Not a Dry Eye in the House

The New Yorker magazine recently ran a three-part series on global warming, the final installment of which deals primarily with the political and technological responses to a problem with very dire implications for human kind.

The author of the series, Elizabeth Kolbert, concludes with a succint demonstration of how it is that monied interests have been able to stave off any honest discussion of this catastrophe for so long:

A few years ago, the pollster Frank Luntz prepared a strategy memo for Republican members of Congress, coaching them on how to deal with a variety of environmental issues. (Luntz, who first made a name for himself by helping to craft Newt Gingrich’s “Contract with America,” has been described as “a political consultant viewed by Republicans as King Arthur viewed Merlin.”) Under the heading “Winning the Global Warming Debate,” Luntz wrote, “The scientific debate is closing (against us) but not yet closed. There is still a window of opportunity to challenge the science.” He warned, “Voters believe that there is no consensus about global warming in the scientific community. Should the public come to believe that the scientific issues are settled, their views about global warming will change accordingly.”

Of course, the debate will be won by the silent party already sitting at the table. Indeed, the debate will be settled by the table, itself: by the Earth, the sun, the moon, etc.

In the meantime, the story of longer and more frequent droughts, of increased flooding and submerged coasts, the story of human migrations so massive they will make xenophobes pine for the simpler days of a few million illegal aliens–that story remains to be told in the language of the vox populi.

Yes, I mean global warming: the soap opera.

the patient is in critical condition
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth about my mother?”

on a dry hilltop
“Yes, my love, this will be our new home.”

a romantic dinner
Another candle-lit dinner on the houseboat.

wearing gloves to clear the brush
Clearing the dry brush that was once a forest, their hands met.

the ocean awaits
“Not even the rising tides will rip you away from my arms.”

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