Oct. 27th, 1962, at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, two Soviet Captains got a false alarm and ordered a nuclear strike on the U.S. The order needed all 3 captains aboard to vote in unison and this man, Vasili Arkhipov, flatly refused. He is credited by some for saving our planet.
I’m two issues behind in my reading. Presently, I’m reading a story by Sam Smith and his photographer driving a crew cab pickup up ‘Going to the Sun Road’ in Glacier Park. Sam (one reason I subscribe to R&T) is lamenting the disappearance of Glacier’s glaciers and naturally, blaming climate change.
Sam could have driven our car up there while emitting less than half the green house gasses. He could have hiked and had the experience of a lifetime being in one of the few places on the continent where all native carnivores survive and thrive (as he pointed out). He could have hitchhiked. He could have had steak instead of cereal.
But no. He went about spewing the dreaded CO2 in a typical example of our moral decay; the ends justifying the means. Setting a bad example himself, like the joy of tossing a Busch Light can out in our driveway?
Mr. Smith obviously feels guilty about driving cars. A Ram pickup pulled into an overlook where they were watching the sunrise. Aha! A cause of climate change revealed? Sam felt he should visit with the owner of this neatly modified truck but he was too overwhelmed with shame or sadness to walk across the parking lot and associate with a fellow enthusiast.
His opinion that human activity and “our” ability to resolve the problem must have come from somewhere. Smith cites the United Nations’ International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). The IPCC gathers data and then distributes it to media and policymakers. I looked into the data trail to Sam Smith and us, and found some interesting discrepancies.
The trends were illustrated by graphs. The start dates on the graphs varied. Some examples:
These lies by omission should give us pause any time we see new information on climate science or anything else (weapons of mass destruction?) that demand enormous amounts of lives and cash.
Sam Smith is a Good Samaritan. But like G.W. Bush, who believed the weapons of mass destruction story, he’s been duped. But all credibility goes out the window when he acts like a philandering evangelist.
Next week we find Michael Moore, of all people, exposing renewable energy fraud.
A nineteen year old kid who lives in the city and can’t follow directions by street names or addresses. He takes orders from his phone instead.
Thank you Phaedrous
I turned on NPR yesterday partly to know the enemy. Well, it’s also so I can hear more than one sentence on a subject. Anita O’Day was being interviewed on her 100th birthday (she died in 2006, however). Terry Gross does a great job as long as you know from where she comes. Example:
Out of all the history surrounding her, Gross had to bring up O’Day’s collaboration with Roy Eldridge and how it must have created controversy because he was black. I suppose Anita would have simply been a waitress at the organic vegan bistro if she hadn’t dared play music with a black man. Who are the real racists, Terry? Maybe it’s the people who talk about race all the time. Could you just address individuals as such instead of searching for and inspiring hate?
Anita O’Day was an incredible talent and individual who stood out from the crowd. Imperfect and a model citizen because of that. I’m sure I’ve posted this video before (at least with the Jazz on a Summer’s Day movie), but it’s worth a relook.
We just need to try 10,000 times harder….
As the so-called liberals go around calling freedom lovers fascists, there’s this (William Barr in the WSJ):
And the Orange County Board of Education in California issued an opinion that “parents who disagree with the instructional materials related to gender, gender identity, gender expression and sexual orientation may not excuse their children from this instruction.”
Looks like we have a series. In an effort to expand my audience, and with comments saying the personal experience columns are more fun, I’ve prolly got a couple more like this in my memory bank. Notice I can’t stand to totally stand back. But maybe I Won’t waste your time here.
We saw on the news that there was a storm off the Mexican coast. That, and a northeast breeze would produce perfect waves at Trestles, a surf spot on private federal land called Camp Pendleton. (Yep, private federal land.)
Five of us went south from Newport Beach in my Fiat 124 sedan hoping to get tubed or locked in on one of Trestles’ long lefts or rights. (It seems like I encounter unfamiliar lingo increasingly these days; so join the club.)
When we got to Laguna Beach we picked up a hitchhiker with another surfboard so we had six guys in and six boards on top of an 1,875# car that cost $1875 new. An hour later we parked on the side of the Pacific Coast Highway ready to sneak through the jungle.
Since those days, the area has become a state park. But at that time I think they thought we might be invading Vietcong. If we heard a jeep coming down the trail we would dive into the brush until the Marines passed. When we got to the beach, we would hide in the bushes until no military were in sight, then make a dash for the high tide line. Beyond that we were safe; safe from the Vietcong and safe from the Marines.
Unfortunately, these were the days before leashes, which were a tether from the ankle to the board. At Trestles you risked having your board stolen by a federal employee if you fell off and the waves washed it to shore. An apology and a $45 ransom later freed my board, by the way.
We headed home with six surfers and five boards on top of the Fiat.
As we approached Dana Point, the car in front of us slammed on the brakes to make a left turn, no turn signal. I swerved right but put a nice crease from the headlight to the tail light on the left side. When I saw the pole I went right again, shooting up an embankment, and never even rolled.
Incredibly, the car was drivable. The hitchhiker said, “I think I’ll just get out here,” took his board off the rack and climbed back down to the highway to seek a safer ride. It was nice to have more room.
Having a family and bills to pay can turn a guy into a coward. Something my dad used to say, was that he was a coward. When I was young it meant low life yellow scum. But as I matured it occurred to me that he meant he was being careful.
The last time I picked up a hitchhiker, was when I was turning onto Highway 3 at Dumont and there was this hitchhiker heading west. He had short hair, which I usually found suspicious back in the old days. Short haired people were either convicts or worked and could afford a car. I picked him up anyway.
I talked and he listened (?). My questions were met with silence, a grunt, or a sigh. I even told him about the surfing trip to Trestles and how much more ecologically responsible it was compared to politicians in private jets preaching totalitarianism.
When I said I picked up a lot of hitchhikers back when it was not so rare, he said, “I bet you did.” I guess he wasn’t much into talking to strangers. I just let him off at Highway 65.
The short hair should have given him away.
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