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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