Bring Me the Head of Marie Osmond (Again)

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 to solve the problem and access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader

"I never had a sister growing up. Donnie was the closest thing." -Marie Osmond


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

[This column was originally published on 9.9.17, not quite one year ago. Due to the fact I'm currently dealing with an intense case of physical and mental fatigue, the primary side effect of the treatment that I'm receiving for a health problem, I'm reposting one of my "greatest hits." 

Abducted (Part 2), which is what you should be reading, exists. However, it's a bit of a mess and I'm not letting it loose in the world till it gets its act together. 

Anyways... When I pulled up this long, rambling piece for a fresh look I was struck by the fact that a year later: 

Marie stills shills for the Nutrisystem people and is still performing in Vegas.
Purple Journalism is more pervasive than ever.
Celebs are still obsessed with the Donald. 
Iconoclasm is still on the loose in the land of the free.
ISIS, although they've had a bad year, are still slaughtering innocents in the name of God. 
Donnie still is not, never has been, and never will be -- a little bit rock 'n' roll.]  

Gentlereaders, humbug alert: I'm only kidding. I wish Ms. Osmond, whom I'm sure is a very nice person, nothing but the best, but those damn Nutrisystem commercials make me crazy. More on that in just a sec'.

My dear Stickies, this letter is primarily addressed to my gentlereaders. However, it may be of some use to those of you, that like myself, are historically minded. A sort of zeitgeist snapshot if you please.


Deceptive headlines that turn out to be clickbait have gone mainstream. I'm not talking obvious clickbait, that nowadays is anywhere and everywhere, I'm talking about headlines on mainstream sites that that turn out to be clickbait, but you don't know that until you click on the headline.

On the FOX news website recently was the following headline, "Madonna Leaves America." I assumed this meant that she, unlike many of her colleagues who promised to do the same thing if the Donald was elected, was showing the courage of her convictions.

Or, perhaps the Secret Service took her announcement at the Pussycat Hat Protest, that she had been thinking about blowing up the White House, seriously, and had been harassing her. Nope, just clickbait. Turns out she's headed there for the time being to work on a movie and make "new music."

However, I highly recommend the article, it includes a must-see self-portrait. Ms. Madonna's creation is on a par with her best musical efforts.

Anyway, Ms. Madonna has parlayed (in my semi-humble opinion) limited artistic ability into mega-stardom by being a world-class exhibitionist. Is it too much to hope that an old fart (who is rapidly turning into a poster geezer for arthritis) might parlay his limited artistic ability into some dough by perpetrating a humbug or two?


For the sake of clarity, I must take into account that this may be read by one of my great-grandstickies long after I, or Ms. Osmond for that matter, are long dead. Also, I must assume, although I have my doubts, that it's at least theoretically possible that there are Earthlings, currently vertical and breathing, that haven't been subjected to one of these ubiquitous commercials.

I'm probably being overly cautious because I have it on good authority that a hologram of Ms. Osmond has not only been created, the programming and technology that powers it are regularly updated. Ms. Osmond -- like Elvis Presley and George Bailey -- could be worth more dead than alive, and shilling for Nutrisystem in perpetuity.


[Pray, enlighten us cranky one, why are you picking on this beautiful all American mother of eight kids, five of 'em adopted? asks Dana. Marie-Louise is wearing a certain smile and almost purring. She denies it but when it comes to other women she's about 50% feline. Iggy's in bed as it's a school night.]

I'm not picking on her, well, not exactly. It's those commercials, those damn commercials. I watch almost no broadcast/basic cable TV, mostly I monitor, at random, the alleged news channels.

Incidentally, did you know Al Sharpton, Al Sharpton of Tawana Brawley, taxes are for evil capitalists, not me, and a founding member of the International Union of Professional Perpetually Protesting Protestors & Perpetual Victims Of This, That, and the Other Thing (IUPPPP&PVOTTOT) has his own TV show?

Sorry, where was I? Oh, yeah, Nutrisystem commercials. I don't believe it's possible to watch the talking lamp for more than ten minutes without encountering:

Marie Osmond: "It's time to take control with Nutrisystem."

Announcer: "Introducing new Lean 13, from Nutrisystem. Lose up to 13 pounds and 7 inches in your first month. Lose weight FAST. Money back guarantee.

Marie Osmond: "I'm Marie and I lost 50 pounds on Nutrisystem.

At this point, we see the obligatory before and after pictures. Before is Ms. Osmond in a baggy purple top and denim jacket with a deer in the headlights sort of expression. After is Ms. Osmond in a form-fitting cocktail dress, hand on hips and smiling, her perfect teeth framed by preternaturally plump lips.

These are just the high points, but you get the idea. Now, the thing is...

[Waitwaitwait, I repeat, why are you picking on this beautiful all American mother of eight kids, five of 'em adopted? You're just jealous because she's a kabillionaire with a hit Las Vegas show and you're just a wannabe writer with arthritis and a Texas-sized prostate gland.]

The thing is, well, it's a three-for actually. America noticed, about a minute ago, that there are statues of dead people, most of whom almost nobody gave a damn about (the statues or the dead people) until a sudden outbreak of iconoclasm. 

In the Middle East ISIS, fired up by demented mullahs, revels in this sort of thing. In America, politically correct types, fired up by the Infotainment Industrial Complex (left and right division), revel in this sort of thing.

[What on Earth has that got to do with...]

Well...nothing really, but it's been really bugging me. Sorry, I feel much better now.

Oh, anyway, first, America has real problems that need to be addressed. We have devolved to the point where there's one minute of advertising for every two minutes of infotainment (half of 'em Nutrisystem commercials!) on the talking lamp. This in spite of the fact most folks pay through the nose for the only locally available cable company or have to sign a contract for satellite TV that only a Harvard Law School grad could make sense of.

As I said, real problems.

Second, sorry ladies female H. Sapiens, Nutrisystem will not enable you to look like Marie. Marie no longer looks like Marie. Nowadays, Marie looks like an animatronic version of Marie. She's, uh, had a little work done.

Third, the Nutrisystem system is a barely legal scam. Click on this headline, Drop 50 Now: Nutrisystem's Advertising Backed By Shoddy Science. 

Fourth: you may have noticed...

[You said it was a three-for...]

Bonus: you may have noticed the tiny messages that flash rapidly on and off at the bottom of the screen when Ms. Osmond is urging you to give the Lean 13 dealy a shot. Access the commercial via YouTube and hit pause every time the tiny message changes. This serves two purposes. Not only will you encounter some interesting facts, you'll develop your hand-eye coordination. The tiny messages pop up and vanish very quickly.

Warning: Possibly Outdated Cultural Reference Ahead

Most importantly, while Marie may, or may not, be a little bit country. Donnie is not, never has been, and never will be, a little bit rock n' roll.

However, banality does have its compensations. While Donnie's unlikely to ever be inducted into the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame (but who knows? Ms. Madonna was), copies of he and his sister are on display at the Las Vegas location of Madame Tussauds. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.
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[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?]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   

Abducted (Part One)

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

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

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Sometime I wish the aliens would abduct me and crown me as their leader."
                                                                                        -George Noory

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

No letter per se this week, part one of a story.

You're sitting on your front porch on a soft summer night, alone and ruminating. You're thinking about the ironic contrast between your rotten mood and the beautiful evening. He (or she) is gone. Looks like this time for good. Your heart is aching, but there's also a sense of relief.

Or, you're happily married, have two relatively well-adjusted kids, and a decent paying job. Everyone's asleep but you. You had a shitty day at work. You fear this is your new normal. Your new boss, a Type A V.P. with an MBA, is keeping you up nights, dreading the next workday.

Or, you're a...

Blinding light -- the smell of an overloaded electrical wire -- a loud industrial, grating sound -- blackness. You awaken and find yourself comfortably ensconced in an easy chair. As you shrug off sleep you note that you feel incredibly well rested and peaceful. You notice warm, peanut butter swirled brownies and a glass of ice cold whole milk on a little table to your right. You take a bite of a brownie and wash it down with a swallow of milk. Mmmm. Repeat. 

Looking around you notice you're in a room that looks like a set designer's version of the perfect grandma's living room. It occurs to you that you may still be asleep. You don't care though. It's a very nice dream.

A door opens and in walks a grandma straight out of central casting. She favors you with a warm smile and says, "Oh good, you're awake," and sits down in another easy chair, directly opposite you.

And then things get really weird.

She explains that, for lack of a better term, you've been abducted by aliens from a planet called Tralfamadore. You mention that this situation doesn't seem to match up with any of the abduction stories recounted by guests on that late night radio show that you sometimes listen to. The one you find to be mostly goofy, but that can serve as a sleep aid. She smiles and says, "But a lot of those folks are crazy people dear, and a lot of them are just people trying to make a buck."

Obviously, you are dreaming, but it all seems, she seems, so real. You look around and everything in the room is sharply defined and, well, real looking. You stand up and walk around, start touching things. Curtains, plants, knick-knacks, furniture -- it all feels real enough. "Grandma" just watches. You sit back down and you notice grandma has a warm, genuine smile on her face. You get the feeling she's observing you closely. You return her smile, you can't help it, you feel so warm and safe. Who wouldn't if they met this old-fashioned movie version of a grandma, in this setting?

"I'm dreaming, right? This is just a dream -- right?" you ask.

"Well, yes and no dear. You're awake, and conversing with a, uh, person, that physically and emotionally embodies, via what, well, you'd call it software, has determined will provide you with a safe and comfortable environment for an interview."

"I see...," you reply, "Sort of. And who are you exactly? And what do you mean, interview?"

"I'm what you'd describe as an academic type. My field is what you'd call anthropology. Most of my colleagues specialize in a given planet, my focus is even more narrow than that, I specialize in a particular country of a particular planet, the one you're from, the USA. As to the interview, it's exactly what you might think. I simply want to ask you some questions."

"But why me, and why the USA? Wait a minute... are we somehow special, or different, or whatever, as far as a given country on a given planet goes?

Grandma chuckles. "Oh no dear, not to most, but I can't seem to get enough of America myself."

"Yeah? why me then, I... "

"That software I mentioned dear, I honestly don't know a lot about how it does what it does, not my field you understand. I do know it usually works very well though, and one of the many things it does well is to pick my interview subjects."

"But what if I don't want to be interviewed, am I your prisoner? What if... "

"Oh, you're free to go, dear, anytime you like, now or later. Shall I take you back?"

"Anytime?"

"Of course dear. It would be unethical to hold you against your will. Shall I take you back?"

"But what if I tell everyone, what if ..."

She interrupts. "Well, that's up to you dear, you could write a book, perhaps be a guest on that radio show you mentioned. If you'd prefer, I could erase all memory of this experience. Or, I could..."

"How about if I see how it goes?, I mean, this interview thing, it might be interesting. If I decide to pull the plug at some point, I'm still free to go?

"Of course, dear. Before we get started, could I fix you something to eat? Are you hungry? Would you like something besides the brownies?"

"No, I'm good, thanks."

"OK then! Shall we get started?"

[Poppa loves you.]

Have an OK day.
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[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?]


©2018 Mark Mehlmauer   

Quotable Quotes

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

"I write my own quotes. Except this one. I obviously stole this from someone really clever." -Brian Celio


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When I was growing up the current issue of Reader's Digest -- which made its initial appearance on the coffee table and invariably made its way to the bathroom -- was something I took for granted. Although we (mom, dad, seven kids) were a um, chronically financially challenged family, we subscribed to several magazines.

Life, Look, and The Saturday Evening Post were staples. These, as well as a complete set of the multi-volume Grolier encyclopedia -- purchased from a door to door salesman via an installment plan -- was what passed for the world wide web in my house several thousand days ago in the Black & White Ages.

My second favorite feature in Reader's Digest, the first being the humor columns that featured jokes sent in by readers that the Digest paid for if they published them, was called Quotable Quotes. It featured a couple of pages of, well, interesting quotes, hence the name.

Although to this day I have trouble remembering what distinguishes an aphorism from an adage from an epigram, etceteragram, wit and/or wisdom presented particularly pithily (please pardon my peculiar penchant for alliteration) has always been appealing to me.

For the record, although I told myself, upon the receipt of every new issue, that I would send in a joke or funny story and try to get the money, I never actually did. However, I once responded to Josie Carey's offer to be one of the first 25 kids to send in my name and address and won a book of Kennywood ride tickets.

[Cool. And what does that have to do with anything? And who the hell is Jos...]

Calm down, Dana. I'm waxing lyrical about my childhood and since this is my column, I'll wax anyway I feel like thank you very much.

However, for the sake of clarity, and my gentlereaders, Kennywood is an amusement park located near Pittsburgh with an h. It's over a hundred years old and combines the old-fashioned (if you don't love bumper cars there may be something wrong with you) with death-defying roller coasters (if you love death-defying roller coasters there may be something wrong with you).

Josephine Vicari Massucci Franz (Josie Carey) was the host of my favorite TV show when I was a kid, The Children's Corner. She was also a lyricist who partnered with Mr. Rogers, who composed the tunes. In fact, she came up with the words for "Tomorrow," the song Mr. Rogers ended his show with.

She was also a sort of second, electronic mum (that's the individual some of you address as mom for some reason) to me. I thought she was even cooler than June Cleaver.


[Geez, is this going anywhere?]

Well, Dana, normally by this point I know where it's going but apparently "waxing lyrical" about my childhood is what it's about. I apologize to any of my (literally dozens) of regular gentlereaders if they're disappointed. Hopefully, my grandstickies will find it vaguely interesting someday.

Just a sec', I'll be right back...

Thaks Marie-Louise! I was just reminded that I started down this path because I recently tripped over an offer to subscribe to the dead trees edition of what remains of the Reader's Digest and I signed up. I thought the existing Stickies might find it interesting and at the moment there's no bathroom reading stashed in either bathroom; everyone has a smartphone. I'm old. It's just not the same.

Also, it provides an excuse to post some of my favorite quotes that I suspect (hope) will stand the test of time and be useful to Stickies both eventual and yet to be conceived.


"We are here, and it is now. Further than that, all human knowledge is moonshine." -H.L. Mencken 

"He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how." -Nietzsche

"The ultimate minority is the individual and the fairest society is one in which individuals are allowed to rise to the level of their ability" -Jordan Peterson

"At this point I reveal myself in my true colors, as a stick in the mud. I hold a number of beliefs that have been repudiated by the liveliest intellects of our time. I believe that knowledge is preferable to ignorance, and I am sure that human sympathy is more valuable than ideology. I believe that in spite of the recent triumphs of science, men haven't changed much in the last two thousand years; and in consequence we must still try to learn from history. History is ourselves. I also hold one or two beliefs that are more difficult to put shortly. For example, I believe in courtesy, the ritual by which we avoid hurting other people's feelings by satisfying our own egos. And I think we should remember that we are part of a great whole. All living things are our brothers and sisters. Above all, I believe in the God-given genius of certain individuals, and I value a society that makes their existence possible." -Kenneth Clark

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. 

First World Problems

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

            "Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder." -Kinky Friedman 

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

I didn't get it when I was a kid -- not even after I morphed into a hormone-saturated adolescent -- and I don't get it now.

I refer to beauty pageants.

According to Wikipedia: "A beauty pageant or beauty contest is a competition that has traditionally focused on judging and ranking the physical attributes of the contestants, although most contests have evolved to also incorporate personality traits, intelligence, talent, and answers to judges' questions as judged criteria."

The reason I bring this up is that recently the Miss America Pageant -- which is what I in my ignorance thought it was called but is, according to their official website, Miss America 2.0 -- was a news story for a minute.

Before I move on, in the interest of full disclosure and so that I can sleep soundly and peacefully, I must confess that I wasn't aware that this absurd anachronism still existed. Hopefully, if I'm granted the dual blessing of great-grandstickies and they actually read what I'm leaving behind for them, they won't know what a beauty contest was. And whatever happened to Ms? I thought Miss was sexist.

In my defense, it's not easy to keep track of the decline of Western Civilization when it's under attack on so many fronts. For example, if you type the phrase Western Civilization into the Wikipedia search box the article that pops up is titled Western Culture. It's hard out here for a crank.


Anyways... the news story was about the fact that going forward the swimsuit competition is no longer a thing, although parading around in evening gowns and high heels still is. It brought to mind a cultural touchstone of the late sixties, "women's libbers" burning their bras on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk -- which didn't actually happen. Protest, yes, bra burning, no.

[Call it what you will, "fake news" or purple journalism, it's not a new phenomenon. By the way, the famous anti-pageant protest in question happened fifty years ago, howsabout that! fellow boomers.]

Big But...

No shortage of ex-contestants, and women currently involved in the nationwide system of beauty contests that supplies fresh bodies for the annual extravaganza, are up in arms. They don't want the swimsuit competition banned.

Unlike me -- I guess they don't find the thought of young female H. sapiens with too many teeth being mandated to parade across a stage in a bikini in order to participate in "...one of the nations leading achievement programs for young women" -- hi-LAR-ious/ironical/hypocritical/antiquated/etceterated.

Maybe it's me... No, it ain't. I've saved the best for last.


Perhaps there is hope. Although this controversy has riven the nation, both sides (as far as I know) still agree on the fundamental rules governing who can participate in "...one of the nations leading achievement programs for young women." The quote is from Miss America 2.0, (scroll down past the pics of plastic coated mannequins). The following was obtained from a website called Pageant Planet.

- Age: 17 to 24
       But I'm only 25, and I've just been admitted to Harvard Medical School!

- You can't be married, previously married, or divorced.
       But I'm only 18, happily married, and a genius who's about to graduate               from Harvard Medical School, and I've no money for my law degree!

- You must not have a child, be currently or previously pregnant, or be the adoptive parent of any child.
      You're against abortion, or keeping the kid, or keeping someone else's kid?

- You must not have been charged for any minor offenses in the last 24 months.
      It was one joint!

- You can't compete if you've ever been convicted of a criminal offense.
      It was one joint!

 - For all intents and purposes, you will be a slave for a period of one year and go where we tell you to go and do what we tell you to do. If you and your cute, uh, little brain ain't out there raising money to keep our non-profit greased we would have to get real jobs. I paraphrased this last bit...


My late father-in-law, your great, or great-great-grandfather, thought the perfect job was a taste tester in a pie factory. However...

Warning: the following cultural reference may be past its sell-by date

If Clark Griswold, the world famous developer of non-nutritive cereal varnish was still around, he would get a hefty Christmas bonus if he perfected "Perma Pie-Pretty, adds a full extra year of shelf life."

So if I were you, I'd shoot for a job in any given non-profit with a ratio of 80% bonkercockie to 20% real. You need at least 20% real to hide behind if/when the excrement hits the HVAC system. 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. 

My First Triggering

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

"I am quite sure now that often, very often, in matters concerning religion and politics a man's reasoning powers are not above the monkey's" -Mark Twain


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When I was but a wee lad... No, actually till I was at least in my late twenties, it was possible to engage in heated political discussions, as much for the fun of it as anything else, without feeling that civil war was inevitable.

Not that it was possible to do so with everyone. There's a reason many people recommend against discussing politics (and religion) at the dinner table and elsewhere.

However, with certain relatives and friends, particularly with a bunch of individuals I didn't go to college with, late night political debates, that were often as not fueled by alcohol, were a thing.

Lines had to be drawn and observed but it was the intellectual equivalent of a friendly sports rivalry. No need to take it particularly seriously.


I married in my early thirties after a couple of years managing a fleet of someone else's ice cream trucks in Texas. As to Texas, there was much in way of partying, little in the way of debate, intellectual or otherwise. Hello Tom and Kitty, wherever you are.

Once married the endless party ended. My bride came pre-equipped with a kid and marriage, serious partying, and kids don't mix very well in my semi-humble opinion.

Late night passionate debates didn't make a comeback either. I married a sick chick (I'm talking physically sick, but a veritable force of nature...) and betwixt helping to keep her alive, supporting my daughter (your mother or grandmother) and my gift for working my ass off while avoiding the burdens of financial success -- I usually went to bed early.


Then I blinked three times and I was a widower and a grandfather. One evening I found myself having dinner with a friend and a couple in their mid-twenties early on in the new millennium.

This was my first encounter with triggering someone and triggering wasn't even a thing yet. I've always been a man ahead of my time.

After dinner, and over coffee and pie, a debate broke out over I remember not what. Although there's a slight chance that I may not be entirely correct, I have a vivid memory of intellectually dominating. It was me v. my friend and the male half of the young couple. I confess I neglected to monitor the emotional weather manifesting on the face of the female half. Hooge mistake.


In my defense, her participation in the discussion was virtually nil. However, I still might have been convicted had she charged me with political incorrectness which was, and remains, in vogue. Is political correctness subject to a statute of limitations?

Fortunately, Facebook's user base was composed of students at a small group of upper-crust institutions of higher learning at the time. Trolls were merely malevolent mythological monstrosities. And for that matter, Trigger was the answer to a trivia question. What was the name of Roy Rogers horse?

[Roy who?]

Never mind, Iggy.


Anyways, at some point, while I was not paying the attention that I -- a man who had been successfully married for 21 years and who had learned many lessons the hard way -- should have been paying, there was an explosion and I and my dining companions were riddled with psychic shrapnel.

"She leaped to her feet and stormed out of the restaurant in a huff." That's not a quote from a selection of mediocre fiction, that's exactly what happened. Really.

Although he was young and, relatively speaking, they had not been married very long he knew the rules. He leaped to his feet and followed.

"I think you just pissed her off," said my remaining companion, reacting to the no doubt baffled look on my face.

"Did we just get stuck with the check?" I replied.


My young friends returned to the table as my older friend and I were in the process of splitting the check, calculating the tip, and discussing which one of us, if either, was going to act as a collection agent to recover the cost of their food.

She, said nothing. Although the storm had apparently passed, ominous dark clouds lingered.

He, politely and diplomatically... well, long story short, it was explained to me that she passionately disagreed with me. Although she lacked the rhetorical skill -- and most importantly in my semi-humble opinion a command of the relevant facts to contest whatever it was I was on about -- she knew she was right, and she knew I was a bully.

That's not exactly how he put it but that's exactly what he said.

Although I confess my heart wasn't in it, I apologized for being a boor and fled the scene of the drama ASAP. 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. 

Journalism (Part 3)

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

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve 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

"Purple journalism is not a new form of journalism, it's just a name for journalism as it's actually practiced nowadays." -me


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

[Before I forget, King Crank's impending law that will require all news media outlets of a certain size to make a declaration of honesty, will also be expanded to cover the entertainment industry (primarily Hollywood) as well. Details will be worked out by my Privy Council.]

There wasn't supposed to be a part three but a licensed practitioner of the purple press helpfully/recently supplied a perfect example of exactly what I've been on about. Leigh Ann Caldwell, a reporter for NBC News, tweeted out a song that was horribly off key.

["Twitter is the marriage of full-tilt narcissism and full tilt voyeurism that has finally collided in 140 characters." -Adam Goldberg (prior to the 280 update)]

Ms. Caldwell informed the world that the Donald's choice for the newest Supreme, according to the ubiquitous unnamed source, was the result of a secret deal between the Donald and retiring justice Antney Kennedy. (Antney (ant-knee) was how I learned to pronounce Anthony when I was a kid living on the sou'side a Pittsburgh, with an h.)

See, Kennedy agreed to retire while the Donald was in power if he would hire Brett Kavanaugh, one of his former law clerks. She deleted the tweet in short order and then, via yet another tweet, explained how she screwed up, sort of -- without bothering to apologize. Deep purple journalism.

Hoo-boy.

I know it's hard to believe, but the original claim spread like wildfire. Then, of course, the phony/false/mistaken? tweet became a news story unto itself because purveyors of purple journalism delight in attacking other purveyors of purple journalism.

And...

All sorts of kids who hang out on the left side of the playground, who posted the now deleted tweet as factual, didn't risk injuring themselves by running to their keyboards to correct what turned out to be pure bonkercockie.

And then...

An obscure group of kids that call themselves Ultraviolet put out a six-page memo requesting that Senate Democrats investigate the fact that Mr. Kavanaugh once clerked for a Judge Alex Kominski who recently retired after being accused of being a serial groper.

Mr. Kavanaugh clerked for Judge Kominski... for about a year... about two decades ago. So hey, he's probably guilty of something. Let the investigation begin!

That kind of story is the sort of story that would've been perfect for a News That You Can Use Letter. It wound up here because the McClatchy News Service (allegedly professional, objective journalism) reported on the somewhat less than well known Ultraviolets six pages of mudslinging (bright yellow journalism) as if it was an actual news story.

Geez, if I didn't know better I'd think McClatchy was trying to sling mud at Mr. Kavanaugh without getting their hands dirty. That's practicing purple journalism with (semi)plausible deniability. For the record, I read about all this on the PJ Media website.  I'm merely passing along the good work of one Debra Heine. 


Now, given that we're treading water in the Dizzinformation Ocean and that any news that floats by is potentially bogus, the media (and Hollywood) would be performing a public service by declaring their bias up front. 

They could then openly practice advocacy journalism (and entertainment) and commence/continue saving the unenlightened from themselves without the added burden of pretending to be objective. Or, in Hollywood's case, pretending to tell the truth.  

If they were honest and clear about where they are coming from and where they think we should be headed, and why, and admit they're as motivated by profit/regular paychecks as we mere mortals their credibility would improve. Of course when you've got nowhere to go but up... 

[Sorry, sometimes the obvious joke is worth telling.]   


Two more thoughts. First, once the gloves come off they can attack each other, as well as whichever politician/celebrity/freak from the fringes they currently regard as Satan (which they like to do anyway) with unmitigated savagery. No shortage of Citizens of the Republic seem to be able to get enough of this sort of thing. Keep the mob happy and perhaps save a newspaper or two. Win/win. 

Also, just for the fun of it, to make the game more interesting, let's make it illegal to quote unnamed sources of any sort while simultaneously permitting the release of any sort of document -- as long as the H. sapien that leaked it is identified -- while enforcing any and all laws concerning the release of classified information.

Wouldn't that make things interesting... 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. 
    


 

Journalism (Part 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

"The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made." -Groucho Marx

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Last week's letter ended thusly:

"When I become king I'm going to require that all news media of a certain size or larger (metrics to be determined) must declare that they are partisan, in what way, and provide a simple, short, clear statement explaining their approach to the news. If they're about lurid pictures/video, lurid stories, and making as much money as possible that's fine -- as long as they acknowledge it." -me

Since Journalism is both an institution and a profession with deep historical roots, and I've taken it upon myself to drag it into the new millennium (kings can do stuff like that), I thought I'd explore the who/what/when/where and whys of...

[Can I ask a question, Poppa? What exactly is purple journalism? Ain't that what you called it?]

I'm flattered and honored you were paying attention, Iggmeister. I credit Marie-Louise for purple; the word popped into my psyche unbidden and I knew instantly it was what I wanted.


Purple journalism is not a new form of journalism, it's just a name for journalism as it's actually practiced nowadays. Take the New York Times. It claims to practice objective journalism but they have an obvious left-wing ethos that bleeds through on every page (traditional, partisan journalism).

However, they're hardly a tabloid. One can also find much in the way of good writing and quality coverage in any given edition (objective, professional journalism).

However, they're not above sensationalism and publishing obvious hit pieces about their ideological enemies. For example, anyone truly familiar with Jordan Peterson, fan or foe, could spot the obvious hatchet job written by Nellie Bowles and published on 5/18/18, that as best I can tell, is about Dr. Peterson's evil twin, it's clearly not about him. The article is pure, bright yellow journalism.

Clang! Fox News, fair and balanced  

No, it ain't, and everyone knows it. It's by conservatives and for conservatives. Rupert Murdoch identified a wildly underserved segment of the TV news market, conservatives, and gave 'em a news network of their own. They're happy and he made another gazillion bucks. Win-win.

Discussion panels with one liberal and multiple conservatives aren't fair and balanced. Ironically, all he did was reverse the ratios that CNN and PBS use. They claim to be fair and balanced as well.

Inviting political hacks, one (R)epublicrat and one (D)epublican, to throw bonkercockie at each other, preferably while behaving like Jerry Springer guests, isn't fair and balanced news, it's showbiz.


Now,

Given that it's widely acknowledged H. sapiens can and do strive for objectivity when it's called for (well, sometimes), but by nature are biased creatures, and

Given that most of the mainstream media are obviously partisan in nature, and

Given that what mainstream actually means is a relatively large audience and content that's not considered too far out there and

Given that, because of the internet, there's no shortage of content that is indeed far out there and much that's even farther out there than that...

Let's label this the era of purple journalism. Let's abandon hypocrisy (fair and balanced) and declare that honesty is the ideal of purple journalism. Not necessarily honest content, honesty about what sort of content.

"While we don't usually publish outright lies, we're not above it if we think we won't get caught, or even if we do that it won't actually matter. We're in it for the money and it sure beats having to get a real job."


While King Crank's Declaration of Honesty will be required for mainstream media outlets, my hope is that any outlet that offers content that it claims to be journalism will do so voluntarily.

For example, imagine The Drudge Report admitting declaring that "We're politically conservative but thrive on sensationalism. Many of the headline links you find on our site will turn out to be nearly as deceptive as clickbait links. We like to sex things up to get you here, keep you here, and keep you clicking."

I'll betcha a bottle-a-pop that Facebook's declaration would be as convoluted, confusing, and deceptive as their explanations of how to use their privacy settings.

[Whatever... but how would you enforce this law? Who or what determines what should be included in a Declaration of Honesty?]

Thanks, Dana, this is the best part. It doesn't matter what's in the statement.

The public, and a given outlets competition, will be the judge of that. If it's been determined that an outlet is large enough to be required to make the declaration, failure to do so will result in the CEO spending an hour in the royal pillory. Media coverage will be encouraged and facilitated.

A useful law that doesn't require bureauons or some sort of police to enforce, if I do say so myself, is a very cool law. 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.