Iconoclasm

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

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 Glossary  

                                  Who the Hell is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

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

Marie-Louise -- My Muse (GT*)

*Currently Grand Touring

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

[The what?]

Nevermind.

[Snob.]

Heavy sigh. Anyways...

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

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

SOUND OF DOOR SLAMMING IN MY HEAD


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

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

Now,

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

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

And,

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

However,

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

I was unable to discover if Ms. Smith's Presidential Medal of Freedom will have to be returned. Poppa loves you.

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


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P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

©2019 Mark Mehlmauer As long as you agree to supply my name and URL (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of my website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. You do NOT have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title. 

Grand Tour

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

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 Glossary  

                                  Who the Hell is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Guest Stars 

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

Marie-Louise -- My Muse (GT*)

*Currently Grand Touring 

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


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

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


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

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

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

See, Iggy and Marie-Louise...

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

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

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

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

[Twaddle, twaddle, twaddle!]

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

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

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

Marie-Louise knows how I swing.


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

[Giggling, Dana, really? Grow up!]

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


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

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

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

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

There's a lesson for ya. Poppa loves you.

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


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains. Just click here or on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of my website.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

©2019 Mark Mehlmauer As long as you agree to supply my name and URL (Creative Commons license at the top and bottom of my website) you may republish this anywhere that you please. You do NOT have to include any of the folderol before the greeting or after the closing except for the title of the column. 

 





  

Food For Thought (No. 1)

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

[Blogaramians: Blogarama renders the links in my columns useless. Please click on View Original to solve this problem and access lotsa columns.]

                                                 - Glossary  

                                  - Who The Hell Is This Guy?

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Stars 

Marie-Louise -- My beautiful muse  

Iggy -- My imaginary Sticky

Dana -- My imaginary Gentlereader

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Because?]

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

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

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


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
P.S. Gentlereaders, for 25¢ a week, no, seriously, for 25¢ a week you can become a patron of this weekly column and help to prevent an old crank from running the streets at night in search of cheap thrills and ill-gotten gains. Just click on the Patreon button at the top or bottom of the page.

Your friendly neighborhood crank is not crazy about social media (I am a crank after all) but if you must, you can like me/follow me on Facebook. I post an announcement when I have a new column available as well as news articles/opinion pieces that reflect where I'm coming from or that I wish to call attention to.

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