Where Is Al Gore? A Rebuttal

While reading my local paper The Port Washington News, I happened upon what appears to pass for an op-ed piece these days. It was penned by a Robert McMillan ("Where Is Al Gore?" Friday, 12 March 2010 00:00), who describes himself as “Of Council” with a local legal firm. I discovered on a Google search (this from a Massachusetts government site) that “of council” might mean he’s “the guy down the hall who is available to discuss cases over coffee.” When not being consulted on a pro bono basis, Mr. McMillan apparently spends time freezing his golden years off in Florida, and he’s not too happy about it.

Mr. McMillan opens his argument thusly: “Again, let me state that I am not a scientist.” This is an interesting if grammatically oblique way to begin, but I guess that’s his modus operandi. As it turns out his argument should’ve ended right there, but then Mr. McMillan has time on his hands to hone his style, which involves muddling over selected “facts” he’s chosen to champion.

Mr. McMillan claims to value the facts. He is mistaken. What he values are selected statistics that support his personal world view, in a kind of “If the glove don’t fit…” strategy. And so in an effort to discredit the overwhelming evidence presented by credible science that shows causative links between human activity and whatever phrase he would choose to pick for climate change (Please do pick one for yourself, sir, and I’ll oblige you. Thomas Friedman, in his intensely researched Hot, Flat and Crowded has coined the charming term “global weirding,” but at 448 pages I suspect it contains more facts than you might wish to digest), he embarks on an ad hominem attack of one of the political Right’s favorite targets, Al Gore.

McMillan begins with an a priori assertion that mankind’s contribution to global warming (I am comfortable with the term, as it accurately describes, on a global scale, changes that can have interesting side effects on local environments), and by extension the very question of global warming, is absurd. Absurd? Thanks for your assessment, counselor. As you like to mention, you’re not a scientist. Cream and sugar?

Our dedicated layperson then goes a-hunting for a scapegoat, metal detector at the ready. His first salvo is the veiled implication that old Al pretty much dreamt up this bogus crisis on his own, the sore loser. But the kicker is the once widely disseminated, and debunked, assertion that Mr. Gore claimed to have “invented” the Internet. It is one of those despicably effective strategies used by political hacks on the mentally infirm: that of the fallacious, distracting personal attack. Is this about Mr. Gore, sir? Hey, it sure is if it means a lower tax rate on my Boca condo!

I don’t know which is the most culpable transgressor when it comes to the dissemination of statistical garbage - disgruntled simpletons, their pied pipers, or newspapers caught in the dare I say evolutionary throws of technological change. But I would encourage the staff at the News to consider that while there are at the very least two sides to every legitimate argument, not all merit equal soapbox time; certainly not those posited by individuals unqualified to join the debate. Think “myth of the six million” if that helps.

I’m reminded of this every time a news outlet feels the quaint urge to find out what the “man on the street” is thinking. Not too much beyond the sports scores, it turns out, and yet somehow editors feel the compulsion to get to the meat of a Star Wars debate by soliciting the opinion of Joe the Plumber. I tell you what: I’d prefer Joe just sticks to the task at hand, i.e. my leaking toilet, thanks a bunch.

Let’s use a simple analogy to explain Mr. McMillan’s argument, since I know his fans appreciate simplicity:

Bob has recently received a call from his primary care physician, whom we’ll call Dr. Al, just for fun. Dr. Al (the kind of scientist who tends to cause agita in his more venerable patients) is concerned about the results of a blood test performed on Bob. Bob’s total cholesterol count is on the high side, as is his LDL. Forget that cholesterol hadn’t yet been “invented” when Bob was a kid. Bob feels just fine, and even remembers that as a youngster he found himself more frequently out of breath than he does now. When he pricks himself, Bob bleeds smooth red blood, with none of that cottage-cheesy stuff depicted in pharmaceutical cartoons in the waiting room mags.

Dr. Al wants Bob to change his eating habits, alter his sedentary lifestyle, and he wants to put Bob on prescription medication. Bob still doesn’t know what LDL is, but he’s heard some scary things about Crestor from his four hundred pound neighbor, Eddie. Anyway, why can’t he just take an aspirin, which doesn’t require a prescription, costs almost nothing, and is about twice the size (ergo twice the efficacy) of the prescribed medicine? Plus, the folks at Bristol-Meyers (yes, Bob has his own scientists in his corner) say their aspirin is the best. The whole thing is just… ABSURD!

What’s with Bob’s principled stand against his doctor’s advice? Simple. Bob hates exercise, and loves his South Florida morning expeditions to Cracker Barrel for the hefty he-man combo, which he now must don a cardigan for, doggonit, because the Sunshine State is too damn cold!

And so are all the other states right now, as Bob falls victim to his own argument. He states, ipso facto, “We often forget that there are climate changes every 10,000 years or so...” Really? Does it not dawn on him that this uncontested fact, hardly obvious from a glance out the picture window, is fodder for his argument due to the remarkable research of the very scientists whom he now dismisses because of a Tallahassee cold snap?

Because yes, there are cycles, and there are cycles within cycles, and there are other cycles overlapping those. Then there are peculiar (to the simple-minded) anomalies that might lead one to believe just about anything, such as that there are angels in the sky protecting us from our own worst impulses. It gets complicated, and requires studied attention, not casual disdain. The challenge is to observe and identify the various cycles, understand the regular ones and their periods and interplay, and note where something new and different is insinuating itself.

Sometimes you have to pay attention to people with more experience than you, much as you’d rather just lounge carefree under a palm tree downing gin and tonics until everything starts to feel warm and cozy again down in the Everglades. And I don’t mean the “scientists” at Bristol Meyers, and I certainly don’t mean our political leaders, if by them you mean Sarah Palin and her ilk. Because gosh, she knows everything is gonna be just fine, what with her excellent Tundra view of the future.

And yes, I have engaged in an ad hominem attack, because I believe Mr. McMillan advances an argument bereft of intellectual merit. But if he thinks it imprudent to honestly weigh professional opinion until more compelling information surfaces, he’s certainly free to wait for a sign. Like, for instance, a fibrillating heart.

We need not fear for our ex-barrister. After a career of twenty-eight-hour billable days he’ll always be able to afford a plot of land on the high ground, regardless of the present sea level. Those we should worry for are our poor print journalists, who have spaces to fill with, something… controversial, to stir things up, and generate ad revenue. Because that’s good journalism.

Take heart, Anton Publications. The Flat Earth Society is still in business, and I’m sure they’d be willing to fill a few column inches for you. Just look to the western horizon. There, for anyone with a pair of eyes and a lick of common sense to see it, lies the end of the world, at Co-Op City.

Paul Koestner, a citizen of Port Washington with a view of Co-Op City, is not a scientist either, but then it’s a free country, after all.

Yoga For Bank Tellers

Hello, I’m Spirit Song, and this is one in a series of Yoga Sessions For The Searching Soul. Today we’ll be doing a set of stretches targeting those muscle groups used by bank tellers.

But you needn’t be a bank teller to participate in this session. Any searching soul can enjoy its beneficial effects. All you need is a yoga mat you can purchase with any major credit card by dialing the phone number shown below. In the mean time, you can follow along from your floor, or bed if that feels more comfortable. I recommend the bed.

The one thing to remember is to always breath. Proper breathing is essential. If you do not breath, you will die. I will remind you throughout the session to keep breathing.

Let’s begin. Start by sitting upright, centering your torso over your buttocks. Now spread your left leg out and away from your center. Extend the thigh. Notice how my thigh is extended away from my groin area. Now tuck the toes of your right foot into your crotch. If you can’t make it all the way, that’s okay. Just breath deeply as you stare at my crotch.

Raise your right arm over your head and allow the hand to roll over and cup your left ear. Breathe in as you do this, unless you already have done so, in which case you should now breathe out. Continue this cycle of breathing unless I indicate otherwise.

Now take your left hand and twist it behind your back and up as far as it will go. Hold your hand in this reverse half-prayer position as you continue to force it to rise up in a slicing arc between your shoulder blades. This is called the “pleading supplicant” position. Don’t worry if you can’t go as far as I can. Just remember to keep breathing, or you will pass out and possibly not regain consciousness.

Now, with your right hand clutching your left ear and your left hand in the “ninja assassin” position between your scapular crevice, bend forward until your forehead is pressed heavily against the floor, in the “shamed eunuch” pose. Hold this position for as long as is humanly possible. Work to your edge, not over it. How will you know you’ve reached the edge? If you’ve ever given birth to twins or attempted to rob a bank for the first time, you’ll know the edge when you feel it. In the mean time, you might like to watch me as I search for my edge.

Don’t be concerned if you can’t go down on the floor the way I can. If you wish, take careful note of the supple contours of my body as I demonstrate. Breathe in... and out. Repeat. Notice how my ribcage undulates rhythmically. Yours should be undulating as well.

Come to an upright position, again centered over my buttocks. Now spread the right leg outward, mirroring the direction of the left, forming the “life funnel” position. The two diverging thighs are now in dynamic tension. Separate them as far as they will go. Again, don’t be surprised if your body looks nothing like mine. Take a good look at my life funnel. Any resemblance to yours? I seriously doubt it.

Now interlock both hands, raise them up, over, and behind the back of the neck, arching your chest outward as you tilt your head back, into the “welcoming waif” position. Rock forward. And back. And forward again, breathing all the while.

Now repeat this series in reverse. Or just watch me do it for you as you massage those parts of your body needing special attention after all that stretching.

If you’d like to view different sessions depicting my bodily contours in other positions, you may order any of the many videos produced for this series.

Just always remember to keep breathing.

Death By Ikea

Listen, this is a misleading title, because I know IKEA didn’t initiate the slaughter of the English language. But the blanched bastards did perfect the art of saying absolutely nothing while indulging their artistic egos in useless pencil doodlings.

Perhaps it stems from the shame any Swede must feel for his mother tongue, the sound of which resembles the gurgling boil of a lung-shot sniper victim as it trips off the tortured muscle. Just try to pronounce the name of any featured product while meandering along the show floor maze that accounts for half the lost citizenry featured on America’s milk cartons. It’s the surest way of clearing your sinuses, and makes Hebrew sound lyrical in comparison. La Chaim.

I’m not sure when the primal crawl back to the cave began, but I think the wunderkind Steve Jobs had something to do with it. We are now, a few short decades since the conception of the shit-faced Happy Mac, awash in icons for every desperate message possible, from that of the low coolant alert to the suggestion that I might have just been exposed to radioactive contamination.

I have more than once wet myself at the entry to a public restroom door after an overly long stop to figure out if I might possibly bust in on a woman with a dress hiked to her hips. By all means, compadre, have fun with your paintbrush, but follow up with any common word for “guy”, capiche, puta?

Jesus H. Christo, I’m starting to feel like a damn ditto-head. If you can’t read the language of the road, you should not be behind the wheel of a three-ton projectile. You passed the driver’s test, n’est pas, Horst? Stop! No Left Turn! Your Lights Are On, and when you try to start it up in the morning you’re going to get nothing but that clicking noise.

Note that when you are driving toward Miami, the sign says “Miami”. It’s not a Peter Max caricature of pink flamingos shitting on flamboyant Cubans from the tops of palm trees. So why must I consult my owner’s manual when a light on my dash begins to glow, seeming to indicate that my car would have really good reception were it a cell phone?

If you can’t spell, put a voice chip in my ride, you ancient, white, bankrupt assholes. What would it cost you for the technology now? Eighteen cents? A Tonka toy gives me more usable information about itself than my Beemer does. Hell, I’ll pay extra for a sexy hooker voice to coo at me: “Meine liebe schein, you just left your key in my ignition hole, and I’m holding on to it until you give me a super-fine wax job!” Miss Leni can come bundled with the deluxe interior lighting package for all I care.

An idiot light on my dash announces that I am an idiot. I have no idea if my brakes are preparing to fail or if my car is just happy to see me. And the Bavarian Uber-Tinkers whoforcenitalltogetherfrompeecesundparts won’t let up with the crypto-messages. Masters of micromanagement, they terrorize me with an alarm that goes off when the ambient temperature drops to 37 degrees Fahrenheit. You know why? Because water can freeze on a bridge surface at that temperature, given the proper atmospheric conditions.Wunderbar! And dunkeshein for the tip, Hans! Now how about a foghorn when der dew point matches der wind chill, just for shites und giggles.

When they do speak my language, it’s still cryptic. “Check Engine” for what reason, exactly? Oh, that’s right. Only a certified wizard with the proper magic wand can tell me for a cool C-note that the last grease monkey to fill the tank didn’t tighten the gas cap to Arian specs, der Dumkopf!

Back at the fjords, minimalist Euro-designers have decided there’s no point in attempting to speak to its New World consumers. It’s as if they intended their merchandise to be assembled by preschoolers. How much could these global entrepreneurs possibly be saving by not printing the words, “Make sure you don’t tighten the screws too tightly, because we used inferior materials to manufacture the piece of shit you actually intend to let your newborn sleep in”? And how do you say, “Bite me, Sven, you lazy lingenberry swiller,” in precious little icons that will take him half the next war to decode?

I know one thing. These guys are so cheap that if there are eight hundred fourteen pieces of hardware included in your Skrotum business hutch kit, you wont have a single sparelockenvasher left over once it’s finally assembled, so you know some braided ponytailer will be logging overtime counting every last piece out into hermetically-sealed snack bags. What they gain by saving an ounce of hardware they must certainly spend on the going meeneemuummwagen at theweejeetfaktorie.

I’m guessing the problem is this: these guys have chopped all their fingers off in the woodshop trying to figure out how to make furniture that requires only a hex wrench and three times the amount of Elmer’s glue they provide to assemble. As a result, there’s nobody around able to type out legible instructions, so they get their dyslexic kids to draw the pictures during lunch break at the branestormskoolen.

After the three days it took me to construct a kitchen pantry puzzle from the Smegma line, cockroaches commenced to dismantle it with the corrosive effects of their excretion. Next time I think I’ll just take out a home equity loan to have some Ethan Allen monstrosity delivered in one fully assembled piece. The tip for the deliverers alone would pay for a double bed from Stockholm, but who cares? It beats the cost of three years of therapy.

There. I’ve had my say. Now all I have to do is save this thing. No, that’s clip. Shit, that’s paste. What’s this? Undo typing? Damn! You know what? Screw it. Just screw it. Try saying that with icons.