I Just wanted to write that on my bike ride home from work today I ran into another similar situation to the one yesterday, except the miscreant was driving a large Lincoln Navigator and had a backward baseball cap on. And, yes, he was white. He drove his monstrosity right up behind me and launched into a cuss-ridden tirade as to why I should get my butt off of the road and ride along the sidewalk. However,this day, unlike yesterday, I was a bit more reserved and calm, as I knew that I was in the right, however, this fine young specimen of male bravado was more inclined to fight, as he went so far as to stop his Navigator mid-turn and put it into park. I kept riding away with the contentment that his blood pressure was a whole lot higher than my own---not to mention he looked like a fool in that big, ugly piece of garbage.
But, for real, are people so thick-skulled to realize that a biker is treated a vehicle on the road!? I can't simply just get on the sidewalk! Geez, this is almost making me want to write ten letters to the Erie Times containing a laundry list of all cyclist laws just so some of the more 'low-life' people in Erie would know to stop yelling at me in the street, yet that means they'd actually have to read some written text, which I'm sure they aren't too accustomed to doing.
On an end note, less than thirty seconds after my yell-fest with the "bro" in the navigator, I saw from the sidewalk a group of robust black girls verbally accosting somebody near me. For a split second, I thought they were speaking to me, which nearly made me lament to the Lord above as to why I can't just ride in peace. But, I was happy to see that they were yelling at the two college girls riding in the Honda Civic in the next lane over from me. The black girls went on saying this: "Get your f*** cracker a** c*** off of my f***** street, or I'll whip your white a****." Upon hearing this, one of the college girls riding in the car, stuck out her hand and gave the group of aggressors a sign-language-type symbol for "F*** You."
I then contemplated about the fact that no one here is nice to each other, and about the amazing rate at how often I hear the word Fuck: today in about a two minute span I heard it at least 10 times....WILD! Oh! How I love a jaunt on a bike underneath the sun-streaked skies of an Erie spring!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Bike Muscles
In general I would consider myself to be quite a mild-mannered person. I don't pick fights with anyone, and when I see a chance to avoid any kind of conflict or violence, I am often the first to back away into my own safe hovel. Yet, when riding my bike around this great City of Erie, I feel within myself a primordial urge for the fight. For blood. For Revenge.
Today I decided to take a nice trip around the more unknown parts of Erie, while Jamie stayed at home to work on a "surprise" birthday gift she was concocting for me and my brothers. After about an hour of having the chilled wind blast against my face and have my toes feel as if they were slowly being morphed into small pebbles of granite, I decided to head back home to East 2nd street. To get myself from point A (Presque Isle) to point B (Home), I had to ride across bike-friendly Sixth Street (the only such road in the city), past Gannon University, turn around the corner at Perry Square, and then make a right onto Fourth Street, from whence it's only about a three block ride across State Street to German Street. Most of the trip was without event, until I made the fated right-hand turn onto Fourth Street, when suddenly, somewhere from behind, I heard the aggressive, emotion-startling tone of a car horn. "HOOOOOOOOOONK." "HOOONK" "HONK!" I quickly turned my head across my shoulder to see if I created some kind of terrible calamity, or had gotten in the way of an ambulance--after all I was only a block away from Hamot Hosptital: I would have felt terrible if I had let my late-afternoon ride for leisure, totally ruin the chances of an elderly woman surviving a stroke. Yet, what did I see blazing through the windshield, waving in my direction? A nice 'fuck you' sign from some Neanderthal wearing a flat-brimmed Arizona Diamondback's hat driving a rusted out Honda with two other knights of ignorance reclined in the back.
Now, this is where I change...
In a fit of adrenaline and rage, I turned around and yelled "WHAT!?!?" so loudly that I felt my voice box rumble in my throat. In an attempt at being as inconsiderate as I could, I immediately turned my bike to the left; placing me directly in the middle of the lane, leaving the curmudgeons behind me without the room to pass or go around me. I stopped at the stop light. At about this time, I heard a 'revving' coming from the engine and again looked back. This time I saw the dumb mug of the ignorant perpetrator smiling in my direction. My blood boiled. I gripped the handlebars a little tighter, and felt the adrenaline pulse into my leg muscles and into even into my eye sockets. The light turned to green. I inched over to the left and began my crossing of State Street at a much slower clip than is normal--which was planned of course. I looked back again and saw that the driver rolled down his side window, which normally would frighten me into humbly pulling over and letting the impatient driver by, but today was different: I felt energized when I saw he wanted to spar. I was sick and tired of having to hear horns blasting in my ears and having young high school dropouts driving past, yelling obscenities. I was tired of being ignored by the local government. And I was envious of the fact that our whole society caters to the oil-loving, car-hungry mob. Oh, did I also mention I was full of ancient, male rage!?
His window came down. They pulled up next to me. My enemy had arrived, and I shot off at the mouth quicker than ever before: "FUCK YOU!" I yelled. "I have just as much right to be on this road as you do." I saw on their faces that they were shocked that such a nerdy-looking white kid on a bike could be so angry. I guess I wore it on my eyes, which would have made sense, because I had actually imagined myself at that moment grabbing up my heavy-duty chain lock, swinging it above my head like some Viking warrior and bashing it into the side of their car window, shattering the glass and leaving all of them to pick out the bloody shards from their faces. Maybe the driver saw that in my face? He read me. I think he thought, "This guy is crazy." and hastily drove off.
I tried to catch them two more times at stop signs, but they always managed to out run me, which eventually made me drop the gallant battle. I quickly came to the realization that fighting about an inconsiderate driver wasn't worth the more-than-likely beat-down I would sustain from the three of them. So, I slunk back home; contemplating what had just transpired and why me--Jeremy Ault--a seemingly passive guy--was thrown into a fit of rage.
The only explanation that I have is that on a bike many mundane situations for the driver are as sharp as a Life-or-Death situation for the cyclist. And in that sense, I'm fighting for what I think is my own perpetuation.
Or, I could just chalk it up to a new phenomenon: Bike Muscles: a little healthier than drunk muscles, but pretty much one in the same.
Today I decided to take a nice trip around the more unknown parts of Erie, while Jamie stayed at home to work on a "surprise" birthday gift she was concocting for me and my brothers. After about an hour of having the chilled wind blast against my face and have my toes feel as if they were slowly being morphed into small pebbles of granite, I decided to head back home to East 2nd street. To get myself from point A (Presque Isle) to point B (Home), I had to ride across bike-friendly Sixth Street (the only such road in the city), past Gannon University, turn around the corner at Perry Square, and then make a right onto Fourth Street, from whence it's only about a three block ride across State Street to German Street. Most of the trip was without event, until I made the fated right-hand turn onto Fourth Street, when suddenly, somewhere from behind, I heard the aggressive, emotion-startling tone of a car horn. "HOOOOOOOOOONK." "HOOONK" "HONK!" I quickly turned my head across my shoulder to see if I created some kind of terrible calamity, or had gotten in the way of an ambulance--after all I was only a block away from Hamot Hosptital: I would have felt terrible if I had let my late-afternoon ride for leisure, totally ruin the chances of an elderly woman surviving a stroke. Yet, what did I see blazing through the windshield, waving in my direction? A nice 'fuck you' sign from some Neanderthal wearing a flat-brimmed Arizona Diamondback's hat driving a rusted out Honda with two other knights of ignorance reclined in the back.
Now, this is where I change...
In a fit of adrenaline and rage, I turned around and yelled "WHAT!?!?" so loudly that I felt my voice box rumble in my throat. In an attempt at being as inconsiderate as I could, I immediately turned my bike to the left; placing me directly in the middle of the lane, leaving the curmudgeons behind me without the room to pass or go around me. I stopped at the stop light. At about this time, I heard a 'revving' coming from the engine and again looked back. This time I saw the dumb mug of the ignorant perpetrator smiling in my direction. My blood boiled. I gripped the handlebars a little tighter, and felt the adrenaline pulse into my leg muscles and into even into my eye sockets. The light turned to green. I inched over to the left and began my crossing of State Street at a much slower clip than is normal--which was planned of course. I looked back again and saw that the driver rolled down his side window, which normally would frighten me into humbly pulling over and letting the impatient driver by, but today was different: I felt energized when I saw he wanted to spar. I was sick and tired of having to hear horns blasting in my ears and having young high school dropouts driving past, yelling obscenities. I was tired of being ignored by the local government. And I was envious of the fact that our whole society caters to the oil-loving, car-hungry mob. Oh, did I also mention I was full of ancient, male rage!?
His window came down. They pulled up next to me. My enemy had arrived, and I shot off at the mouth quicker than ever before: "FUCK YOU!" I yelled. "I have just as much right to be on this road as you do." I saw on their faces that they were shocked that such a nerdy-looking white kid on a bike could be so angry. I guess I wore it on my eyes, which would have made sense, because I had actually imagined myself at that moment grabbing up my heavy-duty chain lock, swinging it above my head like some Viking warrior and bashing it into the side of their car window, shattering the glass and leaving all of them to pick out the bloody shards from their faces. Maybe the driver saw that in my face? He read me. I think he thought, "This guy is crazy." and hastily drove off.
I tried to catch them two more times at stop signs, but they always managed to out run me, which eventually made me drop the gallant battle. I quickly came to the realization that fighting about an inconsiderate driver wasn't worth the more-than-likely beat-down I would sustain from the three of them. So, I slunk back home; contemplating what had just transpired and why me--Jeremy Ault--a seemingly passive guy--was thrown into a fit of rage.
The only explanation that I have is that on a bike many mundane situations for the driver are as sharp as a Life-or-Death situation for the cyclist. And in that sense, I'm fighting for what I think is my own perpetuation.
Or, I could just chalk it up to a new phenomenon: Bike Muscles: a little healthier than drunk muscles, but pretty much one in the same.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Life Update
After three months of pensive waiting for a reply in regards to my application for graduate studies at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I received the much-anticipated reply this weekend: Accepted with both a Teaching Assistantship worth $ 13,480 yearly, and on top of that, a tuition scholarship worth over $ 17,000 a year; meaning that Marquette has not only decided to accept me as a student, but they've also some how found within the goodness of their own hearts the ability to give me over $ 30,000 next year to study. Now, one would think that upon hearing of such great news, I would have been ecstatic? Yet, it was far from the case. I seem to have talked myself out of studying history before I even got started. I am honored that Marquette has offered me such an unexpected incentive, however, the three months hoping and pondering whether graduate school is the right "next step", seems to have really altered my outlook on this next journey in life. University and academia to me are constantly nudging me to think of myself as not being qualified or smart enough to cut it. It's really--at least what I have been conditioned to perceive--a cut-throat world of papers, deadlines, grants, animosity and charlatan showmanship. Not to mention that getting a Masters Degree of History is generally considered not the most prudent of moves, as the degree is really considered just a rest stop on the way to the real prize, THE PHD. What will I do with a History degree? Who will I meet next year Marquette? How will my mind be transformed, reformed, challenged and set to lofty new heights? What friends will I make? What new interests will I acquire? What hidden talents will be unveiled? I don't have the answers to these quandaries. So I sit here, less than two weeks away from my decision deadline, jaunting back and forth between "to go, or not to go." But, with money on the table, would I be silly to resist?
I am now going to enter into a not-so-often-attempt of stream of conscious writing. I feel I have a lot to say, but not the time nor the chance to write it or say it. So, here I go:
Last night I came across the Danielson Famile again, a band that I have not heard since the year 2005; I found their weirdly-Christian lyrics and tantalizing beats enchanting; I then went on youtube and looked up one of their concerts from the Purple Door Festival of 2003 and found myself and two of my old-time friends (Jake Nelko and Ben Brewer) standing in the frame of the shot at about 1:55 of the video; this got me thinking about the messages and places we leave in our own history, and that probably many years into the future, some nostalgic young man will look through the pictures of a hundred years ago and come across a picture of me with curly hair and shell-laced necklaces, wearing a too-tight t-shirt that I bought at the thrift store because everyone seemed to be doing it: I wonder what that person would think. I wonder if they'd see themselves in me; I'm reading a phenomenal book from the author Cormac McCarthy entitled Blood Meridian, which is a truly haunting novel about the demonic forces that drive human kind, set within the context of American history and the Manifest Destiny doctine; I know that there will be a battle in the book, and I hope so badly for good to win out; at work I often find myself in contact with so much bad, that I can't seem to soften my own heart and care; I've been beaten down by impatience and the recurring problem of me feeling like I do EVERYTHING, that I don't seem to take the time to play, or to nurture or to really FOCUS on improving the situation of the needy immigrants and refugees who come into my office on a daily basis; the shrill of their voice and the laborious way in which they speak makes me want to slam my door in their face, and wish them a good night sleeping on their soggy-rugged floors in the spider-infested adobe that is their Housing Authority apartment; I guess working my ass off for a whole year and getting little in the way of monetary incentive makes me bitter and tired; I'm tired of pinching my pennies; I'm tired of having to fight to make the bill this month; and I'm tired of seeing listless teenagers wearing nicer clothes than myself, and then chastising me for my money and looks just because I'm white; I know that I've been fighting the urge to move abroad again; I'm not so sure that this comes from a weakness of character in regards to the fact that I always need to feel as if I'm on some kind of cerebral--or very real--adventure in life; I'm also not so sure that I can leave my family; oh, the dichotomy of wanting so badly to live so far away, yet realizing the futility of ripping up roots and never laying down my own perennial root system; yet, I'm drawn to the road, to the path, to the steam streaking across the sky to lands often encountered only in books, in thoughts and in periodic spouts of National Geographic marathons: maybe there are those of us who are just made to be wanderers,souls at home on the move, at home and in love with all those places and people they come into contact with; I'm often content in Erie--surprisingly so; I never did expect to find myself enjoying the Great Lake region so much, but I've slowly become fond of the old clapboard houses that look cozy in the night with their glowing windows, or at the bitterly cold winds that shoot off of the bay; I enjoy the accessibility of Erie's bar scene, and of the library that is perched out on the pier near our house; I'll miss these things when we're gone; I love going into the library and seeing a homeless-looking man read Shakespeare; it just throws my whole notion of perception and judgment into a cavalcade of uncertainties; my stream of conscious is ending, as I find myself thinking about what to write next, so I'll just leave with you a quote:
“Their sprit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides had joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he'll subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works may seem to us."
Who will we be, oh builders of prefabricated homes, wal-marts and indulgent egos? Will we be builders of stone, or of reeds?
I am, in all honesty, attempting at many times in my life to leave stone structures, but I have only hands enough to carry reeds.
I am now going to enter into a not-so-often-attempt of stream of conscious writing. I feel I have a lot to say, but not the time nor the chance to write it or say it. So, here I go:
Last night I came across the Danielson Famile again, a band that I have not heard since the year 2005; I found their weirdly-Christian lyrics and tantalizing beats enchanting; I then went on youtube and looked up one of their concerts from the Purple Door Festival of 2003 and found myself and two of my old-time friends (Jake Nelko and Ben Brewer) standing in the frame of the shot at about 1:55 of the video; this got me thinking about the messages and places we leave in our own history, and that probably many years into the future, some nostalgic young man will look through the pictures of a hundred years ago and come across a picture of me with curly hair and shell-laced necklaces, wearing a too-tight t-shirt that I bought at the thrift store because everyone seemed to be doing it: I wonder what that person would think. I wonder if they'd see themselves in me; I'm reading a phenomenal book from the author Cormac McCarthy entitled Blood Meridian, which is a truly haunting novel about the demonic forces that drive human kind, set within the context of American history and the Manifest Destiny doctine; I know that there will be a battle in the book, and I hope so badly for good to win out; at work I often find myself in contact with so much bad, that I can't seem to soften my own heart and care; I've been beaten down by impatience and the recurring problem of me feeling like I do EVERYTHING, that I don't seem to take the time to play, or to nurture or to really FOCUS on improving the situation of the needy immigrants and refugees who come into my office on a daily basis; the shrill of their voice and the laborious way in which they speak makes me want to slam my door in their face, and wish them a good night sleeping on their soggy-rugged floors in the spider-infested adobe that is their Housing Authority apartment; I guess working my ass off for a whole year and getting little in the way of monetary incentive makes me bitter and tired; I'm tired of pinching my pennies; I'm tired of having to fight to make the bill this month; and I'm tired of seeing listless teenagers wearing nicer clothes than myself, and then chastising me for my money and looks just because I'm white; I know that I've been fighting the urge to move abroad again; I'm not so sure that this comes from a weakness of character in regards to the fact that I always need to feel as if I'm on some kind of cerebral--or very real--adventure in life; I'm also not so sure that I can leave my family; oh, the dichotomy of wanting so badly to live so far away, yet realizing the futility of ripping up roots and never laying down my own perennial root system; yet, I'm drawn to the road, to the path, to the steam streaking across the sky to lands often encountered only in books, in thoughts and in periodic spouts of National Geographic marathons: maybe there are those of us who are just made to be wanderers,souls at home on the move, at home and in love with all those places and people they come into contact with; I'm often content in Erie--surprisingly so; I never did expect to find myself enjoying the Great Lake region so much, but I've slowly become fond of the old clapboard houses that look cozy in the night with their glowing windows, or at the bitterly cold winds that shoot off of the bay; I enjoy the accessibility of Erie's bar scene, and of the library that is perched out on the pier near our house; I'll miss these things when we're gone; I love going into the library and seeing a homeless-looking man read Shakespeare; it just throws my whole notion of perception and judgment into a cavalcade of uncertainties; my stream of conscious is ending, as I find myself thinking about what to write next, so I'll just leave with you a quote:
“Their sprit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides had joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he'll subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works may seem to us."
Who will we be, oh builders of prefabricated homes, wal-marts and indulgent egos? Will we be builders of stone, or of reeds?
I am, in all honesty, attempting at many times in my life to leave stone structures, but I have only hands enough to carry reeds.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Indian Embroidery
In January I stared taking an Indian Embroidery class at the Erie Art museum. You might be thinking, "wait. WHAT!? The art museum has classes?!" Well, the answer is yes, and you should look into them. Anyway, I was at work, looking over the quarterly reports from the VISTA before me and discovered that the art museum offered classes (and scholarships!) and promptly signed up.
Now, to be honest, Indian Embroidery was not my first choice and my thoughts after the first class were, "what the hell am I doing here? I can't do this. I just wanted to have a painting class." However, after I practiced at home with my tiny hooked needle and successfully made a few rows of chain stich, I started to get into this new style of art. But it still took some time getting used to, since, as an amature painter, my brain needs to have things in picture form and Indian Embroidery is not exactly meant for that: it is used for embellishments.
My teacher, Pooja, was extremely patient with me and the other three women in the class; showing is the different stiches over and over again. Of course, we didn't feel like we were achieving much since Pooja is a professional designer in India, and her work is amazingly beautiful, but her encouragement and praise when we were able to do a stich properly made us feel good about ourselves. And as the class went on, I found myself becoming almost obsessed with doing my practice at home, so that I would be better when the next class came around. So much so that Jeremy would have to actively ask me to do other things (Sorry, Jer. I can be a little one-track minded sometimes).
In the end I ended up loving the class, admiring my teacher and learning a new art form that I truly enjoy. Before the class ended I was able to finish one small project and I entered it into the "First Class" show at the Erie Art Museum, and on Saturday I just finished my large "practice piece" project, which became a mixture of what I learned from Pooja and what my brain wants to form. The art museum will be having their 88th annual spring art show and I am going to try my luck and see if I can get my piece into it. Cross your fingers and hold your thumbs!
Now, to be honest, Indian Embroidery was not my first choice and my thoughts after the first class were, "what the hell am I doing here? I can't do this. I just wanted to have a painting class." However, after I practiced at home with my tiny hooked needle and successfully made a few rows of chain stich, I started to get into this new style of art. But it still took some time getting used to, since, as an amature painter, my brain needs to have things in picture form and Indian Embroidery is not exactly meant for that: it is used for embellishments.
My teacher, Pooja, was extremely patient with me and the other three women in the class; showing is the different stiches over and over again. Of course, we didn't feel like we were achieving much since Pooja is a professional designer in India, and her work is amazingly beautiful, but her encouragement and praise when we were able to do a stich properly made us feel good about ourselves. And as the class went on, I found myself becoming almost obsessed with doing my practice at home, so that I would be better when the next class came around. So much so that Jeremy would have to actively ask me to do other things (Sorry, Jer. I can be a little one-track minded sometimes).
In the end I ended up loving the class, admiring my teacher and learning a new art form that I truly enjoy. Before the class ended I was able to finish one small project and I entered it into the "First Class" show at the Erie Art Museum, and on Saturday I just finished my large "practice piece" project, which became a mixture of what I learned from Pooja and what my brain wants to form. The art museum will be having their 88th annual spring art show and I am going to try my luck and see if I can get my piece into it. Cross your fingers and hold your thumbs!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Marcellus Shale
I wanted to post a letter to the editor I wrote for the Erie Times:
Dear Editor,
It has come to my attention that recently there has been quite a rash of “Pro-Marcellus-Shale-Drilling” letters to the editor, which has left me—I must admit—a little bit worried. Worried not only about the fact that I do believe people are being manipulated into thinking that fracture-style drilling will actually bring “JOBS”, “SECURITY” and “WEALTH” to the local region, but also worried that this manipulation will be used to support another money-hungry, boom-and-bust type of industrial pillaging that Western Pennsylvania has been so accustomed to in its long history: first Big Coal and Big Steel; now, Big Gas.
Information abounds as to why “Fracking” is not exactly the most beneficial industry to rear its head in Western Pennsylvania, as it itself has left its own trail of destruction and misinformation wherever its large boot has landed: destroyed watersheds, poor oversight in regards to dumping water, polluted rivers, annihilated forests, corrupt political campaigns, a total EXEMPTION FROM THE SAFE DRINKING WATER ACT (see Energy Policy Act of 2005, section 322), and worst of all, a total disregard for the people that its unregulated, haphazardly-placed wells have affected in the form of asthma-ridden lungs, neurologically-destroyed brains and ruined property.
And, honestly, the problems are not that far off from our safe abode here in Northwestern Pennsylvania. Has anyone been down to Washington or Greene County lately? Has anyone read about the numerous accounts of polluted wells and water shed systems there? Has anyone seen the eye-sores that are the drilling rigs perched atop the once-was-beautiful Southwestern Pennsylvania hills? I have. I went to school there. And, really, not much positive news is coming out of those regions. In fact, all I hear are stories of migrant workers from a laundry list of states—Texas, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Kansas (no Pennsylvanians)—who run into the town, build the drilling rigs and leave. I hear of bubbling faucets, fish kills and the largest amount of pollution in the Monongahela River since Andrew Carnegie’s blast furnaces burned brightly along its banks—30 years ago!
Which is why —as I’m sure you can tell—I am down-right perplexed as to why Marcellus Shale drilling is seriously still being debated as a possible “positive” development for our region: It has a terrible environmental record. The wells themselves are self-maintaining (and polluting), so there is not real need for a job. To actually “frack” the shale enough to release the gas, there needs to be a highly-toxic slurry of chemicals shoved down into the ground, of which, only 20% come back to the surface. And, we are not even so sure as to how profitable this gas will be to the state itself, as most of the companies are from out of state and are completely untaxed under Pennsylvania legislation, and will most likely be selling this gas to foreign buyers.
So, I think it is time to maybe rethink our love affair with Marcellus Shale drilling. After all, are not we—the residents of a state that for so long has given up her resources for the rapacious enrichment of a few tycoons—the ones who should stand up and speak up when a clear pattern of manipulation, extraction and misinformation is being perpetrated?
I do not know about you, but I’m not sold on Big Gas yet, as I do believe it’s got some rotting skeletons in its closet, and they sure do STINK.
Dear Editor,
It has come to my attention that recently there has been quite a rash of “Pro-Marcellus-Shale-Drilling” letters to the editor, which has left me—I must admit—a little bit worried. Worried not only about the fact that I do believe people are being manipulated into thinking that fracture-style drilling will actually bring “JOBS”, “SECURITY” and “WEALTH” to the local region, but also worried that this manipulation will be used to support another money-hungry, boom-and-bust type of industrial pillaging that Western Pennsylvania has been so accustomed to in its long history: first Big Coal and Big Steel; now, Big Gas.
Information abounds as to why “Fracking” is not exactly the most beneficial industry to rear its head in Western Pennsylvania, as it itself has left its own trail of destruction and misinformation wherever its large boot has landed: destroyed watersheds, poor oversight in regards to dumping water, polluted rivers, annihilated forests, corrupt political campaigns, a total EXEMPTION FROM THE SAFE DRINKING WATER ACT (see Energy Policy Act of 2005, section 322), and worst of all, a total disregard for the people that its unregulated, haphazardly-placed wells have affected in the form of asthma-ridden lungs, neurologically-destroyed brains and ruined property.
And, honestly, the problems are not that far off from our safe abode here in Northwestern Pennsylvania. Has anyone been down to Washington or Greene County lately? Has anyone read about the numerous accounts of polluted wells and water shed systems there? Has anyone seen the eye-sores that are the drilling rigs perched atop the once-was-beautiful Southwestern Pennsylvania hills? I have. I went to school there. And, really, not much positive news is coming out of those regions. In fact, all I hear are stories of migrant workers from a laundry list of states—Texas, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Kansas (no Pennsylvanians)—who run into the town, build the drilling rigs and leave. I hear of bubbling faucets, fish kills and the largest amount of pollution in the Monongahela River since Andrew Carnegie’s blast furnaces burned brightly along its banks—30 years ago!
Which is why —as I’m sure you can tell—I am down-right perplexed as to why Marcellus Shale drilling is seriously still being debated as a possible “positive” development for our region: It has a terrible environmental record. The wells themselves are self-maintaining (and polluting), so there is not real need for a job. To actually “frack” the shale enough to release the gas, there needs to be a highly-toxic slurry of chemicals shoved down into the ground, of which, only 20% come back to the surface. And, we are not even so sure as to how profitable this gas will be to the state itself, as most of the companies are from out of state and are completely untaxed under Pennsylvania legislation, and will most likely be selling this gas to foreign buyers.
So, I think it is time to maybe rethink our love affair with Marcellus Shale drilling. After all, are not we—the residents of a state that for so long has given up her resources for the rapacious enrichment of a few tycoons—the ones who should stand up and speak up when a clear pattern of manipulation, extraction and misinformation is being perpetrated?
I do not know about you, but I’m not sold on Big Gas yet, as I do believe it’s got some rotting skeletons in its closet, and they sure do STINK.
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