Send us your tired, your hungry, your huddled polar bears

Satellite photos show Lake Superior nearly iced-over on March 3, 2009.


Image from N.O.A.A.

Reportedly, this phenomenon happens about every 20-30 years. Another source reports that global floating sea ice levels this year are as high as they were in 1979, using data and a chart from the University of Illinois’ Arctic Climate Research Center:

Rapid growth spurt leaves amount of ice at levels seen 29 years ago.

Thanks to a rapid rebound in recent months, global sea ice levels now equal those seen 29 years ago, when the year 1979 also drew to a close.

Ice levels had been tracking lower throughout much of 2008, but rapidly recovered in the last quarter. In fact, the rate of increase from September onward is the fastest rate of change on record, either upwards or downwards.

The data is being reported by the University of Illinois’s Arctic Climate Research Center, and is derived from satellite observations of the Northern and Southern hemisphere polar regions.

“Thanks to a rapid rebound in recent months.” You’ve got to give President Obama credit; he said he’d stop global warming and he has!

The Depths of the Night

I was combing through my blog archives earlier looking for a study that I’ve previously cited because I want to use it in another post that I’m working on. In the process I came across a short piece that I wrote here back in 2005, my first year of blogging. It seemed especially appropriate for the present day when so many people appear to have so much to worry about. I’m re-running it here in the hope that it might help someone find a little peace and comfort.

A Beast in the Night

It’s two a.m. and the beast slides in under the bedroom door while I’m sleeping, a darkness deeper than the dark. I feel his weight as he sits on my chest and the tingling sensation of the tips of his talons as he takes my head and turns it slightly to face him. “Let’s talk,” he hisses.

This implies conversation, but it is one-sided. Doom seems to be the theme, oppression the objective, but I’m not paying too much attention to specifics as I sort through and catalog the degrees of my awareness. The house is quiet and still. No strange lights from outside, no smell of smoke through the screened windows. My wife rests peacefully beside me. There is just this…thing, hunkering down, pressing on my thorax. My breathing seems shallow; does it have to be? I fill my lungs several times, deeply. Breathing is good, the weight remains. I experimentally try shifting my position.

“Ah-ah,” says the beast, “does it hurt when I do this?”

Actually, no, nothing hurts. I easily move my arm and place my hand below my collarbone. The river courses deep and wide and steady beneath my fingertips in a familiar rhythm. My skin is cool and dry and yet I know the beast has found something, deep within. A tiny flame of fear, like a pilot light, and now he breathes on it and his very breath is combustible – the flame roars, seeking more fuel, wanting to consume me. In the light of day I hardly notice the steady but small flame; now in the dark every flicker seems to cast an ominous shadow. This is beyond reason, but reason I must: there is money in the bank, we are whole, the jobs are good, the basement will be dry again. I am fine and no weapon formed against us will prosper.

The beast is unimpressed, and answers each thought with a “But…” of his own, his own butt and haunches squeezing against my ribs. The debate goes on quietly for an hour. I should get up. I should get some water. I should change the scenery, but I feel trapped. “Yes…trapped,” the beast says, “trapped, trapped, trapped.” This is going nowhere. Reason is not sufficient, and argument is ineffective. If he won’t listen to me, then I won’t listen to him. I deliberately turn my mind to the old songs, the songs of deliverance and praise, I repeat them to myself, sometimes running verses together or in different order, simply using what comes to mind, from another pilot light, a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, replacing fear with power, strength and a sound mind.

The darkness in the room changes perceptibly. It’s nowhere near dawn, but it seems lighter somehow. Peace returns, if sleep does not. At 4:00 a.m. I’m aware that my wife is awake, lying quietly in the dark. I speak softly, “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Why are you?”

I tell her what happened. She draws closer, hooks one of her legs over one of mine, her arm brushes the last traces of the beast from my chest.

“I’m feeling better,” I say.

This also reminds me of something else that I’ve written here before, a quote from Edwin Louis Cole: “Fear is the belief that something I cannot see will come to pass. Faith is the belief that something I cannot see will come to pass.”

Which will you choose to believe?

I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.”…You shall not
be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence
that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.

— Psalm 91: 2, 5-6

Wasting away again in an Obama-ville

Obama: It’s a Good Time to Buy Stocks

President Obama said Tuesday that now is a good time for investors to buy stocks if they focus on the big picture.

The Dow plunged Monday to its lowest level in 12 years.

“What you’re now seeing is a profit and earnings ratios get to the point that buying stocks is a good thing if you have a long-term perspective on it,” he said to reporters after meeting in the Oval Office with visiting British Prime Minister Gordon Brown.

That sounds very familiar. Let’s access the ol’ mental jukebox….ah, yes, Fred Waring and Pennsylvanians from 1932 with an Irving Berlin song called “Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee”:

Just around the corner,
There’s a rainbow in the sky,
So let’s have another cup of coffee,
And let’s have another piece of pie.

Trouble’s like a bubble,
And the clouds will soon roll by,
So let’s have another cup of coffee,
And let’s have another piece of pie.

Let a smile be your umbrella,
For it’s just an April shower,
Even John D. Rockefeller
Is looking for the silver lining!

Mr. Herbert Hoover
Says that now’s the time to buy,

So let’s have another cup of coffee,
And let’s have another piece of pie!

Back in the 1930s the shanty-towns of homeless people were called Hoovervilles. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll be called Obama-villes, or maybe just “affordable housing.”

Hello, Americans — and good-bye to a legend

Bob Greene is a master, and writer who’s style influenced my early days. He’s done a number of tributes over the years, but none have been better than the one he just offered to Paul Harvey who passed away Saturday at the age of 90:

I’ve never been one to attend the performances of symphony orchestras, but off and on, for more than 35 years, I gave myself the gift of something even better:

I would go and sit with Paul Harvey as he broadcast his radio show.

It was music; it was thrilling. I met him in the early 1970s, when I was a young newspaper reporter in Chicago, and that’s when he allowed me, for the first time, to sit silently in his studio as he did his work. Over the years, whenever I felt a need for a Paul Harvey fix, he was always welcoming, and we came to know each other well. I would sit there wordlessly and observe absolute excellence.

He would invariably be wearing a smock when I arrived — he had been working since well before the sun came up, and the smock would cover his shirt and tie. It was the kind of smock a jeweler might wear, or a watchmaker — it was crisply pressed, the uniform of an expert craftsman. I never asked him why he wore it, but I suspect that was the reason — pride in craftsmanship.

He would be at the typewriter, honing his script. He was famed for his voice, but the writing itself was so beautiful — his respect for words, his understanding of the potency of economy, his instinct for removing the superfluous. The world heard him speak, but the world never saw him write, and I think he honored both aspects of his skill equally.

And then the signal from the booth, and. . .

“Hello, Americans! This is Paul Harvey! Stand by. . . for news!”

And he would look down at those words that had come out of his typewriter minutes before — some of them underlined to remind him to punch them hard — and they became something grander than ink on paper, they became the song, the Paul Harvey symphony. He would allow me to sit right with him in the little room — he never made me watch from behind the glass — and there were moments, when his phrases, his word choices, were so perfect — flawlessly written, flawlessly delivered — that I just wanted to stand up and cheer.

But of course I never did any such thing — in Paul Harvey’s studio, if you felt a tickle in your throat you would begin to panic, because you knew that if you so much as coughed it would go out over the air into cities and towns all across the continent — so there were never any cheers. The impulse was always there, though — when he would drop one of those famous Paul Harvey pauses into the middle of a sentence, letting it linger, proving once again the power of pure silence, the tease of anticipation, you just wanted to applaud for his mastery of his life’s work.

He probably wouldn’t have thought of himself this way, but he was the ultimate singer-songwriter. He wrote the lyrics. And then he went onto his stage and performed them. The cadences that came out of his fingertips at the typewriter were designed to be translated by one voice — his voice — and he did it every working day for more than half a century: did it so well that he became a part of the very atmosphere, an element of the American air.

Read the whole thing to get the “rest of the story” about an American legend. Good day!

An old man’s hat

by the Night Writer

LIFE ON EARTH is pulled down hard on a man’s head. This life was made by hatters. A busy street is only coffee, bread, and hats. The smell of a man’s hat – an old man’s hat – is like the nostril of a horse. You are breathing in what something beautiful and ancient has breathed out. The heat and life contained in it, the silk interior. An old man’s hat is necessary: You see that when he takes it off, his hair and skin abruptly float away.

— David Keplinger, from The Prayers of Others. © New Issues, 2006.

Night Life: All the single ladies

The Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and MD’s friend and singing-partner, Princess Flicker-Feather, are taking a hip-hop dance class once a week. I don’t know what hip-hop dance involves but since Easter is coming up I thought they might be working up some special choreography. Nevertheless, when the Diva said Princess Flicker-Feather was coming over to practice I thought they were going to work on their expanding repertoire of music for the Open Mic Circuit.

I was down in the Man-Cave working on something edifying when thumping bass and stomping feet started pounding above my head. “I don’t remember any of their songs sounding like that,” I thought to myself. I shrugged it off and kept working … until there was a loud crash. What in the name of This Old House is going on? I went upstairs, the beat getting louder each step, and swung into the living room … where the the three femmes were lined up doing unison steps to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)”. Apparently that’s the song they are dancing to in class. They had the music up so loud the walls were dancing too, though not in perfect sync, which is why someone’s hips had bumped into one of them, resulting in the noise that brought me upstairs.


Click for video.

“Put a Ring On It” is an admirable sentiment, but “Put a Cork In It” was more my concern. Even though modestly attired, the vibrations from that much hip-swing and shimmy were enough to trip the always sensitive tracking system of every teenage boy in a two-mile radius. If even one pheromone got through the thick walls we were going to have a riot on our hands. Great. It was a cold night and I was going to have to spend it on the porch with a rifle and a harpoon.

A vacuum really sucks

I received an email this evening from someone who said, “Did you know that your Comments are turned off on your last post?” Uh, no, I didn’t. I went into my site administration and, sure enough, Comments were inexplicably turned off for “The Greatest ‘Degeneration’?” post.

Lately I’ll admit to feeling a bit disappointed after posting some edgier content, expecting to see comments or brickbats, only to get…zilch. I was left to assume that my argument had been so sound and complete that no one could refute it…or so boring that no one had been able to get through it. Checking the admin page and, sure enough, Comments were off on these posts! Meanwhile, Comments were on for all the other recent posts…only “A Way of a Gun” and “A Poem for Choice” were turned off. Believe me, I’m not ducking argument. Most of the posts here have a 30-day sunset, but I’ve only deliberately shut down comments on posts that have attracted spam.

Maybe my blog-host is trying to protect me from myself, or merely sending me a message that it’s time to move on.

The fairness of your doctrine

Tasha Easterly in her blog at Salvo Magazine, comments on a recent Camille Paglia radio interview.

Camille Paglia Says Democrats Betrayed the Soul of Their Party
Camille Paglia appeared on WABC-AM’s ‘The Mark Simone Show’ yesterday to talk about the Fairness Doctrine, and you may be surprised at what she said. Paglia blasted the Democrats for even mentioning a reinstatement of the Fairness Doctrine, saying “I don’t get it . . . the essence of the 1960’s, my generation, was about free speech . . . that’s what Lenny Bruce was about – it was about the free speech movement, for heaven’s sake, at Berkeley! What are my fellow Democrats doing? Not for one second should the government be wandering into survelliance of, monitoring of, the ideological content of talk radio. The Democrats, they’ve totally betrayed the soul of the party to even mention this.”

The Greatest “Degeneration”?

Someone was writing the other day and reminiscing about The Greatest Generation, those gritty Americans who survived the Great Depression and still had the strength and will to defeat Hitler and the Axis powers. The writer contrasted that generation with our current citizens, referred to as “The Laziest Generation.”

At first I thought that an apt description, but I only had to think about it for a few moments before I realized that people are pretty much people, regardless of the time they live in. The people who lived through the 1930s and 40s, and came back from the war to build a new world and birth a new generation in the 50s and 60s, all overcame hardship and adversity and realized prosperity, and I thank God for them and ask Him to bless them.

But they also didn’t have a lot of choice.

Today it is worthwhile to celebrate and honor their mindset to do what had to be done, but in doing so perhaps we sell short our own capacity to do the same. Given the opportunity, I think that past generation — faced with economic collapse and a global thirst for totalitarianism — would have just as soon let that cup pass them by. That option, of course, was not granted them and they knew it. Perhaps the greatest difference between their generation and ours is that today we think such a choice exists.

They grew up with cash on the barrelhead, “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without” mantras; they had witnessed what financial speculation and excess led to. The only thing they deferred was gratification as they scrounged to support their families or slogged toward Germany, all to the tune of When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World. Yet the generation that couldn’t say “No” to its fate gave birth to the generation that apparently can’t say “No” to anything.

You can’t blame our forbears for having suffered much and desiring that their children not know the fear, hunger and torment that they endured. Out of that love, perhaps, it was natural to have a vision of raising up a generation that would know no limits…and one, unfortunately, that also knows no “No.” Our generation defers no gratification, only the payments, and won’t the next generation be thankful?

To be honest, the Greatest Generation also voted repeatedly for the New Deal, the ancestor of today’s stimulus package — yet they were likely the first ones to come up with the analogy that’s going around today of trying to increase the amount of water in a swimming pool by hauling buckets from the deep end and pouring them into the shallow end! They were human, capable of taking what looks like an easy way out but also quite capable, when pressed, to digging deep within themselves to persevere through hardship and work for something better and bigger than themselves.

We, too, are human and even with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement we are capable of the same inner reserves and faith. Like our parents and grandparents, we may not willingly seek out adversity, but we shouldn’t run from it either. We can meet it, defeat it, and give the next generations stories to tell rather than debts to pay.

If only we get the chance.


Dilbert.com

A blogger can dream, j’suppose

by the Night Writer

Today The Writer’s Almanac has an interesting snippet from history on the power of outrage and the written word in the face of injustice:

On this day in 1898 the French novelist Émile Zola was found guilty of libel for writing “J’accuse,” in an open letter to the French government. It accused the government and the military court of deliberately mishandling the case of Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer who was wrongly accused of giving intelligence information to Germany. People were eager to convict a Jewish man, and Dreyfus was given a life sentence and sent into solitary confinement on Devil’s Island. Soon after, the government found conclusive evidence that another man, Ferdinand Esterhazy, was actually guilty of the crime. But to save face, the military and the government produced false evidence to acquit Esterhazy and confirm Dreyfus’ guilt.

Émile Zola was a prolific novelist and a well-respected public intellectual. Two days after Esterhazy was acquitted, his 4,000-word letter took up the entire front page of the French newspaper L’Aurore, with its one-word title, “J’accuse!” (“I accuse!”). Zola took apart the case, proved Dreyfus’ innocence and Esterhazy’s guilt, exposed the government cover-up, and directly accused government and military figures of anti-Semitism and abusing the justice system.

Zola was well-known outside of France, and “J’accuse” brought the Dreyfus case to the attention of the international community. After reading it, most believed that Dreyfus was innocent. Zola was arrested for libel, and his trial got a lot of media coverage. In the courtroom, people screamed and got in brawls, and mobs tried to attack Zola as he left each day. He was convicted on this day in 1898 and ordered to spend a year in jail. He escaped to England, where he lived in exile. But in less than two years, a new court reversed Dreyfus’ sentence and dropped the libel charge against Zola. Both men returned to France, and in 1906, Dreyfus was reinstated in the army.