When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, Part 7a

Eighth Grade 

Previous parts are not required to enjoy this part, not even partially...
(But, here are parts 1, 2. 3. 4. 5. and 6.)                                                                                                                                                                                          `

Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

 

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"I went to Catholic school and they basically just said don't have sex, but would never explain anything."-Khloe Kardashian 

[TRIGGER WARNING: Ends a bit abruptly, author overdosed on L-Tryptophan, still passed out in an extremely comfortable recliner. Watch for Part 7b.]

Dear Gentlereaders,

Summer, 1966. I don't know who was first, who woke who, or what time it was.

It was late, everyone was asleep. It had been a very long, hot day and Dad, Mum, Marty, Mike, and your semi-humble correspondent were all sleeping the sleep of the just (or at least the sleep of the exhausted) in the midst of the chaos.

The chaos was the result of having just moved into our clearly too-small house in the Pittsburgh suburbs, the first and only one my parents (briefly) owned. Dad died in the summer of '69 and Mum sold the house in 1970 when we moved in with my big brother Ed in suburban, almost rural Philadelphia. We (mostly he actually) built an addition on the side of his house.

I spent my last year of high school in a new school and living in my sixth house.

I hated the school and the area but our house was nice...and so were the two apartments (homes #7 and #8) I lived in after moving out of the house and before moving back to the Pittsburgh area five years later and began my hippie with a job period. I lived in residences number 9 through 13 before moving briefly to Texas and living through the most intense period of my life so far (residences 14 through 17) before getting "stuck in Ohio" in 1985 (18 through 25) where I remain stuck to this day.

{Let the digressing begin! Geesh! No wonder you're so...}

For the record, I've been living in the same house, Casa de Chaos, for the last 17 years.

Anyway, we went to bed sweating and woke up freezing.

The suburbs didn't come with an instruction manual and we were unaware that due to the shortage of pavement and concrete that served as storage batteries for Summer heat back in the city the temperature in the Burbs often falls significantly at night.

In short order, blankets were secured, somehow Mum knew just where to find them, and everyone went back to bed.

On the first day of eighth grade, I walked the short distance from my house to the St. Ursula Catholic Grade School. There was only the house next door and a small empty field located between our front door and the front door of St. Ursula's.

This was a larger school than its predecessor, St. John the E., with school busses lined up out front (on the Sou'side ah Pittsburgh everyone walked to school) and a short, fat, double-chinned, pissed-off-looking nun who appeared to be in charge was barking orders at students as they stepped off the buses and entered the school. She didn't have a bullhorn but in my mind's eye, she does.

Unaware as to where I might find the eighth-grade classroom I unfortunately had to ask her as she was the only authority figure in sight. She looked at me like a prison warden evaluating a new prisoner but gave me directions that didn't include even a fake smile, much less a welcome of some sort.

Hoo-Boy. Meet Sister Gabriel, the anti-Sister Mary McGillicuddy.

At the end of the top (third) floor hall (St. John's only had one floor), there were two nuns with clipboards standing in front of two adjacent classroom doors. I approached them and asked where I might find the eighth-grade classroom and was asked my name.

They both scanned their clipboards and replied, "Hmm."

One or the other asked if somebody had registered me and I responded affirmatively. Mum was a reliable mom who always took care of business. The current me would've said something like, "Well I didn't just wander in here off the street," with a friendly smile added so as to not frighten/accidentally offend a Normie.

That me said, "Yes, sister."

I was quite nervous despite my cool, new paisley dress shirt and coordinating tie Mum had bought me from the Spiegel catalog and years away from figuring out how to hide my innate shyness behind a wry persona.

{Wry huh? I guess that's one word for it. What's "cool" about a paisley dress shirt?}

As I mentioned previously the "swingin' sixties" had started the year before and paisley prints... well, as mentioned in Wikipedia, "The 1960s proved to be a time of great revival for the paisley design in Western culture."

They huddled together to discuss the matter and one of them said, "Well, let's try him in your class first and if he doesn't work out we can always move him to mine." I found out what that meant later but I didn't have a clue at the time.

I was then ushered into Sister _______'s room and encountered a bunch of kids who had been born and raised on a different planet than the one I had, which I would also discover in short order.

{Sister _______? Was/is she in the witness protection program?}

I might as well get this out of the way up front, I cannot remember this woman's name to save my life. She didn't suffer from Crazy Nun syndrome and she didn't employ wooden ruler palm smacks or knuckle thumps to the chest or back of the head. She was a good, even-tempered teacher who was preparing us for the rigors of Catholic high school, although I didn't realize it at the time. More on that in part 7b.

I had been randomly/fortunately placed in the "smart" eighth grade, as was later explained to me by my classmates, who were unaware that it was just dumb luck on my part. They assumed I was a bit smarter and/or more of a grade grinder, like them, than the kids in the other eighth grade, where, due to my lack of scholarly efforts in first through seventh grade I should have been placed.

My fellow classmates that year (one of whom was the son of a Pepsi vice president) had been born and raised in a financially comfortable Pittsburgh suburb, suburbs (plural) actually, depending on how you define your terms. The "North Hills" area of the greater Pittsburgh metro area consists of a cluster of several different townships but when I lived there at least, it had a distinct identity of its own, including its own (now defunct) newspaper.

I had gone from a working-class inner-city neighborhood with working-class sensibilities to a middle/upper middle-class neighborhood with a veritable snap of God's fingers.

St. Ursula's served relatively prosperous Catholic families and kids (and mine) from all over the area (thus the school busses) as opposed to the multiple Catholic churches and schools that served the predominantly working-class families (like mine) of Pittsburgh's Sou'side, most of which are long gone. I refer to both Catholic churches/schools and to a lesser extent working-class families; there are prospering Millenials and Zoomers gentrifying former working-class neighborhoods all over the Burgh nowadays and rendering them too expensive for the working class to afford.

There are still Catholic schools in the Pittsburgh area of course (St. Ursula's by the way, is also gone) but they now charge tuition equivalent to what it cost to go to college "back in the day." Sales volume and product demand are apparently as important in determining the price of a spiritually based education as it is in determining a given products price in the secular sector.

{It's probably just transitory inflation.}

Probably, thank God (see what I did there) that's over and happy days are here again. Anyway, from my perspective at the time, I was now going to school with a bunch of rich kids, although I now know most of them were just the sons and daughters of members of America's (slowly evaporating) middle, middle class.

{Middle middle?}

America's been slowly devolving into two classes: those who have the resources to stay at least one step ahead of systemic inflation and those who live in fear of systemic inflation.

{The haves v. the have-nots?}

The haves v. the have somes and the have little to nones, we've discussed this before. Both of the latter groups live in fear of the other shoe dropping. But this has little to do with eighth grade, so...

{Since when would you let that stop you? But it doesn't matter anyway, the Donald's going to lead us into a new golden age. I saw it on TV so it must be true.}

[At this point a disembodied voice from off stage, with a thick Irish brogue, rings out, "From your lips to God's ears, Dana."]

So, what happened next, dear gentlereaders? A clash of classes? Dark drama? Hormone-fueled adolescent angst? Tune in next time to find out if...

{Oh please, gimme a break!}

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

 

 

 

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, Part Six

Seventh Grade 

Previous parts are not required to enjoy this part, not even partially...

But, here are parts 1, 2. 3. 4. and 5.                                                                                                                                                                                              `

Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

 

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Most of us end up with no more than five or six people who remember us. Teachers have thousands of people who remember them for the rest of their lives." -Andy Rooney

                                                                                

Dear Gentlereaders,

In September of 1965 "Sister Mary McGillicuddy," who changed my life just by being herself, was my seventh-grade teacher.  

Long story short, Sister Mary Clifford, a.k.a. Eileen Soisson, is the nun I always think of whenever I write about/think about/am reminded of nuns, even a couple of nuns that suffered from CNS (crazy nun syndrome) to one degree or another and with whom I crossed paths thousands of years ago. 

She taught seventh grade, was the principal of St. John the Evangelist grade school, and ran a convent. The school and the convent were part of a small, cramped, inner-city compound that also included a church, a church hall, and a rectory. The buildings that housed the convent and the school are still there as best I can tell from Google Maps, but the rest is gone. She was the first nun I knew who seemed to live in the same world that I did.

Well, mostly. She also clearly had a spiritual side that was lost on me back then that I can appreciate retrospectively. I was a 12-year-old adolescent semi-toxic, straight white male preoccupied with girls, the mysteries of sex (not that I was able to connect the two subjects other than in my mind at the time), rock music, TV, movies, reading fiction...and current events.

Yes, Virginia, Poppa's always been a news nerd.   

{Hold up there, Sparky, I have a question. What about sports? Aren't all young men into sports?}

That's why I describe myself as semi-toxic, I've never been into sports... or hunting/fishing/etcetring for that matter. I've always been a weirdo who never felt/feels like I'm "one of the boys."

For the record, hunting in inner city Pittsburgh was, and still is, frowned upon. 

I once went fishing while attending day camp in Shenley Park. Picture inner city urchins in a large, beautiful, inner city park pretending to be interacting with nature. We gathered up sticks to make fishing poles, were given a piece of string and a safety pin to complete our rig, and marched to Panther Hollow "Lake" (a shallow, man made catch basin) allegedly containing fish. 

I didn't catch anything, but neither did anyone else for some reason. We didn't starve though. At lunch time every day we ate American cheese on white bread sandwiches.  

But it's not as if I only sat at home when I wasn't at school watching TV or reading books and the Pittsburgh Press/Post Gazette while listening to music...and hoping for one of those infrequent occasions when I was home alone and could sneak a guilty peek at one of my dad's handful of out of date Playboys in his secret stash. 

I liked swimming, skateboarding, bike riding, and wandering all over Pittsburgh, usually on foot or bike, exploring the terrain as well as no shortage of multiple cultural opportunities (shout out to the Carnegie Museums) easily and safely reachable that ranged in price from free to easily affordable...at least back then. Now not so much. I refer to both getting there on foot or on a bike as well as the price of admission.  

For the record, I liked swimming so much that I used to take all the Red Cross-approved swimming lessons (from beginner to advanced) every summer so that I could get extra pool time in before the tiny, crowded 22nd Street playground pool officially opened for the day. 

When it came to sports, and following or participating in same, most of my running buddies were at least mildly obsessed. I pretended to be to fit in. Peer pressure was strong and I'm embarrassed to admit I was a shy kid who didn't have the self-confidence to go my own way more often. I think part of the problem was the fact that when I was 12 my late marrying father was in his mid-fifties and behaved more like a hands-off grandfather than a dad at a time when I could've used some guidance and advice. 

In his defense I was, and remain, an introverted dude who lives in his head a lot of the time and who prefers to keep himself to himself most of the time. 

{What's all this got to do with seventh grade?}

You asked about sports, Dana. I (a world-class garrulous geezer) merely provided a thorough answer. That was me in seventh grade. May I proceed?

{Well! Far be it from me!}

Sister Mary Clifford, a Pittsburgh area native, according to her obituary "...was a faithful Steelers fan and had a great sense of humor.” I wish I had sought her out once my extended adolescence finally ended at about the age of 35 or so and had an adult-to-adult conversation with her even though I suspect it was unlikely she would've remembered me

Unfortunately, she's not the only person I was too clueless to appreciate in the past, took for granted in fact till I accidentally came across her obit a few years ago. Yet another folder in my Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda file.

Never having been what you might call a natural-born scholar, my favorite thing about school was an unexpected day off. I loved it when I'd stumble, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen on a cold winter morning, where Mun always had a pot of hot oatmeal waiting and KDKA 1020 AM playing on the radio, and was informed there was no school that day.

[The preceding paragraph is sponsored by Olde Frothingslosh, the pale stale ale with the foam on the bottom.]

{Say what?}

It's a Yinzer thing, you wouldn't understand.

In the seventh grade, my second favorite thing about school was unexpectedly getting out of school for a couple of hours to accompany Sister Mary when she borrowed one of the parish priest's cars to run errands that called for assistance from a schoolboy or three, usually grocery shopping for the convent.   

She clearly enjoyed driving. For the record, she always took three of us, and we always sat in the back seat. In retrospect, it occurs to me we never discussed why this was the case. She was a nun, a teacher, and a principal, following her instructions was simply what one did. It never occurred to us what the reason for that rule might be. Different world. 

Not only did we get out of school for a few hours, but we also got to experience an even more relaxed and kind version of the woman who taught us and ran our school. It was more like hanging out with your conservative but funny, and nice, aunt Eileen.

We would ask her questions about parish politics and gossip that weren't discussed in class. Her answers were always diplomatic and reflected the beliefs and practices of a true believer and practitioner. She would gently upbraid us (as opposed to pulling over and administering knuckle thumps) when she thought we weren't trying to at least pretend we were good Christians, an attitude she seemed to effortlessly embody. 

She knew, like all right-thinking souls dating back to Aristotle, that virtue must be taught to the young, that it doesn't usually come pre-installed. Nowadays she would be called judgey by no shortage of her fellow Citizens of the Republic. 

How's that workin' out for ya, America?   

I remember us driving down Carson Street just prior to Christmas in the midst of a sudden, heavy, snow shower. S'tr mentioned that keeping control of the car on the slippery street car tracks was a challenge but she was obviously enjoying it. She talked about how much she loved the Christmas Season because people were so much nicer than usual. Obviously, this was a long time ago.

{God protect us, but I gotta ask, what’s a streetcar? Aren't all cars street cars? And did she ever take girls on these trips?} 

A streetcar is, mostly was, a sorta/kinda electric bus/train car. It rides on rails that are, um, like reverse railroad tracks in that they are grooved, and the wheels of the streetcar ride in the grooves that run a few inches below the surface of the street.

{Oh, okay, like in San Francisco, right?}

Sorta/kinda. San Francisco has trolly cars that are pulled by cables under the street. Streetcars, and nowadays "light rail" cars are powered by overhead electric cables. The Burgh no longer has street cars (which were more of a local neighborhood thing, like buses). They do have a light rail system that's more about bypassing neighborhoods and with limited stops from what I understand, but I haven't lived there for quite some time.

I wonder if it's still easily possible to access the tracks to create giant pennies.

{Excuse me?}

Some older, wealthier teenagers used to put pennies on the streetcar tracks so that passing streetcars would turn them into large, warped copper disks.

{Are you going to claim that you never did?}

Technically I wasn't a teenager. I turned 13 the following summer and was living in suburbia at that point where there were no streetcars, and very few bus lines for that matter, which made getting around quite interesting for a family that didn't own a car or even had parents who could drive. When I was in seventh grade I was still buying soft penny pretzels (about as large as a fat man's swollen thumb) from street corner vendors on my way to and from school. One must prioritize when one has limited resources.

{And what about the girls, the girls never got to go?}

Nope, they were back at school learning how to sew by repairing the priest's vestments. and helping Mel, our school janitor...just kidding, I made that up. I honestly can't remember even though I didn't always get to go. I would assume they and the remaining boys were watching a movie or something.

Told ya, I was a semi-toxic young man living in a toxic man's world, like no shortage of 12-year-old male H. sapiens still are I imagine, despite the best efforts all the wild-eyed Wokies lose in the land, at least I hope so. This column isn't about the feminization of the American nation though, so I won't bring it up. I wouldn't want to trigger anyone.

Finally, as I mentioned, I wasn't always one of the boys in the backseat, but I usually was. I don't remember giving this any thought at the time. In my defense, I strongly suspect that most 12-year-old kids, and most adults for that matter, still take the zeitgeist they find themselves in for granted, and go along to get along. But, man (which, younger readers, is the same as you saying: but, dude), I don't get it.

I worked just hard enough to get by, like I always did till I graduated from high school. Shy, prone to daydreaming in class, a lazy eye, no obvious and/or unusual talents that my classmates might still remember me for. I don't get it. I hope it wasn't pity.

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

 

 

        

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth, Part Five

1965

Previous parts are not required to enjoy this part, not even partially...

But, here are parts 1, 2. 3. and 4.                                                                                                                                                                                             `

Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

 

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"There was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air." 

                                                                                 -Robert Zimmerman 

Dear Gentlereaders,

In September 1965, "the sixties" (I use quotes because the early sixties were pretty much a continuation of the 1950s) were picking up steam and your semi-humble correspondent was a 12-year-old straight, white, toxic male awash in adolescent hormones.  

Yet again I'm reminded of how lucky I was to have the childhood I did, a revelation triggered by this series of self-indulgent columns (Me, the Early Years). 

In my last...

{Wait-wait-wait. Why 1965?} 

I had a copy of an article from the L.A. Times saved, that I can't find, that provides an accurate and detailed explanation in my semi-humble opinion. It's still available, but unfortunately, the L.A. Times and the article in question are securely locked away behind a paywall.

As I explained in my last column, How to Save the World, which is not part of this series, I wrote about how I got lost/overwhelmed trying to accurately describe what America was like in 1965 (which, it turns out, would require a book), how quickly things got turned upside down, and how quickly the utopian dreams of some individuals, mostly kids, turned to shyte. So, I'm not going down that road again

{Kids?}

Yeah, Dana, kids, it was a modern-day Children's Crusade. "Don't trust anyone over thirty," said Jack Weinberg, now 84. (Follow the link to his Wikipedia page if you're interested in the fact that "fake news" was already alive and well in 1964. Mr. Weinberg was deliberately quoted out of context to sell newspapers. Ain'tcha glad we don't do that sort of thing anymore?)   

Nowadays science tells us that the brain of the average H. sapien doesn't mature till the age of 25, something car insurance companies figured out multiple decades ago. Personally, I maintain that thirty is a more accurate number, but considering I'm over 70 you should take that with a grain of salt even though I've never yelled at anyone to get off my lawn.  

"If you remember the sixties, you really weren't there" is a quote, according to Wikipedia, that should be attributed to one Charles Fleisher, "Actor - standup comedian - musician - writer," as opposed to one of the various and sundry famous stoners people attribute it to. 

I was there, and I do remember. but I was just a working-class kid attending a traditional Catholic grade school located in a traditional working-class neighborhood that was located in a typical American, urban manufacturing hub (Pittsburgh) that hadn't started rusting yet when things got rolling (see what I did there?). 

I didn't smoke weed for the first time till after I graduated from high school (as I said, lucky, but I wish it hadn't been till after I had turned 25), and I remember the brief era we now call the "swingin' sixties" fairly clearly considering it was longer ago than I care to acknowledge.

I'm so old that alcohol consumption when I was in high school, much less grade school, was relatively rare, drug use even more so, although the seeds had been planted (see what I did there?). I'm led to believe this was not the case in larger, hipper, cities like San Francisco, L.A., and New York, not that I'm saying this has anything to do with their current problems, which have since spread/are spreading to no shortage of other parts of America.

From my perspective, the sixties lasted from about 1965 to roughly 1975. By then Disco (thump, thump, thump, thump), Discos, and leisure suits were everywhere. Fortunately, this era didn't last either and it led to the musical high point of Western Civilization — Rap and Hip-Hop — that we still enjoy today.    

For the record (see what I did there): Many people who were also there say that shortly after Wookstock (1969) everything started going downhill. 

Historical perspective: The Cowboy era lasted about 30 years, depending on who you ask. 

{I seem to remember that at the last editorial meeting, it was decided that this column was going to be about seventh grade, possibly eighth.} 

It's early September, 1965. Me and mine are now living on the corner of 18th and Carson Street, Sou'side, Pittsburgh, Pencilvain-i-a. My four older siblings had either moved on or shortly would be. I'm embarrassed to say the details are fuzzy so I'm going to dodge said details to avoid offending anyone. In my defense...

{You spend a lot of time defending yourself.}

In my defense, a gap of almost six years between the first four kids and the last three made it seem like we were two combined families "back in the day," at least in my recollections. I associate Mum, Dad, Mark, Marty, and Mike with that oddly constructed apartment above an empty storefront and behind the offices of a drunken dentist (a dentist who was a drunk?) that's now a parking lot. 

Behind an unlocked door on Carson Street which had the name of the dentist painted on it in time-faded letters, there was a steep set of steps to our front door at the top. Alternatively, you could make a left turn at the top of the stairs and go down a short hallway to the dentist's office.

I suspect that nowadays it wouldn't be legal as there was no back door. Well, there was, but it opened onto a small porch from which another set of steep steps descended into a small backyard that was more like an enclosed courtyard. 

See, there were buildings on either side and a mostly empty two-car garage with a dirt floor between us and the alley that ran behind our domicile (my parents never owned a car, not even after we moved to the 'burbs). This meant that in the event of an emergency, there was a "man door" and a garage door between us and the alley.

I had figured out a way to (more or less) safely climb over the top of the garage and descend into the alley that was faster than having to deal with the doors and that scary, unlit garage with a dirt floor. Besides, it was fun. 

Speaking of dirt, Mum was surprised that Mike, Marty, and I didn't get nearly as dirty when we were out and about in our corner of what I didn't realize (at first) was a fairly wealthy Pittsburgh suburb (Hampton Township) a year later. They had somehow managed to find, and buy, their first and last quite modest house (to put it mildly) in what was probably the oldest part of Hampton, but I'm getting ahead of myself. 

My point is that we would get so dirty playing in the streets and playgrounds of the Burgh Mum would sometimes have us strip down to our underwear in the summer in that "courtyard" that provided shelter from prying eyes, and hose us down to keep that dirt from becoming a ring around the bathtub.

I can't speak for my baby brothers, one dead and the other...never mind, (love ya dude, even if you're unlikely to read this) but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I can't swear to it, and I have no memory of us ever having a shower, only a bathtub, even after we moved to the 'burbs. I know for a fact we never had more than one bathroom.

{What's any of this got to do with seventh and/or eighth grade?}

Hey, I'm painting word pictures here, don't interfere with the artiste! I serve my muse and she informs me we may not even get to seventh grade in this missive, much less eighth. To quote Isaac Asimov, "Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers." 

(Which, dear gentlereaders, is this old geezer's way of putting a positive spin on the fact that my columns are basically heavily edited stream-of-consciousness so they will make some sense.) 

 

{You're equating yourself with Isaac Asimov?}

Except for the fact he was a genius, "wrote or edited over 500 books" and had world-class mutton chops, sure.    

Back to September 1965. There was a new show on TV called Gidget that was loosely based on a hit movie released in 1959 of the same name starring Sally Field, who was 18 at the time. This Gidget, like the Gidget in the movie, was a cute, all-American, virginal, teen next door type obsessed with boys, and since she lived in California, surfing.

The movie version, featuring "teenage star" Sandra Dee, and a collection of heartthrobs who self-identified as male, was the first of several "beach party" movies that were wildly popular in the early sixties.

I saw most, if not all of those movies at the Arcade, a neighborhood movie theater featuring second-run movies and first-run B films, It was 35c for a double feature with previews and a cartoon in between (and no commercials) for kids 12 and under on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.

All the boys/girls (men/women?) in those movies wore modest bathing suits (particularly as compared to what is considered normal nowadays) although some lived modestly unconventional lifestyles and occasional naughtiness was occasionally implied (nudge-nudge, wink-wink). The television version of Gidget was even more unrealistic. It only ran for a year, but that was because it was competing with The Beverly Hillbillies, one of the top ten most unrealistic TV shows of all time.  

As mentioned above, the early sixties were pretty much a continuation of the 1950s.

Nowadays, Sally Field says she traveled to Mexico when she was 17 to have an abortion. 

{Yikes! Too much information.}

I agree...talk to Mx. Fields. 

Right, wrong, or indifferent, this was America in 1965 and I had a firm, if not entirely realistic foundation to stand on before things got weird. I remember a whole different America, the one that for all its flaws and problems appeared to be on the right track.

In my admittedly small world:

God wasn't dead just yet. Men and women got married before having kids, or at least before their first one was due. Having a child "out of wedlock" was a disgrace and various and sundry arrangements were made so that everyone involved could pretend it wasn't happening and minimize embarrassment. 

Dads worked hard for the money. Moms worked hard to run the household and raise the kids. There were plenty of jobs available for dads more concerned with paying their own way than following their passion. 

The "hidden tax" (inflation) and the national debt had not yet destroyed the value of the dollar. 

America had just passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 so the abomination that was Jim Crow would be resolved in minute. Sister Mary McGillicuddy and her colleagues went out of their way to make sure we understood how important this was, and how important it was to know what was going on in the world so we could be good citizens who voted intelligently when we grew up. 

I knew what equal opportunity was, but I wouldn't encounter the phrase equality of outcome ("equity," Socialism, Communism, and/or Marxism) till decades later. In fact, I was taught that Communism was downright evil. Given that by the end of the century, it was responsible for 100,000,000 or so premature deaths, apparently, this was correct. 

{You don't capitalize socialism or communism, they're common nouns.}

I'm aware, but I tend to capitalize all sorts of words that aren't supposed to be. I have a clause in my Poetic License that allows me to do so.

We were going to land on the Moon before the decade was over, mostly because, as George Mallory said about climbing Mount Everest, "it was there."

I could go on (and on). I could also go on (and on) about how naive an attitude this was and explore all the stuff that was and is wrong with America. However, given that there's no shortage of people (a veritable industry) making a living by doing this nowadays I see no need. 

I'm just trying to describe what life was like for a 12-year-old kid with minimal privilege, in America, in 1965, was like. I think I was lucky because many, if not most 12-year-old kids born nowadays, would be lucky to have a childhood that was a bit more like mine, with a little less social media and a lot less access to hardcore porn.  

{Seventh grade?}

Next time, I promise. 

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved 

 

How to Save the World

Image by stokpic from Pixabay

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard." -H.L. Mencken

Dear Gentlereaders,

The rumor that I was picked up and tossed in a cell while waiting in line to get on a plane to return home from a brief getaway to my favorite secret Taoist monastery in China's Wudang Mountains (for speaking ill of Emperor Poo Win Nie) is not true. 

{Rumor? What rumor? I'm not aware of any such rumor.}

Me neither, Dana, but a provocative opening sentence is important if you want a given reader to keep on reading. The vast majority of news stories, much less columns, newsletters, blog posts, and etceterosts are rarely read beyond the first paragraph or two so you're supposed to try and grab the reader's attention right off the bat, hoping they stick around.

{That explains the clickbaity title.} 

As my millions of gentlereaders are aware, but not necessarily the billions of potential readers who may stumble across my work, my column policy was to post a new column roughly every two or three weeks, instead of weekly. This is so I can go into more depth/length about a given subject if I'm so inclined.

New policy: Produce a new column every two weeks, max, regardless of length, depth, or whatever. I've discovered that just like in most aspects of my life, a schedule and/or a plan and/or a goal works much better than winging it. This is not because I'm a particularly virtuous or disciplined soul, it's purely a matter of practical necessity. I'll explain that in a minute, in the meantime...

This particular column will be/was published about three weeks after the preceding one. It's not the one I planned on publishing. That one spun out of control so I've set it aside and written this one. I got so lost in the weeds while exploring a particular subject that I wasn't able to find my way out again. This problem was compounded by an unwillingness to do so. 

The sunk cost fallacy (according to the Goog's official English dictionary) is "the phenomenon whereby a person is reluctant to abandon a strategy or course of action because they have invested heavily in it, even when it is clear that abandonment would be more beneficial."

The term in question comes from behavioral economics and is a highfalutin way to say throwing good money after bad isn't a good idea. In this case, it refers to throwing more words at a lost cause. 

In the course of writing the latest chapter of a series of columns memoir-izing my childhood (Me, the Early Years) I got a little carried away trying to explain how and why 1965 (when I turned 12) was when the "swingin' sixties" actually got rolling and how/why everything had turned to shyte by the late seventies when disco was peaking and the Festrunk brothers appeared on Saturday Night Live.

A long column started turning into a short book. Even though I slowly realized it, I kept trying to somehow wrap things up before finally giving up as I had taken too many side roads and couldn't find my way back to the thruway. 

In my next missive, I will resume memoir-izing my childhood. I'll be writing about seventh grade, the year I met the nun Sister Mary McGillicuddy is based on, in September of 1965.

{Ah-ha! now I get it!}

I'll also be writing about eighth grade. We moved from the city to the 'burbs the summer before, and I encountered a whole different world. In the meantime, this column is to tide over my millions of regular readers and put a stop to the rumors. 

I've been asked by both of our political parties to endorse their respective candidate for the presidency so I wish to announce that I plan to enthusiastically vote against Kamala Harris. 

{So you're endorsing the Donald then?}

I didn't say that, Dana. I said I'm looking forward to voting against the Queen of Obfuscation; I didn't say anything about endorsing the King of Kayfabe. 

I'm so sick of politics and the powers that be just now that if not for the fact I think China's economy is going to collapse, and that apparently I'll never stop worrying about Skippy, Nipples, and the Stickies, I might return to the monastery permanently. Geesh, when the Stickies start having stickies...

Now, I often say that I was born jaded and the longer I live the more jaded I've become. This is true. It's also an oversimplification. Throughout the course of my life I've often gotten pumped up about something and even now occasionally do so — but it never lasts and is ultimately/eventually disappointing. 

{I'm guessing that no one has ever accused you of being the life of the party.}

Not that I can remember, no, but in my defense, by nature, I'm inclined to go out of my way to try not to impede the fun of others — as long as they're not having fun at someone else's expense — often even doing my best to aid them in their efforts. I can honestly say that trying to get others to smile or even laugh, no matter the situation, might be the only social skill that comes to me naturally. 

{And we should care about this because...?}

Well, I suspect there are a lot of souls out there who've been looking for "it" all their lives, have never found it, but are still looking for it despite repeated disappointments. It's not our fault. Despite what certain Wokies would have us believe, there is such a thing as human nature. We can't stop looking for it, it's how we're made. 

{I still don't see...}

"I've discovered that just like in most aspects of my life, a schedule and/or a plan and/or a goal works much better than winging it. This is not because I'm a particularly virtuous or disciplined soul, it's purely a matter of practical necessity."

In these wild and crazy times, you can choose despair and victimhood or you can choose to take care of business, get 'er done, do your job, take out the trash, make your bed, etc. — while always looking for the joke. You'll feel better, change the world for the better, and be shielded from those who can't or won't. 

Hey, you might even finally figure out what "it" is.  

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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"Virtue Is Its Own Reward" -Cicero

A Quotable Quotes Column

Image by feworave from Pixabay

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." -?

Dear Gentlereaders,

When I went a-googlin' and asked the algorithm to search the WWCK (worldwide web of contradictory knowledge) to find out who first said virtue is its own reward I discovered that we don't really know. 

The answer I got was:

Search Labs | AI Overview 

(With a cute little blue beaker emoji preceding it indicating there was scientific stuff going on here) and then...

"The idea that virtue is its own reward was widespread among ancient philosophers and poets. Some people who have said this include:" 

This was followed by links to Socrates, Seneca, and Blessed John Henry Newman,... 

And finally: "The Latin expression for the idea that virtue is its own reward is Ipsa sibi merces rerum pulcherrima Virtus." 

If you've always wanted to memorize this particular proverb in Latin and put it in your pocket in case it might come in handy when you're trying to impress people at social functions or when you're trying to pick up a dude/dudette/other at Starbucks, here ya go. 

For those gentlereaders not in the know, if you were to search the term what is search labs? you would discover that "Google Search Labs is a program that allows users to try out and then provide feedback on early-stage Google search experiences. The program's main purpose is to help Google experiment with new ideas and determine what works and what doesn't."

 

This is Googspeak for "We make most of our money by keeping track of everything you do while following you around online and using the information we collect to sell ads and the data necessary for ads to follow you all over the WWCK. Did you think we weren't going to use the data you so willingly provide to develop our version of an artificial intelligence so that we can make money before AI kills us all in our sleep?"

(Or some variation of same as exactly what answer you get depends on all sorts of things we mere mortals are not privy to.) 

{Wait-wait-wait. You opted in when they first offered to add this to your searches. I'm sure you can opt out now if it bothers you so much.}

It doesn't bother me. I adopted the Borg mission statement a long time ago (Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated?) but I did try to discover if it was actually possible to get rid of it, just for the hell of it, and failed. Never a 10-year-old around when you need one. 

{You know, there are ways to surf the WWCK completely anonymously and even access the DARK WEB where the drug dealers, arms dealers, and various and sundry perverts lurk.}

I'll betcha a bottleahpop (that's soda pop for some of you) that there's any number of nerds working for a given government (and other shady organizations) that can follow you down any given electronic rabbit hole. 

{You're paranoid.}

You're not, Dana?

Anyway, it's Cicero I was interested in and fortunately he was linked to further down the page. One of the many things I love about the WWCK is that if you keep on scrollin' and clickin' you can eventually get the answer you want. 

Sister Mary McGillicuddy taught me that Mx. Cicero...

(Ever wonder what Mx. is short for? Well, it isn't. According to our friend Search Labs "Mx. is a gender-neutral title used for people who don't identify as male or female, or who don't want their gender specified. It's pronounced like 'mix' or 'mux.' 

Personally, I prefer mix. "Mix Masters! How are you today?" No wait..."Mux Musk! How are you today?" I like 'em both. 

S'tr M.M. was the one who taught me that Mx. Cicero said that virtue is its own reward. I'm sure she was aware of the information I so helpfully supplied above and more, about the proverb I mean, the WWCK didn't exist yet. She was just keepin' it simple, this was grade school after all. 

Besides, she was primarily interested in teaching us fledgling Catholics about how and why we should go about being virtuous. She thought that virtue needs to, in fact should be, taught to the young, that it doesn't come pre-installed. Fortunately, many people nowadays know better and raise their kids without burdening them with stale, preconceived notions. 

The reason I'm interested in Cicero, regarded by history as a more or less virtuous man person, is because he was murdered by order of one General Mark Antony, one of his political enemies, who took him out when a chance to do so legally came along. 

Antony also had his head and hands nailed to a wall and Antony's lovely wife Fulvia is said to have pulled out his tongue and jabbed it with her hairpin to mock Mx. Cicero. The famous orator had been using his skills to attempt to thwart Mx. Antony and friends from converting Rome from a constitutional republic to an autocratic empire run by an emperor.

{Who hasn't heard of that tired old chestnut, what's your point? Wait, you're not going to start talking about the Donald, are you?}

Here we go, politics. Who said anything about politics? Donald the dick-tater is just campaign rhetoric. An awful lot of members of both the Red Tribe and the Blue Tribe believe the worst about the other team thanks to the ability and willingness of the powers that be to hypnotize the masses for their own often nefarious ends. 

You still need an army or two and lots of bloodshed to make yourself a traditional dick-tater but that sort of thing does a number on the economy which (almost) nobody in this country wants. That's why we just elect a temporary King of America every four years. 

Of course, that's no longer easy. Our voting system's all screwed up, many people don't trust it. For some mysterious reason, we can't all just go to the polls on the same day and vote on paper (so it's easy to perform an audit if necessary) and know who the temporary king is by the next morning, like we used to.

{Sheesh, sorry I brought it up.}    

All I'm saying is that there's a dark side to the proverb in question that kids should be made aware of, but like drag queens, not till adolescence rears its ugly head. Let kids be kids for a minute, keep it simple, and build firm foundations first. 

[INSERT VIRTUE SIGNAL HERE] Once upon a time I had a charming, funny, and flamboyant friend who was a drag queen on the weekends. He was, and hopefully still is (hi, Sam, wherever you are) a lovely gentleperson — who I suspect would find drag queen story hours appalling.  

I'm not saying that you shouldn't strive to be virtuous in any given situation, but while taking the high road, doing the right thing, etc. can be its own reward, it may well be its only reward because...

{Balderdash! I know I'm gonna go to heaven.}

Because...

{Because you might wind up with your head and hands nailed to...}

Because there's a part two, a big BUT: the road to hell is paved with good intentions. These two truisms are stamped on opposite sides of the same coin.

For the record, I'm a firm believer in virtue. In fact, there's a tab on this/my website labeled The Golden Mean that provides a link to a short video created by the CrashCourse people titled Aristotle & Virtue Theory. Mx. Aristotle is the man person when it comes to virtue, at least in my semi-humble opinion.

Unfortunately, choosing to try and be a virtuous person may not necessarily end well, as Mx. Cicero learned the hard way. I speak of the here and now, of daily life on planet Earth, not of what may or not happen to you after you die. Whatever your feelings on that subject is your business though I have to note that belief in an afterlife, particularly the heaven v. hell version, provides a certain clarification. 

We must be aware that we may not get the pats on the back, recognition, or gratitude we think we're entitled to. Such is life. Pat yourself on the back for taking the high road and be proud of yourself, you may have just changed the world for the better, at least a little bit — but don't waste your time and energy pouting or feeling self-righteous when you don't get a prize.

More importantly, most importantly, tread lightly, carefully, and thoughtfully. Aristotle advises us to look for the golden mean, that is to say, avoid extremes.   

An (admittedly extreme) example: the well-meaning "neocons" reacted to the murder of innocents on 9/11 by delivering a well-deserved hammer blow to the Taliban who were harboring Bin Laden to let them know we weren't a nation of pacifists and that there was a price to be paid. To not respond at all (one extreme) would be to invite more terrorism. 

But they then took it upon themselves to remove and replace the corrupt governments of Afghanistan and Iraq with democratic republics, the other extreme. Military power is real, the power to radically alter ancient cultures with radically different worldviews than ours is not.   

All's well that ends well...but not everything ends well. 

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved