Stuck in the Middle With...me?

I had no idea the block-programming I encountered via my cable provider would one day double as a weather model. If I had, I might not have fired them. Alas, AT&T bills escalate like Illinois property taxes, putting the kabosh on that teachable moment.

But even minus the ongoing example their lesson remains.

Last winter gave all appearances of being a mild affair, with precious little of the white stuff falling through the twenty-fourth of January. In my naivete I even began to entertain thoughts of green grass and soft breezes. Leaves on trees. Songbirds.

But the same block-programming which had gifted me with days full of That '70s Show and Wicked Tuna and the always-delightful Housewives franchise asserted itself in a new arena—weather. The one-flavor-at-a-time aesthetic was about to deliver a punishing new blow.

It snowed. Then it snowed some more. And then it snowed still-more. A forty-three year-old record for consecutive days of measurable snowfall nearly fell as well, but was merely tied. Long story short, we received a winter's worth of snow in a single month.

The concentration was unprecedented.

Then spring arrived. And for the first time since 2017, May didn't generate record amounts of rain. But relief is discouraged in Illinois, and by June my portion of the state was immersed in a drought.

Beige grass, trees stressed and shedding leaves—the whole deal.

But last Wednesday it finally rained. Then it rained on Thursday. And on Friday. Saturday. Monday. Tuesday. And is forecast for today as well. (Though appropriately gloomy, Sunday was somehow exempted.)

It seems even the Cubs, in a fresh take on the eternal nature or nurture question, have adopted the dynamic.

They sucked in April, setting franchise records for hitting futility. And when you consider the team began play in 1876 in the so-called “deadball” era, well, it appeared the deadball era wasn't quite as dead as we thought.

They got their groove on in May, going 19 and 8 and outscored the opposition 131 to 85—a margin of nearly two runs a game. Oh my god! These guys are the 1939 Yankees reincarnated!

Ugh-huh. Sure.

June has seen a return to April's form (if their play can even be dignified by such a term), as they have gone 12 and 15 and averaged a meager 3.3 runs per game, which is even worse than April's showing.

It has grown exponentially worse since the fourteenth. From that point, the Cubs have terrorized Major League Baseball, winning 4 of their last 15 and crossing home plate 28 times in those 15 games. (If you're as mathematically-gifted as I, you'll notice that isn't even two runs a game.)

It is wearying. Sorry, Mr. Hoyer.

Stir in lingering pandemic fatigue, inflation, shortages, random and widespread gun violence and our simmering political and societal divides and life feels pretty damn weird. Out of control. Like a frozen pizza that goes from undercooked to burnt in milliseconds. 

What the _____? Are extremes the new normal?

It must now be asked: Could the neurological condition known as bi-polar actually be a lifestyle?

Wondering Aloud

Serving the adrenaline demographic (and the attendant ratings and advertising revenue spike) has led to a profound change in the way nature is presented to TV audiences.

No more illuminating programming typically juxtaposed against the change in seasons. Nope. Instead of a feature with an animal mom raising her young and shepherding them to adulthood, or a fascinating profile of a blue whale, we see conflict. Fights. Carnage.

At the head of the class is Animal Fight Night, trotted out by the one-time educator of all things natural—the National Geographic Society, which seeks to answer not how a specific animal develops the skills with which to survive in its environment, but more pressing scientific queries along the lines of can a hippo beat-up an Australian salt-water crocodile?

Sigh. Looking for a cultural snapshot? There it is.

(Naturally, this follows a re-organization of the National Geographic board which saw a decided rise in “input” from conservative sources.)

In addition to portraying the designated lifeform as a one-dimensional machine devoid of any impulse but the urge to fight, it certainly makes it easier to justify their extinction, doesn't it? They're dangerous!

I recall a middle school field trip to Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry, one which sought to educate young minds and expand their intellectual horizons.

At one exhibit, there was a question posed next to a wooden door. “What is the world's most-dangerous predator?”

When opened, it revealed a mirror.

Mission accomplished.

Sadly, it was eventually removed. But the lesson endures.

Non-human lifeforms have never been more endangered. Outright extinctions and projected extinctions are off the charts as mankind's relentless spread crowds out thousands upon thousands of species.

The combined effects of habitat destruction and global warming are as lethal as a poacher's gun.

Is it really wise to consume television wherein they're characterized as one-dimensional killers? Couldn't it be argued that if anything should be projected as lethal threats to whatever may be around it is us?

At a time when an unimaginable number of species are perched on the edge of extinction, portraying them this way seems like piling on. Never mind the corrosive effect on preservation efforts.

We like to imagine grand and glorious things about ourselves. Understanding that we share the planet with these species and owe them a measure of consideration before we erect yet-another Sunglasses Hut and carelessly breed might be one way of inching closer to that.

The Tyranny of Social Media

It's an amazing bit of confluence, really. That on the thirtieth anniversary of James Hansen's press conference confirming the existence of global warming our latest and perhaps most-puerile example of overheated social media outrage should emerge.

First, let me be clear: I am not a fan of social media. It amplifies our worst characteristics and encourages our most anti-social impulses as it places thoughtless, knee-jerk rants from borderline lunatics alongside sober opinions and vetted facts and confers legitimacy upon each.

Go ahead. Call me a snob. Call me pretentious. Call me someone who thinks than he's better than everyone else. But here's the thing: I don't offer opinions and present them as facts. And when facts are presented, they're researched to ensure accuracy.

In other words, I am not Pete Gaines.

For those of you who don't know, Pete Gaines possesses an otherworldly ability to discern one's moral fiber simply by gazing at their license plate. Gaines' additional talents are put on display when he simultaneously acts as prosecutor, judge and jury and posts to social media the results of his exhaustive investigations.

Take the poor sap who was motoring along in a Tesla, his car unfortunate enough to bear a four-digit license plate. While the rest of us would have continued along, aiding and abetting this heinous criminal in happy ignorance, Pete Gaines knew better.

Because he is Pete Gaines. And we're not.

He just knew there was a white supremacist within. A white supremacist who needed to be called-out and harassed. Fortunately for Illinois taxpayers, Gaines could circumvent the twin inconveniences of law enforcement and our judicial system simply by tweeting his revelation worldwide:

Hey @ILSecOfState why do you allow Nazis to get Nazi slogans on their Tesla's personalized license plates?  

The denizens of the digital landscape (mostly unschooled in the art of critical thinking) could then devour the bait provided by Gaines and excrete their comments in kind. Among the considered remarks: “If you see this car in Illinois burn it.” “Bust his windows and slash his tires.”

Good ideas, all. And thanks for not letting the complete absence of facts and proof dissuade you. Because the fact that it appeared on Twitter is proof-enough, isn't it? You, like, have to prove everything you tweet, right?

If it even matters, it was later revealed the Tesla owner had never been, was not currently nor did he plan to be a white supremacist at any point in the future. But the damage was done. The story had crested. 

They're only facts, right?

Most importantly, the lizard-brained trolls who inhabit social media and fancy themselves as both the arbitrators and guardians of public morality even as they help to destroy it got to spew.

Sharing a half-baked conspiracy theory based on a decades-old fashion with the urgency of ISIS insurgents parading up your driveway is massively irresponsible. It makes you as spiteful and as paranoid as the people you purport to abhor.

I forget: who said we become what we hate?

Anyway, I think I finally understand how Donald Trump was elected. And why the massive ice sheets in Greenland, Antarctica and the Arctic are melting.

God help us.

Pulling the Plug on Electric Cars

Don’t get me wrong—I’m very encouraged by the research and development being done on electric cars.

There’s so much to like about them; they’re quiet, don’t emit any greenhouse gases and are quickly attaining speeds and ranges that rival traditional gasoline-powered cars.

But there’s this one, nagging question that no one seems to be asking: where is all the electricity going to come from?

Power plants are notorious polluters. They burn prodigious amounts of coal, produce tons of nuclear waste and expel hydro-carbons like there’s no tomorrow. (Which, if electric cars ever achieve the market penetration internal combustion ones have, there may not be.)

Were our electric plants solar or wind or hydro-powered, all would be well. But this is far from true.

Before we commit to electric cars, shouldn’t we figure out where all the electricity is going to come from first?