Older fans will immediately recognize John Cleese as one of the comic geniuses behind Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Younger ones know him from A Fish Called Wanda and his short stints in several James Bond and Harry Potter films. His biting satire and sharp wit are never in question, although at times not well received. His send-up of Christianity (and Judaism) called Life of Brian was reviled by Catholics, Protestants, and Jews alike, leading Cleese to ad lib it was ‘the first time in millenia they had agreed on anything.’ After one divorce decree came out particularly bad for him, he said “think what I’d have had to pay (her) if she had contributed anything to the relationship—such as children, or a conversation.” Ouch!
Cleese clearly has an enquiring mind, and this book–better to call it a booklet or a pamphlet–brings together the results of his thinking and research. I hesitate to call it a book only because it is exceedingly short; so short, I digested it fully with lunch one day, and it barely outlasted my chicken & rice bowl! There’s no need to summarize the work, but here are some tidbits I found interesting:
Creativity is not simply being different; it is also being good or better. Modern definitions of creativity emphasize difference, but difference without improvement is not creative, just a matter of taste. I would add that newcomers often believe they are creative and being “stifled” by the existing organization, when they simply don’t know enough to know what has already been tried and failed.
Creativity starts after mastery. You have to be good at something first, otherwise you won’t be doing something new or “creative.” This is why creativity is so hard in fields like medicine and science, because mastery there requires much hard work first.
Creativity lies primarily in the subconscious (Cleese refers to it as the unconscious). Think hard about something and eventually you’ll get stuck (“what was the name of that guy?”). Leave it alone, that is, leave it to your subconscious, and eventually your subconscious brain creatively unlocks the information you could not consciously get to! This tracks with my experience. If I faced a hard challenge at work, and seemed stuck, I knew a good long run in the hot DC sun would do the trick. I would consciously forget all about the problem (focusing on not falling down, getting run over, or just breathing), but upon returing to my office, suddenly the challenge appreared in a different and solvable light.
How powerful is the subconscious? Cleese refers to studies on the “Mere-Exposure effect,” which shows that people exposed to random Chinese characters (漢 字) but who do not speak Chinese, could not consciously remember them when asked. Duh. But when later shown a second set of characters, the subjects “liked” certain characters better, and the ones they liked (none of which had any meaning to them, remember) were the ones they had been previously shown!
Interruption may be the greatest threat to creativity. During creative thought, you imagine complex structures and stories which completely collapse the moment the real world intervenes. Getting back to the furthest, most creative point takes re-building those structures in your mind from the ground up.
Interruptions, from Python days
Finally, Cleese holds special contempt for the “inner voice” that tells you “you can’t think that!” since it prevents creativity. Inside your creative thought pattern, you must let your mind wander to forbidden areas and say forbidden things. Note he’s not saying you stay there or repeat them out loud, just don’t self-censor. By the way, this also accounts for his dislike for woke-ism (not just cancel culture), as it becomes a chorus of self-righteous internal voices saying “don’t think or say that!” which is disastrous for creativity.
More about his book than Wokeism, but an introduction
This work on creativity is engaging and easy-to-read. Get thee to a library and borrow a copy for lunch soon!
Packaging, or branding in modern usage, is everything. Slap an attractive slogan on something and people will buy (or buy into) it with abandon. Tag something else with negative connotation and sayonara!
If I called this post “rules for a good life” you might have stopped at the word “rules.” Who likes rules? Plus a “good life” has a vaguely religious flavor to it. “How to” attracts people; they like being in charge of themselves and practical advice to accomplish things. And the “best life?” Nothing is more internet-savvy than that. Plus, five steps is easy enough to memorize: no need for a to-do app or summary sheet.
If I was ever going to write a post about “How to Have the Best Life,” it would go like this:
Decide for yourself what is most important and keep that always first in all you do. Otherwise you will squander your limited resources on less important things.
Respect legitimate authority. Regardless of your wealth, education, popularity, or power, there will always be those with authority over you: parents, teachers, police officers, sergeants, bosses, tax assessors, and so on. Some will have brief and limited authority (the clerk who gives you your driver’s license), others will have a lasting effect (your drill sergeant). To the extent they act legally and honorably, give them the respect they are due. Be careful not to place yourself in judgment over them: you know not what they do.
Harm no one. Certainly defend yourself and those around you. But always seek to defuse, de-escalate, and disarm rather than go nuclear. Violence in word or deed begets more violence, and once the cycle is started (and remember, the cycle only starts with the second act, not the first), all will suffer.
There are no victimless lies, cheats, or steals. We have an endless ability to rationalize and are quick to use it. But even if your offense is never discovered, you know what you did, and that affects you, so you (and the truth) are the first victim.
If you renounce only one thing in life, make it jealousy. There will always be people “better off” than you: richer, more attractive, luckier, more powerful, more popular. In most cases, they will not be more deserving than you in any sense. They will simply be “better off.” The more that bothers you, the worse your situation will be. It is truly wise to consider how much “better off” you are than others, especially in comparison to those whom you consider more worthy than you are!
These are not easy concepts to put into practice; if they were, everybody would do them. But they are a reliable guide to being happy. And what makes for the best life I cited in the title? How happy you are! Perhaps you recall the quote that “what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul” (Mark 8:36). This was everyday wisdom once-upon-a-time, but lost nowadays.
In fact I am sure some of you noticed that all my five points for your best life are simply a restatement of the Ten Commandments. Their original branding was excellent: brought down from Mount Sinai by Moses, written by God himself and etched in stone (which became a metaphor for permanence). But today some hear “commandments” and think “rules” and immediately rebel. Others see rules and start to lawyer them (what about double effect? “Who is my neighbor?” “what if . . . ?” and so on). But read them again, in your Bible or my summary above. What is really objectionable? What would fail to make you happier?
One of the retirement seminars I went to early on in my career had a session called the rules for a successful retirement. It was all about starting saving early, having goals, making plans for your time. Nobody stood up and asked “who are you to make rules for me?” No one objected to the concepts because there was no guarantee. No one asked “can we get by saving less and having more fun now?” Why not? Because the answer was obvious. The path to good (even early) retirement was well-trod: not easy, but well enough understood to elicit a set of rules that, like a recipe, reliably turn out.
You might have asked yourself “what is going on here?” after hearing the latest economic news. Of course partisans on both the left and right have predictably run to their respective dark corners. If you watch Fox News, we’re already in a recession and teetering on the brink of much worse, with the administration about to raise taxes and increase government spending, leading to either hyperinflation, a depression, or the specter of stagflation. If you watch any of the mainstream media, we just recovered all the jobs lost during the pandemic, hiring is racing forward, inflation is (still and perhaps always) temporary, and now we can turn this challenge to an opportunity to make a green energy transition.
Sometimes I wonder if the spin-meisters ever have a momentary pang of conscience. Nope.
What to make of all this contradictory economic data? The Biden administration fears being blamed at the voting booth, so they grasp at every positive data point, while the GOP does the same with the opposing data. Any rational observer would note this is not the economy we want: inflation is too high, growth is too low, and many of the fundamentals are out of balance. I’ll try to cut through the political spin and technicalities of the “dismal science” with an analogy.
Easy as, . . . . whoa!
Imagine the US economy is a jumbo airliner coming in for a landing. We’ve been through a harrowing flight (the pandemic): drinks were spilled, passengers thrown about the cabin, babies crying, and more than a few Hail Marys whispered. All everyone wants is to get to the ground safely, back to normal (where the economy acts in a steady, reliable way).
In the pilot’s seat is the Chariman of the Federal Reserve Board (aka, the Fed), Jerome Powell. The Fed sets interest rates, among other things, so it has the most important role in getting the economy back to normal. The co-pilot would be the rest of the federal government (all three branches), but as that is too large a group, we’ll put President Biden in as its representative. The flight crew are the parties (Democrats & Republicans). We assume they want us to reach the ground safely, as they are passengers, too. Things work best when they cooperate with each other as a team. Sometimes, their emotions get carried away. If one side is walking down the aisle saying “all is well” and the other side is running down the aisle screaming “we’re all going to die” panic ensues.
Back to the plane (the US economy). To grossly simplify the mechanics of flight and landing a plane for our analogy, there are only two factors involved: speed and length of runway. To stay aloft, the plane needs to maintain a certain speed, as that is what generates lift. But speed also creates momentum in the big iron bird. To land, the plane needs to be going slow enough so that once its wheels touch down, it has sufficient runway to come to a halt. Simple, right? Everyone who has ever flown more than once knows the difference between that hard bounce and strong reverse engine thrust of a hard landing (with that “ooooh, here we go feeling”) and the gentle bump of a soft landing. We want a soft landing after all we’ve been through, not a stomach-churning brace-for-impact and head-for-the-emergency-exits landing.
Pilot Powell stepped out of the cockpit for a bathroom break after the long flight. Co-pilot Biden nervously eyed the autopilot, looked down at the horizon gradually coming closer, and thought, “a little more speed (federal stimulus spending) would be a good thing.” The most dangerous thing to an airplane is the ground, so pilots have a natural inclination to worry more about lift than runway. By the time Powell got back to his captain’s seat, he realized his co-pilot had over-corrected, and our plane was coming in too fast. The co-pilot was just about to increase speed again when Powell said “no way, José” and instead reduced it (raised interest rates).
The passengers felt the sudden drop in altitude and change in engine noise. The flight crew did its best to either calm or frighten the cabin, depending. What followed was a series of additional brakings (more rate increases) as the airport loomed closer. The plane is still going too fast, but it’s close to the ground and otherwise smoothly descending.
This is where we are today. We have not landed, nor have we crashed. In fact, a crash is mostly out of the question. It’s possible we will come in softly (inflation abates, the job market returns to normal, steady growth resumes). It’s also possible we will bang down (inflation remains strong, or growth stagnates), and it’s even possible we end up off the runway (stagflation), nobody seriously hurt, but shaken all the same.
Recessions are best declared after the fact; during the event, it’s pretty clear things are not going well, regardless. Too many economic “things” are going well, but not all are, and some important ones (for example inflation, consumer confidence) are most certainly not going well. The recent good job news (strong hiring) has a paradoxical effect: it is hard to say the economy is stalling when so many people are being hired and the jobless rate is falling. Yet the same ecomomic data say the economy (our plane) is not slowing much, so the pilot is likely to decrease flight speed again (raise rates again, and more), which increases the probability of a problem when we land.
It’s true the pilots are in part responsible for our situation, but also true they are the only ones who can avoid disaster. Meanwhile, stay in your seat with your seatbelt buckled, and while it may be fun to listen to the flight attendants argue, pay attention to the cockpit announcements.
Sports is often the location where good grammar and vocabulary go to die. I am almost certain the devolution of regardless into irregardless happened there, as well as the execrable “pro-active” (as if active is not, what, active enough?). It happens when managers, athletes (or announcers) seek to make an intelligent comment. They want to sound more refined, and it leads to atrocities against the English language. Sometimes the malaprops are humorous additions: “GI-normous” probably got started this way, as did the tendency to add the prefix “Super” to anything and everything (note, the first Super Bowl wasn’t even called that!).
When an athlete got injured, people would say “she broke a leg” or “he pulled his hamstring.” Somehow using an action verb got to be too difficult, so today they say “he has a groin” or “she had a knee” meaning not that they are in possession of such things (usually two), but that they have an injury to said part. But I’m not here to further dissect sports English (I know you’re relieved).
My dear wife Judy “had a knee.” Friends will remember (back in February) I blogged about our experience with her knee pain, visits to the doctor, MRI, Ultrasound, ultimate diagnosis (and this is a direct quote, “she’s weird” but “there is nothing wrong with her knee that we can see”) and recovery through rest and anti-inflammatory medications. Given the doctors could find nothing to operate on, she went about life as before, but any attempt at exercise met with quick pain and swelling, relieved only by rest and medication. Rinse & repeat. For weeks. We finally settled on her doing nothing but stretching and mobility exercises.
In March, while visiting our daughter in Cincinnati, Judy heard a loud “pop” in her knee (followed by a sharp pain) as she walked up the stairs. She was down for the count for several days, and only barely recovered enough to avoid a wheelchair for the return trip to Mexico. But we were facing (oft-delayed) trips to Europe, Indiana, and Oaxaca, so what to do? Judy decided to gut it out, walking as much as she could, resting when she could, and hoping to make it to July when she could go back to the doctor with the possibility of a new diagnosis.
Dr. Neary will see you now
And gut it out she did. Complaining in our family is part of the usual conversation. One is not only allowed to kvetch, one is encouraged to do so. As I learned in the Army, an officer really worries only when the troops stop complaining. But pain is entirely a different matter. We have a legendary disdain for pain. It’s not that we don’t feel it; oh, we do. It’s that we choose not to acknowledge it. My dad once fixed a dental problem at home with a rasp. My daughter once swept the floors with two broken arms (hairline fractures, but the story grows taller on down the line). I rejected twilight anesthesia for shoulder surgery as a teen so I could watch it. When I went to the emergency room for a ceramic shard stuck in the top of my foot (Safety tip: no ceramic items in the shower!), I complained that the ER doctor was “fishing around in there!” He handed me the forceps and said “then you do it.” I did. So with a lot of wincing, Judy made it to July.
Now she had swelling and pain, and the new MRI confirmed a tear in the knee meniscus. Was it always there? Probably not. Was it so small it was missed? Maybe. Most likely, it was something less than a tear that was just waiting for the right kind of motion to rip. Presto, we had a surgery date for Hospital Américas in Guadalajara.
Hospital Américas is what we would call an outpatient surgery clinic. It’s a small facility stuck between malls, hotels, and some large hospitals near the Colónglorieta in midtown. We had a 7:00 am appointment, so we stayed at the nearby Hilton Midtown the night before. We even did the day before up right by going to brunch at Porfirio’s, one of Guadalajara’s best restaurants.
Post-op recovery in her room.
Judy went in at 8:30 and was out a little after 10:00 am. Surgery went well. A stitch in the meniscus, a little shave for a ligament, a nip-n-tuck in some “clicky” tissue. We owed the hospital $11000 MXP (aapprox $550 USD) at departure, but we didn’t pay the surgeon until a few days later. His bill ran $35000 MXP or about $1750 USD. Judy is home and resting comfortably, already walking some with the help of a walker. It will take several more days for all the effects of surgery to wear off.
As the person accompanying the patient, and therefore completing all the necessary paperwork, I admit it was a bit daunting. Mexican medical bureaucracy is no different from bureaucracy anywhere: there are forms to fill out, disclaimers to sign, bills with “medicalese” to decipher, rules to comply with, and everything is in written or spoken Spanish. For example, the Hospital Américas computer system insisted Judy must have four names (as is common in Mexico), but she has only three. So they substituted my first name for her third name in the system. Does it matter? No. Was it a cause of momentary confusion? Yes. The woman in billing wasn’t sure what to do with an American credit card, so they charged me an extra 5% fee. Could I have argued about it? Yes. Was it worth it, when the alternative meant finding an ATM and taking out a wad of cash? No. In the end, we got good, friendly, and competent medical service at what I thought was a bargain price.
And Judy may be ready for the Chivas season; the way they’re scoring goals, she couldn’t hurt their chances.
I’d be remiss if I failed to mention Oaxacan culture. It’s a mix of Spanish colonial and MesoAmerican like much of Mexico, but one where the latter (from the Zapotecset al) is equally important with the former.
Street scene
We were in Oaxaca city just before its largest annual fiesta: la Guelaguetza. Taken from the Nahuatl language, the fiesta translates as “the giving” and represents an old tradition of the various local cultures coming together and sharing what they have (dances, costumes, food, goods) with others.
Fiesta mascot, el LlamadoJust a preview, a few weeks before the festivalSanto Domingo
“What? That? That’s our cross; why?”
Catholicism took deep root in Oaxaca, thanks mostly to the Dominicans. This teaching order was welcomed by the rural indigenous population, and as a result, the Catholic Church in Oaxaca avoided some of the revolutionary movements which regularly convulsed Mexico. The Templo Santo Domingo de Guzman is one of the most beautiful examples of baroque architecture in the Western Hemisphere. The Metropolitcan Cathedral is a neo-classical structure covered in soft cantera stone. Inside is the mysterious Cross of Huatulco, a legend told to the Conquistadores when then arrived in Oaxaca in 1522. Villagers in nearby Huatulco were worshipping a cross they said was brought to them by a white-robed holy man who had “come-and-gone” many years earlier. Who he was and where he came from remains unsolved.
Triptych inside Santo Domingo. . .which shows us,like bacon, you can never have too much goldOur Lady of SolitudeThe Cathderal (1733) at duskMaster classUnique textures and colors
One big draw near Oaxaca city is the village of Teotitlán, completely committed to the art of weaving. We witnessed an amazing explanation of how the locals spun thread from various sources (from alpaca to cactus) and then made an astounding palate of colors from things like prickly pear fruit (called tuna in Spanish, to great gringo confusion), the indigo plant, and small cactus-infesting insects called cochineal (which create deep reds and purples).
Early evening on Thursday, and the party in the zocalo is just getting started!
Oaxaca has something for everyone. It’s a big enough town to have plenty to do, with food, drink, and fiestas galore. The surrounding valley and mountains have all the historical, ethnic, and athletic activities and sites you could want. The people are friendly and although a little Spanish is very helpful, there are many tours and guides for the English-speaking traveller. It is not yet an expensive place, but the combination of inflation and increasing tourism are having an effect. The biggest drawback seems to me to be it is not an easy place to get to: you’ll be flying the uncomfortable Mexican budget airlines, on only a few daily flights, often connecting via Mexico City. In return you’ll see an authentic piece of Mexico and its MesoAmerican heritage . . . still a bargain!
The state of Oaxaca plays an outsized role in Mexico’s history. Archeologists suggest Monte Alban, which sits atop a small mountain overlooking the Oaxaca valley, was one of the first real cities in the Western Hemisphere. The Zapotec peoples built it around 500 BCE (Before the Christian Era) and it dominated the area until 750 CE (Christian Era). Monte Alban is only partially excavated, but what has been completed is stunning. It ultimately held around 30,000 Zapotecs, making it an unusually large and prosperous settlement for its time. Among it unique features are some of the earliest evidence of social stratification: the elites lived in private quarters at the top of the settlement, with secret passages to speed their travels about the town, while workers and merchants lived further down and the poor congregated around the base of the plateau.
Panorama
The main square
Monte Alban had a strong governing organization which demanded tribute from the surrounding tribes and villages. Less praiseworthy, the Zapotecs practiced ritual sacrifice, so it’s always hard to separate the beauty of the structures you’re visiting when considering how many were killed at the same spot! Archeologists had once insisted on contrasting the blood-thirsty conquistadores with the peaceful MesoAmerican tribes. The Mexica (Aztecs) were often portrayed as the exception which proved the rule. Later work showed all the indigenous cultures practiced blood-letting and human sacrifice, although the Mexica took it to the extreme.
The observatory holds a series of victory stones portraying captured villages
One classic example trying to portray indigenous cultures in a more positive light is los danzantes (the dancers). These residual stones (of which there were hundreds) show Olmec-style obese men “dancing.” In fact, archeologists later demonstrated the stones show the chiefs of tributary towns who had been castrated, watering the earth with their blood before being killed. Dancers, indeed!
Umm, dancing,yeah, that’s what that is
We still don’t know what happened to the Monte Alban civilization, but it disappeared around the same time as the Mayans further to the east.
A Benito Juarez . . . for every occasion!
Oaxaca is also the birthplace of Mexico’s most revered leader: Benito Juárez. He rose to fame as a liberal reformer in the 1850s, served as the first (and only) fully-indigenous Presidente of Mexico, and led the fight to reclaim Mexico’s independence from Maximilian after the French installed him as Latin Emperor. His political life coincided with that of Abraham Lincoln, and each holds a similar position of special esteem in their respective country’s history. He was the first Mexican leader to view the United States as an alteraantive model for the continued development of Mexico; prior to him, Europe in general and Spain in particular were the dominant models. While Juárez was controversial in his day, his reputation has only grown with time.
On the other side of the ledger is Porfirio Díaz, another native Oaxaqueño. Díaz was a General who arose alongside Juárez, but he later led a revolt against him. After Juárez’ death, Díaz completed his successful insurrection and installed a technocratic government. Gradually he fell into autocratic ways, creating a dictatorship called el Porfiriato that lasted over thirty years. History remembers his regime for its unrelenting emphasis on economic development and pervasive repression: one of his favorite slogans was “pan o palo” literally “bread or the stick.”
Despite all this history, Oaxaca is one of Mexico’s poorest, least supported states. Travel & Leisure magazine just named Oaxaca City as the “world’s top travel hot spot,” but it clearly has not received the government attention it needs. Poverty is prevalent and development is slow. We visited such natural wonders as hierve el agua, also known as the frozen waterfalls, and el Tule, the world’s largest (in circumference) tree which is more than 2000 years old.
The road in (not for the faint of heart)the “waterfalls”sharing the toll roadthe pools
While the government built a toll road to speed the way over the mountains, they had done little else. In the little towns along the way to the falls, there were numerous local “stops” to “charge” tourists a few pesos to continue. It was obvious this was the only way to make money locally.
Tule tree (note people for perspective)All one tree
The government has not improved the infrastructure sufficiently to support the basic needs of the people, let alone the tourism which could develop. And we only visited the central valley: there are tons of beaches and mountain ranges to explore, too.
Those interested in MesoAmerican history and architecture, nature and/or adventure travel, textile arts and crafts, or extant indigenous cultures will find much to like about Oaxaca. Which is probably why it’s a rising tourist hot-spot, despite the neglect!
If you’re like me, the first time you saw the name of this Mexican state in print, you paused.
“Oh-ah-ZACA?” “ACHS-aca?” “Oh-AXA-ca?” Of course I had heard it pronounced before, but seeing the name still threw me. It’s “wah-HAH-cah” for the record.
Judy and I have been wanting to visit for some time, for the archeological sites, the churches, the textiles, and the food, especially the food. Oaxaca is home to mole (MO-lay), that incredible smoky salsa of numerous varieties that makes local cuisine so special. The term mole comes from the ancient Nahuatl language, and simply means “sauce.” You’re already familiar with one version: guaca-mole, or avocado sauce, but there are many more! There are seven major types of mole, each designed to augment or enhance a specific main course:
Mole negro with chickenMole verde with PorkSopa& Shrimp tacos
Negro (black): savory-sweet with distinct chocolate undertones, for turkey and special ocasions. It’s the kind you’ll find most often in the US.
Rojo (red): spicier, sweeter, less chocolatey, it actually comes from Puebla and is also called mole poblano. It is good for meat dishes.
Coloradito (auburn): between negro and rojo, thicker (with plantains) and sweeter.
Amarillo (yellow): the all-purpose mole without chocolate, for vegetables and chicken.
Verde (green): with pumpkin, tomatillo, and cilantro (ugh!), best for chicken.
Chichilo (from the chilhuacle chili) dark and intense, based on beef broth. It is rare and lacks sweetness, with a licorice aftertaste.
Manchamantel (“table-cloth staining”): bright red, fruity, and rich, dangerous to white clothes!
As you look at the pictures, you might think there is a mismatch between the names of the moles and the colors: the names are as much about the ingredients as the final color!
Oaxaca is to Mexican cuisine as Lyon is to French cuisine. Both are UNESCO World Heritage sites, and we were wowed by the food in Lyon. So we were really looking forward to the encore performance in Oaxaca, and we were not disappointed. We took a food tour in Oaxaca city, to try out the quesillo (Oaxacan cheese, the inspiration for string cheese), chapulines (fried grasshopper snacks), mezcal (alcohol derived from the agave plant), tejate (a corn and cacao drink served cold) and other assorted delicacies!
Inside the mercadolearning about molethe smoking section
When a donut goes straight & narrow: Churro!Chapulines (grasshoppers)
If there was one lesson we took away, it was the subtlety of mole. It’s a cuisine staple that has developed over thousands of years, so asking what the mole tastes like is exactly like asking what a sauce tastes like: well, it depends upon the sauce type, the ingredients, and the chef, just for starters. While there are seven basic moles, every preparation is distinct and special. Chefs take hours-to-days preparing mole. Villages and families have special secret recipes, and the fresh ingredients also introduce differences into the final product. Like the old cliche about “never entering the same river twice”, you never eat the same mole twice. Each new mole is a unique encounter with something special to be savored.
Pundits are up in arms; talking heads are spouting feverishly; activists have taken up their #s. The Supreme Court has simply lost its mind, gone blatantly partisan (or even worse, Catholic!), and has to be reined in. “Our Democracy” (sic) is fundamentally at risk.
Dobbs overturning Roe and Casey? While that seems to be the judicial crisis du jour, if you read this blog (and you do, because you are), you heard the reasoning in Dobbs explained last November! The momentous decision out of the Supreme Court (SCOTUS) I want you to be aware of is West Virginia vs EPA (the US Environmental Protection Agency). It might have gotten lost in all the toing-and-froing over abortion rights, praying coaches, and state funds for religious schools. It’s the decision environmental activists characterize as ensuring climate change will end all human life as we know it. But the decision is far more important than that (sarcasm intended)!
The case was unusual for several reasons. First, it adjudicated a rule that never went into effect. Usually, when the facts of a case change during the judicial process (for example, there is a settlement, or a prosecutor drops a prosecution or the government changes a contested policy), higher courts call the case moot and end it without judgment on the merits of the case. The Supreme Court is especially fond of this outcome, believing a case must be “ripe,” that is, fully formed before it merits a SCOTUS decision. Second, it enforced the “major questions” doctrine. This concept restrains the powers the legislative branch (i.e., the US Congress) can delegate to the executive branch (i.e., the President and the administrative departments). Both have major implications for how the US governs itself. So you need to understand it.
First, the facts of the case. The Clean Air Act of 1970 granted the EPA the right to control power plant emissions. The concept was simple: power plants emit pollution, America had polluted skies, the Congress and President passed a law to reduce pollution by controlling the pollution from several sources, especially power plants. It worked, amazingly well. The Clean Air Act is the main reason the skies over US cities do not look like that over Guadalajara most days (brown and scuzzy, for the record).
The EPA’s regulatory authority changed little over the next forty years. It measured how much each power plant emitted, determined what a safe level of pollution was, and fined plants producing too much pollution. Under the Obama administration, the EPA desired to take on the challenge of climate change, so it issued a new set of guidelines called the Clean Power Plan. This plan went a step further: rather than measuring and fining individual plants (which prevented polluted skies but did nothing to combat climate change), the EPA now proposed rules which would gradually phase out coal and natural gas as sources for electicity generation (those sources generate almost 60% of US electicity, so this was a huge change) by reducing the allowed pollution emissions.
Several states sued the EPA saying this rule went beyond the EPA’s authority under the Clean Air Act. The Supreme Court stayed the implementation of the new EPA rule pending rulings on the merits of the case in lower courts. So it was still an issue in question: one side wanted the rules enforced, the other side wanted them overturned. Then the Trump administration came into office. Now the EPA ruled it had violated its authorities, and withdrew the Clean Power Plan. Other states now sued the EPA to keep the standards, and to force the EPA to implement it. Lower courts agreed. And thus the case ended up finally on the SCOTUS docket in 2022.
If you read the hysterical press, the headlines went something to the effect that ‘the Supreme Court sides with climate change catastrophe.’ Let’s take that up at the end. What did SCOTUS actually say? First, they held that this was an important issue, and since the plaintiffs and respondents had reversed during the course of the case, there was every likelihood the suits would continue until SCOTUS issued a ruling. In effect, they held they couldn’t rule it moot, as that just restarted the case.
Next, SCOTUS codified something called the major questions doctrine. Why? Over the course of decades, the federal government has issued more and more regulations: it’s what government does. Anybody who has seen the original federal tax form (it was one-page long, both sides) knows how this goes. Congress does not like to be too specific when issuing laws, so they often include language authorizing the executive departments to issue guidelines on how to implement the general goals of the law. Like the Clean Air Act, which had a goal of less pollution but let the EPA determine how much pollution for each plant. Some called this leaving it to the experts, and it is that, to some extent. This was the crux of the issue. The law said the EPA could set limits by individual plant, but could they set nation-wide emission limits effectively eliminating coal and natural gas plants? The court ruled that setting individual limits was within the EPA’s authority, but setting nation-wide limits, especially ones which eliminated certain types of plants, was actually a “major decison” that only the Congress and the President could and should make.
Here’s a clear example of why that’s true. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) is a federal agency under the Department of Transportation that regulates traffic on interstate highways, among other things. This is their charter. Large amounts of data confirm that highway deaths vary directly with speed, that is, the faster you drive, the more likely you are to have an accident and cause a fatality. NHTSA was called upon during the days of the “federal 55 mph speed limit” to justify it, and did so on this basis (it was also to save gasoline). Additionally, traffic emissions are a major source of carbon dioxide and other causes of global warming. What if NHTSA’s experts said tomorrow, “highway traffic deaths are an unnecessary tragedy, and climate change is an immediate threat. Starting today, the national speed limit on interstate highways is 40 mph, and it will decrease 5 mph every year until it hits zero.” Zero mph equals zero interstate traffic fatalities and zero emissions. Right?
Yes, and crazy! But the question is not is this crazy, but is this legal? If the EPA could stretch its authority to effectively outlaw coal and natural gas as sources of electricity, why couldn’t NHTSA do the same? Why couldn’t Health & Human Services outlaw sugary drinks? At least the Temprance Union had the guts to take Prohibition to the Constitution via an amendment!
What does the SCOTUS decision mean to you & me? It really does make our response to climate change harder, because it pushes it from the administrative state back up to the Congress and President, which have proven ineffective thus far. But going around the separation of powers in our federal structure is never a good idea. More importantly, the SCOTUS decision puts the administrative state on notice: do what the law prescribes. While there is some leeway, don’t automatically take things to the limit, regardless of how good you think your intentions are. I doubt anybody thinks the administrative state has demonstrated too little power in the last fifty years. If you do, imagine a President you dearly oppose in charge of that same apparatus . . . it will give you pause.
In the long run, the major questions doctrine could have far more effect on how the US governs itself than Dobbs (which kicked abortion down to the States), Kennedy or Carson (the latter two continued a string of rulings stating the government cannot establish a religion, has to be neutral bewteen religions, but cannot be antagonistic to the concept of religious activity). West Virginia vs EPA will be cited in many upcoming government cases, and the theme of the decisions will be “if the government wants to do that, it better have a law which specifically authorizes that.” However you feel about that, now you know why!
We’re back in South Bend for our annual family get-together, which normally happens around July 4th. All that has me pondering life’s larger issues through the prism of a more familiar one: the family.
Families are, of course, where we are first civilized (if that ever happens, or for better or worse). Many of the larger problems America faces are ultimately originally based in the breakdown of the family. And I’m not talking only about the quintessential 1950s-style nuclear family, but even the more modern evolution of the term. As the privileges and even whims of the individual have become of greater importance, the rights and duties of the family have weakened. We seem to want the schools or work or the government to take on more and more responsibility for things that once were the prerogatives of the family. With predictable, less-than-optimal, results.
Not that families always do a great job. I know some of my friends out there were raised in terrible situations, and only succeeded despite family upbringing. Yet the family remains the core unit of society, and for all its warts and blemishes, it is generally a force for good and a worthwhile institution.
Which leads me to the concept of socialization. One first learns to share (or not) in the family. To be kind (or not). To be treated fairly (or not). To tell the truth (or not). All the things society relies on to function start with the family. But even the best families have those members who primarily provide examples of what not to do (to put it politely). Every family is like this, and every parent faces how to deal with the situation. It is a truly universal experience. Your children must be introduced to the larger family they have literally inherited.
Maw-Maw is a drunk. Uncle Ernie does drugs. Cousin George has a gambling problem. Auntie cheats on her husband. And so it goes.
What do the parents tell the six-year old?
“Maw-Maw didn’t mean to swear like that, she just wasn’t feeling well.” “Don’t accept any brownies from Uncle Ernie.” “If cousin George asks about how much money we have, come get me.” “Auntie and her husband are having an argument.” All of which are at least partially true, but are not in fact the whole story.
As that child matures, the level of honesty expands commensurate with that maturity. “Maw-Maw sure likes her beer.” “Uncle Ernie isn’t weird, he’s just stoned.””No, you can’t give George your baby-sitting money to buy lottery tickets, and call him ‘Cousin George’.” “Auntie did something that really hurt her husband’s feelings.”
Eventually the discussion becomes something more like: “Maw-Maw died so young because she was an alcoholic and couldn’t stop.” “Uncle Ernie never learned how to control himself, and that’s why he always shows up high.””George always has another get-rich quick scheme, and they always end the same way.””Remember all those fights Auntie and her husband had? Well . . .”
Why are the parents “economical with the truth?” Because for all the problems noted, they view the family as a good thing, a thing worth cherishing and sustaining. If they didn’t view it that way, they wouldn’t keep participating in it in the first place. Eventually we have to be more brutually honest, but that comes when we are mature enough to have those conversations.
Which is how we should also learn about our nation. Do you believe America is a worthwhile thing? Is it a force for good? Separate your immediate emotions (some suggested they would not celebrate independence this year): in total, across time, is the world better off for the fact of America, or not.
If the answer is “no,” really? Take a deep breath and listen to reason. If the answer is “yes,” continue.
How do we socialize our chidren about America, if we value it? We start with what’s good, what’s unique, what’s best. Why? First, because those things are true. They might not be the complete truth, but they are still true. As the children mature, we bring in more nuanced concepts. Yes, some of the Founders were slave-owners. Yes, segregation persisted well into modern times. True, women only achieved the right to vote in the last hundred years. But there is a time and place to introduce such concepts.
I disagree strongly with those who claim even mentioning such things is unpatriotic. I also disclaim those who suggest America is fundamentally flawed, systemically racist or a morally neutral force at best. Both these positions are wrong, and must be avoided.
To those who say “no one is bringing these concepts into the early childhood educational system” (say primary school): you’re wrong. The New York Times and Washington Post used to include a disclaimer that Critical Race Theory (CRT) is ‘an advanced academic concept introduced mainly at the university-level and not taught in primary education.’ They have changed that to say ‘it sometimes influences curriculum at those levels.’ Why the change? I spent a few hours one afternoon researching local news stories and found one example after another of CRT being used as early as pre-school classes. You cannot tell a child the nation is fundamentally racist and expect them to think later it is worthy of their respect, let alone their love. It gets the maturity learning model exactly backwards.
Start with the good. There’s plenty of it. Later introduce the neutral points; much to cover here, too. Finally,discuss the bad, especially those things which still linger today. All three need to be covered, but when and how are critically important.
That is, if you care about America more than scoring a meme point. Hope you had a happy Fourth of July!
(Author’s note: This is the fiftieth anniversary of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. If you have never read it, do so. He pioneered something called Gonzo Journalism which mixes the illusory and the real, stone cold sober insight and drug-fueled raving. And it’s pretty funny, ‘tho profane. Here is my homage to the genre. Again, it’s all creative writing and fiction!)
We were somewhere south of the airport, driving up a steep grade in the pass over the Sierra San Juan Cosala, when the brownies started to take effect. These were no run-of-the-mill, Pillsbury brownies. No, my amigoJuan Rey used only Ghiardelli starter, and added a special mix of fifty-seven herbs and spices which would drive the working dogs at George H. W. Bush International airport into a frenzy. There were no dogs here on the carretera, except for the bloated ones at the side of the road, but I felt giddy at the thought of spilling out a container of special brownies on the floor of Customs in Houston and watching the dogs drag the CBP agents across the room.
The original, still good at fifty
“What’s so funny?” my companion shouted over the roar of Led Zeppelin from the car stereo.
I didn’t answer; I didn’t even realize I was laughing. I was too focused on dropping into second gear and hitting the gas, aiming the rented Tsuru in between a pick-up truck with an abuela in the bed and a family of three puttering next to them on a motorbike. I expertly split the difference on a hairpin turn and broke into the clear . . . of yet another uphill turn.
A Tsuru was never meant to be driven like this. Actually, a Tsuru was never technically meant to be driven. It was a car at its best up on concrete blocks in the barrio, where you got in and shared una fria with some locals as the sun went down. A Tsuru was essentially a Nissan Sentry with all of its safety and comfort features removed, then sold at cost in an aspiring market like Mexico where a growing middle class was newly experiencing the joy of the open road . . . with predictable results.
Tsuru crash test results
When I picked up the Tsuru at the airport rental counter, I just ignored the small print stating the rental company was not responsible for the costs associated with removing human remains from the vehicle interior in the event of an accident. A good garden hose would do the trick. I realized my companion was still waiting on an answer about that sinister laugh.
“The dogs! You should have seen them with the brownies. . .” I finally replied, but my companion was having none of it.
“Look out for the cows!” he screamed. What cows? Where does he see cows? In the middle of a freakin’ highway, in the middle of the freakin’ night? Damn brownies! I cut to the outside of the curve and saw a bovine head flash past my side-view mirror. This was no time to linger, so I stepped on the gas, alert for the giant iguanas I knew would soon follow. When we made it to Ajijic, I was going to find out exactly what were the fifty-seven herbs and spices in those brownies. For now, I took a long swig from my vampiro, and kept watching for the iguanas.
—————————-Morning—————————
I awoke the next morning and looked down at the blood-red stain on my guayabera. Great. I was in town less than one full day and now somebody had expertly lifted my kidneys. Or maybe my appendix; could they tell the difference? Just another tourist used for medical practice. I pulled open the shirt but saw no scars. The empty vampiro bag I had clutched all the way from the airport fell to my side.
Why was I even here, in the middle-of-nowhere Mexico? I had a gig to cover a water skiing competition on Lake Chapala. At first I thought it was some set-up by the cartels: lure innocent gringos down with an imaginary sporting event, then harvest their organs. But it seemed legit, as it was the tenth annual competition, and so far no reports of missing organs. But water-skiing, on Lake Chapala? Even the locals only pretend to go into the lake (up to their knees, wearing plastic trash bags on their feet) and nobody, ever, takes out a speed boat. There are things out there, under the water. Things you don’t want to run into. Things like grandstands, and barbed wire, and electric cables. See, the Mexicans reclaim the shore when the lake wanes, and build all kinds of things. When the lake refills, they run off, leaving an Atlantis of strange artifacts just under the waterline.
I bought a bottle of tequila, a mango, and a six of Tecate and sat down on the malecon to watch the show. Perhaps there would be a traumatic amputation or a sudden explosion when electric current met marine gas-oil. Serves them right, coming down here and not even offering a kidney. Dammit, you have two, and that guy begging at the corner in front of the WalMart probably needs at least one. But there was nothing savage to see here. Just speed boats, and people water-skiing. I grabbed the tequila and headed up Colon to get some comida.
My companion was in the bar and motioned me to join him. Next to him sat a square-jawed, Marine-looking character. He said his name was William, but I was sure it’s Bill, or Billy, or Mac or Buddy.
“As your doctor, I advise you to order the chilaquiles with the two-for-one Bloody Mary” my companion intoned. Billy interjected, “I didn’t know you were a doctor. . .” but I cut him off.
“He’s not. It’s a Goddamn border promotion. He’s a podiatrist, but don’t let him anywhere near your feet, as he has outstanding malpractice cases in ten states.” “Wh-wh-what?” Billy stammered, but I laid it on thicker and heavier, “you should have seen it. He actually attached a sixth toe on a man’s foot and tried to charge him extra for it!” My companion was just staring down at his migas while Billy sat with his square jaw now hanging open.
After I ordered the chilaquiles and Bloody Mary duo, Billy tried to break the uncomfortable silence: “So you’re here to cover the water skiing competition?” I glared at my companion, but he put both palms up and mouthed “not me.” Of course not. Pueblito or small town, it’s all the same: everybody knows everybody else’s business. There was no way I was going to cover that crap, even if it involved somebody being severed in half. I needed another reason to be here. I glanced suspiciously to both sides, then whispered, “William, you look like a former Marine, can you keep a secret?” “Semper Fi!” he growled.
“That water-skiing competition is just a cover.” He looked at me, puzzled but obviously interested. “I’m down here for the company.” I paused for effect, and he stared, unblinking, like a near-sighted lizard. “The agency. Do I need to spell it out? CI-A!” I spat out the acronym “see-ah” the way the locals do, for added authenticity, and I could see the hook was set.
“I always thought that water-skiing thing was crazy,” he replied. I continued, “Just crazy enough. My companion and I are recon for the beaches here. As a Marine, I assume you know the strategic importance of beaches?” He was nodding his head yes, but his eyes said no. “Beaches?” he whispered, “but for what?” “Good God, man, for the invasion!” I muttered. He was clearly struggling with the concept, but desperately wanted to buy-in, “but it’s a lake, how do they get here?” I slammed the empty Bloody Mary glass down on the table for emphasis, “where have you been? Don’t you know about Space Force? The Space Marines? What do you think we have them for?”
“Oh, yeah, them. And they’ll have the element of surprise” he added, now fully on board. I should have stopped there, but my third and fourth Bloody Marys arrived, so I chugged one down and then took it to the limit, one more time: “We did have surprise, but now we come to find out there’s a rat. Somebody down here has been talking, and when we find the rat-bastard, well, we’ll take both his kidneys!” Billy’s eyes were wide as saucers, “What do you mean?”
“William,” I paused and leaned closer, “you don’t think the Mexicans left all that crap out in the lake for shits-n-grins, do you? Barbed wire, electrical lines, hell there’s probably a slew of mines and hedgehogs down there, too. They are waiting for us!” “No shit? That makes soooooo much more sense!” he nodded. I needed to make good my escape, so I looked around, then waited for the mesera to walk past: “We have to find the rat. If you hear any gringo down here talking smack about ‘Merica, call me at this number.” I wrote the digits down on the napkin and handed it over. “If I sound confused, I’m just pretending not to know you because it’s an open line. Just keep calling me and giving me any names you have. Can you do that for me, Marine?”
“Yes, sir!” he replied, and I threw down a two hundred peso note on the table and made my way out. What the CBP desk at George H. W. Bush International airport was going to do with this information was not my problem.
———————Afternoon————————
Now that the lake skiing gig was dead in the water, I needed an alternative subject for an article to justify my advance. I was sitting in the plaza, el centro del centro, smoking a fine Cuban cigar. Here I was, deep in the heart of the expat dream, and it was time to figure it all out. This place was right out of some spaghetti western knock-off of a 1950’s horror flick.: small Mexican fishing village suddenly invaded by a ragtag army of aging hippy-zombies followed by soul-less real estate speculators, working side-by-side in some bizarre Hitler-Stalin non-aggression pact to destroy paradise. How the Canadians fit in to the plot, who knows, but I swear I’ll run my Tsuru over the next pair of socks-and sandal-ed feet I see!
I saw my companion discretely making his way into the plaza, headed straight for me. Or at least he was trying to be discrete, as only a six-foot four-inch Irishman weighing well-nigh twenty stone can be. He had on cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, aviator sun glasses and a mop of bright red hair. Which went well with the permanent rash-red color of his skin; the tropics are not kind to sons of Erin who choose to ignore sunscreen.
He approached and handed me a margarita, saying, “As your lawyer, I suggest you hydrate with this before you go mad in the noon-day sun.” It was true: I was half-mad with thirst. And he was a lawyer, a pretty good one at that. Faced with the unrelenting stream of malpractice claims, he had finished law school and defended himself, ably motioning and delaying until he could either exhaust the plaintiffs or flee to another part of the country. I admired his courtroom demeanor, even if I would still never let him touch my feet.
“What in the hell is going on here?” I wailed. “Does Mexico even know it’s being invaded? Do they not care? Don’t they see what the gringos did to California, not to mention Tejas! Arizona is like some sinister re-creation of The Villages without the redeeming quality of an occasional hurricane.” I paused to lick some salt off the rim of the plastic margarita glass. “Where did you get this anyway?” I asked, waving the drink at my companion. “There was man with a little stand selling them on the street. I told him to put yours in a glass, because you hate sucking your drinks through a straw in a plastic bag.” “Did you see what he put in it? Was there any alcohol? Who knows what else is in there? Stem cells? Human growth hormone? What were you thinking?”
My companion just smiled and shrugged. “You’re too wound up. You need to take in the local vibe. This is Mexico. Don’t get hostile, don’t ask too many questions, just sit back and enjoy what it is.” “What it is, is a cocktail from hell,” I retorted. I refilled the glass with tequila from my litro and resumed: “Mexico lives by the Pirate code, everything is ‘more of a guideline than a rule.’ But they don’t know what they don’t know, as Rummy once said. They have this little piece of paradise, and they haven’t figured out what is happening to it.” “Maybe they do know,” my companion said, “but they are ok with it.”
I glanced around the plaza. The tie-dyed shirts, the man buns with crazy, gray, wire-hairs sticking out? Didn’t fool me for a second. They were just the first wave, harmless enough looking, to put the locals at ease. Gringos locos. Next there’d be the aging Jane Fonda wanna-bees, dressed in 80’s chic (torn sweatshirts and leggings, of course). And the fresh-faced retirees, from Middletown, USA, buying up the hillsides and crowding the markets, marveling at the prices while giving a loud “Bone-ASS DEE-ass” to the frightened locals.
I don’t know what they were all up to, but the sun felt good on my shoulders, and the man-with-the-margarita stand came by and refilled mine before the ice could melt. I would get to the bottom of it, the glass and the invasion. But it was gonna’ take some time.
