WRAPPING UP THE OH XXXX DECADE
Back in the Sixties, there were people who talked glibly of
the need to break down the existing society in order to build a new
one—sometimes the same people who criticized the American policy in Vietnam as
destroying the villages in order to save them. Let us hope that seeing the
Taliban in action has cured them of the illusion that anyone can stand back and
watch after entropy is set in motion. Ecclesiastes had it right: “As the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds
that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time,
when it falleth suddenly upon them.”
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Copenhagen
has gone back to being a kind of snuff, and the high hopes for that climate conference
have gone up in smoke. The Little Mermaid sits placidly by, looking forward to
being underwater again. No go for the NGOs. If we’re above 350, doesn’t that
mean we have a really good batting average?
On
the other hand, I rejoice to see more and more people saying that no climate
control will help without population control—and that by extension, no economy
based on growth is sustainable. If you want to see the future that is staring
at us, go to some Internet photo-sharing site like pBase (my favorite) or
TrekEarth and find pictures of urban life in Bangladesh. It’s as though someone
took Photoshop or some similar program and used layering to add context upon
context. This is, in some ways, the strangest country on earth, because it is
the anti-jungle. While people are doing what you expect, over in one corner
more people are doing something you didn’t expect, while in yet another corner
something is happening that you would never suspect. Everything is taking place
by the side of or in front of or on top of something else. (Note to those who
have encountered my poetry: the previous sentence uses exceptionally brief
words in choppy fashion on purpose, not accidentally.) And the bodies! There is
a Bangladesh look: lean in a way that only people who grow up poor and hungry
are lean, making them look extremely tall. These are our true Avatars, to make
a reference to the currently popular film and the lanky aliens that the human
protagonist infiltrates as a projected simulation.
If
we are importing goods, we should be paying their real cost. Everything coming
in should be subject to a tariff if that country’s population is growing, with
the tariff higher for countries where it is out of control. The money could be
sent back to them as aid programs, but first, let’s recognize the root problem.
As they used to say about cars, the part most likely to fail is the nut behind
the wheel. (Did he mean that? In 90 percent of the cases, the answer is, “Yes,
he meant it.”)
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A
certain amount of ink is being spilled, predictably, over what to call the
first decade of the 21st century. I have given my suggestion in the
title of this blog: the Oh XXXX Decade. They’ll come up with something more
printable, but that’s what came to mind first.
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The
Champlain Quadricentennial ends with a $188,000 fireworks show: the demolition
of the Champlain Bridge. First a huge flash, then the biggest bang the
Champlain Valley has known since the days of naval battles on the lake, then a
shock wave that hits 130 decibels at the 1,000 foot safety line. As the saying
goes, truth can be stranger than fiction.
Later
The
photographers on the Vermont side got some decent pictures, thank goodness. At
Crown Point, where I was, a snowstorm nearly whited out the show, and
immediately after the explosion there was
a huge brown cloud (smoke, rust too probably) that obscured the sight of
the bridge dropping into the lake.
The
sound was fascinating, though. It wasn’t a Big Bang, it was more like a string
of firecrackers, only much louder and packed more closely together. The sound
of the bridge being ripped apart. Or perhaps the fusillade of the traitorous
structure being executed by a firing squad.
I
hope someone is keeping track of all the geographic points at which the sound
could be heard. Irene heard it in Middlebury, which is about 20 miles as the
crow flies (and probably a lot of them did when they heard that noise), going
by the mileage scale on the road map the State of Vermont hands out, where an
eighth of an inch is about a mile. She heard it amidst the bell of the
Congregational Church tolling 10 a.m., and shed a few tears, and in Native
American fashion thanked the dear old bridge for its 80 years of service—10 years
more than its builders expected. And if the contractor who created the piers
had reinforced the concrete with steel, perhaps it could have been repaired to
go on another 10.
If
Gov. Douglas thought he might be earning popularity points by setting off the
explosion, he should come back to the Champlain Valley and talk with some of
his neighbors (he lives on a back road in Middlebury). You ask the vet to put
down the old dog, not a friend. Or maybe that’s how he felt about it: somebody
has to do this, and I’ll step up and take the responsibility.
I
hope New York holds a sculpture competition to find a fitting memorial to the
bridge, made with some of its retrieved girders. And I hope it didn’t fall on
Champ.
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However
the House and Senate health care bills get consolidated, we can rejoice that
choices in the medical system have
been left in the hands of the insurance industry, rather than heartless
bureaucrats.
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Ah,
the American jokesmiths. Until I bought the book “Have a Punny Christmas” for
my brother, I had no idea there was a whole genre of snowman jokes. If your
kids are bored this winter and haven’t heard any, unload on them.
Where does a snowman keep his money?
--In a snowbank.
What does a snowman eat for breakfast?
--Frosted Flakes.
What do you get when you cross a snowman and a vampire?
--Frostbite.
What did Jack Frost say to the snowman?
--Have an ice day!
There are plenty of adult Christmas jokes, too. Further to advertise
Richard Lederer’s book (yes, the same Richard Lederer who wrote “Anguished
English” and “Bridge of Anguished English”), here are a few:
What do movie stars burn in their fireplaces at Christmas?
--Holly wood.
Did you hear about the dyslexic devil-worshipper who sold
his soul to Santa?
There’s a new carol out that’s good for Christmas or for
Hannukah: “Oy vay Maria.”
Hope
you had a tolerable Christmas. May your days be merry and bright and your
income taxes not bite.
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