While You Were Self-Isolating...

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.

                  
                             -Image by Mylene2401 from Pixabay- 

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

"If isolation tempers the strong, it is the stumbling-block of the uncertain." -Paul Cezanne


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

Most of us, my fellow Citizens of the Republic (CORs) — with certain exceptions like the brave young scholars who participated in the nation's annual Beach Bacchanalia and some undeterrable members of the clergy and their flocks — have and are self-isolating as best we can to "flatten the curve."

Unfortunately, the Purple Press has pivoted from All the Donald All the Time to All the Donald and COVID-19 All the Time.

Much important news floats by like wispy clouds on a summer day, barely noticed. Infotainment rules.


Prior to the pandemic, the primary focus of the All the Donald All the Time coverage was about busting, and busting on, the Orange One.

The FBI was manipulated into a high powered and secret investigation authorized by the FISA court (that's supposed to be on our side) by a country run by a dick tater who enjoys posing topless and has a GDP roughly the size of the state of Texas (Russia).

-Image by Ирик Яров from Pixabay -

The FBI then manipulated the FISA court (created by the Foreign Intelligence Survalience Act) into authorizing the secret investigation of the Trump campaign.

Let the games begin!

Our nation's top law enforcement agency, an arm of the Justice Department of the United States of America, played the part of the kid that can be counted on to show up at the "my parents are out of town for the weekend" party with hard liquor and primo weed.

Result?

A global investigation by a special prosecutor that went nowhere. Price tag, $32,000,000.

Three years of congressional investigations that resulted in the Donald's impeachment — for something else. Verdict, acquitted.

Three years of Purple Press click-baiting and hysterical talking heads and hysterically hilarious press conferences and briefings.

[You have a keen eye for the obvious, your crankesty, tell us some more stuff we already know.]     

A solid foundation is crucial for a well-lived life and a well consturcted column, Dana.


While you were self-isolating the Justice Department's Inspector General...

I wonder if he has a cool uniform that he can wear on special occasions? Sorry.

The JDIG, Michael Horowitz, the gentleperson who released the big fat report in the old days (last December) detailing how the FBI had played fast and loose in FISA court to get permission to spy on the Trump campaign, has released the results of a more recent investigation.

This particular wispy cloud (see lyrical simile in paragraph three) lasted about a half a minute before it was overwritten by a virtual skywriter. Message: Isolate, Eat Right, Exercise, Die Anyway.

[There's something really, really wrong with you, you know that?]

The results of this new investigation? The FBI is a hot mess (forgive the technical jargon).


Very long story short...

[Thank you.]

The FBI is supposed to follow a process called the Woods Procedures. These rules, created by the FBI, were put in place back in 2001 when the FBI was called out for submitting a bunch of applications for FISA warrants that contained bogus information.

Another very long story short...

[Thanks again.]

Multiple people within both the FBI and the Justice Department are supposed to sign off on the information submitted to the FISA court to prevent illegal snooping. All aspects of this system of checks and balances are supposed to be kept track of in "Woods files" in case of problems.

[Sounds good.]

Indeed. However, after taking a careful look at a random sampling of 29 FISA warrant applications submitted between 2014 and 2019, the Inspector General discovered “errors or inadequately supported facts" in 25 of them. 

[Well, at least four of them were legit.]

Nope. The Feds can't find the four missing Woods files and can't verify that three of those four ever existed in the first place.

[Hoo-boy.]

It gets better. Yet another long story short...

[On behalf of your tens of readers I thank you yet again.]

Lawyers on The Fedrl Gummit's payroll are supposed to annually review a sampling of FISA warrant applications in every FBI field office.

[Lemme guess, this is bogus too.]

Yup. The field offices get advance notifications so they have time to clean up their applications. Lots of "errors" are discovered anyway and reported to headquarters. The FBI places the reviews in a virtual drawer and orders lunch.

[So the whole process is nothing but procedural masturbation?]

Yup. If ya didn't know better you'd think that the Feds and the news media belonged to the same exclusive Country club and the CORs are paying the membership fees and the bar tabs.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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Cranky don't tweet.

Random Randomnesses

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.

                  
                           -Image by sarajuggernaut from Pixabay-

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

"Expose yourself to as much randomness as possible." -Ben Casnocha


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

I recently checked out the reviews of a series currently running on and produced by, Amazon Prime Video, Hunters. Happily, It's not just me, it is yet another drama with a comic book sensibility. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

If you like the show, I can state with confidence that it’s me, not you. I'm old. In my defense, when I was a kid I loved comic books till just shy of my thirteenth birthday whereupon I lost interest for some reason. 

Having learned cynicism at me sainted muthers knee, it had already been a few years since I had turned my back on pretend wrestling but I've never given up on the possibility of waking up a rock star one fine morning, although I’m starting to have my doubts. 


I have this Hotmail account that I’ve had forever, my first foray in fact, into the wild, wacky, wonderful world of email. Nowadays, I use a couple of Gmail accounts for most of my email heavy lifting.

Hotmail, as you may know, seems to have a much tougher time blocking spam than Gmail does. Since I use my Hotmail account relatively lightly, this doesn’t bother me. 

In fact, it provides an ever-changing snapshot of what’s going on in the world at the moment, it also serves as a measurement tool. The hotter a given topic the more spam.

It’s not just that I’m receiving plenty of spam related to COVID-19, the overall volume of spam has increased noticeably. I wonder if spammers, aware that so many folks are self-isolating, have cranked up their spam generators.    

I’ll bet there are all sorts of Ph.D. thesi out there being written by wannabe doctors of economics/sociology/etceterology even as I write. If I were a more responsible columnist I’d go a-googlin’ to find out.

[It's theses, not thesi, there's no such word as thesi.]

Are you sure about that, Dana? Theses sounds like feces. Could it be thesises?

[Could we move on? Please?]

Certainly. As for me, I’m currently contentedly self-isolating as I'm a semi-self-isolator by nature. Given that I’m a prime candidate for the Boomer-B-Gone bug (did I mention I’m old?) this is all for the best. 

Also, I’m in possession of a little known sacred salve developed by a secret sect of Himalayan mystic masters that is protecting me from deletion.

It's starting to burn though...


Apropos of nothing above, I would like to recommend an article I recently read on the Foundation for Economic Education (FEE) website to all of the many Millies and Zoomers out there. 

Note: If you have any interest in a website that will teach you the fundamentals of free-market economic systems (what we, more or less, have here in our prosperous little republic) in plain English (mostly) this site can do the job.

The article is a clear, well-written refutation to a statement made by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. “An entire generation, which is now becoming one of the largest electorates in America, came of age and never saw American prosperity.”

The refutation, penned by one Alyssa Ahlgren, can be summed up via a quote from Ms. Ahlgren's article.

“We don’t have a lack of prosperity problem. We have an entitlement problem, an ungratefulness problem, and it’s spreading like a plague.”

To which I would add that we have congresspeople playing and promoting the currently popular reality show, Who's the Biggest Victim problem.  

Her article explains why this is true. More importantly, it has relieved me of the burden of writing about the same subject.

See, I’ve contemplated writing something similar for quite some time. I even had a title, America is Suffering From a Prosperity Epidemic. But considering the current popularity of the Me and Mine are Victims/Let’s Eat the Rich movement I suffer from a lack of motivation.

In my defense, I’m genetically predisposed (I've been tested) to both Procrastination and What’s the Point? syndromes. Also, as I may have mentioned elsewhere, I'm old. The older one gets the more careful one is about choosing one’s battles…or should be. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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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. 

May You Live In Interesting Times

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.

                  
                                                       (Meme by Weibo)

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

"China is trying to become America without democracy while America is trying to become France without cheese calories." -P. J. O'Rourke


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

Obligatory disclaimer:

"May you live in interesting times" is apparently not an ancient Chinese curse. Many have investigated the origins of the phrase; a consensus remains elusive.

I begin with a digression by the garrulous geezer that authors this column, a question:

If labeling the new bug on the block that's currently causing such a cacophonous kerfuffle the Chinese virus (I much prefer Wuhan flu) is racist, why aren't the woker than thou whining about the ancient Chinese slur above?

Could it be because they're too busy trying to keep Asian kids from making everyone else's kids look dumb by hiding behind diversity quotas for college admissions?

But that's not what I'm on about at the moment.

[Pray tell us then, your crankesty, what are you on about at the moment? Your tens of readers are waiting to exhale.]

The World Health Organization.


In a column that I wrote in the distant golden age before the Wuhan flu took over our lives, the first week of last month (3/7/20), the WHO received a passing mention.

The column — Lies, Damn, Lies and statistics — was about how Cuba uses lies, damn lies, and statistics to present themselves to the world as a medical utopia that the supporters of socialized medicine love to point to and that their foes love to debunk.

The WHO...

[You just like typing that, don't you? Every time you type, the WHO, you grin like a schoolboy. It's all you can do to keep from adding a question mark every time you do it, isn't it?]

We must do our best to maintain morale in these difficult times, Dana.
Positivity is very important (even for those of us that think the word itself is very ugly).

I mentioned in that column that Cuba rents doctors out to other nations, pays 'em next to nothing, and turns a nice profit. I linked to a New York Times article that points out that the Pan American Health Organization (PAHO), a division of the WHO, gets a cut for brokering the deal.


The WHO continues to cover itself in glory.

Our World in Data, a "...scientific online publication that focuses on large global problems such as poverty, disease, hunger, climate change, war, existential risks, and inequality." (phew!)... 

published by Oxford University, has decided that the WHO is not to be relied on according to an article on the FEE (Foundation For Economic Education) website.

[Speaking of phewness...]

Point taken. The bottom line is that almost a dozen reports by the WHO about the Wuhan flu betwixt 2/5 and 3/16/20 not only contained errors, the WHO corrected the reports without bothering to tell anyone, sowing confusion.

And then there's the senior official of the WHO (a Canadian) who accidentally stumbled into his 15 minutes of infamy by singing the praises of Emperor Xi's China and blowing off embarrassing questions by a reporter about Taiwan.

But I guess, now that I think about it, what I'm really on about...

[OMG!]

What I'm really on about, is China.

[Could you be a little more vague?]

I could indeed. I could point out that vaguer, like the equally ugly positivity, is an actual word.

Instead, I'd like to express my support for the Hong Kong dissidents and those folks calling for America to uncouple from China as much as is practically possible. To reassess all aspects of our relationship. Particularly with Emperor Xi and his minions.



As a self-identified wild-eyed free marketeer, my usual knee jerk position is that anyone in the world should be free to trade with anyone in the world as long as the rule of law in general, contract law specifically, is in place and enforceable.

Despite acknowledged problems and awareness of the law of unintended consequences many folks, including me, hoped that inviting China to participate in the economic system that reduced the number of folks living in extreme poverty by 80% from 1970 to 2006 would be a, good thing (HT: M. Stewart).

That it might help loosen the fingers of the fascists who call themselves communists — perhaps more accurately labeled as a 21st-century version of a bloodthirsty Chinese emperor and his minions — from around the throats of the Chinese people.

BIG BUT,

In consideration of the ongoing rape of Tibet, the rounding up of a 1,000,000 or so Uyghurs and placing them in concentration camps, the social credit system, putting Hong Kong booksellers on trial for selling books, being the world's number one source for the precursor chemicals the Mexican cartels use to create fentanyl, intellectual property theft, declaring the South China sea to be their private swimming hole, loaning money to other countries using the same methods and with the same intentions as the mob, pumping money into institutions of higher learning all over the planet bristling with attached strings, deliberately deceiving their own people and the rest of the world about Boomer-B-Gone... inhale (hope you're wearing your mask).

And,

Now that they're reopening the "wet markets"...

Fresh bats! Killed while you wait!

I must admit that I may have been wrong.

It's a Sputnik moment America, wake up and smell the disinfectant. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day    

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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.



 






  

I Hope I Die Before I Get Old

With apologies to Pete Townshend

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

                               -Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay-

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old." -George Burns


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

I'm going to turn 39 for the 28th time this summer and I do hope I die before I get old. Of course, getting old means quite different things to different people.

For reasons having nothing to do with logic, I've long felt that once I turned 67 it would be time to have a belated midlife crisis, not having had one, and it would also be time to get serious about my bucket list (I don't have one of those either).

When I turned 65, a birthday that many H. sapiens regard as the first year of geezerhood, it didn't have much of an effect on my psyche.

Neither did 66. Why 67?

To me at least, 67 means I'm officially pushing 70, and I've long thought of 70 as officially being old. However, the rapid approach of 67 got me to thinking and I no longer fear 67, or even 70 for that matter.

See, I've realized...

[Let me guess, it's some pathetic variation of, "After all, age is just a number, you're only as young as you feel. Yadda-yadda-yadda."]

No, Dana, that's not it. I don't feel young and I don't want to. I just don't want to get old.

Note to those of you that, for all intents and purposes, are still young enough to think you're going to live forever: me, and many of my fellow sexy seasoned citizens often refer to ourselves as old, usually while trying to be charmingly self-deprecating. 

Sometimes it's because some health problem is irritating us. Mostly, it's because we're subtly manipulating you in some way. Even knowing this, you may not be able to resist the efforts of those of us who have mastered this particular gambit.

Shhh... Don't tell anyone. 


My body's getting old but I'm not complaining; I'm grateful to still be among the vertical and relatively mobile. My dad didn't quite make it to 60 and my mum didn't quite make it to 65.

But considering they both had decades-long intense, extramarital relationships — he smoked unfiltered Camels, she unfiltered Kools — that's not exactly shocking.

I have a vivid, early childhood memory of being tucked in, my bedside lamp being turned off, and then watching a tiny, bright red ball floating across the room that disappeared when my bedroom door was closed.

Also, he believed that a shot of whiskey and a nap would cure most things, she thought that aspirin and a nap was the way to go.

"Walk it off, son, you'll be fine."


[Whatever. Pray tell your garrulousness, when do you think you'll be old and why do you wish to be deleted before that happens?]

It's very complicated.

There's no way to predict when it will happen and lots of H. sapiens live on for decades after they get old without even noticing that it happened. I don't want to die, but as far as I'm concerned — that's the same thing.

It's getting old and not realizing that I got old, becoming in effect, a zombie, that I would avoid, that scares the hell out of me. Particularly since, unless one falls prey to some sort of dementia or some other equally awful physical malady, it's easily avoidable.

[I'm completely confused. I don't...]

Perhaps you're getting old. Sorry, couldn't resist, my bad. Clearly, I need to define my terms.


With the possible, but I suspect unlikely exception of those H. sapiens that hope to upload/download/whateverload themselves to a computer/robot/brain floating in a modified water cooler jug — Kurzweil's singularity — we're all going to die.

-Wikipedia-public domain-

At some point, before being deleted, you're going to look in the mirror and have to concede that your body has crossed a certain line and that the oft-mentioned "lines and wrinkles" are winning, that a holding action is the best you can hope for.

This is mere biology, inevitable, and all that you can do is all that you can do. In fact, this can be a liberating experience. One less thing to obsess about. Invoke an appropriate cliche, I like it is what it is and then make a decision. Now what?

May I suggest, assuming you haven't already become a zombie, that you take this opportunity to remember to not get old.

That ultimately undefinable spark of transcendence that is you — which includes your body, a body that should still be taken care of, appreciated, and enjoyed (if still possible) — does not have to get old.

It's really just that simple.

[Simple huh? And just how does one go about...]

As I've written previously but don't feel like looking up exactly where and when...

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

To which I would add, "And not getting old." 

To which I would also add that your work is probably not what you do for a living unless you're unbelievably blessed. 

Your work is that thing that keeps you getting you out of bed in the morning in spite of _______. And don't even get me started about _______. 

Collecting football cards, amateur brain surgery, or something in between  — whatever works. For me, it's primarily my family and writing this column (believe it or not) and a few other things of lesser importance.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

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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.

Picasso Man

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood story

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.

                 (Image by Thanks for your Like • donations welcome from Pixabay) 

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

"Picasso said, 'Art is a lie that tells the truth.' What if you just want to tell the truth and not lie about it?" -Nicolas Cage


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

The other morning I was lost in the midst of some random ruminations while purposefully perambulating — letting my mind wander while taking one of my one mile, twice-daily walkabouts in my personal hood — when I crossed paths with Picasso Man.

Not having seen him in quite some time I had assumed that he was either as rehabilitated from whatever afflicts/afflicted him as he was ever likely to be and is no longer walking his circuit,

Or,

That the only affliction he suffered/suffers from is old age and that he had come to the conclusion that his daily walks didn't help and that he and his wheeled walker now stayed home.

But,

I may be full of crap, a phenomenon that occurs with disturbing regularity.


The potentially specious speculations above are just that. I actually have no idea as we've never exchanged more than casual, polite greetings. I don't know what motivated/motivates his purposeful perambulations.

I do know...alright, I'm still guessing...I'm reasonably sure he doesn't want to discuss it. It might just be because he strikes me as too tired to bother. I know from personal experience there are all sorts of too tired to bothers and I try to tread carefully.

The closest we've ever come to a conversation was briefly trading observations about a bark, bark, barking dog in someone's backyard that we both think desperately needs a referral to a dog whisperer.


When I used to see him all the time it was always on my morning walk. 

Not having seen him in a while, and me being me, I had created a Picasso Man scenario in my head based on nothing more than my imagination.

I (pictured him/hoped that nowadays he was) eating warm bagels on cold, damp mornings and longing for hooge, yummy, real bagels from New York city — Damn the Gluten! Full speed ahead! — instead of the tiny, bland, generic bagels we have available to us here in the greater Hooterville metropolitan area.

He and Sylvia once spent a three day weekend in the Big Apple. He wasn't impressed, but he had fallen in love with real bagels.

I imagined him watching the Today Show and missing Tom Brokaw, Jane Pauley, and his younger self. He had always had a crush on Jane that he had diplomatically never mentioned to his late wife.

But, there he was.


He was pushing/being held up by his flimsy-looking wheeled walker.

I'm amazed, that to the best of my knowledge, the crappy looking wheels have never gotten stuck, or sent him flying, as he valiantly navigated what used to be sidewalks but now are more like gentle obstacle courses.

Not so gentle when icy or snow-covered.

Picture mostly more or less normal-looking sections but where you have to watch out for subtle up-croppings (in front of ginormous old trees attempting to dislodge or crack the concrete with their roots) or subtle drop-offs from subsidence.

Picture sections that have nearly vanished into the Earth and are now grass-covered. What used to a sidewalk now resembles random stepping stones with no rhyme or reason.

Picture sections that appear to be constructed of enormous, flat stones that are slippery when wet, dangerous when iced over. I'm guessing they're actually made of concrete but have been there so long they've been worn smooth.

Picture... well, you get the picture.

And there are obelisks! Perhaps my hood is even older than I thought?

Most intersections no longer have them but there are still some narrow, six-foot-tall concrete obelisks coated with seriously faded paint (red letters, white background) with the street name spelled out vertically and St, Ave, Ln, etc. tagged on at the bottom.

 S
 T
 A
 N
 T
 O
 N
Av

The letters are carved/cut into the concrete.

[Which has what to do with anything?]

I'm painting vivid word pictures here, Dana. Also, I just think they're really cool.

[Are you ever going to explain why you call this dude Picasso Man?]

I guess I better. We've crossed the 600-word line already and I'm (semi)firmly committed to observing a 1,000-word limit.


Picasso Man is somehow simultaneously blurred, jagged, angular, rounded, bent, and crooked.

He looks like what I suspect many people, certainly me, imagine one of Picasso's less bizarre-looking subjects might look like in real life.

He's very small and looks as though you might see him bouncing and flying down the street like a tumbleweed if the wind picked up.

He has a seemingly permanent stubble on his cheeks and chin that looks like boar bristles.

He always greets me with a wide grin that reveals a limited amount of blurry, jagged, angular, rounded, bent, and crooked teeth.

He gives the impression that he's about to run out of gas, or that he needs to get home and plug himself in. I've seen him pause as if he's powered by the sun and has to absorb a watt or two to keep going.


I'd like to know his story but I'm afraid that if he stopped to talk for too long he might not be able to start again. He does seem a little stronger than when we first met.

I wish my daughter walked around the neighborhood. He'd tell her his story, he wouldn't be able to help himself. It's a gift/curse she inherited from her late mom, the force of nature only one of you Stickies got to know.

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 Boomer-B-Gone Virus

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

(Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay)

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Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"The Renaissance took place in chaos and plague." -Shiva Ayyadurai 

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

The Boomer-B-Gone bug has attacked my freakishly large household.

Or not.

See, here at Casa de Chaos, my daughter, my son-in-law, The Stickies (4.5 in number, there's a part-time one), and our long term house guest and her kid have taken turns suffering from some sort of respiratory illness of varying intensities.

And, some of them have endured repeat afflictions.

Me? Nothing so far (fingers crossed) but I'm a semi-hermit who was semi-self-isolating before self-isolating was cool. This was not due to some sort of pandemical premonition on my part, I was born this way.

Still, I haven't isolated myself from the other inhabitants of Cranky Manor so I don't...

[Is pandemical an actual word?]

Yes, Dana, much to my surprise, it actually is. I wrote it to be funny but when my spelling/grammar checker didn't flag it I went a-googlin' and sure enough it's the adjectival form of pandemic.  


My daughter returned from an out of town gig that was based in Cincinnati (but the work was in the surrounding area) towards the end of last week and she and her colleague were both seriously ill with...wait for it...

Some sort of respiratory illness.

Long story short, a couple of days later she spent multiple hours being treated in the emergency department of a local hospital. They put her in a room by herself, told her husband to go home (isolate) and administered tests and treatments.

"We'll call you when we know something."

It went fairly well, they only almost accidentally killed her once. She was able to get help by tossing her cellphone at the door they made of point of keeping closed and was able to get someone's attention.

She was laying on a bed with an oxygen mask on when a whole bunch of mucusi decided to vacate the premises simultaneously and due to the mask and the fact her head was only slightly elevated she began to choke and couldn't breathe.

[Mucusi? There's no such word as...]

Since the door was closed and there was no panic button she tried calling for help but couldn't get the words out. That's when she bounced her phone off the door and was rescued.

The preceding anecdote has been provided as a public service by your friendly neighborhood Crank. Hospitals accidentally kill a lot of people and if you can't follow Consumer Reports advice and have a champion on hand to look out for you, be prepared to do whatever is necessary.

Oh, and question everything.

[What makes you an expert on...]

My late wife was born with lung disease, spent a lot of time in hospitals, and was almost accidentally killed several times. You learn not to take it personally but you also learn to maintain a certain level of vigilance.

[Well, what happened, does she have Boomer-B-Gone?]

We don't know.


The local hospital I mentioned only had/has a couple of test kits available for  Boomer-B-Gone and they're only for the patients judged to be so sick they need a ventilator and a hospital admission.

Everyone else gets a bunch of scripts...

"All the same stuff we'd be treating you with if we kept you, honey."

And is told to go home...

"Good luck. Call an ambulance if the excrement hits the A.C. and we'll see ya when they bring you back."

Which sounds awful, but, without a test or a vaccine to administer what else can they do? Even if you passed the test, assuming they actually had one on hand, they would still send you home unless you were judged to be ICU material.


Now, given that the bottom line here appears to be that the Boomer Remover bug is just a particularly nasty version of the flu that we don't have a vaccine for (but will) that's unlikely to kill us all...

And, given that the garden variety versions of the flu, and even a common cold if it morphs into pneumonia, kill all sorts of people every year...

What's the takeaway? What have we learned Dorothies?

That many of our alleged journalists are just as concerned with their personal bottom lines and prepared to exploit the customer as much or more than whatever business, politician, or identity group they're currently claiming are Satan's minions.

That you can substitute the phrase, weaselly politicians, for the phrase, alleged journalists, in the preceding paragraph.

That the thin veneer of civilization might be even thinner than we thought.

That given that The Fedrl Gummit, aware that Boomer-B-Gone was on the way, gave itself a monopoly on developing a suitable diagnostic test and came up with a test that doesn't work...

[What are you trying to say? Medicare for all might not create a healthcare utopia?]

Yup, and...

That bureaucrats that work at any level of gummit are not saints and suffer from the same flaws, limitations, and temptations (power, money, ego-gratification, office politics, etceterics) as every other H. sapien on the planet.

That a lot of college students and college-aged young folks, woke or not and as is traditional, think they're bulletproof and ten feet tall — or are just too dumb to empty the beaches and the bars for the time being.

[And many of them are old enough to vote!] 

That toilet paper may be all that stands (as we sit) between us and anarchy.

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.

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-

                                                  Glossary  

                                                    About

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

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.