Death to the GOP

Donald Trump has delivered. We can not act surprised in this man of action and the promises he has made and carried out thus far. However, just because someone makes promises and delivers, doesn't make them noble, ethical or magnanimous. He is simply a man of action with a diabolical agenda—not a role model for any decent human.

Despite my unhealthy views for the orange-faced dictator, I have even more contempt for those who continue to support him and prop up his agenda in what is known as the Republican party.

I’ll confess here, that I've never gone out of my way to vote Republican, but I've never ruled them out completely. And yes, I have voted Republican a few times in my voting life. But, after today—after the confirmation of Betsy DeVos as the Secretary of Education—I never will again. No more. Nada. I’m finished voting for these political whores of the rich and powerful. I’ll vote an independent-write-in before I vote for another Republican. I’ll make up an opponent before I vote for a fucking Republican again. Anyone who chooses to run under the same flag that is propped up by scoundrels and frauds like Mitch McConnell, Mike Pence, John Barrasso, Mike Enzi, Paul Ryan—and yes, Donald Trump—are guilty by association in my book. The GOP has become a shameless party fueled by pure unapologetic deceit and unabashed hypocrisy—camouflaged in Christian values and the American flag.

The Republicans have become a desperate bunch who know the glory days of the “grand old White party” are waning, and they’ll do anything they can to hold on to power. Welcome to the early stages of America’s Apartheid. Hopefully it is short-lived.

He Is My President

Donald Trump is my President, and I think he is a fuck-wit.

I may not like Trump, but I really do have to accept him as my President just like he may not like me calling him a fuck-wit, but he’s going to have to accept that too.

So, for the next four years (and hopefully it won’t be that long) I intend to doubt everything about him based on his past. Give him a chance? No way—he’s a calculating jackass. And who gives a calculating jackass a second, third, or fourth chance? I saw all I needed to see during his campaigning—which was disturbing to say the least. I have all kinds of adjectives for Trump—none are favorable, and I don’t see anything on the horizon that will make me think differently. I’ll never rule out the possibility of having something good to say about the douche, but I’m doubtful. He’s dug himself in pretty deep as I see it.

But, for the record I am willing to admit I’m wrong about anything to do with Trump if it ever comes to that. In fact, I would prefer such an outcome. This is one time I don’t want to be right.

Which reminds me; people don’t like to admit they are wrong and they don’t like to say “I’m sorry.” In this day and age, it seems more true than ever. And that’s the scary part. Too many of the proud Trump voters will probably stick to their guns even when the most casual observer has concluded Trump is every bit the fraudster we said he was. When the economy tanks, when the good-paying manufacturing jobs never materialize, when crime starts rising again—and God forbid—the nukes come raining down on the world, the mouth-breathers of the United States will find someone else to blame. I betcha Obama will be the scapegoat. 

As a voter who voted for the loser, it’s important for me to point out here that the uproar over this President, isn’t about Republicans winning and Democrats losing. It’s about an asshole running the country. It’s about an asshole fooling a lot of good people. It takes a fool to vote for a fool, but Trump roped many others with his little feat of political sorcery—competent, smart, and reasonable people. Nevertheless, I suspect many of them will come to regret that choice someday.

Had Jeb Bush, John Kasich, Marco Rubio, Carly Fiorina, or even Ted Cruz won the election, nothing would be going on like it is today—nothing like it at all. Oh sure, there would be some cracks at one of those new Presidents (no worse than G.W. Bush or Obama), but Donald Trump is in a class all on his own, and it’s a very, very low class—where the greasiest, double-dealing snake-oil salesmen dwell. You voted for Rubio over Hillary, I get’cha. But, you voted for Trump over Hillary (or anyone)! What the fuck, man!

So, as this shit-show of a Presidency unfolds, I will remain optimistic as I anticipate the day when Donald Trump is a broken and demoralized man—more so than the day of Dylan Roof’s execution.

Membership Has Its Privileges

Racism isn’t just politically incorrect, it’s wrong. And sadly, this still has to be said as 2016 comes to an end.

I’m not an expert on racism, but sooner or later we all end up in conversations about it, and like it or not, we end up speaking our mind. I’ve done so before on this blog and after watching a disturbing video recently, perhaps this is a good time to say something about it again—in particular, “reverse racism” since it is gaining traction in light of our new President and his followers.

Over the years, I’ve heard my share of White folk now and then talk about “reverse racism”—stating events where they or someone they know (also White) have experienced it. It kind of makes sense if you don’t think too hard about what they are saying, but I’ve never bought into this fabricated concept, and here’s why.

Racism is something that is dealt out by a majority. Now, if you are White and living in a neighborhood where a minority of our country’s citizens are the majority, you might experience racism at the local level, but you won’t have much to worry about beyond that neighborhood. However, if you’re a minority of our country, you probably have plenty of stories in your life where you have experienced the ugliness of racism no matter where you live.

Many see minority and majority in terms of numbers only. But, those who possess the greatest power easily become the majority as well—see Apartheid South Africa circa 1960s. Here in the United States, Whites make up over 60% of the population and the closest contestant to that are Latinos at a paltry 16%, with Blacks coming in at 12.2%. Given this math and the excessive distribution of power doled out to Whites in government and business, it’s safe to say that Caucasians are indisputably safe as our country’s majority.

It’s also important to keep in mind that racism is based on two important concepts that minorities don’t have much of, and therefore can not exercise: power and privilege. Look no further than the disproportionate arrest and sentencing for people of color vs. Whites when it comes to… say, drug crimes. Further, Whites are certainly less likely to experience racial profiling and when arrested, will almost certainly have superior legal representation compared to those of color. Finally, the odds favor Whites when it comes to talking themselves out of an arrest—especially if it is a White police officer.

The bottom line is this: you can’t make a legitimate claim as a victim of racism providing you’re a member of the majority. 

And while you’re at it, don’t get confused when it comes to angry words, protests or fights for equality as some form of racism. This is simply (and understandably) an unpleasant response from centuries of White privilege and power. Civility is nice if you can get it, but not everyone who has experienced racism is going to be nice about it when it comes up in discussion. Being a pollyanna about such discussions will only confirm how comfortable you truly are in your White privilege—which probably means you are a racist.

Lastly, I read this not long ago:

Making a racist statement is a manifestation of racist culture; being “mean” isn’t. For Whites, it can be difficult to be confronted with the reality of racism, and with comments from people of color about how privilege and power operate. It’s tempting to take such comments personally and to insist that people of color are being “mean,” which is often a hop, skip, and a jump away from an accusation of reverse racism. —S.E. Smith

I’m unsure if there will ever be a time in the future when being a member of the majority won’t be a privilege. However, as long as that’s the case, along with your privilege you should include several good measures of accountability, compassion and an ability to absorb criticism or insults that may not be as personal as you think. It’s a puny price to pay.

Critics Unite!

It’s a fine line between being a critic or being a complainer. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who isn’t too afraid to speak out and offer up a critique on any given issue that I encounter. As a result, and over the years, I know many in my community and workplace see me as a complainer.

For the record, here’s some definitions that I scrounged up on these two terms:

Critic: a person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something, the practice of judging the merits and faults of something.

Complainer: one who states a grievance, an expression of displeasure.

I’ve certainly  “shot my wad” as the expression goes. Translation: I’ve spoken up enough times—especially in those instances when no one else did—that anything I say from here on is for the most part greeted as, “Oh, that’s just Morgan complaining again. He’s always complaining about something.”

In contemplating these two terms, I’ve stumbled onto many famous quotes that defend and attack the critic/complainer. 

In the corner attacking criticism/complaining, there are the following:

“Criticism is an indirect form of self-boasting.” —Emmet Fox

“Be an encourager. The world has plenty of critics already.” —unknown

“If you don’t like the menu, leave the restaurant.” —Chris Brogan (Akin to “If you don’t like it, leave.”)

“Any fool can criticize, condemn and complain and most fools do.” –Benjamin Franklin

“Watch out for the joy-stealers: gossip, criticism, complaining, faultfinding, and a negative, judgmental attitude.” —Joyce Meyer

And in the corner defending the critic/complainer, we have these:

“Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man’s growth without destroying his roots.” —Frank A. Clark

“I like criticism. It makes you strong.” —LeBron James

“Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.” —Winston Churchill

“To announce that there must be no criticism of the president... is morally treasonable to the American public.” —Theodore Roosevelt

“The trouble with most of us is that we would rather be ruined by praise than saved by criticism.” —Norman Vincent Peale

“I much prefer the sharpest criticism of a single intelligent man to the thoughtless approval of the masses.” —Johannes Kepler

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me that I relate more to those quotes that defend the critic while those who attack it strike me as thin-skinned do-gooders who are actually up to no-good.

In the last four years or so, I’ve been relatively quiet in my critiques, which can be verified by looking at the frequency of posts to this blog. Some friends have even noted it as well saying things like, “You’ve been pretty quiet lately—what’s going on?”

I must confess that the election of Donald Trump and everything that he brings (and doesn’t bring) to the Presidency has awakened me. Yep, critical posts to Facebook and my little circle of like-minded friends (mostly) isn’t good enough any longer. So, here I am.

Further, rather than critiquing something about the President-elect here or some other important issue in our world or nation, I’d like to offer up this critique to those who are a little closer to me—those who have patted me on the back at some point in the past and told me quietly, “I’m so glad you said that, I feel the same way.”

Well, the time has come and Morgan has used up a good chunk of his “cred”  in all of his critiques. Which means it’s time for you to speak up and say those things that you have been content with only hearing from those like me. Yep, imagine… just imagine if you are the one who speaks up before me, or along with me, instead of sitting on your hands. Imagine yourself and a few others speaking up instead of being silent. Suddenly, it’s not, “That’s just ‘Tirade Tyree’ spouting off again,” but now there are several who feel this way and maybe, just maybe others will consider the critique and take it seriously and perhaps even get behind it as well. And the next thing you know, change is unfolding before us all.

So, quit patronizing me or others when no one else is around. Get off your ass and speak up for those things you believe in and call out wrong when it is sitting right in front of you. Quit caring about how you come out in the local or national popularity contest and make a stand.

Abusing a New President

America Becomes Great Again

Those who proclaim “Not My President” in light of the recent Presidential election outcomes, are catching quite a bit of shit these days—and most of it coming from those who supported the winner, Donald Trump.

I’m not sure when, where, or who came up with this popular phrase, but it certainly wasn’t conceived as the election results poured in on the night of November 8, 2016.

I remember after the election of 2008 seeing newly minted bumper stickers with this phrase in my community. Now, it would be easy for me to stop here and lay the blame on the Republican, conservative-minded folk for coming up with this brand. Further, it really felt racist given how we had just elected the first Black President (even if half Black). But, I live in a heavily Republican state—so heavy that it would surely vote for a turd excreted from a Republican over a highly-qualified Democrat—and in hindsight, I suspect it was only new to me back then. Surely this same slogan was being tossed around in Democratic strongholds following the election of George W. Bush.

So, as to the origins of this phrase, it probably isn’t as new as many of us think. And like all things that become popular, wherever it truly originated, it probably didn’t get much fanfare when it was first blurted out, but over the years—with the election of each new President—it has gained some traction.

Akin to these slogans, Presidential “nicknames” have become quite popular as well. Ones that come to mind are “Slick Willie” for Clinton, “Dubya” for George W. Bush, “Obummer” for Obama, and surely something is brewing in the wings for Donald Trump—“The Donald,” “Pussy-Grabber,” and “The Dump” are surely strong contenders as I write this.

I know these phrases and nicknames are somewhat new relative to our country’s existence. There was a time when almost all people respected the President and considered him (but sadly “never her” ) their President. But those days are gone. Are we less respectful today than say, the 1840s? Perhaps. But, I would simply lay the blame on our greater connectedness and that more people have a voice today thanks to the vast and economical communication networks that are in place. Like Gutenberg’s metal moveable type invention that lead to greater literacy for the masses, the same has taken place providing a greater voice for the individual.

As far as a unified respect for the President… we may never see that again.

More Drag, Less Macho

Photo by Hananiah Aldrich

There are a lot of folk out there in my little community of Powell, Wyoming that think I dislike everything about this town, its college (Northwest College) and even the state of Wyoming. So, I’m here to declare that, “It just ain’t so (in a Wyoming accent).” I’m critical of many things that I care about, but in this day and age of thin-skinned Pollyannas, anyone who is critical about something is immediately painted as a hater or Debbie-downer.

To be honest though, there are things that go beyond my critique and thus deserve my disdain—those same Pollyannas come to mind.

Here’s what I’m talking about: I’m critical of our Wyoming culture that seems to reward and reinforce overly macho behavior. I’d like to see that toned down a bit in the near future. Besides, it’s sooooo cliché. What I dislike are those assclowns who adopt and embrace this trumped-up virile behavior—in particular those who feel the need to modify the exhaust systems of their gigantic 4x4, quad-cab diesel-powered pickup trucks while incessantly revving their engines everywhere they go. I can’t think of a better illustration of a textbook douchebag.

Contrary to all of this, I served as a drag contest judge the other night on the campus of Northwest College. It was absolutely fun, entertaining and delightful—and as I was sitting there watching men (and women) compete for the best drag contestant on campus, I thought to myself, “You know what this town needs are a few more drag queens and kings and a lot less knuckle-dragging, macho-oozing, look-at-me-because-I-drive-a-loud-diesel-pickup-truck douchebags.”

Perhaps this sentiment has to do with a little incident I had the other day when I flagged down one of these John Wayne, chest-beaters (a.k.a., assclown) as he was doing about 45 mph through the middle of campus and about to run a stop sign. When he hit his breaks and rolled down his window in bewilderment, I calmly said, “Hey man, it’s 25 mph through campus and that’s a stop sign you just went through.” In so many words he retorted that I don’t tell him what to do and after a few more exchanges the dude started to get out of his 4x4 to duke it out with me. I mean honestly, I can’t think of a better example of testosterone-induced rage.  You’re breaking the law and endangering the public, someone calls you out on it and you want to fight them… what the fuck, man?!

I’m not sure if I could have whipped him, but if it had come to that, and I ended up having the upper hand, I would have trashed his 4x4 Silverado too. I suppose if it went the other way, he probably would have done the same to my longboard.

With these thoughts in mind, I’d like to make a challenge to our little community of Powell… How about we all start calling out these hotheads in their rude and self-centered behavior when they are breaking the law, endangering others or simply being disrespectful of peace and quiet. This used to be a quiet little town, but in the past five years, it has transformed into a noisy and belligerent little town. And while we’re at it, let’s see if we can encourage enough students to enter the drag contest next year—perhaps even double its participants.

Let’s bring down the machoism a notch and lift up the drag. It’ll be good for Powell.

Meditations and Confessions of a Geezer Longboarder

“The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.” —Walter Begehot (Quote on a Good Earth tea bag)

Growing up in Akron, Ohio, it’s possible that I was the first kid with a skateboard—and if I wasn’t, certainly one of the first. My board came to me by way of California following a holiday out West in the mid-1960s. I have a hunch that few of today’s more youthful riders have ever seen a skateboard like my first one—with it’s short, narrow wooden deck, and steel wheels. Perhaps it was a sign of my fate, but even as a youngster, I learned how to slide the wheels on our smooth, sloped concrete driveway that dumped onto the rough chip-seal of Stevenson Avenue.

I don’t know what became of that skateboard, but there were others that followed and there were times in my life when there wasn’t a skateboard at all. That said, it seemed like there was always someone nearby who had a board if I was hankering for an occasional ride. To be clear, I haven’t spent my entire life on a skateboard like some, but I’ve never been far away or too out of practice to confidently jump on a board when such opportunities came along.

If you were to ask me back in the 1980s what I thought I’d be doing for fun as a 50-year-old, I probably would have answered you with something like fly-fishing, golfing, or bike touring. Surely one of the last things coming out of my mouth back then would have been anything to do with a skateboard.

• • •

My on-and-off skateboarding life continued until 2002 when a college student in need of some quick cash convinced me to purchase his Gordon & Smith 43-inch pintail longboard. Prior to that time, I had seen a few of the “giant” skateboards around, but never rode one. As it turned out, curiosity was the driving force that ultimately sealed the deal in my first longboard purchase.

For the next several years, I pushed the G&S pinner around my flat, little town of Powell, located in the high desert country of Wyoming, but unlike a true enthusiast, I never entertained the idea of taking it further.

Despite the flack directed at Original (a longboard maker) from the longboarding community (and I'm not sure why this is either), I’ll confess here that it was an Original video on YouTube that blindsided me one day and made me start thinking about that old G&S in a new light.

Not long afterwards, I started studying up on other forms of riding—freeride and downhill specifically. This line of thinking was influenced by that Original video and a geographical feature just outside of Powell called Polecat Bench.

Polecat Bench is a hybrid of mesa and plateau dominating the Powell horizon from the north to the northwest direction—rising 500-feet above the town. The “Bench” (as we call it) is the closest recreational destination for the locals—whether it’s riding an ATV or mountain bike, arrowhead or bird hunting, or just a place to look over the land in quiet solitude. It is also home to the community airport and a gas refinery beyond the airport. Connecting these operations with the community is State Route 295 (also known as “Road 9”) which includes about 1.5 miles of sloped asphalt that climbs the Bench at a five-percent grade. For the most part, there is very little traffic on this road-to-nowhere except for an occasional truck hauling crude or refined petroleum product along with the pickup trucks of those few who work at the refinery. The highway is absolutely deserted on Sunday mornings, and even when there is an occasional car or truck, you can see it coming with ample time to get out of the way.

As I contemplated the Bench and learned more about freeride and downhill longboarding, I started to realize that my Gordon & Smith FibreFlex wasn’t going to cut it on the steeper parts of the Bench. And so, not long after this epiphany, my Landyachtz Switch 40 arrived followed by a helmet, slide gloves and a set of pads for my knees and elbows.

• • •

To say that things have been “happily ever after” since the drop-deck Landyachtz arrived would be a boldface lie. To be blunt, some of my worst fails/falls have been at the slowest speeds and were attributed mostly to bad judgement rather than poor riding skills. There have been spills so embarrassing that I wouldn’t even speak of them in a confessional—let alone these pages, but I’ll humor you a bit here with a couple that I can stomach.

Before my Switch 40 ever saw an incline, it threw me off the sidewalk and into the street in the first 10 yards of my maiden voyage on it. I could say that the bushings were soft and the trucks looser than I’ve ever ridden, but as I washed the gravel out of my hands I knew it was just poor judgement on my part.

Not long after I’d been riding the lower sections of the hill, a friend of mine was in town and decided to tag along with his camera. I’d like to think my riding was no different than any other time that day, but I suppose having a bona fide camera-toting spectator along alters one’s abilities or at least perceptions of their own ability. Before we returned to town, I had managed to shred my entire forearm and slam by helmeted head into the asphalt thanks to high-siding on a toe-side carve that was reminiscent of any head-to-head collision from my youth of playing football.

Years earlier before I ever gave serious thought to downhill, I rode a traditional skateboard down a small—but very steep—hill at the local park. Prior to that I’d never, ever heard anyone speak about something called “speed wobbles.” Although it was a narrow foot path with lush grass on both sides, the wobbles threw me right into the middle of the asphalt resulting in enough road rash on my legs and arms to go through a tube of Neosporin before the week was out. I hobbled the mile distance home with the board under my bloodied arms. At the ripe age of 43, I was not only embarrassed, but convinced I’d never ride a skateboard again.

I’ve stated in many conversations that, given my age, I’m probably one bad spill away from transforming my longboards into wall art. And I’ve already taken enough big hits that left me laying stunned on the payment wondering if any bones were broken. I’ve gone through several boxes of extra large bandages thanks to road rash and landed hard enough on my ass to turn it black and blue. My shoulder has likely suffered from a couple impacts with the road and I’m pretty sure I broke a toe and cracked at least one rib. Every time I head out, I always remind myself, “You can’t afford to fall.”

I’ve also been telling everyone in my world that I’m not going to ride any faster than I can run, but the one day I clocked myself at 26 mph on one section of the Bench. I’m pretty sure I can’t run that fast.

Despite the aches and pain on my 50-some-year-old body, I’m riding more than ever these days—and not just the Landyachtz. In fact, I’m downright ashamed to lay out my quiver (of boards) to anyone at this time because—for one—I’m too old to own multiple boards, and secondly—I’m not that good.

Nevertheless, I am considerably better when it comes to riding a hill. I can carve confidently and, for the most part, I’m pretty decent at a hand-down toe-side speed check as well as a shut-down slide. My hand-down Coleman needs work, and I’m unsure if I’ll ever pull off any kind of standup slide, but I’m not ruling it out either.

When I started working the hill last spring, I set a goal for myself to ride the entire hill before the summer was over. I underestimated my eagerness to ride; on June 19th (two days before the first day of summer), I made it all the way down without incident. Since that time, it has become my longboard laboratory and a getaway from the big crowds of a town with over 5,000 residents!

I think riding alone suits me in terms of focus, concentration, and ultimately safety. And there is something about the solitude and quiet of the twenty-minute walks back up the hill to begin another run. Several times I’ve been offered rides to the top by those in vehicles passing by, but I almost always turn them down and tell them that walking back up comes with the territory of riding down. Besides, if nothing else, it is a good little aerobic exercise.

I’m unsure of a particular riding style that defines me—freeride or downhill. Not to dwell on my age, but I simply want to get down any hill without catastrophe regardless of steez (style). Perhaps the only steez I’ll ever possess is in my geriatric efforts. For now, it’s the little victories that keep me going such as marking the highway with long thane lines (polyurethane skid marks from the wheels sliding). Recently I cored (and flat-spotted) a set of wheels which was akin to receiving badge of valor. Making it all the way down a big hill without falling or bailing—no matter how much steeze I lack—is always motivation to go back up or return the next day.

Living in the country’s least populated state, people are pretty spread out. No matter who you are, what your interest or profession might be, there’s always an element of isolation and with it comes a lack of feedback from others like you. This is certainly my situation as an over-the-hill downhill longboard rider. Late this summer I met a college student who has ridden the hill and he has a few other friends that are curious about longboarding as well. It will be interesting to see if we ever evolve into a micro-community.

The other day two old guys smoking cigarettes with grizzled beards and dirty ball caps followed me in their car as I worked my way down the Bench. Upon reaching the bottom, they pulled over for a visit and I discovered we were of the same age. I wondered if they were as surprised as me upon discovering one another’s age. I’m sure there are older riders with more skills out there who have been riding longer. There’s nothing too unique to my story here, but I’m pretty sure it’s not common.

• • •

In the Autumn 2014 Issue of Concrete Wave, the following quote stopped me in my tracks:

“Skateboarding has been around for a very long time now. With very little effort, you can find skaters ranging from 5 to 55 years old ripping at almost any skate park, bombing hills, doing freestyle, or simply cruising to get somewhere.” Because I’m 54-years-old now, this harmless little statement has been haunting me in a Logan’s Run kind of way.

I know there’s not much time left for me—not like a teenager, while the likes of Patrick Switzer, Kyle Chin, or Liam Morgan needn’t worry about me stealing any of their sponsorships. Yet, these are some of the folk I look up to in making myself a better rider. With that article quote in mind, I’d like to think I have a little more than a year remaining. Nevertheless, I know my years on a board are numbered. Assuming I can stay healthy, perhaps I have another five to ten years of riding. Yet, to think I’ll still be riding that hill or one like it when I’m 65 seems utterly absurd.

The Problem with Lovers of Freedom

I’m reminded of a hangover. It’s 9:15 in the morning on July 5, 2014.

Discarded fireworks casings and packaging are strewn about the high desert of Wyoming—well, at least in one particular pull off about halfway up the Powell Airport hill that climbs Polecat Bench. As I walk by, I wonder how many other places just beyond the town proper of Powell and other Wyoming communities are suffering from the same fallout of freedom’s celebration.

The great expanses beyond any community in Wyoming (like the one described above) see very little traffic throughout the day or year. As a result, these remnants of our independence commemoration remain as an ugly reminder long after the largest of roadkills have been picked over by various scavengers—long after having rotted, dried up, and blown away by the wind.

And so I wonder, “Why do people have the need to go out to an empty place like this and light off their fireworks, only to leave the spent casings behind? Why can’t they do it in their towns where the remnants are more likely to be picked up by the street cleaner or other property owners?

Who are these people?

I think it’s wrong to generalize or stereotype about people, but it’s hard not to as I consider who would commit such a crime or sin on the land we hold so dearly in our heart—Wyoming… America… you know, “land of the free, home of the brave?”

My answer about who is responsible is dead on, although I have no proof.

The people that leave their spent fireworks casings abandoned in the desolate high desert are the same folk who leave their bullet-riddled belongings behind after shooting it up as target practice—refrigerators, 55-gallon drums, old computers, TVs… you name it. If it’s no longer needed, it’s fair game to become a target and then forsaken to an eternity as a desert eyesore.

Again, who are these people? Beyond pyromaniacs, they are banner-waving ‘Mericans who throw around clichés like, “freedom ain’t free.” They’ll proudly tell you, they love America—and the bumper stickers on their big and loud diesel, quad-cab, four-by-four pick-ups prove it. They love the U.S. and Wyoming, but they hate the President. They are the least tolerant people you’ll ever meet and you can bet they have plenty of guns to back up their narrow-minded, Fox-News-driven ideas and opinions.

But, be assured, they don’t love America. Actually they just love themselves and everything about their life. They see themselves as the center of the Universe and are the most disrespectful, self-serving and self-centered folk you will ever meet. Nevertheless, they know how to whoop it up with fireworks when the Fourth of July rolls around each year.

The Truth and Purity in Looking Down

In the Groove, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

I look down.

It’s an easy thing to do, and know one bothers me about it. Even when I use my camera or cell phone to compose and capture what I see looking down, no one bothers me. I suspect most folk who bother to notice think I’m just plain weird. Maybe I am.

There’s something about photographing those things at my feet. For starters, I don’t have to get anyone’s permission. Years ago, you could walk up to practically anyone and ask to take their picture and the reply was almost always, “Sure!” Nowadays, people think you’re up to something. “Why do you want to take my picture.” Take a picture of someone’s kid in a public place and you’re practically accused of being a pedafile.

Not long ago, I was taking a photo of a dilapidated wind mill in rural Western Nebraska from the roadside when a farmer in a pickup truck drove by, turned around when he saw me, pulled up behind my car on the roadside to ask me what I was doing (when it was obvious what I was doing). Actually what he wanted to know was why I was taking pictures of his land. Who knows what was going through his head when he saw me pointing my lens at the old windmill. Years ago, the same scenario probably would have resulted in him driving by thinking to himself, “Hmm, I wonder what he sees in that old field of mine?”

People with cameras aren’t treated with the same good-natured response/interaction they once were. And perhaps it’s justified considering how much unflattering (even if incredible) photography there is out there. To top it off, there are more people with cameras then ever. In fact, if you don’t have at least a cell phone camera, you are certainly in a minority.

Road Kill, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

Recently I was looking at a body of work published in Lenswork by photographer Jun Wang called “Over 100: Centenarians of Hainan.” They were amazing. He even had an incredible image of a nude centenarian—it wasn’t flattering, but it was amazing. Yet, sitting there looking at the images, what was even more impressive about this body of work had to do with the logistics prior to the shutter release… how does one go about making the arrangements to photograph a collection of centenarians? It was difficult for me to imagine how I would approach a person who was 100-years-old in a way that led to a fantastic portrait of them. To put it another way, if a centenarian were to ask why I wanted to take their picture, I’m not sure what I would say short of a boldface lie.

Which gets me thinking… I suspect many photographers do lie about their intentions when it comes to their rationale behind a photo request. And if not an outright lie, certainly some of a photographer’s rationale goes unspoken or turns out to be misleading. Further, if portrait-requesting photographers have never lied, why are so many people suspicious about having their picture taken upon request? I also wonder what percentage of fantastic (but unflattering) portraits have been actually viewed by their subjects?

Success in photography is more than just knowing how to work a camera. It’s also about working your subjects and those related to your subjects. And given that sobering truth, I’ll likely keep looking down.

Flying Naked, De-Icing, and In-Flight Etiquette

Passengers, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

I don’t fly often, but I’ve flown enough in my lifetime where getting on an airplane is no longer the novelty or thrill it once was—akin to an amusement park ride. Further, my sorties over the years are punctuated by long spans of time on the ground and away from anything to do with air travel. As a result, the changes in the airline industry which have developed slowly and gradual over the years for the common traveler are rather pronounced to me. Where most air travelers take little note of the ever-evolving modifications in airline travel, I often find myself rather flabbergasted.

One thing I still haven’t figured out yet are the details of proper flying etiquette. Given everyone has a smart phone or some kind of electronic tablet to keep them occupied (even if they aren’t permitted to use the phone itself), is it polite or rude to engage someone sitting next to you? I remember air travel back in the day as a setting where you were certain to have a conversation (delightful or painful) with a fellow passenger. Given the ever-growing presence of personal electronic devices and noise-drowning earphones, I’ve received more than my share of cold shoulders in any one of my friendly attempts to engage a fellow traveler. And given these distractors, who has time to chat with a stranger anymore?
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Perhaps the regular traveler hasn’t noticed, but airports are bigger than ever. They are small cities with a population in flux, some even have their own zip code. Today’s major airports are more like shopping malls and pedestrian freeways under one big roof. You can buy anything, but you had better use a turn signal when walking through the terminal unless you want to be trampled. I remember years ago I was lucky to get a cup of coffee in the St. Louis airport late at night. That place was a cemetery.

Chicago O'Hare, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

Which brings me to… why would you want to buy “anything” at an airport? Jewelry? Fine Clothing? A Harley? Something for your pet? Really, I’m going to buy something for my pet at the airport? Perhaps the rationale here is today’s airports are catering to the poor planner who happens to possess plenty of spending cash—albeit someone who forgets to pack their clothes or forgets to get that diamond ring in his I’m-going-to-ask-her-to-marry-me junket. That said, it’s not a stretch in justifying the coffee services of Starbucks, a magazine/book store, or places where one can grab a sandwich or drink, and even a store that offers accessories for your iPad as you wait for your next plane.
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In my recent journeys by air, I’ve had a thorough introduction to the de-icing procedure. It reminds me of cell phones: how did we ever get by without it? Further, when did ice start gravitating to the wings of a plane… what is it about wings that attracts ice? During the late 70s-early 80s, I clearly remember flying home several times in the winter as a college student and never did I see a de-icing truck or operator. How did planes fly without de-icing back then? One would think it involves a simple squirt on the leading edge of the wings, but the truth is, de-icing is like a car wash for airplanes.

Spoiled View, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

Admittedly, although the de-icing process adds 20 more minutes to sitting inside a grounded airplane, it is rather intriguing to watch this activity. First, the orange spray and then the green liquid goo—obscuring the view from the window seat that I worked so hard to get. It seems like overkill to me since I couldn’t see a sign of ice anywhere on the wings. Given its new psychedelic de-iced finish upon completion, the plane appears to be more prepared for a Grateful Dead concert than flying. The blurred window view reinforces this notion.

I think my preference for winter travel is shifting back to driving.

As a side note, I did a little research on de-icing while the plane sat there during the process. I turned off my iPhone’s “airplane mode” long enough to find out—hoping I wouldn’t endanger our flight as it was getting hosed down… hosed down with ethylene glycol that is! That’s right, ethylene glycol—a.k.a. antifreeze! And all this time I had thought that the reason one never sees animals around an airport is due to the loud planes. I never would have guessed that the varmints that once lived nearby drank up the sweet-tasting de-icing fluid during the winter season and then crawled over in the nearby weeds to die.

In addition, while in Minneapolis, I observed a de-icing operator lugging a de-icing hose around the perimeter of a plane in zero-degree temperatures and …he wasn’t wearing any gloves! I had to wonder: does de-icing fluid warm one’s skin and taste sweet?
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Other random flying observations…

Wilford, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

• Whatever became of the hot-looking stewardesses that gave the airline industry its great in-flight views? My jaunt between Minneapolis and Cleveland was hosted by Wilfrod Brimley’s clone asking me if I wanted coffee, juice, soda, or water? That was downright sobering.

• While about to depart from Minneapolis airport and its sub-zero temperatures, the pilot announces that they were having a small problem that was being looked into by the mechanics. I’m sitting there thinking about the conversation that’s going on between a couple of mechanics looking for a “small problem” on a plane in bitter cold conditions. Wouldn’t the conversation gravitate quicker to a solution like, “Ah, it’s probably nothing too important… it’ll be OK. Let’s go get some coffee.”

• What is it about the anxiety of going through the TSA security? I don’t think it has anything to do with being pulled aside and accused of terrorism. In my case, it seems more about the fast scramble to unravel everything about your attire and baggage and then reassemble it without holding anyone up. There is something incongruent about having to take off your shoes when you are late in catching a plane.

•I tried the new in-flight Internet service. At first it was a bust, then I read the fine print—you have to pay for it while the plane has to be over 10,000 feet. Nothing is free on a plane anymore; just a small bag of nuts and four ounces of a nonalcoholic drink. Not very impressive.

•Recharging Stations for your electronic devices… OK, I get it, but still it seems a bit weird to dedicate actual space in an airport for electrical plugs. I wonder what would happen if a person used their portable hair dryer in a recharging station.

Airplane Signage, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

•Beginning in 1988, regulation was introduced that banned smoking on 80% of flights (two hours or less). In 2000, the no-smoking ban was expanded to include all flights. Today in 2013, one would be hard pressed to find an airline that allows smoking on any flight. With that in mind, I find it a bit odd that the “no smoking” signs are still present in the jetliners of today. It seems that enough time has passed that everyone knows by now that smoking is forbidden on an airplane—especially since that’s the case in the airports too. Besides, isn’t it silly to make a lighted sign on an airplane that is never turned off? They should simply build a non-illuminated message into the back of the every seat—directly in front of every passenger.

•There are somethings that haven’t materialized in air travel that I predicted would have been the status quo by now. Why isn’t there a camera mounted in the cockpit or nose of the plane for passengers to view on the video screens in front of them (embedded in the back of every seat)? For years we’ve listened to the conversations between the crew and air traffic control, why can’t we watch them fly the plane too? Also, a camera mounted on the belly of the plane would be a nice addition for a view straight down. And why can’t the industry provide passengers with a map on these same screens so we can know exactly where we are as we look out the window for recognizable landmarks? These features should be standard fair if a passenger doesn’t want to pay for a movie on these same video screens.

• “…airplanes are a kind of time machine. The flying aluminum cans that transport us across distances that once required weeks, if not lifetimes, are not like the time machines of fiction. We can’t just transport ourselves to any place or time.” —friend and colleague Rob Breeding

•Finally: The new TSA body scanning machine (Advanced Imaging Technology)… it’s the closest thing to my father’s idea about how to prevent terrorist from boarding a plane—make everyone fly naked. Perhaps TSA could make their money back on these big-ticket machines in selling the scanned images to their owners for a nominal charge.


Postscript: I dare any in-flight magazine to publish this story. On a related note, here’s a little more information on TSA and their “advanced imaging technology” operations.

The Age of Innocence is Relative

Memories of Summer, Memories of a Past, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

As I was preparing coffee the other morning, I found myself unexpectedly thinking about the x-rated movies that played at Neeb Hall on the campus of Arizona State University when I was an undergraduate student (circa 1979). I don’t remember how many played in the course of a year, nor how long that genre continued playing there, but I know for sure x-rated movies were shown on campus. Several of us from Hayden Hall’s third floor actually attended one of those skin flicks too. It was the first x-rated movie I ever viewed. Most memorable was the funny, almost embarrassing feeling that came over me when the lights came up after it ended and I could see who was attending—and (gulp) they could see who was attending. I don’t remember wondering if other schools had the same kind of movies, and if someone had asked, I would have suspected that was the case almost anywhere. For the record, I don’t think ASU was ever known for any kind of radical behavior or activities back then. In fact, I think it was considered a fairly conservative school when it came to the country’s larger campuses.

For the record here, I’ll have you know that nothing became of this experience. We didn’t go out and attempt a rape, and none of us to my knowledge became involved in the porn industry or addicted to it. As college students, our reaction/response was probably typical—we giggled, laughed at how unrealistic it was (at least to us), felt a bit awkward, and then moved on. Further, of all the memories of my graduate years at ASU, going to that movie surely wasn’t one of those, “Hey guys, remember that time we…”

On a related note…

As a football cheerleader, we travelled to Stanford once. The day before the big game, we took in the campus. Amongst the beautiful architecture I remember most vividly the fragrance of marijuana in the air as students were smoking on the campus mall between their classes. I was a bit taken back as I never saw anything like this at my ASU (even if x-rated movies were shown there). Yet, after that trip, none of us on the cheerleading squad returned to ASU to initiate a movement for pot-smoking on campus. It was one of those, “Hmm, how about that. Yet another crazy thing attributed to Stanford; they smoke pot on campus and no one seems to care.”

And so, there I was pondering all of this over a cup of joe at 6:30 in the morning. I projected such activities to the Wyoming junior college where I work. I couldn’t imagine such activities permitted on our little pollyanna campus. But, then I wondered: are there still campuses that offer/tolerate such “atrocious” behavior today? Are things still the same in Palo Alto? Am I in such an isolated place that I don’t realize what is happening beyond this high desert, or are such campus escapades a thing of the past? And if they are something of the past, how did that come to be? When did it all shift to something more like the 1950s and Leave It To Beaver?

I mentioned all of this to a friend, and his answer was simply, “Reagan… President Ronald Reagan.”

A few other colleagues chimed in as well. When it comes to pornography, some thought that because the Internet provides a sense of privacy, we will never see it in such everyday public settings (like a major university). And as the legalization of marijuana becomes more widespread, a couple of them thought a day will come when we will see students having a toke or two between classes—assuming they are the same campuses where alcohol is permitted.

As I sit here thinking about all of this, I still wonder: What was that part of my past all about? For the most part, it’s not unusual to consider the things we do and experience today as stupendous in light of our past, especially when technology is factored in. Yet, here is something that was incidental back then that comes across as monumental today. Although I don’t have any hard and fast explanations, it is truly fascinating.

There Goes The Neighborhood

Red Lodge Riders, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

My favorite Harley joke...

Q: How is a Harley Davidson like an old dog?
A: They both like to ride in the back of pickup trucks.

Well, the “The Red Lodge Iron Horse Rodeo” has come and gone which means this quiet little mountain town is now in recovery mode from an onslaught of loud motorcycles (mostly of the Harley Davidson variety). I’m happy to report that the Subaru corps of Red Lodge are slowly reclaiming the main drag again. Like a Jekyll and Hyde story, Red Lodge transformed from a quaint and tranquil enclave into a village of chaos and paranoia located next to an easy-escape-penitentiary. Some of the locals compared it to an infestation of cockroaches.

Now that it is history, I find myself questioning the communities that kowtow to the loud Harley events/rallies. Typically we are told that it’s good for commerce, but there are obvious costs in hosting this particular crowd—for starters, extra law enforcement and emergency services are always beefed up when a “rally” comes to town. No doubt, a few watering holes probably do extremely well during these rallies, but one has to wonder how an entire town truly benefits, especially if alienating many of the permanent residents of the community is part of the fallout. And this: might there be other groups a community could cultivate that would generate as much (if not more) commerce without all of the consternation? After all, I don’t recall anyone ever informing me how great the Harley crowd is when it comes to tipping or splashing out with their dough.

As one Red Lodge resident pointed out, “I bet I spend a lot more money in Red Lodge over the course of a year than the average Harley rider that is here and gone for one weekend. Why should I be told to leave for the weekend if I don’t want to tolerate them?”

When walking up and down on Broadway, Red Lodge’s main drag, the rally was akin to a circus freak show. Harley riders and non-riders sit or stand, gawking as the the parade of roaring bikes go by. Often you see the same riders go by several times within the hour. I wonder if they are reliving their teenage years of cruising or making up for the cruising that eluded them as a teenager.

One also has to wonder if the riders see themselves as some modern-day outlaw (à la Clint Eastwood’s High Plains Drifter character) riding into town hoping every local will stop what they are doing while staring with their mouths wide-open.

As long as I’m speculating here, I’ve gathered that many of these riders are likely singing to themselves Bon Jovi’s “Dead Or Alive” as they make that first pass down a community’s main drag.

I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride.
I’m wanted dead or alive.
—Jon Bon Jovi.

Too funny.

On a related note, I also found myself chuckling as one rider who was decorated with the obligatory black vest that spelled out “Lone Wolf” on the back—cruising Broadway with all the other bikes. One is hardly a lone wolf if they have to wear a label telling the world such.

One friend asked recently, “If Harley riders are the ideal of American rugged individualism, why do they all wear the same clothing that usually entails some ensemble of a black leather vest with patches, black leather riding chaps and blue jeans, and a black t-shirt (often sleeveless) advertising some Harley Davidson dealership? In reality, they are conformist lemmings.” My suspicion here is if the Grateful Dead groupies were as loud as the Harley crowd, they wouldn’t be allowed in any town.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh. My partner simply said it this way, “It’s a chance to dress up in a costume and be someone they aren’t.” In essence it’s a Halloween party on wheels.

Though I’ve never owned a motorcycle myself, I do understand the excitement, passion, and that feeling of being free associated with riding a motorcycle. Perhaps I’ll even try it someday, but what I fail to process is the need to carry out this activity on a piece of equipment that overpowers every other sound including a normal conversation—not to mention the need to rev the engine excessively or when it's really not required at all. Such is hardly a practice of respect or considerations for others—which seems to be sooooo unAmerican these days. As I see it, every time a rider revs their loud Harley Davidson, it is simply an outcry for everyone to look at them. And usually I do—with great disdain. Like a dog barking excessively at us, we all should be encouraged to yell back “SHUT THE FUCK UP” every time a deafening Harley goes by. And, if noisy scooter trash is now permissible in America, then such outspoken replies should be licit as well.

In short, the excessively loud Harley Davidson motorcycle has become the quintessential illustration of today’s loud, overweight, underperforming, entitled and overbearing American. Surely such “audible” gatherings of machines would never have been tolerated in the same way back in the 1950s.

And through it all, somehow this particular loud and unruly group that commonly displays messages like a skeleton’s middle finger on the back of their riding vest, or patches that celebrate guns and death, with grandiose, stereotype depictions of Native Americans is somehow considered patriotic. How is that… because they ride an under-performing, oil-slobbering, gas-guzzling, overpriced and overbearing motorcycle that’s made in America?

When will the noise-based, “look-at-me” Harley contingency finally ride that “Highway To Hell”...and not return?

Thoughts on a Phony Parade

Grip and Grin Euphoria. www.japantimes.co.jp

The following email came out today from the fearless Vice President of Public Relations at Northwest College:

You’re invited to a brief groundbreaking ceremony for the college’s new Yellowstone Building next Thursday, May 16, at 4PM at the construction site just west of the tennis courts. An invitation post card was put into your mailbox this morning. As you’ll see, the post card also includes announcement of President Prestwich’s Farewell Reception the day before; more about that event will come to you from Board of Trustees President Mark Westerhold.

I hope you’ll put the groundbreaking ceremony on your calendars and plan to help NWC launch construction of our exciting new instructional building.

Thanks, all.

Mark

After reading this, all I could imagine was that this would be another one of those dull gatherings featuring old, important-people-dressed-in-suits carrying on with a bunch of sterile, gold-plated, one-time-use shovels resulting in another one of those overblown grip-and-grin photo sessions.

In short, a phony parade. And the only people more phony at a phony parade are those that attend. 

Yet, my hope is that this ground-breaking ceremony will result in something less predictable than the above scenario.

I have a couple ideas.

How about a bunch of students with regular shovels doing the actual ground breaking? Any students… whoever wanted to come up and shovel. Perhaps even a Bobcat handy to give the students a “construction thrill.” We can leave the important people in suits on the sidelines. They get paid enough as it is. They need no further recognition.

Could we have a ground-breaking contest? As in, who can shovel off the most sod (measured in square feet) in… say, five minutes.

I don’t know. Honestly I haven’t given it much thought, but I’ve given it a lot more thought than anyone who organizes a phony parade.

I was going to send my suggestion in a “reply all” response, but I have a tendency to get in trouble when I make suggestions like this via a campus-wide email, so I’m subscribing to that “once burned, twice-shy” outlook—and safely posting it here.

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe the ground-breaking ceremony will be something with a little more imagination, but I doubt it. After all, we are talking Northwest College here—a place where we tout originality and creativity, but when it gets right down to it, we fall in line and follow everyone else to justify our institutional direction.

At the risk of being a phony, I may have to attend just to see if I’m wrong.

Postscript: As expected the groundbreaking ceremony was ceremoniously unimaginative. Each VIP took turns at the podium to bring the sparse audience to a level of excitement they hadn't experienced since... um, ...maybe lunch that same day. Gold-plated shovels (spray-painted by one of the physical plant employees) were driven into the already-broken ground by the hard-hat wearing VIPs in nice suits (with the exception of the one token student). 

Photo by: www.japantimes.co.jp

Sour Grapes and Bullshit

My Newest Art Project, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

Like past years, I had no realistic expectations of winning anything in this year’s Project Launch photo competition. But, I had expected that whatever projects were selected, I would be totally blown away (or at least impressed) by their entries. Yet, after reviewing the top awards (with the exception of Will Steacy’s “Deadline” project), I’ve concluded I know nothing about “art” or “photography” based on this year’s top choices. And, after three attempts, I won’t be bothering The Center with future entries as my work is clearly not vague enough, not quirky enough, nor is it eccentric enough for anything to do with The Center’s idea of “award-winning” photography.

I found myself contemplating how much weed the jurors had been smoking as they made their (what seemed to me) willy-nilly selections for 2013. Perhaps only as they were coming out of the fog had they finally started to appreciate Steacy’s project and thus gave a wee bit of credence to what they were doing.

Reading up on the comments by some of the jurors was painfully laughable. Juror Christopher McCall awarded Laia Abril’s project that “documented” those who embrace eating disorders. This so-called photographer went about her craft by taking pictures of her computer screen (or perhaps just used screen shots generated by her computer… not that it really matters). Rather than seeking out, getting to know, and photographing those with eating disorders, this “artist” has simply decided to photograph self-portraits posted by members of this community on the internet. As long as that’s the case, perhaps Abril should only be considered a “virtual photographer.”

Juror McCall justifies Abril’s “photographic technique” saying, “Abril’s use of the computer monitor—with its banding, smudges and stains across the screen—render her subjects through a lens inherent to the technology and social media prevalent in society today.” Catcher in the Rye protagonist and antihero Holden Caulfield would have had a field day with these remarks. Talk about “art speak” bullshit. If Abril had simply posted links to all of the websites she stalks and “photographs,” the experience of this subject-matter would have been the same.

I suppose further comments should now follow on the winning selection from a Swiss-born Japanese kid who had the hard luck of being turned down for Japanese nationality because he was already a Swiss citizen—a tough and compelling life indeed. David Favrod sets out to create “my own Japan, in Switzerland…” through his obscure and disjointed images. Sounds riveting, yeah?

Simply put, it’s a sad day when shoddy-to-mediocre work is promoted (undeservingly) as award-winning art or photography.

When I hear others claim that today’s art and photography worlds are mostly a ruse, I will surely recall the majority of this year’s Project Launch selections.

Romney's Supersized “Drill, Baby Drill”

Two Frannie Rigs, a photo by mdt1960 on Flickr.

Mitt Romney must be channeling Woody Hayes these days. Recently he unveiled his “energy plan” that promises to deliver all of North America to energy independence by 2020 via “drill, baby drill.” I had hoped he would have demonstrated more imagination—something beyond “three yards and a cloud of dust” championed by the late Ohio State football skipper. Coincidently (and conveniently), his delivery date marks the end of his Presidency if he were elected this November and then re-elected four years later.

I’m not doubtful that his plan would work. But, more importantly, shouldn’t we be asking, “Energy independence… but, at what cost?” What is our world going to look like as we continue to invest in the burning of fossil fuels as our primary energy source? Of course, if you’re one of those who find no credence in science, you can put your head back in the sand—you needn’t read on.

Apparently the Romney-Republican-Big-Corporation Camp (RRBCC) has little confidence in the scientific community either when it comes to its warnings regarding the pitfalls of burning fossil fuels indefinitely. Rather, Mitt and company align themselves with obscure articles and research that contradicts the scientific community consensus related to global warming as a result of fossil fuels.

On a related note: How is it that the science and scientists who demonstrated foresight in the successful rover missions to Mars are so much different than the science and scientists who warn us of global warming’s approach and consequences?

A question that always comes to mind has to do with the motivation of each camp. That is, what does the RRBCC have to gain by going against the scientific community’s advice when it comes to our continued dependence on fossil fuels? For starters, there is money to be made in staying with the current course—big money! No significant research/trials to drain profits along with a solid monopoly equals profit, profit, profit. In short, change is painful and there are bound to be casualties along the way.

Looking at the scientific community’s motivation; what do they have to gain if we heed their advice? Oh sure, some will see a significant profit for playing instrumental roles in the transition, but there’s no way of convincing me that the scientific community is going to make money hand-over-fist like the big oil companies and energy suppliers have and will continue to do.

The truth is, the most respected scientists work independently of corporations—typically for educational research institutions. Their motivation surely has some minuscule ingredient of “ego” for self and their institution, but the financial gain isn’t anything close to the profits of stockholders, CEOs and other corporate personalities who are all in it for one thing—to make a profit or, even better, make a killing.

To ensure we—the little people—are on board, the RRBCC folk promise good jobs if we double down on fossil fuels; as if a future which embraces renewable energies has no jobs for anyone.

It appears this line of reasoning is endemic all the way down to the local levels. Not long ago, I had the opportunity to sit in on the local Republican forums where every candidate talked up oil, gas and coal with not one mention of renewable energy sources. I found this odd given that we live in a state (Wyoming) where sunshine and wind are even more abundant than gas and coal.

All of this support for fossil fuels while holding contempt for renewables serves as an illustration: change is not a trip of leisure, nor does it generate the huge profits as those things established and widely accepted. Worse yet, change does not bode well with a short-sighted society incapable or unwilling to fathom problems and challenges just beyond the horizon.

The truth is the RRBCC world is akin to an obese person who has taken years to arrive at his 300-pound excess, along with an unwillingness to admit such obesity, nor the patience required to shed the excess properly. So, rather than acknowledge the problem and start down a road of true change, Romney’s plan simply proposes that we resign ourselves back to the overstuffed couch with the TV remote in hand as the other hand reaches for a bag of chips.