Losing My Religion (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.]

- Glossary  
- Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse 

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Religion consists of a set of things which the average man thinks he believes, and wishes he was certain." -Mark Twain


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When I was a kid, specifically during my Sister Mary McGillicuddy period (first through seventh grade) it was made clear to me that to succeed in life and in death (go to heaven) it was necessary that I follow a number of specific rules to the best of my ability.

I was assured by (and reinforcement was provided by) my parents, Sister M., Father Fitzgibbon, the Catholic Church, American culture in general, and the culture of the Sou'Side a Pittsburgh (with an h) specifically -- that this was true.

Turns out that life is slightly more complicated than that and...

[No kidding, Einstein. I'll bet when you found out Santa Claus wasn't real you wound up in therapy.]

Dana! you're back! I was beginning to think you guys moved to some other would-be writers subconsciousness.

[Nope, we're still here. The Cancer thing was just too depressing for me to deal with so I took some time off. Nothing personal. Between dealing with school, adolescence, and band practice Iggy's totally preoccupied.]

What about Marie-Louise?

[She's still here but she's gone part-time. She asked me to tell you she's still doing her best to keep you inspired but she's had to take on another client, who actually makes money from their writing, because she's fallen behind on her rent. Nothing personal. She's quite busy.]

Oh.


Now, when I was 13, my parents moved part two of their brood of seven to the burbs. Group one had moved on but group two, whose first member, me, incarnated after a five-year gap still had to be dealt with. My parents purchased their first and only house. It was too small, and they couldn't really afford it, but it got us out of the city.

This was a step up from a series of too small houses and apartments that they had rented in the city (Pittsburgh, with an h). Life changing stuff. We lived in what was a very modest enclave of a very rich suburb and I spent my last year of Catholic grade school, eighth grade, going to school with kids that lived in a different world than I did.

These were the children of people that had graduated from college but had not majored in things like psychology or fine arts (unlike many of their kids, my buds, were about to do). They were the offspring of doctors and lawyers and um, pharmacists (you thought I was going say Indian chiefs, admit it). Mike C_____'s dad was a VP at Pepsi. Much to my surprise, I was not shunned.

There was music in the Cafes at night, -- and although we were too young for that, the church hall a really cool jukebox -- revolution in the air (dated boomer cultural reference). I was secretly in love with a girl named Cindy whose last name I can't remember; I was over my failed summer romance with Monica T.


It was 1966 and the revolution referenced above was primarily a cultural one that went too far but that's another story. My personal revolution, the one that occurred in my relatively naive and sheltered little world, was centered around the Catholic church.

See, this was year eight of wearing a tie, endless rules & regs, marching to the bathroom like a little soldier (or convict), every-one getting a smack on the palm with a wooden ruler if no-one would confess to talking while Sister Mary McGillicuddy was out of the room (less painful than getting shunned by the other prisoners), regularly scheduled elaborate church rituals/endurance contests, the occasional psycho-nun...

[Psycho nun?]

I could tell ya stories, Dana. For example, Sister Egg Noodle (not her real name) praying to a picture of the founder of her order that our schools CYO basketball team would beat the team of our arch-rival, St. Emerentiana. Those poor bastards had to start every school day by attending mass so of course, most of 'em were not quite right.

They did have very cool varsity jackets, however.


Where was I... oh yeah, eighth grade. Same sort of nuns (mostly, there were notable exceptions), changing church (the mass is going to be in English?!?).
Father Fitzgibbon v. Father Bing O'Malley. 

Most importantly, traditional mostly blue-collar kids replaced by mostly white-collar kids. Poppa loves you. To be continued...

Have an OK day. 
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©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

News That You Can Use (No. 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  

Iggy -- My designated Sticky

Dana -- My designated gentlereader

"Winter is nature's way of saying, 'Up yours.'" -Robert Byrne


Dear (eventual) Stickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This letter/column will probably be of more interest to my current gentlereaders than to the eventual yous but you might find something of value here.

- To my gentlereaders who live north of the Mason-Dixon line and have the good sense to regard the approach of winter (appropriately) with fear and loathing, the forecasts are in.  

NOAA predicts precipitation will range from below average to average. Temperatures, will be above average. Works for me. 

On the other hand... "Contrary to the stories storming the web, our time-tested, long-range formula is pointing toward a very long, cold, snow-filled winter..." -Peter Geiger, Editor, and Philom, Farmers Almanac. 

[Purple Journalism Alert: the quote above is from a Fox New website story. The actual quote is, "Contrary to some stories floating around the internet..." Someone at FOX sexed it up. Fair and balanced? Perhaps, but what about accuracy? My emboldening by the way.]

But then again... The Old Farmer's Almanac, not to be confused with the Farmers Almanac, says that "This winter we expect to see above-normal temperatures almost everywhere in the United States..."

Having been temporarily living in Canada's deep south for the past 33 years (Northern Ohio) and having seen my life flash before my eyes on more than one occasion (my vision obscured by horizontal snow showers) I predict it will snow heavily at the worst possible times and probably not on Christmas.

The Sun will rarely be visible. It's most likely to come out early in the morning and shine directly into the eyes of people who would rather be home in a warm bed as they are driving to work.

What are the four seasons of Northern Ohio? Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter, Construction. Thank you! thank you very much!


News That You Could Have Done Without...
...But the Purple Press provided saturation coverage nevertheless.

Now, while the following is also primarily directed at my gentlereaders, my Grandstickies may find it interesting from a historical perspective. I wonder if the Purple Press will still be devolving or have stabilized by the time they read this?

As this is being written, a news story about the ancestors of Senator Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts, currently one of several hundred politicians tirelessly teasing the public about a possible run for the presidency in 2020, is currently "trending."

That is to say, unless you're pursuing enlightenment in a cave in the Himalayas, you've encountered this story -- and the tempest in a teapot it has generated -- here, there, and even way over there.

This wily woman, a veritable soda cracker (white and salty), has been claiming for decades to be 1/32 Cherokee. That's what her saintly mama told her, and after all, she does have high cheekbones.

Of course, she did this out of pride. It wasn't an attempt to advance her career by playing a minority card, which can sometimes serve to assist a given individual in climbing the ladder of America's complicated meritocracy.

Having had it with the racist/sexist/eteceterist attacks by her political enemies, including the tweeter-in-chief himself, she released the results of a DNA test. It provided  "strong evidence" that six to ten generations ago a Native American and an individual of European descent, distant relatives of Ms. Warren, made the beast with two backs.

In other news, America recently marked the 17th anniversary of the war in Afghanistan.


Latest From the You Can't Make This Shtuff Up Desk
Kimberly-Clark, the firm responsible for the United Kingdom's most popular brand of kleenex, Kleenex Mansize -- "confidently strong, comfortingly soft" -- have seen the error of their ways. Thanks to a flock of politically correct twitterers tweeting on Twitter the offensive name has been changed to Kleenex Extra Large.

One can only hope that the marketing minion that came up with the clever new name was appropriately rewarded.

A spokesmanperson for the company made clear that "Kimberly-Clark in no way suggests that being both soft and strong is an exclusively masculine trait, nor do we believe the Mansize branding suggests or endorses gender inequality."

Ain'tcha glad they cleared that up?

Personally, as an H. Sapien with the letter M on my birth certificate, were I a twitterer I'd request that they'd start selling an American version of the product in question. I, and I'm certain I'm not alone, would love a larger (perhaps even slightly more substantive) tissue.

I prefer my tissues with added lotion so I hope they provide that option as well. I'd like to suggest a name and tagline. Kleenex Extra Large Whipped Tissues -- the tissued with extra softness whipped in. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.
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©2018 Mark Mehlmauer   

It's All Relative

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

"Everything is relative except relatives, and they are absolute." -Alfred Stieglitz


[Gentlereaders, sorry I published late. Spent the day with a sibling, a sister, that I haven't seen in literally decades and just got home. She rocks.]

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

I hope that by the time you're geezers (or geezerettes) like me things have settled down a bit, but I doubt it. At the moment, we're living through a time of unprecedented prosperity and invention -- and unprecedented change.

Change, of course, is normal and inevitable. Unrelenting, high-velocity change, which appears it will never end, which appears to be the new normal, which appears to be still picking up speed -- is not.

Therefore, I maintain that there are three new things under the Sun.

Unprecedented Prosperity (UP): According to the Brookings Institution as of September 2018 half of the inhabitants of the planet Earth, 7,800,000,000 souls, are middle class or wealthier. "In the world today, about one person escapes extreme poverty every second; but five people a second are entering the middle class."

Unprecedented Invention (UI): The consulting firm TEF predicts that in five years technological innovation will be 32 times more advanced than it is right now. Ten years out, 1,000 times. Twenty years out, 1,000,000 times.

UP + UI = Unprecedented Change

[Of course, something could go terribly wrong and there might not be anyone around to read this. A Zombie Apocalypse for example. Or suppose that the Donald and the Pooteen get into an argument over a golf game resulting in a series of events that culminate in nuclear Armageddon.]


I remember sister Mary McGillicuddy telling the class that we little Boomers and Boomerettes were fortunately/unfortunately growing up at a point in history when mankind's sociological/psychological/etceteralogical knowledge lagged far behind its technical knowledge.

If she's still out there somewhere (unlikely, materially speaking, but we're talking world-class force of nature so...) I think she'd agree with me that the velocity of change in the developed (and shortly to be developed) world is a new thing and we're probably not ready for it.

There have been no corresponding quantum leaps in the social sciences. And while traditional religious beliefs still work for many, for many others... not so much. But there's no shortage of people loose in the world who have replaced God with an ideology and who are prepared to burn non-believers at the stake.


Some perspective, if you please, is necessary at this point. My parents (and their parents) groused about how much more laid back and less dangerous life was when they were young, bulletproof, ten feet tall, immortal, and living in the golden age.

However, historians tell us that this (relatively speaking) is a new phenomenon and it wasn't all that long ago (relatively speaking) that the average lifetime of the average person was mostly "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short."

[I used the phrase relatively speaking twice in the previous paragraph to try and call your attention to the fact that (relatively speaking) the modern, postmodern, or whatever this era of history is ultimately labeled, is less than a New York minute of big picture time (relatively speaking).]

You and your spawn are and will grow up taking high-velocity change for granted. You may be scratching your heads as you read this and wondering what the hell I'm talking about. You may regard the life of an average Boomer to have been slow and dull (relatively speaking) and you might be grateful that you live in a more dynamic era.

Which, now that I think about it, is how I viewed my parent's life prior to me showing up. However, I sincerely hope that you live...

[Captain Crank, I think it's time to chart a new course, sir, we're headed for the rocks.]


Point taken, Dana. My Dear Stickies, my point is that when you're looking back and making the inevitable historical judgments of your predecessors keep in mind that although we don't like to admit it we are/were in over our heads as much, or more, than our predecessors were.

Learn and discern the lessons (the easy way), but don't make the mistake of judging us/them as though we knew/they knew everything that you take for granted. At the moment, an awful lot of people that should know better, are doing just that. It's not helpful.

Learn and discern more lessons (as you go, the hard way), chose a goal, formulate a plan, rinse and repeat. 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   (The Flyoverland Crank)

 

Abortion

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

"Compromise is the best and cheapest lawyer." -Robert Louis Stevenson


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

When I set out to become a self-taught wordsmith, prior to adopting my current blogging format (letters to yinz guys), I wrote as if I were a syndicated columnist addressing the world.

Early on in those early days, I wrote a "column" about abortion titled Why I'm Not Pro-Choice or Pro-Life.

[Gentlereaders, FYI. My website now includes a button labeled Blast From the Past. Clicking on it will bring up a previously written column that usually has some relation to my current column. For example, this week clicking on the button brings up the same column as the hyperlink in the previous paragraph.]

The recent Kavanaugh Kerfuffle, which will hopefully be mentioned in future history textbooks (maybe not if academia continues to cultivate its version of Newspeak) reminded me of this.

One of the oft-heard concerns of the Antikavanaughts was that if Judge K. was confirmed as the newest Supreme he would, inevitably, join with the other four more or less conservative Supremes and repeal Roe v. Wade and America would descend into chaos.

After all, as I mentioned the first time I wrote about abortion "... perhaps we should hold off on deciding this until cheap birth control is available at every convenience store and science develops a morning-after pill that’s available over the counter." -me


In my original column I wrote that if I were king, I'd decree a compromise. Abortion is legal for the first trimester. That's it, that's my royal compromise.

After all, there's no possible way to satisfy both sides, three months is enough time, and outlawed or not, someone(s) will always be available to provide abortions (or anything else...) at maximum cost, minimum safety. Thus has it ever been, thus shall it ever be.


When I recently reread the original column I was surprised to note that I had neglected to mention that according to Gallup, the majority of Americans have supported legal abortion ("when asked to evaluate it on a trimester basis") in the first trimester dating back to 1996. I went looking for the latest numbers and discovered that support for this position has never fallen below 60%.

It would seem that great minds do think alike. Well, at least the minds of me and most of my fellow Americans. I wonder, but I'll bet there's no accurate way to measure it, how many of those 6 out 10 do so reluctantly, as I do.

I wonder how many of those people think that an abortion is a RBFD that requires careful consideration. That maybe it's even the choice of last resort. That regardless, abortion should be, as Slick Willy declared in 1996, "safe, legal, and rare." "...for the first trimester anyway." -King Crank


Now, I can't predict what the Supremes will or won't do about abortion, or anything else for that matter. Were I clairvoyant I'd have been obscenely rich at a tender age and probably dead from dissipation by the age of thirty.

[On a vaguely related note: ever notice that the "words of the prophets," the perennially popular Nostradamus comes immediately to mind, are usually "proven" to be true after the fact? I'm just sayin'...]

However, suppose a majority of the Supremes decide to go nuts and overturn Roe v. Wade based on the bizarro notion that the Gummit, as it says in the Constitution, only has the power to create and enforce the sort of laws that the Constitution says they can. That otherwise, it's up to the individual states to do so (or not do so). What would happen?

Scott Adams, the Dilbert cartoonist, recently pointed out on his video blog that obviously some states would permit abortion, others would not. He also pointed out that if someone wanted an abortion but lived in the wrong state, they could travel to a state where abortion is legal and take care of business.

[But how could an impoverished _______ (please insert the name of the relevant social/economic/racial/sexual/etceteral group victimized and oppressed by the White Hetero-Patriarchy, or WHP, here) afford to get an abortion?]

Well, Dana, as Mr. Adams points out, via crowdfunding and/or people offering temporary space in their homes and/or charities. There'll be apps for that.

To which I would add, California might be willing to subsidize an abortion travel package. They could easily pay for it with a special levy on the entertainment industry. 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   

May You Live In Interesting Times (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 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

"This process has inflicted real damage to Judge Kavanaugh and Ms. Ford—enough to make any intelligent citizen wonder if it would ever be worth entering public service." -Allen C. Guelzo 

[Fear not, the quote above has nothing to do with the letter below. It's my way of finding closure and avoiding PTSD.]


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

The way things are going at the moment yinz may be living in the Formerly United States of America by the time you read this. The devolution of the left and the right into tribalism continues apace. The center continues to shrink and the Fringies are running amok.

The purple press continues its descent into partisanship fueled by the profits derived from sensationalism and moral preening.

I've given up on reading one of my formerly favorite comic strips, Non Sequitur.


"A wry sense of humor is a sarcastic one." So sayeth Vocabulary.com. They also declare that "Wry humor and wry wit both describe a sense of humor that is a little twisted from the norm." Exactly.

I've been a fan of Non Sequitur for literally decades. Its creator, Wily Miller, is a talented, imaginative, creative writer, and, he draws better than nine out of ten comic strip artists.

[So, what's your problem, dude? I love that strip, Poppa! Hmmm, we are perhaps, a beet xhelous?]

Dana, Iggy, and Marie-Louise are in the house, or at least in my consciousness. My problem is that I've become acutely aware that Mr. Miller doesn't like the Donald, bankers, the Donald, big business, the Donald, corporate officers, and Trump supporters. Also, men in general, and people that don't share his eating habits, specifically.

I used the word acutely because Mr. Miller goes after the type of people mentioned in the previous paragraph a bit too often for my taste. Even that might not be a deal breaker but for the self-righteous tone with which he colors his favorite targets.

I would expect, no, hope that he would occasionally take aim at everyone mentioned above as well as anyone else that he thinks worthy of satirization. I don't even care about fat jokes, the last politically correct cheap shot -- as long as they're funny -- and I say this as a calorically challenged H. sapien.

[In my defense, mine is a tank-like structure with a pedestal for a neck. The Gummit says I should weigh 185 pounds. Anyone that knows me well knows that at 185 I would look like I was just liberated from a concentration camp.]


Non Sequitur gag, 3/8/16. A fat man in a hospital gown is standing on a scale in a doctors office. The doctor says to the patient, "The body mass index chart says you're obese, but the meat and dairy industries chart says you're a great American."

It's not the patient, or even the patient's DNA that's at fault. It's the evil meat and dairy industries fault for forcing people to buy their products.

[Oh please! What's the big deal?]

It's not, Dana, not as a stand-alone example at least. But variations of it on a regular basis are tedious. Perhaps it's just me but I much prefer that editorial cartoons run on the editorial page.

A comic strip with an obvious, frequently emphasized political agenda is as annoying as athletes who get paid millions of dollars to play a game -- and actors who get paid millions to play pretend -- who feel compelled to prove their social justice bona fides via actions requiring minimal effort and minimal risk.

Spectator sports and other forms of entertainment, not just religion, can serve as mostly harmless opiates for those of the masses who have not turned to actual opiates.

Unfortunately, some folks prefer to smoke, snort or inject Socialism and/or some other utopian analgesic.

Ironically, the later tend to condemn the former.


[I still don't see why...]

Non Sequitur gag, 9/18/18. Two angels are on duty at the entrance to Heaven (St. Peter and an assistant?). There's a plump working stiff in overalls standing in front of a large sign and holding a pen. The sign says Entrance Exam, Nazis Are: (Check One), Bad __ Good __. The man is thoughtfully stroking his chin.

St. Peter is saying "Remember when this was the easiest test in the universe?"

[Oh, I see your point.]

See you in the funny pages!


The More Things Change the More They Stay the Same
Although I recently celebrated my 39th birthday for the 27th time I'm relatively computer literate for a junior geezer. When cell phones became ubiquitous my late wife and I didn't hesitate to give up our landline and switched to a very simple, easy to use phone. Somehow, we got by with one phone and 300 minutes a month.

I now own a smartphone, but I held out far longer than I should've and I'm climbing a learning curve encumbered by fingers and a brain that aren't as limber as they once were.

This got me to thinking about the fact that once upon a time, long before even I was born, that there was a time when people had to learn how to use a new-fangled invention called the telephone.

I went a-googling and found a video, "Training film for users of the new dial telephone" -- on YouTube. How cool is that? 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    

The Abductee is Back, And So Am I

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

"Whoever is careless with the truth in small matters cannot be trusted with important matters." -Albert Einstein


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (But mostly, Dear Gentlereaders),

Abducted, part three, ended thusly:

"And animal mutilations... oh, and those crop circle things? And just how far away from Earth is Tralfamadore? Sorry. I guess that's more than just one more question."

Grandma's smile vanishes. She stares at her subject in silence.


And then:

Grandma sighs deeply. Her smile returns.

Blinding light -- the smell of an overloaded electrical wire -- a loud industrial, grating sound -- blackness. You awaken and find yourself lying in the middle of a hay field. You struggle to your feet and take note of a burning sensation that makes you think of Preparation H.

You notice, to your horror, that you are encircled by a ring of apparently surgically mutilated livestock. There's a medicinal smell in the air and no blood is present.

Glancing around you realize you're standing in the center of an elaborate crop circle. You start walking around, trying to discern what sort of pattern it consists of.

You hear what sounds like hoofbeats and spot someone approaching on horseback. A bewildered looking Amish man rides up and stops. "Good morning," he says.

The End.


I apologize for a lame ending of a lame story. If you haven't been following it, you won't get the lame joke. In my defense, the story wrote itself as I was approaching the end of/peaking from the side effects of radiation therapy for prostate cancer.

Based on what I discovered -- from talking to Docs, reading, my fellow travelers, and personal experience -- constant fatigue is/was the most common side effect of radiation therapy. This is/was made worse by simultaneous hormone therapy which is used as a sort of a second line of attack in an effort to kill one's Cancer Cooties.

Other common side effects include things I'd rather not discuss. Besides, I was blessed, mine were fairly mild.

[What's that got to do with...]

I know, Dana, what's that got to do with the lame short story in question? Well, living life feeling as though you're recovering from a marathon without being able to recover from a marathon left me completely unmotivated, physically (and psychologically) to write as my therapy rolled on.

I should've just taken a sabbatical. But as I said, the story just sort of wrote itself, and at first, I liked it and thought it was going somewhere. And I didn't want to let my gentlereaders dangling while I...

I, I, I... good grief this sounds like an Obama speech. Suffice it to say I've been feeling like crap, therapy is over, I'm slowly but steadily returning to normal. I won't know till 10/19 if the curs-ed Cooties have been completely crushed (it's complicated) but in the meantime, I'm back.

And, gentlereaders, I can prove it. And I can prove purple journalism is alive and well, that the media does choose sides (or is clueless).


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

If you've been following the Kavanaugh kerfuffle at all, there's a better than average chance that you've been told, or read, that the American Bar Association, after recommending Mr. Kavanaugh be approved -- with a rating of best thing since sliced bread -- now thinks he should be re-reinvestigated by FBI.

This is a conclusion reached after the "world's greatest deliberative body" (LMAO) staged its version of the greatest show on Earth last Thursday.

Go a-googling and type in any version/variation of the phrase "bar association calls for FBI to re-reinvestigate Kavanaugh" that comes to mind. You will find links without end to news stories that report this to be the case.

My personal favorite is an editorial, disguised as a new story, from the Associated Press. If you're unaware, every time you read an article in your favorite local rag that mentions (AP) at the beginning it means they're passing along a story written by a news service. Much cheaper than having actual reporters on the payroll.

The upshot of the "story" is that not only does the ABA think that a re-reinvestigation is called for, but they also point out that the judge has lost the support of the official magazine of the "Jesuit religious order of the United States." Once the Jesuits turn on you, you may as well kill yourself.

There's only one problem.

The letter from the ABA is not a letter from the ABA. It's a letter from Robert Carlson, president of the ABA.

[What difference does that, make? Are you sure you're feeling better?]

Thanks for your concern, Dana. Mr. Carlson is not a member of the standing committee of the ABA charged with reviewing judicial appointments. He took it upon himself to write a letter with no support, or direction, from the ABA or the standing committee.

In fact, the chairman of the standing committee also wrote a letter: "The ABA's rating for judge Kavanaugh is not affected by Mr. Carlson's letter." How much coverage did/is this letter get/getting? Ain't you glad you get your news from trusted sources and not from social media? Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.
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©2018 Mark Mehlmauer   

Kavanaugh v. Ford, Trial By Ordeal

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

"Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin."
                                                                                  -Barbara Kingsolver


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

[This week's column was supposed to be the fourth and final part of my short story, Abducted, but I couldn't resist commenting on the current kerfuffle concerning the Supreme Court.]

Legal Definition of Trial By Ordeal: a formally used criminal trial in which the guilt or innocence of the accused was determined by subjection to dangerous or painful tests (as submersion in water) believed to be under divine control. A tip of the hat to Merriam-Webster (.com).


H. sapiens are subject to false memories, this is settled science.

If you live long enough I guarantee that at some point (probably several points...) in your life this factoid will jump out from behind a rock and bite you on the bum.

"Memories can be distorted, or even completely made up."


BOMS (boring old man story) No. 39,339. Oh, for the record, I don't think I'm a boring old man. You are permitted to (respectfully) disagree. However, there's a 57.092% chance that any given story, about any given thing, by any given old man -- rut-roh, Raggy -- um, person, will be boring.

[BOPS it is then, far be it from me to inadvertently trigger a delicate flower in an era of delicate sensibilities.]

Long story short, when I was 16 I engaged the services of a friend, and his Ford Falcon, to drive me and a cool chick (hey, it was 1970) on my first real date. Cost: a set of spark plugs.

Given that it was my first real date I remember all the details vividly. Except for the drivers last name and what he looked like. And except for the name of the movie theater. And... well, I do vividly remember the name of the movie, Klute, starring Jane Fonda.

One problem.

While discussing this important milestone of my adolescence with the cool chick in question, who is back in my life after an interlude of 40 years or so (we've both been a little busy...), I discovered that I vividly remember the wrong movie.

I know for an absolute certainty that Klute is not only the wrong movie, but it also came out a year later, while I was living approximately 300 miles from the movie theater I can't remember the name of.

However, the unalterable fact that I have a vivid memory of the wrong movie has had no effect on my vivid memory.

Now, if you refuse to acknowledge that you -- or yours, or theirs, or _______ -- are as capable of significant memory distortion as any other H. sapien, you can stop reading here. Good luck to you, you're going to need it.

At the moment, the Republic is knee deep in a drama titled He Said/She Said. No matter how it's resolved, Grandstickies will probably remember it, probably inaccurately. Great-Grandstickes will learn about it in history class.

Plot summary: A SCOTUS nominee -- having emerged from a trial by ordeal chock full of senators running for president and daily dramas performed by some, um, excitable citizens exercising their free speech rights, apparently unscathed -- is this close to being approved.

Suddenly, a female H. sapien steps out from behind the curtain and accuses the nominee of having tried to have his way with her. 36 years ago. When she was 15. When he was 17.

Hilarity ensues.


As this is being written the Swamp Dwellers League, the Infotainment Industrial Complex, the International Union of Professional Perpetually Protesting Protestors & Perpetual Victims of This, That, and the Other Thing (IUPPPP&PVTTOT), and social media, are at DEFCON 1.

Were I the king, and asked to apply some Solomonic wisdom, this would be an easy one.

A Proclamation

Given that no amount of investigation could possibly come up with a definitive answer,

And, given that the Republic already has more than enough apparently unresolvable issues,

(And, given that the brain of the average H. Sapien doesn't mature till the age of 25)

And, given that Mr. Kavanaugh has a lengthy, proven track record, Mr. Kavanaugh may join the Supremes.

Let's move on people, nothing to see here.


P.S. A note to my subjects: While I hope that we recover before things go too far, we're a republic that is currently in decline. Without compromise, and the willingness to lose gracefully, a democratic republic will collapse.

No shortage of factions regards their opinions, beliefs, and sensibilities as unquestionable dogma. No compromise is possible as compromise is a sin. God -- or a God-substitute for those who have lost their religion -- is on their side.

Sticking a finger and each ear and loudly proclaiming la-la-la-la-la-la-la! didn't work when you were kids and it won't work now.

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