Golden Rule

Last week I went to Silt for a BLM meeting about drilling on top of the Roan Plateau, and I have to admit it scared the bejesus out of me. Even though I am from here, I’m not as sheltered as your average Roaring Forker. After all, I lived in Denver for high school, where I took a bus to a public school on Colfax (a city bus not a school bus) and I’ve lived in big cities like Seattle, Austin, and New Haven. I’ve traveled to places all over the world, and I consider myself to be amiable and open, even when I’m out of my comfort zone, i.e., not on my couch in yoga pants…

But Silt scared me. It is like another planet compared to the Roaring Fork valley. The closest thing I could find to a ‘health food’ snack was a bag of Combos— if you haven’t tried these, don’t. They’re like dog treats for humans. Everyone looked like they had just finished their 10 hour shift on an oil rig (probably because they had) and the land seemed deserted despite all the stores and houses. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was definitely a Dean Koontz feeling in the air.

Of course they have a very nice, new BLM field office, thanks no doubt to the largest gas lease sale ever in the lower 48 states- $113.9 million in 2008 (half of which went to the State of Colorado) but I’m still not sure it was worth it. I would rather have clean air and water and that tingly feeling on the back of my neck when the wild things are watching. I know that without industry there are no jobs, but does it have to be such a zombie dirty industry?

Our house is completely powered by electricity generated from PV panels on our roof. We didn’t even bring a gas line in. And that’s while the majority still makes fun of solar, putting it in the same production category as pinwheels and pixie dust. Just imagine what it would be like if a fraction of oil & gas money was invested in solar, wind, hydro, etc. It would look like the freakin Jetsons out there; we could all zap around on rainbows and cow pies and then come home to low energy bills and a big boxy maid who looks a lot like Ernest Borgnine…

Speaking of Ernest Borgnine, we could’ve played Will the Real Ernest Borgnine Please Stand Up at the TDC meeting last week. Wow. And how about those industry guys? “He’s no Matt Damon.” -AR. I’m glad they came to the meeting though, and I hope they quit their jobs soon so they can spend more time fly-fishing or backpacking or something. I mean I know they have a job to do, but hopefully they’ll realize they just get the one life and they’re wasting valuable time, like Matt Damon realized in Promised Land.

A pretty good movie, but my uncle and I both agreed that if Matt had really spent summers on his grandfather’s farm he’d damn well know how to drive a stick… While we were discussing the film, Uncle Charlie asked me if I was familiar with the Golden Rule. Sure, I replied, seeing images of Sunday School Jesus sharing his supper and a panhandler I just read about on Yahoo! who returned a diamond ring to a woman because she accidentally gave it to him when she emptied her change purse into his cup on the street.

“The Golden Rule:” my uncle said, “the one with the gold makes the rule.”

Hmm, so that’s why the oil companies are such clocksuckers they think they can extend their Thompson Divide leases indefinitely and frack around on the Roan Plateau without worrying about what the people who live here think.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could still drink the local water in fifty years, instead of watching it catch on fire? And if the Thompson Divide was still dark at night from space, unlike north North Dakota.* That’s worth way more than gold; just ask anyone at the Kum & Go in Silt.

* http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2013/01/16/169511949/a-mysterious-patch-of-light-shows-up-in-the-north-dakota-dark

The Princess and the Organic Pea

As we age we lose many things: our innocence, our idealism, our car keys… There is a beautifully simple sense of wonder and joy to life when we are young, but then it seems to fade away as we become preoccupied with work, money, appliances, etc. Where does it go? Is it a by-product of believing in Prince Charming? Is it a limited supply and so we have to sacrifice ours in order for the next generation to have some? I’ve come to accept that there are some things in this life I cannot understand. Such as, why does Princess Kate spell her name with a K when her name is Catherine with a C? And American Idol. Is it really our destiny to go down in history as a bunch of narcissistic talent show groupies?

Sure, there have been some real American idols in the past, a few come to mind: Clara Barton, Mark Twain, Willie Nelson, Julia Louis-Dreyfus… but it can be argued that no other culture is as despotically callous in their day-to-day living. Asians, Africans, Native Americans, Latinos, Pacific Islanders, they all take better care of each other. They seem to have a basic understanding that the ‘tribe’ includes everyone and they live life accordingly; making provisions for their young, their elderly, their schizophrenic… We cast these people out into the world so that we can go back to work (to day care, nursing homes and the street, respectively.)

What scares me is that the American way seems to be spreading, like a virus. This I-got-mine-and-it’s-not-my-problem-that-you-can’t-get-yours attitude is the New American Dream, the American Dream on Steroids. When did it become a sign of weakness to invest in the outcome of others? Do we always have to go overboard, taking more than we need and trying to dominate everyone else? Let it go, man. As a society, we throw away enough food to feed everyone on the planet. But we don’t feed them because of —as far as I can tell— fear of litigation and an unwillingness to share. What are we, five?

At Whole Foods, unsold food is donated to local organizations like Lift Up, Feed My Sheep and the Pauline S. Schneegas Wildlife Foundation. And while I’m sure some still gets thrown into compost, a real effort is being made. Everyone keeps asking me if Whole Foods is really as good as its reputation proclaims (made Fortune’s 100 Best Companies to Work For every year for the last fifteen years.) I admit it is. It feels really good to work for a company that constantly tries to walk the talk, instead of just talking and talking while riding a flat escalator. It reminds me of the movie Hancock, “We can save the world. Someone’s just got to go first.” –Ray Embrey. Sure, there are challenges, imperfections— no fairy tale’s perfect. For instance, we’ll probably never have a union because John Mackey compares them to having herpes, “It doesn’t kill you, but it’s unpleasant and inconvenient” (I love this guy!) Still, for an international corporation started by a white man, it’s pretty great. I’ll tell you what I’ve gleaned to be the Whole Foods secret to success in the six months I’ve worked there; it really does make a difference when a company hires friendly people, and then fosters autonomy and sharing. And I’ll be the first to admit I’m not in the mood to disparage; not when the organic kool-aid tastes this good!

I love my job for many reasons: the people, the pb & js, and because I feel like I’m working for the good guys (Leia would never engage in public speaking for the Darkside.) Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not what you would call a good morning person. I’m more of a “What’s so good about it!” –Walter-Matthau-in-Grumpy-Old-Men type person. But it’s the darndest thing, when I get to work (in the morning) it only takes one cup of coffee and a few interactions with my coworkers until I’m busy working away. And enjoying my work, in much the same way that the princess enjoys her menial tasks because they give her time to sing.

Make it a reality

Whenever I hear the words ‘fiscal cliff’ I get annoyed. Congressmen claiming to be worried about the looming financial disaster while voting to give themselves a pay raise, how politypical (new word: political + typical. As in, we’ve come to expect being screwed by these clowns.) It feels like paragliding with a bunch of old white guys in suits who are slowly lowering themselves to the ground with their golden parachutes, and all the while we have to listen to them shout out in alarm that the ground is getting closer.

F.y.i. Congress, most of us already went over the cliff a few years ago and we are now living down here at the bottom… Don’t worry; life isn’t so bad at the bottom of the cliff. I mean, we still have cleanish air and water, when we have water, and we still have television. More reality shows than reality, i.e., real news, but it’s all good. Well, except when the news is even about the reality shows, then it starts to feel like we’re living in an Orwellian mini-series.

I have to admit it, I love me some Honey Boo Boo Child. Normally I would never recommend a reality show; I still think it’s worth it to pay writers, actors and directors to entertain us. And if I have to choose between watching Honey Boo Boo or re-runs of Cheers there’s no contest. But there is something about Honey (and her sisters, Punkin and Chubs) that keeps me watching, usually with my eyebrows slightly raised and my mouth open. I swear she is a film star from the 1940s reincarnated. Or maybe it’s that whole Scottish-clan-to-Appalachian-hillbilly connection, I don’t know. Deep down, let’s face it, Americans love an outlaw.

Speaking of hillbilly connections, our local county election played out like an old western where the inner ring of gambling & drinking salooners turns out to be the local law enforcement. We re-elected these guys even after that secret, seedy rendezvous in Utah? I’ve been meaning to call up Mr. Martin and Mr. Samson to ask them when they will officially go on the record as standing with the Thompson Divide Coalition and against fracking up our water supply. Well, that and I also want to know if the Holiday Inn in Vernal has mini friges in the rooms… But I’ve been busy with the “silly season” –Mojo Nixon, and so I haven’t had time to spend my two cents.

I’m pretty sure the commissioners already know that their constituents do not want to see fracking trucks driving along our locals highways while we watch from the windows of our brand new cancer center. And I’m sure they know that we don’t want to trade our grass-fed beef and clean water for contaminated soil and water that catches on fire. Or maybe they don’t… In that case, we’ll just have to secede from Garfield County and start our own. Fender County has a nice ring to it, or Cerise County— I like the sound of that, especially the false-positive alliteration, or whatever it’s called.

It’ll be Carbondale and Redstone, including the Crystal valley up to Marble, Missouri Heights, Aspen Glen, and of course, Satank— or ‘The Tank’ as it is affectionately known to its revolutionary residents. (Basalt can come too if they want to leave that whole Garfield-Eagle-Pitkin mess behind them.) With a clean slate we’ll protect the Thompson Divide, keep our air and water quality intact, and our law enforcement, headed up by sheriff Mustang Molly, will not use any gas-powered vehicles: only horses, bicycles or segways— with county issued helmets and goggles, of course.

We’ll be the bee’s knees; an oasis in the midst of oil and gas pads. Our M.O. will be clean energy and independence, as evidenced by our hybrid Subarus with gun and ski racks, and we’ll make our money on the backs of tourists and potheads— both gullible and amiable targets, I might point out. We’ll do what we want and have a good time doing it, just like Honey Boo Boo. After all, better to make our own reality than to watch someone else’s played out right in front of our eyes.