Wascally Wabbit

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) -- 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 

Dana -- A Gentlereader
Iggy -- A Sticky (GT*)

Marie-Louise -- My Muse (GT*)

*Currently Grand Touring 

"He was our greatest living painter, until he died." -Mark Twain


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

Recently, a sculpture? created? by Jeff Koons, a three-foot-tall chrome rabbit that was deliberately designed to look like a balloon rabbit -- and cleverly named Rabbit -- sold at auction for $91,100,000. By the time you great-grandstickies come of age it'll probably be worth ten times that.

Huh.

This is a record price for a living, artist?

Huh.

[Alright, I'll bite, what's with the question marks and the, huhs?]

Hey, Dana, glad you asked. First, the huhs. Huh, in this context, is a word in need of a new punctuation mark of some sort to clarify its meaning.

[Huh?]

Well, according to Merriam-Webster huh expresses surprise, disbelief, or confusion, or as an inquiry inviting an affirmative reply. But the first three definitions indicate that there's at least a soft question mark or exclamation point implied. Perhaps both. The fourth calls for a hard question mark.

[Uh-huh.]

However, there's a -- huh -- that means: that's interesting, or weird, or crazy, or notable, or... but in a neutral way. There's no surprise, disbelief, confusion, or inquiry involved. There needs to be some sort of punctuation mark that indicates this neutrality.

Frequently, this huh in need of a new punctuation mark denotes that whatever the huh is referring to, rationally speaking, makes no sense. This is how I use it above. It shares more of its DNA with hmmm that it does with its fellow huhs. 

[Uh-huh, moving on... what's with the question marks?]

I could've used quotation marks but due to my aversion to the use of air quotes I try to only use quotation marks for actual quotes. My use of question marks above is meant to show that, at least as far as Rabbit goes, Mr. Koons is not an artist and Rabbit is not a sculpture. He didn't create it in an artistic way, he designed it in an industrial one.

Of course, those are just my semi-humble opinions, based on what I discovered when I went a-googlin' to verify that the alleged auction was not a hoax, a goof, or a humbug. I was hoping that this was one of those fake news stories everyone is up in arms about at the moment. That it was designed to manipulate people into smiling, as opposed to ginning up outrage.

Nope, it's real.


Jeff Koons designed it. Other people built it in his factory studio. Rabbit is one of many such creations credited to Mr. Koons and cranked out this way. Of course, Mr. Koons employees don't mass produce stuff. They're artisans after all, not deplorable factory workers aching from repetitive stress injuries and hoping to live long enough to retire for a few years before they wake up dead.

Makes sense. After all, if there were lots of chrome balloon bunny rabbits in the world Christie's Auction House probably couldn't get more than a million bucks apiece.


Speaking of Christie's, I found the following description of the work of Mr. Koons on their website.

"Conflating ideas of horror and exuberance, innocence and obscenity into something that is both vacuously monumental and exultantly celebratory, the American multi-media artist holds a mirror up to the modern world — and, like a reflection in the surface of one of his iconic ‘inflatables’, his work reveals society and human nature in all its grotesque contradictions."

I continued my research and discovered the following quote from Alexander Rotter, chairman (chairman?) of post-war and contemporary art for Christie's. "Rabbit is the most important piece by Jeff Koons and I want to go even a step further and say the most important sculpture of the second half of the 20th century."

Huh, well that explains everything... I smack myself in the forehead hard enough to blacken my third eye. Okay, now I get it!


To be fair to Mr. Koons, I confess I had somehow never heard of him prior to the recent auction that made the national news so I went looking for more information. After all, I'm certain that there are far more people in the world who have never heard of me than have never heard of him. 

Perhaps he is a world-class perpetrator of humbugs that rival P.T. Barnum's best work.

In short order, I discovered that in 1990 Mr. Koons gifted the planet Earth with "...paintings, sculptures, and installations..." that "...celebrated, in explicit sexual terms, his union with wife Ilona Staller, Italian porn star...". 

The quote above is from an article at artdaily.org. Warning: don't click on the link if you're easily scandalized as it features a painting that includes a naked Mr. Koons and a nearly naked Mrs. Koons... frolicking?

I also discovered, from the article, that "Among the awards he has received are Officer of the French Legion of Honor; the Artistic Achievement Award from Americans for the Arts; and the Skowhegan Medal for Sculpture."

Huh. 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. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website.

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 (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of my website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. Light editing that doesn't alter the content is acceptable. You don't have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title. 

Iconoclasm

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) -- 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 

Dana -- A Gentlereader
Iggy -- A Sticky (GT*)

Marie-Louise -- My Muse (GT*)

*Currently Grand Touring

"I went to the museum where they had all the heads and arms from the statues that are in all the other museums." -Steven Wright 


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

In last week's letter, I mentioned that smartphones, theoretically, make it possible to act when someone throws the oft used phrase, you can look it up! at your psyche.

For the record, although late to the party, I admit to now owning one, a smartphone I mean. I also admit to the opinion that overall, they do more harm than good, particularly culturally speaking.

However, it's not the tool, it's how you use it, and...

[Hah! I call bullpoop, sir! You spend an inordinate amount of time online. Granted, most of your web surfing involves the pursuit of unspeakably dull content or listening to music that our culturally cutting edge social media "influencers" would find to be, well, also unspeakably dull. Still...]

I repeat, Dana, it's not the tool, it's how you use it. As I started to say -- there's a huge difference between taking selfies and/or sharing your fascinating life loudly enough with everyone else in the tiny, uncomfortably upholstered, over-heated or under-cooled waiting room -- and using your phone to access an ever-growing, electronic version of the Library of Alexandria. 

[The what?]

Nevermind.

[Snob.]

Heavy sigh. Anyways...

[It's not anyways, snob, it's anyway. Everyone knows that!]

It's a charming literary device I use all the time to honor the work of David Milch's classic, Deadwood. Now, just get the hell out of here, I've had enough!

SOUND OF DOOR SLAMMING IN MY HEAD


My Dear Stickies and gentlereaders, please forgive the digression. My apologies. What I set out to do was point out that when I was out and about in the world recently I was asked if I found it interesting that iconoclasm (although that particular word was not actually used) has become a fad here in the home of the free and the land of the brave.

Knowing that my knowledge was somewhat limited concerning both the word and the phenomenon it describes, when I had a private moment I whipped out my trusty smartphone and discovered that according to Wikipedia iconoclasm is "the social belief in the importance of the destruction of icons and other images or monuments, most frequently for religious or political reasons."

Now,

I confess that I'm cis-gendered and enthusiastically heterosexual -- a chubby, pasty-faced, melanin-challenged, old man culturally branded with a scarlet letter P due to my unwillingness to repent for, or even acknowledge the legitimacy of, what passes for original sin in certain circles these days, white privilege.

[You may remember that for a minute or two I thought I was an African-American lesbian woman (who looked remarkably like Halle Berry) named Coco trapped in the body of... etc. This went away when I overcame my addiction to mayonnaise sandwiches. Who knew?] 

And,

As you would expect, I have trouble staying woke (in more ways than one) but I do my best.

However,

I'm afraid I don't have much sympathy for those who declare themselves to be traumatized by statues that most Americans were mostly oblivious to prior to the Church of Equity and Social Justice reviving the perennial struggle over freakin' INANIMATE OBJECTS! 


Sorry, I've gone off the rails again. Perhaps just a bite of a mayonnaise sandwich, just a taste to calm my nerves... No, I must be strong. Remember the nightmare that was rehab. Concentrate.

Anyways... when I unexpectedly encountered the word iconoclasm, not a word you encounter all that frequently (at least not yet), the phrase verbal iconoclasm, unbidden, popped into my head.

I think this is a good name for a disturbing phenomenon loose in the world that manifests as no-platforming, the banning of "hate" speech, microaggressions, political correctness, etceteraness -- particularly in America since free speech is enshrined in our Bill of Rights.


Statue smashing (or shrouding, or dismantling), like censorship and book burning, is a time-honored tradition with roots extending back literally thousands of years.

In fact, although my artistic knowledge is rated by The Journal of Fine Arts Majors as Philistine +, I'm endlessly fascinated/appalled by documentaries about the destruction of art in Catholic churches and the like by Protest-ants in the 16th century.

In certain circles, ISIS springs immediately to mind for some reason, iconoclasm is still quite popular. Recently, in Philadelphia, where the Bill of Rights was ratified, a bronze statue of singer and long-dead American icon Kate Smith (1907 - 1986) was covered on a Friday and removed by Sunday.

A highly placed, anonymous, often reliable source in the Philadelphia Flyers organization told me that it was then cut into pieces and buried in an unmarked grave; an exorcism was performed on the sight it had occupied since 1987.

The Flyers, who had been playing Ms. Smith's rendition of God Bless America during home games for as long as anyone can remember, discovered she had recorded songs that contained some racist lyrics -- in the 1930s. 

I was unable to discover if Ms. Smith's Presidential Medal of Freedom will have to be returned. 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. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website.

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 (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of my website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. You do NOT have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title. 

Grand Tour

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) -- 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 Guest Stars 

Dana -- A Gentlereader
Iggy -- A Sticky (GT*)

Marie-Louise -- My Muse (GT*)

*Currently Grand Touring 

"We must go beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths and untrodden depths of the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of our journey."  -John Hope Franklin


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

It occurs to me that although I've previously pointed out that if you pay attention you will learn something every day I haven't mentioned this for a bit. Consider yourselves reminded. 


I was reminded of this when Iggy, my imaginary grandsticky, popped into my consciousness recently. It's been a while. I'm ashamed to say that I've never informed you, or perhaps, more importantly, my gentlereaders, that he and Marie-Louise are in the midst of a Grand Tour.

Their Grand Tour has absolutely nothing to do with the Amazon television series of the same name. It's the sort of Grand Tour popular for a couple of hundred years or so, a couple of hundred years ago, by members of the Lucky Sperm Club. Think of is a practicum for aristocrats in training. This was prior to steamships and rail travel making it easier for the grubby little plebs to access culcha. Specifically, the culcha of the now slowly declining phenomenon called Western civilization.

[Unfortunately, it's top-heavy with old, mostly dead white dudes and as we all know, now that we're woke, old white men were, and are, responsible for nearly everything that's wrong with the world that we know of and probably all sorts of stuff that we don't.]       

See, Iggy and Marie-Louise...

[What the hell does any of this twaddle about Marie-Louise and Iggy's leave of absence have to do with learning something every day?]

Point taken, Dana. Long story short, Iggy wasn't fairing well at our local public school. Between The Gummit, the gummit, the teacher's unions... well, that's a whole other column, maybe a book. He and Marie-Louise, figments of the same imagination, have become quite close.   

She offered to personally take over his education, to become his personal tutor. Since she loves to travel she proposed a hands-on program of education; a sort of perpetual field trip. I miss them both terribly but since I would've happily given up a body part of lesser importance when I was a kid for such an adventure it was impossible to say no.

Besides, they promised to check in on all the major holidays, at a minimum, and...

[Twaddle, twaddle, twaddle!]

AND! when they checked in on Easter Sunday I was reminded of my pay attention and you'll learn something every day dictum because Iggy was overflowing with all sorts of fun facts effortlessly accumulated in the course of their travels.

Accumulated, I assume, because he was paying attention. I remember being so bored in Ms. Wrights third grade class that I attempted to count the number of bricks in the wall of the building across the way from my school. I never got very far because all in all, there are a lot of bricks in a wall.

For the record, I confess that I was worried that without effortless access to my muse I might run short of things to write about. However, Marie-Louise gave me the key to the Inspiration Pantry; she stocked all the shelves to the max before leaving. Not only that, all the inspirations are packed in labeled, waterproof storage boxes and arranged in alphabetical order.

Marie-Louise knows how I swing.


Now, with that out of the way, I'd like to expand on my dictum as regards...

[Giggling, Dana, really? Grow up!]

Harumph! I'd like to expand on my... maxim, that H. sapiens who pay attention will learn something every day. Trying not to drown in the Dizzinformation ocean while holding aloft our overpriced smartphones can make it possible to dramatically increase the knowledge derived from a given lesson. If you wish to maximize the learning that results from paying attention, follow up is required. Smartphones make it possible to follow up on the spot.


Big But
Unfortunately, I've observed that most H. sapiens, who can pull their smartphones faster than Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens can pull his Glock 17, would rather take pictures (often featuring themselves) than engage in some on the spot intellectual edification.

Back in the Black&White Ages, declaring that "You can look it up!" was an effective weapon to wield in a big, juicy, argument because unless you were arguing in a library, neither you or your opponent couldn't, not in the moment at least.

If we had had smartphones back then it would've been possible to offer up evidence of one's obviously correct stance on the spot. This, of course, could've been countered with evidence of the other guy's person's position and the big, juicy argument could continue till it wasn't fun anymore and everyone finished their beer and called it a night, and as hard as might be for you to believe, still be friends.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus... and once upon a time it was possible to have an enjoyable, good-natured, logic and intelligence testing argument without anyone being "triggered," or reaching for their Glock 17.

There's a lesson for ya. 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. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website.

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 (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of my website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. You do NOT have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title of the column. 

 





  

Food For Thought (No. 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

"Eeew, I'd be a little uncomfortable googling myself. People sit there -- and Google themselves? That's kind of weird." -Kobe Bryant


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

I've decided to change the name of a category of columns I used to call Things I Think About to Food For Thought. As I've mentioned previously, I'm not that friend or relative that people call seeking guidance as to the whys and wherefores of the World Wide Web.

[Historical reference for my dear Stickies: back in the dark ages when the web was taking the world by storm it was normal to verbally state a web address as, "Dubya, dubya, dubya dot _______ dot com." For the record, this had nothing to do with the 43rd president of the United States.]

However, since my army of loyal readers at this point can more accurately be described as my dollop of loyal readers I've begun casting about for ways to increase the size of my audience.

The first thing I learned is that it's important to select a title and/or sprinkle certain words throughout your text so that the mysterious Algorithmites that tirelessly scour the Web might offer up your content when someone goes a-googlin.

These are called keywords. You're supposed to use as many words as you can think of that a given someone out there in meat space might type, or speak, in search of information and hope that an Algorithmite returns your content to this given someone.   

Food for thought, being a somewhat widely known/used phrase, I thought it might lure some random eyeballs to my column. Also, informing any gentlereaders who may not be aware of this trick simultaneously serves as food for thought (see what I did there?).

Although I plan to restrict myself to fishing for readers via column titles in spite of the fact I've become aware of other forms of marketing chicanery  -- as one of my literary heroes, George Will would say, more on this anon -- this practice still feels slightly sleazy to me. Of course, an argument could easily be made that in a world of 7,500,000,000 souls wherein anyone with a smartphone can self-publish anything, all's fair in love and marketing. Still...


Anyways, this is the anon part, which by the way in this context means soon, not anonymous. And no, I'm not showing off, it just sounds cooler than my usual "more on that in just a sec'."

I have, on more than one occasion, attempted to remind my dear Stickies and gentlereaders that when the products and services are allegedly free, you are actually the product. The Algorithmites, Botmonsters, and Data Dragons that serve the Goog and their ilk never sleep.

What I mean by this, in case you're new here or your memory is as pathetic as mine is nowadays, is simply that all of the many "free" services that the Goog and their like offer are paid for by electronic snoops looking over your shoulder and keeping track of everything that you do online. This information is subsequently sliced, diced and sold -- primarily to folks who want to sell something to you.

[Oh please, everybody already knows this and you've written about it before so what's the point of...]

I know, I know Dana, but I suspect that there's a lot of people out there that aren't aware that there's an entire industry of bit players whose purpose is to teach even smaller (bittier?) players like me how to try and manipulate people to come to our websites.

They teach you how to make money by using the tools supplied by the big boys persons (mostly the Goog) and make their money primarily by running ads supplied by the big boys persons (mostly the Goog). 

[Well, maybe, but where's the harm? I mean, what's wrong with trying to make a buck?]

Not a damn thing. I freely admit that I wish more of my readers would click on my Patreon button and toss me a buck. And although I'm biting the hand that feeds me and I'm a hypocrite -- since the Goog provides the software for me to publish my columns free and no charge and the Zuckmeister supplies me with an electronic bulletin board for the same price -- I sometimes feel like I've sold my soul to an electronic devil.

[Because?]

Because they not only get a cut, like effective middlemenpersons always have, they've got control of everyone's permanent record card, which is constantly updated in real time.

I don't like it and I don't know what to do about it but anyways, Poppa loves you.

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


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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. Just click on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of the page.

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 my Creative Commons License) you may republish this anywhere you please.

Socialism

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

"The only way to save the world is through socialism, but a socialism that exists within a democracy; there's no dictatorship here."   -Hugo Chavez


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

I am a wild-eyed libertarian with a bleeding heart and conservative impulses; I have written about this before. Long ago, when I was still a callowyute, I identified as a socialist but only for about a minute, minute and a half.

Technically this statement is incorrect because at the time I called myself a socialist people did just that -- called themselves this, that, or the other -- as in I'm a socialist, or I'm an unrepentant ne'er-do-well. To the best of my knowledge the phrase, or at least as it's used (and used and used and used) nowadays, "I identify as" hadn't been invented yet. Just sayin'

I long ago abandoned socialism, which I confess was relatively easy since all that I actually knew about it was what little I learned in high school, but in my defense, socialism has an obvious appeal to many young people in general and to certain baby boomers who came of age in the sixties and seventies in particular.

As far as "many young people in general" goes, "A man who has not been a socialist before 25 has no heart. If he remains one after 25 he has no head." -King Oscar the II of Sweden, maybe...

As to certain baby boomers, identifying as a socialist was considered cool to those of us of a hippyish/leftward bent and served to upset many old people (defined at the time as anyone over 30) as well which made it doubly cool.

[Barton Swain on the current fascination with socialism: "After a long series of failures and moral debacles, it doesn’t suddenly make sense as an economic doctrine. But it does make sense, somehow, as a cultural attitude."]

However, If any old people that you know (defined as anyone you know that's even older than I am) claims that socialism was widely embraced in the sixties and seventies hit 'em with, "Oh yeah, well then what the hell happened?"

Let the sputtering, rationalizing, and etceterizing begin.

Most callowyutes of my acquaintance at the time, friend and foe alike, couldn't become hipper versions of their parents fast enough. Me? I chose an unusual path, I became a hippie with a job. I got over it, but it took a while.


[Sorry, an obligatory digression has just manifested in my consciousness. The famous boomer rallying cry, don't trust anyone over thirty, was/is backward. It should've been/should be, don't trust anyone under 30 -- including yourself.

If you're under thirty and the preceding paragraph triggers you, please accept my insincere apology. It's not an attack, it's a stone-cold fact. It's biology. I've pointed out before that H. sapiens brains don't reach maturity till about the age of 25, a fact discovered by car insurance companies long before science made it official. I should've said till at least 25.   

You're unlikely to understand just how true this is and just how important this is till you're 30, at least 30 (it's a catch-22 thing).  

Old people who care about you should point this out to you, in various forms and fashions, repeatedly, even though they know you're unlikely to believe them. It's part of the job. I wish I had been told this more frequently than I was although it probably wouldn't have done any good. Still, the right person at the right time... Oh well, wouldacouldashoulda.]


OK, where was I, ah yes, socialism. I think that Marie-Louise generated the digression. When I began I had only the vaguest notion of what I was going to say about why I have a problem with socialism but all is suddenly clear.

Arguing against socialism is a fool's errand because there are myriad definitions of socialism floating around that depend on who's at the podium. Not only that, most of the 39 of the people that are currently running for president on the Depublican side are also waving the socialist banner. But they tend to be light, and often variable, as to details.

They all have two things in common though. First, they all enthusiastically embrace the time-honored political tradition of promising a long list of freebies as well as secular salvation for all -- paid for with other people's money.

Second, when confronted with the nightmare that is Venezuela or the literally hundreds of millions of deaths generated by certain dictatorships of the proletariat of the last century they are suddenly not socialists, they're social democrats.

Ahh! socialism light!


Personally, I'd have no problem living in an America that was a social democracy (that's my bleeding heart part) that, like in the Nordic countries Uncle Bernie likes to point to, also had a thriving private-sector wherein a man person that wants to bust their ass to get rich is free to do so (this is part of my libertarian part).

Unfortunately, Uncle Bernie tends to not mention that the Nordic countries figured out (the hard way) this is absolutely necessary to help finance a social democracy.

Emphasis on help, because

Without everyone paying high taxes, it doesn't work. Uncle Bernie and his ilk don't like to talk about that because without the claim that the evil rich can pick up the tab there goes all that juicy resentment and demagoguery that gets people elected and fuels the Outrage Industrial Complex.

Tweet, tweet.

Oh, I almost forgot. Social democracies tend to be top-heavy with laws, speech codes, hate crime statutes, and have Rules&Regs out the wazoo. I've got a big problem with that (that's the other part of the libertarian part).

And while I'm at it, I'm all about the personal cultivation of the classic virtues in order to ascertain what's moral and ethical (as well as what's tacky and gross, that's the conservative impulses part). 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. Just click on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of the page.

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 my Creative Commons License) you may republish this anywhere you please.

 




 

    

Life Is Unfair

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

"There is always inequality in life. Some men are killed in a war and some men are wounded and some men never leave the country. Life is unfair."  -JFK


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

I once had this friend, for about a half a minute, whose name was Bob. Bob and I were sorta kinda supervisors (it is, or rather was, as they say, complicated) who worked for a guy that owned a fleet of ice cream trucks in Austin, Texas a very long time ago.

Whenever Bob was confronted with a situation in which it appeared the fix was in, or that justice was not being served, or that life was unfair, or that although he would admit to having been injudicious in his spending habits it wasn't his fault because she... well never mind, but now he was going to have to work an idle ice cream truck for a day or two because the payment on his Z28 was due and he was woefully short of funds -- or the like -- he would utter, in an exasperated and world-weary tone, "It's all a con, man."

"It's a conspiracy, what it is," I would always reply, slowly nodding my head, looking grave. I'd occasionally insert an F-bomb between a and conspiracy if the situation seemed to call for it. Remember, cussing is much more powerful and self-satisfying when exercised carefully and infrequently.

I was not only commiserating with my friend I was subtly expressing my admiration for the... wordplay? double entendre? invoked by the phrase con, man. Bob, by the way, also taught me the words foodage and meatage and the proper way to use them. Respect, Bob.

[For Petra's sake! Where's this crap going? Four paragraphs in and...]

Petra, Dana?

[It's a new world, old man, try and keep up. I repeat, what does any of this...]

...Artful prose have to do with the title of this missive? Well, Bob as it turned out, was a man who was accidentally ahead of his time, or these times, simply because he never joined the cult of victimhood. If it wasn't completely politically incorrect to say so I'd say he chose to be a man.


Life isn't fair. Everyone (well, almost everyone, but that's another letter) eventually figures this out. H. sapiens being H. sapiens, we want to know why. When you logically think it through, it follows that any given random act of unfairness was either just that, completely random, or, some nefarious someone or something must be the reason.

If I'm struck and killed by a meteor while walking out to Casa de Chaos's latest mobile global warming generator to drive a couple of my grandstickies to da'mall, that's just random bad luck -- unless you believe that God or the Devil, or a god or a devil, has it in for me. Personally, I wouldn't take it personally.

Alternatively, if our new(ish) stoved-in, sexed-up station wagon (SUV) -- Messy Momma's decided that she's working hard enough to have earned the right to deserve something other than yet another minivan -- had four slashed tires, obviously me and/or one of mine must have seriously ticked someone off.

Bottom line, life ain't fair. Sometimes it's just randomly crappy, sometimes there's an ascertainable reason, mostly it's a complex mixture of the two and you're never going to untangle the mystery.

Don't see yourself as a victim, Bob didn't, it doesn't help.

After he uttered, in an exasperated and world-weary tone, "It's all a con, man," Bob would sit down, light a cigarette (you should probably skip that part) and wait for his frustration or anger to pass. Once it did, he'd do whatever he needed to do. He'd just deal with it.

Life is unfair, deal with it. Don't whine, choose to be the grownup in the room and just like that you'll change the world for the better. 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. Just click on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of the page.

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.


        

May You Live In Interesting Times (No. 6)

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

"We have met the Devil of Information Overload and his impish underlings, the computer virus, the busy signal, the dead link, and the PowerPoint presentation."   -James Gleick


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

As you are no doubt aware from your careful and thorough reading of my missives the ancient Chinese curse that is also the title of this column is not actually an ancient Chinese curse.

However, these are indeed interesting times if you regard treading water in the Dizzinformation Ocean with no sign of solid ground in sight as interesting.

"Dizzinformation Syndrome: I define dizzinformation syndrome as, simply, dizzy from too much information -- correct, incorrect, or, worst of all, contradictory." -from my Glossary


Economists speak of the potential problems caused by asymmetric information. For example, in the BC era (before Carfax) when purchasing a used car a buyer was at a huge disadvantage when trying to strike a deal with a seller. 

The buyer is still at a distinct disadvantage; there are all sorts of things that might be wrong with a given car that will only be discovered after you've become the proud owner. There are no shortage of tricks and/or deceptions that can be employed by the seller to make sure you don't discover these things until after your name is on the title.  

Alternatively, the buyer in a given transaction may have an informational advantage. Suppose your beloved uncle Stanislaus died and left you his dumpy home that's located in the wrong neighborhood, but, is jam-packed with all sorts of crap stuff because uncle Stan was a collector of sorts. 

He wasn't a packrat, he only saved things he thought were either interesting, might be valuable, or both. But there's an awful lot of it and categorically speaking, it's widely varied. Of course, you could go a-googlin'... and do so much research it feels like your brain is bleeding. Then all you'd have to do is figure out the best way to sell what you think might be valuable. 

What else have you got to do, right?

[Awc'mon! what's the big deal? There are people you can hire to do that for you, I don't see what the big deal is.]

That's true, Dana. Once again all you have to do is go a-googlin' and find one. Alternatively, you can find all sorts of information about how to go about disposing of your (or uncle Stan's) crap stuff by yourself. In either case, hundreds and hundreds of relevant hits will pop up. And of course, everyone knows you can trust the Goog to impartially provide you with objective information, right?  

Ain'tcha glad you're living in the Information Age?

[Is there a point to...] 

Absabalutely. 

Too many sources of information are just as bad as too many products to choose from unless of course, they aren't. 

[Right!... No, wait, that doesn't make any sense. What...]

Unfortunately, it does. Fire up your screen of choice and go a-googlin' again. Experts in multiple fields agree that having a multiplicity of choices, in anything, clearly sucks. Other experts in multiple fields agree that having a multiplicity of choices, in anything, clearly, is cool. The experts who study this subject in order to advise marketing experts on how to sell us crap stuff come down firmly on both sides.


Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go. I've been considering buying a guitar. Being a newbie of limited means I obviously don't want to spend a lot of dough on something that may just turn out to be a passing impulse.

I've done my research and have my choice narrowed down to about 39 different models and I'm cautiously optimistic that in another week, two at the most, I will have selected the right guitar.

Worst-case scenario I'll put together a top ten list and resolve the question via a series of coin flips while praying to the patron saint of crap stuff (St. Accumulatious) that I'm not subsequently afflicted with a severe case of buyer's remorse. Poppa loves you.

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


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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. Just click on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of the page.

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.