Or rather, a column by Mark Perry (an economist that lives in the real world and one of my intellectual heroes) about Earth Hour. "Instead of Barbaric Darkness, Why Not Celebrate Human Progress?  It's a brief, well-written piece well worth reading but I know how busy you are, so I'll summarize it for you.

Mr. Perry (and I) thinks that the widespread use of electricity (regardless of how it's generated), rocks. Most of his article is actually a lengthy quote by another economist, Ross McKitrick. The first three sentences of the quote say it all.

"I abhor Earth Hour. Abundant, cheap electricity has been the greatest source of human liberation in the 20th century. Every material social advance in the 20th century depended on the proliferation of inexpensive and reliable electricity."

He then lists several of those social advances and also points out that, "Many of the worlds poor suffer brutal environmental conditions in their own homes because of the necessity of cooking over indoor fires that burn twigs and dung."

Below is a satellite picture, courtesy of Google images, of North Korea at night. Apparently, King Kim the third, the chubby-cheeked commander in chief of the Norks is a rabid environmentalist. The Norks celebrate Earth Hour 24x7x365. You can almost smell the twigs and dung burning.

And you thought he was only famous for murdering various family members, starving his own people, and of course attempting, via The Bomb, to establish the ultimate protection racket.

"Nice country you have here, it'd be a shame if someone rendered it a wasteland. Know what I mean?
























[Confession: Mr. Perry's article also includes a (different) image of North Korea at night so technically you could make a case that I stole his idea. In my defense, I've been aware of the Norks environmental devotion and similar images, literally, for decades and this column just gave me an excuse a chance to publish what is a well-known image/phenomenon that everyone should be aware of.]


[At this point in my writing I hit a wall, well, not much of a wall, but still... I just couldn't come up with a last paragraph or two that I was happy with so I placed the column in a virtual drawer and tried not to think about it. 

I decided to not take it out till just now, Saturday morning, though I plan on publishing it tonight at 11:07 p.m. I figured that even if I couldn't come up with something I really liked the time pressure would force me to come with something that was good enough. And then the week happened...]

And we're back. Speaking of goofy, pointless, feel-good gestures to pub-lic-ally proclaim one's green bona fides, the Donald took it upon himself to pull the USA out of a globe spanning example, the Paris Climate Accords.

Also, comedienne, Kathy Griffin, made a joke that fell flat.

These events enable me to end this column/letter here and ask you to tune in next time whereupon I will discuss these two events and what they have to do with purposeful polarization, dizzinformation, the state of the zeitgeist, the constitution, and all sorts of shtuff that I tend to prattle on 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.

Purposeful Polarization (& Beguiling Bonkercockie)

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,

Purposeful Polarization (corollary -- beguiling bonkercockie), I stumbled on this phrase in a Wall Street Journal article. I've been following the seemingly endless attacks on the Donald, via the media and the Depublicans, fascinated by the deluge of if/then stories (if this should turn out to be true, then...) and unattributed (but trust us, we trust the leakers) leaks.

I refer specifically to (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy. It turns out the Donald isn't the Hitler of the 21st century (well, so far, it's early yet). It turns out that he's not crazy after all (well, so far, it's early yet), at least not consistently. While he does regularly say (or tweet) crazy shtuff, even some of his many enemies have begun to figure out it's often crazy like a fox/strategic in nature.

While the crazy and Hitler memes were only base hits, (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy is a home run. Our left-leaning infotainment industrial complex and the Depublicans are having a good deal of success tying the Donald to the Pooteen and (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy.

They've managed this in spite of the fact no actual crimes, so far at least, have yet to be uncovered. That's world-class Purposeful Polarization using a where there's smoke there's fire attack. However, the smoke, in this case, may just be a fog of spin and dizzinformation

 [Gentlereaders, please, bear with me. If you're sick of hearing about (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy you might be contemplating clicking off to elsewhere in cyberspace at this point. However, this letter/column isn't about (insert a few bars of dramatic music here) the Russian Conspiracy, it's about Purposeful Polarization.]



The WSJ article referenced above, Anti-Trump Democrats Invite Chaos, is a short editorial written by Ted Van Dyk who doesn't work for the paper and is described as being "...active for more than 40 years in Democratic administrations and campaigns..." succinctly states a list of reasons why our good friends on the left consider our newly appointed special prosecutor and calls for the Donald's impeachment to be justified.

He also succinctly demolishes them as there's no there, there -- the if/thens and leaks referenced above. He warns his fellow Depublicans that if they are successful in sidelining the Donald they could wind up with a true conservative in charge, which he considers to be a step backward from what they want. The Donald ain't a conservative, he's, well, the Donald. Personally, I think he's as surprised as the rest of us that he got elected, but that's another story.

Mr. Van Dyk's point is that the Depublicans (and America) would be better served if they were to find a way to compromise with the Donald on solutions for America's problems instead of perpetually pursuing Purposeful Polarization. (Sorry -- OK, not really.)

Mr. Van Dyk doesn't define purposeful polarization. In fact, he uses it only once, and towards the end of his article. He states that if we're to find some sort of rational compromise, "...purposeful polarization must give way to constructive engagement." Somebody needs to put that message on a t-shirt. To quote me (someone's gotta do it), "Compromise, don't demonize."


And then, talk about perfect timing (for my purposes at least), the Donald's proposed (he ain't the king, the 535 selfless representatives of the people have to pass it) 2018 budget hits the street. Let the games and the bonkercockie begin!

The Donald's man at Management and Budget, Mick Mulvaney, unleashes the $4,100,000,000,000 buck beast upon the world and takes his show on the road to promote it. Like most of its modern predecessors, and in the time-honored tradition of The Gummit, it's a vast tome containing some truth and a lot of lies financial projections and assumptions extending out for a decade. In other words, it's chock full of guesstimates and ignores the fact we choose an administration every four years, not ten.

Cue the Cacophony.

The opposition party, and everyone/anyone who will, at least theoretically, be receiving less largess from Uncle Sugar, predict the end of civilization as we know it. The Infotainment Industrial Complex (IIC) tends to agree.

Fortunately, the objectivity and truth obsessed contingent of the IIC, the press, steps in to save us from ourselves. "Trump seeks to slash $3.6 trillion of spending in austere budget" according to a reuters.com headline from 5.23.17.

"By Roberta Rampton | WASHINGTON

U.S. President Donald Trump asked lawmakers on Tuesday to cut $3.6 trillion in government spending over the next decade, taking aim at healthcare and food assistance programs for the poor in an austere budget that also boosts the military."

This is not an editorial, this is allegedly straight news. Note she (I hope I'm using Ms. Rampton's preferred pronoun and honorific) also uses the decade (five congressional and two presidential elections from now) gambit.

Ms. Rampton and Mr. Mulvaney (the budget whisperer) crunch the same numbers. He predicts a balanced budget -- ten years from now. She slyly, but clearly, informs us that the Donald is going to expand the military and abuse the poor to pay for it -- over the course of the next ten years.

So, my dearest grandstickies and great-grandstickies, I wish you luck. At the moment the adults seem to be leaving the room at an ever-accelerating pace. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, my favorite part, spending cuts by The Gummit aren't spending cuts. They're cuts to the amount of scheduled spending increases that The Gummit automatically increases each year. And no, I'm not making this up.

Two-thirds of, The Gummint, spending occurs on autopilot and includes scheduled increases. For example, the Donald's draconian, austere budget calls for spending $408,000,000,000 on Medicaid in the 2018 budget. This will be "cut" to only $688,000,000,000 by 2027. And no, I'm not making this up either. 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.

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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.