Designer Babies

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"Families with babies and families without babies are sorry for each other."                                                                                                          - E.W. Howe


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (assuming that there's anyone left to read this, that this exists in some form or fashion and that if it does, the technology to access it and the wherewithal to read it also still exists -- and that the world hasn't been ravaged by packs of mutant babies),

By nature, I see the glass as being half empty but I have two cunning strategeries to avoid succumbing to a terminal case of Fugiden. Til relatively recently my only defense was to try and find the smile/giggle in a given situation. Your arrival, actual and (hopefully) imminent, provided a second reason to bother getting out of bed in the morning and to not have brownies for breakfast.

I've no idea why grandstickies have this effect on (most) sexy senior citizens, it's probably something clinical that can be scientifically explained by some combination of DNA/evolution/acculturation/etceteration. Who cares if it works?

Speaking of science run amok...

[Huh?]

Work with me Dana, quantum literary leaps for artistic purposes are covered under the terms of my Poetic License.

[Whatever.]

Man, it's hard to work with a philistine running loose, dare I say, amok, in one's subconscious.

[I'm going to eat a brownie and go back to bed, please don't bother me.]

Amok!Amok!Amok!Amok!Amok!


Anyways, recently a Chinese scientist at a conference in Hong Kong claimed to have successfully implanted genetically altered embryos in a woman who gave birth to twin girls.

Hoo-Boy.

He said that he had altered a gene in such a way as to make them resistant to infection from H.I.V. For some reason I'm reminded of the favorite phrase of marketers everywhere, "New and Improved!"

Dr. He Jiankui (who has denied reports that he's a first cousin of Dr. Who) offered no proof and published no reports or data for peer review by his fellow scientists, mad or otherwise. Maybe, hopefully, he's an incompetent mad scientist or just nuts in an ordinary, non-mad scientist sort of way.


Vaguely remembering that some Chinese scientists were in the news a few years ago for this sort of thing I went a-googling and sure enough... There was a group of scientists in 2015 that messed around with some damaged embryos and who had no intention of trying to make a baby. They were seeing if they could successfully complete the first step of what Dr. He claims to have done, edit a gene. Baby steps.

Bad news (well, for them at least): they only succeeded in altering the DNA of 4 of the 85 embryos they tweaked. Worse news: they triggered accidental mutations in those four. The good news was that they published and scared the hell out of everybody... but apparently not Dr. He and who knows who else.

Tweaking embryos (making designer babies) is illegal in most countries, but not China. I guess you can't blame them since they can't follow their usual policy and steal what they can't develop on their own since theoretically, hopefully (but I don't believe it), somebody else isn't trying to perfect the tech.


Now -- legal, illegal, or whatever -- for a minute there Dr. He was thought to be missing. Not to worry, he appears to merely be under house arrest. Or not. Various and sundry gummit agencies, spokespersons and others swept up in the drama, such as many of Dr. He's fellow scientists, have come down hard on the good doctor.

However, from what I've been able to ascertain his official status appears to be that he's consigned to limbo till the current Emperor of the Middle Kingdom's vast bureaucracy decides what to do with/about him.

[Geez, sucks to be him, but what, pray tell, has any of this to do with the vague, lengthy, and paranoid salutation that began this incoherent rant?]

C'mom, Dana, that's painfully obvious don't you think? Somewhere out there may be not one, but two seemingly innocent babies mutating into God only knows what...

[Oh please...]

And even if this guy failed, or even made the whole thing up for whatever reason, given the nature of the beast do you believe for a second that someone('s) not working on this sort of thing somewhere?

[I'm gonna eat another brownie, good night.]

Some days I'm glad I'm old. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
Please scroll down to react, comment, or share.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements as well as things I find on the web that reflect where I'm coming from.

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 12.15.18 I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the [I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 1 author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Manhood (Part Three)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional." -Chili Davis


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This is the third and final letter to Anomy.

Dear Anomy,

The subject of last week's missive was mostly about the fact that you're sensitive and intelligent enough to have figured out that life requires tolerating no shortage of bullshit. I pointed out that you've figured out that grups have feet of clay and that the wildly imperfect world we live in reflects it.

Your reaction -- a not uncommon and understandable one, particularly nowadays -- was/is to embrace nihilism and cynicism. Let's party! I didn't point out that this path is a dead end, that even partying all the time eventually gets boring, just like doing anything all the time eventually gets boring.

The problem with revealing that bit of wisdom to a young person is of limited utility. You're going to have to live a bit longer to realize just how true it is.

It gets worse.

I hope you're an exception but for most people -- even me, and I've had a life that's a bit more interesting than average -- life is (mostly) one damn thing after another and is what happens to you while you're making other plans.

[FYI, the two "life is" quotes above are attributed to lots of people, I threw in the "mostly" because life is occasionally awesome, usually when you're least expecting it. The one damn thing version is often attributed to Winston Churchill, I suspect because it sounds like something he'd say. 

But since "Winnie" is famous for playing a key part in saving the planet during the last worldwide war there's a lesson there methinks.]

"Fugihden, life sucks and then you die so..."

If life sucks and then you die the question is what sort of life should you live and your answer seems to be, PAR-TAY! As I pointed out above, this only works temporarily (trust me on this), so the next question is, how should you pass your time while waiting to take a dirt nap?

And by the way, I don't mean to embarrass you but people who've figured out that PAR-TAY! is not the answer understand that PAR-TAY! is often just an excuse for doing nothing. It's the easy way out for people suffering from Peter Pan syndrome. Or worse yet, addiction.


Passing the Time
I've written about what follows before, and I have to acknowledge the fact that Jordan Peterson explains it better than I can, but here's the Reader's Digest version.

For myriad biological, psychological, philosophical, etceteralogical reasons H. sapiens need to spend their lives in the pursuit of goals and ideals and once a given goal/ideal is reached, or discarded, a new goal/ideal must replace it in order to feel... right. To feel like you're functioning as designed. To experience meaning and purpose.

It's really that simple, and that hard.

Hard, because anyone can say my goal is _______ and I'm going to start seriously pursuing it... next week, or next month, or next year, or as soon as the bottle or the bag is empty, or after I move out of here, or after I find a job/a better job, or _______. And then pull the covers up and go back to sleep.

Hard, because every time you reach or discard a goal/ideal you're not suddenly going be happy once and for all. You can't actually pursue happiness any more than you can force yourself to go to sleep, or to love (or even like) someone. Or to be loved (or even liked) by someone.

All that you can do is all that you can do.

To occasionally experience happiness be worthy of happiness. To be loved (or even liked) be worthy of it. To sleep well, work hard at something worth working hard for, which often means working hard at something you hate so you have the opportunity to work hard doing something you love.

Work hard at something you hate, or are indifferent to, so you can pay your own way, or pay the way of your loved ones and deep, restful sleep will follow.

Hard, because you have to choose to be a grup, you have to choose not to see yourself as a victim. We're all victims of something, so what? What are you doing about it? A grup understands everything we want, that makes us "happy" is an opposite of something and that the nature of reality is that it's made of opposites. Happy/sad, up/down, yin/yang. Deal with it.

Hard, because if you want to become a wise, contented, well-respected soul the only path available is to consciously decide to be the best person you can be on every level and get off your ass and do it.

No matter how rough things get at any given moment there are literally millions of other H. sapiens, at that exact same moment, with problems that make yours seem like a walk in the park on a beautiful day.


What will be your legacy? Choose one. He always tried to make things a little better for himself and everyone he could. He spent his life covering his ass and enduring the day. He was an asshole and we're glad he's gone. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 

P.S. Speaking of Jordan Peterson...


Please scroll down to react, comment, or share.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements as well as things I find on the web that reflect where I'm coming from.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 12.15.18 I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the [I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 1 author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Manhood (Part Two)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"Nearly half of the American population is eagerly anticipating the end of the world. This dewey-eyed nihilism provides absolutely no incentive to build a sustainable civilization. Many of these people are lunatics, but they are not the lunatic fringe."   -Sam Harris  

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

Sorry, I've got to continue my letter to Anomy.

Dear Anomy,

In part one I discussed the fact that I came up in a much more structured environment than you. What I was getting at was, well, I'm trying to answer a question.

"He's been walking along the edge of the cliff for a while now, which is normal and to be expected. Was he consciously waiting to turn 18 so he could jump off with minimal familial restraints and legal complications?"


Before I go on let me acknowledge that your situation undoubtedly seems much worse to us than it does to you. In spite of a normal amount of insecurities -- acknowledged or otherwise -- paradoxically, it's also normal for you to feel like you're bulletproof, ten feet tall, and you have all the time in the world.

We (you know who we are) felt that way too; we learned many lessons the hard way. Knowing that, since we love you and worry about you, we fear you might make even bigger mistakes than we did, perhaps one that you can't come back from. A second cousin of yours who has been locked away for a very long time comes immediately to mind.

I know, I know... we can't help it, we're grups, we worry. But no one would've predicted that what happened to him, would happen to him.


Monkeys & Cliffs
A while back, when you were enduring/surviving middle school I repeatedly pointed out to you that H. sapiens are (hopefully) high functioning primates. This was to teach you why -- since you were part of a troop of young, male H. sapiens, whose brains wouldn't mature (maybe...) for another decade or so and factoring in the power of DNA and testosterone -- you were witnessing insanity on a daily basis. Ooh-ooh, ah-ah! as the evil step-twins used to say.

For the record, I never said that that's as good as it gets.

I pointed out that in high school there would be glimmers of hope. That after that the glimmer would get brighter and that by the time you, and most of your contemporaries, reached the age of 25 or so you would find yourself living in a different word.

That the secret, at that point, was to keep piling up wisdom points as you aged, and to never stop. To keep evolving and never become a frozen caricature of a younger version of yourself, a disturbingly common fate for many.

"Wait a sec' I don't remember you saying most of that I..."

That's because I devilishly came at you mostly indirectly, and tried to teach by example as much as possible, the best way to try and teach almost anyone almost anything about this sort of thing.

The bad news is my devious plan seems to have failed.


Your position is that the world is being run by dumb monkeys and that at least you have the wisdom to acknowledge this and have decided to leap off the cliff and be done with it. What's worth striving for in a world of dumb, often evil, monkeys? The smart money's on "Eat, drink (smoke weed), and be merry, for tomorrow we die."

Everyone suffers a series of kicks in the crotch in the course of their gradual transformation from innocent child to a grup that has to live in the real world. You started early, when your Nana died -- and you're smarter and more sensitive than you realize and/or let on.

Cases in point: the average child doesn't get seriously pissed off because his loved ones have been lying to him when he finds out there's no Santa.

Particularly the kid, not long before that, who looked at me like I was a moron when I asked if he enjoyed shaking the Easter Bunny's hand and said, "That wasn't the Easter Bunny, that was just some guy in a suit, I could feel his fingers through the costume." Just sayin'.


Yes, there's no shortage of dumb and evil monkeys in the world but you're overreacting to discovering that fact. You're using it as an excuse to embrace cynicism, worse yet, nihilism, a potentially fatal cultural virus that's currently considered cool and has gained control of the DNA of our -- everything's entertainment and the circus is always on -- society.

Wikipedia: "Most commonly, nihilism is presented in the form of existential nihilism, which argues that life is without objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value."

Trust me on this, self-medicating won't kill this bug. My next letter will tell you what does. 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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 12.15.18 I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the [I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 1 author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Manhood (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"Manhood coerced into sensitivity is no manhood at all." -Camille Paglia


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

This letter is addressed to a specific individual (who shall remain nameless) who knows who they are and why I'm writing this. For the duration of this letter, they will be called Anonmy (short for anonymous) 'cause it's vaguely humorous (humy?) and I'm all about finding the humy in a given situation.


Dear Anomy,

Believe it or not, I get it. All male H. sapiens between (roughly speaking) the ages of 16 and 25 have to deal with what you're dealing with. Always have, always will. The age of the onset and the end of this particular stage varies. For some, it starts earlier, as in your case. For some, it ends later but not, I predict, in your case.

I refer to the transition from boy to man. The age range I've chosen isn't based on a particular study I'm going to link to...

Big But
Studies do report that males, roughly betwixt the ages of 16 and 25 commit the most homicides. The whys and wherefores depend on who you ask.

Settled science (and Simon) says that the average H. sapiens brain isn't fully developed till about the age of 25, particularly the area of the brain responsible for inhibiting impulses and making smart decisions.

Interestingly, car insurance companies seem to have figured this out before science officially did.

As hard as it probably is for you to fathom, I was once 16 to 25. Been there, done that. For some, it never really seems to end. Fortunately, for most of those sorts, the problem slowly fades to grey if they manage to stay alive and out of jail, and they mellow out considerably with age.

Finally, these are the peak years of your callowyute stage. While that's perfectly normal, until you advance to early gruphood you're as incapable of fully grasping your situation as a 6-year-old is as incapable of grasping what it will be like to be 16.

For the record, there are some wildly misinformed, narrow-minded souls loose in the world that maintain to this day that my callowyute period lasted into my early thirties. In my defense... nevermind, it's extremely complicated.


As I said, I went through it, but under much different circumstances than the ones you are experiencing. Although the American culture had begun fragmenting it was still early days. I was raised by parents that had survived WW2 and the Great Depression, an experience that left them humbled and grateful. They managed to impart a little of this to me when I was a callowyute; I've (ever so slowly) learned, and verified, the lessons life taught them since.

They could only dream about the lifestyle that you and I take for granted. They would be absolutely delighted, were they still around, that their sacrifices helped to make the life you and I live possible.

When I was coming up, America was still very much a Judeo-Christian nation that (mostly/more or less) believed in (some version of) God and a set of personal Rules&Regs that are more or less summarized by the Ten Commandments.

This way of being, seeing and living was pounded into me (occasionally literally) by Sister Mary McGillicuddy, Father Bing Crosby, and their crew, in the course of my eight years of Catholic Grade schooling at Our Lady of Sorrows elementary school. Although I was incapable of appreciating the firm foundation I stood on as a kid, I do now.


You, on the other hand, are a product of postmodern America and America's postmodern, politically correct public education system.

Teachers unions. Gummit Rules&Regs that just keep on coming. A hooge horde of professional bureaucrats to enforce said Rules&Regs. Platoons of pussified parents (and their lawyers) perpetually protecting Paul, Polly, and Per (short for Person) from potential triggering by everdamnthing. More lawyers. And saints preserve us, anti-vaxxers.

You, on the other hand, are the product of glowing screens that don't play the Star Spangled Banner when it's time for all good people to go to bed, tell you good night, and sign off till morning. Of course, it's too early to accurately predict the long-term effects, if any, of 24x7 electronic media access. We were told we were doomed 'cause of all the TV we watched. I had several moms besides the real one. Donna Reed, Ozzie's wife (not the one you're thinking of), Mrs. Cleaver, and Josie Carey (among others, look 'em up if you're interested).

I used to think that your generation's version of rock-n'-roll (call it what you want, "...it's still rock-n'-roll to me") was probably going to cause brain damage. But Rock was to Swing as Rap is to Rock. That is to say, the current version of the same concept. If your parent's music doesn't suck, at least till you're old enough to appreciate its few redeeming qualities, you may, not necessarily but you may, have "issues" (GRIN).

On the other hand... Oh, crap, wait a sec'. One, two, three, four... Yup, I'm already over the word limit. I'll have to continue this next week. Poppa loves you.

(To be continued...)

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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but as of 12.15.18 I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Transgenderism (Part Two)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"Rejecting your gay or transgender child will not make them straight. It will only mean that you will lose them."   -Christina Engela


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Stickies, 

Lets review. I ended last week's letter thusly:

As far as I'm concerned, as long as no one is getting hurt (that doesn't want to be), the door is closed, and the window treatment prevents me (and anyone else) that doesn't/shouldn't want to know what people get up to in private from hearing/seeing what people get up to in private -- have at it.

But when they insist on getting in my face, and/or demanding everyone's approval, that's a/the horse of a different color, Dorothy. Which is why there's going to be a part two.

This is part two. First, the low-hanging fruit.


There are men who have decided they are women but ain't going to dose themselves with chemicals or submit to surgery and I - don't - care. I personally don't know (as far as I know...) anyone who has chosen to live this way but if I should cross paths with such an individual I would treat them the same way I do everyone else. I'd take them as I find them and hope that they were a fellow gentleperson. If not, depending on the circumstances, I'd act accordingly.

[For the record, I did have a casual acquaintance, in the late 70s, with a gay gentleperson who enjoyed performing in drag but dressed like a (quite stylish) man when he wasn't on stage. I'm not mentioning this just to point out that I had gay friends, and a gay roommate for a year, long before it was cool for a straight man to have gay friends.]

Big But
There are men who have decided they are women but ain't going to dose themselves with chemicals or submit to surgery that have also decided that since as far as they are concerned they are women they have the right to compete in women's athletic competitions. This is a thing, it's already happening, regulatory bodies have started to go along.

This - is - nuts. If the emperor has a penis and the requisite amount of testosterone in his system but likes to wear a tasteful dress, and enjoys being a girl, good for her. But a cheat and bully by any other name is still a cheat and a bully.


Please re-read the first full paragraph at the beginning of this letter, I'll wait...

Okay? Good. Alright, open-minded and tolerant is one thing, forced acceptance quite another. While Stinky McGardle has as much right to hang out on the playground as anyone else, Lulu Lollobrigida, heartbreaker in training, has the right to flee the sandbox when Stinky turns up. She doesn't have the right to ban Stinky from the sandbox, or anything else for that matter. He doesn't have the right to demand she stay.

Lulu, who is being well raised by good parents, would never make fun of Stinky (who is actually a good kid that's being poorly raised by bad parents) as a lot of her friends do.

[In fact, a childless couple, Stinky's uncle Johan and his wife, Gretchen, will shortly take Stinky into their home, much to the relief of his reprobate parents, and eventually adopt him (after essentially paying them off). Stinky will turn out to be a very bright, if eternally socially awkward soul, who eventually becomes a doctor, a pediatric brain surgeon that works full time at Shriner's hospital and fills in at St. Judes on the weekend. He will mary Lulu and have three perfect children after bumping into her while volunteering at a homeless shelter. Lulu is a nurse with a Ph.D. that coordinates health care services for all the homeless shelters in the city of Golden Glow, state of Winnemac. She chooses Edmund's (Stinky's real name) brand of cologne for him and regulates its use as he has a tendency to go overboard.]


Leave us set aside Lola and Stinky's inevitable destiny for the moment and return to the here and now. Stinky and Lola both have the right to make use of the playground. All rights come with corresponding responsibilities. The most fundamental responsibility of any right is to acknowledge that all the kids on the playground have the same rights.

The second most fundamental corresponding responsibility, in fact, it may be tied for first, is that Stinky and Lola have to be constantly seeking compromises that allow both of them to enjoy their rights, as much as is practically possible, without stepping on each other's toes.

Maximum freedom requires a certain minimum of rules to ensure maximum enjoyment of the playground by the maximum number of kids.

Lola and Stinky, neither of whom is a jagoff or a bully, have found a way to share the playgrounds amenities peacefully by employing common sense.


We are minorities of one. Like snowflakes (I speak meteorologically), while having much in common, for all intents and purposes, we are unique. The overwhelming majority of H. sapiens on the planet Earth feel that there's me, and there's everyone else... and that their version of reality is the correct one.

This is why compromise is hard and complicated -- and unavoidable -- if we'd like to spend our brief time on the playground enjoying ourselves instead of endlessly bickering. Carrying on like spoiled children with chips on their shoulders competing in the Grievance and Victimology Olympics (which take place every four seconds, not every four years).


Aw geez, I'm already over my word limit... Lookit, if you enjoy being a girl but your naughty bits are clearly those of a male H. sapien (or vice versa), feel free to believe that biology is a social construct having no basis in reality. If you can "pass," feel free to use the women's room (or vice versa). But use a stall and keep the door closed. Do your business, and keep your business, to yourself.

Better yet, lobby for the addition of a third standardized restroom: Men, Women, Optional. While you're at it demand locker/slash changing rooms with the same designations.

Want to be accepted? In any given social situation choose to be the highest functioning high functioning primate in the room, and make the world a better place for everyone.

By the way, my three-way system compromise is a win/win/win/win. Middle of the road Normies who like things as they are, win. Transgender folks, win. Progressives can opt for Optional and send up a virtue signal, win. Righties of all stripes can honor/be made comfortable by traditional designations, win.

Compromise, don't demonize. 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.

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Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but from last week's column (12.15.18) forward I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Transgenderism (Part One)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"Transgender doesn't need to imply loud." -Kubra Sait


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies,

Hopefully, by the time you Great-Grandstickies read this society will have figured out who is to be called what -- and who is to be classified as what -- to help all the kids on the playground to get along because I don't see it happening any time soon.

"I want the playground to have minimum rules and maximum fun. I want just enough rules to give everyone an equal shot at some swing time and neutralize the bullies." -me

[Geeze, how many times are you going to use that quote? It's bad enough that you go around quoting yourself. Couldn't you at least...]

Well excuuuse me, Dana. For the record, I don't use it all that often. Furthermore, these missives are letters to my progeny and it's important, to me at least, that they know where I'm coming/came from. I don't understand why...

[Well, I don't understand why...]

[Could we please stop zees abzurd beeckering and get on with ze column? Theenk of ze bad example you set for Iggy!]

Point taken, Marie-Louise.

The quote above neatly sums up my stand on politics, culture, economics, etceteromics. That is to say, I'm a wild-eyed libertarian with a bleeding heart and conservative impulses.

The thing is, for all the kids on the playground to get along reasonably well, their needs to be agreement as to what the minimally necessary rules are.


For several years now I've been making what I thought was a harmless joke. I've used it in previous letters and it's evolved with time. To be completely candid I stole it from Jim, of Barb and Jim fame. Aurora Barb and Jim, not Barb and Jim from the last house on left (side of Rt. 5 -- or is it Rt. 7?), anyways...

The latest version is, "I'm a beautiful, 39-year-old African-American lesbian woman named Coco (that looks remarkably like Hale Berry) trapped in the body of an aging, white, seemingly cisgendered heterosexual male. Feel my... pain.

[And now you need to stop because you're inflicting pain...]

Yeah, so I'm told. But I'm not making any promises.


See, there are men, well, biologically male H. sapiens anyway, who haven't had surgery and/or hormone therapy who consider themselves lesbians and wish to/are partner(ing) up with biologically female H. sapiens that are lesbians. At least if they can find one that's agreeable.

Hoo-boy.

When I heard about this I went a-googling and discovered it's true. It's not only true, according to this article 77% of transgender folks report that their sexual orientation is something other than straight. Which means that most of the men who become/say that they are women and most of the women that become/say that they are men are having sex with are, um, hopefully having fun? And no one is getting hurt unless they want to be. You learn something every day if you pay attention.

I also discovered an article by a female H. sapien who calls her column/article/blog/? PolelifeandPussy (yeah, seriously), that's about an apparent war that's broken out between transwomen and radical feminists that have issues with women that sport "lady cocks" (yeah, seriously).

I also discovered that trans advocates call radical feminists who think that transgender women should be excluded from "female spaces and organizations" (Wikipedia) TERFs. That is to say, trans-exclusionary radical feminists; this phrase is not uttered with love -- hence the war.

And then it dawned on me that I'm a TEAF. Who knew?


See, I'm a feminist if you define feminist as someone that believes in equal rights for women. By the way, I'm for equal rights (and responsibilities) for everyone, but I'm not a radical feminist.

Also, I've got a hooge problem with male H. sapiens that call themselves female H. sapiens but who have decided not to submit to either surgery or chemistry (not that I don't blame 'em) to physically render themselves female H. sapiens...

Big BUT,

feel that competing against female H. sapiens in athletic events is perfectly fair. And yes, Virginia/Vern, this is a thing.

So, that makes me a TEAF, a trans-exclusionary athletic feminist (for the record I'm not at all athletic, this gets so confusing...) and would seem to indicate that I'm at war with trans advocates and radical feminists since I'm a non-radical feminist that believes in equal rights (and responsibilities) for everyone.

Hoo-boy, which way's Switzerland?


I don't want to be at war with anyone over this sort of thing. As far as I'm concerned, as long as no one is getting hurt (that doesn't want to be), the door is closed, and the window treatment prevents me (and anyone else) that doesn't/shouldn't want to know what people get up to in private from hearing/seeing what people get up to in private -- have at it.

But when they insist on getting in my face, and/or demanding everyone's approval, that's a/the horse of a different color, Dorothy. Which is why there's going to be a part two. Poppa loves you.

(To be continued...)

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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer

[I haven't got around to figuring out the official way to do this yet... but from this column forward I'm offering up my humble scribbles under a Creative Commons License. That is to say, Anyone may republish my columns anywhere -- as long as they don't alter them and as long as they credit me (Mark Mehlmauer) as the author, and, link to my website, The Flyoverland Crank.] 

Loosing My Religion (Part Six -- the end)

...or, the importance of the transcendent, part two. It's a long one.

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my (eventual) grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who don't yet, aka 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

"There are some things you have to give up to the higher power" -Jimmy Smits




Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

In last week's letter, I brought up the concept of the power of a higher power as conceived and practiced by those seeking to be restored to sanity via the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and like-minded groups.

I mentioned that as far as I'm concerned this is employing the power of transcendence to repair one's life. I also mentioned that I think everyone needs to find a higher power of some sort, even hardcore atheists, to live the best possible sort of life.

While I did mention my own particular version of tapping into the power of a higher power I didn't explain how/why I think everyone can.


I don't claim to know all that much about a given twelve-step programs concept of a higher power. I've discussed it with AA people in general, Nana in particular. Someone told me it didn't matter who or what your higher power was, it could be a tree, as long as you accepted that there was a higher power that would/could assist you in getting sober if you were open to the possibility.

Since this was a natural fit with my belief, detailed last week, that all there is, is, the Great Big Sticky whatever the f-word (GBSWF) manifesting itself, I "got it" immediately. It provided clarification/justification to my concept of who/what God is, which in the intervening years has grown stronger and clearer.

[Wait a second, how is this a natural fit with...]

Well, I failed to mention, Dana, last week I mean, was that I believe it's possible for anyone to tap into the power of the GBSWF, I guess that's my idea of a higher power. I also believe there are all sorts of ways to access this power ranging from the purely spiritual to the purely secular and/or at all sorts of levels betwixt the two.


[Could you be a little more vague please?]

Oh, hell yeah, you know me, but I'm gonna shoot for clarity. I make no promises though.

At the risk of being accused of having a keen eye for the obvious, my friends the recovering drunks told me that it doesn't matter, specifically, what your higher power is as long as you conceive of it as something that will keep you on the straight and narrow and moving towards a worthy goal of some sort. Sobriety for example.

And you don't have to be a drunk or a druggie to access a/your higher power.

Say you're a drunk, any sort of addict really, and the thing that has you by the ass is just not that much fun anymore. In fact, it may be ruining your life. It may be screwing with the lives of people that you allegedly care about.

Try as you might, you haven't been able to stop. A twelve step group will try and teach you, among many, many other things, that you need a higher power to help you out.

Conveniently, a lot of folks believe in God, the most traditional, go-to higher power. Surely, a being that is infinite in every possible way has the ability to help ya out. You just have to figure out what your concept of such a being is, what the rules of the game are as far as you and the big G. go, and ask to borrow a cup of grace.

Pay it back, and forward, by living a life that would make your mom happy, that she would brag about. Unless, of course, your mom's a basket case. The good news is that finding a substitute whom you'd like to make smile is easy (don't forget you). The bad news is that finding another mom, a real mom (or a dad...), is hard. You can deal with it though, you have a higher power to help you out.


"Well, I believe in something like God, but I'm confused/uncertain/etcetern as to the details."

Piece of homemade caramel apple pie. "I act as if God exists" -Jordan Peterson. I interpret this as meaning I believe that morality/ethics/etceterics exist and that I'm going to be a good dude/dudette because I have to share the playground with the other kids. And I know that 99% of the time, if I'm honest with myself, I somehow know what the right thing to do is. It's like I have a higher power.


[Is that John Lennon I hear singing Kumbaya, verse 23, in the background. There ain't no God, there ain't no higher power, it's just yours truly trying to get through another day in paradise without getting my body or soul dumped into the car crusher down at the local scrap yard.]

Dana, spreading the sunshine as always huh? where are your trusty companions?

[Marie-Louise was just here a second ago... I don't know where she disappeared to. We just got back from dropping the Igmeister off at school. Which reminds me, the principal wants you to call, something about a BB gun?]

Great. Thanks. Listen, you've got a goal or two, right? I'm talkin' biggies, not going out for lunch.

[Sure, in fact, I've got a lengthy bucket list. Number one is...]

And I know for a fact that you have morals and ethics, and that you regularly commit to being a better person and to try harder to always do the right thing, particularly when you're loaded, yes?

[Sure, but...]

Cool, ever stop to think about the fact that you have goals and aspirations and that they're a completely abstract phenomenon? that they help keep you on the straight and narrow and out of an institution? that you just plain feel better when you heed their call? that when you surrender to just aimlessly drifting through the day indulging the appetite of the moment you feel like shit?

[Um...]

Still don't believe in a higher power?

The end. 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.

For details, click here.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post weekly column announcements and other items of interest there almost daily.

©2018 Mark Mehlmauer