The Myth of Clean: Clean garbage, clean energy and a dirty utopia.

Smart technology is surveillance technology. It is not smarter because of its inherent qualities, but because it sends and receives data that allows it to be ‘smarter’ in manipulating users. The smart part of smart technology comes from human beings. So does the stupid part when people sacrifice their privacy and independence for the benefits of technology being shaped to them.

Clean energy is even more of a myth. The Inflation Increase Act doles out another stream of billions toward the inefficient forms of energy generation that the government has been subsidizing for over 50 years because some Madison Avenue ad agency branded them ‘clean’.

Energy is inherently clean and dirty. Making the inherent forces of the universe useful requires mining metal, cutting down trees, and turning fossil fuels into plastic to assemble machines. Once those machines are running, they will shed heat because ‘clean’ or ‘dirty’, that is how the second law of thermodynamics works. Not even Al Gore can evade entropy and not even the shiniest solar panel, sleekest wind turbines or smoothly humming Tesla will prevent energy from being wasted as it is transferred, stored or used to do one thing or another locally or nationally.

The only truly energy efficient energy comes from bioluminescent creatures like fireflies. We didn’t make them and despite all the boasts from technocrats, we can’t duplicate them.

Clean energy depends on massive rare earth mines run by Communist China that poison everything around them. Wind turbines require huge amounts of balsa wood that are deforesting the Amazon. Neither turbines nor solar panels are recycled when they go bad. They end up in landfills and become toxic waste. Breathing in fiberglass from severed wind turbines or drinking water tainted with heavy metals from solar panels is a serious health hazard.

Much of the clean garbage that we call ‘recycling’ also ends up in landfills. The difference between dirty garbage and clean garbage is that we send some of the clean garbage off to China or third world countries where it’s recycled under primitive conditions and then shipped back to us. That is until China cracked down on the toxic hazards of the recycling industry and began refusing much of our clean garbage which now goes into equally clean landfills.

There was nothing environmentally sound about sending pizza boxes or coke bottles halfway around the world. An article described a Chinese city where plastic was recycled as a “dead zone” with “nothing green” where “sheets of corrugated plastic boxes, old plastic barrels, and giant dried puddles of plastic” are shredded, “poured into metal tubs full of caustic cleaning fluid” and then the “excess trash and cleaning fluid” is “tossed into a waste pit on the edge of town.”

That’s the dirty reality behind the recycling triangle and the ads filled with cartoon disposable goods eager to be recycled into new products at the behest of willing children.

The clean part of clean energy or garbage is not in how it’s made, but in how we perceive it.

A solar panel seems aesthetically cleaner than a coal plant. An electric car emits an artificial spaceship hum as it glides down the street. A wind turbine gleams white. Such trivial surface impressions that mistake architecture for the process maintain a trillion dollar scam.

Solar and wind energy systems are presented as more natural than any other kind of energy because the association with the sun and the wind somehow insulates them from the dirty realities of thermodynamics. The design and the branding of solar panels and wind turbines inculcate the myth that they are clean interfaces for receiving this magical bounty for the sky.

The 1960s neo-romanticism rejected the industrial revolution. When the flower children grew up into bourgeois suburbanites, holding down jobs at ad agencies and nonprofits, they wanted a technology that would maintain the same illusion of philosophical consistency. Instead of following through with their principles, they rebranded the industrial revolution to make it much more expensive, less efficient and inaccessible to the dirty working class. The new technology, like their suburban lives, would be morally and aesthetically clean. Like garbage recycled in China and returned in a gleaming bottle of purified tap water, it would make dirty clean again.

Idealists believe that life is black and white, dirty or clean, and that the two can be absolutely separated. The universe does not fall into such neat categories. Nevertheless the Left has spent two centuries tearing apart society in search of a clean utopia. Dirt, coal miners, factories and men who work for a living reek of oppression. When class warfare gave way to green neo-romanticism, the working class was abandoned for a clean post-industrial computerized future. The dirty jobs were outsourced to China while the working class was left with the Rust Belt and meth. America was going to be a clean nation where everyone sat around an Apple laptop before getting into their electric cars and going off for a hike. No smoking allowed.

But what is clean anyway? The old Left used to deplore conflating physical and moral cleanliness only for the new Left to fall into that error anyway. The new master class tells coal miners to learn to code or install solar panels. Like the old elites, its true objection is that they’re dirty. The nonsensical tenets of environmentalism are the aesthetic fetishes of the upper class. They represent a cultural sensibility, not a scientific one. Its vocabulary reeks of escapism from the realities of life, smart technology, clean energy, and information stored in the ‘cloud’.

Technology isn’t magic. The only smarts are human, the only energy is dirty and the cloud is a bunch of servers owned by a global corporation that are powered by coal plants where the constant noise is so loud that employees can suffer hearing damage.

The myth of clean is powered by an escape from reality. That escapism has a high price, not only in the billions wasted and lives ruined by environmentalist gimmicks, but the entire bloody history of the Left which is one long escape from reality into the tyranny of philosopher-kings.

The Left’s energy and its garbage are no cleaner than its ideology and its history. And it is those who are dirtiest on the inside who feel the greatest pathological need to be clean on the outside.

Heh, I have been writing my own life experiences down for the last twenty years or so, banking on the day when it gets too hazy for me to remember clearly. I will post an example of something that was so memorable (and funny) that I never thought I would forget a single detail of it, until...I found I couldn’t remember certain things! So I sat down with my wife to get the details right, and even 10-15 years later, her irritation with that day showed right through! You might laugh at this...it is long, but that is the point...:)

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My wife and I traveled to Mallorca in May of 1999. This was our 10th wedding anniversary present to each other, and this was going to be a little bit different from the last time that we had gone there, which was on our honeymoon. This time, we’re going to rent a small villa instead of staying in a hotel.

The flight was a little problematic to begin with, because I have a thing about flying on Douglas DC-10 aircraft. I have always regarded them as unsafe, probably due to my background as a jet mechanic coupled with my interest in general aviation. So of course, when we go out to the runway to board the plane... it was an Iberian Airlines Douglas DC-10. Well, at that point I didn’t have much choice, so we boarded the plane. In all my years of flying, it was one of the worst flights I had ever taken. By its nature, is a fairly long flight over the Atlantic. What made this one worse was that Iberian Airlines had modified this plane to fit the maximum number of passengers on it. There was so little space between my seat in the seat in front of me, that when the person put their seat back, the top of their seat was literally inches away from my face. I had no choice but to put my seat back, which caused the person in back of me to have to put their seat back. This set up a chain reaction that went all the way to the back of the plane. I could’ve lived with that, but there was one other factor. Some poor woman a few seats in front of me had an infant that was having some kind of difficulty. The child screamed the entire time the plane flew across the Atlantic. I couldn’t really be angry about it, and I did feel bad for the mother, but it still made the flight very, very unpleasant.

We arrived in Barcelona at approximately 6 o’clock in the morning Barcelona time, and I had not slept at all during the flight, so I was very tired. The Barcelona airport is a somewhat unusual airport, in that it is completely straight from end to end (or was, back then) and not at all complicated to find your way through. So when we landed, the airport was deserted. There was not a soul to be seen, and our flight was not scheduled to leave for several hours. My wife wanted to walk around and take a look at some of the stores (even though they weren’t open) so I found the nearest bench on the main concourse and lay down on it take a nap while she strolled around. I put my carry-on bag underneath my head, folded my hands across my stomach and promptly fell sleep.

I really don’t know how long I slept, but I think it may have been an hour or so. I was awakened by the sound of power tools just feet from my head. While I had slept, a construction team doing renovations had decided to begin their work right on top of me. I’m sure they thought was a good joke, but I hadn’t had nearly enough sleep. Grumbling, I grabbed my bag and stood up. I looked around, and about 40 feet away there was a departure gate that was completely deserted. I walked over the empty benches, put my backpack down again and settled back in to continue my nap. It didn’t occur to me that my wife might not see me, because I was in plain view just 40 feet or so from where I had been. As I said, it was not a large airport and there weren’t a lot of places for someone to get lost. When it was time to board the flight, if I wasn’t awake, I knew she would wake me up in plenty of time to board. I immediately fell asleep on those wooden benches outside the departure gate.

At some point, in my sleep I became aware that I wasn’t alone in that there were people around me. I awoke, and felt somebody up close to my feet, and as I sat up, I saw that I was surrounded by a crowd of people. Someone had sat on the bench near my feet, and another person had set next to my head while I slept. There were people milling around, and I realized that I’d slept long enough for a crowd to congregate at the gate to depart on a flight. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I stood up, grabbed my bag and walked the very short distance to the main concourse which was now teeming with people.

I looked at my watch, and with a start saw that the departure time for our flight to Mallorca had come and gone. As I thought about this, it occurred to me that the flight must have been delayed, otherwise my wife would’ve woken me up. With this in mind, I began to walk down the concourse in one direction keeping my eyes open for my wife. Even though it was crowded, I didn’t think I would have any problem picking her out in the crowd, and I was pretty sure she would be looking for me as well.

I stopped in front of the departure board and looked up our flight, and it said that the flight had departed. I still was not overly concerned, because I knew she would not get on the flight without me.

I walked all the way the end of the concourse and didn’t see her. So, without too much concern I turned around, and walked back the way I had come. There was still a bit of distance on the other side of where I’d slept, and I knew that I would spot my wife as I walked back the other way. However, I walked from one end of the terminal to the other, and never spotted my wife. It occurred to me that I must have missed her, so I turned around and walked all the way back to the other end of the terminal. I still didn’t see her.

I repeated this process another four or five times. And then I became concerned. I went back to the main information desk in the terminal, and stood in a fairly lengthy line before I could speak to somebody. I asked the person at the desk if they could page my wife for me, which they agreed to do. I began to walk down the terminal again, scanning the faces of the people walking towards me to see if I could spot my wife, while keeping one ear tuned to the overhead speakers. When I heard my wife’s name surrounded by Spanish, I realized my error, that I had not instructed the airport personnel to page her in English because she doesn’t know Spanish.

I went back to the information desk, and there was an even longer line now. I tried to go to the front, but not only did I receive poisonous glances from the people in line, the people manning the information desk refused to even look at me. Discouraged, I got back in line and waited my turn. When I finally to the window, I asked if they could repeat the page for my wife, and requested that they page her in English. I figured that it wouldn’t do me any good to walk up and down the concourse, since I had already done it nearly 10 times, so I just stood off to the side and waited for the page.

They paged her, and I waited. I waited, and waited some more. And then I became very concerned. This was quite unlike my wife. She has always been extraordinarily reliable, and after being married to her, I felt that I could predict how she might react in certain situations. At that point, I became overwhelmed with the dreadful feeling that something had happened to her. I didn’t know if she got bored and left the concourse to walk around outside the airport... I had no idea where she might be. It was inconceivable to me that she would’ve got on the plane without me, because I never would have got on that plane without her.

I went back to the information desk and stood in that long line again, to see if there was someone I could talk to. The people behind the desk indicated they would call a policeman for me. As I waited, I saw a policeman walk up to the information desk as they pointed in my direction.

The policeman came over and introduced himself in Spanish, and I indicated to him that I knew a little bit of Spanish. He knew a little bit of English, so the two of us began trying to communicate. I was feeling a fairly deep level of anxiety at this point, and my ability to communicate in a language that I knew imperfectly begin to break down. We began speaking half in Spanish, and half in English with predictable (and in retrospect) kind of humorous results. I tried to tell him that my wife had left me sleeping on a bench, he said back to me in his limited English “Your wife has left you?” The look on his face clearly indicated to me what he thought the context was for my being alone. I had to say “No, no...” and then try to explain it again. Eventually, he figured it out and while he was sympathetic, he conveyed to me that there was nothing that he could do until we knew for sure that she had not actually got onto that plane and gone over to Mallorca ahead of me. So, I had to get back in that line.

This time, the policeman took me by the arm and guided me to the front line (again, with poisonous glances from the large crowd burning into my back) and asked the people manning the information desk if they could help me. When I explained that I needed to find out if my wife and actually boarded the plane, they said that they could not do that, and that I actually needed to go downstairs to the ticketing window for that particular airline to find out.

I thanked the policeman, shook his hand and headed down the stairs. Again, there was a very long and slow-moving line. I was extremely anxious about the well-being of my wife, and standing in line was a real trial for me. As I was standing in line, the gentleman behind me (who, as I recall was from England) struck up a conversation with me. I must have been exuding anxiety because he picked up on it. I explained to him what was going on, and he nodded sympathetically. It was nice to speak to somebody who is not only sympathetic but also willing to communicate in my native language.

I finally got to the window, and explained the situation to the woman on the other side. She said to me, in a somewhat dismissive and final tone, that they were not allowed to give out that kind of information about what person may have been on a particular flight. I tried again to explain to her the situation, and she became very snippy and reiterated that there was no way she could help. I began to feel very angry, but before I could say anything I felt myself pushed aside, and the gentleman who I struck up a conversation with began to speak to her in fluent Spanish. Their conversation became very animated, and both of their voices began to rise. Her body language and tone of voice were the epitome of bureaucracy, and it was clear she was not going to bend or break the rules without a fight. His tone of voice and body language indicated that he was conveying to her that she was being an insensitive bureaucratic jerk, and that she should be ashamed for not willingly helping me given my situation. With a final, abrupt jerk of her head and a statement in Spanish that sounded more like a bark, her fingers pounded out something on the keyboard and she said something without looking up.

The gentlemen turned to me and said “Your wife did board that plane.” As I considered that, the first thought that came into my mind was “That Bitch! I can’t believe she got on that plane without me!” But before I could dwell on it for very long, a young policeman with a submachine gun slung over his shoulder and a big pistol in a holster by his side ran up and told me that my wife had contacted them and was looking for me, and if we hurried I could make the next flight which was leaving in minutes. I grabbed my carry-on bags, and the two of us ran up the stairs at top speed. We are running down the concourse, me pouring sweat carrying heavy bags as I tried to keep up with him, and him in front of me yelling at the top of his lungs for people to get out of the way. I have to admit, but even with the stress of the situation, this was rather funny.

Here we were, running down this “people conveyer” as this heavily armed policeman yelled at people. They were going about their business, and hearing the commotion would turn and look behind them only to see this guy bearing down on them, his right arm tightly gripping the submachine gun while the large holster on his side slapped up-and-down against his leg. Their mouths would open, in their faces would seem to grow white as they struggled to get out of the way. From my vantage point, it made me want to laugh.

We reached the departure gate, I shook his hand and said thank you, then sat down and waited to board the plane. There was an announcement over the speakers, and I saw everybody groan. I didn’t have to speak the language natively to understand that. The flight had been delayed.

When I got on the plane, they put me in a first-class seat which I found very pleasant. I enjoyed the flight to the island, and when I got off the plane I walked up towards the main concourse and wondered how I would find my wife who was supposedly waiting for me. I passed a small window that couldn’t have been more than 2’ x 2’ square. I thought I would just poke my head in and ask whoever was in there how I might go about finding my wife. As I stood there waiting for somebody to walk by, I looked all the way and the other side of this very large room, and there in a small 2’ x 2’ square window 75 feet away was my wife waving frantically at me. That was one of the strangest events of the day... that I would stop to look through this little window that had no identifying marks on it and nobody inside only to see my wife looking at me through an exact duplicate of my window that was on the other side of this large room!

When we finally met up with each other, it was clear that we had both had quite enough for one day, and all we wanted to do was reach our destination and relax. We went immediately to the Rent-A-Car area and picked up our vehicle. As we drove out to the town, my wife told me her side of the story. She’d gone back to wake me up, and I was nowhere to be seen. She then went down to the boarding gate, and waited for me to show up. She apparently had paced back and forth, becoming more and more anxious when I didn’t show up.

She took a walk down the concourse to look for me, and not finding me, returned to the boarding gate. At this point she went up to the attendant to ask if perhaps I had boarded the plane in her absence. The person apparently told her I was on the plane already. My wife’s reaction was “I can’t believe that bastard got on the plane without me!” (I thought that was pretty funny, given that I had had the mirror reaction to it...)

So, she got on the plane, and finding that I wasn’t there, asked to get off. They told her she couldn’t get off, so she had to fly over to the island without me. When she got to Mallorca, she went to a phone to try to call the terminal in Barcelona. She had some change in her pocket, but the phone didn’t work. So she found another phone... that one didn’t work. In her state of aggravation and anxiety the situation seemed to be getting more impossible and irritating with each passing minute. The damned phones just didn’t work, but she saw other people using them successfully which perplexed and aggravated her to no end. It turns out that the currency she had in her purse was change she had brought with her from the United States, and it was currency she had saved from our honeymoon 10 years earlier. In the interim, Spain had changed its currency, so what she had no longer worked anymore. (She didn’t find this out until later, and it was probably the most frustrating aspect of the entire situation)

She finally decided to go to the airline and asked them and ask them if they could call over to find out if I was still over there in Barcelona. They said apologetically that they couldn’t, for some unknown reason, but that they could send a fax, which they did. Apparently the police got it and knew where I was, so they sent a policeman down to grab me and get me over to the terminal where I could board the plane to Mallorca.

After this “adventure”, even staying in a town whose name translated as “Town of Ten Thousand Roosters” (for a very accurate reason, as we found the next morning when dawn was approaching) and whose streets were so narrow that we had to fold up the side mirrors on the car, turned out to be an extraordinarily relaxing event.

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