Fake News

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

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

The subject of this week's column was supposed to be courage, the last of the four cardinal virtues. It's done, but needs to be drastically revised and will be published next week. 

See, one of the members of my (still) freakishly large household decided to take a (hopefully temporary) sabbatical and is now living in West (by God) Virginia. Long story short (and no, I'm not gonna' bore you with the details) this has rendered me a very unhappy camper. That's all I have to say about that.

When I pulled up the column you're supposed to be reading for the usual last minute check (after ignoring it for the mandatory minimum marinating cycle of at least 24 hours) before hitting the publish button I found it to be somewhat snarky, and bitchy.

[You? snarky and bitchy... shocking! Dana, my imaginary gentlereader, speaks. Marie-Louise, my gorgeous, and somewhat more sympathetic muse is gently scratching my back with her world-class, award-winning fingernails. Iggy, imaginary grandsticky, is nowhere to be found.]  

Promoting the practice of one of the cardinal virtues in a snarky and bitchy tone is, to put it mildly, a somewhat counterproductive exercise. 

So, I've graciously decided to give myself a 24-hour extension, which is why I find myself writing a column on Easter Sunday when I should be downstairs violating my low-carb eating regimen with abandon. Yes gentlereaders, I'm that dedicated (and besides, they know down there that if someone doesn't save me some chocolate there will be hell to pay.)




In the midst of my morning routine (slurping down a large mug, or two, of Cafe' Bustelo Espresso Ground Coffee while skimming a selection of carefully/efficiently/logically arranged websites that serve to provide me with what I call a zeitgeist snapshot, seven days a week) I found something I wanted to write about.

[It's not you, it's me. In my defense, the process described above includes comic strips.]

My preferred local paper had an article about "... more than 100 protesters..." (101 or 999? and this is the better local paper) who were participating in a rally to demand that the Donald release his tax returns.

While they were at it, "Several... speakers...," that is, an unnamed local "economics professor" and unnamed "members of the local " _______ County Young Democrats discussed how the nation's income inequalities are hurting education, mental-health services and job growth; the damaging effects of cutting funding to PBS, the arts, Meals on Wheels and many other vital social programs; and the president's low approval rating."

The article's (written by a local reporter) last line is, "The Associated Press contributed to this report." This is because the author breathlessly leaps back and forth between the local rally and national coverage, presumably provided by the AP, of rallies all over the country for people that want the Donald to release his tax returns.

Quotes from nationally known anti-Trumpers (Democrats all) are intermingled with local quotes and the vaguely attributed diatribe quoted above. The effect, surely unintentional, is that without a careful reading, one would assume that unless the Donald releases his tax returns ASAP, civil war, and perhaps the collapse of Western civilization as we know it, is imminent.

A local reporter, who probably has a degree in journalism, submitted an article to an editor, who probably has a degree in journalism, and both work for an editor-in-chief (who, by the way, probably has a degree in journalism).

"Several... speakers...," that is, an unnamed local "economics professor and <unnamed> members of the ______ CountyYoung Democrats discussed how the nation's income inequalities are hurting education, mental-health services and job growth; the damaging effects of cutting funding to PBS, the arts, Meals on Wheels and many other vital social programs; and the president's low approval rating."

I don't have a degree in journalism (though I do have 39 certified college credits), but can easily envision myself as a widower (because I am) who inherited a newspaper from my late wife (which I didn't) and am much more comfortably situated than I actually am (because though I'm already 39 I wake up every day assuming the life I'm clearly entitled to is just around the corner).

[The preceding paragraph is a beard for some actual details which could get me killed.]

Now, were I the fortunate individual described above, I would call a meeting of all the relevant parties and ask some questions.

What's the name of the local economics professor? surely a phone call or two could unravel this mystery.

Which members of the _______ County Young Democrats spoke at the rally? I'm sure they would like to get their names in a democratic-leaning newspaper that publishes in an overwhelmingly democratic region

Did we actually have someone there or did you guys just piece this story together afterward?

You're aware that the funding cuts referred to are only proposed cuts right? You're aware the republicans have proposed cutting off the Public Broadcasting System people for decades and that it never actually happens, right?

You realize that the phrase "and many other vital social programs" turned this front page story into an editorial, right? Why did we not point out that the local rally was a local non-event, and instead make it sound like it was a vital part of a national protest? A national protest whose theme seemed to be since he won't release his tax returns, he must be guilty of something, that is, he's guilty until proven innocent.


My wealthy widower persona only scratches the surface. The article is a biased, unprofessionally written, and a hit piece from beginning to end. I'd love to give you more details, gentlereaders, but I was only half kidding about how the details could get me killed. Piss off the wrong people here in our happy little valley and your life can suddenly become very unhappy, and me and mine are stuck here for the moment. And for the record, I didn't vote for the orange dude, I'm a libertarian.

What have we learned, Dorothies?

Pay attention. "Fake news" is usually too good/crazy to be true news and often easily debunked via your favorite search engine/dutch uncle (or auntie, of course) of choice. It's the alleged real news you gotta watch out for. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Adventures in Shopping...

... at my local full service -- expensive except for the stuff on sale that you have to pay full price for if you don't have a key tag or a card to prove you willingly signed up for them to keep track of what you buy and sell the information to whomever they please -- supermarket.

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

“Star Trek characters never go shopping.” -Douglas Coupland

Dear (eventual) Stickies and Great-Grandstickies,

I've decided to cover the last of the cardinal virtues, courage, next week. What follows is an Andy Rooney like semi-rant that flowed out of me in virtually one sitting. By the time you're grups, this will probably seem like ancient history as grocery shopping for you will consist of dictating a grocery list to Alexa's granddaughter and waiting for the grocery drone to arrive minutes later.

I had returned to the scene of the crime for the second day in a row, in spite of my dislike of shopping of almost any sort, because my first visit had proven to be disappointing. I was feeling productive because I had already been to Walgreens to pick up a scrip to treat my leprosy (you don't want to know) and had marshaled enough self-discipline to also visit Dollar General for assorted sundries.

My beloved Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) was on sale. My equally beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread was on sale as well. I consider both products to be vital staples.

While my shopping buzz was still buzzing I continued my quest, perhaps I could execute a three-peat.


Background: The day before I had decided to walk on the wild side and purchase double my normal weekly supply of each product and get four loaves of bread as well as four jugs of tea. However, I was only able to secure two loaves of bread after deciding to pass on the only other loaf available which was gently (but who knows by what or by whom?) squashed.

Noting that the Schwebel's section of the bread aisle had a disheveled, picked-over look, I deduced that the bread man had not yet stopped by for his daily visit. For the record, the preceding sentence is not sexist in nature.

I worked in supermarkets for ten years and have been shopping in them for more decades than I would care to admit. I have never encountered a bread woman and if you are, or know of one, please accept my insincere apology. Since the job consists of driving a huge step-van here, there and clear over there, no matter the weather, and dragging huge racks of bread in and out of all sorts of stores, many run by very unpleasant people, I just assume women are too smart to subject themselves to this sort of daily grind.

And now that I think about it, I've never encountered a woman who drove a linen service truck for a living either. However, I confess I don't know much about that particular business and I've never worked in a commercial laundry (though I have spent a lot of time in laundromats) so I won't bring it up.

So anyway, I did my other shopping, which went well except for the fact that there were only two jugs of Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) left on the shelf. When I had crossed everything off my list I found myself at the opposite end of the store from where I started, where the restrooms are? Being a man of a certain age, I popped in for a preventative, um, rest.

When I came back out (No Shopping Carts Beyond This Point, Alarm Will Sound!) I walked all the way back to the other side of the store to see if the bread person had stopped by, no luck. I mention this only to demonstrate my devotion to my beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread, which I can't recommend enough.

I headed for the checkout counters and took care of business. This part of the trip went well except for the fact that as I passed the service desk on my way out of the store, I realized that I had left a winning four dollar scratch-off ticket in Betty's console, yet again. Betty is my minivans name, by the way, short for Betty Boop.


So today, feeling both (uncharacteristically) optimistic and productive, I again ventured into my local full-service (see paragraph one) supermarket. I arrogantly waltzed by both the hot prepared foods and bakery department with nary a glance. I'm no newbie -- while they both look and smell awesome, the actual taste of the pretty and perfectly presented goodies, in most cases, is a bit of a letdown.

I entered the bread aisle and my heart leaped, the Schwebel's section was stocked to the max! With a spring in my step (well, sorta, I had a hip replaced three months ago) I strode down the aisle only to discover a yawning, empty gap where the Country Potato Bread should be. My spirits began to plummet but then I remembered it was Wednesday, perhaps there was hope after all.

[Just in case you're unaware, bread people, like doctors, don't work on Wednesday because they (unlike most doctors) have to work on Saturdays which is why so many of them belong to the teamsters union.]

See, bread delivery technicians usually over-deliver bread on Tuesdays and Saturdays to tide a given outlet over till Thursday/Monday.

Anyways, the store's bakery was just a few steps away, the one that sells all the pretty products that rarely taste as good as they look? And there was a clerk behind the counter who didn't suddenly pretend to be busy as I approached to avoid making eye contact.

I inquired if she knew if there was any extra Schwebel's Country Potato bread "in the back" as it was on sale but there was none on the shelf. She looked baffled but she spotted her supervisor and asked her if there was any Schwebel's Country Potato bread in the back. This woman; likely overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated by her boss, spouse, and kids -- who looked like her feet hurt -- said, "Lemmylook," and exited, stage left.

She returned in a flash with a single loaf of bread, brightly wrapped in colorful cellophane, handed it to the clerk and re-exited stage left in the same motion. The clerk approached me with a big, bright smile and proudly handed me a loaf of Giant Eagle Homestyle Potato bread. A product whose everyday price is cheaper than the price of my beloved Schwebel's Country Potato bread is when its on sale -- and tastes like it.

"Thanks, but ...,  see ...,  that is ...,  hey, thanks a lot! 'preciate it," sez I.

Resisting the urge to squash the loaf in question via an armpit or tossing it in a freezer as dark clouds begin to gather over my soul I gently placed the offending loaf on the shelf in the empty space where the Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng (decaffeinated) was supposed to be but wasn't.

As I approached the service desk on my way out of the store and as I was reaching for the winning (four dollars) scratch-off ticket that I had remembered to bring with me this time I saw them.

Near the door, a very young, very attractive, very worried-looking, very heteronormative looking young couple was feeding coins into the Coinstar machine. She was so pretty (and wearing an actual dress!) that I was instantly drowned by a tsunami of _______.*

[*_______: non-existent word denoting a heart-achy/nostalgic/bittersweet/I'm gonna die/I own socks older than she is sort of feeling.]

Without breaking stride, I pulled the lottery ticket from my t-shirt pocket with my left hand while simultaneously reaching into my right pants pocket and scooping up the change that I knew I would find there and pivoted in their direction.

When I was close enough I announced my presence with an, "excuse me," tossed my coins into the sorting tray, handed him the lottery ticket and said, "every little bit helps" and darted (well sort of, the hip thing) towards the exit door. I glanced over my shoulder as I was going through the door and she blessed me with a brief, cautious, black cloud banishing smile before quickly turning away. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.

Temperance (Part Two)

If you're new here, this is a weekly column consisting of letters written to my grandchildren (who exist) and my great-grandchildren (who aren't here yet) -- the Stickies -- to haunt them after they become grups and/or I'm dead.

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View original (above↑) to solve the problem/access lotsa columns.]

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse (right shoulder) and back scratcher 

Iggy -- Designated Sticky

Dana -- Designated gentlereader (left shoulder)

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies,

To review, in part one I started off down the main trail but I branched off on a path that led to a critique of H. sapiens tendency to (often with the best of intentions) impose their idea of temperance on other H. sapiens.

This confused my imaginary grandsticky, Iggy, who thought that temperance simply meant refraining from eating an entire box of Girl School cookies in one sitting.

I further muddied the water by making reference to something I call social sanctions which I  didn't define or explore. Thus the need for a part two. 

I'm going to put the thin mints in the fridge for the moment and start with social sanctions. "Some things should be prohibited, some things should be regulated, everything else should be tolerated (but not necessarily socially sanctioned)." -me

Some kids should be banned from the playground (prohibited), and rules are needed for sharing the playground (regulated). Little Timmy's unfortunate habit of picking his nose, anywhere and everywhere, is best curbed by social sanctions.

[Which has exactly WHAT to do with temperance? asks Dana, my imaginary gentlereader.]

"Patience is a virtue." -Sister Mary McGillicuddy

 Wikipedia: "Temperance is defined as moderation or voluntary self-restraint."

Banning Timmy from the playground would constitute cruel and unusual punishment. Who among us hath not picked their nose upon occasion?

Nose picking regulations would be difficult to enforce, and who would want to police nose pickers? Yes, I know you know someone that probably would, but the first sentence of the job description should state that anyone who volunteers for the job should not be considered.

Social sanctions, which in this case would involve Timmy being verbally abused (picked on, GRIN) for his unfortunate habit, would, most likely, take care of the problem. Social sanctions would, most likely, induce "voluntary self-restraint." In the unlikely event Timmy persisted, it would clearly signal the need for intervention by a grup before Timmy became bully meat.

Unfortunately, social sanctions don't work nearly as well among allegedly well-adjusted grups on the playground commonly referred to as the real world. I understand that we've lost a good deal of our cultural consensus (I speak only of American culture, mine is a somewhat parochial life). We need to find a way to socially sanction the ill-mannered.

Shouldn't good manners in our current environment be more important than ever? If we're all busy doing our own thing, if we're to all be non-judgemental, non-haters, don't we at least need good manners to keep from killing each other? Shouldn't good manners be a virtue? I'm not talking about using the correct fork, I'm talking about minimizing friction in everyday encounters. Why are there don't be a hater t-shirts but not "Don't be Ill-mannered" t-shirts?

After rereading Temperance (Part One), and the above, it's dawned on me that my Marie-Louise, my beautiful muse, has a method to her madness. Last week I explored the importance of society treading lightly and thinking heavily before imposing its version of temperance upon its members via the force of law. Beware the law of unintended consequences.

Above, I discuss judiciously applied social sanctions. This is a way to encourage temperance without using the hammer of the force of law. Anything goes is not the way to go. We need social sanctions lest we all degenerate into bigfeets (see glossary).

[Gentlereaders -- for the record, the story that I recently unmercifully pummeled a loud talker with a cell phone in a tiny, overheated waiting room at doctor's office is completely untrue. I practiced good manners (and temperance) by informing the receptionist where she could find me and fled to another room.] 

And now some thoughts on temperance -- moderation or self-restraint -- as a virtue applied by an individual to their own lives

[Finally! sez Dana.]

People who practice one of the more traditional organized religions are provided with a framework that includes ethical/moral rules and guidelines that by their nature prescribe moderation and self-restraint. Gray areas to be clarified via prayer and/or clergy.

The rest of us must draw our own lines. I maintain that in the practice of this and all virtues, cardinal and otherwise, that 98.39% of the time (non-psychotic) H. sapien grups know what behavior is virtuous. Callowyutes, starting at about the age of seven, usually know as well, but only 78.39% of the time which is why they need clear-eyed grups to supervise them carefully.

[Iggy opens his mouth to speak, I cut him off.]

I know what you're going to say, I say, or rather, what you're going to ask. Why should you, or anyone for that matter, practice temperance? Why not eat an entire box of girl scout cookies in one sitting? especially thin mints.

The answer is, sometimes you should, mostly, you shouldn't.

Occasionally, tossing temperance out the window and consuming an entire box of GS cookies in one sitting is just what the physician prescribed. If you've been too self(or other)-disciplined, or, self(or other)-disciplined for too long, an imbalance in the universe is created. Everything contains/creates its opposite. This is the nature of reality, there's no white without black and change is the only constant.

If you love and enjoy thin mints (or anything else) but never, ever, eat them because you're fanatically devoted to eating low carb (or any of a hundred other reasons), the universe, seeking to restore balance before there's an explosion, will send you a steady stream of revenue seeking girl scouts.

It doesn't matter if it takes two cookies or two sleeves of cookies to defuse the bomb and restore balance.

However, if you decide to embrace the life of a libertine and start purchasing your thin mints by the case (FYI, Keebler Grasshoppers are even better than what the GSs offer) this will also create a disturbance in the force.

Besides the obvious downside, rapid and significant weight gain, one will discover the truth about libertinism -- repeated indulgence is boring. Sorry stickies, reality is self-regulating in that devoting one's life to the perpetual pursuit of pleasure, without multiple interludes of work and boredom, is like listening to a song consisting of one uninterrupted note.

To keep the pleasure perpetually percolating requires ever increasing levels of stimulation and life on Earth only provides so many levels before you hit your head on the ceiling. Beyond this lies madness and/or addiction.

Temperance, will help to keep you from killing yourself (accidentally or otherwise). Temperance, will help to keep you from being killed by one of the other kids on the playground. Poppa loves you.

Have an OK day.


[P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a Patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains.

If there are some readers out there that think my shtuff is worth a buck or three a month, color me honored, and grateful. Regardless, if you like it, could you please share it? There are buttons at the end of every column.]


©2017 Mark Mehlmauer   (The Flyoverland Crank)

If you're reading this on my website (where there are tons of older columns, a glossary, and other goodies) and if you wish to react (way cooler than liking) -- please scroll down.