News That You Can Use

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

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                                   -Image by Alexas Fotos from Pixabay-

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Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I find having a column a very difficult form of journalism. I'm not a natural like Tom Friedman and Anna Quindlen." -Maureen Dowd


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

An article I set aside, forgot about, and recently found, reminded me that I haven't written a News That You Can Use column in quite some time.

The article, a comprehensive overview from a scientific perspective, of how and why our brains have trouble separating truth from falsehood — news that everyone can use — cites several studies and was published last August in the Wall Street Journal.

The bad news, according to the article, is that our distant ancestors, prior to the development of language, formed their beliefs from objects and situations that they experienced directly.

Language is a powerful tool that enables us to network our brains together, however, "We tend to treat language as an extension of our senses, but it is much more open to manipulation."

In other words, language (and images, sounds, etceterounds) can be weaponized. We can even use it to manipulate ourselves.

"There are none so blind as those who will not see." -Unsourceable  

The good news is that a study done at Indiana University by Patricia Moravec
(and other studies have confirmed) indicates that just by finding a way to remind people to stop and consider the fact that what they believe (or are inclined to believe) might not be true, can make a significant difference.

And, that this is a skill that can be taught to kids.

Consider yourselves reminded.

Going forward, every time you're reading or watching something that trips your bonkercockie detector, remember this column and the studies I mentioned and consider buying me and mine some cheap coffee.

[Wait, what? Buy you... You can't do that! Isn't that unethical? Besides...]

See what I did there, Dana? I perpetrated a humbug just so you would kick up a kerfuffle. That little bit of drama will serve as a memory aid that helps you, and my gentlereaders, to remember to be more careful.

[So you don't actually want them to...]


Reaching back a bit further, another article I saved in the same folder, from June 2018 (I'm even further behind than I thought) is called, When is an Ad Not an Ad? written by Madhulika Sikka.

I'm thinking about making his name my pen name. 

As best I can tell Mr. Sikka works/writes for Ricardo Sandoval-Palos, the Public Broadcasting Systems public editor,  "...an independent internal critic within PBS".

When I originally stumbled on this article it immediately caught my interest because being an occasional watcher of PBS, who almost feels guilty about never contributing, even during a Saturday evening begathon, I smelled forgiveness and redemption. 

[What does that smell like?]

Like the sort of Catholic church made of stone, stained glass, and decades of burning candles and incense that I spent a lot of time in a very long time ago. 

I've noticed that PBS has begun running commercials which strikes me as a maximum contradiction in terms. I hadn't looked into it till I accidentally refound the article.

I speculated that, at least according to PBS, The Fedrl Gummit, and maybe even God, that these somehow weren't really commercials.

I read the article and guess what? These aren't really commercials.

The article helpfully includes six videos.

Three pairs of shameless commerce style adverts vs. the enlightened PBS versions — for the exact same product — that aren't really adverts.

At this point, I must apologize to those of my readers that someone prints out my columns for who can't link to the article or watch the video below. I owe you a description; you ain't gettin' one.

I started to write out a summary and was nearly swallowed up by the legal quicksand that saturates the article when it occurred to me that all I had to do was say:

Picture Slick Willie Clinton testifying before a grand jury about his adventures with a 22-year-old White House intern with whom he didn't have sex.

Remember his now (in)famous reply to a question. "It depends upon what the meaning of the word is, is."

That tells you everything you need to know.

Now. You've probably heard about the next article I wish to discuss, "The Perverse Panic Over Plastic" since Greta Thunberg tweeted about it before boarding a private jet and heading off for a little R&R at one of Emperor Xi's re-education resorts.

However, you may not have read it once you discovered it's very long, very detailed, and appeared in the latest issue of City Journal magazine which is published and produced by the Manhattan Institute think tank.

[Just reading the preceding paragraph makes me want to take a nap. Who's got the time to...]

Not to worry, I'm sure USA Today will soon provide a simplified, short synopsis. The cable news channels will likely devote a couple of minutes to breaking it down for the Citizens of the Republic as well.

After all, if we can't rely on our informational gatekeepers to tell us what's really going on, who can we rely on?

While we're waiting, permit me to mention just two things. First, I would posit that the subject of the article is that all the time and money that's been spent on recycling plastic has made everything worse.

The reasons why are explained clearly, logically, and are well documented.

Second, I really, really, really wanted to reproduce the following sentence.

"And if you’re worried about climate change, you’ll cherish those gossamer grocery bags once you learn the facts about plastic." 


Finally, in honor of Freeman Dyson, Matt Ridley, and Bjorg Lomborg — brilliant scientists all, who, like me (your less than brilliant correspondent) accept that global warming is probably real,

BIG BUT...

All of whom have pointed out that there are other ways to think about, maybe even resolve, climate change — I submit some very old news that you can use. It's a video from 1978 narrated by the public intellectual Leonard "Mr. Spock" Nimoy.

[You're not only not brilliant you're just a smarty-pants.]

No comment.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Cranky don't tweet.

Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering
Blogarama Readers: Blogarama renders my links useless, click on view original

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

(Image by Mediamodifier from Pixabay)

"Statistics show that of those who contract the habit of eating, very few survive." -George Bernard Shaw


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

The title of this missive comes from a quote, "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics," one of the many quotes attributed to Mark Twain that shouldn't be. This makes perfect sense given that it's both clever and commonsensically true. Mr. Twain...

[Is commonsensically an actual word? I know that commonsensical is but...]

The results of my in-depth research suggest, Dana, that it's not. However, I like it, it's my column, and my poetic license is valid. This is one of the many reasons I'm running for King, someone who thinks commonsensically should have the final word in these matters.

As I was saying, Mr. Twain is well known, as he should be, for being both clever and his commonsensicality, and those of us, that is to say, all of us, drowning in the Information Ocean could do worse than using his words like a life preserver.

Speaking of life preservers and the Information Ocean, when I was a callowyute a life preserver was a — life preserver  — although I had only seen one in the movies or on TV.

Nowadays we have life preservers, life rings, lifebuoys, lifebuoy rings, boat safety throw rings, etceterings.

However, lifeguards, as far as I can tell, are still just lifeguards. I thought by now they would be called something like aquatic recreation rescue technicians (ARRTs).


This brings us to Cuba's official infant mortality rate, a subject that serves as a perfect illustration of lies, damned lies, and statistics. 

[Huh?]

Bear with me for just a sec'. One of my many mild obsessions is sensemaking. Full disclosure, sensemaking is not the word I came up with for this particular obsession but I've appropriated it.

Sensemaking, according to a Wikipedia entry, "is the process by which people give meaning to their collective experiences." The reason...

[Well duh! Why...]

The reason it has a Wikipedia entry is that there are people that study the process of sensemaking from both psychological and computer science perspectives.

From my perspective, it's the perfect word for the struggle of Joe and Joan Bagadonuts, and all the little Bagadonuts, to derive truth from a daily tsunami of often contradictory information.


In one of my many recent past lives, I found myself cleaning the cafeteria — excuse me, dining hall — late at night, of a small liberal arts college in N.E. Ohio that shall remain nameless on a daily basis.

Once upon a time, this school was known for its high standards and the fact the overwhelming majority of the professors could legitimately add the post-nominal letters Ph.D. to their name.

The profs were still there but due to declining enrollment, standards had been gradually lowered and the institution was now locally well known as a party school.

Although this was several years ago, shortly after the arrival of the new millennium, the woke had begun to wake.

One night when I arrived the entire cafeteria — excuse me, dining hall — had been... decorated (there's no other word for it) with pictures, posters, and propaganda celebrating the Republic of Cuba.

It was as amateurish is it was extensive. It looked like some Heather's sweet sixteen birthday party with a Cuba after the reevoluseeon theme. Apparently, the lower standards had even affected the Future Communists of America club.

Over the course of the next week, all of this bric-a-brac slowly but steadily vanished (must have been mischievous students) but before it did, I had read most of the propaganda sheets. The only one I remember was about how great the free healthcare system was in Castro's paradise.

I've heard this repeated, often, since then. I never looked into it but color me dubious.


A relevant article recently caught my eye. "Why Cuba's Infant Mortality Rate Is so Low" published by the Foundation for Economic Education ("To make the ideas of liberty, familiar, credible, and compelling to a rising generation.")

Since FEE focuses on high school and college students, clearly this was a sign from God.

[OMG! This verbal meandering is actually going somewhere! There may be a point! Perhaps there is a God!]

Patience is a virtue, Dana. It always does and there always is... eventually. Don't scare the gentlereaders, it's just my charmingly eccentric writing style. 

Bottom line? 

Early neonatal deaths: "...defined as the number of children dying during the first week after birth." Makes sense, yes?

Late fetal deaths: "...the number of fetal deaths between the 22nd week of gestation and birth." Makes sense, yes?

Watch carefully to see how the trick is done.

Cuba reports many early neonatal deaths as late fetal deaths. This dramatically and artificially lowers their infant mortality rate (IMR), which is actually much higher than the rates of developed countries. 



Lies, damned lies, and Statistics. If they're lying about these important stats don't you suspect that stories about their wonderful healthcare system might be bullshit?

If you go-a-googlin' you will discover no shortage of articles debunking their reported IMR, and other fictions, from reputable sources — interspaced with articles that unashamedly report their propaganda as fact.

Interesting related side note: Cuba is capitalist when there's good money to be made. Cuba rents enslaved doctors out to anyone willing to pay with the help of an arm of the United Nations that gets a generous cut. 

Running a large island sized prison ain't cheap.  

Rust, weeds, lies, damned lies, statistics — and bullshit — never sleep.      
  
Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me some cheap coffee.  

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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. 

Cranky don't tweet
To make the ideas of liberty familiar, credible, and compelling to the rising 








     

An Interview With the Man Who Would Be King

-Photo by Bret Kavanaugh on Unsplash-

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"I'm not a Republican any more. Not so voraciously anyway - I'm not in favour of the concept of monarchy, but I do see the good in it if there's a good person in the role." -Helen Mirren


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

Dana here. This is an interview with the man who would be king.

I've been after His Royal Crankiness for quite some time to let me write a letter/column.  He's fiercely resisted claiming that what little credibility he has as a yet to go viral columnist, or even pick up a steady gig, might be destroyed.

Some nonsense about inviting an erratically appearing hallucinatory guest star to be a guest columnist might not, in his opinion, be a good business move. 

I helpfully pointed out that, "When you ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose." In other words, he has nowhere to go but up, right?

Strangely enough, this failed to persuade him.

We were arguing about this particular subject when I happened to notice a certain gleam or spark in his eyes every time I used one of his many self-awarded titles, the ones he claims are just jokes.

The one above, His Royal Crankiness, for example.

Your Royal Crankesty, the Crankmeister, Your Garrulousness, etceteraness — even the patently absurd Crankelicious — all produced the same reaction.

Inspiration struck.


I pointed out that he's made clear that he's running for the non-existent office of King of the United States of America but he's provided only a few vague details and no practical steps have been taken.

There's not even a political action committee or super PAC supposedly launched by his grassroots supporters. Everyone knows that when it comes to politics it really is all about the Benjamins.

So anyways, I slyly suggested, while slipping as many of his titles into the conversation as possible, that he let me interview him so that America would know what this was all about and he lit up like a Christmas tree.

My people negotiated with his people and it was agreed that as long as my questions were limited to the campaign and that I provided fresh, warm soft pretzels and ice-cold diet Mountain Dew we would, as they say, do this thing.

I managed to insert in the fine print that we would reverse the usual format ant that my words would be unitalicized and free and that his would be italicized and bracketed for a change.   


So, Mr. Mehlmauer...

[Please, call me Marcus.]

So, Marcus, let's get right to it. You claim to be running for a national office that doesn't actually exist, isn't that right?

[Look at you going all Mike Wallace on me right out of the gate!]

Could you please answer the question, sir

[Well, technically speaking, I suppose you're right.]

Technically speaking?

[The hope is that my base, and enough other Citizens of the Republic, will write my name in when voting for president. I'm betting that once the primaries are over and the choice is the Orange One and what's his name vs. Bloomberg/Hilliam I'll be the rational choice.]

What makes you think that the Hilliam will be the running mate of Mr. Bloomberg? What makes you so sure he'll be the nominee for the top spot? How do you know he'll choose the Hilliam?

[That's three questions, maybe you're not Mike Wallace, perhaps your channeling Phil Donahue, master of the often unanswerable multipart question. I remember this one time...]

Phil who?

[Follow the link. First, the only thing that will end the bottomless political ambitions of the female half of the Hilliam is a stake through the heart. Mighty Mike is pushing 80 and if he doesn't go quickly and quietly they'll just... Well, you figure it out.

Second, who's a better choice for the (D)epublicans that Mighty Mike who switches to whatever party is necessary when there's an election that needs purchasing?

Answer to your third question: Matt Drudge, the ultimate click baiter and master of deniable subtle shadings said so recently on the Drudge Report... Sort of.]

What if one of the other (D)ebpublicans manages to...

[I'll still be the rational choice. I'm the one person in the race that truly doesn't want to win. The only one that truly doesn't want to the Monarch of America.]

We'll be right back.


In the good/bad? ole days CBS would run a commercial at this point. When we returned to the interview, Mike Wallace would take a big drag on his cigarette, elaborately exhale, spread his arms wide and say:

"But Sir, you say you're running to be the King of the United States of America!?!"

[Correct, and you've cleverly and helpfully pointed out there is no such position. Now, ask the obvious question.]

I would put to you, sir, that this is just an elaborate publicity stunt! That you are cynically exploiting the Citizens of the Republic!

[I would put to you, sir, that that ain't a question. That you have learned to practice purple journalism at the knees of Phil Donahue, Mike Wallace, and Matt Drudge.

Since we're running low on allocated words, permit me to explain myself.

If elected king/president I will appoint three administrators. One each for the East Coast, Flyoverland, and the Left Coast to deal with day to day administration and who answer directly to me. 

With the help of the members of my carefully chosen privy council, I will issue only absolutely necessary executive orders. 

We will offer suggestions and advice to Congress, the branch of government that, according to the Constitution, being all the people's representatives, is where the power is supposed to lie -- not in the White House. 

Most importantly, I'll make it my mission in life to pass a constitutional amendment that sets term limits for the people's representatives 

and, 

to get a series of simple, straight forward laws passed that limit the power of the unelected members of the hooge and powerful administrative state.]

Wait, you can't...

[Thanks for coming out. Feel free to take some pretzels home with you.]

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me some cheap coffee.  

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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. 

Cranky don't tweet. 








      

Calling Out Google Privilege

-Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay-

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"We want Google to be the third half of your brain." -Sergey Brin


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

Recently, I wrote about white privilege. In the course of researching that letter, I learned a lot and now it's time to call out Google privilege. I'm a current events junkie and if what I've been able to surmise is correct...

WARNING! - Your semi-humble correspondent is wrong with disturbing regularity!

Googlers are, for the most part, proudly and overwhelmingly members of the Blue tribe.

Which is fine, it's still a relatively free country. Now...

You know... At this point, a more garrulous and less woke and loving man than myself might digress and point out that in spite of the fact some of our friends on the left predicted that the Orange One was going to dissolve the Republic and declare himself King Donald the first it never happened.

His political opponents haven't been incarcerated in secret FEMA camps and...

No, wait, secret FEMA camps is a conspiracy meme embraced by some of our friends on the right, right? Wait a sec', I...

[Cough, cough. Google privilege?] 

Thanks, Dana.


Google privilege is double privilege. First of all, it's white male privilege.

Despite literally years of wailing and gnashing of teeth by the Blue tribe, and even though the Googlers excommunicated James Damore for the sin of speculating that perhaps many women are too smart and too civilized to want to join Eric Schmidt and the boys on the creepy line...

“The Google policy on a lot of things is to get right up to the creepy line and not cross it.” -Eric Schmidt, former Google CEO

"Google crosses the creepy line every day." -Dr. Robert Epstein

Google is plagued by white (and to a lesser extent, yellow) male privilege.  

Your semi-humble correspondent dug up and read not one, but two Wired magazine articles chock full of charts and statistics so that my gentlereaders wouldn't have to. 

Both report that Google (and the other techmosters) are overwhelmingly staffed by white and Asian men in spite of literally billions of bucks and billions of words spent on the quest for diversity. 

It makes me wonder if most of the members of the 1,001 officially recognized gender/racial/ethnic/sexual/etceteral identity groups are actually more concerned with the selfish pursuit of happiness than they are with diversity. 

However, given all the folks who make a living, directly or indirectly, from the diversity business:

Writers of magazine articles, the Infotainment industry, HR departments, college administrators, politicians, bureaucrats employed by the gummits and The Fedrl Gummit, consultants, etceterants...

Too much diversity too fast might bring on a recession.        


The Goog also benefits from disruption privilege. The Silicon Valley techies worship at the altar of disruption. Why? because as famous bank robber Willie didn't actually say, "That's where the money is."

For the record, Mr. Sutton, in his autobiography, modestly admits that he never actually said it, that some reporter or other made it up to spice up an article and it caught on.

I dunno though... Hard to imagine that a member of the fourth estate would put their integrity, dignity, and credibility on the line for profit and job security. 

The sort of billionaires that apparently will never have enough money (serial accumulators?) and the wannabe billionaires who are living in the Goog's parking lot dream of "disrupting" (destroying) an established industry via software and/or cutting edge hardware to make a name and a pile.

Another for the record: All I want is six million (with an m, not a b) and you'll never hear from me again (I've got it all planned out). 

If any one of my tens of readers happens to be an absurdly rich tech lord (I'm talkin' to you Ev Williams) and would like me to shut up and/or suspend my campaign to be the first king of the United States, please email me at: 
theflyoverlandcrank@gmail.com.


Anyways, for a group of people, the majority of whom I'll wager consider themselves to be members of the Social Justice Warrior National Guard or Reserve, they don't seem overly concerned with the fate of the disruptees.

They don't discriminate though. This applies equally to their fellow Democrats as well as the Deplorables and Bitter Clingers of the Red tribe.

[What about that Universal Basic Income thingy? A lot of 'em support that.]

Yeah — paid for with additional taxes on everybody. As you're well aware, Dana I'd prefer that the Pete's Pals and Bernie-bros that make a living from slicing, dicing, and selling our data cut us in before The Fedrl Gummit steps in and makes everything worse.

Speaking of which, Bernie? Seriously dude? The professional socialist of little accomplishment, net worth $2,500,000, owner of three homes, even older than me who recently had a heart attack? 

And while I'm at it... Pete? Is a 38-year old whose political claim to fame is running a small city with mixed results what we're looking for? I think...

[You're ranting and digressing again and you're nearly out of words... And regardless, Sleepy Joe and Fauxcahauntos are hangin' in. And don't forget Bloomberg, he's got a ton of executive experience and he's so dedicated to public service that he bought a third term as mayor, despite term limits, knowing NYC still needed him.]

The Donald vs. One of the above. Hoo-boy.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

Please scroll down to react, comment, or share. If my work pleases you I wouldn't be offended if you offered to buy me some cheap coffee.  

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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. 

Cranky don't tweet. 

The 1963 Jeep Pickup Truck

The Crank's close encounter with a 1963 Jeep pickup truck

-Image by Markus Distelrath from Pixabay- 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Technology is constantly improving our lives. Look at the cellular telephone. Just ten years ago, virtually nobody was able to get into a car crash caused by trying to steer and dial at the same time; today, people do this all the time." 
                                                                                              -Dave Berry 



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

I, Marcus Mehlmauer, a.k.a. Flyoverland Crank, do hereby certify and affirm that the following account is 91.39% true. I invoked the rights and privileges granted by my poetic license lightly and tastefully.


Recently, I was in the process of returning home after picking up my oldest granddaughter at work. I was driving my daughter's car. The burger distribution point Sticky #2 works at is less than a 10-minute drive away.

I was using my daughter's car instead of mine because it's much newer, has a much better sound system, and primarily because it was parked much closer to the front door than my car, which was parked "out back."

I put my right turn signal on and had made it about a foot into the driveway when someone decided to pass us (my granddaughter's best friend, probationary Sticky #5, and my youngest grandson, Sticky #4, were along for the ride) — on the right.

To accomplish this... let's call him Dick to protect his privacy, Dick had to drive up on the sidewalk of our next-door neighbor's house, squeeze between us and an oak tree in my front yard and skid to stop about a foot short of a telephone pole.

He was now parked on our portion of the sidewalk.


Dick, as you can tell, is one hell of a driver.

Unfortunately, he clipped the door behind which Sticky 2 was sitting and the right front fender of my daughter's formerly pretty and pristine SUV, Ms. Iddybiddy, (her horn sounds like it came out of a toy car) as he went sailing by in a 1963 jeep pickup truck made of cast iron.

We exchanged obligatory you okays? and through gritted teeth, I inquired as to why he had just done what he had just done. He calmly replied that since I had signaled that I was turning left he had decided to pass me on the right.

I pointed out there were three passengers in my car who would beg to disagree as to which turn signal I had employed. This remark provoked a reaction I would describe as air slowly leaving a balloon.

I also pointed out that most folks — even if what he claimed was true — not having his superior driving skills, would have stopped and waited patiently rather than drive through my front yard and that I thought this might have been the more prudent choice on his part.


I initiated a document exchange and dispatched one of the kids to get mom and dad — and call the cops out of earshot of Dick — who was having a spot of trouble trying locating the relevant documentation for what he said was his friend's truck.

Realizing what might have happened to me or my passengers if Dick wasn't such a talented driver and had rear-ended us, or hit the aforementioned door harder, my legs began to tremble as shock and surprise were shoved aside by anger.

I was about to approach Dick (shuffling through the contents of the truck's glove box) and um... express my displeasure when my daughter, son-in-law, and more Stickies appeared and four SUVs of the local constabulary pulled up, one right after the other in front of our house, lights flashing.


I changed my mind and stood off to one side. As I took in deep breaths of the cold, clean night air it occurred to me that if I were driving by I would think there was a significant drug bust in progress or that at least a heinous murderer had been cornered in my house and hostages taken.

I also noticed, that in spite of this festival of emergency lights, many people were driving by way too fast, all things considered. You'd think they would slow down to get a good look at a 1963 Jeep pickup truck that was more primer than paint and parked on the sidewalk.

The gummit of our rusty little town suffers from chronic cash flow problems and has for years. In spite of this, our unionized gummit employees struggle to maintain services at the highest possible level.

For example, they're currently objecting to volunteers from a prison a few rusty towns over going around picking up trash occasionally. Clearly not the way to maintain high standards. 

Forgive the digression but I was thinking of suggesting that a couple of the unionized cops should be handing out tickets and turning this non-crisis into a profitable evening.

But now I was asked to produce relevant documents and to tell my story and I decided they likely field enough helpful suggestions, and take enough crap, so I didn't bring it up.

The fact that the two cops that were processing me repeatedly voiced some version of, "He passed you on the right by driving through your yard?!?" and were struggling to repress grins restored me to my happy place in short order.


Anyways, It took a while but eventually, all the eyes were dotted and all the teas were crossed. Unfortunately for Dick, he was officially cited. It seems that it's against the law to pass by driving through someone's front yard regardless of the extenuating circumstances: real, imagined, or hallucinated.

[Well, all's well that ends well, right?]

Right, Dana.

After being interrogated, at great length, by my daughter's insurance company like a suspected murderer "in the box" of your favorite police drama, "Why were you using your daughter's car and not your car"...

Just like on TV, the same questions were asked six different ways to make sure the perp wasn't lying. I was hoping I wasn't going to be beaten with a phone book.

After spending five days and dealing with four cops to get the screwed up official accident report amended...

After waiting for three weeks (and counting) waiting on my daughter's insurance company to tell us what's what...

A glimmer of light has been spotted at the end of the tunnel.

Also, my faith in my fellow man has been restored. There are all sorts of lawyers and chiropractors sending notes of concern and asking if they can help.

[What's a phone book?]
         
Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Cranky don't tweet.
     

White Privilege

-Image by Barbara Bonanno from Pixabay- 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so, too." -Voltaire


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

Please bear with me while I lay a foundation for some thoughts on White Privilege.

I'm an unattractive, old, white, heterosexual, cisgendered dude.

For a while there I self-identified as a gorgeous, young, black, lesbian dudette by the name of Cocoa (picture Halle Berry) who was trapped in the body of an unattractive, old, white, heterosexual, cisgendered dude — named Mark.

However, in the course of spending nearly two years in a secret monastery in the Wudang Mountains of China in search of enlightenment (so secret there's not even a gift shop or restaurant to serve the tourist trade), Cocoa was reabsorbed into the one soul.

I'm still not enlightened, but I came to realize that Cocoa was a false persona created by my formerly fragile ego to cope with what I used to regard as a veritable blitzkrieg of existential threats.

[Used to regard? How do ya repel a blitzkrieg of...]

Embrace the Way of Ishkabibble.

[Pray tell, Cranky Tzu, what is the Way of Ishkabibble?] 

Well, Dana, the word itself is a faux Yiddish, archaic slang word that's been around for over a hundred years that was originally translated as "I should worry!" with a sarcastic twist that rendered it "Don't worry!" or "Who Cares?".

The definitive, relatively modern translation, in my semi-humble opinion, that captures the full meaning of the concept behind the word is expressed in the motto of the immortal Alfred E. Newman, "What, me worry?".

A more recent translation is the repellent, "What-ever" with the second half of the word accented enough to match an actual or implied eye roll. Yet another indicator of a culture in decline.

[That's a, uh, deep foundation ya got there, not Cocoa, but the title of this missive, if I can remember that far back, is White Privilege, yes?]

Yes, indeed.


Recently, I was thinking about the whole white privilege meme in light of the aforementioned personal existential threats  — past, present, and potential — in the course of a rough day when I wasn't basking in the usual warm glow of my privilege.

Just one example, if you please.

If you're over fifty years old in this country, and certainly no shortage of other countries,

And,

If you don't embody some version of pretty, successful, fit, healthy, and at least locally famous — the order and importance of the adjectives vary  — you are effectively invisible, and scheduled for deletion.

Being blessed, like me, with having actual loved ones mitigates this condition somewhat.

I chose this particular example because regardless of who or what you identify as, or actually are, this applies to everyone, even those of you still young enough to assume you'll live forever. Even those of you playing some version of the __ is the new 40 game.

I'm not going to mention my health problems, my financial problems, my severe case of recurring Been There/Done That/Is That All There Is disease with complications from Glass Half Full syndrome.

I'm not even going to bring up... Well, nevermind.

Ishkabibble.


Intuiting that I might be onto something interesting, I consulted that indispensable and unassailable compendium of knowledge, Wikipedia. 

"White privilege denotes both obvious and less obvious passive advantages that white people may not recognize they have, which distinguishes it from overt bias or prejudice." 

This paragraph ends with, "The concept of white privilege also implies the right to assume the universality of one's own experiences, marking others as different or exceptional while perceiving oneself as normal."

Yes, definitely interesting. 

The next paragraph, from which I will not quote, delves into... Well, while I'm obviously not a highly trained, tenured professor in either the field of whiteness studies or critical race theory...

[There's no such thing as whiteness studies, you're makin' that up! And as far as...] 

Nuh-uh, as Donnie Baker would say, "I swear to God, you can look it up." 

Anyways, I would describe the next paragraph as a summary of the reasons the experts in these cutting edge new fields of study don't agree about exactly what white privilege is. 

The rest of this exhaustive article, that boasts 176 citations confirms this, but obviously, they're working hard on it. I suspect that they will continue, undaunted, till they get to the bottom of things. 



While we wait, I, a humble layperson, can't help but wonder if any of the scholars in these two fields  — both privileged, tenured profs and their personal slaves, grad students and postdocs, have given any thought to the following.

In their fearless pursuit of the truth — even the currently fashionable, untestable, and unverifiable version of truth, the oft-mentioned lived experience — have they considered that this may all be a bunch of crap.  

[Excuse me! You can't just...]

Sure I can. There's a warning label at the beginning of every column and anyone that knows me and/or has read more than a column or two knows, I'm Mark-Mark the cute and cuddly Panda bear. 

Behold the wisdom (and rewrite) of Cranky Tzu: 

"Smart/athletic/funny/perceptual/beautiful/etceteral privilege denotes both obvious and less obvious passive advantages that white people H. sapiens may or may not recognize they have, which distinguishes it from overt bias or prejudice."


Most of us have some sort of innate, unearned ability that many of the rest of us don't and that we often as not take for granted. All of us employ bias and prejudice deduced from our lived experience, overtly and otherwise, just to get through the damn day.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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The Three Wise Men

A Mr. Cranky's neighborhood column

-Image by Prawny from Pixabay-

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

                  
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"The Supreme Court has ruled that they cannot have a nativity scene in Washington, D.C. This wasn't for any religious reasons. They couldn't find three wise men and a virgin." -Jay Leno

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

There are three gentle men who live in my neighborhood that my daughter has nicknamed, respectfully not sarcastically, the three wise men. Fortunately for her, unlike her old man, sarcasm is not an automatic, go-to reaction.

I don't see them very often and I'm always surprised when I do because they're obviously living in a different movie than I am so they sort of jolt me out of my comfortable rut for a few seconds when I encounter them.

Recently, while puttering about in the kitchen, I happened to look up and out of the picture window that looks out across a narrow side yard and provides a scenic view of a small porch/main entrance of the house next door where My Favorite Mormons live.

[Readers of a certain age may remember the sitcom, My Favorite Morman, from the early sixties.]

As to the why of said picture windows scenic view, both of the houses in question are very old and were modified multiple times before me and mine came along. There are myriad examples of odd architectural juxtapositions throughout the neighborhood.

Two of the three wise men were making their rounds, collecting aluminum cans
from various porches throughout our hood that people set aside for them so they can make a few extra bucks by recycling them.

One is actually more likely to encounter only two of the three gentle men in question as one of them has health problems that often keep him at home.

All three of them are developmentally disabled, a term I much prefer to the one commonly used till recently. This is one occasion in which I'm comfortable siding with the armies of political correctness.

Just a sec', I better check. I'll be right back...

Hoo-boy, I may not be woke after all. The proper term depends on who you believe. Ain't livin' in the information age great?


Anyways, one was as tall as the other one was short. They were wearing matching bright red Ohio State jackets and knit caps. The tall one was tossing cans off the porch. The short one was picking them up, one by one, and putting them in a trash bag.

When they were done the shorter one linked arms with the taller one as they toddled away, seeming to need the support.

My daughter knows them better than I do. When I occasionally encounter them when I'm in the midst of one of my two (in theory) daily one mile walks, I can see, and feel, their apprehension.

I always make a point of smiling broadly and saying, "Gentle men, how are you today?" to put them at ease. They always seem relieved and respond with a generic, "Good, how are you?"

If they notice the pause between gentle and men they're unimpressed, but it makes me feel kind, literary, and lyrical.

That rude noise you just heard was a snort of derision by Dana.

I don't know if their apprehension is the result of my physical appearance — large head, no neck, tank shaped torso and a mug that I'm told makes me look like I work for Tony Soprano if I'm not smiling — or the fact they've probably taken a lot of crap from not so gentle men.

I hope it's the former but it's probably both.


It's a very long walk from their house, at the other end of the neighborhood and far beyond my one-mile circuit, to the bridge that crosses over a large creek (that locals claim is, and label accordingly, a river) to downtown Hooterville (my label) where they do their grocery shopping at the Sparkle market.

[Other readers of a certain age may remember another sitcom from the sixties called Petticoat Junction that featured a town named Hooterville.]

(Rusty) Hooterville is a bit different than the one in the sitcom. Drucker's store is now a saloon called the Dream Bar. Homer Bedloe is long gone and the train still runs. Now it's subsidized by The Fedrl Gummit and loses $1,200,000 a year.

The Shady Rest Hotel, now called Uncle Joe's Motel, owned and operated by Betty Jo Bradly, has been closed by a temporary restraining order since the city went to court seeking to have it declared a public nuisance after a recent spike in heroin overdoses as well as long unaddressed building code violations.

[Ahem...]

I'm on it, Dana.

The reason my daughter knows them better than I is that she gives them rides if she sees them walking to or from Sparkle Market. She not only doesn't look like one of Tony's employees she's one of those people, like her late mom, that people immediately like and trust.

I don't have that gift. If I pulled up and offered them a ride they would probably run. But I am pretty good at preventing people from sitting next to me on a bus just by looking at them. In my defense, I only do this if there are other seats available, and people are always pleasantly surprised if I smile and turn on the charm. Well, usually.

My daughter is the reason that I know why one of them often stays home, and where their home is. She also informs me that the short one (oops, height-challenged?) is the de facto leader and that they all have jobs working for a local non-profit that employs developmentally disabled(?) folks.

Sometimes, when I'm thinking about/bitching about my anemic fixed income and/or my health problems I think about the three wise men and I'm grateful. Well, sometimes. And no, I don't know what happened to Tony, he never calls.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Cranky don't tweet.