A Long Time Ago...

 

Image by Niek Verlaan from Pixabay

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"Truth is stranger than fiction, because fiction is obliged to stick to probability, and truth ain't." -Mark Twain (corrupted, but improved)

Dear Gentlereaders,

A long time ago in a column far, far away...

{Hold up there, Sparky, that doesn't make any sense.}

True. I'm referring to a column I wrote a long time ago, Dana. It's a cheap clever ploy, along with the title of this column, to snag an unsuspecting reader or two who might think they're clicking on a post about Star Wars. 

{Clickbait. Got it.}

No-no-no. It's a clever ploy; clever ploys are covered by my poetic license.

The column in question mentions a fictional organization I created out of thin air called the IUPPPP&PVTTOT, which is short for the International Union of Professional Perpetually Protesting Protestors and Perpetual Victims of This, That, and the Other Thing.  

{More clickbait. Got it.}

No-no-no. Merely witty satire, which is also covered by my poetic license.

Truth, as Lord Byron pointed out in Canto 14 of his epic poem, Don Juan, is stranger than fiction. 

{Gimme a break, you've never read...}

Byron's poetry is only one example of the many things I've never read, nor plan to. I was about to say that I discovered this because of my predilection for looking up the origin of commonly used quotes/phrases. Irregardless, the truth is often stranger than fiction.  

For example:

If, like me, you somehow missed the latest nationwide, Because Trump, protest march, permit me to get you caught up. 

John Lewis, a civil rights icon famous for (among other things) leading the first march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in 1965 that resulted in the unarmed marchers being attacked by a gaggle of good ol' boys — cleverly disguised as state and local police officers — with nightsticks and teargas. An incident that has been known ever since as Bloody Sunday.      

Mr. Lewis, who went on to become a congressman who represented Atlanta from 1987 to 2020, died on 7/17/20. He's credited with coining the phrase good trouble, by which he meant nonviolent protestors getting together to object to an injustice of one sort or another.

{Shouldn't that be congressperson?}  

Last month, a nationwide Good Trouble Live On protest took place on 7/17/25, which you may have missed, as it was kind of a bust. Note to self, don't schedule a nationwide protest to take place on a Thursday, timing is important. Also, don't try to capitalize on the reputation of a lesser-known civil rights icon who died five years ago. Five years ago is ancient history nowadays. 

{So, who exactly put this thing together, or tried to anyway?}

Obviously, you're a product of my subconscious, Dana. I also wondered about that, fascinated as I am by the hundred million or so global nonprofit organizations staffed by people whose job it is to seek justice and promote protests and who inspired my fictional creation, the IUPPPP&PVTTOT. 

I did a deep dive into the WWCK (worldwide web of contradictory knowledge), but was unable to pin it on a specific individual or organization. The Good Trouble Lives On website mentions a handful of "Partners." I stopped counting when I got to 100.

While searching the web for info about the poorly executed protest, I came across an organization called Crowds on Demand, "...your home for impactful advocacy campaigns, demonstrations, crowds for hire and corporate events." 

Yes, Virginia, a bit o'-googlin will reveal to you that there are firms that will supply bodies for your protest -- if the check clears. In fact, there are several. Back when I created the IUPPPP&PVTTOT, I had never even heard of Crowds on Demand. I was vaguely aware there were/are various and sundry such firms, but I've never looked into the phenomenon till recently.

{Yet another failure by this column's official current events junkie, it would seem.}

Thanks for pointing that out, Dana. I was also surprised to discover that this sort of thing is hardly carried out in the shadows. While I imagine that in most cases, neither the organizers of a given protest nor the firm supplying sign-carrying H. sapiens want you to be aware that at least some of the alleged protesters in your town are actually employees...

{More likely independent contractors, I would think. Companies that make their money via gig workers and people trying to survive via side hustles prefer that the help deal with their own taxes and the like.} 

The CEO of Crowds On Demand wants the world to know that the bodies his firm supplies to his customers are carefully screened. If violence and looting break out at your "mostly peaceful protest," it won't be because of the people rented from his company. 

{I wonder if there's a money-back guarantee?}

Adam Swart, the CEO of Crowds on Demand, explains in the video that his firm also has high standards when deciding on whether or not to do a deal with a given customer.

Mr. Swart says he was offered $20,000,000 to supply protestors for the failed Good Trouble Lives On protest, but he turned it down. Not because he necessarily disagreed with the aims of those who organized this Because Trump protest, but for professional reasons. 

He explains his reason is the same reason George Clooney doesn't appear in Marvel movies: Integrity. If he doesn't think a given protest will be effective in accomplishing its goals, he's prepared to leave the money on the table so as to maintain his company's reputation. 

Crowds on Demand is in the "persuasion business," you see, and has to protect its brand. 

{       }

I know, right? While some of us might think that supplying paid protestors to whomever is willing to pay is morally dubious, Mr. Swart apparently doesn't. He is a professional, however, and wants us to know that he won't accept your $20,000,000 if he thinks you're wasting your dough. 

{So who offered him the money?}

He won't say, that would be unprofessional. 

{I wonder if he charges extra for picket signs?}

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2025-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

  

   

No Choices

Image by Лариса Мозговая from Pixabay

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"We must believe in free will, we have no choice." -Isaac Bashevis Singer

Dear Gentlereaders,

I read the novel Exodus, by Leon Uris, several years ago. It's about what happened when the UN divided the Palestine region into two countries in 1948. 

Note the word region. It wasn't a country at the time; it was a region. It hadn't been a country for nearly 2.000 years, ever since the ancient Romans got tired of the Jews constantly objecting to their homeland being occupied (via failed revolutions) and ordered everyone out of the pool. 

In 1948, European Jews, or what was left of them, despite the enthusiastic efforts of various and sundry European countries/leaders to kill them off, were given a region in the region to call their own, as was the local Arab population.  

In short order, Israel's neighbors, and not just the ones in the new country next door, but most of their other neighbors, tried to kill them and toss 'em into the Mediterranean. The Jews, having decided that enough was far more than enough, fought back. Against all odds, they won the first of what would be a handful of attempts to drive them out of the neighborhood.   

A recurring theme in the book was that while attempting to survive an existential crisis was a bit of a drag, it was kill-or-be-killed, life or death.    

No choice.  

AI, bots, and robots are now, quite obviously, a thing, and a real big...feckin' deal at that. Despite the potential downsides and the fact that there may be downsides no one has thought of, every country on the planet with the money to do so is racing full speed ahead to claim a piece of the pie. 

If the U.S. were to abandon this quest, the Chinese would double down. I can hear Martha Stewart's voice (or an AI version) saying, "That would be a bad thing." 

We're fighting Cold War Two, and the Chinese are our very formidable opponents. They would love, at the very least, to impose "Socialism with Chinese characteristics" all over the Eastern Hemisphere.

That is to say, a non-hereditary emperor, lots of modern-day coolies, and a mercantilist version of capitalism. 

They'll be happy to rule the Western hemisphere as well if they get the chance. They've been eating our lunch ever since we let them into the World Trade Organization (a future column, stay tuned), and are carefully watching Western Civilization's repeated attempts to kill itself by repeatedly shooting itself in the foot in the meantime. 

We have to follow this road to wherever it leads. 

No Choice.

2/24/22. Russia invades Ukraine, "...starting the largest and deadliest war in Europe since World War 2," according to Wikipedia. 

The Pooteen says it's a "special military operation" to save the citizens of a couple of Russian-speaking provinces where Ukrainian neo-Nazis were committing genocide, killing off Russians. His goal was/is to "demilitarize and denazify Ukraine," so he needed to take over the whole country as a public service.

The Ukrainians have a piece of paper signed by the U.S. and other European nations — including Russia — back in 1994, guaranteeing their security in exchange for handing over the nukes left in Ukraine by the Soviet Union when it collapsed. They apparently didn't read the fine print.

In 2014, the Poteen invaded/annexed a chunk of Ukraine, the Crimean Peninsula. Various and sundry international organizations bitched and moaned and passed sanctions. The Poteen still grasps Crimea in his grubby, bloody little fingers. 

This time — with on-again off-again help from America, as well as various European nations, most of whom have been neglecting their militaries in favor of social justice programs for decades — the Ukrainians said, Oh no you don't. We're not rejoining the ranks of Russia's slaves.

No choice.

I hate to write, but I have no choice. Granted, it's hardly an existential problem like the ones above. If I stopped writing, I'd be unlikely to drop dead as a result. However, it's not hard to make the argument that there are worse things than death, not that you can easily convince a fellow H. sapien who disagrees. More on that anon.

{Anonymously? I don't see...}

Anon isn't necessarily an abbreviation for anonymous; in fact, according to my Merriam-Webster, it means soon, or presently. Alternatively, it may also be defined as after a while, or later. It depends on the context. 

It's a very handy word that also serves to make me sound like I have more than 39 certified college credits. I stole it from George Will, whose column I've been following for decades. Mr. Will (Doctor Will, thank you very much) is far better educated and far better read than I. Intellectual stolen valor?

{Anyways...}

Anyways, I've written in the past that there's what you do to make a living, your job, and then there's your work. Except for a lucky few, these are not the same thing. 

For example, I maintain that being a rabid sports fan of some sort might be your work, that thing that defines you, that thing (beyond mere survival) that gets you out of bed in the morning and reporting to your crappy job... so that you can come home and do your work,

This is the work you choose to do, even though nobody is likely willing to pay you to do it. In fact, it probably costs you money, and definitely time. 

{That's not work, it's fun.}

Lots of things are fun. 

Your work is that thing you almost have to do to remain sane, Dana. If you don't have such a thing in your life I highly recommend trying to find it. It took me a long time to find my work. It's easy to put off doing so by staying busy, willingly and/or because you have no choice. Once you find it, you'll discover that at the very least, it takes the edge off the fact that if you're like most H. sapiens, you'll spend your life feeling like something is missing.

Update: Since I came to this conclusion and discovered what my work is, I've learned that discovering what my work is, and doing it, ain't necessarily fun. You've been warned. I mentioned above that I hate to write, which is a bit of hyperbole... 

{No! Really!}

...But makes a valid point. I love the feeling I get when I release one of my columns into the wild, and I'm proud of my work. Unfortunately, I'm never completely satisfied with it. If I reread it a hundred times, I'd change something a hundred times.

Worse, if I don't do my work, I feel terrible, emotionally/psychologically speaking, despite the fact that I'm fully aware that it's of little to no importance to anyone but me. I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't, and I can't really say why. 

Perhaps I picked the wrong work, or I should've stuck with busy and/or fun. Perhaps my work picked me? Is this why H. sapiens with more money than God keep doing their work till they drop dead? No choice?

Now, here's the anon part mentioned earlier. A few years ago, I managed to accidentally upset a perfectly nice fellow person of a certain age in a doctor's waiting room. 

We found ourselves to be on the same page in all sorts of ways, including the fact that we were both delighted to be sitting in a waiting area that had chairs that were quite comfortable and high enough off the floor to make it possible for geezers/geezerettes to stand up or sit down with a minimal loss to one's dignity. 

I mention the chairs because they're a surprisingly rare phenomenon given the sheer numbers of Boomers still running around, as well as handicapped H. sapiens of all ages. I intend to remedy this situation once I'm the King of America.

I don't remember exactly what we were talking about when I opined that there were worse things than death. Her demeanor changed dramatically, just like that, with a snap of virtual fingers. I was now clearly talking to a different person. 

"How do you know?" she barked. 

Oops. 

Weelll... I explained, I know a bunch of people who died slowly and painfully, and I was of the opinion that if this were happening to me, and I knew I was terminal, I would much prefer to be able to choose a dignified death than linger on, and on, and miserable and/or "out of it" half of the time.

I deliberately didn't mention legalized euthanasia because I'm opposed to it, except for when I'm for it. I suspect I may not be the only one. Also, my personal public policy is to avoid controversial subjects, if at all possible, when speaking to a stranger I'm unlikely to ever encounter again. Why bother?

And that was the end of that conversation. 

No choice. 

For the record, on a related note, I don't want to die just yet, but if I got to choose the circumstances of my inevitable demise, I think being hit by a small asteroid that was just big enough to vaporize only me, and that I didn't see coming, would be cool. Just puttin' it out there... 

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

Scroll down to comment, share my work, or scroll through previous columns. I post links to my columns on my Facebook page so you can love me, hate me, or call for my execution via social media. Cranky don't Tweet (Xclaim?).

Copyright 2025-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved

  

   

 

  

 

Cheat Sheets For Young (ish?) H. sapiens

Introduction and C.S. 1

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.

  

                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 

"If the immortality dreamers of Silicon Valley are successful, they may discover that what still seems interesting about life at 80 is a lot less interesting at 200." -Holman W. Jenkins, Jr. 

Dear Gentlereaders,

This is not my first attempt to create cheat sheets; I started down this road once before. What was attempted was a series of cheat sheets intended to leave a bit of advice behind for the Stickies, my now-grown grandkids (legally speaking anyway), and their kids if they should decide to reproduce, that my gentlereaders might also find interesting/useful.  

Me being me — garrulous 1 :given to prosy, rambling, or tedious loquacity (Merriam-Webster) — I lost control of the narrative and gave up in short order.

{Don't be too hard on yourself, as your millions of gentlereaders are aware, your columns do "feature the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer."}

Thanks for the commercial, Dana, but due to my impending death, I've decided...

{Your impending death! If you're about to die, that means that I'm about to die! Why am I only now hearing about this?}

Sorry, I'm not about to drop dead, not as far as I know anyway. But when I do dance the mortal coil shuffle, nobody's gonna say (unfortunately), "But he was so young!" which implies I should do this thing ASAP if I really want to get it done. Besides, given that any given H. sapien may drop dead at any age...

{You're a dick, you know that, right?}

Hey! This is a more or less family-friendly column! You know that, right?

{Fine, you're a penis, you know that, right?}

Anyways... I've decided to try again, without creating a virtual verbal prairie dog community for my dear gentlereaders to try and find their way out of.  

{Say what?}

Prairie dogs build entire underground cities that make mere rabbit holes look pathetic by comparison.

{Yup, you're a penis alright.}

FYI, if you find my plan to produce a series of cheat sheets alarming/annoying/boring, fear not, I don't plan to publish them consecutively. They will instead be published now and then till I run out of subjects I wish to comment on. 

{Or till he drops dead at his keyboard, whichever comes first.} 

C.S. 1. Bookends. Memento mori is Latin for remember, you must die.

My personal version is something like, Hey, given that I'm going to die and that it could be today, how do I choose to live in the meantime? There are documented instances of people employing this concept for roughly 2,500 years, although I'm sure it's even older than that. 

As it happens, there are all sorts of H. sapiens working on and/or hoping to become immortal via various and sundry methodologies from digital to electromechanical to spiritual to electrical to etcetrical. My personal favorite is intensive caloric restriction: starving yourself to death to live forever. 

Iregardless, at least for now, as I believe Shakespeare said, life is but an old cell phone battery. If you're young, younger than me anyway, before you know it, you're going to be old like me. Old or young, you need to keep this in mind: Emotionally speaking, you may still feel like you have all the time in the world, even if rationally speaking, you know you don't. 

Traditionally, people have used various and sundry methods to remind them that the light at the end of the tunnel might be a train coming the other way. Monks might keep a human skull in their cells, but merely contemplating death while sitting in silence in a graveyard was sufficient for others.  

I would advise against keeping a human skull in your room for any number of what are hopefully obvious reasons. There are faux versions available on Amazon available in various sizes and made from various materials. I was skimming product descriptions when I found this: "The skull model, made in non-toxic PVC material, tasteless, easy to clean. Able to be washed and the material will last for years."

{Do the descriptions say where they're manufactured? Because if it's Emperor Poo Win Nie's China...}

Being old, I personally know a lot of dead people, famous Boomers seem to be dropping like flies, and I have a personal health problem or three. I don't have to go out of my way to be reminded I'm mortal.

{Alright, I get it, Captain Obvious. Odds are, we're going to die, so we should live accordingly.}

Bonus questions for extra credit: If you could choose some version of immortality, would/should you? Can you explain the following paradox? The older you get the less likely it is you will want to live forever. 

{I thought we weren't going to visit Prairie Dog City? You said bookends, plural?}

The other bookend is another concept that's also been around effectively forever. Picture yourself on your deathbed with the wherewithal to review the life you just led. What will you regret? What would you have done differently if you knew then what you know now? Should you have eaten more or fewer doughnuts?

"Odds are, we're going to die, so we should live accordingly."

{You're quoting yourself again, this time in the same column?}

Well...life is short, and technically speaking, I quoted you. 

Clearly, asking yourself these sorts of questions now would be a good idea, and not just because you hopefully can do something about the answers if you don't like them. 

If you do this honestly/realistically you'll discover that there's no shortage of things that you can't, or at best, only partially change. This will provide clarity and direction. Put that list in a drawer, lock it, stop fretting about it, and get on with your life. Take it out on your birthday to see if it needs updating. 

{Does this mean you've come to grips with the fact you're never going to be an obscenely rich, exceedingly handsome rock star whose reclusive nature makes you that much hotter as far as the chicks are concerned?}   

Well, my dear gentlereaders, thanks for reading this missive. To sum up, try to keep in mind that any given day is a day you could be killed by a Pyro Drone run amok. You need to choose how you wish to live your life lest you regain consciousness one day wondering why your hospital room smells like the aftermath of a fireworks display and everyone is looking at you like that. 

Doctor: "I'm afraid I have some bad news, sir/ma'am/other."

You: "I woulda..., I coulda..., I shoulda..."

{Whoa, hold up there, Sparky. How are people supposed to go about deciding how to live their lives?}

Sorry, I thought that was obvious. Take your pick: goals, no goals, or nihilism. If you choose goals, never forget that life is what happens to you while you're making other plans, and make like a recovering addict and pray/hope for the serenity to accept what can't be changed, the courage to change what you can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

Easy peasy.

{Could you, um, expand on that just a bit?}

I personally recommend having a major long-term goal or two in mind, as well as short-term goals that will help you get there, and serve to provide structure along the way. 

Don't just do so to please your Mum or Sister Mary McGillicuddy. Wikipedia says, "The anticipation of most types of rewards increases the level of dopamine in the brain...". The journey is as important as the destination... and provides a dopamine buzz as you go. 

This is why you feel so much better when you have goals than when you don't. It also keeps you from embracing nihilism (put down that axe, Eugene) or getting hooked on substances that flood your brain with dopamine that ultimately stop working: "...many addictive drugs increase dopamine release or block its reuptake...".  

There are reasons why so many seemingly boring and uncool people are happier and more well-adjusted than the estimated 59,300,000 Americans who suffer from mental illness.

{59.3 million? Well, that explains all sorts of stuff, but I think it might be an underestimate.}    

Have an OK day, 

Colonel Cranky

Scroll down to comment, share my work, or scroll through previous columns. I post links to my columns on my Facebook page so you can love me, hate me, or call for my execution via social media. Cranky don't Tweet (Xclaim?).

Copyright 2025-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved