Cars

Image by smarko from Pixabay 

                    Self Indulgent Nostalgia Series (S.I.N.S No. 3)

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.

[The following missive is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"If your car could travel at the speed of light, would your headlights work?"
                                                                                   -Steven Wright


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

I am an American of a certain age; my life has revolved around cars. Well, except for the first 12.75 years. Although I anticipate that eventually, I'll (more or less) gracefully give up driving, or more likely, my loved ones and/or Big Brother will confiscate my keys, I'm safe for now.

I confess that I've always loved the freedom a car provides -- and that I'm not even a little bit worried/feel guilty about my carbon footprint (science and the market will solve this problem if The Gummit and the Greenies stop helping them so much) -- but I only enjoy driving on slow hand roads. I've never been into speed for its own sake. I hate freeways.

Now that I'm an oldish Sexy Seasoned Citizen (I turned 39 for the 27th time this Summer) I'd rather have a driver, but I want my own vehicle parked in the driveway heated garage for when I do feel like driving.

If there was any justice in the world, I'd be a wealthy man with a world-class personal assistant whom I would cheerfully pay a world-class salary. One of his duties would be to drive me around in a not white, nondescript, commercial-sized van with a cap and a suspension modified for comfort -- and equipped with all the amenities of your average Rolls-Royce.

                                                  *    *    *

Prior to the age of 12.75, I lived in inner-city Pittsburgh (with an h) Pennsylvania. The first ten of these years were the last ten years of the Black&White Ages.

Just about all the necessary minimum requirements for survival could be met within walking distance of home. Multiple corner stores where, if one's cash flow was a mere trickle on a given day, a gumball could be purchased for a penny and you might get a metal gumball that could be turned in for a prize.

[Imagine what the lawyers would do with metal gumballs nowadays. If you bit into/swallowed one back then you might tell your mum, certainly no one else lest you be labeled a maroon.]

There were all sorts of pizza and burger joints, almost none of which were the local outlet of a national chain. Somehow their food was seasoned with a certain undefinable essence that doesn't come in a container.

This, of course, wasn't necessarily a good thing but any neighborhood kid with a clue knew where to eat and where to avoid by the age of seven at the latest.

Also, I must give a shout out to a regional chain, White Tower, that made the best burgers I've ever had. I know this is true because, although now long gone, they were still around when I was on the verge of gruphood.

Their burgers were seasoned with a secret blend of herbs and spices (why does that sound familiar?) that did come in a container. You could buy it by the can and if it still existed I'd pay a hunnert bucks to get my hands on one.

There were pinball machines shoehorned into all sorts of places (analog games rule!) that cost a nickel for five balls.

We had both a Good Humor and a Mr. Softee Truck (the baby boom was booming). 

You could buy a hearth-baked soft pretzel from a corner pretzel vendor the size and shape of a large thumb for a penny.

You could...

[What's any of this drivel got to do with cars?]

Oh yeah, thanks Dana, my point is/was you didn't need a car to access the necessities of life. You could even buy crap like groceries, shoes, and clothes within walking distance of your house, and walk to school without being on the lookout for rusty white vans with cracked windshields.

[Before I forget, a shout-out for the 12th Street playground and the 22nd street playground/swimming pool. Oh, and 5 cent vanilla, chocolate, or cherry cokes mixed up on the spot and served at drug store soda fountains.]   

                                                  *    *    *

Anyways...

When I was 12.75 years old, we moved to the 'burbs. My mom and dad bought their first house. It was tiny and they could barely afford it but for the first time since they had gotten married, they owned a home.

There was well water to drink, grass to cut, and woods bordering on the back yard. There was even a small creek not far from the house that came with factory-installed mosquitos and a varying selection of aftermarket, discarded junk.

There was a tiny shopping center with a hardware store, a bank, and a drugstore about a half-mile away. The nearest supermarket was several miles away. We didn't own a car and couldn't afford one. Besides, my old man, mid-fifties and a confirmed city boy who had never owned (or driven) a car was an unlikely candidate for drivers Ed.

Ruh-roh Raggy!   (To be continued...)

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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                                                     *    *    *

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

Or, If you do your Amazon shopping by clicking on one of Amazon links on my site, Amazon will toss a few cents in my direction every time you buy something.

Or, you can just buy me a coffee.  

                                                   *    *    *

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

Writers Who Write About Writing

Image by waldryano from Pixabay

Marketing never sleeps -- Food For Thought (Vol. 3)


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.

[The following column is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"Writing is easy, all you have to do is cross out the wrong words." -Mark Twain


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

Fugiden. I'm just going to write. I like it.

[If this is your idea of a hot first sentence that will immediately hook the reader...]

I write from the heart and the brain, Dana. Inspired, of course, by my muse Marie-Louise. I've looked into how you're s'posed to hook readers, even how to make some money for your efforts. I've given up and decided to just roll with my intuition because:

1. Very few writers will ever quit their day job. Very few writers will ever generate more than chump change for their literary blood, sweat, and tears.

2. There's no such thing as consensus, not even close, from writers successful and otherwise, as to winning formulae.

I've recently become mildly obsessed with Medium.com. It's a site for writers of all stripes to showcase their writing.

There are virtual communities there devoted to writers writing about writing. There's no shortage of writers willing to teach writers how to write for a modest fee, or even for free -- if you sign up for their newsletter. Newsletters, it seems, are a very big deal.

One of the things that writers on Medium who write about writing write about is, somewhat obsessively, marketing. That's why you need a newsletter. Newsletters are about building a subscriber list -- for marketing purposes.

Marketing never sleeps. But to be fair, writers who write about writing regularly write about writing for the sheer joy of it. As a way for creators to uncork their creativity knowing full well that most creators, writers or otherwise, will never monetize their work.

[So it goes. But one well-crafted story/song/painting, hell, t-shirt, might just change the world -- for someone. You'll probably never know, but perhaps life will toss a couple of quarters into your karma bank.] 

Marketing includes trying to suss out the opaque, top-secret system Medium.com uses to determine who gets promoted and who gets paid, why, and how much. If ya go a-googlin' 'round the web you'll encounter the same thing.

You'll encounter more advice on how to evangelize/monetize your work than you could ever possibly assimilate.

You can choose to go the technical route, become a Google Analytics maven and an expert on search engine optimization. That is to say, try and suss out what the Algorithmites are up to and how to please them. If you don't want to do this yourself there are no shortage of experts willing to help you out at all possible price points.

Be sure and sign up for the free newsletter! If you do you'll receive discounts on any purchases you might make in the future.

Alternatively, you could eliminate the middleperson, go down to the crossroads, and sell your soul to the devil. Don't think that's a thing? How do you explain the fact that _______ is obscenely rich?

There's another approach that combines analytics with (at least according to some, not me) selling your soul. In my semi-humble opinion as long as your audience knows where you're coming from any (more or less) legal way of keeping the wolf from the door that doesn't have a victim is nunya.

Nunya is Pittsburghese (with an h) for none of your damn business.

You can become some version or other of an influencer. If you can convince enough people how smart and/or cool and/or pretty and/or hip and/or popular and/or etcetular you are you can hawk products to the little people and get paid for it.

This is a huge industry that runs the gamut from people (and media outlets) that provide product reviews that are honest about the fact they're getting paid, to certain Celebs that are apparently incapable of accumulating enough money/adulation/time spent in front of a camera to be satisfied.

It's just not how I roll, which is my problem. In the highly unlikely event I ever become a Celeb I'll cross that bridge when I encounter a river of filthy lucre or a mountain of bills.

Fugiden. I'm just going to write. I like it.

I'm going to write about whatever I want to write about and beg for table scraps on my website via Patreon, Buy Me a Coffee, and Amazon adverts. Has anyone tried sacrificing whatever the appropriate animal is to Mercury? (god of communication). Call me...


Speaking of masterful marketing: many of those same Celebs referenced above passionately participate in the currently popular pastime of beating up on the evil 1%, which is morphing into the evil 10%, a club which any Celeb worthy of the name likely belongs to.

But even the evil one-percenters willing to declare themselves woke and publically self-flagellate themselves if necessary can avoid prosecution by the Intersectional Inquisition -- with the right marketing. Wokeness is even cooler than the current hot smartphone.

For example, in case you missed it, Kim Kardashian, famous primarily for being famous, has confessed she's embarrassed by her obsession -- with being famous. Fortunately, she has found mitigation for her angst. In her own words:

"Even in my darkest times I don't regret putting myself out there for the world to see, people have shared with me over the years how much it has helped them to feel less alone when dealing with their own adversity. I love having a voice and I appreciate the platform that I have been given."

She selflessly shared this with the world in an in-depth interview. By her husband. In Vogue Arabia. She's gonna be a lawyer too.      

[Vogue Arabia, what the hell is Vogue...]

Just click the link, Dana, There's lots and lots and lots of pretty pictures with minimal distracting text. Personally, I think she's shaped like the handbell that Sister Mary McGillicuddy used to call us in from recess with but...

I better stop there, S'ter Mary wouldn't approve. And I don't begrudge Mrs. West her fame or a single one of her many, many dimes. I am, after all, a wild-eyed libertarian and free marketeer (with a bleeding heart and conservative impulses).

Fugiden. I'm just going to write. I like it.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, share, assuage guilt, or shop at Amazon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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. 

Or, If you do your Amazon shopping by clicking on one of Amazon links on my site, Amazon will toss a few cents in my direction every time you buy something.

Or, you can just buy me a coffee.  

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









  

Global Whining

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.

[The following column is rated SSC (Sexy Seasoned Citizens). If read by grups or callowyutes it may result in psychological/emotional/etceteralogical triggering.]


                                                 Glossary  

                                                   About

Irregularly Appearing Imaginary Guest Star: Dana -- A gentlereader

"We know how to take care of one another without whining and accusing and bellyaching." -Mike Gallagher


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

I don't know what the world will be like by the time you read this, re-read this, or if you will ever read this. This being one of my letters to the eventual yous. That's who I'm writing this for.

See, even if one of you existing Stickies were to suddenly become a devoted reader you would miss much of what I'm at least trying to communicate.

Therefore, I write to/for the eventual yous and my current gentlereaders.

Please don't think I'm disparaging the current yous. You're all still pretty young yet; you range in age from barely teenagers to one barely young adult. And even if you read every single letter every ten years or so you'll be reading different letters each time. Also, you won't really have a clue as to what's really going on here till you're full-fledged grups, which won't happen till you're 25, 30 years old.

This isn't because I'm particularly smart, it's the nature of life on Earth.

Two things.

In spite of the fact our current relationships aren't always conducted in sunshine and unicorns mode, I like all of you just as you currently are. If you belonged to my fellow geezer across the way I'd still like you as you currently are. I'm very lucky.

The other thing is that if you live your lives as consciously and honestly as I suspect you all will, you will keep evolving into slightly to radically different (hopefully better) versions of yourselves as the decades roll by.

While the elapsed time between noticing that, "Hey, it's only been _______ years since _______ and I'm a different person now" will shorten, they will never end.

Not if you're doing it right.

Beware of becoming a caricature of a younger version of yourself.


And now, on with our show. This week's life lesson: Don't Choose to Be a Victim.

Although there's no shortage of deluded H. sapiens loose in the world who still maintain, in spite of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that global whining is a hoax/fraud/scam of some sort, face facts, don't be a denier.

This advice assumes, of course, that by the time you read this it's not too late.

That the deniers have triumphed, and that you're living in a world that can hardly imagine what it would be like to wake up in the morning not beset by overwhelming anxiety/envy/self-pity/resentment/etceterament and the desire for revenge and reparation from whomever you blame for everything that's wrong with your life; everything that's wrong with the world.

That things are so bad that your psych meds need constant adjustment. That the only sure-fire way to calm yourself down, after a hit on your inhaler to help you catch your breath, is checking your balance to make sure you've received your allowance from the Council of the Cognitive Elite (CCE).

               We've got this, just relax. Remember, take your meds.
   This comforting reminder is brought to you by your neighborhood CCE.

That once you calm down, check your work assignment to decide if you need to take a mental health day, pour yourself a cup of organic, locally sourced, caffeine-free, vitamin and nutrient supplemented comfort beverage and turn on the main screen,

That

You're not confronted with the sight of a half a million lean and hungry members of Maximum Leader Xi's Peoples Liberation Army streaming across
our compassionately wide-open northern and southern borders -- and break out in hives from head to toe.

[Respect, no one can digress like you do your garrulousness!]

I'm not digressing, Dana, I'm merely painting a colorful, imaginative literary landscape accurately portraying the dystopian future if we don't do something about global whining, now.

[Accurately?]

Yes, the research labs of Crank LLC have created elaborate, insanely complicated computer models generated by Algorithmites that were, um, borrowed from the CCE. But all ya need do is look around, see what's right in front of you. The damage is already manifesting here, there, and everyfreakinwhere.

[Could you be a little more vague?]

I could be mind-numbingly specific. That is to say, I could cite endless examples with appropriate links and screenshots from the Twitterverse alone that would make my case.

I could point out that the culture is marinating in Purple Journalism 24x7x365.

I could point...

[Alright-alright-alright. Point taken. Enlighten me then, Cranky one, is it too late or can Earth be saved from the scourge of global whining?] 

Only if everyone does their part to implement Historical Contextualization.


[What, on Earth, is...]

It's really quite simple, but with a big, hairy name it will get much more attention.

My big breakthrough came when I recently discovered that there are "...experts in the burgeoning field of existential risk." (ER?)

That is to say, I read some articles on Medium.com, doom and gloom themed essays, written by the author of "End Times: A Brief Guide to the End of the World," Bryan Walsh.

No, he's not a religious fundamentalist, he's a former editor of the formerly formidable (but now somewhat down on its luck) TIME magazine. He's one of the experts in the "burgeoning field of existential risk"; yes Virginia, it's a thing. Go a-googlin' and you'll find books, experts, think tanks, non-profits, studies, and etceteries.

Burgeoning indeed. People are being paid to study, worry about, and propose solutions to potential pending apocalypses. It's an industry. The Algore is an accidental mogul. Intellectual masturbation is big business.

[What's this got to do with...]

Historical Contextualization? One day my parents were minding their own and the economy of the United States of America collapsed. While they were dealing with that a global war broke out, the second one in their lifetimes in fact -- a good old fashioned us or them everything is on the line brew haha.

Then everything settled down, well, sorta/kinda. Next, there was a global cold war that featured no shortage of local hot wars that included the death and destruction that traditional war is famous for.   

Life on Earth is, was, and ever shall be an unending existential risk, be it personal or societal. Google the word plague.

The only question is how shall we live while waiting for the massive, high-velocity asteroid to hit? On the bright side, this will free us from our robot overlords as we huddle together on small patches of permanently polluted high ground.

The only rational, realistic, life-affirming, we all have to share the playground answer is do what you can to make your life, everyone's life, less shitty and more enjoyable -- today.

Set your knee-jerk tribal loyalties and ideology aside and base your actions on what actually is and what's actually possible.

Give thanks that the world is so prosperous that people can make a good living by being professional whiners.

[Tell 'em about the video.]

Oh yeah, and start every day by watching this video.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, share, assuage guilt, or shop at Amazon.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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. 

Or, If you do your Amazon shopping by clicking on one of Amazon links on my site, Amazon will toss a few cents in my direction every time you buy something.

Or, you can just buy me a coffee.  

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