| 2010 Gold Pen Award Winner |
OUR MACHO MR. SUN: MAKING SOLAR SEXY
by Aurelio O'Brien
In the blackened wake of the gulf oil spill and rig explosions, and the slow-cooking of our planet by greenhouse gasses, interest in what to do about our long-term energy needs has been renewed. We environmental do-gooders are all trying to do our bit to curb our carbon footprints, but when Wired Magazine points out that it takes as much fossil fuel to manufacture the battery for a Toyota Pious (pardon me) Prius as its driver would burn traveling 46,000 miles in a small non-hybrid, this means I’d only begin cutting my carbon footprint after I’d driven about 100,000 miles. So it seems that having everyone switch to a hybrid is not the best solution to our long-term energy and environmental problems.
But whatever solution we choose, it must be a macho one. Let's face it, we tree huggers have an image crisis when it comes to making our case for alternatives. Our pet solutions come off as those wimps in the back of comic books who get sand kicked in their faces when stacked up against their more macho competitors.
The real tough guys simply want more drilling, come hell or high (and mucky) water. Drilling oil is manly, dig-in-the-dirt, smelly work, and it takes big burly men and machines to do it. Of course, we'll still eventually run out of the stuff, and the spills, explosions, and global warming must be ignored like a muscle guy's malodorous laundry pile on the closet floor. But Mr. Oil is our familiar BMOC, the guy that helped us win all the games in all the previous seasons. Okay, so he’s gotten a little rough around the edges, has demanded a more lucrative contract, and has taken to wearing turbans more often than not; he’s still our reliable hero.
Mr. Nuclear is the next best, big, truly macho energy guy. Real men love Mr. Nuclear. Yeah, sure, he's a little brainy, but he still demands more big, manly machines and he plays with deadly isotopes. Hey, risk of face-melting death and mass destruction is pure macho. Of course, it means ignoring the vast amounts of nuclear waste he produces. If you're macho though, you don't care about that. After all, it's like cleaning the damned garage: he'll get around to it… someday.
Mr. Geothermal and Mr. Hydroelectric are real men too, to be sure, but they are like those poor saps who do a decent, steady job for years and years and are always overlooked for promotion. Not wimps, exactly, but they're not like the charm fellows. They're stodgy and set in their ways. Boring.
Then there's Mr. Ethanol, but he’s kind of an also-ran, or perhaps the guy who made it in to the competition by bribing a judge or two? The farmers who work for him are legitimately macho, but Mr. Ethanol himself conjures images of Florence Henderson, corncobs, and Fritos. He is only a simulacrum of Mr. Oil, more like the guy wearing fake chest hair and using Grecian Formula. And the more ethanol they add to gasoline the less efficient it has become. Decreased mileage means we have to use more gallons to go the same distance. I’m not clever enough to do an accurate calculation, but my gut tells me Mr. Ethanol is a fraud. And, well... do we really want to give up our Fritos in order for him to win?
So where do all the cleaner, more environmentally safe guys I’ve been rooting for stand?
According to Scientific American, Mr. Wind is remarkably efficient and clean, but let’s face it, he lands close to the bottom of the macho scale. Yes, his props are big machines, but they bear an unfortunate resemblance to circus rides, pinwheels, eggbeaters, and beanie caps. I don’t know, maybe if he got really, really big… or meaner looking? I like Mr. Wind a lot, but he’s a dark horse.
Call me crazy, but I’m putting my money on Mr. Sun, even though he’s been long considered lowest on the macho scale because of his unfortunate given name, Passive Solar. Did his parents really have to name him that? I mean, why not just tape a "kick me" sign on his back? The worse part about his name is that Mr. Sun has to be the most truly macho energy source of them all. He definitely warrants the more apt and studlier title, Macho Mr. Sun.
Our ancestors worshiped Mr. Sun as a god, and with good reason: he already runs our climate, weather, and supports all life on Earth. According to Wikipedia he also dumps down approximately 3850 ZJ (zettajoules) of energy per year, free for the taking. To put this in perspective, worldwide energy consumption for the year 2005 was a mere 0.487 ZJ. In other words, our Macho Mr. Sun is one super-potent son-of-a-gun. But let’s face facts, Mr. Sun desperately needs a major media makeover if he’s going to win this competition. Macho Mr. Sun blasts us with more energy than we could ever possibly need without demanding anything in return; he’s a nice guy, and we all know what that means. It means he needs our unrelenting support.
Any kid with a magnifying glass can attest to Macho Mr. Sun’s awesome potential. As we create technologies that are more adept at capturing his unfathomable energy, won’t that make all of us freer agents, give us the ability to go where we want to go whenever we want to, and not be limited, not be tied to Mr. Oil’s or Mr. Nuclear’s apron strings? Free, limitless, decentralized solar capabilities will mean more macho stuff, not less: more power tools, more recreational vehicles, more freedom, and more independence. He will allow us to be like farmers, prospectors, homesteaders, and explorers of the past, able to glean our own power ourselves. What’s more manly than that? We won't need no stinkin' limits on our consumption once we've crowned Macho Mr. Sun.
C’mon, he deserves to win. He’s the real, pure, unfiltered macho man. Booyah, Mr. Sun!
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AMERICAN INNOVATION:
ALIVE AND WELL IN THE 21ST CENTURY
by J. Conrad Guest
Forty-seven years ago, John F. Kennedy challenged America to put a man on the moon and America responded. That the first lunar landing took place a mere sixty-five years after the Wright brothers’ first successful flight and forty-one years after Charles Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic in Spirit of St. Louis only makes this feat more remarkable.
Today, President Obama faces the challenge of melding the automotive industry with the environmental lobby, state governors, and Congress, in the hope of providing a solution, through innovation, to the issues of energy and climate change, while nursing back to health an ailing American economy.
Obama recently stated that he is committed to working with Congress and the automotive industry to meet one goal: leading the world in building the next generation of clean cars.
We are at a crossroads where the future of this country’s automobile industry is concerned. What happens over the coming months will have a lasting impact on this industry as well as the global economy.
Key to the survival of Detroit and the Midwest, as well as to a healthier economy, is a thorough understanding of how we got here.
Make no mistake, the automotive industry, its greed, is largely to blame for its current predicament.
Sixty years ago, after World War II, General Motors, Standard Oil and Firestone Tires were brought before Congress on conspiracy charges. They were found guilty of creating dummy companies that bought up mass transit systems that had served many major cities so well for so long, to tear up the tracks and sell the trolleys to South American cities, where today many still transport people to and from work.
Guilty, and fined one dollar.
After the war, the automotive industry led America into a new era: a car in every driveway; and when that wasn’t enough, two cars in every garage. What was good for the automobile industry was good for America. Even while, thirty years later, cities like Los Angeles, stuck in gridlock, began to clamor for a mass transit system to alleviate the congestion on their freeways.
Fact: a horse and buggy traveled faster in LA in 1911 than does a car during rush hour traffic today.
The ad agencies continue to sell automobiles on the glamour of luxury and horsepower ─ bigger is better and faster more advantageous. Ads show sports cars boasting two hundred horses under the hood zipping through city streets empty of traffic while in reality these same two hundred horses merely consume more gas while they sit idling in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Glamorous women sell luxury cars on the premise that it’s important, when the owner turns on the car, the car returns the favor.
Engineers in Detroit first claimed they could not improve on the efficiency of the internal combustion engine; then they told us they had the technology but it would be too costly to the consumer. I wonder how costly had they, thirty years ago, funneled profits into new technologies rather than to lining the pockets of executives who sat on their hands until they had no alternative but to ask Congress for a bailout.
Opponents of Obama state the government has no place in the private sector, that they should stay out of industry, even as they should stay out of the financial industry.
I have no answers, but I’m open to all suggestions for a solution.
Some of Obama’s rhetoric smells like socialism, and for the first time in my life I’m wondering if that’s so terrible. Wall Street couldn’t police itself, gave in to greed, just as the automobile industry did. If an industry can’t be trusted to have ethics, what is the alternative but to appoint a watchdog?
The old ways failed. We have what amounts to a clean slate. Will American ingenuity and innovation take over, or will greed hold sway?
Stay tuned…
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THE VIOLENCE AND BEAUTY
by Craig Elliot
Walking between the 6 foot high berm of sand and the violent, unforgiving surf, I am completely immersed in the spectacle of this unpredictable landscape. I am entirely at home. As the 25 knot winds whip the berm into a menacing blast of sand that stings the face and threatens my camera gear, I turn my back and wrap myself around my camera, waiting for the screaming to subside. As I walk towards the bay side of this Katrina-ravaged barrier island, I come to a large inlet, complete with a heron, crabs completely covering the floor of the 4 foot deep inlet, and an occasional fish jumping out of the water. Flocks of seagulls appear, and are gone. Where the bay meets the island, virtually no surf exists on this windy, hostile day. A narrow walkway of sand, 10 feet wide and 100 feet in length, extends between the bay and this inlet, creating a sensation of being surrounded by water with virtually nothing between one and the temptress. The quiet nature of the surf on this side, in contrast to the gulf side of the narrow island, is surreal. As I reach the end of this walkway, I come to a stream of ocean water that breaches the path and feeds the inlet. The current is swift enough to take your balance, despite the shallow depth. The crabs are waiting for a misstep. Such a brittle, helpless stretch of sand, surely to be destroyed by the next hurricane.
Going past this obstacle leads to a large area of sand that looks more like a lake bottom that is trying to dry up. Mucky, sticky, and a bit treacherous, as the depth of the semi solid area is unclear. Katrina debris is still evident. This section of the island, the extreme west end, is flat. It has been totally decimated, and it reminds me of a war zone. An oval shaped hole, filled with water, appears 4 feet across and 8 feet long, the water looks deep. I wonder if I could get back out if I were to enter this crater. Very deep, but with a sloping side. After dark, one could easily step into this abyss. Beyond, nearing the end of the current configuration of the island, lies a bevy of watery twists and turns carved into the fragile landscape. The sunset casts unimaginable colors and patterns upon the odd canals. Like a painting of pastels. Beyond lies a one mile cut that was formed by the hurricane. Five feet deep I have been told. At the narrow tip, where no further exploration is possible, someone has turned his back to the cut and written in the sand: "I’ve Always Been Here Before."
Reversing my course back along the gulf side, the surf is crashing with a deafening noise. Again, the sand is swirling and blasting me as I turn away in defense. Ahead, lights shine in the distance, a 30 minute walk. This uninhabited stretch is my solitude. I love the cold, dreary, gray walks along this beach. Maybe the appeal is knowing the powerful, unforgiving lady will kill me if given the opportunity. I am in awe and respectful. Nothing remains in its place here. A month passing will create a new landscape of shells, driftwood, and debris. And the narrow, fragile walkway of sand I have wondered what would be my thoughts if caught in a sudden storm on this stretch. Surely this thin, flat, devastated piece of sand would be washed over with a minimal storm? Was the surge 25 feet during the hurricane? During a recent event 60 knot winds were reported on this part. Whiteout conditions existed due to driving sand. My mind drifts to a solitary walk along the edge of the gulf during this event. The challenge. I prefer the gray skies with the gale force winds, and the privilege of respectfully coexisting with nature’s extreme, raw power. Driftwood, large and small, washes up. Holes are bored in the side, with shells inside the openings. Clinging for life. These are my souvenirs, not the postcards with the pretty beach and umbrellas. The tumultuous life of anything that survives here. This place is my solitude.
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| Photographer: Lee Lawrence |
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| BRIDGING KNOWLEDGE: GOLD PEN AWARD
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NOTE: Works of the managing editor are excluded from consideration for the Gold Pen Award.
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