White House Chronicle

News Analysis With a Sense of Humor

Earth Day: Why It Was a Quiet Party

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Forty years ago on the first Earth Day, there was the smell of revolution in the air. Metaphorically millions said aloud and to themselves, “We have fouled our nest; now we must clean it.”

The issues seemed simpler back then. They are so complex today that the world is suffering from environmental shock.

It is not that the state of the environment is not precarious, but rather that the solutions are more elusive.

There are those who believe it can all be done with a hydrogen economy; and others who believe the wind and sun alone can do the job. There are those who can see a plastic-free future, if we would just tax the plastic. Yet others believe Nirvana is just a vegetarian meal away.

Forty years ago, we were still in the throes of the upheavals of the1960s; and the 1960s were the time of The Great Accusation. This accusation was leveled by an angry populace at all institutions, both public and private, that had betrayed the citizenry. The anger of the Tea Party movement today is nothing compared to the anger on the streets in those days; the days of the Vietnam War, civil rights, gender equality and the environment.

The premise under the demonstrations on the first Earth Day, April 22, 1970, was that the only reason the Earth was going to hell in a hand basket was that big companies polluted for profit and that government covered up for them.

It was a simple, powerful premise. The road ahead was clear: Make the polluters pay and all would be well.

It also was a time when the idea of climate change was hardly known, and those who talked about it did so as an arcane curiosity.

Clean air was an issue, but not to forestall global warming. Smog and later acid rain were the air issues.

Water was a huge preoccupation, which is why the Clean Water Act —initially vetoed by President Richard Nixon but then signed after huge protests — preceded the Clean Air Act.

The critical piece of legislation was The National Environmental Policy Act of 1969 which has become the bedrock of environmental law.

As time took its course, the simple premise of good guys vs. bad guys evolved into our guys vs. your guys, a wholly different equation. Virtue was less easy to establish back then as it is today.

The environmental movement found its strength not in the streets but in the law courts, testing, and expanding by precedent the scope of the new laws.
It also developed attachments to some technologies over others. It favored a European transport model with high gasoline taxes and a portfolio of electric- generating technologies that it called alternative.

But significantly, the environmental organizations en masse became technology partisans, signifying approval of the obscure (solar, wind, waves and hydrogen) over the practical (hydroelectric and nuclear).

Of the half-dozen or so really effective environmental groups, the National Resources Defense Council became the most successful litigator, dwarfing other groups like the Union of Concerned Scientists, the National Wildlife Federation, the Sierra Club and Greenpeace. Yet to their opponents they were a unified threat, skillful and intractable. For philosophy they had Amory Lovins (“The Path Not Taken”) and E.F. Schumacher (“Small Is Beautiful”).

Forty years on, the environmental debate is more complicated and there is less room for certainty. At some point, China and India are set to surpass the United States as the world’s largest polluter; governments promise to change the ways of their people, but not if it hurts.

Earth Day’s big birthday Thursday also was overshadowed by a natural disaster: Iceland’s volcano eruption. The economic impact was global in unexpected ways which showed, among other things, how hard it is to lay down absolutes about the environment. You can’t sue a volcano.

Who would have thought a volcano in Iceland would devastate the cut-flower industry in Kenya, and with severe consequences for that country’s economy? Who ever knew that a third of Europe’s cut flowers came from faraway Kenya on polluting aircraft?

Who needs flowers? Kenyans do. –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

How Nora Ephron Has Made Me Feel Better about My Neck

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The horror of my life was the shaving mirror in the morning.

Of course, it wasn’t the mirror but what I beheld there: Me. Actually, my neck.

Like millions of others, I suffer from neckophobia: the consternation that arises when your neck decides, quite on its own, that it’s old and has too much skin; and what are you going to do about it?

Well, there are dickeys, extra-snug shirt collars and turtlenecks.

There are thoughts of cosmetic surgery–tucks and lifts. But that’s expensive and risky and requires bravery.

But, no, my winter of discontent has been made glorious summer by a woman. One wonderful woman: Nora Ephron.

Nora is a genius: a gifted journalist, essayist, novelist, playwright, screenwriter and bon vivant. I don’t actually know about the latter, but she must be – she was once married to Carl Bernstein of Watergate fame. I did know Carl, we worked together at The Washington Post; and even before he was famous, he was into the good life.

Anyway, Nora has saved me from hating my neck by writing a book, “I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts.” Thank you, thank you!

The moment I heard about her book of essays, I felt so much better about my surfeit of skin. How could a great lady in Hollywood–or is it New York?–so help the self image of a stranger?

Actually I met Nora in 1963 at The New York Post, when she was 21 or so and already a star. She was wise too; assiduously, she avoided my attempts to talk to her.

Nora’s neck was lovely in those days. I can see it now, long and shapely.

I thought Nora might be fascinated by my young adventures in Africa and Europe. But she had moved in rarefied circles all the days of her life. Her parents had been wildly successful screenwriters. They even wrote a play about her when she was a teenager, “Take Her, She’s Mine.” Imagine that? You don’t need a resume; you just send a script or two tickets.

Nora’s secret–I hope she won’t mind if I call her by her first name, since necking is an intimate undertaking–is to turn adversity into art and art into money.

When Carl Bernstein–who I’ve always liked–turned out to be a very naughty husband, she wrote one of the funniest novels of the generation, “Heartburn.” It was a riot of a book in which she wrote that the husband, Mark, was “capable of having sex with a venetian blind.” In this volume, she indulged her passion for revenge with her passion for cooking—grilled husband with diablo sauce. If she is a comfort about my neck with her latest book, she was doubly so for betrayed wives with “Heartburn.”

In the movie “When Harry Met Sally,” Nora took revenge on all her lovers and husbands with the faked orgasm scene. That caused many a man to wonder at his prowess. More revenge against men and comfort for women. Her own cri de coeur: “In my sex fantasy nobody ever loves me for my mind.”

Well, Nora, I love you for your neck. It has so changed the way I feel about mine that I’m going to go on television wearing an open-neck shirt.

But recently, I’ve had this nightmarish thought: Suppose the exceptional Ms. Ephron goes under the knife and restores the long, smooth body part I beheld in New York in 1963?

She wouldn’t do that to me, would she? —For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

 

 


My Papa Done Told Me

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My friend Ken Ball and I have a something very special in common: Separately and continents apart, our fathers kept us out of deep mines.

My father was a mechanic, who worked in mine maintenance, mostly gold mines known as hard-rock mines, all over southern central Africa. Ken is the scion of a long line of coal miners in Pennsylvania.

Whenever there is a mine disaster, like the tragedy this week at the Upper Big Branch coal mine in West Virginia, Ken and I think of our fathers and thank them.

I dropped out of high school. Soon, I got a job in journalism, but journalism, then as now, can be a fickle business and the pay lousy.

After 18 glorious months of cub reporting, I found myself in Zambia getting by in construction work because my gig as a very junior foreign correspondent had gone south.

I was offered a job at fabulous money as a trainee miner in the Zambian copper mines. They paid what was called the “copper bonus” and it had, from the mine owners’ point of view, gotten out of hand.

The defense buildup in the United States had pushed the price of copper beyond all expectations. Copper capitalism was all the rage.

I was already spending the money in my head, bonding in that machismo way that miners have. The typewriter would be traded for a jack hammer. I’d be a man’s man with a pocket full of “copper bonus” money to prove it.

I wrote my father and told him that job insecurity and money woes would soon be over, I was “going down the mines.”

My father had a faltering grip on spelling and grammar, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t express himself elegantly. I believe that writing, like musicality, is innate.

If hard-mining is about the judicious use of dynamite, my father’s response letter was as explosive.

Its gist was: I’ve never stopped you in your folly, especially in leaving school. But for God’s sake, don’t go down a mine. Those places aren’t for human beings. I’ve been forced to work on them most of my life, and I can tell you that mines are no places for human beings. Please don’t do it.

Just about the same time, in the late 1950s, in faraway Pennsylvania, Ken Ball was getting about the same advice from his father. Ken finished his schooling and went on to a distinguished career in science and engineering. I went back to the newspaper trade.

The basic dynamic of mining is at odds with safety: It is to extract as much ore or coal as possible with as little cost. Safety is the usual casualty. Owners skirt the rules for profit. And miners skirt them for much the same reason: bonuses.

Because mines are almost always company towns, it’s hard for individual miners to blow the whistle on dangerous practices if everyone is winking at the regulations.

More government regulations are simply more rules to ignore. The most positive safety enhancement is an old one: an active union.

Upper Big Branch is a non-union mine and the worst accidents tend to be in non-union mines.

Unions are good at enforcing irksome work rules. Arguably, there may be no reason for teachers to unionize. There’s a good reason for having a third party in the mine: safety. Miners have no loyalty to government inspectors, but they do to their own union.

A safe mine is an oxymoron. The earth is as lethal as the sea. When you start moving it around, there is treachery down below.

Things are much better than they were years ago; better equipment and rules, which if implemented, help. But the history of King Coal is not pretty. In America alone, more than 100,000 men — until recently, it was men only — have died in the unforgiving earth to keep us warm and their families fed.

For the miners in Appalachia, it’s a special way of life: church, a mobile home, television, tattoos and close relations within small communities. It’s also a way of life, a culture and work that, in the age of keystrokes, makes a man feel, well, like a man.

As for my father, about three months after he cautioned me off the life below ground, he fell down a goldmine shaft and broke his back.  –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

 

Obama’s Energy Policy: A Labyrinth of Contradictions

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When it comes to energy, there is an incoherence to President Barack Obama’s policies.

This incoherence is embedded in his administration in the person of Carol Browner. She is largely regarded as the agent of a kind of reactionary environmentalism that once haunted the Democratic Party.

Browner, administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency under President Bill Clinton, is a special assistant to Obama for energy and environment. To a wide variety of industries, though, she is the agent of regressive, just-say-no environmentalism.

Browner’s background–from environmental jobs in Florida to working with Al Gore–dooms her to suspicion of zealotry, which is probably unjustified. Her defenders (just about all in the environmental movement), see her as a great public servant and standard-bearer.

But she is largely out of sight these days; her writ and her influence unknown.

To the energy industries, from the ever-embattled nuclear sector to the euphoric-for-now natural gas producers and the mostly happy wind farmers, Browner and her role remains a mystery. Why is she there? How much does she influence Obama? Or, for that matter, does he care more about the politics of energy and the environment than he does about the issues?

The answer, like so much that can be said of Obama, is some of this and some of that.

The administration is opening up the Atlantic coast and part of the Alaskan coast to oil drilling. But it is keeping the California shoreline free of new exploration. (There are a lot of environmental voters in California).

As for nuclear power, the actions of the administration are the most confusing. Obama looks like a host who having welcomed a guest to dine, snatches the guest’s chair away when the meal is brought in.

He has advocated nuclear power and has endorsed loan guarantees for new nuclear reactors. But in a piece of blatant political opportunism Obama has canceled all work, and even licensing, on the Yucca Mountain waste repository site in Nevada. Yet, Yucca Mountain was the cornerstone of the civilian nuclear revival.

To understand why Yucca Mountain has been abandoned, together with $10 billion of taxpayers money, look no further than the senior senator from Nevada, Harry Reid. And to understand Reid’s stubborn rejection of a national patriotic role for Nevada, look no further than the gaming tables and slot machines of Las Vegas. At least part of Obama’s energy policy is influenced by fruit machines.

Obama first declared against Yucca Mountain during the campaign. Many thought that his opposition would, in the way of campaign promises, melt in the sunshine of reality.

But the politics of the Senate triumphed. Obama’s need for Reid, the majority leader in the Senate, became utter dependence in the health-care debate. So the will of previous Congresses for a sophisticated and vital nuclear industry, was trumped by Reid. The Joker came out of the pack face up.

Good thing for energy policy that Nevada has no other big energy issues. Part of its previous attraction for nuclear was its small population and remote location. But the wheel of fortune spins in politics as well as roulette, and unpredictably Reid rose to be the most important Democrat in the Senate.

The offhand way the administration has junked Yucca Mountain should worry all in energy supply. White House press secretary Robert Gibbs dismissed the abandonment of Yucca Mountain as being done on “scientific grounds.” If you believe that, the tooth fairy is your sister.

So the administration has pushed nuclear in the full knowledge that California and other states by law cannot approve new plants without a viable repository for their spent fuel. In a stroke, the administration has converted certainty to limbo.

The squeezing of coal is similar. EPA is moving ahead with classifying carbon dioxide as a pollutant, presumably in order to pressure Congress to pass the highly criticized cap-and-trade legislation.

This giving and taking away should give pause to those who think oil and natural gas drilling will proceed apace in the Atlantic and off Alaska. Browner and the president himself must know that a slew of lawsuits will be filed and will tie up action for years, if not decades.

One foot forward, 12 inches backward. That is the Obama energy quick-step.  –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

Put the Kettle on, Sarah Palin

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Sarah m’dear, it’s not about the party. It’s about the tea.

For those of us of the British persuasion, tea is black tea. It was the tea on which the British built the empire.

It was also, I might add, the tea that Margaret Thatcher served at No. 10 Downing Street. I enjoyed some with her there. A Conservative traditionalist, she served it with milk for certain and sugar as an option.

Thatcher did not ask her guests, as bad hotels do now, what kind of tea they would like. Tea to Thatcher was black tea, sometimes known as Indian tea, though it might have been grown in Kenya, South Africa, Zimbabwe or Sri Lanka. It was neither flavored nor some herbal muck masquerading as tea.

The former prime minister knew that good tea is made in the kitchen, where stove-boiled water is poured from a kettle onto tea in a pot, not tepid water poured from a pot on a table into a cup with a tea bag.

Boiling water in a kettle, or pot, on the stove is important in making good tea. In a microwave, the water doesn’t bubble. Tea needs the bubbles.

While the Chinese drank green tea hundreds of years before Christ, the British developed their tea-drinking habit in the 17th century. In 1600, Queen Elizabeth I granted permission for the charter of the British East India Company, establishing the trade in spice and silk that lead to the formal annexation of India and the establishment of the Raj.

Initially, tea was a sideline but it became increasingly important and started to define the British. The coffee shops–like the one that launched the insurer Lloyds of London around 1688–continued, but at all levels of society tea was becoming the British obsession.

By the 18th century, tea drinking was classless in Britain. Duchesses and workmen enjoyed it alike.

Tea was the fuel of the empire: the war drink, the social drink, the comfort drink and the consolation drink. Coffee had an upmarket connotation. It wasn’t widely available and the British didn’t make it very well.

Also as coffee was well established on the continent, it had to be shunned. To this day the British are divided about continental Europe and what they see as the emblems of Euro-depravity: coffee, garlic, scents and bidets.

Although tea is standardized, the British play their class games over the tea packers. For three centuries, most tea has been shipped in bulk to various packing houses throughout the British Isles. But the posh prefer Twinings to Lipton.

Offering tea with fancy cakes, clotted cream and fine jams separates the workers from the ruling classes. One of Queen Victoria’s ladies in waiting, Anna Maria Stanhope, known as the Duchess of Bedford, is credited as the creator of afternoon tea time; which the hotels turned into formal, expensive afternoon “teas.” The Ritz in London is famous for them.

The British believe that tea sustained them through many wars. “Let’s have a nice cup of tea. Things will get better.” I’ve always believed that America’s revenge against the British crown was to ice their beloved tea. Toss it into Boston Harbor, but don’t ice it. If you should have the good fortune to be asked to tea at No. 10, or at Buckingham Palace, don’t expect it to be iced.

Incidentally tea bags are fine, and it’s now just pretentious to serve loose tea with a strainer. Of course, if you want to read the political tea leaves you’ll have to use loose tea.

If you’re serving tea to the thousands at your tea parties, Sarah, remember that unlike politics, tea is very forgiving. It can be revived just with more boiling water.  –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

The Tea Parties: Add Sympathy

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Let’s pour the tea, and see who’s come to the party. More, let’s see why they came.

What binds these good citizens together in a ramshackle and loud fraternity known as the Tea Party movement? The focal point may be the Democratic health care legislation; but there is, as always with popular movements, a back story that is more complex and more compelling.

Could it be, to use Winston Churchill’s phrase, the sum of all their fears?

Indubitably. These are days of change, massive and irreversible change. Change that is undermining but difficult to characterize, and disturbing to experience.

The nation’s first African-American president, Barack Obama, is the symbol of that change more than he’s its author,

The Tea Party Patriots are people who feel that their lives and their nation is being swept forward to a place they don’t wish to go. They blame Obama and the Democrats for taking them there.

But the administration and the Democratic majorities in Congress have little to do with the buffeting the American image is taking.

Consider these facts:

 

✔ The United States has gone from the richest nation in the world to the biggest debtor.

✔ Our competitor, China, has grown rich in our market. Now China lends us money to cement the entanglement, while it becomes increasingly obstreperous.

✔ We have the largest and most lethal military machine on earth, but we can’t subdue insurgencies in Iraq and Afghanistan, banish pirates in international waters, or prevail in sanctioning Iran.

✔ Our infrastructure, once the envy of the world, crumbles. European trains hurtle at 220 miles an hour; ours crawl at less than a third of that speed.

✔ Broadband in the United States is many times slower than it is in Europe. This is cruel: We invent, they perfect.

✔ More than 10 percent, and possibly nearly double that, are out of work with no chance of employment for years. And new technology has made the skills of many of the unemployed obsolete.

✔ The United States is an English-speaking nation where a second language, Spanish, is creeping towards full recognition. Banks, phone companies and state governments have gone bilingual.

✔ Immigrants, legal and illegal, are changing the culture.

After 43 white, male presidents, there is a black man in the White House and a first family that reminds middle-class white tea partiers that huge changes are afoot.

A general anxiety has crystallized into a particular rage.

In memory, the 1950s have been sanctified as a time when all was well in America–if you were white and not serving in Korea. The United States was strong, the land was fertile and fear was concentrated on the Soviet threat.

As it had been in World War II, the good guys were us and the bad guys were them. The European empires were disappearing and we were the city upon a hill. Tea Party Patriots’ nostalgia for the 1950s is as pretty and disingenuous as a Saturday Evening Post cover.

The tea partiers may not be interested in the new demographics and new realities of the 21st century, but their anger won’t banish reality.

Trouble is the only political home these genuinely worried people can find is on the right: the overstated, overwrought and over-simplistic right. The right of Mark Levin and Glenn Beck.

These polemicists have concentrated the anxiety of tea partiers into a fear of socialism. It’s the undefined dark at the top of the stairs, the threat to liberty, to gun ownership and to private enterprise, according to the fear merchants of the right. Yet, there is precious little government left in the world that can be described as socialist.

The old socialism, with the nationalization of the means of production at its core is dead, sent to its eternal rest in Europe. Only a few leaders. like Hugo Chavez in Venezuela and Evo Morales in Bolivia, still espouse it.

Already extremists of the right–with death threats and property damage–are undoing the legitimacy of the entire Tea Party movement, and its unlikely members–the well-heeled, well-fed, well-insured but very sympathetic and very fearful activists.

Their fears deserve a hearing individually and in sum. Instead, they’re being exploited and in time they’ll be marginalized, discredited by the company they keep. –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

There’s No Gold in Them Thar Years

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You don’t grow old gradually. It’s a sudden thing.

You probably haven’t even realized you’re in late middle age. Then, without warning, you’ve crossed the age meridian irrevocably.

You’re old.

It’s a sobering business. Chances are you won’t forget where you were when old age arrived, like the day President Kennedy was assassinated.

I was at the Amtrak ticket counter at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. The woman ticket seller looked at me and said: You get the senior discount.

Senior discount? Never heard of it before then.

I glanced over my shoulder, thinking the clerk was addressing someone behind me. There was no one there.

I was the subject of her compassion. Damn!

It’s not so much about being old, it’s about privacy. Everyone knows from your face you’re old and treats you with toxic kindness: Would you like to sit? Why don’t you take the elevator? We won’t be late.

But the really awful patronage comes from doctors.

In particular, doctors who tell you what they think you’ll like to hear. Try these cheering words from the mavens of Medicare: Your knees aren’t bad for your age. You have an enlarged prostate, but that’s normal for a man of your age.

Man of your age. That’s hate speech in the ears of older patients.

Worse. It’s medical relativism. It makes you feel like you’re akin to the vehicles at Rent-A-Wreck: You’ll get down the road, but not out of state. Like most men, and the same goes for women, you’re clapped out, past your sell-by date, out of the prospect of medical miracles. Unlike the way Dylan Thomas dispatched his old dad, you’re going to go gentle into that good night.

One of Americas more interesting captains of industry is John Rowe. He’s chairman of Exelon, the giant utility company. When asked at the National Press Club which companies Exelon was lusting to acquire, Rowe responded as though the question was about something human: I’m 64, and lust is a big problem.

It was a crafty double entendre. Young reporters thought he was talking acquisitions, but the men of the age of hot type knew differently.

When you’re in the Medicare generation, you’re by definition in lust deficit. You can lust, but you’ll most likely lust alone.

For example, the old luster meets a young lustee at a party. The charm flows, the wine provokes, and then the awful remark that deflates: You’ve had such an interesting life. Words like that inter hope. They put you in your place with your prosthesis, dental implants and all those pills, which suddenly you need, or you’re told you need.

There are some delightful goodies in store for oldies. You pay half price on public transport in many places, younger people usually offer you their seats on trains and buses, doctors charge Medicare and not you for care, and the government sends you checks. You can jump the line at airports on geriatric grounds, and you can doze off anywhere when things get boring. You can wear a brown belt with black shoes, and you can question prices without shame: Does the soup come with the entree? Eccentricity gets new license.

Then there’s the capriciousness of memory. A friend in Hong Kong sent me a long e-mail about people we went to middle school with. I wrote back, congratulating him on his memory. He fired back: Thanks, but I wish I remembered where I parked my car? I haven’t seen it for two days.

Should he be allowed to drive? Have the authorities taken his car?

I, you understand, am a particularly boyish 70. –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate

 

Limbaugh Wouldn’t Like Costa Rica

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One is stirred to thank Rush Limbaugh. He has told us that if health-care reform is passed, he is going to pack his prejudices and leave the country, presumably in five years when the provisions of the hated “Obamacare” begin to bite.

Limbaugh’s putative destination: Costa Rica. Bravo. The man has taste. Democratic for decades, Costa Rica is the jewel of Latin America. It is in its way a paradise. Straddling the Central American isthmus between the Caribbean Sea and the Pacific Ocean, Costa Rica offers the most extraordinary diversity of fauna and flora, mountain and valley. Even the beaches are diverse, from the white sands of the Caribbean to the black volcanic sands of the Pacific.

But is this the place for Limbaugh, as he escapes the creeping socialism he fears is around the corner, if the Democrats can get their act together and pass a health-care bill? Sadly for Limbaugh, he may have to find peace elsewhere. Costa Rica will be too full of jarring realities for the Loud One.

Consider, with one-tenth of the U.S. per-capita income, Costa Rica manages to provide adequate health care to most of its 4.5 million people, and they have, at 79 years, a longer life expectancy than do Americans.

Worse for Limbaugh, the government funds the health-care system — although he will be able to buy private insurance that he can use in one of two private hospitals. To see all those healthy, long-lived people enjoying freedom, despite a massive government option, could be injurious to Limbaugh’s health.

Limbaugh’s affection for drug companies may also be challenged, making his exile life a living hell. Drugs can cost up to 80 percent less than they do states-side.

But there other disquieting things that Limbaugh’s research overlooked. General Limbaugh was a staunch believer in the therapy of invasion, including those in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was a favorite of Dick Cheney; and while the latter was vice president and warmonger in chief.

So what is a man like Limbaugh to do in a country that has no army? Not one person with a rifle.

So what great service has Limbaugh’s possible defection done? It has forced us to look around the world for a new home for our greatest broadcaster and to see how far state medicine has gone in rotting the fiber of otherwise great nations.

Limbaugh made everyone look, from the “Tonight Show with Jay Leno” to La Prensa. Looking for a new home for Limbaugh is the pastime of the moment — and it is not easy.

Western Europe, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, Iceland are out, out, out, out. We cannot send a national treasure to these infamous places, struggling under the yoke of socialist medicine. Much of the rest of Latin America leans toward government provided medicine, even if delivery is spotty.

Our man needs a home of limited government, widespread gun ownership and medicine for those who can afford it. Limbaugh must turn his eyes from mamby-pamby nanny states like Costa Rica to robust lands, where people do not expect the government to provide answers and do not look to it.

Somalia quickly rises to the top of the heap. No government, no regulation, universal gun ownership and no socialized medicine.

Then, there is Iraq. Pasha Limbaugh might fit right in. He has done more than his bit for the Iraqis, bringing them the wonders of democracy and cruise missiles. He could report back to Dick Cheney regularly on what has been wrought there. A one-man truth squad, checking on the mainstream media and its penchant for negative news.

Nah. Limbaugh is a rich man with no known linguistic skills. He would be happier in London. There, he could handle the notorious National Health Service — which the Brits love to hate — by listing its failings in a blog. No need to mention that any politician who suggests repealing it would be thrown into outer darkness.

No worries. Limbaugh knows the power of a horrifying anecdote. Britain frowns on gun ownership, but then exiles must assimilate.

Breath easy, Costa Rica.

New Oil Discoveries Threaten Obama’s Energy Strategies

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“When an irresistible force such as you

“Meets and old immovable object like me

“You can bet just as sure as you live

“Something’s got to give …”

— Johnny Mercer

When Johnny Mercer penned those words, he was speaking of love not politics, and not the politics of energy. But he could have been.

In energy, there are two great forces that collide: public policy and the market. Despite the love affair of recent decades with markets, neither is always right.

Consider the struggle between old energy –market-tested and with a mature infrastructure — and new, alternative energy.

Public policy, under Republicans and Democrats, has sought to discourage the nation’s ever-greater dependence on imported oil (about 60 percent). But the market has sung a siren song, tempting us to more oil consumption.

Back in the 1970s, when we imported only 30 percent of our oil, the country was frightened into making great efforts in research and development to find alternatives to oil. Most of those concentrated on oil substitution and new ways of making electricity. None of the new ideas penetrated the market in any serious way, with the possible exception of wind, and that took many years to gain general acceptance and to overcome institutional and technical issues.

The Big Enchilada, oil, proved to be recalcitrant. President Jimmy Carter wanted to make it from coal; a nascent ethanol industry was tentatively testing the forbearance of government in seeking tax breaks and subsidies.

The search for a way out began after the Arab oil embargo of 1973-74, and reached a zenith with the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Many well-intentioned programs were undertaken, concentrating primarily on coal — coal as a gas, coal as a fluid and the improved combustion of coal.

But it was then, as it is now, a wild time for new entrants. Dozens of projects were funded including magneto-hydrodynamics, in situ coal gasification, garbage to electricity, battery research, cryogenic transmission research and energy storage in fly wheels.

Some, if not a majority, of the projects were pure science fiction.

The energy establishment favored not so much the new as the duplicative. Its members leaned to coal, oil shale, more oil and gas leasing and more nuclear. The old Mobil Oil Company paid a whopping $212 million for a Colorado oil shale lease without regard to how it could be worked.

Across the Southwest, banks lent to every energy project that came through the door. Natural gas got short shrift because it was wrongly thought to be a depleted resource.

Then in the mid-1980s, Saudi Arabia opened its oil spigot all the way (10 million barrels a day) and the market annihilated expensive energy from new sources. With gasoline cheap again, SUVs hit the roads in giant numbers; a string of Southwest banks collapsed; and the energy debate turned not to changing consumption but to deregulation, facilitating profligate use across the board.

The market spoke and it shouted down concerns about national security or technological substitution. Public policy surrendered to the market. Despite fine speeches from secretaries of energy on the danger of exporting our security and our money, the market continued its advocacy of excess.

The George W. Bush administration identified our vulnerability in oil and identified a looming crisis in electricity. But it faltered when it came to government coercion of markets; for example, getting more nuclear plants built.

Bush himself fell for the temptations of ethanol from corn and the possibility of switch grass. Now these are under threat from new discoveries of oil off Brazil and far greater estimates of oil production from Iraq. In fact, Iraq is being touted as a rival to Saudi Arabia with Brazil right behind it.

The Obama administration is hell-bent on getting off old energy. It loves “alternatives” and it’s committed to doing something about global warming.

But in research, money does not equal results. While the Department of Energy is chock full of money for new energy research and development, cheap natural gas and new potential oil from unexpected quarters may do to Obama’s new energy hopes what it did to Carter’s: undermine and expose them to ridicule.

Public policy may again be pushed around by the irresistible force of the market, even if it is not serving the national interest.

 

Anti-terrorism Industry Eyes Private Aviation

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A disturbed man, Joseph Andrew Stack, flies a single-engine Piper airplane into a Texas federal office building. He kills himself and an IRS worker. It is tragic and awful – and it points up vulnerability in our society that could be exploited by terrorists. But it is not a reason to impose new restrictions on private flying.

General aviation–the blanket term given to everything that is not a scheduled airline or cargo flight–has not to this point in time been subject to onerous security. Yet there are those calling for a security regime to be introduced after the Texas incident.

To apply even modest security on general aviation would be a daunting task because airplanes fly from small airports to big ones; and they fly 24 hours a day. Some are light aircraft like Stack’s and others are corporate jets and charter aircraft, all the way up to airline size.

Charter companies and corporations could take the hit from expensive security. But it would mortally wound private flying and not increase security at all. Elaborate evasions–such as flying from deserted roads, farms and abandoned airfields–might increase. What now happens in the light would happen in the dark.

Here I should declare that I have held a private pilot’s license for nearly 40 years, although I no longer take to the air as I once did (whenever possible).

The aviation community has always known that airplanes are easily used as weapons in the hands of suicidal pilots or if rigged with off-the-shelf technology. To turn a light aircraft into a crude missile you need purpose, know-how and access to a hobby shop or an electronics retailer in the local mall.

Over the years, I have heard many discussions on what you can cause an unmanned aircraft to do. No one was planning to do so, but it is a subject that used to come up from time to time in pilots’ lounges: airport facilities where pilots hang out, get weather briefings or just to tell stories of derring-do.

Pilots belong to a freemasonry that binds people of disparate backgrounds together in a common love of aviation and common bad experiences. Horseman and boaters enjoy something similar but not with the depth and passion that unites pilots, whether they are weekend stick jocks (their term for themselves) or former military pilots, who have done extraordinary things and now fly for the airlines or just fly privately.

Pilots tend to revere anything that leaves the ground and to know that part of the thrill is the high price that will be paid if things go wrong. As Walter Hinton wrote in 1926: “Recently, a man asked whether the business of flying ever could be regulated by rules and statutes. I doubt it. Not that flying men are lawless. No one realizes better than they the need for discipline. But they have learned discipline through constant contact with two of the oldest statutes in the universe–the law of gravity and the law of self-preservation. Ten feet off the ground these two laws supersede all others and there is little hope of their repeal.”

At Barron Hilton’s ranch in Yerington, Nev., I saw astronauts riding in gliders, hot air balloons, as happy as they were going into space. Every form of flight deserves the same respect as another. The price of failure is the same: death.

One of the great freedoms in America is that anyone can learn to fly and can fly from the smallest airport; really just a field that has been surveyed and leveled to JFK or LAX. You will need a reservation to land, but you can do it.

Aviation is truly one of the last egalitarian pursuits. You can put passengers through a metal detector at the general aviation terminal at Washington Dulles International Airport, but what about a farm in Kansas?

One of the many firms that is part of the anti-terrorism industry, STRATFOR, has been proselytizing about the dangers of private aviation. Sure there is a remote danger there, as there is with the availability guns or the vulnerability of city water supplies.

Flying is one of the great freedoms. And to those who are lucky enough to fly, it is the supreme achievement in the ascent of man. To curtail it is to make a terrorist somewhere chortle. –For the Hearst-New York Times Syndicate