Political Science?

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 imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

"A recent Pew Hispanic survey found that more than 70 percent of illegal immigrants from Mexico are interested in a guest-worker program and then returning home."   -John Shadegg



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

This week's letter may come in handy someday to help you someday understand what happened if America is overrun by our less fortunate neighbors to the south. Considering what's happening to Europe, you'd think we'd know better

From the National Interest, 3/23/19:

"Seventeen years and five months later, fourteen thousand U.S. troops remain enmeshed in a war in Afghanistan with no end in sight."

"2,419 U.S. service members have been killed in Afghanistan, and tens of thousands of additional soldiers have been wounded..."

In Afghanistan, aka the Graveyard of Empires, our kids are still getting killed or maimed. No shortage of the homeless are vets who have served multiple tours in hell. 16.8 (not 20.6 the VA assures us) off themselves every day.

Think about that. Approximately every hour and a half someone that volunteered to keep Americans safe from external threats so that we can battle the obesity epidemic at home takes their own life.

Meanwhile...        

The Donald and the Demos are fighting over building a Magic Wall from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean, a distance of 1,954 miles. Now personally, I think that a Magic Wall that's 1,954 miles long that can't be tunneled under, flown over, or sailed around for only $5,700,000,000 is the deal of the century. That's less than three million bucks a mile (2,917,093 dollars and 14 cents a mile to be exact).

That's chump change! California has spent roughly $5,400,000,000 (in addition to $3,300,000,000 of seed money from Uncle Sugar) on a high-speed railroad that has crashed before it was built. Three million a mile is peanuts! Makes ya wonder why the Repubs didn't set aside the dough after they ran the table in 2016 and had control of the Swamp for two entire years.

Anyways...

Nancy Pelosi, tribune of the little people, (net worth, $16,000,000) and crew has said, "Take a hike, the Donald, No wall for you!"

"Oh yeah!" responded the Oompa Loompa-in-chief, "I declare an emergency. I'm gonna build me a big beautiful wall anyway, so there!"

Nuh-uh!
Uh-huh!
Nuh-uh!
Uh-huh!

And Then...

From National Public Radio's website, 1/9/19:

Yes, The President Can Declare A 'National Emergency' To Build a Wall

"The way that Congress set it up ... was that Congress could basically terminate any national emergency the president declared through a concurrent resolution -- simply through majority votes of both houses, without the president's approval."

The article goes on to point out that the Supremes ruled that without the president's signature this was unconstitutional so Congress changed the law. It now states that the prez must sign off or the resolution is void, the emergency stands.

Just like any other law, the president has the power of the veto, which he has invoked. Just like any other law, it requires a two-thirds majority in both houses to override said veto.

So...

Secure in the knowledge they didn't have enough votes to override a veto the Demos and a handful of Repubs bravely passed the resolution anyway. This act of congressional masturbation resulted in a tempest in a teapot that continues to rage.

The Donald has declared victory and ordered the Magic Wall to be built. However, the lawsuits to stop this from happening are piling up faster than snow in a nor'easter.

The 39 (and counting) Demos running for president are gleefully welcoming anyone that can make it across the border and the word is out that if you bring your kids, or somebody's kids, the gringos will buy ya a bus ticket to your preferred American city of streets paved with gold if you promise to come back after things settle down.

"Kids in Cages" headlines make for very bad optics.

The Sturm und Drang continues with no end in sight because that's how ya get elected and stay elected in America nowadays.

                                              The Swamp, Inc
    No solutions, no compromise, no results. Bread and Circuses 24x7x365.


Emergency? What Emergency?

“We are aware that a new caravan is forming in Honduras that they’re calling the mother of all caravans . . . and which could be [made up of] more than 20,000 people,” Olga Sánchez Cordero said.

"Nuh-Uh!" Honduras responds.

It's probably not true (since I just made it up) but I heard from the ubiquitous Anonymous Source that the CIA agent that signed off on WMD in Iraq is serving out their career in Honduras, trying to hang on long enough to get a full pension. Maybe we could ask him/her/them (shh! it's a secret) to check this out. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
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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 an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

©2019 Mark Mehlmauer As long as you agree to supply my name and URL and only minimally edit my content (scroll all the way up or down for Creative Commons License) you may republish this anywhere you please.

Self Indulgent Nostalgia (No. 2.2)

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 imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

"If you're yearning for the good old days, just turn off the air conditioning."
                                                                                  -Griff Niblack

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

Last week's letter ended thusly:

"Still, In the course of one summer, I went from perpetual pissing contests with the boys I ran with back in the Burgh (with an h) to enjoying school (and a tiny bit of civilized social life) for the first time since first grade. It wasn't till the following September that things got stupid again."

[Coming soon to a theater near you, Boys In the Burgh (with an h)]

Clearly, an explanation is in order. It started in third grade. We had moved from one Pittsburgh (with an h) neighborhood, the Bluff (near Mercy Hospital) to the Sahside flats the summer before third grade.

I have a limited amount of memories to draw on from first and second grade that I won't bore you with here. While I had plenty of friends, the only one I remember vividly is Frankie Mancuso, baseball card collector extraordinaire. Hello Frankie, wherever you are.

Starting with third grade, I remember lots of things vividly, I particularly remember my friends. The baby boom was still booming so believe it or not my Dear Stickies I had a lot of friends (not so much nowadays Gentlereaders).

My primary group of friends, "the boys I ran with" of the first paragraph, consisted of the boys I sat in a classroom with from third thru seventh grade and less intensive friendships with other kids from the neighborhood that were in other grades or went to a different school. As far as I knew at the time, this was how the world worked.

Long story short, I was a weird kid that loved to read but hated school. I wasn't a nerd but I came to the conclusion early on that my typical friend's obsession with sports, who was toughest, what were the right sneakers, the right clothes, etc. was, well, goofy. But I had to fake it as best I could because those were the rules. It must be me.

[For the record, I wasn't a sissy. I loved swimming, biking, skateboarding, rock 'n' roll, Cub Scouts, street fairs and what I guess you could call urban exploring. I wandered all over the Sah-side and even other relatively far-flung neighborhoods (streetcar rides were five cents). My parents often had no idea what I was up to. I was always home for dinner and then by the time the street lights came on. 

No one ever tried to kidnap me and no priest ever tried to molest me. Go figure. But yes, I know it happened/happens. When I'm king child molesters will be castrated and placed in cages with doors that have been welded shut.]

Bit of a detour, I know, but you see, that's why eighth grade rocked. I fit in with those kids and found out that if I worked hard I could get decent grades.


Now, we finally come to the reason why this, in retrospect, turned out to be one of the most pivotal years of my life, which I made mention of two letters ago when I began what's turned into a series.

[Thank God, FINALLY!]

Dana, I've missed you. Where've you been?

[Getting drunk, you haven't told them yet, have you?]

All in due time, I want to finish this series first. Gotta tell ya, buddy, I think you're overreacting...


Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, pivoting. If I had gone on to Catholic high school I would've had a whole different life. Not necessarily better, but certainly quite different. I regret nothing as I've had a full and interesting life. The best part of which was 21 years with your late, great Nana -- and is 34 (and counting...) years with your mom -- and is 18, 16, 13 & 13 (and counting...) years with yinz guys.

If I had gone on to Catholic high school I would likely have also gone to college and have entered the real world with a minimum of 120 or so certified college credits obtained in four years as opposed to the 39 certified credits I managed to accumulate in the course of the 47 years that have passed since I graduated from high school.

But...

My parents couldn't afford to send me to Catholic high school with my new friends. Hell, they really couldn't afford the tiny house we lived in, the first one they ever owned.

And...

After eight years of hyper-conservative Catholic education, I thought a public high school would be cool. I mean, c'mon it was the late '60s! Time to rock n' roll!

Unfortunately...

Although compared to the inner city neighborhoods I had lived in the township I/we found ourselves living in was "rich," the boys in burbs were, for the most part, just as goofy as the boys in the Burgh (with an h).

However...

I did have a few close friends that got me through and helped me to survive things like the gym teacher who thought his job was to toughen up the boys in his charge for Vietnam (although he personally didn't see any need to put his ass on the line).

I can't help but wonder if S'ter had an intuition of what lay ahead for me. Somehow, she didn't discover I was off to join the infidels till after eighth-grade graduation when she was wishing us goodbye and good luck.

She was shocked, and had tears in her eyes, when she found out what my plans were. I was shocked that this aloof, cold, taskmaster apparently gave a damn about me. Go figure. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
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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 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.

©2019 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.] 

Self Indulgent Nostalgia (No. 2.1)

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 imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

"I don't like nostalgia unless it's mine." -Lou Reed


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

S.I.N #2 ended with yours truly about to start eighth grade, my eighth and last year of Catholic grade school. I had previously attended two other Catholic grade schools in Pittsburgh (with an h), one large, one small. I barely remember the large one, Epiphany. I only went there for first and second grade.

A beautiful church is still there, the school is not.

Yes, Virginia, It was once possible to avoid formal education till the first grade. I was fortunate enough to have avoided daycare, pre-school & kindergarten. I was about to explain why I think this was a blessing but it occurs to me that in the Age of the Victim that what I think is a blessing might be worth some dough eventually if the country keeps lurching to the left, so, nevermind.

The small one was St. John the Evangelist, on the Sah-side of Pittsburgh (with an h). Tiny, blue-collar, everyone knew everyone. The priests, the nuns, and the janitor all lived on the grounds. I played basketball in the church hall and dodge ball in the playground that was across the street.

The playground's still there, the school is not.


Anyways, it was the first day of eighth grade. For the previous seven years, everyone I went to school with walked there. St. Ursula's was (emphasis on was) a fairly large school and kids were bussed there from all over Pittsburgh's (with an h) Northern burbs. I still walked. In fact, I lived two doors and one large grass-covered field (that served as the school playground) away.

Nowadays, according to what I just found on the web, there are only 122 students, and the bulk of those are pre-K and Kindergarten. There are 6 kids in the eighth grade. Six.

On my first day of eighth grade, it took two classrooms of about thirty kids each to hold all the eighth graders. Therein lies a tale, beyond the obvious demographic one I mean.


I was directed to report to the top floor and told where I could find the eighth grade(s). There was a nun standing in front of both doors with a list and I was asked what my name was. It wasn't on either list; they conferred. I don't remember exactly what words were used but the gist of the decision rendered was, "Well, let's try him in your class, if he can't handle it, we'll move him to mine later."

Not the sort of thing a shy, blue-collar kid from the inner city who never liked school to begin with wanted to hear. What does she mean? Can't handle what?

I was introduced to the class and assigned a seat next to a kid named Ed who was wearing a red pullover corduroy shirt with leather strings at the throat that was about a hundred times cooler than the dress shirts and clip-on ties I had been wearing for the last seven years.

He immediately befriended me, at least partly out of pity I suspect, and I immediately befriended him out of desperation, in search of a lifeline. Something was very different here. I couldn't quite put my finger on it yet and I needed a guide.

In whispered conversations between having our books assigned to us and being reminded that we would be killed -- or at least excommunicated by the Catholic Church -- if we lost or damaged a book (that wasn't different), Ed told me that eighth-graders could get away with not wearing a tie. It was not technically legal but an unspoken decriminalization policy was in effect.

I removed my tie when the nun wasn't looking and slipped it into my desk.

Sweet.

Sorry, S'ter, I can't remember your name. (At the time, deliberately slurring your words and saying yes'ter or no'ster -- instead of yes sister or no sister -- was a weapon we yielded mercilessly in the endless psychological warfare we fought with the nuns. It made 'em nuts.) However, you have my thanks. While, at the time, I was too stupid to appreciate it, you taught me how to appear smarter than I actually am.


As it turned out, there were two things going on that were the reason for the something different going on here feeling mentioned above. This was the "smart" eighth grade. These kids were the ones that got better grades and who were taught at a higher level than the kids next door, whose grades ranged from average to um, problematic.

Your's truly came from an environment where everyone was piled into the same class and taught at the same level. Hating school, and being one of the seven kids of a very blue-collar couple, it was easy for me to do just enough to get by without attracting much attention.

To survive, to "handle it," to keep from getting moved to the other eighth grade -- and based on my performance the previous seven years that's where I belonged -- I had to take school seriously (well...) for the first time. And Sister Anonymous was teaching us at a level designed to enable us to thrive in a rigorous Catholic high school.

Although I wound up at the local public high school due to a combination of factors to be detailed anon (a shortage of funds being the primary one), S'ter taught me that if you're motivated, you'd be surprised what you can do.

I was motivated because of the other reason I had intuited -- and which by lunchtime of that first day I nailed down -- that something different was going on. The majority of my classmates came from families that my dad would describe as rich. That is to say, middle-middle and upper-middle class. There was only one, that I knew of, that might be considered actually richish, the son of a VP of Pepsi. We had all the free Pepsi we could drink at school functions.

But it wasn't their money I was impressed by. The thing is, in defiance of the stereotypes you might expect, they welcomed me with open arms and provided a glimpse of a world I thought only existed on TV.

While I wasn't a grade getter, I was fairly well-read for an eighth-grader, and I was as enthralled as they were with the revolution that was being documented in the pages of Life and Look magazine. We were gonna save the world in the long term and revolutionize the Catholic church in the meantime.

Recess was spent discussing current events, books, Pop Art, and Rock 'n' Roll (and avoiding certain males from the other eighth grade who were remarkably similar to the "friends" I had left behind).

And, of course, who was "going with" who, and were you going to the next dance at the church social hall? I confess I never went. I was too shy and too aware of my mail order catalog clothes and too aware I was lacking in something they took for granted.

Still, In the course of one summer, I went from perpetual pissing contests with the boys I ran with back in the Burgh (with an h) to enjoying school (and a tiny bit of civilized social life) for the first time since first grade. It wasn't till the following September that things got stupid again. Poppa loves you.

To be continued...

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

©2019 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.] 

Self Indulgent Nostalga (No. 2)

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 imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

"Nostalgia isn't what it used to be." -Peter De Vries


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

While it's only been three weeks since the publication of S.I.N (No. 1), that particular missive was well received and I quite enjoyed writing it. Anyways, given that the primary focus of my efforts is to burden my progeny with my alleged wit and wisdom, episodes from my misspent yute would seem to be in order.


Sometime during the summer that I turned 13 -- the "Summer of Love" (1967) -- me and mine moved from inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) to the 'burbs. At this point, Ed and Reda's (pronounced Reeda) brood of seven had been reduced to three -- my two younger brothers and I. We were sort of a sequel. The first four had been born relatively close together, there was a six-year gap, and then the last three of us incarnated.

Although I didn't realize it at the time, it was the beginning of one of the most, if not the most, pivotal years (+) of my life.


Although I don't remember the date, I do remember that moving day was hot. I/we went to sleep that night protected from the elements by only sheets, perhaps a light blanket. We were all awakened at some point when it started snowing. Well, it felt like it anyway. It was cold!

See, in the city, in an un-airconditioned apartment (which was the norm, not the exception at the time -- movie theaters had blue banners with white letters in an icicle font hanging from the marquee that said Air Conditioning!) it was cooler at night, but not by much. All that concrete and asphalt stored up the heat of the day and released it at night.

Incidentally, the movie theaters also had signs that said something like, Stop Pay Television! Sign Petition Here! Pay to watch TV? can you imagine!

Another night, we were awakened by a noise in our backyard and long story short this story climaxed with the five of us hanging out a window, captivated by a family of raccoons that had knocked over our backyard trash cans and were enjoying a late supper. Much larger, but much cuter, than rats.

When we shared our delight with the neighbors we were quickly disabused of our notions and informed that as far as the neighborhood was concerned these were giant rats and should be treated accordingly.


The bad news was that we had a tiny house with a tiny backyard because the house had been built at the back of the property. While the front yard was decently sized it sloped downward from the street making it difficult to play Wiffle ball or Lawn Darts (the original version; giant, potentially deadly darts).

The good news was that where the tiny backyard ended a patch of woods began that sloped down to a creek. After having been born and raised in the city it seemed like a forest to me. We played in that creek, which was perhaps two feet deep, and didn't pay much attention to the junk it was polluted with. Compared to inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) this was a sylvan paradise.


I rode a school bus, five days a week to the ginormous pool at North Park. There was some sort of program that bussed kids from the Northern Pittsburgh (with an h) suburbs of Allegheny County to a huge swimming pool located in (the cleverly named) North Park.

Having arrived too late to sign up for said program, and not having been issued the card that was necessary to get on the bus, one of my newly minted suburban friends would simply board ahead of me and hand me their card out the window of the bus. If the bus driver noticed this via one of his large side-view mirrors he kept this knowledge to himself.

While the current crop of Stickies will find this hard to believe, I was so into swimming at the time I took the swimming lessons that took place an hour before the general public was allowed in the pool just so I could get more pool time. I already knew how to swim because I had done the same thing for two or three previous summers at the tiny 22nd Street pool on the Sahside of Pittsburgh (with an h).

Each summer I would earn a new set of cheap Red Cross pins that proved I was a qualified beginner, intermediate, and advanced swimmer. Nowadays, like everything else, things are much more complicated. Lawyers I'll bet.

I fell madly in love with Monica (Steve's little sister?). We swam together shared snacks from the snack bar and started sharing a seat on the bus. One day towards the end of summer her cousin showed up and suddenly Monica wanted nothing to do with me anymore. No words were spoken so I don't know what happened. I got over it by the time school started.

And that's when things got really interesting. Poppa loves you.

(To be continued...)

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

©2019 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.] 

News That You Can Use (No. 4)

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 imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

"More and more, journalism seems to have hopped out of Truth's pocket and crept into another." -Henry Rollins


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies, Great-Grandstickies, and Gentlereaders,

A letter featuring interesting tidbits of news gleaned from the wild, wacky, wonderful world wide web by your favorite current events junkie.

SAN FRANCISCO (CNS - Crank's News Service) - Curbed San Francisco, in an article dated 2/15/19, published an article with a sub-headline that's a quote from the mayor of San Francisco, London Breed.

"A place where we can recognize the leather community and all LGBTQ people," says mayor

                        Warning! Dated Cultural Reference Ahead!

"Now, that's something you don't hear about every day, Chauncey."
"What's that, Edgar?"
"An LGBTQ leather focused public-pedestrian" space.
"Oh, I don't know Edgar. Right time, right place there's something to be said for a well-made pair of chaps."


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA (CNS) - America leads the world in mass shootings. You are, no...

[Wait,wait,wait. This is news to you? Everybody knows this.]

As I was about to say, Dana, no doubt, you are already aware of this depressing fact. Well, cheer up America, it ain't true. It is, however, a perfect illustration of purple journalism run amok.

Purple Journalism: Journalism as currently perpetrated by many news outlets that claim to be professional, unbiased, and factual. In reality, they are partisan, prone to sensationalism, and motivated primarily by the bottom line. (From King Crank's Glossary.)

I recently stumbled over another interesting article, on the FEE (Foundation for Economic Education) website, entitled* The Myth That the US Leads the World in Mass Shootings, by Jon Miltimore. 

[*Yes, I realize that entitled should be titled, however, entitled just sounds... cool. So many things to change once I become king.]

When I read the first sentence I knew I'd have to read the entire article (I'm a world class skimmer -- so much potentially useful info, so little time). "If you asked me this morning which nation has the most mass shootings in the world, I would have said, with perhaps a flicker of hesitation, the United States."

As my temporally current crop of Stickies would say -- I know, right?

The article in question summarily and succinctly proves that this alleged fact, this canard of conventional wisdom, is in fact, bloomin' baloney. 

A summary, if you please, of what I learned. 

- A couple of years ago an associate prof at the University of Alabama, Adam Lankford, released a study claiming that mass shootings -- which he defined as four or more poor souls murdered in a single incident -- overwhelmingly occur in the USA. 

- This was widely reported, and decried, here, there, and even way over there. For example, "Let's be clear. At some point, we as a country will have to reckon with the fact that this type of mass violence does not happen in other advanced countries." -Barack Obama

- Economist and scholar John Lott of the Crime Prevention Research Center begs to differ and has called out Professor Lankford. The good professor refuses to comment or release the data he compiled to generate his conclusions. 

- Believe it or not, it's more dangerous to live the social democratic paradise of Norway than it is here.

-There's even an excellent video. 


It gets better...
The fact that Professor Lankford has committed what Mr. Lott calls "academic malpractice" is not a secret. If go a-googlin' you will it reported here and there but you'll quickly discover two things.

First, the coverage of the actual facts are sparse, and often spun to fit a predetermined narrative.

Second, there are far more websites, of all sorts, that state the results of Professor Lankford's debunked study as though they're etched in stone.


And then I thought...
I wonder what the Donalds (I'm not a fan) favorite news outlet, CNN (I'm not a fan) has to say about this so I googled the phrase "mass shooting statistics and CNN."

The results? Nine hits featuring CNN coverage of mass shootings. All of them a mix of fact and opinion with an emphasis on sensationalism. See definition of purple journalisms above. None mention the debunked study.

Hit number ten was entitled "Does the US Experience Far More School Shootings Than Any Other Country?" A "fact check" by Snopes.com inspired by the fact the majority of the CNN stories feature school shootings (I wonder why?). Fact check result? Mostly true. The article is as ambiguous as the stated result.

After that are a bunch of hits that are other media outlets attacking CNN for misreporting and sensationalizing school shootings. Most are purple journalism about purple journalism. Ain'tcha glad you live in the information age?


THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CALIFORNIA (CNS) - The California State Legislature, vanguard of the ban the straw movement, are once again are leading the way in the seemingly endless war of saving ourselves from ourselves.

Assemblyman Phil Ting (who just happens to be from San Francisco) has recently introduced a bill that would ban the use of paper receipts in stores unless the customer specifically asks for one.

Coinkydinkally, Mr. Ting also seems to be a victim?/perpetrator? of bad science. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day. 
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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 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.

©2019 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.] 

May You Live in Interesting Times (No. 5)

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 imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

"Hubris is one of the great renewable resources." -P.J. O'Rourke


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders).

This letter/column started off as News That You Can Use (No. 4) but in short order, morphed into M.Y.L.I.I.T number five.

There's a news item floating around at the moment about one Josiah Zayner, Ph.D. (biochemistry). Dr. J. used to work for NASA which would seem to indicate his doctorate is real. Currently, Dr. J., who self identifies as a bio-hacker, is selling what he calls gene-editing kits out of his apartment.

When said news item randomly turned up while I was web surfing I immediately flagged it as a News That You Can Use item because it's interesting and relevant to my current Gentlereaders AND may help to explain to my future progeny what went wrong and when it started.

Also, it serves as a sort of This Just In to a relatively recent column/letter I wrote not long ago called Designer Babies. If you don't, or can't, click the link, Designer Babies is about another Ph.D., Dr. He Jiankui.

Dr. He got in trouble...

[Is it true he is related to Dr. Who? asks Dana.]

I'm rolling my eyes.

Dr. He, "...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." -me.

As best I can tell, Dr. He has vanished behind the Silk Curtain (careful, it's embroidered with razor wire). My vast, in-depth research efforts (clicking around on the Web) seem to indicate that technically speaking Dr. He didn't actually violate any Chinese laws.

However, the People's Republic of China is famous for its somewhat flexible interpretations of the "rule of law." The rumor that the good doctor now runs a daycare center somewhere in rural China is probably not true since I just made it up.

[Interesting appriposity -- when I googled the phrase, rule of law, the Goog responded with: the restriction of the arbitrary exercise of power by subordinating it to well-defined and established laws.

Cool. But just a few hits later, according to the American Bar Association -- "...the rule of law means the government of law, not men. Aren’t laws made by men and women in their roles as legislators? Don’t men and women enforce the law as police officers or interpret the law as judges? And don’t all of us choose to follow, or not to follow, the law as we go about our daily lives?" Etcetera...

Ain'tcha glad The Gummit is not chock full of lawyers?]

[You realize, I hope, that you have completely lost control of whatever the hell it was you started out to say?]

No so, Dana, not so. Dr. J. is selling gene editing kits and Dr. He is tinkering with embryos. China has yet another sleazy emperor and lawyers are prepared to pull a Clinton when asked to define one of the bedrock principles of a free country, the rule of law. Interesting times.

As a public service, I took the opportunity to point out that China -- no matter what they call him -- can't seem to get by without an emperor. Like most of the Sons of Heaven -- and divine right monarchs and tyrants in general -- he's a pox on his own people.

He's a bully, and he locks people in concentration camps. We're fighting Cold War Two and he's the bad guy. Oh, and there's this. Meanwhile, the media serves up a new episode of the Donald and the Pooteen show, seven days a week. Interesting times.


[Deep breath, Sparky. You're 600 words in and if there's a point to this word salad, I can't find it.]

600? No way! Hold on a second I'll be right back. One, two, three...


Holly crap. You may have a point, Dana. OK, look, let me tie this all together. The media is obsessed with artificial intelligence, the Donald, and the truly tiny minority of people who truly suffer from gender dysphoria.

In the meantime, we're at war for the future with the world's largest country (by population), which is run by an unelected thug who is the world's biggest proponent of Crony capitalism...

And

who's getting a free pass from the social justice types who are busy destroying the jobs of the unskilled because they've decided that common sense economics is a social construct...

While

the Infotainment Industrial Complex is fawning over a 29-year-old college grad with a degree in international relations and economics who has worked as a bartender and a waitress since getting her degree and now is going to save the world -- in ten years. At least she's not a lawyer...


[OK, feel better now?]

Yeah, a little. Hey, did you hear about that kid in Memphis that built a nuclear reactor in his bedroom?!? Just when...

[Poppa had to go. He said to tell you he loves you.]

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

©2019 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.] 

Self Indulgent Nostalgia (No. 1)

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm dead.

                  
This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and approximately 39.9% of all grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. 

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Easy reading is damn hard writing." -Nathaniel Hawthorne


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

When I was a kid I loved to read.

Now, we always had plenty of books and magazines, even an encyclopedia at home although we were definitely members in good standing (more or less) of the working class.

And, my mum read me to sleep on a regular basis but for some reason the only book I remember her reading to me was a tattered and battered copy of Little House In the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. This was the first of a series of books that the hit TV show Little House on the Prairie was based on. I had no idea there was a whole series of books till years later, we only had the first one.

But, I didn't know I loved to read till I was taken to a library, given a library card, and the concept, process, and rules were explained to me. We didn't have a school library at my tiny Catholic grade school -- Saint John the Evangelist -- Sah-side, Pittsburgh, Pencil-vain-i-a. Hey!


Now, I'm not certain what grade I was in when my class was taken to the local branch of the Carnegie Library. It was a sort of low rent field trip. I'm fairly sure it was third grade, which would have been Miss Wright. Fourth grade was run by the fearsome Sister John Edward and I can't picture her taking us anywhere.

Besides, we walked to the library (probably hard for you to believe) as it was only about eight city blocks and we used Carson Street. Carson Street -- the Main street of the Sah-side -- back in the day featured a shot and a beer bar (sometimes more than one) on almost every block. Nowadays, boutiquey watering holes that cater to millennials have replaced them.

Anyways, if it had been Sister J.E. she would've probably killed the first drunk we encountered for grossly violating one of the many, many sins we were taught were on the books. I'm sure I'd remember an on the spot inquisition and summary execution. For the record, a lot of these same sins have since been repealed or dumbed down. Lucky you.

Besides, If it had been fifth grade it would've been Sister Agnita (unaffectionately called Sister Egg Noodle behind her back). She was far too fat to walk that far without a cardiac episode of some sort and I'm sure I'd remember that as well. My money's on third grade.


Ahhh! that smell. Likely a false memory, being that old. More likely, having been blessed by an acquaintance with a library or two since then that had that smell, I'm conflating.

[Doc, you gotta help me, I can't stop conflating!]

In fact, there was one that featured an enormous grandfather clock and a stone fireplace that was actually used on cold winter days. I don't know if it's still there. If it is, the fireplace is likely unused, global warming you know. The comfy chairs are likely gone as well as they would now be occupied by homeless veterans addled by one too many rotations to the fever swamps of the Mideast.

Old wood, old books -- the card catalog. Hundreds of tiny little wooden drawers containing thousands of musty smelling, yellowed little cards. There should be a Glade aerosol (only a dollar at WallyWorld) labeled:

Old Library, the smell of old wood and slowly rotting paper.


Anyways, we all sat at wooden tables, filled out a form, and were issued (temporary) library cards on the spot. A parent or guardian's signature would have to be secured before a permanent card was issued.

However, we were permitted to choose one book and take it home. Truth be told, we were ordered to pick one book and take it home and warned that if we damaged or lost it we would be killed. Catholic grade school at the time was rather like being enrolled in a Scared Straight program but with much better results. Society and our parents were on the same side as our corrections officers.

Now, I don't remember what book I chose. I'm tempted to make up something that sounds really cool, I do have a poetic license, after all. But honesty is the best policy except for when it ain't (that's a different letter). I do remember that I enjoyed it thoroughly. I do remember being captivated by the fact I now had access to literally thousands of books, free and no charge.

I do remember reading what seemed like hundreds of 'em. Reading was much cooler than watching the Beverly Hillbillies or Gilligan's Island. If you don't recognize the antiquated cultural references, spare yourself, don't look them up. Poppa loves you.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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