EpiPens

I was, briefly, delighted when the current kerfuffle concerning EpiPens broke out last week.

Red meat for the infotainment industry! Something they would sink their teeth into because EpiPens are ubiquitous, necessary, life-saving devices. They are carried in the backpacks of innocent school children (and the purse of my adult daughter) with certain allergies/conditions to keep them from dying! It's the duty of the infotainment industry to make the public at large aware that yet another greedy, evil, tax dodging corporation run by an evil, greedy, tax dodging CEO is ripping us off!

Because, it's the infotainment industry's (sometimes quaintly called the news media) job, nay duty, to keep the public informed via impartial and professional reportage!

In theory.

Of course, a hot story that affects lots of people means lots of ears and eyeballs. Which means higher ratings. Which is the name of the game. Which is the story behind the story. Which is the story behind many stories.

Because, the more ears and eyeballs, the more money that can be made fueling the 20 or so minutes of advertising in every hour of televised infotainment. Or the more money that can be made by the ever more aggressive methods used to advertise on the web. My current personal favorite shtick is when websites run full blown audio and visual commercials that automatically pop up and that, often as not, require me to go scrolling around to locate, and click to shut down -- if I can find the right place to click. One false move and another tab will open devoted to hyping the product I'm trying to avoid.

[Dana and Marie-Louise have appeared at their assigned shoulders. Dana is bitching about what any of this has to do with EpiPens. Marie-Louise is scratching my back and almost purring. She's proud that although this week's column was already written and ready to go I just got out of a warm comfortable bed and am writing a different one at 3 a.m., Saturday morning. She attributes this to her power as my muse.

Which, is partially true, but the fact that my swollen prostate and aging bladder keep odd hours is a significant factor as well. And now, unable to go back to sleep, well, here we are.]

I was briefly delighted because it was my hope that lots of EpiPen stories might mean a lot less The Donald v. The Hilliam stories. It did  -- for about a half of a New York minute. Before the week was out, The Hilliam attempted to fold it into her campaign by calling for The Gubmint to investigate.

The endless campaign is approaching its current climax, the climax occurs every other year on federal election day and then the cycle starts all over again -- the day after federal election day. Which means, in presidential elections, that one of the two people that have willingly endured at least (usually more) two years of climbing up a steep, jagged mountain, on their knees so they can win one of the most stressful jobs on Earth, will win the ultimate merit badge. Which should, make you think twice about what sort of person would put themselves through such a thing, and then you should vote for Gary Johnson, the real anti-establishment candidate, and supporter of congressional term limits.

Which means, we've reached that point in the process when both candidates spend most of their time playing a spirited game of You suck sweaty socks! No, you suck sweaty socks!

[You suck sweaty socks! exclaims Dana, what's your point! Marie-Louise is smiling, she can see where this is going. Scratch, scratch.]

Where I'm going with all this is that in light of the above, consider the following.

We rely on the infotainment industry to keep us informed. However, many claim the media overall is biased, and oversimplifies, for reasons ranging from laziness to being primarily profit-oriented (less text, more ads) to thinking the public is stupid. How's a person with a life go about finding out whether we can rely on them or not? Well, it's simple actually (you're welcome, GRIN).

Bookmark both the Fox news website and USA Today's website with your browser of choice. Whenever the mood strikes check one, read only the major headlines, and then do the same thing on the other. This will only take a sec'. You'll be amazed.

Obviously important information, particularly important info about The Gubmint, The Hilliam and/or The Donald for example, will turn up on one site, but be completely missing on the other. If you want to go into the weeds a bit more, read an article about the same subject on each site. It doesn't take long, they're deliberately dumbed down so you don't have to think any more than necessary and take up as little of your time as possible. They'd rather you clicked on an ad, or clickbait. Once again, you'll be amazed.

As to EpiPens specifically, consider this. Most coverage, regardless of source, rarely ventures beyond the familiar evil CEO/drug company taking advantage of a monopoly version of events. Even if they do, the headline and the first few paragraphs will probably take that tone. And in this case at least, they're more or less right, although personally I think sleazy is probably a more accurate adjective than evil. The story will probably be made into a movie eventually, one that's very loosely based on reality, stars lots of pretty people with perfect teeth, and the male and female lead will fornicate within the first ten minutes. Why mess with a winning formula?

However, you're much less likely to hear that the incompetence of the FDA, i.e. The Gubmint is the reason one company was able to capture, and continues to maintain, a monopoly. Google that and see what pops up.

In the meantime, various congresspersons, as well as senators and senatorettes (The Gubmint) are vowing to hold hearings to determine how the FDA (The Gubmint) that was established by -- The Gubmint, and is regulated by --The Gubmint, could let this happen. Fear not, The Gubmint will thoroughly investigate The Gubmint and find out how this evil sleazy company has been getting away with this, for years.

A big part of the answer is the screwed up health care system, the one The Gubmint fixed a few years back, the one that's about to launch some significant rate increases. But when it does, The Gubmint will once again investigate itself and straighten everything out.

[Aside: Why do we hate CEOs (saints or sinners) who get paid a ton of money for doing a job most sane people can't/wouldn't want to do but not professional football players (too many sinners, not enough saints) who get paid a ton of money to play a game? Just askin'.]

I gotta' get some sleep.

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016

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The Pursuit of Contentment (Again)

Someone recently pointed out to me that I've been writing these columns for just over a year now. I missed my first anniversary as a wannabe professional writer. This provoked two reactions.

First, I was kind of bummed. I've been at this for over a year without somehow going viral or someone stepping up and offering to pay me to write? Sheesh. Sure, hundreds of thousands of people, millions for all I know, have the same goal, but I thought God was on my side. 

On the other hand, I'm proud of the fact that I've published a new column every week, as I set out to do. 

If I drop dead as I'm writing this I will have managed to leave a batch of love letters for the Stickies and my daughter and son-in-law, which are what my feeble scribbles actually are. I feel like I've followed through on a New Year's resolution for the first time in my life.

The Pursuit of Contentment, my first column, remains, as far as I can tell, one of my most frequently accessed columns. But the statistics and technical tools helpfully provided by Google (the force behind Blogger which is the force behind my columns) often as not leave me baffled. 

For example, I just managed to accidentally delete the original column, and I have no idea how I did it, or where it went. It was my intention to re-publish my first and most popular (at least I think it is) column so far to celebrate my first anniversary and make it available for anyone not aware of it. 

Fortunately, I just happened to have a copy of the original stored offline, which is amazing since I stuff almost everything into the cloud. 

Anyway, for the record, The Pursuit of Contentment, my very first column, was published on 7.23.15. However, if you go looking, the first column you will find is Republicrats v. Depublicans, 7.29.15, because of my technical incompetence I'm technically challenged. Happy anniversary to me!

When I become king I'm going to order that the phrase, "...the pursuit of happiness" in the Declaration of Independence be replaced with, "...the pursuit of Contentment."

As to precisely what Mr. Jefferson meant by the original phrase, well, that depends on which scholarly interpretation you choose to accept. I'm not a scholar, nor do I play one on TV. I've conducted a (brief) in-depth study and the result was a mild headache and an inexplicable desire to watch reality show marathons.

Since I plan to alter one of the nation's most sacred and fundamental founding documents once I become the King, I must explain the logic at work in this fantasy.

Granted, my critics may claim that any logic promulgated by a man that thinks he should be the king of America should be dismissed as pretzel logic. Two quick points. First, I promise to be a benevolent tyrant. Also, note the fact that I refer to myself as I, not we, a clear demonstration of my sincerity.

To me, and I suspect I'm not alone, the right to pursue happiness means that we — Americans (well, everyone actually), not my would-be royal personage — have the right to choose whatever course of action that we find agreeable, within certain limits, that we feel (hope) will make us happy.

I use the phrase within certain limits because most of us semi-rational adults, though unfortunately not all, understand that we're not the king/queen of, or even the only kid on, the playground. This is important. We must share the swings, sliding board, etc. with others.

However, there's a problem. It's human nature to believe that once a certain goal or desire is realized, we will, at long last, be happy. "Once I graduate, turn 16, 18, 21 or 65, get the job, have sex, win the lottery, retire or _____, I WILL BE HAPPY!" and we will — until we're not.

This tendency is amplified by a consumer culture that bombards us with a firestorm of advertising promising happiness will at long last arrive, via UPS, in 3 to 5 business days. Feelings, like coins, flip easily.

Contentment is also a feeling, of course, but I use it here in a philosophic sense, as a way of looking at things and a strategery for getting through the day. I wish to change a common noun to a proper noun, kings can do stuff like that. Full disclosure: I freely admit that what follows is merely my personal, highly condensed take on a particular aspect of Stoicism, a philosophy that's been with us for over 2,000 years.

Also, I must acknowledge my debt to a book you should read called, "A Guide to the Good Life: The Ancient Art of Stoic Joy" by William B. Irvine. And, to my late wife, Ronbo, who always insisted on looking on the bright side... which sometimes pissed me off (GRIN).


It could always be worse, much worse.

This is the central tenet of King Crank's Philosophy of Contentment. Be thou a believer (in God, a God, or the Gods), an atheist, an agnostic, or _______, the fact remains that if you choose to keep showing up you're going to occasionally experience happiness.

You will also occasionally get caught in a crap storm. Mostly, you will just be doing what needs to be done to keep body and soul together. This is often boring, which may lead us to pursue happiness and explains why it's relatively easy to sell us lottery tickets, politicians, and beauty aids.

How do I maintain my contentment buzz in the midst of a crap storm? Reminding myself that it could be worse fosters a sense of gratitude. Gratitude is important because while our wants are seemingly limitless, what we are given is not.

If you know any recovered drunks or druggies, ask them to explain the phrase, "attitude of gratitude." Being grateful for what I have serves to curb my longing for what I don't. I still want stuff, but I seek Contentment in what I do have today, not what I might have tomorrow.

When I go out to eat I sometimes find myself wishing I could afford a better restaurant than one where the decor includes much in the way of brightly colored petroleum byproducts. Of course, I'm fortunate to be able to eat out at all, or even to count on regular meals since many Earthlings can't.

And Wendy's is waaay better than having to sharpen my spear, round up the gang, and engage in mortal combat with a wooly mammoth.

Have an OK day.

The Importance of Things We Take For Granted, a Tribute to Andy Rooney

I wish to salute the 1,001 conveniences of modern life that we take for granted. There's a vast range of various variables concerning the size/significance/importance/etc of these things, and I could live, no, survive (there's a difference), without many of them, but all are important to one degree or another or they wouldn't exist.

Dr. Deirdre McCloskey, the subject of a recent post, would call them market-tested betterments. They exist because someone had an idea, and multiple someones found the implementation of that idea useful.

Paper towels, or rather a lack thereof, is the genesis of this column. I live in the attic of the large house that me and my freakishly large household lease from our tight fisted but blessedly mostly absentee landlord. It's quite pleasant, as far as starving artists garrets go. It's a finished attic and my hunger pangs will be alleviated shortly via my portable refrigerator and my microkiller. Incidentally, my late wife called call microwave ovens microkillers, for no reason other than it made us both smile and just sounded right. It still works for me. Miss ya' babe.

However, I'm out of paper towels, which I discovered yesterday, much to my horror, when I was doing a bit of cleaning. This means that I'll have to use two paper plates instead of one since I don't have a paper towel to place betwixt the pre-cooked snausage (please refer to microkiller justification above) patties I'm rapidly becoming obsessed about (I told you I was hungry) and the aforementioned paper plate. See, without a paper towel to serve as a pork grease absorber ("pork fat rules!") a second paper plate will be needed to prevent pork grease from leaching through and leaving a spot on my desk, which apropos of nothing, is actually a high-quality, six foot long (30" wide) utility table. Well, it's apropos to me, I like a large desk/workspace.

[Marie-Louise and Dana, are glancing at each other, and me, nervously, as if to say, no, you ask him if he's having a breakdown of some sort.]

Lest you think I'm having some sort of breakdown, fear not. I'm merely setting the stage for what follows.

[Dana heaves a sigh of relief; Marie-Louise smiles and administers a brief back scratch of encouragement.]

See, everything mentioned above, except the utility table that I use for a desk, are relatively recent inventions. All of them exist in the background of my life, I take them for granted and give them very little thought except for when they stop working (or need cleaning). I'm a firm believer in, and derive much enjoyment from, cleanliness in general. However, I don't enjoy having to do the work necessary to effect a clean environment.

I suspect this is genetic. For those of you that don't know, or may have forgotten, I am descended from a very old European aristocratic family. By the time I came along, years of deep dissipation had caught up with them and when I was kidnapped by gypsies my family refused to pay the ransom (it's complicated). This led to a series of events that culminated in my "father" winning me in a poker game at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood, South Dakota.

I've always felt that I was destined to have a small, devoted coterie of servants (to whom I would be exceptionally kind) to deal with all the daily humdrumery. I've also assumed that at some point I would be independently, but not embarrassingly, wealthy and would live the life of a mildly dissipated, but nevertheless enlightened, dilettante. I'm still cautiously optimistic but I'm 62.75 years old chronologically speaking (39 spiritually) which means I only have 38.25 years left.

At this point, I'd settle for enough dough to take the Stickies to Disney World. But none of this has anything to do with the Importance of Things We Take For Granted so I better move on. Dana and Marie-Louise are starting to look jumpy again.

I go to great lengths to use paper towels responsibly. Primarily because I'm cheap relatively poor frugal. Also, for environmental reasons, though I must admit that while I suspect paper towels degrade quickly and efficiently and constitute no threat to mother Earth, I don't actually know. Better safe than sorry.

But there it sits (I've secured a fresh roll.) A pristine, white, sanitary sentinel. While I'm an enthusiastic user of rags, because I'm cheap relatively poor frugal, but sometimes only a paper towel will do. When certain things need cleaning, I must have paper towels.

Stoicism...

[What!]

Bear with me.

Stoicism, I refer to the now mostly ignored philosophy (not an attitude) that teaches that the remedy for longing for stuff we don't, or can't have, is to be aware of the stuff we do have and contemplate how we would feel if we were to lose it. Paper towels for example. Or computers.

I have lived without both paper towels and computers. I need to check in with my older sibs for verification but I don't remember having paper towels in our house when I was a kid. I do remember being amused when my roommate (I was about 25 at the time) came home with not only paper towels but with a paper towel holder/rack/dispenser as well (which was installed with limited success so we stopped using it eventually and just left a roll sitting on the kitchen counter).

I was amused because paper towels seemed like a waste of our limited resources, and besides, that's what worshrags were for (see ubiquitous My Pillow commercial wherein the "inventure" of the My Pillow brags about it being machine worshable). However, over the years I've developed a deep and lasting affection for paper towels. Oh, I also have a deep and lasting affection for my My Pillow.

And computers. I lived without a personal computer for more than half my life and I'm so old I personally know people that don't use one, don't even own a cell phone. I currently don't own a cell phone, but for the record, I was an early adopter and had given up my landline very early on just to see if I could, and I did. But now I hate them, cell phones I mean, but there's no point in getting into that just now, so I won't.

I love my computer, it's a current events junkies/music lovers/dilettantes delight. "Need input!" And unlike a cell phone, If I choose to ignore it occasionally to read a real book or play around with my keyboard (as in music, as in piano, not the device that I'm typing this on), that I'm going to someday actually learn how to play, when I'm out and about in the world no one will approach me, wild-eyed and salivating, demanding to know, "when was the last time you checked your phone! I left you a gazillion messages!" Sorry, I said I wasn't going to go into that.

But the other day Mark's Toy IV, my current computer, for some mysterious reason wouldn't let me fire up Chrome, my window on the world, my access to all the stuff that I keep in the cloud -- until I rebooted, which fixed everything. Phew! Which set me to thinking about Stoicism and how appreciating what you have is much better than bitching about what you don't.

Have you ever wondered why phew starts with the letter p? I miss you, Andy Rooney.

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016

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The Secret of Life

The secret of life is that so-called real life is just high school with money. Once you embrace this notion, much becomes clear.

When I was in school, I noticed a phenomenon that has not changed. Much has changed since I graduated from high school in 1971 and the subsequent, but unrelated, beginning of the collapse of Western Civilization in 1972. (1972 was the year disco songs started showing up on the charts). I'm certain it hasn't changed because I have several hundred grandchildren, all children of the new millennium, all of whom I monitor closely.

[Aside: I help to support this sticky syndicate of savages in various ways for various reasons. I've been unusually lucky in that all of them, without exception, are fundamentally kind. Thanks to good parenting they're all well aware that while it's sometimes difficult to discern the straight and narrow path, it does exist, and should be followed if at all possible. I believe that the future will benefit from the fact they're in the world. 

Also, I'm reasonably confident that if I help them out as much as I can now, they'll make sure a certain old crank will never starve, or go without internet access, even if it's just from guilt.]

Where was I? Oh, yeah. As a young callowyute, I found it interesting that kids of only slightly different ages were often radically different creatures. Grade levels served as a reliable index. Every September, when I returned to school after another summer of back-breaking work in our family steel mill that was located in the Sou-side-a-Pittsburgh, it was the same.

Most of the kids that were one grade level behind me, the one that I had been in three months previously, were childish and dorky. Most of the kids that were one grade ahead, who were in the grade I was now in, just three months ago, were cooler than me and seemed to know something I didn't know.

[Begged question: Why is the American school calendar still built around an agrarian economy that no longer exists?]

As a callowyute, I was taught that at some point this process would end; that I would be a grup. All that was necessary after that was a slow but steady accumulation of skills and wisdom which I would pass on to the callowyutes in my life. Of course, I wouldn't be like most grups, I'd still be cool. I'd never wear socks with sandals. I'd open a vein rather than wear an all-polyester outfit that included a white patent leather belt and shoes (and sandals with socks). I'd only drive cool cars. Etc.

[Legally speaking, in the US at least, we're adults, or at least callowyutes with privileges, at the age of 16, 18 or 21, depending on the subject at hand and/or the location. Science tells us that H. sapiens are not fully mature until roughly the age of 25. This explains a lot. I find it interesting that car insurance companies figured this out before I was born based strictly on statistics. No theories, opinions, or legal judgments were needed or called for. The careful collection and verification of the facts was all that was needed. Life as it is, not as we would like it to be. We need more of that.]

Once we finally fully mature we spend the rest of our lives waiting for the next dramatic step -- that day we will wake up filled with wisdom and certainty -- which never actually happens. We never graduate. The rate of change slows down, the lines blur, the average reasonably well-adjusted 40-year-old will find the average reasonably well-adjusted 30-year-old lacking, in specific as well as vague ways.

Most will gradually/slowly/painfully get better at impulse control and learning to share the playground with others, perhaps even pick up a bit of wisdom here and there. Many will not. We will start out confident that we won't be like our parents; that our lives will be _______, _______, and _______! Then our lives will mostly just happen to us.

You're probably in better shape than me. I'm almost 63 years old and over think everything but in my heart of hearts, I'm the same horny, insecure callowyute destined to be a rockstar and enlightened Taoist master that I was in high school -- just less so (thank God).

We will do our best to keep the boat in the middle of the stream and going in the right direction. For a tiny minority, this will be easy, not so much for most. Some will win, some will lose, most will tie.

We will do the job, take care of the kids and the parents that are morphing back into kids, keep the car running, etc. Since it's relatively easy to fool most callowyutes/ourselves/other grups, we will all participate in a lie agreed upon (HT: David Milch). We'll all pretend to be well-adjusted grups when in reality we're just high functioning high school kids.

Have an OK day.


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©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

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The Secret of (Occasional) Happiness

"Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." This quote is often attributed to Confucius but a minimum of googling will reveal that it's impossible to accurately credit anyone for it. However, I would argue that the truth of this particular adage is obvious. 

Unfortunately, reality is often a poor substitute for what should be. Life is indeed what happens to us while we make other plans. Rather than choosing a job we love, most of us are destined to choose the best job we can get. 

Then, once we have it, we have to decide if we're going to hang around or try and find a different one, a better one. And then, that the bright and shiny new job we get may ultimately turn out to suck sweaty socks. Oh well, at least it (hopefully) pays better. Hmmm, now what should I do, make the best of it or should I start looking for another job? If I...

[For the love of my higher power! exclaims Dana... 

(I'm beginning to think it's not political correctness after all, that some organizations 12 step program is at work, but of course, it's none of my business)

Would it be asking too much to ask if this is going somewhere?]

Point taken. OK, let me put it this way. Getting paid to do a job we love is the ideal job. At this level you're actually getting paid to do your work, not a job. Your work is those one or two things that you would keep getting out of bed for if was revealed to you that (without a doubt) you only had a relatively limited amount of time left and that once you died, that was it, there was nothing coming next. I'm not claiming it's possible to be certain of either of the two preceding statements. Hey, it's just a thought experiment. 

You're work, as I define it anyway, could be anything from what you're doing in that secret laboratory hidden under the garage that not even your snifficant other knows about --  trying to create the new millennial Frankensteen -- to an obsession with collecting football cards.

Much research has been done to determine what makes us happy and the official answer is, well, one of 'em anyway, earned success (there's even a TED Talk). While I agree that earned success does make people happy, as well as the well-researched reasons as to why it does, what about all the folks that in spite of their best efforts have had to settle for limited success (at best)?

Worse yet, what about the individuals that led exemplary lives, always gave more than they got, and died, often badly, still worrying about how they were going to get the car repaired?

Someone to love that loves you back (a dog will do) and interesting work is the secret of (occasional) happiness. 

Oh, and before I forget, the word occasional is very important in that the nature of reality, on the planet Earth at least, is that everything contains its opposite and that opposites are two sides of the same coin. That statement requires its own column but it must be mentioned because you have to always keep in mind that while being happy all the time is impossible, so is being unhappy all the time. Just wait it out and try and consider not making any important decisions or doing anything dumb until the dark clouds pass. Trust me on this...  

[Caveat: Freely acknowledging that I'm not a mental/emotional health professional and that some would argue that even the world amateur overstates my qualifications, if you're happy, or miserable, all the time, there may be something wrong. Please consider contacting a professional.]



Someone to love that loves you back (a dog will do) and interesting work is the secret of (occasional) happiness. 

"But I don't love anyone and no one loves me, not even a dog." Bonkercockie. The minute you give up on the notion that love will fill you will light, solve all your problems, and make you, Happy (the Hollywood version of love), the sooner the smoke will clear. You like at least one someone, probably more than one. There's at least one someone, probably more than one, that likes you. When you stop pursuing/waiting for the Hollywood version you'll dramatically increase the chances love will find you. While you're waiting -- like, be kind, and be likable.

"Interesting work? I'm just not that into anything, never have been." Bonkercockie. The minute you give up the notion that you'll find, and/or follow, your bliss and then you will be filled with light, all of your problems will be solved, and you will be, Happy (Hollywood again...), the sooner that smoke will clear. 

The owner of a successful vacuum cleaner repair shop (who's not deeply in debt and has no trouble paying his/her bills) who is indifferent to vacuum cleaners, but never tires of making the perfect pint of ice cream in the back room, has interesting work.

Good dog! Where's that goofy cat...  

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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©2016 Mark Mehlmauer

     

The (Electronic) Fourth Estate and Cop Killers

I use the term The Fourth Estate, a term variously defined in the course of history, in the modern sense: a highfalutin term for the press, or the news media, as a whole. Wikipedia has a concise and interesting entry (well, interesting to me at least, your dilettante about town) concerning the meaning and history of the phrase. It even includes a quote by Oscar Wilde, no fan of the press... Sorry, it's not you, it's me.

Moving on. It was late last Sunday afternoon, 7.17.16. Three more cops had been murdered in Baton Rouge for the crime of being cops. One "suspect" was dead and two others were (or were not) in the wind. At that point in time, besides the fact that three other cops were wounded, that's all we knew.

It was pretty much the same thing we were constantly being reinformed of by the 24x7 cable/satellite news channels since the story broke shortly after it happened, early that morning. They were still repeating the same (provisional) facts. Different words, different angles, different people (well, some of them anyway) -- same tentative facts.

Which is fine I guess.

After all, perhaps you had stayed up all night doing things that you'd rather not tell your mom about and having recently regained consciousness had decided to check in with your favorite news channel because you're sorta/kinda into politics. You wanted to see if an aggrieved member of the Multiculti Militia that had congregated in Cleveland, hoping for a chance to club a re-pub, had engaged in any pointless rioting yet. Perhaps a dude/dudette with excessive Islamitude had blown themselves up and was already enjoying the company of their allotted slate of 72 virgins.

[Aside: I know you're asking yourself, do dudettes get 72 male virgins? A quick check revealed that Muslim scholars and clerics don't have much to say about that (what a surprise). It gets better. Some scholars believe that something got lost in translation and that the promised reward is 72 raisins. Seriously. Look it up. Raisins.]

I'm not a regular viewer of any of the cable/sat news channels in that I don't (often can't, yuck) watch them for more than a few minutes at a time. I do check in regularly to see what's going on -- it's part of my job. Or rather, I wish it was. Actually, it's my work. Your work and your job are, more often than not, not the same thing for most people.

"Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." -Probably not Confucius. The secret of happiness is someone(s) to love that loves you back and interesting work. This column is my interesting work. It would be my job if I could make a comfortable living from it, which I don't, at least not yet. However, I have a vague plan and big dreams, which also are a component of a happy life, but the secret of happiness is the subject of next week's column. Stay tuned. 

Therefore let us carefully back out of this dead end street (damn Google Maps...). As a token of my appreciation for your patience please accept a free gift: The secret of life is that life is just high school with money. More on that the week after next.   

What I find fascinating/appalling about cable/sat news channels is that right after something happens that's important enough to guarantee a large audience, they begin speculating their bums off. But they justify it by constantly reminding us -- that they are speculating their bums off. Broadcast news operations do this as well, but less egregiously.

"I must remind our viewers that while _______ hasn't confirmed the appalling/disgusting/titillating fact I just threw out there, it might be true, but then again it may not be. After all, as I'm sure you know, once we do get the story straight it's often different than what we've been going on and on and on and on about. That said, instead of returning to the real news stories we think might be accurate, and of course no shortage of celebrity news and stories about (often reprehensible) people that are famous for being famous, we'll carry on with our endless speculating, right after we run yet another bunch of profitable commercials.

[At this point a lengthy block of advertising commences. It consists mainly of the current ads for the same products that turn up (between brief amounts of actual content) almost everywhere you go in the cable/sat universe because lengthy blocks of advertising that consist mainly of the current ads for the same products must be run -- repeatedly, and everywhere -- if they are to have any effect in a cable/sat universe saturated by lengthy blocks of advertising that consist mainly of the current ads for the same products.]

Welcome back. This is _______, recently named as the interim director of _______. While acknowledging that what I said just prior to the commercial break may not be true, that is, blahblahblah, if it does turn out to be true, Mr./Ms. _______, what would be some of the possible ramifications?"

[Gentlereaders -- while the quoted material above is obviously a product of my imagination, it nevertheless accurately depicts the coverage I watched that morning.]

Ishkabibble.

[Why isn't there a punctuation mark that indicates shrugged shoulders? In case you're not one of my gazillions of regular readers, and since I can't remember where I used and defined this word recently, permit me to explain. It's not one that I created nor is it one that someone else recently created but is ill-defined enough for me to um, appropriate. It's a word from the early 20th century that means, according to the Urban Dictionary, no worries _, or, who cares?. Now do you see why we need a punctuation mark that indicates a shrug? Fear not, gentlereaders, I'm on it! See, I told you it's not you.]

Ishkabibble_ (Insert yet to be created punctuation mark here.) Since this was the second recent cold-blooded assassination of cops for being cops, since there was a bit less carnage than in Dallas, since one of the slain officers was black, since the Electronic Fourth Estate must reflect a culture with an ever-declining attention span to keep profits up -- Ishkabibble_

After all, the newest episode of the Donald's reality show was about to start.

Have an OK Day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016

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Islamitude

Walter Williams on multiculturalism: "Leftist diversity advocates and multiculturalists are right to argue that people of all races, religions and cultures should be equal in the eyes of the law.

But their argument borders on idiocy when they argue that one set of cultural values cannot be judged superior to another and that to do so is Eurocentrism." The italicization (say that word six times fast) is mine.

Traveling East to West...

[Wait just a minute, Sparky, sez Dana, my imaginary gentlereader, islamitude? What the hell is islamitude? Marie-Louise is having her nails done, at my expense, as I'm a fool for a good back scratch, particularly if administered by a woman of the female persuasion.]

Well, to be honest, I'm still trying to nail down my official definition as it's a word that never occurred to me until I wrote this column, and Marie-Louise (my muse) never offers up explanation, only (if I'm lucky) inspiration. Googling revealed that I'm not the first to use the word but a specific definition proved to be elusive.

All that I can tell you at this point is that to me it's a word that captures not just a certain attitude but a way of doing things and the reactions of some non-Muslims to same. Vague, I know, but I'm trying to walk a fine line as I don't wish to promote Islamophobia but I also don't want to hide my head underneath my My Pillow and hope it all goes away.

I can point at the meaning with the following example. My late wife once went into a neighborhood convenience store where we were well known regular customers on good terms with the people that ran it. I waited in the car, which was parked near the store entrance, window rolled down. The door to the store was propped open. I was fiddling with the radio and looked up when I heard two people arguing, my late wife had a certain look on her face that indicated she might be about to go over the counter and murder the clerk, a gentleman of Middle Eastern origin. I admit I've no idea if he was a Muslim.

Knowing the significance of the look on her face, I darted into the store and all but dragged her out to our car. I asked what happened. It seems that upon noticing that a particular beverage, some sort of soda pop, had been mistakenly labeled at a price that was obviously less than wholesale, she thought the civilized thing to do was point this out as they were losing money on every bottle they sold (we had reason to be familiar with wholesale soda pop prices at the time).

He reacted by turning purple and asking how dare she, a mere woman, think she had the right to address him about such things and starting ranting at her in his native language.

[Sheesh, sorry I asked.]

And now, back to our show.

Syrian refugees are understandably fleeing a country that seems to be literally disintegrating. I know I would. With the exception of the United Arab Emirates, they ain't going to the rich Persian Gulf states. Their fellow, Arabic-speaking Muslims, would rather throw money at the refugee camps in other countries because of "security concerns." Yeah, no kidding.

On the other hand, it's widely reported that many refugees don't particularly want to go to these particular countries anyway. It seems that even many Muslims don't care for authoritarian monarchies that subscribe to Sharia law. I know I don't.

Case in point, Saudi Arabia. Not a whole lot of there, there unless visiting Mecca is on your bucket list, except for oil, which is why they're rich. Well, the native born Saudis are doing well anyway. For nearly a third of the population, most imported to do the drudge work that's considered beneath the dignity of the locals, and who can't go home without the permission of their masters, life ain't quite so grand.

[But, the Saudis are not as rich as they used to be. Fracking has undermined the power of the members of OPEC to ignore the free market and set prices at what its members think they should charge just because they can (i.e. to enthusiastically practice extortion).]

According to Wikipedia: "In addition to the regular police force, Saudi Arabia has a secret police, the Mabahith, and 'religious police', the Muttawa. The latter enforces Islamic social and moral norms."

"Criminal law punishments in Saudi Arabia include public beheading, hanging, stoning, amputation, and lashing. Serious criminal offenses include...apostasy, adultery, witchcraft and sorcery."

Recent headline in the Wall Street Journal: "Saudi Arabian Women Love Bumper Cars (But Not For Bumping)."

From the article: "At the weekly ladies-only night at the Al Shallal Theme Park in the coastal city of Jeddah, women discard headscarves and head-to-toe black gowns to reveal the latest trends -- ripped jeans, tank tops, and tossed-to-the-side '80s-style hair. For many of them, the biggest draw of the amusement park isn't the few hours of fashion freedom. Instead, they go there to get behind the wheel -- even a bumper-car wheel -- in a country that bans female drivers."

The article goes on to describe long lines of women waiting for a chance to "drive." There's very little bumping involved, except accidentally, they just want to drive. The article includes a picture of a woman covered from head to toe in black, left arm outstretched, dutifully signaling her intention to make a left turn.

Meanwhile, the world is confronted with the horror of the bodies of refugees who tried to make it to Europe floating in the Mediterranean. Europe's response to the crisis has varied widely from country to country.

Germany's response was a booming, Rod Roddy like Come on Down! But then a wave of sexual assaults by roving bands of refugees last New Year's eve across the country highlighted the fact there are more than a few Germans opposed to their countries policy, including immigrants that arrived before the current crisis.

At the other end of the scale are countries like Norway and Denmark who have placed ads in Middle-Eastern media telling refugees they're not welcome, even if they call first.

France and Belgium have become infamous for no-go ghettos where Sharia law is practiced to one degree or another. They're populated by people who have fled myriad traditionally Muslim countries.

You may have heard about some of the recent negative consequences.

President Obama has pledged that the US will admit 10,000 Syrian refugees during the course of The Gubmint's current fiscal year, which ends in October. Not long ago I was delighted/conflicted when I read someplace that only a couple of thousand had been vetted and approved via a very slow process.

Delighted because regardless of whether the process was moving along slowly because we were erring on the side of caution, or more likely because The Gubmint is not renowned for nimbleness and efficiency, the result was the same. Potential terrorists, hiding among the innocent victims of what passes for normal in the Middle East, would have a tougher time getting into America and potentially killing my grandchildren in Allah's name.

Conflicted because someone else's grandchildren might be killed trying to escape being murdered in Allah's name.

But then, the other day, several different media sources reported that the effort was back on track and that the goal of 10,000 will be reached, and on schedule. Swell.

Perhaps The Gubmint will now step up efforts to aid some proven friends that placed their lives on the line for us in Iraq. Remember Iraq? We won a war there. Personally, I wouldn't have gone there in the first place. But we did, and we won, and we wound up with a highly fortified, relatively secure outpost -- smack dab in the middle of the bad guys neighborhood.

Then along came Mr. Obama and his Secretary of State, the Hilliam. It fell to them to negotiate a status of forces agreement to leave enough American troops in place to bolster the effort to turn Iraq into a reasonably modern, reasonably stable democracy -- smack dab in the middle of the bad guys neighborhood.

They cut and ran...

...And left behind a bunch of Iraqis that worked for us as translators in the course of our "overseas contingency operation" -- that are on the Kill ASAP list of more than one zany group of grumpy Muslims -- that can't get visas from Uncle Sam to (literally) save their lives.

Sheesh.

Have an OK day.

©Mark Mehlmauer 2016

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