Friday, October 1, 2021

O Canada (Oh America)

Two countries (and two videos) for the price of one!

Photo by Bianca Ackermann on Unsplash


This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Reading via monitor/tablet is recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in an intersectional triggering. Intended for H. sapiens who are — in the words of the late, great bon vivant and polymath, Professor Y. Bear — "Smarter (and cooler) than the av-er-age bear." 
Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"I personally think our national anthem is not patriotic enough. There is another poem by Dwijendralal Ray called 'Dhono Dhanne Pushpe Bhora,' which is more soul-stirring as a national anthem." -Victor Banerjee


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

I was reminded that we have upstairs neighbors (so to speak), the Canadians, from the minimal and brief coverage given to the recent reelection of Prime Minister Justin Trudeau.   

O Canada, I'm embarrassed to say that my knowledge of any and all things Canadian is as scant as the scant news coverage given to Canada here in the states. 

{Scant-scant-scant-scan...}

Dana, what are you doing?

{Ever notice how some words almost cry out to be mindlessly and rapidly repeated till they become a noise?}

Of course, it's a phenomenon called semantic satiation, a phrase coined by Leon Jacobovits James in his 1962 doctoral dissertation at McGill University in Canada. 

{       }

Ever notice how often people say, "I should look that up?" Well, I often actually do. 

{       } 

And believe it or not, Justin Trudeau graduated from McGill University in 1994, and, I visited the Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum in Niagra Falls, Canada — in 1994. 

{Fascinating.}  

Right? Anyways, the news stories reminded me that I've always wanted to know more about Canada other than the fact our upstairs neighbors are normally very quiet, unlike our downstairs neighbors, who are busy devolving into a narco-state.

Good news for junkies impacted by the crackdown on big pharma though, literally tons of opioids, fentanyl, and other drugs are crossing the border these days. Not to mention a plentiful supply of cheap, unskilled labor to fuel our economy.  


I've always wondered why Canada's national anthem is called O Canada, not Oh Canada. I've failed to find why, but I did find out that Canada didn't officially have a national anthem till 1980. 

Not only that, the tune was written by an American Civil War veteran, and the original lyrics were written, in French, by a judge from Quebec. The song was supposed to be Quebec's national anthem.

Thirty years later the lyrics were "translated" into English by another judge. He played fast and loose with the words and rendered them in such a way as to reflect his political and spiritual beliefs.

Nowadays, there's a third version, a bilingual one that's officially endorsed by the Canadian government. I got all this information from a website devoted to "Canadiana" that's quite interesting. 

The article includes an eye-opening video. I learned, or rather was reminded as I'm old, that Canada was caught up in violence triggered by identity politics back in 1968, the year Mr. Trudeau's father became prime minister.  


Some of our normally quiet and reserved neighbors were fighting, figuratively and literally, over identity politics and were singing two different national anthems long before we Citizens of the Republic were.

{What are you talking about?} 

Whoopi and Billy, of course.


Go a googlin' and enter the names of two of our leading public intellectuals thusly: Whoopi Goldberg v. Bill Maher (or vice-versa). You will receive no shortage of hits that are variations of a theme.

Bill Maher fires back...
Bill Maher hits back...
Bill Maher slams back...
Bill Maher slaps back...
Etceterac...

At Whoopie Goldberg. 

{Bill Maher is abusing a black woman?}

Nah, they're just having a virtual spat — that is to say, verbally arguing without having to be in the same room — over the fact the NFL is playing two national anthems these days.

{Really? Why? And what...} 

Look it up. One for white people, one for black people. 

It's a tempest in a teapot. Celebrities, an organization of millionaires owned by gazillionaires, social media, and the purple press jockeying for an appropriate political position — and the pursuit of profits. 


When I'm king I shall impose a royal compromise. Henceforth, America's national anthem will be America the Beautiful. 

The lyrics were written by a highly accomplished woman, Katharine Lee Bates, the tune by a rather ordinary man, Samuel A. Ward.   

Ms. Bates was a professor of English literature and wrote one of the first college textbooks on American literature. She may have been a lesbian. She definitely was a "...social activist interested in the struggles of women, workers, people of color, tenement residents, immigrants, and poor people" according to Wikipedia.

{But she was white!}

About 70% of NFL players are black. Do you know of any white football fans/people that care? 

 
Speakin' of googlin', I googled America the Beautiful and the first hit was a video of Ray Charles — singing America the Beautiful

{Who?} 

Gasp! Begone from my largish head philistine!


{Nope-nope-nope, I checked out the lyrics, too many God references. Clearly another case of systemic theism.}

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


Scroll down to share this column or access previous ones. If you enjoy my work (and the fact I don't run advertisements or sell merchandise), please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal or a credit/debit card.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Facebook or TwitterI post my latest column on Saturdays and other people's work on other days.


  

Friday, September 24, 2021

Stuck In Ohio

 A Mr. Cranky's 'hood column. What are the four seasons of Northern Ohio?

👀 Mabel Amber, who will one day from Pixabay

This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Reading via monitor/tablet is recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Intended for H. sapiens that are — in the words of the late, great bon vivant and polymath, Professor Y. Bear — "Smarter [and cooler] than the av-er-age bear." 
Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader 

"There are seasons in every country when noise and impudence pass current for worth; and in popular commotions especially, the clamors of interested and factious men are often mistaken for patriotism." -Alexander Hamilton 

{I see what you did there.}


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

Fall (aka, almost winter) has come to my corner of Flyoverland and I'm still Stuck in Ohio (there's a bumper sticker...). I've been temporarily living here for 36 years. I was born and raised in Western Pennsylvania and all but one of my six siblings still live there, four above ground and one below. 

My big brother Ed was the first one that I remember calling Ohio the Flatlands after I landed here, and promptly got stuck. He was living in southwestern Pa., not far from the West Virginia panhandle at the time. He's now on the West Virginia side of the border — same difference. 

Lots of hills and lots of economic stagnation. Lots of relatively cheap houses too, but prices have risen in the more desirable spots. Ohio's no slouch when it comes to economic stagnation but we do have Columbus, which is rockin', and which is flat. 


I left Pennsylvania for Texas in the fall of '84 seeking a geographic cure for a broken heart. Pure serendipity; an opportunity that appeared when I needed it. 

I had the best year of my life there (so far) that included meeting my wife and stepdaughter. The bad news is that it culminated in getting stuck in Ohio, a long story that I will spare you.

{I think I speak for all of your gentlereaders when I express my sincere thanks.} 

You're welcome, Dana. My apologies to those that like living in the Flatlands. It's not you, it's me. If it makes you feel any better the woman that I ran to Texas to try and forget (I'm not foreign legion material) used a variation of that classic line on me. 

Also, Texas (with the exception of the mind-melting heat), with one of the world's larger economies and a legislature that only convenes for 140 days every other year (by law), is a tough act to follow. 

{You should've joined the circus.}

Oddly enough, Dana, that never occurred to me. Ironically enough, a bit of research revealed that the Cirque du Soleil started up in 1984. I coulda been a star! Why are you laughing? Anyways, speaking of panhandles, Ed, you ain't seen flatlands if you haven't seen the Texas panhandle. But I digress. 

{As your gentlereaders have come to expect, if not necessarily love. Will this column be returning to Ohio anytime soon?}   


Fall is my favorite season in Ohio. Spring (aka, still winter) is often wet, cold, and snow-covered. 

{Living southeast of the Lake Erie snow machine might have something to do with that, you should move to Southern Ohio. Milder weather.}

Hmmm... the Cincinnati side or the West Virginia side?

{Well, a lot of West Virginia's really pretty, almost... heavenly.}

I once knew a guy that said he was going to wait till the last person moved out or died and then make an offer.

{Are you trying to offend as many gentlereaders as possible?}

Sorry, offended gentlereaders, it's not you, it's me. Summer in Ohio this year (aka, construction) was construction in the rain this year. On the other hand, gnats and mosquitoes had a hell of a summer. 

{Geesh, I'm outta here, go for a walk or something will ya?} 


In the name of sucking it up Buttercup, let me unequivocally state that fall in Ohio can be amazing. 

It never rains every day, even in a year like this one. And even though the Stickies are wearing masks again, and even though there's already talk of reviving the unmitigated disaster called remote learning, migrating geese will soon begin staging in the parking lot of the recently abandoned nursing home across the street from Casa de Chaos.   

It warms my calloused heart to see all the trouble people go to in these parts to avoid disturbing our temporary guests even though they often leave unwanted souvenirs behind and even though I'm jealous that I'm not headed south for the winter. 

I heard my first distinctive HONK just the other day, the same day I saw an eagle, first one in a while, patrolling overhead in search of breakfast when I was on my morning walk.

Soon there will be that perfect morning or three when the sun melts the light frost covering the Kool-Aid-colored leaves and renders the resulting water drops as diamonds dripping from the many tall, old trees in old Mr. Cranky's neighborhood.  

Wouldn't it be cool if the hair of H. sapiens of a certain age turned various bright colors instead of grey or white (but didn't fall out)?

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


Scroll down to share this column or access previous ones. If you enjoy my work and the fact I don't run advertisements or sell merchandise, please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal or a credit/debit card.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Facebook or TwitterI post my latest column on Saturdays and other people's work on other days.     


Saturday, September 18, 2021

The (Dizz)Information Age

Image by Andrew Martin from Pixabay


This is: A weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Reading via monitor/tablet is recommended for maximum enjoyment.  

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering. Intended for H. sapiens that are — in the words of the late, great bon vivant and polymath, Professor Y. Bear — "Smarter [and cooler] than the av-er-age bear." 
Glossary 

Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlereader  

"Everybody gets so much information all day long that they lose their common sense." -Gertrude Stein


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

We're living in the dawn of the Dizzinformation Age and Houston, we have a problem. 

Thanks to the invention of the printing press, H. sapiens have been living in the Information Age for nearly 600 years. Thanks to Mr. Gutenberg, information was made accessible to, and affordable for, the masses.

According to Wikipedia: "In Renaissance Europe...The relatively unrestricted circulation of information and (revolutionary) ideas transcended borders, captured the masses in the Reformation, and threatened the power of political and religious authorities."


No shortage of both wonderful and terrible things resulted. However, the pace of change, which no doubt seemed overwhelming to many as the years rolled by and made collateral damage of many an innocent (and not so innocent) was glacial compared to the advent of the digital computer.

It's deja vu all over again — at the speed of light.   


Dana declaims with a  semi-passable imitation of a deep-voiced, portentous announcer. 

{THE MORE THINGS CHANGE THE MORE THEY STAY THE SAME!}

Yeah... only much faster, and in greater volume. First, we got the bomb, now, we're subject to daily information bombing and the zeitgeist is saturated with dizzinformation fallout. There's so much information sloshing up against our psychic sandbags that a devastating flood seems imminent.

{Wait-wait-wait. Not everyone is a current events junkie like you. There are all sorts of people, some of whom you know personally, that aren't online or that don't even own smartphones.}  

True, however, with the possible exception of some soul wandering in the wilderness, subsisting on locusts and honey, and searching for God there's no way to avoid the downsides of the Dizzifnormation Age. 

{Speaking of which, have you heard about that new place near d'mall, John the B's, that features artisanal, locally sourced locusts and certified Fair Trade Certified™ honey?}

Those members of the bemused majority who get their information from traditional sources like television, radio, and (dead trees) newspapers, as well as those who consult social media, news websites, or news apps (a roughly 50/50 split), are hip-deep in dizzinformation. 

Uh-huh!/Nuh-uh! has infected more people than COVID-19 and Covid-19 junior.  

{Huh?} 

I refer to the COVID-19 variant as COVID-19 jr. 

Ain't you the clever little columnist! What's Uh-uh!/Nuh-uh!?  


Uh-huh!/Nuh-uh! is a potentially debilitating condition that can be triggered by too much contradictory information.

For example, suppose you're having a pointless argument, just for the fun of it, with a fellow gentleperson about a given sports superstar's particular statistic.

{Who are these people who argue for the fun of it? Don't they risk becoming sworn enemies and/or igniting a blood feud?}

No, but it's a dying art that would take another column to explain. Um... think of it as something people used to do before getting people fired up over anything and everything became a profit center for all sorts of enterprises. 

Anyways, there's a reasonable chance that a statistic like the one mentioned can be verified with both sides accepting the results of a minimal bit of research.

BIG BUT,

There's also a very good chance that when the Goog is consulted and 14,978,123 "hits" are returned, the seemingly hard statistic requested will be subject to the Uh-huh!/Nuh-uh! phenomenon.


Suppose the first hit says the answer to the question is the number 139. 

The second hit might claim that the number is actually 138 because Trump, systemic racism, global warming, steroids, and etceteroids. 

Uh-Huh!/Nuh-Uh!    

{I fail to see what the big deal is.}

If egged on by, say, a gaggle of inebriated companions, you had bet $100 that the number was 139, your _______ payment was due, that disturbing noise your car makes was getting louder, and your spouse/partner/whatever keeps track of every single one of your pennies I'll bet you would. 


Now, when it comes to slightly more important matters (the specific matter doesn't actually matter all that much) importance and anxiety are in the psyche of the beholder. My point is that the fires of uncertainty, fueled by too much (often contradictory) information and subject to bellows pumped by people and institutions motivated by profit and ideology, not the truth, is...

{Wow, that's an impressive paragraph!}

Right? Thanks, Dana.

{What the hell are you talking about?}

TMI x SIP = D

Too much information multiplied by self-interested parties creates dizzinformation.

{So, tell me doctor, what's the cure...}

For extroverts, I generally prescribe offline-generated music, food, friends, and appropriate beverages and/or controlled substances. 

For introverts, a good book (dead trees format recommended but not required) and a comfy chair will do. An appropriate beverage is optional. 

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


Scroll down to share this column or access previous ones. If you enjoy my work and the fact I don't run advertisements or sell merchandise, please consider buying me a coffee via PayPal or a credit/debit card.    

Feel free to comment/like/follow/cancel/troll me on Facebook or TwitterI post my latest column on Saturdays and other people's work on other days.