You Can Call Me... Elmer (Part One)

Don't call me Al, or late for dinner. Ba Dum Tss

Image by Vkastro from Pixabay 

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult." 

                                                                                            -Rita Rudner

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

{Elmer?}

As in Elmer Gantry, Dana.

{Who?}

Elmer Gantry is the protagonist (and title) of an excellent novel written by Sinclair Lewis and an excellent movie more or less based on the book. 

{Oh... okay.} 

Prior to retirement, I was what you'd call a working stiff for the majority of the 45 years I spent earning a living. The velocity of my cash flow was occasionally reduced to that of certain sections of the Rio Grande River when Texas is in the midst of one of its periodic droughts.

{Oh... okay.}

This sort of situation sometimes led to my consideration of various and sundry get-rich-quick or slower but seemingly more reliable schemes to resolve this regularly recurring problem once and for all. 

{You know, other people have...}

Yeah, I know, and I did too, or tried to, repeatedly, but it never worked out very well. I'm not complaining mind you, but I also don't feel guilty. I can declare with a straight face that sometimes it was my fault, but mostly it wasn't. 

And when it wasn't it could easily lead to the kind of idle speculation mentioned above. However, I never once attempted to start a spiritual cult despite the low barriers to entry in the religion business.

{If you weren't so loath to deploy hackneyed cliches, at this point I'd react with a, wait...what?} 

Elmer Gantry was in the religion business; he was a hustler, a phony. He didn't start a cult, preferring to operate within more traditional religious structures. I myself would've preferred leading a modestly sized cult. 

I'm a low-profile sort of dude who would've been content with two or three subservient (by nature, not by training) concubines, a modest income, and pepperoni pizza at least once a week. 

I would've been a kind shepherd to my flock, but I think that traveling that particular road requires a degree of sociopathology beyond my relatively modest one. Besides, I should think that being a spiritual con artist would be as exhausting as any career that requires being an inveterate liar. 

May as well get a real job, or join a cult, a secular one dedicated to resolving your financial problems, like Amway. 

{AMWAY'S A PYRAMID SCHEME!}

Amway: "We manufacture and distribute nutrition, beauty, personal care and home products—which are exclusively sold in 100 countries through Amway Independent Business Owners (IBOs)." My emphasis. 

Hey, ya gotta figure it's easy to accidentally step on some toes when your company's that hooge. 

Wikipedia: "Amway has been investigated in various countries and by institutions such as the Federal Trade Commission (FTC) for alleged pyramid scheme practices. It has never been found guilty though it has paid tens of millions of dollars to settle these suits."

Honest mistakes or cost of doing business?

FYI, "...exclusively sold (my emphasis again) in 100 countries through Amway Independent Business Owners (IBOs)" is at the top of a web page with a link a few inches away, SHOP PRODUCTS, that will enable you to access Amway's entire product line and skip dealing with a "registered" IBO (who pays Amway $76 a year for the privilege). 

Just sayin'.

I had forgotten about Amway. There are certain advantages to being a relatively reclusive retiree who's no longer a member of most "target markets." 

I thought perhaps they were no longer in business but they still are, very much so. I went a-googlin' and discovered that their revenues are almost $9,000,000,000 a year and that they're an international firm that does business here, there, and waaay over there, in China, their largest market. 

{I wonder if Uyghurs are allowed to be IBOs?}

In my defense, it's been a while since anyone has tried to sign me up to be an IBO much less tried to sell me some merchandise, which used to happen regularly. Fun fact: Amway is the largest MLM (multi-level marketing) company on the planet Earth, amazing what can happen when you're not paying attention.

Another fun fact: Amway reports on a 2021 U.S. Income Disclosure that "For calendar year 2021, the average income for all U.S. registered IBOs at the Founders Platinum level and below was $766 before expenses."

Hmm, let's see... 766... divide by 12... that's $63.83 a month before expenses. 

Hoo-boy. 

It would seem that the Founders Platinum level should be called the Founders Aluminum level as I suspect that recycling cans would be a viable alternative. 

To be continued...

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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At the Movies Again

Image by rosi capurso from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"We are not trying to entertain the critics. I'll take my chances with the public."

                                                                                               -Walt Disney                                                                                                                                                            

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

I wrote a column in early January titled At the Movies. The subtitle was With apologies to Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert.

As many of you know, but many may not given that it went off the air in 1990, Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert were film critics featured on a popular TV show called At the Movies which was the second version of a show that had started in 1975.  

Yeah, you're that old. 

A thumbs up or thumbs down rating from Siskel&Ebert was a RBFD at the time, not that they necessarily agreed. 

As hard as it may be to believe for those of you who have grown up Twittering, or those of you old enough to forget, intelligent, civilized, and often even light-hearted arguments among people who disagreed were once commonplace.

The column that I titled At The Movies was about how I had gradually gone from frequently going to movie theaters as a kid to eventually almost never going as a grup as ticket prices rose and movie quality fell.   

{And/or you aged out of the demographic cohort Hollywood makes movies and TV shows for.}

Methinks that's intended as an insult, Dana. However, I view it as a compliment. THBPBPTHPT!

Anyway, now that I'm retired, I confess that one of my favorite things to do is watch an episode of a "prestige" TV series while eating a low-brow meal. I have the palate of a 10-year-old boy, a 10-year-old boy from the middle of the last century. The Stickies all have fairly sophisticated palates and are gourmets compared to me.

Long story short, "Prestige" TV ain't what it used to be so I've had to resort to Rotten Tomatoes (.com) to find movies I might want to watch or unearth obscure TV shows that might be worth watching. 

Therein hangs a tale. 

If you read the reviews that were used to determine a given productions rating, as you might expect, given that the internet offers us the dubious blessing of too much of just about everything, Rotten Tomatoes offers no shortage of the opinions of movie and television critics ranging from the Hooterville Herald to the New York Times. 

Positive and negative reviews are tallied and a verdict is rendered. I have no problem with that although you must take your tomatoes with a grain or two of salt. The site also includes the collated views of everyday Joan, Joe, and J. Bagadonutses. 

If both groups agree that something is awful, it usually is. But if just the critics overwhelmingly endorse a movie or TV show, look out. There's a good chance it's going to suck sweaty socks.

{Everyone knows that, what's your point?} 

I've got two points. The first concerns the tendency of many of the critics to mention, in some form or fashion, that while the movie or TV show in question is mediocre and predictable at best, to declare that it could be worse, and bestowing what amounts to a sideways thumb.

"I give this move a sideways thumb. It's sort of stupid but one of the actors is really good, or the cinematography is amazing, or the special effects are great, etc.

Point two is because social justice. 

Cynical old fart that I am, I figured that the industry pays off the critics. But I went a-googlin' and the general consensus is that this isn't true. 

So I think the reason I so often read something like "It's sort of stupid but..." is because brutally honest critics will anger audiences and Hollywood alike. Also, they've got to write something beyond "this movie/TV show is stupid, don't waste your precious time" even if the resulting multiple paragraphs waste the reader's precious time. 

As to, because social justice, there's apparently no shortage of woke movie and TV critics lose in the world. 

This results in a given critic feeling compelled to inform us as to whether or not the production in question was made by and/or includes an adequate number of members of registered marginalized minorities, and if the plot is politically correct. 

I wonder if that's why so many movies and TV shows are saturated with nihilism or sex or violence... or all of the above. Since everything is politicized, is that why stylized, over-the-top sensationalism is such a popular form of entertainment? 

Is that what it takes to provide an escape from the stylized, over-the-top, all politics, all the feckin' time sensationalism endlessly pushed by the purple press and social media? 

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise. 

    

White Privilege

Image by 1820796 from Pixabay

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

About 

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"My schooling gave me no training in seeing myself as an oppressor, as an unfairly advantaged person, or as a participant in a damaged culture." -Peggy McIntosh 

Dear Stickies and Gentlereaders,

Not long ago, on yet another cold, damp, overcast winter morning in Northern Ohio, I awoke and like most men of a certain age hastily headed for the bathroom. 

Opening the door of my warm, cozy bedroom, I grabbed my cane and stepped out into the chilly hallway which resulted in the usual mild shock, the result of going from 72 humidified degrees to 66 un-humidified ones. 

I'm one of those old geezers that get up early, very early in my case, and a programmable thermostat will not nudge the furnace to raise the temperature of the rest of Casa de Chaos to a luxurious 68 till 6 a.m., a half an hour or so before Stickies start appearing if it's a school day. 

Self-indulgent, planet-destroying, privileged persons of pallor that we are, the temperature will remain at a balmy 68 till 11 p.m. before dropping back to 66 again. 

I was in too much of a hurry to put on my slippers and the tiled bathroom floor made me feel like I was crossing the frozen tundra. I was reminded that I didn't live in a house with central heating till I was 13 and felt grateful for the enormous, inefficient, outdated furnace in the basement.

Next, I returned to my room and checked on my countertop humidifier. It consumes both water and electricity but helps to prevent rubbing/scratching my dry skin raw in my sleep. 

I then checked on and tweaked the oil-filled space heater strategically placed in front of the room's only heating duct so it doesn't use as much electricity (the furnace helps keep the oil warm) because the room temperature had jumped to 73.

I've turned into one of those old farts that always feels cold in the wintertime but I'm stuck north of the Mason-Dixon line. I put my slippers on and sought out the services of the Keurig machine in the kitchen. 

K-cups were ridiculously overpriced before our current transitory inflation problem so I placed 3 or 4 tablespoons of Cafe Bustelo (the price of which has temporarily risen by a buck a can even at Dollar General) in a washable/reusable K-container and made myself the first of the two cups of coffee I'll drink today.  

I returned to my room and started my day with a current events/email check via my low-end Chromebox (a variation of a Chromebook), my virtual window on the world. It also serves as my Kindle, stereo, word processor, and TV. I use my phone as a phone. 

I wrote for about an hour and then pulled up the free Google Docs spreadsheet I use to keep track of my money titled Robbing Peter, Paying Paul and commenced doing just that. Despite having worked full-time, including many 6 and 7-day weeks for 45 years, my fixed income is rather modest. To paraphrase a rhyme my daughter used to sing-song when she was a kid:

Poor old Poppa,

Sittin' on a fence, 

Tryin' to make a dollar 

Out of 15 cents.

Speaking of my daughter, she popped in to say hey for a minute before trudging upstairs to bed, exhausted from being up all night baking at the bakery she works at. I wondered if my son-in-law made it home by midnight or worked late because overtime was available. 

The following question then popped into my head. I wonder where the phrase white privilege came from? I went a-googlin'. 

An English teacher/feminist/anti-racism activist/women's studies scholar is credited with popularizing the phrase in question. Dr. Peggy McIntosh received a Ph.D. from Harvard "where she wrote her dissertation on Emily Dickenson's Poems About Pain."

In 1988 Ms. McIntosh also wrote a (famous in certain circles) essay titled, WHITE PRIVILEGE AND MALE PRIVILEGE: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences Through Work in Women's Studies.

An essay, proudly based on the professor's "lived experience," which was/is somewhat different than the lived experience of me, mine, and probably yours has nevertheless impacted our lives. 

Wikipedia: "This work has been included in many K-12 and higher education course materials, and has been cited as an influence for later social justice commentators."

For your edification, here's the long version, here's a much shorter one. 

Enjoy.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

Scroll down to share my work or access oldies. Buy an old crank a coffee? Extra content is available to members of Cranky's Coffee Club.    

Comments? I post my columns on Facebook and Twitter where you can love me, hate me, or try to have me canceled. Don't demonize, seek a compromise.