The Melting Pot (or not...)

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 this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Ideas—not identity—should be the driving force of our politics." -Orrin Hatch

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

[Gentlereaders: If you're in a hurry, or, one of the many people that read only the first few sentences of any given online article before moving on, let me save you some of your valuable time and point out that the quote above tells you everything you need to know about this particular column.] 

When I was a callowyute attending Catholic school during the transition from the Black&White Ages to the postmodern paradise we currently inhabit the subject of America as a great melting pot was mentioned by more than one of my teachers. 


What was meant by this concept -- not much mentioned these days so I thought I'd better explain -- is that America was a country/culture of people from myriad other countries and cultures. Also, by definition, ours was a nation designed to maximize the freedom of the individual.  

Freedom is tempered by the facts that we have to share the playground, and that with rights come responsibilities if we wish to remain as free as possible. 

Therefore, in order for us to all get along, we all had to willingly jump into a "melting pot" to create an alloy called America/Americans. Now, I can't remember if it was Miss Crabtree -- there were no Mss. (mizzes) in the Black&White ages -- or Sister Mary McGillicuddy that pointed out that the term American mosaic might be a better analogy.     

That is, America's a mosaic of customs/religions/moralities/etceteralities that are joined together to produce a work of art. Mosaic being the better analogy since in America you could follow your own star as long as you were prepared to let everyone else do the same. 

Well, theoretically anyway. 

That was the ideal state of things. However, on the planet Earth, ideal situations, which may be worth relentlessly pursuing -- as always the devil resides in a comfortable condo in the details -- are seldom possible, never sustainable.


The never-ending American experiment has suffered many failures and setbacks. For example, the struggle to end the national nightmare called Jim Crow, that was peaking while I was the (mostly) clueless callowyute referenced above comes immediately to mind.

Although utopia is never possible, much less sustainable, striving to reach it is laudable, and necessary. Acknowledging it's unobtainable while pursuing it anyway simultaneously serves to keep one's feet on the ground while still providing a reason to keep getting out of bed in the morning.

As I've mentioned elsewhere, I learned from Jordan Peterson that always reaching for better, and then reaching for better than that, is physiologically necessary to maintain a feeling of well being as it prompts my fevered little brain to generate my favorite hormone, dopamine, my drug of choice.


The Road to Tribalism
Alternatively, you can embrace Intersectionality. Intersectionality enables you to join all sorts of groups (tribes) of victims and ultimately construct a super-group (powerful tribe) of fellow victims who've been victimized in many/most of the same ways you have. 

In last week's letter, I briefly attacked Victimology and Intersectionality, mile markers one and two on the road to tribalism. (1) Begin by identifying yourself as a victim of some sort. (2) Figure out how you've been victimized by life in every possible way and in every possible context. 

Finally, channel your inner caveman caveperson and go to war with everyone who ain't us (the infamous them).  Crack the pot, shatter the mosaic -- winner takes all. Well, more likely, never-ending war ensues. Sound familiar? 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.]


©2018 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 comment — or react (way cooler than liking, and Facebook doesn't keep track) — please scroll down. 

  







 

Things I Think About (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 to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

       "If everyone is thinking alike, then somebody isn't thinking."
                                                              -George S. Patton

  
Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This letter is actually directed primarily at my gentlereaders but there is content here that you may also find useful.  

All Infomercials Great and Small

Alrighty then, is that everything? Is it finally time to grab our naughty parts and jump?

All but... we've never decided if we're going to offer free shipping or not.

You know what? it's just the right thing to do. If people are nice enough to order our product the least we can do is pay for the shipping.


The preceding dialog is fiction squared. I not only made it up, there's just no way such a conversation has ever taken place. The phrase free shipping is pure, unadulterated, bonkercockie. Free shipping is to infomercials as hand-dipped is to an ice cream parlor.

[However, I'll admit that robot-dipped is at least theoretically possible; robot-pumped is a thing. I don't want to offend any gentlereaders so I won't mention that in my semi-humble opinion "soft-serve" ain't ice cream.]

There is no such thing as a free lunch. If it's too good to be true it's too good to be true. The cost of the shipping and/or handling/processing/whatevering is built into the price.

Obviously.

I'm not a marketer but if I were I'd try something like "With the exception of Uncle Sam's cut -- as you know, Uncle always gets his cut -- $19.99 is what it's going to cost you to buy our world-class electric toothpick and have it delivered to your door."

I freely and willingly offer up this concept to anyone willing to try it. All I ask is that you mention theflyoverlandcrank.com when they hand you your trophy at the awards dinner.

No Trump No Way Day

10:00 a.m., Saturday morning.

Next up on the Sludge Network, the Ralph Infammy Report. The Sludge Network, all infotainment -- all the time.

Good morning and welcome to the Infammy Report. As you've probably heard -- or at least I hope so since we've promoted it hard enough (warm chuckle) -- Today is NTNW day here at the Sludge Network. NTNW stands for No Trump, No Way.

As promised, we will do our best not to mention the Donald or his family. No discussion of, or interviews with, past or present minions, wives, or lovers. No, not even her.

Fear not. In the event of important breaking news involving the Donald, we'll abandon this temporary format faster than the Donald fires flunkies and will follow our standard practice.

To wit, endless coverage wherein we will report every unconfirmed rumor as soon as we hear it while reminding you it's an unconfirmed rumor. Each and every unconfirmed rumor, if it's juicy enough, will be expanded on by our Sludge Network analysts following the usual formula.   

That is, if this turns out to actually be true then this might be the result. 

We hope you enjoy your Trump free day and may we suggest that if you wish to maximize your enjoyment that you also attempt to avoid thinking about any president since Hoobert Heever.   

Coco Is Still Adrift in a Cultural Wilderness

As regular readers and my Dear Stickies know, I self-identify as a sassy black lesbian woman named Coco who is trapped inside the body of an old white dude a member of the white heteropatriarchy.

The reason I came out of the closet, after a lifetime of denial, is twofold. First, American culture has finally turned its collective back on the outdated notion of rugged individuals employing rationally negotiated compromise because we're all on the same team and we all want the team to win.

We've embraced the power of victimhood.

Second, we've discovered that bonding with like-minded victims dramatically increases our ability to air our grievances and demand redress.

The second phenomenon has been elevated to an art form by advanced thinkers of the Social Justice movement. Intersectionality, the technique of adopting several different victim profiles instead of putting all your angst in one basket, allows any given victim to radically expand their victimhood.

In addition to the obvious psychological benefits, this technique also has practical, real-world ramifications. The more egregious the victimology, the better the chance any given victim will be the beneficiary of a lawsuit or at least a program of some sort provided by The Gummit.

[Poppa, sometimes I think you have too much time on your hands...]

Iggy, I'm just trying to make the world a better place for you and your fellow Stickies. 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.]


©2018 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 comment — or react (way cooler than liking, and Facebook doesn't keep track) — please scroll down. 















           







  

May You Live In Interesting Times (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.

                                   THE AGE OF UNLIGHTENMENT?

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys."  -P.J. O'Rourke

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When I compose these semi-humble missives that are mostly directed to your future selves — although two of you (S1 & S2) are on the verge of being able to make sense of at least some of my bafflegab — my mind/imagination often projects what impact current events that at least appear to be a RBFD will have on your (eventual) everyday lives.

[Is that a sentence or what? It may be a personal best/worst...]

I don't write much about politics. Currently, the Republic is enduring all politics all the time. What follows is my impression of what's going on so you can contrast it with whatever makes it to the history books.


We are currently knee deep in, and the Infotainment Industrial Complex utterly obsessed with, one of the myriad reality shows the Donald is starring in: The Donald vs. the SP and the FBI. Those of you that are actually here, although still callowyutes, are experiencing this even if only peripherally. Those of you who have yet to arrive will be studying the subject in history class.

Plot summary: did the Donald collude with the Pooten to become our national CEO?


According to Wikipedia, "... a special prosecutor (SP) is a lawyer appointed to investigate, and potentially prosecute, a particular case of suspected wrongdoing for which a conflict of interest (my emphasis) exists for the usual prosecuting authority."

The Justice Department ("the usual prosecuting authority") and our federal police force, the FBI, are part of the 1/3 of the republic that the Donald runs so Robert Swan(?) Mueller III was appointed SP to avoid a conflict of interest.

Mr. Mueller served with distinction in Vietnam and has a sterling reputation. But for most of his career, he worked for the Justice Department — as a prosecutor. Also, when he got his current gig it had only been roughly 3.5 since serving as Director of the FBI — a division of the Justice Department — for 12 years.

Being a multipotentialite and current events maven, I know this kind of shi shtuff.

I don't know what the history books will say; I hesitate to predict the future under any circumstances. I predict that when you read this, though, you will immediately ask the same question I and many other current Citizens of the Republic are asking.

Who in their right mind thinks Mr. Mueller could be impartial and unconflicted? And this was before the subsequent kerfuffle concerning double-dealing, high ranking FBI officials who appear to have colluded to get a special prosecutor appointed in the first place.


Here's where things stand at the moment.

There is no current law that specifies who has the power to appoint a Special Prosecutor. Justice Department regulations, created by the Justice Department, gives the Attorney General (or acting AG) this power. Hoo-boy.

The current AG recused himself from investigating whether the Donald or his posse colluded with the Pooteen to get the Donald elected as he was a member of the Donald's election posse.

Deputy AG, Rod Rosenstein, appointed Mr. Mueller SP -- one day after Mr. Mueller was interviewed/rejected by the Donald. He was trying to get his old job back, director of the FBI.

The evidence that was used to determine why it was determined a SP was needed -- real, fake, and where/who it came from -- has been in the news and the subject of endless debate ever since.

Congress has demanded answers. Apparently, they feel guilty about the fact they've never gotten around to renewing the law that specifies just who has the power to appoint an SP and under what circumstances.

The Justice Department and FBI have elevated foot-dragging and stonewalling to an art form. What info they do release is always heavily redacted. The redactions, when revealed, often turn out to be info that's embarrassing to Justice/FBI, not legitimate secrets.

The Information Industrial Complex has created a lucrative industry out of the resulting mess. Evidence-free speculation and my personal favorite -- if this should turn out to be true then that could happen -- comes at us 24 x 7 x 365 (.25). By the way, there is no speculation in this letter, only facts.


Mr. Mueller has been on the job for just over a year. A couple of people have been charged with crimes unrelated to Russian collusion. There's been collateral damage. For example...

Michael Caputo is a former communications advisor to the Trump campaign who keeps getting summoned to Washington. He has run up legal bills of over $125,000, is about to lose his home, and has been subject to death threats. He has been charged with nothing.


In other The Gummit news... Congressman Lamar Smith wants The Gummit to spend $10,000,000/year of other people's money to search for evidence that we're not alone in the universe. 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.]


©2018 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 comment — or react (way cooler than liking, and Facebook doesn't keep track) — please scroll down. 

Words of Wisdom

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.

                                   THE AGE OF UNLIGHTENMENT?

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

"We have the ultimate reason to be anxious. We know that we're vulnerable and we know that we're going to die. —Jordan Peterson. Yes, yet another column influenced by Jordan Peterson.


A mildly anxious and slightly depressed human and his Vulcan friend are sharing a joint in a cargo hold of the Starship Calvin Coolidge.

"Life is just one damn thing after another."

Yes, no doubt about that. Assuming we share the same space-time continuum, it's logically irrefutable.

Huh?

Life is obviously one "thing" and then another, and then another, and...

I'm speaking metaphorically my bat-eared buddy. Note that the phrase is just one damn thing after another. That is to say, one unpleasant thing after another.

I get that, we Vulcans are logical, not stupid. Here, hit this, perhaps you'll feel better. I bought this Tralfamidorian Tan because I thought it might cheer your whiny human butt up. For the record, your statement still makes no sense.

Life is no more likely to be one damn thing after another than it is to be one awesome thing after another. Life just is. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but, mostly, just another day on the starship CalCool.

So what you're saying is...

I'm saying it's always something. If it's not one thing, it's another. (HT: G.A.)

Geez, I hate Vulcan humor.


I, being me, went looking for the source of life is just one damn thing after another and discovered it's attributed to multiple people (including, of course, Mark Twain) by multiple people.

[Aside: The National Bureau of Literary References recently received a significant budget increase from Congress to fund an expansion of their Mark Twain department. The volume of quotes attributed to Mr. Twain continues to rise at a pace that parallels the growth of the National Debt.]

I did find an attributable variation on the theme. "It's not true that life is one damn thing after another – it's one damn thing over and over." —Edna St. Vincent Millay


Setting logic and logic jokes aside both quotations still ring true. In spite of Johnny Mercer's advice, we do seem to accentuate the negative. Science calls it the negativity bias. Hang on a sec' and I'll go find a respectable looking source I can link to...

That was easy. From Psychology Today (and Rick Hanson, Ph.D.), "The alarm bell of your brain — the amygdala... —  uses about two-thirds of its neurons to look for bad news: it's primed to go negative." Why? Well, as you've probably already guessed my highly perceptive Stickies, survival. 

"...humans evolved to be fearful — since that helped keep our ancestors alive — so we are very vulnerable to being frightened and even intimidated by threats, both real ones and 'paper tigers.'"

Considering we've risen to the top of the food chain it's hard to argue with success.

Big But

Beware the downside. Paper tigers are not on the endangered species list. In fact, the web/cable news/social media/etceteria have created a population explosion. 

When I was a callowyute, locally based news (and threats), via newspapers and local TV, were all the rage. 

I'm so old that I remember that when national TV news broadcasts first began they were 15 minutes in length, once a day. You had all of three choices — ABC, CBS, or NBC — and you had to pick one because they all broadcast at the same time and the technology to watch 'em later didn't exist yet.   

While American culture was less coarse and life hadn't yet deteriorated into all showbiz/exhibitionism all the time, the Earth was no less dangerous than it is now. But we weren't followed around by virtual town criers with bullhorns 24x7x365.25.

Anxiety

Merriam-Webster: "apprehensive uneasiness or nervousness usually over an impending or anticipated ill." 

The ability to perceive the future and prepare accordingly is a powerful gift we H. sapiens are blessed with. Jordan Peterson likes to interpret the Old Testament, and the equally ancient stories of other cultures, from a psychological perspective.

He equates sacrificing to God/the gods with sacrificing short-term pleasure for the sake of a long-term goal. If you go to work/school/the DMV today instead of executing a Wake and Bake via some Tralfamidorian Tan, the future you will thank you.

H. sapiens, it would seem, have known for thousands of years that material and psychological preventive maintenance will getcha a cool phone and stave off Xanax addiction.  


However, the town criers with bullhorns — news media/social media/etceteredia — render the naturally anxious worse and the rest of us unnaturally anxious. Put your phone in a drawer once in a while, go for a walk in the real world, and just – be. 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.]


©2018 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 comment — or react (way cooler than liking) — please scroll down. 








       

All Men Are Pigs (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.

                                   THE AGE OF UNLIGHTENMENT?

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

       "Modesty forbids what the law does not."   —Seneca the Younger


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Pat Paulsen was a comedian that was world famous for a few minutes in the late 60s and almost famous for the rest of his life. He told a joke from the perspective of a sex education teacher.

After a hard day at work, when I come home, all I want from my wife is a good handshake.

I'm paraphrasing since I haven't been able to find it on the web. It sorta/kinda encapsulates my feelings after the writing my last two letters, All Men Are (sexually speaking) Pigs. I thought I was done. But I stumbled on an article from Psychology Today that contains a message all girls/women/female H. sapiens — whatever — should be aware of.

Since half of you are girls, my dear grandstickies, and since odds are there will a female H. sapein or two amongst my yet to be born great-grandstickies, I thought I'd better pass it along.


A gentleman by the name of Leonard Sax M.D., Ph.D. writes a column called Sax on Sex (cool, right?) for Psychology Today. He's a family physician and psychologist. Apropos of nothing, I fervently hope he also plays the saxophone.

On 11.20.17 he published a column titled Who Is Distracted by a Girl Wearing Skintight Leggings. Subtitle: Answer: Maybe the girl.

The good doctor was commenting on the exact same article I wrote about in my last letter. I didn't stumble on his article till after I wrote last week's letter. Clearly a sign from God... or at least Marie-Louise.

It's hard to tell since she's a very discrete muse and strictly follows the ethical guidelines of the International Association of Certified Muses. Telepathy and body language (particularly facial expressions) are the primary forms of communication employed by professional muses.

Marie-Louise can communicate seven separate and distinct messages with her eyebrows.

Sorry... where was I? oh yeah, Sax on Sex.


Dr. Sax gets our attention by pointing out that some public schools in Evanston, Il have adopted a dress code that permits kids to wear nearly anything as long as you can't see their nipples or genitals. He provides a link. He's not kidding.

Next, he tells us about an interesting experiment.

Randomly selected men and women at the University of Michigan were randomly assigned to wear either bulky sweaters or swimsuits. Each volunteer then took a math quiz in a tiny room. No windows. No observers.

The results? Men in swim trunks scored slightly better than men in sweaters. Women in one piece swimsuits got roughly half as many correct answers as women in bulky sweaters. According to Dr. Sax, "Subsequent research has replicated and extended this finding."

Why? When a woman (or girl) wears a swimsuit (or skin-tight leggings), often "self-objectification" occurs. He then informs us that girls/women who self-objectify are more likely to be depressed, self-harm and not like their bodies.

While I would hardly describe my research as exhausting, I went a-googling around the web and found all sorts of articles that support girls (and women) being allowed to wear pretty much whatever they want, dress codes or not. If this turns the male H. sapiens around them into testosterone poisoned chimpanzees, tough titties. Oddly, the phenomenon mentioned above was not mentioned.


I know, I know. Rude and crude. Please accept my insincere apologies. I couldn't resist in light of the following. Yet another story about a young woman victimized merely for dressing comfortably.

Long story short... well, the first sentence of the story in the New York Post says it all. "A Florida student says she was humiliated when school officials decided her 'protruding' nipples were a distraction and asked her to hide them with Band-Aids."

There's that D word again, distraction. Her appalled mom provides a perfect illustration as to how far we've come, culturally speaking, in a very short time. She's quoted as saying "We should not treat a girl like this because of where her fat cells decided to distribute genetically."

I suspect that my mom (a product of the draconian Black & White ages) would've reacted somewhat differently if one of my three sisters had been pulled out of class for not wearing a bra to school. There would've been yelling and intemperate words; phrases such as modesty, self-respect, you know what boys are like, do you enjoy being gawked at? etc. would have been uttered.

The young woman in question, who I'm sure, like most teenagers, is oblivious as to how she looks to the rest of the world, helpfully supplied a couple of selfies for the article.

And that, as the immortal Forrest Gump said, is all that I have to say about that. 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.]


©2018 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 comment — or react (way cooler than liking) — please scroll down. 

All Men Are Pigs (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.

                                   THE AGE OF UNLIGHTENMENT?

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"I wear women's leggings under my clothes, but no lingerie."   —Dennis Rodman

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

In my last letter, I explained my contention that almost all male H. sapiens are by nature, sexually speaking, pigs. My point is a metaphorical one and I insincerely apologize to any and all animal rights activists who are offended by my observation. In fact, I support them in their quest to improve the living conditions of all animals raised for human consumption.

It's obviously the virtuous path. Also, while I don't know if it's true, I hear they taste better. Win/win.


I maintained that we male H. sapiens arrive in the world factory preset to function in this swinishish manner. I failed to mention that although all men are pigs, many men, by nature and/or nurture, are more civilized and self-controlled than others.

Everyone benefits when male H. sapiens (traditionally called, men) cultivate the restraint of their swinish side. This is virtue in action. This makes the playground a much nicer and more comfortable place for us all.


To vastly oversimplify, Aristotle...

[Have you ever noticed that you're prone to both oversimplification and over thinking?]

Sure, Dana, I call it cosmic dissonance.

[It's cognitive, not cosmic, and it refers...]

I'm cosmically inspired by Marie-Louise and then I distill, or oversimplify — for my benefit as well as the Stickies.

At this point, Iggy walked through my consciousness, smiled, and gave me a high five without stopping. Where you headed?

[Out.]

The door slams and I'm momentarily nonplussed but Marie-Louise starts scratching my back and all is well.


Now, back to oversimplifying Alexander the Great's teacher. Aristotle, and I, your sainted grandfather, think that virtue and virtuous behavior is the "golden mean" betwixt the extremes of too much of something and not enough of something.

For example, all sex all the time v. total abstinence. While reasoned abstinence has its place, total abstinence can trigger the law of unexpected consequences. Viewing the world through a pornographic lens can do the same. Examples? priests that molest kids and rampant STD.

[Wait-wait-wait. Every time I turn around there's a news story about a female school teacher molesting a kid and...]

Sad but true, Dana. However, while I acknowledge that I may be countenancing heresy, I believe that male and female H. sapiens differ in all sorts of important ways.

I maintain that even in our ever-coarsening culture that men, generally speaking, are pigs. Women, generally speaking, are not — and that everyone knows this. Google the following name, Harvey Weinstein.

Trigger warning, if the statement in bold above doesn't get me burned at a virtual stake, what follows just might. You've been warned.


While randomly web surfing I stumbled on an article from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution website, Are Leggings Distracting? that's about a couple of fifth-grade girls that spoke at a meeting of the Atlanta school board. They requested that the board amend the dress code by ending the use of the word "distracting," as in, no wearing clothes that are extremely tight and distracting.

One of the girls is quoted as saying, "I do not believe that clothing is distracting. It is just the reaction that matters. I should not be punished for other people's behavior. I am not a distraction."

Out of the mouths of babes huh? Distraction, it seems, is in the eye of the beholder. Everyone should dress as they please. What's the worst that could happen? Glad we cleared that up.

"It must be me," said I to me. I went a-googling. It's me.


In short order, I stumbled on a plethora of relevant articles. The consensus? from a USA Today article, "...students and parents worry the message the dress code sends to girls is: Your body is a problem. Don't distract the boys. Even if that's not the intent, it's an early message, they say, that blames girls for boys bad behavior."

I had no idea. Damn, wrong again.

See, I think the message is: Girls — boys (and men) are pigs with big eyes. You know this. This is not your fault. You are not to blame. It's just the way it is. But, you need to acknowledge this fact as you will be dealing with it, in one form or another, on a daily basis for the rest of your life. Take care. 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.]


©2018 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 comment — or react (way cooler than liking) — please scroll down. 

All Men Are Pigs (Pt. 1)

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.

                                   THE AGE OF UNLIGHTENMENT?

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse and back scratcher 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place."  —Billy Crystal


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

(Based on a true story) 

Your daughter's in trouble again. 

My daughter?

She pushed a boy out of a window today at school. 

Really? the local news was on the radio as I was pulling in the driveway. You'd think that a boy leaping out a window at school because my daughter broke his heart would be headline news here in Hooterville.  

It was a first-floor window, and it landed in a bush. Interesting that you should say Hooterville though.

It?

It/he — tomato/tomahto? It's scratched up a bit but unfortunately, it lives.

And why did she push it out the window?

It had its back to the window, she had her back to it. It reached around her and grabbed a boob in either hand. She spun around and gave it a shove and it went flying.

Ah! that's my girl. Oh... now I get it, Hooterville indeed.

Your girl huh?

Wait a sec', boobs? Are you sure you're talking about my daughter? My daughter will, eventually, have breasts. They will miraculously appear shortly before the second virgin birth ever recorded.

Uh-huh. Well, my daughter has boobs, substantial boobs. Remember the uncle Harry and the sundress incident?

Was that her? Are you sure? She and I need to talk... Wait a minute, why is she in trouble?

It's just one day of detention. I'm assured by the vice principal it's a CYA move. You never know, there might've been a hungry lawyer living in the bushes it landed in. Look on the bright side. If there aren't any cute boys there she might actually do some homework, out of sheer boredom.

I'm sorry, I didn't catch that last part. Is she home yet? We need to talk about...

Bit late for that Sparky. I...

I'm not talking about that talk, I'm talking about a different, um, talk.

All Men Are Pigs

All men are pigs, even daddies. I chalk it up to biology, factory presets. I could be wrong now, but I don't think so (HT: Randy Newman). I've regularly noticed that I'm wrong with disturbing regularity. I'm not wrong about this though.

[Vaguely related but still important observation: While often unpleasant and difficult, mid-flight course correction trumps running out of aviation fuel — every time.] 

I'm not going to insert any links, mention a study or quote an expert. I am an expert. I maintain this is true of all biological males regardless of race, color, creed, sexual preference, practices and/or who or what they identify as.

If there's such a thing as a true H. sapien asexual male (yet another unresolved controversy) I would assume they're certified kosher/halal.

[Wait-wait-wait... You're an expert? What qualifies you to claim...]

64.5 years as a male H. sapien, Dana. I've known straight men, gay men, confused men and men who like to wear dresses (straight, gay, and transitioning). All are horndogs, all are easily aroused just by looking, all are constantly looking.

Many, I would posit nearly all, harbor deep, dark, sexual fantasies that should never, and fortunately mostly won't, see the light of day. 

To not be aware of this, to not acknowledge this, may lead to an experience not unlike running out of aviation fuel at 10,000 feet.

For the record, I've no idea if this still holds once a given he fully transitions to a given she. I don't personally know (well, as far as I know...) anyone who has. Regardless, I wish them well and hope they don't prejudge me because (or at least so I'm told) I'm a member of the White Heteropatriarchy by accident of birth.    

Personally, I think of myself as a typical unrepentant, unreconstructed heterosexual male, somewhat lacking in privilege and luck. Still, I remain cautiously optimistic. I once had a good year (1985).


I've asked female H. sapiens (FHS) of my acquaintance if they're aware of just how easily stimulated male H. sapiens (MHS) are merely by looking. As you might expect, given that FHS, as a group, tend to be just a little bit brighter and/or a little bit more evolved than MHS, not a one of 'em was caught by surprise.

Generally, however, they're more amused/bemused than alarmed, which you also might expect. Of course, there's no shortage of sexual bullies in the world, but most MHS are, to one degree or another, testosterone-addled fools at the mercy of their, um, DNA. Trust me on this.

There's more I would tell you about voyeurs and bullies but it can 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 comment, or react (way cooler than liking) — please scroll down.