Nattionalism (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 5)

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)

"A good nationalism has to depend on a principle of the common people, on myths of a struggling commonality. " -Andrew O'Hagan

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Let's review.

This is part five of a series of columns about what I what I would want to make sure I've told you if I knew that my deletion from meatspace was imminent. The first barely introduced the concept after beginning with some shameless self-promotion of my -- NEW and IMPROVED! -- website.

Parts two and three were about finding meaning and happiness in life and I've noticed they kinda/sorta bleed into each other. That's OK, that's how it works in real life. This finding meaning/happiness/contentment/etceterament shtuff is probably the primary theme you'll find threading through all my letters/columns.

Parts two and three are a combination of distilled shtuff from previous columns combined with a not so secret ingredient -- things I've thought about/learned about/heard about/etceterabout -- since they were originally published. There's another lesson I'd have you learn, inspired by the previous sentence. "Pay attention and you'll learn something new and interesting every day" -me. "Pay attention and speak carefully." -Jordan B. Peterson

Part four was about the effect of the ubiquitous internet on a culture already in distress. It was also supposed to introduce my version of (soft) nationalism but I didn't get that far as once I got going on my Global/Local Paradox theory... well, you know how I get.

Now I'm going to explain what I mean by (soft) nationalism and segue into politics. The Republic is currently saturated with politics and the rain shows no sign of slowing anytime soon. Here's hoping that by the time my great-grandstickies read this we've become obsessed with something else.

Mars would be cool. Man Personkind needs geographic frontiers to nurture heroes and provide clean slates (tablet computers reset to factory defaults?) and geographic cures for the damaged/stumbled/fallen.

Soft Nationalism (and a major digression, right out of the gate...)

I don't know where I first heard the phrase soft nationalism but I knew immediately what it meant to me. More on that in just a sec'. Permit me to dispose of the digression first.

Before I started this letter I went a-googling to discover what others mean when they use this phrase. As I suspected, there's no generally accepted definition. I only bring this up because of a well written, soundly reasoned article I found that was written by someone who is clearly smarter than I.

The bad news is that I was about 3/4s of the way through the article when a rhetorical rattlesnake jumped out from behind a rock and tried to bite me.

Long story short, up until that point the author was talking about various versions of nationalism without staking out a firm position. Suddenly he revealed he was a hardcore nationalist, a Nazi in fact (though he never used that word), and then started beating up on the Jews. I didn't finish.

I did scroll back to the beginning and discovered he was part of some organization that advocates for this, that, and the other for "white Europeans." Yikes! I...

[There's a point here, somewhere, right?]

Yes, Dana, in fact...

Ooooh! thanks, Marie-Louise, that feels great, ahhh...

[Marie-Louise has no time for bigots in general or Nazis in particular. She knows where I'm going and is applying a motivational back scratch as opposed to a back scratch reward. Iggy, who is studying the Nazis in school just now, is actually interested in what I'm on about for a change and following closely.]

Where was I? Oh, yeah, the point. The point, my Dear Stickies is a straightforward riff on my pay attention and you'll learn something new and interesting everyday maxim. You've got to pay close attention to avoid someone slipping something by you. What would I have you learn, Dorothies? Intelligence/sophistication/education/etceteration are often used by evil eejits as camouflage.

And now, finally, King Crank's take on nationalism.

Soft Nationalism

Soft nationalism, as defined by me, is the middle ground betwixt Hard nationalism and no (everyone gets a participation trophy) nationalism. However, discovering and maintaining the golden mean in this, or any other matter, can be complicated. Just ask Goldilocks.  

Wikipedia has an excellent article about nationalism that does a good job of explaining that there are myriad forms of it practiced in myriad ways. A couple of sentences that caught my eye are "Nationalism therefore seeks to preserve the nation's culture. It also involves a sense of pride in the nation's achievements, and is closely linked to the concept of patriotism." Quite, but the devil lives in a comfortable condo in the details. 

Rather than provide a firm definition of King Crank's Soft Nationalism, at least just yet, permit me to beat up on Hard and No nationalism first.

Hard Nationalism

Ethnic cleansing, tribalism taken to its logical extreme, comes immediately to mind.  

We're all tribal to one degree or another, even those that claim they're not. It's a survival/evolutionary phenomenon. The group is much stronger and much more likely to survive and much more likely to replicate than the individual. Millions of years of evolving and clawing our way to the top of the food chain has literally wired this into our brains. 

[If you subscribe to creationism, God did it. The bottom line is the same. Taking out a wooly mammoth or the infidels one valley over takes teamwork.] 

However, like any good tool, it all depends on how you use it. You can use a hammer to rebuild homes damaged or destroyed by one of this year's hurricanes or indulge your inner serial killer and make it your go-to weapon of choice. 

[Construction worker by day, killer by night -- The Hammerer! A Netflix original series.]

Hard nationalism is when one group of kids on the playground gets together and decides to shun/restrict/enslave/kill all the kids that don't belong to their group. Which verb they embrace makes all the difference. There's a lot of variabilities possible betwixt shun and kill.

It comes about from some variation/combination of multiple forces such as perceived threats/resentments/revenge/domination/etceteration.

Regardless, the big-honkin' fly in the ointment is that hard nationalism is like being sentenced to spending your life in seventh grade in a same-sex boarding school. There's us, there's them. Tolerance is for losers.

No Nationalism

No nationalism is, "It's like, all relative, man." All cultures/religions/political systems/morality/lifestyles/economic systems are equally valid. Who are we to judge? And borders? borders are just imaginary lines.  




.Who are we to judge? We are the citizens of the nation states of the planet Earth. Once we're grups we look about us and decide if we're proud of our particular nation-state. What it was, what it is, and what it may become. 

"Nationalism therefore seeks to preserve the nation's culture. It also involves a sense of pride in the nation's achievements, and is closely linked to the concept of patriotism."

Those of us who are lucky enough to live in the relative handful of nations where the government serves at our pleasure can judge out loud without the fear that a Xi Dada, Dear Leader or a -- the Pooteen -- type will disappear us.

This is the aspect of my culture, the American culture, that is most worthy of preserving, the right to bitch and moan. 

But since I grasp that I have to share the playground and since I was properly socialized when I was a young, self-centered primate I understand that all the other high functioning chimps have the right to bitch and moan. I understand that we have to compromise on a set of rules if the game is going to be any fun. Or even if there is going to be a game. 

America's culture, secret of success, and endless threat is that it's a culture of multiple cultures. Multiple cultures and no shortage of wild-eyed individualists in competition brings out the best, and worst, in us. 

Cultural friction can spark new ideas or start fires. We've done amazing things. We've done, and do, terrible things to each other. 

But having been blessed with plenty of room, lots of natural resources, and relative freedom (lots more for some than others, historically speaking) we've somehow managed to build the country that many, if not most, of the lean and hungry and brutalized of the world would sacrifice a body part of lesser importance for a chance to live in. To get their shot. To get fat.

That's my preferred form of nationalism, of American nationalism. 

I believe free trade, lots of carefully vetted immigrants, and competitive capitalism works the best for the most. 

I believe that crony capitalism -- abetted by The Gummit, epitomized by a 70,000 + page tax code, written and maintained by a parliament of whores who are hosting a party for the entire country (and you, my Dear Stickies, are going to get stuck with the bill) -- is what works best for the fewest.

[I know, gentlereaders, that the (alleged) tax reform that's about to pass, will in the short-term boost the economy. As for the long-term -- it will increase the debt, increase spending, grow the tax code and expires in ten years. Can kicking has become as American as apple pie.]  

I also believe in borders and a strong military for the same reason I believe in doors that lock and my local police department. I believe I am a garrulous geezer and politics will have to wait till next week. 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.

     

       





     

  

  

     

Cheap Speech (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 4)

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 sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Democracy is the road to Socialism." -Karl Marx

"Democracy is the art and science of running the circus from the monkey cage". -H.L. Mencken

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grankstickies,

Cheap speech. I (relatively) recently encountered this phrase for the first time in one of George Will's bi-weekly columns.

[Are you aware that bi-weekly can mean either once every two weeks, or, twice a week (as it's used here)? Apparently, Sister Mary McGillicuddy was wrong, nobody's in charge of the English language.]

Mr. Will's column, The Steep Cost of Cheap Speech, was about coping with life in the Dizzinformation Age. He makes reference to a Yale Journal article written 22 years ago by Eugene Volokh, who invented the phrase cheap speech. Mr. Volokh predicted that while the internet would make it much easier for everyone to communicate with everyone else, there would also be significant downsides. Good call.

Bad News - Good News

Now, obviously, I've no way of knowing how the current cultural chaos will have worked itself out by the time you're reading this, or even if it has.

In the meantime, my access to (potentially) 7,499,999,999 readers without having to go through a middlemanperson, is historically unprecedented. That's the good news.

[Not that there ain't, and always will be, ideological middlepersons attempting to save us from ourselves for our own sakes.

Xi Dadda and seemingly ever-growing cohorts of like-minded hardcore partisans in both of America's primary political parties come immediately to mind.]

The bad news, for me at least, is that I'm in competition with any number of the aforementioned 7,499,999,999 citizens of planet Earth for your attention as well as the attention of my current and potential gentlereaders.

The bad news, for all of us, is the tsunami of cheap speech the Dizzinformation Age has created. But everybody knows about that/talks about that/writes about that. What I'm going to explore is what I call the Local/Global Paradox.

[Wait-wait-wait, what about all the other problems created by the internet and other technologies?]

That's a book, Dana. Remember, this is a series of letters written to my beloved Stickies as if my deletion is imminent. I'm going to restrict myself to the Local/Global Paradox and what I call Soft Nationalism. Now, stand back and be amazed (or appalled...).

The Local/Global Paradox

The internet has obviously made the world smaller and more homogenized and made it possible for any given cranky geezer prone to Sesquipedalian Loquaciousness to park his wrinkled butt in front of a keyboard and unleash tidal waves of cheap speech upon the globe. 

However, the never-ending kerfuffles of the United Nations and the European Union, the Donald's willful misunderstanding of trade treaties and trade deficits, and the tendency of most of the kids on the playground to pick on North Korea's misunderstood Dear Leader would seem to indicate -- inhale -- when Marvin the Martian lands and demands to be taken to our leader, it's gonna' get ugly.

While the two preceding paragraphs do indeed present a paradox, it's not even the paradox I'm concerned about. Hoo-boy, a double paradox, this is why I told you to be prepared to be amazed!/appalled? (bemused?).   

The paradox I'm concerned about is the one illustrated by the fact that while we are the world, at least for the purposes of a certain soda pop manufacturer and various and sundry utopians -- locally speaking, and I'm speaking specifically of my native America here -- the net is turning us into a ginormous small town.


The typical American small town, the one that lives in the back of the psyches of all Citizens of the Republic (COR, yes, it's back) is a small town with certain characteristics. COR of a certain age may well be visualizing something like Bedford Falls, Flyoverland, USA. Younger COR are more likely to be visualizing something like Potterville (with smartphones). Heavy sigh.

[Note to Iggy, google: It's a Wonderful Life when you get home (the gang is out doing their Christmas shopping).]

Now, being a small town there's at least one absurdly rich family and/or bitter, twisted, greedy patriarch. Being a small town, everyone thinks they know almost everyone else in spite of the fact most of them don't know themselves very well.

Being a small town, everyone keeps an eye on everyone else. People being people, there's no shortage of gossip, speculation, envy, and judgment.

People being people, there's no shortage of sins and crime. The kind they lock you up for and/or the kind that keep you from getting into heaven.


The ginormous town called America has three neighborhoods. Although they're geographically diffused, ideologically speaking they're easily identifiable. The Left Side, The Right Side and Middletown (pronounced mid'-el-ton). 

Instead of Henry F. Potter, we have the 1%. Just like the character in the wonderful movie, the 1% is portrayed in an over-simplified, black and white fashion because everyone knows of a Henry F. Potter type and can relate. 

Of course reality, as always, is complicated. For example, most of the Henry F. Potter types I've known/know range from almost successful to reasonably successful. There just aren't that many people in the world that are lifestyles of the Rich and Famous successful (LRF). 

Interestingly -- many of them that are seem to be entertainers of one sort or another who have been made LRF rich by members of the 99% willingly tossing a few dollars at them for what are often second-rate (or worse) performances.

Ironically -- many of these same entertainers, who have gotten absurdly rich for being pretty and/or good at playing pretend and/or singing and dancing and the like -- love throwing mud at other absurdly rich people that work 80 hour weeks and can't ever have enough money and who clearly have psychological problems. 

But as a group, the psychopathologies of the former tend to dwarf the psychopathologies of the latter. However, even that is worth money considering that the reporting of the extremely lucrative Famous and Famous For Being Famous industry is famous for their lurid stories about the psychopathologies of the famous and the infamous of both camps.

And all of this is complicated by the fact that everyone in America, globally speaking, is at the top end of the 1%. Another paradox rears its head. Citizens of the Republic who simultaneously suffer from obesity and Global Whining syndrome.    


The Bedford Falls Sentinel has been reduced to a weekly publication with the inevitable web site. It's more of news-letter that a news-paper. Thanks to 24 x 7 x 365 Infotainment/Social Media industry there's no need to wait for the daily paper with space limited prioritized news, space limited advertising, and of course, a gossip column and entertainment section.

Nowadays, the news never stops and if it bleeds it leads still leads. Thanks to global reach and the need to pack the 24 hour day with filler between the ads/commercials, we now have if bleeds it leads squared.

Infinite entertainment and gossip is always on and available via mobile rectangles in our pockets. The bad news is thanks to the Data Dragon's minions -- the Botmonsters, the Algorithmites, and their ilk -- we're becoming small towns of one. Individuals living in the same household, still quaintly called homes, can choose to live in virtual securely gated and carefully curated communities wherein they can play the part of Henry F. Potter. 


And who needs to go to one of those boring old town hall meetings, the kind romanticised in the bourgeois art (imagine Mr. R. trying to make a living in our enlightened Piss Christ era) of Norman Rockwell for example when you can tweet/troll/post fake news without having to leave the house? 

Well... except for those feeling the need to channel their inner chimpanzee, particularly if there are media to perform for and/or if some George Soros evil gnome type is providing funding and make work for the IUPPP&PVTTOT. If the media fails to show you can have a friend live stream you, you might go viral.


Mrs. Powell, "Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?" 
"A republic madam, if you can keep it." -Benjamin Franklin 

At the moment, the internet is providing slippery slope lube for our de-evolution into a ginormous small town with a direct democracy and the inevitable fractious factions. By the time you read this we may be the Vaguely/Formerly/Kinda/Sorta United States of America.

The virtuous, high-minded, citizens of Athens that ordered the death of Socrates would approve wholeheartedly. I hope the country comes to its senses and crowns me (temporary) king before it's too late. Restoring the Republic is gonna take a minute and I'm not getting any younger (and I didn't even get to soft nationalism yet...). 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.

   

Happiness (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 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 (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life." -Omar Khayyam

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

As threatened promised, this is another letter about "...Cranky cranking out a column (or two or...) and writing down everything he'd tell his beloved Stickies if he knew he was scheduled for deletion." -me

The Secret of (Occasional) Happiness

I wrote a column titled The Secret of (Occasional) Happiness in July of 2016 that predates my Dear Stickies format but is nevertheless relevant. Its thesis was/is that "Someone to love that loves you back (a dog will do) and interesting work is the secret of (occasional) happiness." -me

I qualified happiness with (occasional) because as I explained in the article (briefly, and not well) everything contains its opposite, that is to say, something and its opposite are two sides of the same coin -- you can't have one without the other. Another way to put this is that opposites define each other.

Yet another is that if you were happy all the time you wouldn't know it because you'd be happy all the time. Wordplay I know, but it's true. Although I can't prove it scientifically/experimental/whateverly, it's still true.

The Pursuit of Contentment

The very first column I wrote, The Pursuit of Contentment  -- they were called blog posts several hundred days ago in the dim and distant past -- was published on July 23, 2015. For technical reasons (I screwed something up and I still don't know the what or the how of it) it's now dated 8.20.16. This is the date it was rescued from the (electronic) dustbin and republished.

My thesis was/is that once I'm crowned the King of America I'm going to change the phrase in the Declaration of Independence, the pursuit of happiness, to the pursuit of contentment (kings can do shtuff like that). The reason I'm going to do this is because:

"This is the central tenet of King Crank's Philosophy of Contentment. Be thou a believer (in God, a God, or the Gods), an atheist, or _______, the fact remains that if you choose to keep showing up you're going to occasionally experience happiness. 

You will also occasionally get caught in a crap storm. Mostly, you will just be doing what needs to be done to keep body and soul together. This is often boring, which may lead us to pursue happiness and explains why it's relatively easy to sell us lottery tickets, politicians, and beauty aids." -me yet again


You're saying to yourself "Self, if he's already written two entire columns about happiness why is he writing yet another entire column about happiness?"

Well, ask a recovered (recovering) drunk about the phrase "...we absolutely insist on enjoying life."

[For the record: many a recovered drunk, I'm talking people who've been on the wagon for years, insist on referring to themselves as recovering, not recovered. That is to say, they regard their sobriety as a work in progress that never ends until they do. I was married to one, Ronbo, for 21 years. While technically no longer with us, being a force of nature, she lives on.]

[Dana: With all due respect to, uh, Ronbo... where's this going?]

[Iggy: Is she..., is that the one uncle Ray calls Nana?]

Marie-Louise is scratching my back and smiling, she loved Ronbo.


Let me put it this way. I am, by temperament a -- the glass is almost empty -- sort of person. Also, having rounded the block once or twice and having obtained my Sexy Seasoned Citizen credential, I concur with the Buddha, life is suffering. Or, as they say on the Nor'side-a-Pittsburgh (HT: Ed), life's a bitch and then ya' die.

[Dana: Geez, sucks to be you but what...]

Which is why I've given/I continue to give a bit of thought to the subject at hand. I stand by the two columns mentioned above. Both of them are about what to do in spite of the spiritual wisdom of the Buddha or the more secular wisdom of the good citizens of the Nor'side-a-Pittsburgh.

That is, as the Big Book (not to be confused with the Good Book, but which is equally important to some people) says "...we absolutely insist on enjoying life" to which I would add -- when we can, as often as we can, and as hard as we can.

BIG BUT

How should we conduct ourselves when life is kicking our ass? given that it frequently does and often it's impossible gonna' take a minute (or a year, or two, or...) to get happy/get the door prize/see a rainbow.

Two points. First, as I pointed out in last week's column, you have two choices. You can pull the covers over your head and refuse to get out of bed. The best you can hope for is is a tolerable, stable level of misery that you hope won't get worse.

Or, you can get out of bed, do what ya' gotta do to keep body and soul together (or the bodies and souls of those in your charge together) and take baby steps towards a positive goal. It's OK if your most important goal is to not feel like crap all the time as long as once you don't you get another most important goal.

Second, and I credit Professor Jordan B. Peterson for getting me to start thinking about what follows (Dr. J. will be the Chairmanperson of my Royal Privy Council once I assume my throne, please hold the throne jokes).


Given that we're wired to pursue goals (sublime or profane) because we're wired to believe that reaching our goals will make us happy

And,

Given that we soon discover that once we reach a given goal we need another one(s) to stay (more or less) happy

And,

Given that we're capable of projecting what we would be/could be like, and what effect we could have on the world/in the world if we if we were to eventually rise far enough, one baby step at a time

And,

Even if you don't ever have much of a life, if you spend it trying to have a substantial life you'll not only feel better physically/emotionally/spiritually, you'll have chosen Nobility over Nihilism -- and there will always be ice cream. 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.

Xanax (Before I Wake Up Dead, Pt. 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.

[Bloggaramians: 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 sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Old friends pass away, new friends appear. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful; a meaningful friend -- or a meaningful day." -Dalai Lama. I wonder if his mom or his friends call him Dalai?


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

OK class, let's review. In last week's column, after spending an embarrassing amount of time promoting my -- New and Improved! -- website and its new features such as my Come On and Safari With Me tab where I post interesting shtuff I've found while web surfing -- inhale -- I initiated a new series of columns based on the following notion, what would I want to make sure I've said to My Dear Stickies if I knew my deletion from meatspace was imminent.

The first thing I thought of was the importance of finding (positive) meaning in life/in your lives. "..in order to find positive meaning in your life, you need a goal that you find valuable." Having run out of time I left you with a video clip from a lecture by Dr. Jordan Peterson who is not only much smarter than me, he also explains things better than I do.

If you haven't seen it yet go ahead and watch it now, I'll wait till you get back. If you're a dead trees reader, fret not (but you really should get over your..., well, nevermind). Anyway, now you're stuck with dealing with only my bonkercockie, without Dr. P. to help you out.

All right class, if everyone's ready we'll...

[Yeah-yeah-yeah, whatever. What's the point of anything? Why bother getting out of bed in the morning? 'Scuse me, I gotta' go find my Xanax. SOUND OF DOOR SLAMMING] 

Keep spreading the sunshine, Dana! Sorry, geez, I hope I didn't trigger you.

Anyways... The very first thing that comes to mind concerning the very first thing that I'd like to make sure I tell you about, that is, the importance of finding (positive) meaning in your life/in your lives is -- without meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals -- you're sunk. You're doomed, Your fresh meat for pill popping/pill pushing shrinks.

Now, the thing is... excuse me, the phones ringing again, I've been ignoring it but repeated re-calls to my freakishly large household may indicate that one of the denizens of Casa de Chaos really needs help. I'll be right back.

DISCLAIMER

This column in no way wishes to disparage licensed psychiatry, the practices of its licensed practitioners and/or patients that benefit from legally prescribed prescriptions. The author acknowledges that there are any number of legitimate psychiatric problems that require medication. In fact, personally knows many H. sapiens that might benefit from same. 

Sorry, it was some nameless, nervous, newly minted associate calling for my lawyers -- Dewey, Cheatham & Howell. They're always calling about something, claiming to be proactive. I think that they're just pro-billable hours.

As I was saying, the thing is, while of course there are no shortage of legitimate reasons for psych meds, if more H. sapiens consciously cultivated meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals it would make a considerable dent in the fortunes of Big Pharma.

[Enlighten us then oh Cranky one! (giggle). A glassy-eyed Dana speaks (with a slight but discernable slur). Where, pray tell, does one find said qualities in a world where everyone dies? Marie-Louise and Iggy each take an arm and gently escort him out of my consciousness.]


The answer to that question is the stuff books are made of, but I'm writing as if my deletion is imminent in case my deletion is imminent. Let me begin by pointing out that regardless of your feelings about any given traditional religion, automatically reject any claim that they're right and everyone else is wrong. God only knows what the truth is.

Big But

If the bulk of their dogma is primarily concerned with how to get along with the other kids on the playground in a civilized way without bullying anybody and leading a moral life more or less in line with the 6.5 commandments, well, judge not, lest you be judged.

Now, I'm not saying that in order for H. sapiens in general, or yinz guys in particular, to cultivate meaning/purpose/goals/etceterals that it's necessary to belong to a particular religious sect.

I am saying that regardless of the motivation of these folks -- to go to heaven, to stay out of hell, or just to cover their butts -- whatever, psychologically speaking the result is the same. I'm also saying that many people, not all but many, with a bit of effort, can get the same results -- or close enough. (However, I can't guarantee you'll get into heaven or even if it exists.)

What result? You'll keep getting out of bed and you'll keep trying, secure in the knowledge there may be a rainbow after the crapstorm passes.

The Bad News

If you've been around for more than a minute or two and paying attention, regardless of whether you're a glass-half-full, glass-half-empty, or a screw the glass gimme the bottle sort of person you know three things. 

First, paint rainbows all over your blues, crawl inside said bottle, or, seek moderation in all things -- life will sink its teeth into your cute ass at random intervals. Second, sooner or later, you're going to be deleted. 

Finally, when your response to the bad news is to declare the battle lost before it starts and pull the covers up over your head and go back to sleep and/or embrace despair/negativism/nihilism/postmodernism/etceterism the best you can hope for is stasis. That is, to be reliably miserable, and hope you don't get even worse. You know this.

The Good News

If you've been around for more than a minute or two and paying attention, regardless of whether you're a glass-half-full, glass-half-empty, or a screw the glass gimme the bottle sort of person you also know three other things.

First, as soon as you take a single step in the direction of reaching a defined goal -- be it cleaning up your room or the pursuit of enlightenment -- you'll feel good, or at least better than you were, and, you'll find life does have meaning, if only for a minute. When the meaning fades, set another goal. 

[If this doesn't work for you, then yes, you need to talk to someone. However, first look yourself in the eye and ask yourself if the reason you think life is meaningless is that it means you don't have to put away the chips, turn off the primary rectangle, and get a life. That it means you don't have to do anything besides feel sorry for yourself.]

Second, if you do get out of bed and try, there's at least a chance you, and your corner of the world, will get better/be better. If you don't, you, and it, definitely won't.

Finally, having taken the time and trouble to build/maintain a house with a well-stocked medicine cabinet and a storm cellar, when a reality snake sinks its fangs into your ass, you'll be ready. When the inevitable crap storm hits -- physical/psychological/financial/etceteralogical -- you'll be ready. You know this too.

There might even be a rainbow -- eventually. Poppa loves you.

[Since this already longish column has inadvertently turned into an hommage (pronounce with a French accent, oo' - maa... never mind, stop laughing Marie-Louise) of sorts to Dr. Jordan B. Peterson, a potential savior of Western Civilization (let's hope so), here's some tough love for ya, eh?


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.

  

  

Before I Wake Up Dead

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 sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Some people die at 25 and aren't buried until 75." -Benjamin Franklin

DANGER!

Possibly Excessive Self Promotion Ahead

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Please hold on for just a sec', I've got to speak to the gentlereaders first...

My Dear Gentlereaders, FYI, my website, TheFlyoverlandCrank.com is not only -- New and Improved! -- it's still improving even as I write this. First, the Please Read This If You're New Here Tab is now called, Who Is This Guy Anyway?

If you've read Please Read This If You're New Here before, well, it hasn't radically changed but it now explains who I am and what this column is about more clearly and might be worth a reread on your part.

If you've never checked out my site it's definitely worth reading my -- New and Improved! -- introductory essay, Who Is This Guy Anyway? It's only the length of about two of my average columns but it attempts to provide my gentlereaders with the who, what, and why of my semi-humble missives.

The Glossary is updated, expanded (and ever expanding). This is where you need to look for explanations when you encounter a made-up word, be it my creation or one I stole borrowed from someone else. You'll also find the explanations behind corrupted/distorted/etceterated words such as shtuff or snifficant or etceterated.

I think it's worth reading for its own sake (You'll Laugh! You'll Cry!) but I don't get out that much.

There are two brand new tabs (you may have read about them in The New York Times or heard them mentioned on your favorite polarizing cable news channel).

Come On And Safari With Me, a title stolen borrowed from a Beach Boys song, Surfin' Safari, is where I post links to interesting shtuff I find when I surf the Web. Though obviously a thinly veiled attempt to get you to visit my website to check for updates, I pinky swear that I will do my best to post cool links there.

I used to post these sort of links on the Flyoverland Crank's Facebook page. Going forward I'll only use the FB page to announce new columns and post links to Wall (no fake news) Street Journal articles, the only way to share WSJ articles due to a very sturdy paywall.

Finally, the new Privy Council of Perspicacious Polymaths tab lists the names of the individuals chosen to be members of my privy council once I become the King of America. Each name is accompanied by a video that will introduce my future subjects to my favorite polymaths.

Warning!

The format of my website contradicts the conventional wisdom of  people that make a very nice living advising other people how to make a very nice living by constructing their websites to be honey traps for people who don't like to read and/or whose attention spans have been reduced to the level of high functioning chimpanzees due to the pace of modern life and social media addiction. This is why so much of the web is beautiful graphics, minimal words, sexed-up titles, bums and boobies, and aggressive never-ending, advertising. I offer mostly just words, and no ads.

Now, where was I... oh, yeah waking up dead. Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies...

Death Is Natures Way of Telling You to Slow Down

...And although this saying of uncertain etymology is only vaguely relevant to what follows I threw it anyway because I like it and want to use it somewhere before I die. 

Although I currently self-identify as a 39-year-old drop dead gorgeous African-American lesbian woman person named Coco, I'm trapped inside the body of a 64-year-old cranky white dude who's currently dealing with spinal stenosis.

Spinal stenosis (sounds ugly don't it?) generated problems range from relatively mild to relatively awful. For now, I'm at the relatively mild end of the scale. That could change with time, but I'm on it.

The reason I mention this is because I've been mildly obsessed with death for couple-a-three years now because, one, for the first time in my life I had/I have some serious health problems and two, I know a lot of dead people. Oh, and an awful lot of famous people that I've been aware of for decades are dropping dead.

As to number one, yes, of course I'm grateful. As to number two, yes, of course, I'm aware that people succumbing to involuntary dirt naps with depressing regularity is a logical/inevitable/commonsensical/etceterical stone cold fact. No need to take it personally, right?

For the record, while I don't want to die just yet -- I've got a bunch of shtuff I need/I'd like to get done -- I don't fear death. In fact, I'm kinda/sorta looking forward to it for philosophical reasons, positive ones that I won't go into here. But, I must admit that the possibility of dying slowly and painfully is somewhat disconcerting.


Now, when I say mildly obsessed, I mean just that. It's always sort of there, in the background, like a simmering pot of subtle potpourri.  A simmering pot of subtle potpourri... say it out loud with a French accent. Cool, huh? Well, not exactly, because I hate the smell of a simmering pot of potpourri. Subtle -- or as strong as a house full of Glade Plug-Ins cranked all the way up -- I'll pass.

But I fell in love with the simile as soon as I wrote it so it's probably going to still be here when I click on the Publish button.

While I don't sit around all day thinking about death (though I do sit around all day, it's a stenosis thing) I'm, um, TRIGGERED! that's it!, something for the Millennials to relate to. I'm triggered when I'm reminded of my inevitable deletion from meatspace.


Until relatively recently, I thought I was bulletproof, ten feet tall, and going to live forever. The realization that I'm not is one of the reasons I started writing these letters/this column.

However, the death of Tom Petty + spinal stenosis + siblings in worse shape than I + the fact that the Wompa Woman can't be bothered to do her exercises anymore + other shtuff = Cranky cranking out a column (or two or...) and writing down everything he'd tell his beloved Stickies if he knew he was scheduled for momentary deletion...

[Dana: Huh?]
[Iggy; Tom who?]
[Marie-Louise, stops scratching, places hands on hips (hers, not mine): French accent?]

While fervently hoping I'm not. But ya' never know, ya' know?


Having already crossed the 1,000-word threshold due to my intemperate self-promotion, it's too late to thoroughly explore the very first thing that came to mind when I thought about what I'd like to make sure I told yinz if I were facing impending deletion.

That is to say, the importance of finding positive meaning in life/in your lives.

However, rather than just leave you hanging, here's a taste of what's coming next week

A few weeks ago I wrote about Hope and/or Goals (Heavenly Graces, Pt. 3). I mentioned that there are physiological reasons for why goal seeking makes you feel good. Well, in order to find positive meaning in your life, you need a goal that you find valuable. The pursuit of goals will make you feel good and supply meaning which will make you feel even better.

See, the thing is...well here, step into Dr. Peterson's class for just a minute. 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.

Faith and/or Trust (Heavenly Graces, Pt. 4)

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.

[Bloggaramians: 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 sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it." -Edgar Allen Poe. I wonder if his mom or his friends called him Eddie?

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies, 

"Faith is the infused virtue, by which the intellect, by a movement of the will, assents to the supernatural truths of Revelation,.. ."

"...Faith, to honor one's community of business. "...also the faith to build monuments to the glorious past, to sustain traditions of commerce, of learning... ."

The first quote above is how Wikipedia defines Faith, theologically speaking.

The second is a secularized version, Faith applied to that most secular of sectors, business and/or the marketplace. It's from an essay (as you already know if you're not new here) written by Dr. Deirdre McCloskey. 


This is my last letter/column/whatever this is (well, for now at least) of a series in which I attempt to apply the Theological Virtues (or -- SOUND OF HARP BEING STRUMMED -- the Heavenly Graces) in a secular way.

For newbies, the Theological Virtues were presented to me as part of a package deal called the Seven Virtues when I was but wee lad attending Catholic grade school several thousand days ago in the Black & White Ages.

For oldbies who aren't aware, and those who read me via the dead trees format and who tend to be a bit techno-shy, when one blogs writes a weekly column on the web you have to be aware that with a potential audience of 7,500,000,000 ya' gotta allow for the fact that newbies are going to stumble on your semi-humble missives.

Since my readership is slightly smaller than that I think it's just good form to allow for it. Also, I have readers that are even older than I am and who, like me, suffer from CRS (can't remember, um, shtuff).


Now, the reason I'm doing Faith last is that Faith is well, Faith. At the risk of being accused of having a keen eye for the obvious, let me explain. To me at least, and yes I realize this doesn't necessarily apply to you, the word Faith is heavily associated with Faith in/fear of God. 

In my defense, when I did an eight-year bit in Catholic grade school in the Black & White Ages the teachers were mostly nuns -- the old fashion/old school/back in the day kind -- with theological/ideological/occasionally psychopathological hair on their carefully concealed chests.

Faith in God, as conceived by the Catholic Church, was literally beaten into me. For the record, as far as I can tell, the lasting marks are mostly good ones. Corporal punishment usually consisted of a crack on the palm with a ruler, and was usually deserved.  

But I also suspect that the nearly daily reminders that if I died with a major league unconfessed sin on my soul -- e.g., missing Sunday mass for any reason other than a potentially lethal illness -- might result in eternal damnation, may have had a slightly negative impact.  


OK, Faith... hmm, let's see, um... nothing. OK, Faith, as applied to um, oh yeah! that supremely secular sector mentioned in the second sentence of this missive, business. 

"...Faith, to honor one's community of business. "...also the faith to build monuments to the glorious past, to sustain traditions of commerce, of learning... ."

I've been "in business," twice, once mildly successfully. I was the owner-operator of an ice cream truck, thank you for not laughing. In fact, several years prior to that, I worked for Good Humor when they were in the process of phasing out of street vending. For those of you in the know, I watched the (old school) slideshow, aced the test, and was taught how to peddle popsicles and drive a stick shift by a corporate employee.

A more recent attempt, but one that's now far enough behind me that I can mention it without having an anxiety attack, something I attempted in a storefront, was an utter failure. However, the failure taught me some invaluable lessons. Actually, that statement is incorrect. They weren't invaluable lessons, but they were very expensive lessons. In fact, I know exactly how much they cost. 


In certain circles, business/the free market/capitalism/etceterism is oft-maligned and frequently scapegoated. This is in spite of the fact that the world has recently (relatively speaking...) stumbled into what Dr. McCloskey calls the Great Enrichment: an age of literally unprecedented prosperity powered by the usual suspects listed in the previous sentence. However...    

[What's that got to do with Faith, your garrulousness?]

Hey, Dana. Well, there's a lot of applied Faith going on in the market, in fact, without it I suspect there wouldn't have been a Great Enrichment and most H. sapiens would still be living the life of 99.999% of their ancestors. That is, "...solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." (HT: Thomas Hobbes). Not even basic cable; no need for a weight loss industry. How would -- Hi, I'm Marie! -- feed all those adopted kids? 


Now, when I was a Good Humor Man Person, a "Goody Bar Man Person" (it's a Pittsburgh with an h thing), although most of the gajillion relatively tiny political entities that surround Pittsburgh that would be all be Pittsburgh if Pittsburgh was located in say, Texas, and would be both more efficiently and more cheaply run because...

[Marie-Louise is giving me the stink eye.]

Sorry, that's a different letter. Anyways... because Good Humor, which was founded in Youngstown, Ohio, which is, by the way, less than 70 miles from Pittsburgh with an h...

[Cough, cough.]

Sorry, when I was a Good Humor Person, my kids -- every Good Humor Person referred to the customers on their carefully established and maintained route as "my kids" -- my kids, and their parental units, had Faith that my goody bars wouldn't send them to the emergency room.

That is, they Trusted me. Trust, is applied Faith.

Good Humor's "sustained traditions of commerce," were safe to eat, yummy goody bars delivered to your street at roughly the same time and on the same days (weather permitting and romances under control) by um, mostly relatively normal, hygienic individuals (and the occasional, um, slightly eccentric citizen).

The customers Trusted that I would show up when I was supposed to, sell them a product that was only slightly misrepresented by the perfect images displayed on the menu boards (hey, talk to the marketing people...) and not shortchange the kids.

[That's your idea of applied Trust? The local ice cream truck driver? Have you met our...]

No, Dana, I haven't. He stopped coming around fairly early in the season because after experiencing his ridiculous prices, crappy product, and vaguely menacing air a time or two, nobody Trusted him and the kids started abusing him -- from a careful distance. No Trust, no sales. No Trust, no relationship. No Trust, no...

[Well I still think...]

Dana, are you aware that when eBay first started, before they built their rating system, that people could hire a middlema..., uh, middleperson, to broker the deal because it was assumed that customers would send rubber checks for non-existent merchandise?

They all went out of business, very quickly. If lots of people had sent rubber checks for non-existing merchandise eBay would've gone out of business, very quickly. This shtuff has a way of working itself out, very quickly.

Doveryai, no proveryai is a Russian proverb that means Trust, but verify. Google: Reagan, Ronald. I can assure you that...

[What's that got to do with anything? and what about relationships? I Trusted someone that I was supposed to marry. I arranged my whole life around this fact and one day woke up next to a stranger who was in short order, gone.]

But it might have worked out, and that's as good as it gets. If you hadn't taken the chance, there wouldn't have been anything to work out. You learn your lessons, lick your wounds, live to love another day. Or not, but I don't recommend it. No Trust, no Faith, no -- anything. 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.

Hope and/or Goals (Heavenly Graces, Pt. 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.

[Bloggaramians: 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 sublime, drop-dead gorgeous muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

"Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow." -Einstein


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Wikipedia: "Hope is defined as a Divinely infused virtue, acts upon the will, by which one trusts, with confidence grounded on the Divine assistance, to attain life everlasting. Its opposite is the sin of despair."

"...the Hope to imagine a better machine. "...to infuse the day's work with a purpose, seeing one's labor as a glorious calling... ."

The first quote above is Wikipedia's theological definition of the Theological Virtue, Hope, one of the three Theological Virtues (or Heavenly Graces). 

The second is a secularized version of Hope, as posited by Dr. Deirdre McCloskey. Dr. M., my favorite economist, and future member (once I assume power) of King Crank's Privy Council of Perspicacious Polymaths. 

If you're new here, or even if you're not, and like me, your memory ain't what it used to be, this is the third of a series of columns about the three Theological Virtues. 

To be more specific, it's my semi-humble attempt at offering a secular version of these three particular virtues that are part of something that I was taught was a very big deal, The Seven Virtues. Of course, this was several thousand days ago in the Black & White ages, so...   

I decided to use Dr. McCloskey's quote(s) as a demonstration of how the Theological Virtues can easily be translated into secular ones in all four parts of this series of columns. I did this because they're all from an article she wrote about The Magnificent Seven applied to the marketplace, the world of business -- a notoriously secular sector. 


[Dana awakes. Nice introduction, but, um, Hope as a Virtue? I don't get it. You either have hope, or you don't, regardless of the subject in question. I stopped hoping my boss would extract his head from his bum a long time ago. On the other hand...]

She wore a glove?

[Don't be an eembaasle, and don't interrupt me with corny jokes that are even older than you are. I was going to say that on the other hand, I Hope that if I keep looking I'll find a better job. But I can't choose to be hopeful. Aren't you the one that said you can't choose to love? How can you choose to be hopeful? 

And for the record, your habit of capitalizing words that don't need capitalizing, and no shortage of your other goofy writing practices, gets on my nerves.]

For my record, my goofy writing practices are part of my eccentric charm. Also, before I forget, eembaasle (accent on the first syllable) is how a native Colombian character from the Netflix drama Narcos pronounced imbecile when I was watching it the other day. It was love at first hearing, with the word, not the character.

If any of my gentlereaders find my usage, spelling, and pronunciation of eembaasle triggers anyone I insincerely apologize. I love the sound of it for its own sake and I'd love it just as much if it were used by an Eskimo. I love it the same way I love the fact Buggs Bunny says maroon instead of moron. The way an Irish character, in a show I can't remember the name of, said eejit instead of idiot.

After all, Dana's right, you can't choose to love, or not. You do or you don't. Besides, hooplehead remains my go-to word in this category.


In Last week's column, I pointed out that love can be elevated to a Virtue when it's applied across the board in a practical, realistic fashion. When it's used as a tool to help you get along with the other kids on the playground. When you try to treat everyone on the planet the same way you'd like to be treated, even my second favorite dictator, Xi Dada.

"...we're talkin' big picture conceptualization here people. Think of Charity as love in action, applied love." -me

And, while we're kinda/sorta on the subject...

I should've also mentioned two other things. Good manners are a form of love in that they make it possible to at least try to communicate with hoopleheads without the situation immediately deteriorating into something like the lowest common denominator Infotainment that pours out of your primary and mobile rectangle (largest TV and smartphone).

Also, watch your back and don't be a sap. Masochism as a fallback position in any and all situations is not a good idea. Save it for... well, nevermind, that's really none of my business. Anyway, consider them mentioned.


Sorry, it's not you, it's me. Where was I? In last week's column... yadda, yadda, yadda... Oh! I know! As Charity (or even just good manners) is applied Love and becomes a Virtue when universally applied (as opposed to huffa-huffa, I love you, I've got to have you baby!), A Goal is applied Hope. It doesn't work as well a Love/Charity, semantically speaking, but it's close enough.

"...the Hope to imagine a better machine. "...to infuse the day's work with a purpose, seeing one's labor as a glorious calling... ."

See it? Steve Jobs, at least from what I gather (surprisingly enough we never met), was a Dick. 

[Mon Dieu!] 

Sorry Marie-Louise, none of the insults above apply, he was a genius after all... Anyways, he had a Goal, to make a bunch of existing machines better and change the world. Sure, Apple's shtuff is overpriced, and whether or not smartphones made the world better or worse is debatable, but let us not quibble. Lots of people love Apple's products. 

Also, they enable the cool kids to help boost our economy with a product that costs more than some people on the planet make in a year, while still looking down on the evil 1%, while they ignore the inconvenient truth that globally speaking if you live in America you are a member of the evil 1%. (Which helps to explain why all sorts of people would give up a body part of lesser importance to live here in spite of our evil tendencies.) 

Consider the often derided fast food joint manager ("a burger flipper with a tie in a skirt") who started on the line and whose Goal is to climb the corporate ladder so his her family can live decently and who may not even like his her job all that much. But her applied Hope, her Goal, will benefit her kids, that di... dope she's married to, and potentially, you. She busts her buns to supply you with the experience her employer (and you) Hopes you'll have so that everyone involved gets to keep their job.


Finally, consider the phrase, Hopes and dreams. Dreams are good. However, if you want a dream to come true, convert it into a Hope. Why? Hope, applied Hope, is how to make a dream come true. How? Turn your Hope into a Goal. Change the world. Be Virtuous. 

Free Bonus! A Fun Fact For No Additional Charge!  

If you have a goal, every time you execute a step towards it your body rewards you with a treat, a shot of dopamine. the happy hormone. However, once you reach your goal, this stops. This is why the buzz from reaching your goal doesn't last. You're gonna' need a lot of goals if you want to be happy. 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.