The Price of Gas

Once again, gas prices are rising (every day for the past 18 days) and the predictions are for it only to continue into the summer until unleaded regular is over $4.00 if not $5.00 a gallon here in Iowa. (It’s already that in some places in Florida and California.) And of course the Republican candidates running for president are blaming Obama. The average price is $3.60+ right now, despite that the U.S. is exporting more than it has in years, that refineries are in full-mode production, and that demand is down. If the old supply-and-demand saw were in play, you’d think prices would be falling. But the blame is spread among (besides Obama) the Iranians, the Middle East in general, speculators, our not opening every inch of the country, land and sea, to drilling, the Keystone Pipeline, and for all I know, the Kardashians.

Maybe you have to be old enough (like me) to remember the rising gas prices and lines of cars blocks long waiting for gas that wasn’t there back in the late '70s to understand that this is a problem that’s been around for 40 years and no politician – president, senator, representative, mayor, or justice of the peace – has been able to do anything about it. Like so much else today, the price of oil and gas is complicated. It’s a world, not a national, problem. Every president since Nixon (Ford, Carter, Reagan, H.W. Bush, Clinton, W. Bush, and Obama) has made overtures – and even some flaying attempts – to alleviate the problem. But the problem persists. It’s ingrained in the world economy. And it’s ingrained in Americans’ addiction to fossil fuels. Actually, if you’re looking for a silver bullet (which Obama rightly points out doesn’t exist), that would be the place to start: Raise the tax on gas by $4.00 a gallon. Place a tax or surcharge on trucks and SUVs. Provide tax credits to hybrids and electric cars. Etc. But that’s not going to happen because we live in a democracy and in a democracy – especially our current democracy – politicians work only to get re-elected, and they don’t get re-elected by doing what the electorate doesn’t want them to do – never mind that it would be best for the country in the long-run  – and what the electorate wants to do is burn fossil fuels to their hearts’ content. Democracy is fueled by the will of the people, not the knowledge of the people, the self-interest, not the commonwealth. Is this a cynical view? Very well. But it’s one that’s based on watching our country’s “oil problem” fester for the past 40-plus years without any sign of alleviation or resolution. That’s probably a pretty solid basis for cynicism.

The Exclamation Point

If I were to be named the Chief of Grammar Police, one of my first proclamations would be to ban the exclamation point. It’s the only punctuation mark that has one and only one legitimate function: to express exclamation (“Oh!) or command (“Stop!”) – in dialogue. “Shit!” does all the work that’s needed. It indicates spoken exclamation. “Shit,” she shouted. would be okay but dampen the emotion. “Shit!” she shouted.  would just be redundant. In writing, diction and syntax should carry the emotion, not punctuation. Shit. The word alone expresses the emotion (which is why you don’t see it in popular publications).

Most writing handbooks do caution against the “overuse” of the exclamation point. The venerable Strunk and White, in The Elements of Style, rightly instruct us: “Do not attempt to emphasize simple statements by using a mark of exclamation.” They suggest It was a wonderful show. (period) rather than It was a wonderful show! (exclamation point). But the examples of acceptable exclamation point use they offer are What a wonderful show! and Halt! – without any quotations marks to indicate that these are (or should be) dialogue. There might be a subtle difference between the written It was a wonderful show! (not preferred) and What a wonderful show! (preferred), but I don’t see it. Better would be to pare the rule down to: Only use an exclamation point to express exclamation or command in dialogue. Or else. Not, Or else!

My Modest Drug Years

I was never a true hippie, though for several years in the late 60s (that would be the 1960s; the “60s” now can also refer to my current age) I was something of a faux participant in the movement. I played in a couple of rock and roll bands and several folk groups. I dressed in costumes of varying hilarity that mimicked the album covers – leather, tie-dye, paisley, sandals or boots, army surplus (for irony, not to mention cost). I worked briefly at a college/hippie bar and wrote for the mimeographed Wichita Free Press. I drove all night to hear Jimi Hendrix play at Red Rocks in Denver. I participated in several anti-war demonstrations during the Vietnam War (though mostly for the social benefits they offered). I spent the summer of 1969 in something of a commune in Berkeley, though it was in a million dollar mansion in the hills, with a cleaning woman and a gardener (but that’s another story). I was tear-gassed at a People’s Park demonstration that summer. And that summer was also the first – and only – time that I took LSD.

I took (we used to say “experimented with”) a variety of drugs for roughly a ten-year period from the mid-60s through the mid-70s, or high school through college: marijuana (of course), Hashish (once maybe laced with cocaine), speed, peyote, psilocybin, amyl nitrate, and LSD. But except for the pot, I only “experimented” one or two or a few times with each of the drugs. One of the reasons for this is that I never saw much reason for doing it. Sure, it fucked your mind up, sometimes in interesting ways, sometimes in frightening ways. The first time I took LSD in Berkeley was a pleasant experience of mindless incoherence. But the second time was a night of seeing demons in a candle, thoughts of flying off a balcony, and shivering in a fetal position in bed while imagining this must be death. But other than that, most of my drug experimentation led only to my belief that our perception of reality, and perhaps life itself, is little more than chemical reactions in the brain (a common insight brought about by even moderate drug use).

My ambivalence toward drugs is supported by the fact that during this decade of occasional usage I never once paid for any of the substances I partook of. All of the drugs that I ingested were given to me by roommates, girlfriends, friends of the band, or hapless party-goers at some college/hippie soiree. But I never wanted drugs. If they were there, and offered, I’d most likely try them out, unless I’d tried them before and had a bad experience, or a “so what?” experience. I guess I was something of a pragmatic druggy. Why pay for something that I didn’t want or need – and that I could usually get for free? And as I think about it, I’ve carried that attitude, perhaps learned during my modest drug years, throughout my life since. So I guess drug use can, after all, provide a positive life lesson.

Presidents’/’s/s Day?

So is it Presidents Day, President’s Day, or Presidents’ Day? I’ve seen all three punctuations in various places, calendars and ads and news stories. The online Washington Post has two conflicting headlines on its main page – “Flick Picks for Presidents’ Day” and “President’s Day 2012.”

Actually, it’s none of the above. The official holiday is Washington’s Birthday. It was made a national holiday on June 28, 1968. But in the 1980s, advertisers – wanting to expand the scope of the celebration (and their profits) – successfully pushed to change it (at least in the media) to Presidents’ Day. Sales are the business of day, commercial commemoration, not historical commemoration. There are no speeches or parades or picnics. Children don’t exchange cards or gifts at school. No fireworks down by the river. Besides the Presidents’/’s/s Day sales, the only tribute of the day is federal workers getting it off.

But then what would we celebrate if we wanted to on Presidents’/’s/s Day? I don’t think anyone would agree that we should pay homage to all of our presidents. Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Roosevelt (both)? – Sure. But Buchanan, Harding, Coolidge, Bush (both)? – What’s to celebrate? So it’s probably best that we just leave the day to commerce and postal employees.

The (First) First Sign of Spring

It’s still low-20s overnight and upper-30s to low-40s for highs. And there is still snow in the forecast, and probably will be for another month or so. But this weekend saw the first sign of spring (or at least the first first sign of spring) – pitchers and catchers (and any other players who want to join them) report to MLB Spring Training this weekend in Florida (Citrus League) and Arizona (Cactus League). In two weeks, the spring games begin. And in less than six weeks, the regular season – 162 games plus post-season – begins. For some it’s the blooming of the crocuses and daffodils, for others it’s the return of the robins. For me it’s the arrival of Spring Training and the promise of a long and lazy summer of daily following box scores.

Whitney Houston

More and more regularly I’m reminded just how out of touch I am with popular culture. So it’s been this past week following the death of Whitney Houston. While I was never a fan of the singer and sometime actress, I was aware of her talents and popularity. I was surprised, however, with the media reaction to her death. Beginning last Saturday night, cable news went almost 24/7 with various tributes, memorials, and interviews with friends, family, and fans. And in the past week I must have heard that first drawn-out line of the chorus – “And IIIIIIIIII will ALLLways love Youououououou-EWW-EWW-ouououou” – at least a couple dozen times a day until it went from its original haunting appeal to its current cloying peal. The funeral is today and it’s being covered for three hours live (despite it being the same shared feed, as well as streamed online) by CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, E!, and BET (with the strange title, “The Homegoing of Whitney Houston”). I’ve been tempted to voice criticism of what seems an overreaction, another hyped mourning of a celebrity for the sake of ratings. But I suspect it might be nothing more than another indication of my disconnect from popular culture. So I’ll just keep quiet.

A Distant Friendship

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On Religion and the Afterlife

I don’t recall my ever being religious, or believing in god or heaven or hell. At least into my teen years, I attended church more or less regularly, but only because my parents didn’t offer the option of opting out. And what I remember most about church was playing tic-tac-toe on the programs (or whatever they’re called) in the balcony, and occasionally sneaking out to the post office across the parking lot to get a Coke from the vending machine. We did belong to a conservative Christian church, and I was baptized, fully dunked in a pool, wearing a robe, the minister going through whatever ritual it was that attended the ceremony. But I wasn’t placing any spiritual significance in the event. I was more happy to surreptitiously partake in a quantity of the grape juice used as the “wine” during communion while I was waiting alone in the wings backstage. I wasn’t a believer, but I wasn’t a doubter either. Ambivalent probably best describes my faith through my teen years.

No doubt it was in college that my active non-belief formed, if only because I took courses in philosophy, comparative religion, and Eastern culture (not to mention all the literature courses I took as an English major). It became clear that the whole basis of religion – all religions – rests on the fact and the fear of death. Religion offers answers to the question of what happens when we die. And the answers are wrapped around rules about how to behave: play by the rules, and your eternal afterlife will be positive (even heavenly); break the rules, and . . . well, you don’t want that (it’s going to be hell). I’ve never had a problem imagining how my afterlife is going to be, because I’ve already experienced it – before I was born. It was – as I’m sure was yours– an eternal void of mental or corporal sense. And I don’t see that my infinite future post-life should be any different from my infinite past pre-life.

I’m happy enough to be here, though I have my up and down days. And I try to do and be good, though not from any proscribed rules, but because I think we owe it to those who have come before and to those who will come after to maintain this miracle of life by not fucking it up. Also, it just makes things easier for us all while we’re stuck here.

The Future of Reading

In schools and colleges, in these audio-visual days, doubt has been raised as to the future of reading – whether the printed word is on its last legs. One college president has remarked that in fifty years "only five per cent of the people will be reading.”

E.B. White, “The Future of Reading” (1951)

It’s now been more than sixty years since this was written, and it might be argued that not only are there more than five percent of the people reading, but that with the Internet there are more by percentage reading today than there were sixty years ago. Technology is funny that way. In those “audio-visual days” of 1951 – radio, phonograph, film, and television – there must have been a perceived threat to the printed word. Why read when you can just listen or watch? But then why go to the theater or ballet or concert or symphony, all of which are accessible by audio-visual technology? And the Internet expands those audio-visual possibilities. But it also expands the reading possibilities. It may well be that electronic communication increases rather than restricts communication. White goes on to write, “Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy. . . . This gives the experience of reading a sublimity and power unequalled by any other form of communication.” Maybe. And I’m hesitant to go against the thought of E.B. White, for me, the grand American writer and thinker of the 20^th century. But it might just be that technological advances can broaden our means of communication (including reading), its “sublimity and power,” rather than constrict it, as long as we keep it all connected, particularly connected to our thought, our experience, and our imagination.

February Daffodils

I should be writing this a month from now rather than now, but the daffodils have started to come up. We have a couple of clumps of 3” stalks that apparently were fooled the past few weeks when the temperatures were in the 40s and 50s and the sun was out. You can’t blame them. Everyone was dreaming of spring – biking and fishing, grilling and gardening. Why shouldn’t the daffodils be duped like the rest of us? But this week the temperatures have fallen back into the 20s and 30s, and the snow has fallen again. For us, it’s easy to return to our sweaters and knit caps and gloves, and wait another month for the hope of spring. But I worry that the daffodils have played their hopes too early. They’ve committed to a cruel weather ruse, and may not survive to bloom. A small, perhaps, but sad casualty of an unpredictable climate.

Bias

My students are invariably proud to announce at the beginning of the semester that they are themselves devoid of bias. Bias, they have learned, often from faulty instruction in high school, is bad if not evil and must be denied at all costs. Good people hold no biases. I sigh and tell them that one of the things that I want them to learn is that every one of them – and everyone who has ever or will ever live – carries a host of biases. It’s in the nature of thought – of reaction, response, and opinion. Bias is at root an inclination or disposition based on culture, upbringing, experience, and expectation. “I like movies with lots of explosions and people getting killed in violent ways” is a common bias of my students that they have no problem holding though they don’t see it as a bias because having a bias is by definition a bad thing and liking movies with lots of explosions and people getting killed in violent ways is not a bad thing. I tell them, confirming their opinion of me as living on another planet (which is the point), that I prefer quiet, slow, character-driven films – and that is one of my biases. Of course, biases can be vile, hateful, dangerous, as in racial, religious, or gender biases. And that’s how the otherwise connotatively neutral term “bias” gained its now common condemnation; the media have for decades reported on the evil of “racial bias” and “religious bias” and “gender bias,” and in time the generic noun has assumed the negative connotation of the adjective-noun phrase. So it’s become a task to teach that bias underlies all opinion and that it’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it is something that we have to understand if we’re to comprehend the opinions of others – or our own.

The Death of Fluffy

My first experience with death was with Fluffy. Fluffy was our first pet, a nondescript, generic gray cat that as far as I recall never called much attention to him- (or her-?) self. But one morning, as my all-too-typical 1950s family (me about 8, my sister 6, my parents in their 30s) was getting ready for school and work, a horrific primal scream came from beneath the swivel rocking chair in our living room as my father sat down to read the paper.  Apparently Fluffy had settled unaware under the chair, and when my father sat and leaned back, the chair crushed down on Fluffy’s neck and . . . well, Fluffy began flailing about, gray fur flying, my sister and I and Fluffy all shrieking. My parents found a cardboard box and dispatched Fluffy into it, thrashing about, bouncing off the sides of the box, sounding pretty much like a furry tympani. At least that’s the way I like to remember Fluffy’s last moments, musically. I think he (or she) was taken to meet his (or her) maker in that box as my sister and I were sent off to school. And that’s all I remember of Fluffy. As I recall, our next family pet was a dog. Life goes on. And death is a part of it.

A Mild Winter

The first of February and there’s no snow on the ground but for the scant remnants of weeks-ago plowed and shoveled piles on the curbs and beside drives. The streets and sidewalks are dry. The temperatures have been in the 40s and 50s, and the forecast for the next couple of weeks is for 30s and 40s and little precipitation except for some rain and snow mix, though that should melt off by afternoon. A year ago today we had a storm go through that dumped 18.5 inches of snow in two days. It was frigid. Everything was closed, no one moved. Of course, last year’s storm was no more a refutation of climate change than this year’s mild temperatures and lack of snow are confirmation. There’s a difference between climate and weather. We just bump around from year to year, from extreme to extreme, always awed by each year’s deviation from some imagined average, when we should be awed by the unpredictable, by the unexpected, by the unknown that is what makes up the day-to-day and year-to-year of weather and of life.