An open letter to the victims of Californian fires

In November 2017, my wife and I bought a farm. Nearly seven acres in the rural scrub between Spokane and the Idaho border. We quickly found ourselves to be a blue dot in a red corner of a blue state. But it was home, and it was good. We did everything we could to make it our own little slice of paradise.

A year later, the first flames sparked on Boeing property near the Simi Valley. It quickly erupted into the Woosley Fire, ravaging the city of Malibu and surrounding hills. It completely destroyed over 1600 homes and killed three people. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only blaze terrifying Californians that month. Two other wildfires began the same day: Hill Fire 15 miles to the west of Woosley and the Camp Fire near Chico. The Northern Cali fire was deadlier, ending 85 lives. It destroyed 18,000 structures and displaced 50,000 people.

Our tale of homesteading bliss and collected Californian disasters might appear both emotionally and geographically unrelated. However, these contrasting events are not completely divergent.

Come January 2019, home sales in our area increased. Over the next few months, real estate prices in the Spokane area continued the upward trend. Before long, complaints arose from locals priced out of buying a home. Annie and I considered ourselves lucky to purchase when we did - a year before the spike. We were still confused though. Sale prices exceeded actual property value. It defied logic which unsettled my analytical autistic brain.

At a holiday party late that year, a family member (who happened to be a realtor) provided an explanation. Californians who lost their homes in the wildfires were bringing their insurance settlements northward. They flooded the inland northwest with enough money to make cash purchases, often offering tens of thousands of dollars more than the seller’s asking price. If there was a bidding war, the Cali expats were going to win. Some of them could buy two houses in Spokane with the amount of money they got from insurance.

It made sense. Relocate to a state with similar cultures, geographically close, with climates less wet than Portland or Seattle. Process of elimination made Spokane an ideal destination for their new hometown.

It took a full two years for the skyrocketing market to hit the top and another two for actual values to catch up with listing prices. During the pandemic, a national article was released by a major media outlet detailing the ten most over inflated real estate markets in America and the Spokane area was plopped right in the middle of the listicle.

The collective disasters of the Camp, Hill, and Woosley fires were unfathomable tragedies for the state of California but they were not isolated events. The fallout caused financial burdens upon uninvolved populations in regions outside their state.

Now, a little more than six years later, history is beginning to repeat itself as multiple fires rage around Los Angeles, including the Sunset fire in the Hollywood Hills. Much like Hollywood blockbusters, the sequel is worse than the original. There are five separate fires ablaze in the area with at least 180 thousand residents under evacuation orders and 1.5 million people without power. Two of these wildfires are already the most destructive in LA’s history and they’re not yet contained. Five deaths have officially been reported with thousands of structures destroyed, a number sure to grow before this horrible saga is over.

Image courtesy of KTLA

I don’t want to make light of the harrowing ordeal consuming the greater Los Angeles region. The heartbreak, loss, and fear are all valid as these Americans are living through an apocalyptic nightmare. I know because Spokane experiences a wildfire season every year. Even if the flames are not dancing on our doorsteps, winds bring the smoke into our neighborhoods, slowly choking out the outdoor activities and entertainment which make the unbearableness of the inland PNW more bearable.

The devastation also hits close on a personal level. Several family members on my wife’s side live in Medical Lake - the site of 2023’s Gray Fire. We are intimately aware of the fear and pain of a wildfire’s invasive touch.

If history truly is repeating, the people of Spokane should prepare to meet some new neighbors. A lot of new neighbors. I hope not though. Not because of an anti-Californian bias which is common around here. Not because we’re already struggling with the logistics of population growth even though we are. I hope for something different this go around because our nation is in crisis. Californians might not be the heroes we deserve but they could be the heroes we need.

We can laugh as a way to cope with tragedy but there is nothing funny about the massive and destructive force of nature in its cruelest moments. In lieu of jokes, I offer a proposal.

Take that fire insurance settlement and move to a red state. Hear me out.

States like Oklahoma, West Virginia, Indiana, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Kentucky are among the cheapest places to buy a house in America and they’re all red states. They also have some of the worst education systems compared to other states. They are most in need of improvement. A little insurance money can go a long ways in states like these.

Move there. Property is cheap. Buy a home and work remotely. Buy two or three homes and turn them into rental properties for ongoing income. As soon as you’ve met residency requirements, run for political office: school board, library board, city council, county commission. Or be entrepreneurial; start a small biz and join the town’s business association or Kiwanis club. Become a foster parent or sponsor a refugee family. Volunteer with a local chapter of PFLAG, Color of Change, or Citizenship Coalition. Donate to homeless shelters and organizations that help women escape domestic violence.

Whatever it is, where ever you go, use your money, time, and votes to make that place a little better. Transform your new hometown into a safer place for immigrants, people of color, and the LGBTQ community. Build grassroots foundations to create something even bigger and better, something blue wavyish. And maybe, just maybe, people like you are the ones who save us all from MAGA. Perhaps you would be the ones to actually make America great again.

I’m happy to share Spokane with you but you should spread the love a little. If all else fails, Spokane will still be here. Please though … try a red state first.

Home, Away, and the Weirdness of Being

During our last trip to Hawaii, my wife and I went on a late night walk along Waikiki beach. We stopped to dance when passing by a bar with a musician playing music on an out door stage, watched some fire dancers practice free from the massive daytime crowds, and lingered along the shore while the sound of waves filled the silence around us. Backlit by the vibrance of skyscrapers and hotels with the expanse of starry skies and endless ocean before us, we soaked up all we could get. There was a life giving energy to the moment, a breath to revive our weary souls.

With my arms wrapped around Annie’s shoulders she told me how the time we spent there felt more real to her than anything else. We conversed about how important these trips were to both of us to connect with each other. It was a reminder of why we work so hard and love the way we live. We both have wandering spirits, a wanderlust hardwired into our being. It’s more than existing as soulmates, it’s as if we were created to see the world together.

We know there is life after kids, a life approaching faster that we could ever prepare. When we travel, whether it is a weeklong journey or a quick weekend excursion, we get glimpses of the way life could be, or the way it was meant to be. It’s a preview of a future when we no longer have the worry of homework, softball schedules, school dances, and convincing kids the importance of personal hygiene and household chores. Our bucket list is perpetually growing and it is our hearts desire to continually find each other through chasing destinations.

Thing is, we are not wealthy people. At least, not financially speaking. We eat cheap. We don’t maintain expensive smoking and drinking habits. We pursue affordable entertainment options. If free is an option, it’s our preferred choice. When we leave town, we stay in low cost hotels. We get the the cheap interior rooms on cruise boats. We look for bargain flights. We pack snacks for road trips. Mock us for our thriftiness but our budget consciousness enables our ability to pursue our dreams.

We also know we are blessed. We understand our traveling hobbies are not options available to everyone. We are aware we live, work, and travel to places impacted by addiction and poverty. Annie is better at it than I am, yet we both endeavor to use our privilege to benefit others. Life is fragile and there is no knowledge more present than the fact nothing is promised. We enjoy these opportunities while we can as frequently as possible because we might not be able to do this forever.

We escaped home again this last weekend for a family road trip to Boise. Saturday was one of the best days I’ve had I a long time. We visited a zoo and a historical site. We stayed in a cheap hotel. I introduced them to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My eleven year old daughter begged me to take her to more museums. We learned new things, bonded over fresh experiences, found joy together, bought souvenirs, took goofy photos, and refreshed our weary souls.

photo courtesy of Andria Casey

Now we are home again. We have resumed the regular routines of day jobs and school. My body is worn but my heart is full. Walking around downtown Spokane this morning, I had a revelation similar to the sentiments my wife expressed in Honolulu roughly this time last year.

Our time away seems more real than our time at home. Walking around downtown Spokane this morning, I sensed this oddness deep in my bones. Real life feels weird. Road trips to Seattle, Portland, Boise, and Cheyenne; flying away to Florida and Hawaii; cruises to Alaska and the Bahamas - these trips tire is out but fill our hearts. When we go we are closer to who we are to who we are than the daily grind of earning paychecks of conversing with colleagues. Our family’s heartbeat is found in miles traversed. Granted, we must return. The income of day jobs and weekend gigs fund our dream life away from home. Still, every time we go somewhere it becomes harder to readjust to normal life.

Then again, I’ve been weird my whole life. It’s time to embrace the weird until we can go away again. And again. And again.

The Disconnect and Ties that Bind Part One

In the earliest records of human history, people formed in tribalistic cultures. Families, tribes, sects, and clans. Every ancient society on every continent has documented their beginnings in small groups warring over limited resources of food, water, clothing, and shelter. Whether nomadic or settled, humans coalesced into factions based on shared values and lineage.

For thousands of years, humanity flourished in tribalism. This gave us the epic tales of folklore. In them we find the gods and legends of Egypt and Greece; tales of heroes and dragons; adventures, explorers, Vikings, and warriors. The earth experienced plagues and cataclysms, but its inhabitants endured because their tribes were united with common purpose.

Neighboring populations didn’t always get along so the survival of our clans depended on the biggest, the bravest, and the strongest among us to lead, guide, and protect us from those who wish to do us harm. We looked to the smartest and most beautiful to continue our bloodlines. We created popularity contests out of necessity because their success meant we could live and hopefully thrive.

From the indigenous populations of Australia and America, to the biblical Israelites, to the Chinese dynasties, to the feudalism of Western Europe, we found our identities, our health, and safety in the numbers and proximity of our people. Over time, these sects grew. They became villages and hamlets, then cities and nations. Divisions and culture formed around heritage, religion, geography, language, mythology, tragedies, kings, and lords.

Then something funny happened. The Industrial Revolution made life easier. Citizens of industrialized countries migrated from agrarian lifestyles to urban developments. As culture modernized, we lost the need for strength and courage to survive. We no longer needed the muscles and calluses of manual labor to tend to our own crops. The talent and focus needed to stitch fabrics together became a hobby instead of a mandatory skill. We could get the food and clothing we needed from markets and mercantiles.

Who needs to build their own hoses when specialized laborers could do it for you? Who needs giants to protect us when the government has armies? Who needs a bodyguard when you can buy your own weapons? Why protect your outskirts with roving bands armed with spears and swords when walls and secure border crossings will work more efficiently?

The neighboring towns were no longer rival clans, they were fellow countrymen. Our enemies were further away. The ever-present dangers and perils of pre-industrialization was a thing of the past. We were new people with modern needs and worries.

However, our tribalism was still hardwired into the human brain. Our communities might not need to bond they way we once did to survive, yet the human spirit still craves the bonds of community. Without the impetus for a tribe that lives together and fights together, we created new tribes with different purposes. The popularity contests continued in different domains.

Middle school cliques, political parties, college alumni, fraternal organizations, religious denominations, athletic franchises, MMORGPs, artist co-ops, book clubs, chosen families, and countless other ways we can find a way to say “these are my people, this is my tribe.” Our clans are bigger than they used to be. We can find kinship with strangers thousands of miles away. We can bond with individuals we may never meet in ways completed foreign to our ancestors.

Image courtesy of Lukas Zischke

Even though we no longer need the smartest and strongest to lead us, we still seek them out - even if we don’t know them personally. We find our leaders in hero worship, celebrity gossip, reality TV, social media influencers, and ballot boxes.

Modern civilization is completely disconnected from how we functioned for millennia. At the same time, we are bound to the ways historical cultures shaped our brains. Try as hard as we might to escape our past, the past is never truly dead.

Because my brain thinks through a filter of movie quotes and song lyrics, it is music which helped me comprehend our anthropology. My Culture by 1 Giant Leap featuring Maxi Jazz and Robbie Williams specifically speaks of this connection between our heritage, our biology, and the functions of modernity.

“I am the sum total of my ancestors, I carry their DNA. We are representatives of a long line of people and we cart them around everywhere: this long line of people that goes back to the beginning of time. And when we meet - they meet other lines of people. And we say: bring together the lines of me.”

I will remember.

Of Elk and Maddening Times

Pick an animal. Any animal. You will surely find symbolism for that creature within the indigenous cultures native to the lands forming the wildlife’s natural habitats. From Africa to Europe to the Americas to South East Asia. As long as humans have interacted with the animal kingdom, we have looked to our furry, feathered, and scaled friends to derive meaning, provide sustenance, and deliver omens.

In recent years, I’ve grown fascinated with mythologies from around the world. I’ve studied the gods of ancient Egypt and the convoluted stories of Norse mythos. I’ve researched the religious pantheon of Greece, India, and Japan. I’ve delved into the mythological creatures of the Irish, Scottish, and British lore.

This intellectual quest is not a search for faith. I already have a core set of beliefs and am not looking to upgrade or replace. However, I’ve reached a phase in my life where I care more about why people believe what they believe than what they actually believe. The human mind intrigues me. While I am skeptical the appearance of a beast or a constellation can predict my future, I think it’s important to understand how cultures of our history interpreted the world around us and how it shaped their lives and folklore. From totems to spirit animals, creatures great and small had deep meaning to peoples of every continent.

Especially as I get my skin decorated with ink. This fall I will have a sloth added to my arm, with plans for a crow, mountain goat, jackalope, sasquatch, and the jörmungandr to be a part of my collection of tats as soon as possible. Yes, I realize three of those are mythical creatures, yet even the cryptids and beasts of myths are important in understanding why people do what they do. Because of my tattoo dreams, I have spent a significant amount of time studying the symbolism of these animals and more (bees, bunnies, sharks, hummingbirds, etc).

Which brings us to the elk. This grand species of the deer family once populated most of North America (with one subspecies stretching into Mexico), Northern Europe, and northern Asia which exposed elk to a wide variety of ancient cultures from the Pacific coast, to Scandinavia, into the northern islands of Japan. Unfortunately, elk went extinct in much their former lands, now remaining in the Cascade and Rocky Mountains of US and Canada, and the eastern regions where Russia, Mongolia, and China meet.

For Buddhists in eastern Asia, elk were seen as messengers and guided lost travelers away from peril. Seeing an elk in the wild would lead people to believe they were enlightened. They thought elk represented a search for truth, harmony with nature, and the ability to live peacefully without attachment.

The Celts saw nobility, pride, independence, strength, and endurance in elk. They believed elk guided heroes through danger and on secret quests. In Ireland, elk were omens of success if seen during the harvest season.

The Norse connected elk to Freyr, the god of peace, sunshine, and rain. For them, the animal represented peace, prosperity, and … um … reproductive potency.

Myths and legends about elk varied across America depending on the tribe. Most groups revered elk for their strength, stamina, and noble appearance. When hunted for sustenance, Native Americans used every part of the elk for food, clothing, shelter, and jewelry. The elk was essential to the Osage creation story. Lakota Sioux saw them as symbols of good fortune in hunting. It was a sacred animal for the Cherokee nation. In the Pacific Northwest there were legends of elk finding women captured by enemy tribes then leading them back home. Depending on the region, elk represented attributes like pride, independence, freedom, guidance, protection, success, triumph, survival, prosperity, and overcoming obstacles.

Knowing these things, imagine my delight seeing this herd after leaving the house earlier this week, on my way to set up my first DJ gig of 2024.

This last year has been difficult at our house. Outside forces have brought Annie and me closer together than ever before, yet our souls are wounded and our spirits are weary. We have shed a lot of tears and prayed with broken hearts. When confronted with a deluge of discouragement and tragedy, it would be nice to get a sign – something to remind us that everything is going to be OK.

Mythologies and folklore are something people invented. Yet they are real as a way we have handed down stories through generations from one to the next. In many ways, what is fact or fiction is irrelevant. These beliefs, traditions, and superstitions existed for a reason. Once you dig into the different stories, you begin to see a commonality between this culture and that culture, from one region to another. With elk, there are similarities connecting people separated by oceans and vast distances.

Nearly all ancient populations thought bull elks signified attributes like strength, confidence, and determination. They found qualities like protection, providence, and provision in cow elks. When they spotted a whole herd, most cultures interpreted it as a sign of community and the need to rely on those around you. There is a universal certainty an elk crossing your path was a suggestion to change course. In dreams, it was commonly believed elk represented fortitude, resilience, and overcoming trials.

Seeing a herd of animals won’t change the course of my life, even creatures as majestic as the elk. Still, the myths about elk are too consistent to be accidental. Folklore survives because it teaches us lessons about our people, our land, and our selves. If I am superstitious to think finding a herd of elk grazing in a field along the road is a sign from God that my community has my back, so be it. Nothing is harmed feeling a bit more confident and determined from the tales of my ancestors.

Our Region In Flames

I thought about fire burning in your eyes. I thought about fire. - Blindside

Image Courtesy Thoma Casey

How can we dance when the world is turning? How do we sleep while our beds are burning? - Midnight Oil

Image courtesy Myk Crawford

We didn't start the fire. It was always burning, since the world's been turning. We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it. - Billy Joel

Image courtesy WADOT

Now I see fire inside the mountain, I see fire burning the trees, and I see fire howling souls. I see fire, blood in the trees, and I hope that you’ll remember me. - Ed Sheeran

Image courtesy Greg Halling

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. - James Taylor

Image courtesy Tom Burgess

Death is on the top of her tongue and danger’s on the tip of her fingers. Streets are on fire tonight. - Lupe Fiasco

Image courtesy WADOT

Things we lost to the flames, things we’ll never see again. All that we’ve amassed sit before us shattered into ash. - Bastille

Image courtesy Zack Zappone

Liar, liar, the world's on fire. What you gonna do when it all burns down? - Dolly Parton

Image courtesy Erik Smith

We’ve built our confidence on wasteland. We’ve seen how the walls come down. Life burns. - Apocalyptica

Image courtesy Brian Jacob

Sleep now in the fire. - Rage Against the Machine

Image courtesy Colin Mulvany @ SR

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There are three major fires burning around us. To our east, Ridge Creek above Hayden Lake has burned 4100 acres. North of us, Oregon Road in Elk has burned 10,000 acres. Finally, the Gray fire west of us in Medical Lake has also burned 10,000 acres. There are two known deaths and hundreds of homes and businesses destroyed. The Spokane region is devistated and funds are being raised by the American Red Cross, Salvation Army, Giving Back Spokane, and No-Li Brewhouse. We also have family direclty impacted who had to evacuate including the grandparents in Medical Lake who host all of our holiday gatherings. If you think of us, please pray for rain.

This Church Probably Doesn’t Exist

I want a church where sermons focus on applying biblical teachings to daily living. I can see motivational speakers outside of church and fear mongering is counterproductive.

I want a church where biblical study is open for everyone to participate, ask questions, disagree, and learn from each other. Discuss what it actually means as a group instead of letting the pastor tell you. This is how scripture was studied when Jesus walked the earth.

I want a church where musical worship is a communal activity. Anyone can play an instrument (bring your own) and everyone sings. Together. Take the attention off the stage and focus on God. This was Paul’s instruction to the church in Ephesus: “Speak to one another with psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord.” Musical talent shouldn’t matter; after all, the psalms tell us to make a joyful noise, not a pleasant one.

I want a church where dancing is viewed as a method of worship just as King David danced when the arc of the covenant was returned to Jerusalem. Even if it is undignified.

I want a church where grief and mourning are accepted as an act of worship. One psalmist wrote “the sacrifices God desires is a broken spirit and contrite heart.” Elsewhere the poet told us the Lord is close to the broken hearted. I want a church where people can openly and honestly lament without being told to get over it or move on.

I want a church that prioritizes care for the weakest and most vulnerable members of our society. The Bible often instructs its readers to care for orphans, widows, and foreigners - going as far as calling it a religion that is pure and undefiled. From Levitical law, through the gospels, into the New Testament epistles, this is one of the most commonly repeated commands. These verses also include other maligned groups - impoverished people, hired workers, prisoners, homeless individuals, and more. Serving what Jesus called “the least of these” should be of greater value than serving ourselves.

I want a church that embraces social justice. The book of Jeremiah tells us to do justice and righteousness. Deuteronomy tells us those who pervert justice will be cursed. Micah says God requires us to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly.

I want a church that understands Christianity is not an American thing. We should recognize the oldest church buildings in the world are found in Syria and Egypt and the oldest Christian communities are in Armenia and Ethiopia. Even the first convert into Christianity (according to biblical record) was a man from Ethiopia. God’s covenant is for all people of all nations and there is no biblical basis for thinking America has a privileged relationship with or unique protection from God.

I want a church that isn’t offended when someone says “Black Lives Matter” and isn’t scared to talk about critical race theory. Paul tells us there should be no racial discrimination in the church, declaring both Jewish and Greek people are equal because of Jesus. As long as racism is rampant in America, I want a church that fights for reconciliation, supports minority communities, and amplifies voices of POC leaders.

I want a church that sees the feminine in the divine, not limiting God to exclusive masculinity. Genesis says both male and female were created in God’s image so the personhood of God must be simultaneously male and female.

I want a church that values and promotes women’s rightful place in leadership. God chose a woman to bring the Messiah into the world; Jesus chose women to be the first to preach the gospel; and Paul calls out Pricilla, Julia, Junia, Phoebe, and Chloe as partners in ministry. Women were active in and essential to establishing the early church and they must be allowed the same roles today.

I want a church that affirms the LGBT community. The first Christian convert from Ethiopia was also a eunuch. Such people were considered sexual deviants and were not allowed to enter the temple. If the early church welcomed those rejected by established religious traditions, we should do the same thing today. If all people are created in God’s image, then all bear God’s image regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity.

I want a church that isn’t afraid of foul language, skeptical attendees, uncomfortable questions, provocative conversations, and taboo topics. I want a church that supports public education, believes in science, protects the health and safety of their communities, and realizes the most qualified people to provide counseling are licensed therapists.

I want a church who takes God’s command to Adam in the creation story seriously – to work the land and take care of it. I want a church who realizes earth’s resources are limited and we must be good stewards of the environment. We cannot continue to strip God’s creation in the name of human progress.

I want a church who calls nationalism, prosperity gospel, and capitalism what they are: idolatry. I want a church that eschews the ideals of consumerism, white supremacy, jingoism, and collection of wealth. I want a church that abandons teachings rooted in colonialism, American exceptionalism, patriarchy, classism, ableism, homophobia, and xenophobia.

I want a church where anyone is safe to express their reservations, their hopes, and their fears. I want a church were anyone regardless of their background, personality, existing beliefs, or economic status can walk through the doors and feel welcomed. When someone says “I have my doubts,” I want a church that says “So do we.”

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Maybe a church like this doesn’t exist. Perhaps this is asking too much. I can dream though.

The Covid Effect

It’s been a year (give or take a couple weeks) since the initial cases of Covid-19 were reported in the city of Wuhan. A little more than a month later, the first documented cases would appear in the US and we were given warnings this would turn into a global pandemic. In the following months, the Coronavirus overwhelmed our culture impacting every American – some through getting sick but most through changes in lifestyle. 

When states begin implementing various orders to wear masks or close non-essential businesses, we thought it would only be a few weeks and life would get back to normal. Spring and summer passed with the pandemic dominating headlines, controlling American life, and a menagerie of state or municipality protections remaining in place. Now in autumn with winter upon us, we’re seeing new government measures issued to try and contain this virus and it seems things will never be the same. 

It’s obvious the shelter in place directives interrupted the way Americans live, work, and play. The three Es of education, employment, and entertainment all drastically altered how they exist and operate. When this pandemic is over (and it will be over eventually) it’s likely some of the changes in our lifestyle will never return to the way it was before. 

But is that a bad thing? 

There is cause for concern, elements of American culture in need of repair. We’re facing an enormous mental health crisis as isolation is not good for the human psyche. There is a generation of school kids falling behind as they’re missing essential learning while schools are scrambling to prevent making the pandemic worse. The masses of newly unemployed workers will need to find new jobs. Many who contracted Covid-19 and recovered have been and will be suffering long term effects of the virus. 

There is also reason for hope. Fewer pollutants have been released into our atmosphere and waterways because less people are travelling. Reduced exhaust and fossil fuel usage means we’re breathing cleaner air; rivers and lakes are clearer. People are paying better attention to basic hygiene – doing the things they should have always been doing like washing their hands frequently, sanitizing high use surfaces, exercising, spending time in the wilderness, and eating at home instead of getting fast food. There’s a greater attention on science and increased appreciation for nurses and doctors. Individuals are investing in acts of kindness and generosity in ways to inspire and renew faith in humanity. 

In this pandemic, as with most things, both the good and the bad inhabit the same space. 

But what about the post Corona life? What lasting affect will Covid have on our culture? With a few different possible vaccines on the horizon, I think it might be beneficial to speculate on what our world will be like after life returns to normal. Or if it ever will be normal again. 

Since business as usual went on lockdown last spring, corporate America adjusted. In the process, we learned to use technology to our advantage, canceling non-essential meetings and moving important group conversations into virtual spaces like Zoom or Google Meet. Employers got creative giving more employees the option to work from home. New remote jobs became available. Those still working on site have been encouraged to stay home when they’re sick. These are changes to American life I hope never return to the way things were before. 

I am optimistic supervisors, managers, directors, and CEOs everywhere have learned some things are better for an email and not every idea is worth a half hour meeting in a conference room. I wish for telecommuting becomes more prevalent as it will make our workforce larger and more diverse. More people working is good for the economy and more people working from home is good for the environment. Side note: I don’t miss my 25 minute commute to the office. I hope more people consider the health of their neighbors, friends, and colleagues before leaving the home with flulike symptoms. As much as we all hate wearing masks, people should keep them – not to wear indefinitely, but for times of illness. Maybe if people wore masks any time they were sick, we would live in a healthier society by limiting the spread of the flu, common cold, and other contagious diseases.

(psst, wear a mask) 

Still, there are things I miss in this Covid world. When this is all over, I hope some elements from our former lives resume as soon as possible. I miss concerts and movie theaters. I miss hanging out in coffee shops. I miss seeing smiles on strangers’ faces. I miss parades and festivals and farmers markets. Of everything we’ve lost, there is experience I miss more than anything else and I hope it isn’t gone forever: the samples at Costco. 

Please bring back the samples as soon as it is safe to do so.

Two Towers

On the drive to work this morning, I noticed a cell tower standing in the field north of Cabellas. Actually, I saw two of them in the same empty lot - close enough that you could fly a paper airplane from one to the other. I've passed this plot of land more times than I could count and never recognized the two towers standing there to transmit my LTE signals. I've seen them, but I've never noticed them.

They're there. And they've been there for a long time. Yet I've driven by time and time again completely oblivious to their presence. They have a purpose, fully functional. I can make and receive phone calls because they exist. I'm usually streaming a podcast while I drive that stretch of road, which means my smartphone is accessing the internet carried by one of those cell towers.

I got my first cell phone in 2002. It was a part of a T-Mobile promotion for DirecTV employees. I filled out the application on my lunch break, selected the device and calling plan - voice only, no texts. The only game I could play on it was Snake. In the years since then, as mobile providers expand their coverage and fight with each other to build the most reliable network, the population of cell towers have exploded. They now dot the landscape of every city, town, and village across America. They've become so common they're often overlooked.

Let's be honest though. It's probably best that we ignore the sight of the towers providing our cell reception. They're ugly constructions, not architecturally appealing in any way, shape, or form. They're hideous enough, some people attempt to disguise them as trees like the one near the Daybreak Coffee stand at Prairie and Ramsey in Hayden. However, the nature costume is clearly artificial looking; it's even more garish than the standard cell tower.

Whether incognito or undisguised, cell towers are an eyesore, one we have become so accustomed to seeing they blend into the scenery. On most days, we can pretend they don't exist.

As I turned onto Seltice to cross the Spokane River and continue my morning commute, I observed that which I've repeatedly disregarded. Two cell towers. For the first time since signing my contract with T-Mobile sixteen years ago, I pondered the existence of these towers I've long taken for granted.

It made me think about time travel. What if we jumped in our DeLorean and went backwards thirty years? In 1988, my dad is probably playing a pinball machine in Godfather's Pizza while the jukebox plays Richard Marx's Hold On to the Nights. Cinephiles were in line for tickets to see Young Guns after enjoying Die Hard and Cocktail earlier in the summer. Anyone using satellite service for their television had a twelve-foot diameter dish in their yard. Mark Langston had a great year as a pitcher despite the Mariners finishing last place in their division. A few individuals used cellular phones on a 1G network with bricks that took ten hours to charge and only provided a half hour of talk time. Cell service was a luxury at a cost greater than what most Americans could afford, and cell towers did not dot the countryside.

Could you imagine going back in time and trying to explain a cell tower to a resident of history? Or even attempting to describe one to a younger version of you? Or what if a traveler from the past came to our time and saw these ugly base transceiver stations lurking behind office buildings, attached to billboards, or freestanding in the middle of fields? What would they think? How would we justify their presence? Would they return to their era and convince everyone we need to rethink this cell phone thing?

I am thankful I'm able to carry around one small device in my pocket that replaces a multitude of gadgets my younger self would have never been able to manage. I am grateful my phone is also my camera, video camera, calculator, compass, altimeter, GPS, voice recorder, Walkman, planner, and so much more. I appreciate being able to read the news, listen to the radio, research for my book, watch a movie, take classes, keep in touch with old friends, and go shopping all from the convenience of my iPhone. It's amazing that I can do those things from almost anywhere. However, not all the wonders of our technological advances are beneficial or aesthetically pleasing. Sure, I'm used to seeing mobile phone masts scattered in every community. I've practically become numb to them. However, I sometimes miss seeing unobstructed views of mountains, forests, pastures, and rolling hills. Sometimes, I am disgusted by the towers and monuments of digital progress.

Days like these, I wonder what tomorrow holds. Will the archaeologists of a future society dig up the ruins of our civilization to discover ancient cell towers then describe our people as primitive for using such crude structures to communicate with each other?

Remembering Reagan

Roughly a decade ago and a half ago, I was tied up in a conversation which left me feeling older than anyone under the age of thirty should ever feel. It was halfway through George W Bush's presidency, shortly after he won re-election, and a group of coworkers were discussing politics in the breakroom. One girl, who was in her younger twenties at the time, was complaining of rumored changes working their way through congress.

"Did you know they're trying to pass a law so people not born in the US can become president?"

I didn't know that because it wasn't happening. Even if congress was debating such changes, it would require a constitutional amendment. Such a drastic change was unlikely then and would be practically impossible now.

Then she continued with her reasoning. "It's because Arnold Schwarzenegger wants to be president, but he can't because he was born in Germany or somewhere like that. So, congress is trying to help him out."

One of the other coworkers at the table asked, "What's wrong with that?"

"Because," she answered, "he's an actor. Actors shouldn't be allowed to be president."

"We've already had an actor become president." I objected to her reasoning.

"We have?"

"Yes." I spoke, but there were a few heads nodding in confirmation.

"Who?"

"Ronald Reagan." I said.

"Who's Ronald Reagan?" She asked.

Who's Ronald Reagan?!? Really? I did some quick math. Ronald Reagan would have been in office when this girl was born. How do you reach legal drinking age without knowing who was president in the year of your birth? For someone to be so ignorant of such recent history … It made me feel ancient. I had to walk away.

image courtesy of Chicago Tribune

I remember Reagan. Granted, he led our nation through a significant part of my childhood. I remember Farm Aid. I remember the speech when he said, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall." I remember the First Lady's "Just Say No" campaign. I remember the revelation of Iran-Contra details and Reagan accepting responsibility. And I remember his farewell address.

The current trend for Republicans is bracing Reagan as a sacred American icon. However, what stands out most in my memories of Reagan places him at odd with the modern GOP. He was philosophically consistent from the beginning of his administration to the end, yet he was willing to compromise with those who disagreed with him. He admitted his faults and failures. He valued intelligence and pragmatism. He promoted civility and respect. Whether he succeeded or not, he aimed to meet the needs of the average American and he adjusted his policies as culture and situations changed. Even among those who disagreed with his politics he was generally well liked, and he carried a dignity that elevated the office of President.

As for those policies? Well, they are not the kind the GOP would approve of today. He supported waiting periods for purchasing guns. He supported a climate treaty which eliminated the use of a few chemical compounds. His immigration stances were far more liberal than the current “build a wall” rhetoric, and he supported the amnesty immigration bill introduced by Teddy Kennedy - a Democrat. He was adamantly critical of the Russians, calling the USSR "evil." His foreign policy was less isolationist and more interventionist. Despite making major tax cuts at the beginning of his presidency, Reagan raised taxes eleven times during his two terms. His frequent increases explain why his successor campaigned on the promise, "Read my lips: no new taxes."

Looking back, the 80s was an odd decade. Horrendous fashion but fabulous music. The movies were either gloriously awesome or embarrassingly terrible. It was a difficult time to be a geek, but a great era for those who loved cocaine. At least we had an honorable President. Someone we could respect. Someone who inspired. Someone who is remembered fondly. On days like today, I kind of miss Reagan.

The New Disasters

Mount St. Helens erupted the day after my first birthday. Every year, throughout my childhood, the local news stations replayed the video of the volcanic blast every May 18th. I held a special connection to the mountain and KIRO's annual coverage of St. Helens' anniversary always felt like a belated birthday present from them to me.

courtesy of KPBS

Growing up during the 80s in the Seattle suburbs, we were bombarded with the possibilities of nature's wrath. St. Helens was one of many volcanoes in the region. Baker, Rainier, Adams, Hood, and Glacier all posed real and possible dangers to the Pacific Northwest. We had an abundance of rain and seasonal threats of flooding. There were chances of fires and blackouts caused by electrical storms. We didn't get much snow, but when we did the ice would paralyze the region, making roads anything from hazardous to navigationally impassible. My high school was next door to a dairy farm, and on warm days, if the breeze drifted from the right (wrong?) direction, the odor could be unbearable. We were given the nickname "Cow Pie High." If possible, we risked death by dairy air.

There was also the wind. When I was in sixth grade, I watched live news coverage as a windstorm blew waves over the surface of the floating bridge to Mercer Island, eventually causing the roadway to collapse and sink into Lake Washington. In January of '93, another storm blew in on the day Bill Clinton was inaugurated as president. We were sheltered in place in my eight-grade art class with Mr. Wilson when the power went out. Mr. Wilson was also the yearbook instructor, so his room was windowless and we sat in darkness for the remainder of the day. No one was allowed to leave campus until a parent came to pick us up. Later that night, as the storm raged on, my dad and I went for a walk. We watched power-lines fall and transformers ignite from the force of wind. At one point, I leaned backwards like a trust-fall and the gusts were strong enough to hold me upright.

courtesy of the Oso Darrington Daily

Seismologists constantly warned we were overdue for the “big one,” predicting a massive earthquake would reduce our region to rubble. So, we practiced regular earthquake drills in school. Two of the three quakes I experienced happened during school events. The first in January of ‘95 while the wrestling team stopped for dinner after a tournament, I was on the bus and we were parked near the epicenter. The second happened a little more than a year later in May of '96, our drama club was in the middle of our final dress rehearsal for Neil Simon's Rumors and I was hanging out back stage with one of the girls in the tech crew. After evacuating the auditorium, our parking lot was filled with scared and panicked students filled with the relief of living to retell our stories of survival.

Every generation fears the end is inevitable. During the 1960s, my parents' generation participated in duck & cover practice, fearing a nuclear attack from the USSR. I remember regular fire and earthquake drills throughout my school years and we were sure if our end was coming, the disaster would be a natural one. My kids' generation is different. Sure, they still do fire drills, but they don't fear the planet the same way we did when I was younger. They are aware their lives could end in disaster. However, instead of fearing death from a foreign enemy or the vengeance of natural forces, they believe the most likely scenario to bring their world to a bloody halt is an angry classmate. They're subjected to active shooter drills and bombarded with headlines of school violence. After the mass shooting in Santa Fe, one of the students expressed this resignation in a TV interview when she said, "I've always felt it would eventually happen here too."

English has been my oldest son's favorite subjects this year. The class is led by his favorite teacher who has been a constant source of encouragement. Since September, Christian has enjoyed conversations with this teacher about literature and life. They frequently discussed Christian's favorite novel, The Giver, and with the teacher's support, Christian entered his first speech competition and turned into a talented and creative writer. As the school year closes, his English class was assigned one final project: they were instructed to compose a fictional story about surviving disaster. Christian was excited about this work and he composed a tale in first person perspective, a narrative where the protagonist began a normal day with annoying younger siblings, middle school crushes, educational propaganda, ambitious teachers, and conversations between best friends. He portrayed what it's like to be a junior high student whose life is interrupted in the middle of math class. The disaster he chose was an active shooter. He described the sound of fireworks nearby, witnessing an investigating teacher meeting their fate, students hiding behind desks, the fight or flight response to terror, and grief over the loss of a friend.

image courtesy of TIME

This is the modern reality students face every day. They leave their house each morning wondering if it was the last time they'll tell their parents goodbye. They spend their day pondering which of their peers will snap. They study their classrooms and hallways to determine the best places to hide if someone starts shooting. Every gym, every cafeteria, every portable. Any campus could be the next headline. Our students believe a sentiment like the girl in Santa Fe: It will eventually happen here too.

Over the last twenty years, our societal fears have devolved. Acts of God now pale in comparison to acts of man, and I mourn for America. This is what we've become. How do we fix it? More guns? Less guns? I don't have an answer. All I know is our priorities are messed up. We celebrate violence and have deified the second amendment. We've placed more value in our weapons than we have in human lives. Until we change our culture, alter the way we think about firearms and the sanctity of life, I'm not sure any solution will be adequate.

Yesterday, Christian's English teacher praised his ability to craft a story after reading the rough draft. Today, Christian turned in his final project to be graded and we're both expecting a high score. Tomorrow is his last day of school. This weekend, I'm going to hug my kids, thank God they have survived another year, and pray their fears will never come to fruition.

A waste of fuel?

This morning at the gas station, I observed a full sized diesel truck left unattended with its engine running parked directly in front of the store's entrance. As I walked up to the main doors, I glanced into the truck's cab to see if there was anyone inside. It was empty and had been sitting there for a while.

I must have had a judgmental expression as I walked by. One of the gas station clerks had stepped out for a smoke break just before I arrived. When she saw me inspecting the idling vehicle with my judgey face, she chuckled and told me, "I wouldn't leave a diesel running like that either."

When the driver emerged from the store, he broke the typical North Idaho truck driver stereo type. He was dressed like an aging GAP model - the kind who probably irons their jeans and polo shirts. And his smile was the definition of smarmy; you could look up that word in any dictionary to find his grin. He winked at the cashier that was outside smoking - despite her appearing to be 15 years his elder. He also motioned one of his hands into a shooting action - fingers pointed like a gun, and even made the clicking noise to accompany the gesture.

Between the smug expression, the preppy clothing, the strut, and the creepy wink & finger pistol flirtation, everything about him reflected the behavior of an 80s era fratboy who has failed to grow up during the past three decades. He could easily have been one of the Alpha Beta antagonists in Revenge of the Nerds. This was not the kind of dude that liked to get dirty. I would be willing to bet the most strenuous work his truck ever endured was driving over speed bumps in a golf course parking lot.

Now you must forgive me. I generally try not to be a judgmental jerk. Yet it happens every now and then. I will pull on my critical pants and start concocting wild and villainous background stories for strangers I find annoying. Yes, I am fully aware that the measure to which I judged this random man in the gas station parking lot is the same measure in which I will be judged.

Yet despite my snap assumptions about him based on his appearance, I still cannot get over the audacity it takes for someone to leave the engine in a hefty rig running for an extended period of time. I find such actions to be mind boggling stupefying. I do not understand.

My argument could be based on environmental concerns. The careless waste of a finite resource. The wanton disregard of the pollution created. But this is North Idaho. There is a significant population in these parts who believe the science behind climate change is a hoax. A save-the-earth argument would fail around here.

My bewilderment is solely the result of pure financial waste. With the price per gallon in a gas guzzling vehicle, letting it sit idle on a mild spring morning is economically impractical. They might as well use twenty-dollar bills as kindling for a campfire.

Last week, when a friend of mine told me she waited in the drive through line at the coffee shop for 35 minutes to get her daily latte, I had nearly the same visceral reaction. Somewhere in my gut, I could sense that waiting in any drive through for more than a half hour with your car running is ridiculous.Park your car. Go inside. Be social. Get your coffee. Even if it lasts the same duration, you would save a half hour's worth of burnt fuel.

Of course, I could be over-reacting. Maybe letting your car or truck run idle for obnoxious spans of time is no big deal. There might be a perfectly innocuous reason this upstanding member of my community allowed his truck to rumble while vacant and awaiting his return. Perhaps I am nothing more than a judgmental jerk eager for any excuse to relentlessly mock a complete stranger.

But ...

I could be right.

In defense of blandness

In route to Seattle, somewhere between the frozen over Sprague Lake and the occasionally odorous Moses Lake, I looked out the passenger window and lamented over the dreariness of the scenery. If you wonder what scenery I speak of, I can only answer that you've proven my point. I have driven along that stretch of I-90 several times, and it's always been my least favorite section of road between Seattle and Spokane. In my opinion, it's missing something. Primarily color. More specifically, any color other than a sickly yellowish brown. It's somewhere along that uninviting expanse that I held my phone up to the car window and snapped the picture below.

I see this landscape and am overcome with an inescapable feeling of blah. Surprisingly, this section of freeway had just enough of a 3G signal for me to upload this to Instagram with the caption: "Dear Eastern Washington, you're boring."

I've always clung to the belief that everything north and west of the Columbia was the pretty half of the state. I've often considered the Puget Sound area to be God's country; from the Cascade crest to the Olympic Peninsula. Sure there are gems elsewhere in the desert wastelands like the wineries and vineyards of Walla Walla, or the rugged terrain where the Snake River divides Washington from Idaho. But for the most part, I think that the majority of the eastern half of the Evergreen State is anything but green. It is empty, monotonous, lonely, and unsightly. In a word - bland.

However, my judgmental opinion of the misshapen scablands west of Spokane is not shared by everyone. In fact, Eastern Washington has its own apologists. Shortly after I posted the picture, the admissions office for EWU tweeted the following message: "@niccasey Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. It's beautiful here! (We also think your photo is pretty stellar, by the way.)" They included a link to a Google image search for the Palouse.

I will say they've got a point - to an extent. The Palouse area is beatuiful. I have found a strange allure to the rolling hills between Moscow and Pullman that is nearly indescribable. Palouse Falls has a wild and dangerous grace that is easy on the eye and on the camera lens. The Columbia Gorge is also dazzling; from Grand Coulee Dam, to the Wild Horse Monument and Vantage Bridge, to The Dalles, the scenery there is audacious. But everything in between?

Maybe that picture above works for you. That flat arid nothingness. If so, congratulations. Good for you. This world needs more people like you. It's not for me. I grew up in the land of pine trees and mountains. Salt water and seagulls. Crowds and traffic. Fog and rain. Suburban paradise.

You can keep your bland land. I need to live somewhere with lakes and rivers and mountains. And trees - preferably the kind that stay green all year.

Pale Blue Dot

Yesterday was Earth Day. Check out vidoe for Pale Blue Dot by Mr. J. Medeiros and remember, taking care of earth also means caring for your fellow man.

Movie Review: 2012

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to set up a bank of TVs and simultaneously play a bunch of disaster flicks on them? The Towering Inferno, Earthquake, Armageddon, The Poseidon Adventure, Dante's Peak, and Hard Rain on a stack of six big screen TV's... I'm sure you haven't, but just in case you have wondered - Roland Emmerich was thinking of you.



Emmerich threw down the gauntlet when he blew up the White House in Independence Day. He is the man who set the standard for the modern era of the disaster genre. Yet, he's never quite lived up to the expectations he created. His movies have been more hype than substance (the quirky Godzilla and the plodding Day After Tomorrow are a couple of examples). Now with 2012 he aims to out do himself (and every other apocalyptic movie ever made) in both it's epic scale and epic duration.

Yes I said duration. It is a long movie. I'd recommend using the facilities immediately before the opening credits. Despite the long running time (158 minutes) Emmerich fills that time wisely. It's not the "when will this movie ever end" kind of Transformers 2 long... just the "my bladder is going to burst at any moment" kind. If it wasn't for the one liter of Mt Dew I chugged prior to the movie's beginning, I would have barely noticed the length.

The scenes of destruction (of which there were many) were evenly spaced - unlike some other movies that pack it all in to the fist 20 minutes of film (I'm talking about you The Core). While the dialog is not Oscar worthy, it's not a distraction. The conversations were practical (all though mildly predictable), punctuated with intentional humor, and a self-parodying outlook on the concept of cataclysmic events.

There are a couple of cheese ball moments (The Governator Schwarzenegger's cameo and an obnoxious fissure that splits a couple after the man mentions feeling like there is something separating them) but those clips are few and do not take away from the grandeur of the total and inescapable destruction that Emmerich celebrates for nearly an two hours and forty minutes.

As California sinks into the Pacific, a cruise ship and aircraft carrier are upended in tidal waves, buildings collapse, Yellowstone explodes, and Woody Harrelson goes crazy, you can't help but think how awesome it all looks. And while we know the story is completely implausible, we enjoy it. We know a puddle-jumper plane can't outrun (outfly?) a pyroclastic flow, but we sit on the edge of our seats to see it happen. We know that the earth will not open up to swallow the Vatican, but it makes compelling cinematography. And amidst the chaos is a plot. A decent one. And while some disaster movies center on one story, 2012 takes on a few. The strength of family, forgiveness, and reconciliation. Political and humanitarian ethics. Sacrifice and hope.

And with all that is splayed on the big screen during 2012, one of my favorite moments came after the movie was over (and I'm not talking about Adam Lambert's caterwauling during the closing credits). On my way out of the theater, I overheard two teen-aged girls talking.

"What sucks is like this is totally going to like happen like three days before Christmas," one of them said. (I wish I was joking.)

First of all... it's not. 2012 is a work of fiction - not a documentary. I won't get into the details, but the world will not end on 12/21/12. Astrophysicists, anthropologists, geologists, and many other scientific peoples have easily discounted the proposed meaning of Mayan prophesies. It is well documented. Google it. So I got a good laugh at the girls' academic naiveté, but I am also a bit puzzled by their arithmetic. The end of the Mayan long count calendar is December 12th of 20012. Last time I checked, Christmas falls on the 25th of December... every year. So, if I do my math correctly, 25 minus 21 is 4... not three. And the movie wasn't vague about the date. But I digress. The movie is well worth the price. Emmerich not only lives up to the expectations, but surpasses it. The sad misguided conversation of two girls who are prone to believe anything is just icing on the cake.

(And (Warning: plot spoiler) good news for dog lovers, a few corgis survive along with a king charles cavalier. Good news for alien lovers, so does District 9)

These Thousand Hills

I'm a city boy. I grew up in the suburbs surrounded by hills and forests. My formative years were spent close to both the ocean and the mountains.

Prairies befuddle me. Flatlands depress me. I'm lost with out trees and large bodies of water.

I guess that's one of the reasons I never felt entirely comfortable in Boise. While it is close to mountains, the Treasure Valley is primarily situated on a featureless plane. It's too flat. And too dry. And brown.

In no conceivable context could I be described as a country boy. I thrive in chaos. I long for crowds and noise and bright lights. Punk rock & hip-hop and anything that defies the backwoods hillbilly.

I love road trips, but I always loathed driving certain stretches of northwest freeways. Eastern Montana, Northeastern Oregon, Southern Idaho, most of Wyoming.... rolling hills, big skies, and dry yellow grasses. Those vast expanses appear to be infinite and makes the cityscapes I love feel so distant.

Maybe I've been looking at that countryside from the wrong perspective.

This weekend, while driving back and forth between Moscow and Pullman, I noticed the same endless rolling hills that dominate most of the Inland Empire. Yet, I saw something different... and alluring. Those rolling hills with the patterned stripes of agriculture gained a hypnotizing quality I've never before acknowledged. For the first time in my life I'd admit these hills were stunning and amazing to see. It was indeed the amber waves worthy of our patriotic songs.

Maybe I'm getting softer now that I've passed 30. Maybe I'm beginning to see beauty in unusual places. I still prefer the city life - even if it is suburban living. But I may have gained a new appreciation for our area's rural scenery.

Going the opposite of "green"

n the days of going green in an eco-conscious culture... and in the days of cutting costs in a fragile economy… One might think Albertsons might do something to shorten their receipts.

For a purchase of a croissant and a Rock Star energy drink, I’m handed a receipt the length of a standard computer keyboard.

The most hypocritical unprecedented event ever!

Live Earth has come and gone. The concerts are over and the people have all gone home or shut off the live streaming video on MSN. Only problem now is that MSN can’t get over their smug selves enough to admit that Live Earth really wasn’t that cool.

Don’t get me wrong, it was cool. There were several phenomenal performances and the list of performing artists was stellar. I enjoyed watching the live broadcasts on A&E, and TiVo’d whatever I couldn’t watch live. (Although, my DVR went wacko and cut out half of AFI’s set.) Yet, there were a couple of minor details in the broadcast that disturbed me.

First, the commentary was provided by a bunch of eighties era MTV washouts. Not that their presence was a bad thing; after all, they still need to make a living. But the girl in the brown dress (no idea who she was) that was providing studio commentary on A&E was a complete moron. She seemed star-struck and acted like she was every band's biggest fan. Yet, her remarks about artists’ performances truly revealed how little she really knew about (or payed attention to) each of the bands she pretended to like so much. This observation showed itself clearest after the set from Black Eyed Peas, who opened with a rocking version of ‘Let’s Get Retarded.’ When that song was released as a single the word retarded was not politically correct enough for American airways, so BEP re-did the lyrics for the radio and changed the song to ‘Let’s Get It Started.’ For the Live Earth performance, BEP retained the original lyrics in the chorus, “Everybody, let's get into it, get stupid. Get retarded, get retarded, get retarded. Let's get retarded, let’s get retarded in here.” Between the BEP set and the band that followed, the girl in brown proceeded to express how awesome their show was by singing her favorite song… Let’s Get It Started.

The next thing to bother me about Live Earth was their self-proclaimed title of “unprecedented” early in the broadcasts. According to Merriam-Webster, unprecedented means having no precedent - novel, or unexampled. So, according to concert promoters, Live Earth had no precedent; it was a novel idea with no prior examples. Hmm. That must mean that nothing like Live Earth has ever happened be for, right Bob Geldof? Ten concerts in ten different cities, all across the globe, on a single day, televised, to raise awareness, and asking people to make pledges. Yup… That’s never happened before. I will give Live Earth some credit though. They managed to have a concert in Antarctica, something that Bob Geldof would not have been able to accomplish with Live 8. But who are we kidding. Several artists performed for both Live 8 and Live Earth. In fact, one could easily argue that Live Earth is Live 8 with a different mission; but more people watched Live 8. (And in my opinion, Live 8 had a cooler logo.) ATTENTION MSN: LIVE EARTH WAS NOT AN UNPRECEDENTED EVENT. Quit pretending like it was.

The final thing that bothered me was the hypocritical nature of such a massive event. To pretend that such a show is going to make a difference in our environment is asinine. Live Earth was NOT an eco-friendly event. Points to ponder: how much fuel was spent jetting these artists to the events (many of them traveled overseas to get to their venue); how much electricity was consumed by the massive sound systems, reader boards, lighting, and projection screens; how much energy was spent preparing food for concessions; how much trash (waste) was generated from those concessions. Now, I realize that event organizers are going to try and recycle as much trash as possible, but every shot of the crowd included several plastic cups filled with beers raised to the sky. I can guarantee that most drunken idiots can not tell the difference between a trash can and a recycle bin after a day-long concert under the hot summer sun. Yes, they do recycle, but there was still probably as much (if not more) trash collected at each of the Live Earth events as you would typically see at a major sporting event. Furthermore, I fail to see what Madonna’s f-bomb, Shakira’s contortionistic dancing, and Ludacris' rapping about booty has to do with the environment. Yes, Live Earth is looking at a worthy cause. We all know our environment is fragile and we should take care of our planet, but the fate of planet earth is in debate. Environmentalists can not agree if the impending doom of climate change is leading to a new ice age, or if it will cause all glaciers to melt and raise existing sea levels to unlivable heights. Some scientists say global warming will cause the next ice age, and some scientists say global warming is nothing more than pseudoscience. At least Live 8 had a theme that no one could dispute: poverty in Africa.