Last summer, the EPA sought public comment regarding the possible regulation of greenhouse gases.
To proceed, the EPA would have to find that greenhouse gases endanger public health and should be classified a pollutant. If such a finding were made, other provisions of the Clean Air Act would be activated, resulting in a potential impact upon, among others, agriculture. Specifically targeted would be the production of dairy cattle, beef cattle and swine.
The potential cost of this regulation is estimated to be $175.00 per dairy cow, $87.50 per beef cow, and $20.00 per hog—a cost initially to be paid by the producer but ultimately borne by the consumer.
Rather than give serious consideration to a flatulence-tax on livestock production, it may behoove us to look at some of the possible ramifications of such a proposal. (the puns in that last sentence cost me almost nothing!) Our experience with the odiferous winds forever wafting from Washington D.C. have prepared us to anticipate a likely (hasty) expansion of this revenue generating scheme—this gas tax.
I can see it now—scientists carefully measuring the emissions of a chicken’s cluck or a pig’s squeal, as bureaucrats look on in gleeful anticipation of the results. Beware when those same onlookers turn their gaze on you and me, and begin considering how much they might be able to collect for a hiccup, a yawn or a gasp. I suppose they will take a particular interest in bad breath, and can only imagine their excitement when they realize they might be able to institute double-taxation on those of us who enjoy a beef burrito from time to time!
Let’s not forget about the family pets! Those of us with a dog or cat will be expected to do our part to pay for our furry friend’s lack of control. And don’t think the EPA will overlook those bubbles that occasionally break at the surface of the goldfish bowl, either.
In 2003, a similar proposal was presented in New Zealand. There, farmers protested by mailing packages of cattle and sheep manure to lawmakers.
Before the U. S. Department of Snickers, Whistles and Sneezes becomes a reality, we should ask ourselves how we might stem these proposed changes. We could follow the lead of the farmers in New Zealand and mail parcels of dung to our legislators. I’m certain it’s not illegal—I personally get loads of it from their end whenever an election approaches.
We might call on experts in animal husbandry to develop more restrained breeds, or work to improve the quality of animal feeds to reduce the potential for exhaust. The folks up in Cuyahoga County have already started addressing the air quality problem by opening Cow-Check emissions testing stations. Or is that Car-Check? I’m not sure.
Why not work toward capturing this presently wasted form of energy, much being methane. We could employ the methane to reduce our reliance on foreign oil, perhaps collecting it in convenient, consumer-ready packets that could immediately be put to productive use, say, to power our lawnmowers.
Watch for publication of the EPA’s findings, in order that you may make well-timed investment purchases to rejuvenate your recently decimated portfolio. I hear that work is being done to develop Bovine Beano, and Toot-o-Meter, Inc. has already ramped up production.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
What's that smell?
She had just laid down for a nap when I decided to boil some eggs. I set the electric burner on high and placed a pot of water on the stove. Certain that I had enough time to tidy up the interior of my pickup before the water was hot, I headed out the back door to quickly complete my chore.
How I ended up in the lawn chair I don’t recall, but that’s where I was when she woke me. “You know you turned on the wrong burner?” I opened one eye and saw that she was looking into my still messy truck. “There was a clean pot on the burner you turned on. I think you’ve ruined it— and the house reeks!” Not fully awake, and forgetting that I hadn’t actually added the eggs yet, I asked, “Are the eggs done?” That’s when it came—the look.
When I walked into the house, the smell was reminiscent of that of a steel mill—the air was hazy. Looking at the pot, I could see that it had nearly become welded to the burner of the stove. The bottom was blackened and the dry metal on the inside was splotched with discoloration from the heat. “This will be okay,” I lied.
I could sense that I was still getting the look, so I made for my shop in the basement without saying anything more. The eggs weren’t done.
I suppose she had some reason to be upset. She’s always been sensitive to smells that fall outside of a narrow range that lie somewhere between spring breeze and floral essence.
This was my second egg-boiling incident. The first time, I had started some eggs and stretched out on the couch to wait. When I woke up the house smelled like sulphur—all the water had boiled out of the pot. Did you know that eggs can explode? There was egg everywhere, including a liberal application on the ceiling. I had it pretty well cleaned up before she got home, but the smell was heavy and there was a satiny sheen where the eggs had been. I was compelled to give the kitchen a fresh coat of paint soon after.
There have been other incidents with smells. There was the winter evening when she went shopping and I suggested to my sons that we fix some burgers on the gas grill...in the kitchen. I set the small grille on the countertop next to an open window, then opened another window for cross ventilation. It should have worked... It didn’t. We got the grille out of the house before she got home, but the smoke was still thick and the house smelled like smoky burgers for days.
Then, there was that time I let the dog out. Buddy learned a hard lesson about skunks that night. Would she blame the skunk? Or even the dog? No, it was my fault...again. That smell hung on for weeks.
There have been other problems with smells, but I’m hesitant to share them for fear that my insurance rates would go up—probably triple.
What can she expect? She lives in a house with three men—there’s bound to be smells. Am I right?
How I ended up in the lawn chair I don’t recall, but that’s where I was when she woke me. “You know you turned on the wrong burner?” I opened one eye and saw that she was looking into my still messy truck. “There was a clean pot on the burner you turned on. I think you’ve ruined it— and the house reeks!” Not fully awake, and forgetting that I hadn’t actually added the eggs yet, I asked, “Are the eggs done?” That’s when it came—the look.
When I walked into the house, the smell was reminiscent of that of a steel mill—the air was hazy. Looking at the pot, I could see that it had nearly become welded to the burner of the stove. The bottom was blackened and the dry metal on the inside was splotched with discoloration from the heat. “This will be okay,” I lied.
I could sense that I was still getting the look, so I made for my shop in the basement without saying anything more. The eggs weren’t done.
I suppose she had some reason to be upset. She’s always been sensitive to smells that fall outside of a narrow range that lie somewhere between spring breeze and floral essence.
This was my second egg-boiling incident. The first time, I had started some eggs and stretched out on the couch to wait. When I woke up the house smelled like sulphur—all the water had boiled out of the pot. Did you know that eggs can explode? There was egg everywhere, including a liberal application on the ceiling. I had it pretty well cleaned up before she got home, but the smell was heavy and there was a satiny sheen where the eggs had been. I was compelled to give the kitchen a fresh coat of paint soon after.
There have been other incidents with smells. There was the winter evening when she went shopping and I suggested to my sons that we fix some burgers on the gas grill...in the kitchen. I set the small grille on the countertop next to an open window, then opened another window for cross ventilation. It should have worked... It didn’t. We got the grille out of the house before she got home, but the smoke was still thick and the house smelled like smoky burgers for days.
Then, there was that time I let the dog out. Buddy learned a hard lesson about skunks that night. Would she blame the skunk? Or even the dog? No, it was my fault...again. That smell hung on for weeks.
There have been other problems with smells, but I’m hesitant to share them for fear that my insurance rates would go up—probably triple.
What can she expect? She lives in a house with three men—there’s bound to be smells. Am I right?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
On Canada - real facts, frivolously presented
There has always been a degree of tension between America and her northern neighbor. Canadians lay fault with the Americans insistence on referring to Canada geese as Canadian geese—an error which any Canadian will politely (but pointedly) correct. Americans are quick to point out that since all the Canadian geese seem to be in the United States committing rancorous acts of eco-terrorism by attempting to cover the entire country in goose poo, we can call them whatever we please!
Passing through Canada on his way to becoming a U.S. citizen, Alexander Graham Bell remarked that he very much enjoyed Canadian bacon. Canadians have since claimed him as their own, which they have some right to do, since Bell later died while there on a work-visa to install phone booths - he is buried in Nova Scotia.
A few inventors have come from Canada—as did some of their inventions. Five-pin bowling, the retractable beer carton handle, and frozen fish (isn’t everything in Canada frozen?) are a few of the important contributions made by Canadians. Ski bindings are an invention claimed by Canadians—I would think that idea came rather easily:
Canadian Inventor One, “That-there ski went right down the mountain, eh.”
Canadian Inventor Two, “We’ll ‘ave to fix that, eh.”
Canadian Inventor Three, “Eh... eh.”
The inventor of the anti-gravity suit is said to have been a Canadian, but it’s difficult to prove since he’s been in low earth orbit ever since.
Most Canadians speak Canadian (which sounds vaguely similar to English) except the French Canadians—many of whom reside in Quebec and speak French Canadian.
Some of the early French Canadian settlers emigrated to Louisiana in search of crayfish and a good gumbo recipe. Those that remained in Quebec are being held hostage by the Canadian government, which is preventing them from removing Quebec to a warmer climate for fear that Newfoundland and Labrador will drift to sea.
Canada’s primary export to the U.S. is snow, cleverly sent across our shared border via the logistically sound use of the jet stream and cold fronts. Canada’s national sport is lacrosse. If this comes as a surprise to you, don’t worry—it’s news to seven out of ten Canadians as well. The national animal of Canada is the beaver. You might think that this is due to the industrious nature of this semi-aquatic rodent, but that’s not the case.
Prior to the decimation of their numbers, the beaver was known to be a much larger animal. When Jacques Cartier was exploring Canada (scouting a good location for his next jewelry store) his boat was prevented from advancing up the St. Lawrence River by rapids. With horses having not yet been invented, Cartier was forced to outfit his exploration party to continue on the backs of beavers.
Without the beavers the expedition would have failed, but no depiction of this event exists today because Cartier prevented its characterization due to his embarrassment at being astraddle a paddle-tailed rat. Cartier later claimed Canada for France. The French immediately forgot where they left it, allowing for Canadian self-rule, such as it is.
And that is everything one needs to know on Canada.
Passing through Canada on his way to becoming a U.S. citizen, Alexander Graham Bell remarked that he very much enjoyed Canadian bacon. Canadians have since claimed him as their own, which they have some right to do, since Bell later died while there on a work-visa to install phone booths - he is buried in Nova Scotia.
A few inventors have come from Canada—as did some of their inventions. Five-pin bowling, the retractable beer carton handle, and frozen fish (isn’t everything in Canada frozen?) are a few of the important contributions made by Canadians. Ski bindings are an invention claimed by Canadians—I would think that idea came rather easily:
Canadian Inventor One, “That-there ski went right down the mountain, eh.”
Canadian Inventor Two, “We’ll ‘ave to fix that, eh.”
Canadian Inventor Three, “Eh... eh.”
The inventor of the anti-gravity suit is said to have been a Canadian, but it’s difficult to prove since he’s been in low earth orbit ever since.
Most Canadians speak Canadian (which sounds vaguely similar to English) except the French Canadians—many of whom reside in Quebec and speak French Canadian.
Some of the early French Canadian settlers emigrated to Louisiana in search of crayfish and a good gumbo recipe. Those that remained in Quebec are being held hostage by the Canadian government, which is preventing them from removing Quebec to a warmer climate for fear that Newfoundland and Labrador will drift to sea.
Canada’s primary export to the U.S. is snow, cleverly sent across our shared border via the logistically sound use of the jet stream and cold fronts. Canada’s national sport is lacrosse. If this comes as a surprise to you, don’t worry—it’s news to seven out of ten Canadians as well. The national animal of Canada is the beaver. You might think that this is due to the industrious nature of this semi-aquatic rodent, but that’s not the case.
Prior to the decimation of their numbers, the beaver was known to be a much larger animal. When Jacques Cartier was exploring Canada (scouting a good location for his next jewelry store) his boat was prevented from advancing up the St. Lawrence River by rapids. With horses having not yet been invented, Cartier was forced to outfit his exploration party to continue on the backs of beavers.
Without the beavers the expedition would have failed, but no depiction of this event exists today because Cartier prevented its characterization due to his embarrassment at being astraddle a paddle-tailed rat. Cartier later claimed Canada for France. The French immediately forgot where they left it, allowing for Canadian self-rule, such as it is.
And that is everything one needs to know on Canada.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
If not for women...
The planet’s burgeoning population is placing a strain on our natural resources, the environment, and the availability of good parking spaces. My wife has suggested a solution to this growing problem – temporarily transfer responsibility for pregnancy and childbirth… to men.
She says temporarily because she fears (with good reason, I think) that if men permanently assumed responsibility for birthing, the human population would decline at such an alarming rate as to force us to list our own species as threatened within months.
The raw truth is: Men can’t do it.
Man-pregnancy wouldn’t be a good idea for a number of reasons.
Imagine: Five guys sitting in the waiting area of a Jiffy Lube, when the technician walks in and tells one of them that he went 500 miles past his scheduled service. The hormonally charged customer starts to weep, openly and uncontrollably, and at least three of the others start bawling, too - I can’t even think about it.
Many of us would eventually suffer the symptoms of false labor - what are known as Braxton-Hicks contractions. Many women don’t even notice them. We men would notice them! We would experience a panic attack, race to the hospital, demand to be admitted for the remainder of the term, and let rip with an episode of hysterical wailing while being forcibly removed from the facility.
The sudden jump in babies being delivered en-route to the nearest delivery room would create additional cause for concern. This would be attributed to the fact that the only thing a man fears more than pain in his nether-region, is asking for directions!
Labor and Delivery? Forget it! Nausea and swelling would have sapped us of all but the will to survive months ago.
Admittedly, we men would shine in certain elements of the pregnancy experience. Take nesting for example – we’ve already demonstrated similar tendencies in the way we prepare a comfy place for our tools, our television, and our dog.
Then there’s the weight gain. As things stand now, we put the weight on right along with the women. The only difference between us and the ladies is they take the baby-weight off - we keep it on so we’ll be ready for their next pregnancy. We’re creatures of efficiency, you see.
And birth statistics? Men can remember detailed statistics of every sporting event from the past half-century, so recalling the newborn’s birth weight, length, APGAR score, clocked time in the 40 yard dash, and decibel level of that first squeal would be a breeze.
Naturally, our competitive tendencies would come into play and we would start to embellish the facts, making them more impressive with each telling, until delivery times would be whittled down to fewer than 20 minutes and the average reported birth weight would be 41 pounds.
And yes, the women would laugh at us. After centuries of ensuring the survival of our species they’ve earned the right – but since they laugh at us already, maybe it’s just as well if we leave things as nature intended. Please?
She says temporarily because she fears (with good reason, I think) that if men permanently assumed responsibility for birthing, the human population would decline at such an alarming rate as to force us to list our own species as threatened within months.
The raw truth is: Men can’t do it.
Man-pregnancy wouldn’t be a good idea for a number of reasons.
Imagine: Five guys sitting in the waiting area of a Jiffy Lube, when the technician walks in and tells one of them that he went 500 miles past his scheduled service. The hormonally charged customer starts to weep, openly and uncontrollably, and at least three of the others start bawling, too - I can’t even think about it.
Many of us would eventually suffer the symptoms of false labor - what are known as Braxton-Hicks contractions. Many women don’t even notice them. We men would notice them! We would experience a panic attack, race to the hospital, demand to be admitted for the remainder of the term, and let rip with an episode of hysterical wailing while being forcibly removed from the facility.
The sudden jump in babies being delivered en-route to the nearest delivery room would create additional cause for concern. This would be attributed to the fact that the only thing a man fears more than pain in his nether-region, is asking for directions!
Labor and Delivery? Forget it! Nausea and swelling would have sapped us of all but the will to survive months ago.
Admittedly, we men would shine in certain elements of the pregnancy experience. Take nesting for example – we’ve already demonstrated similar tendencies in the way we prepare a comfy place for our tools, our television, and our dog.
Then there’s the weight gain. As things stand now, we put the weight on right along with the women. The only difference between us and the ladies is they take the baby-weight off - we keep it on so we’ll be ready for their next pregnancy. We’re creatures of efficiency, you see.
And birth statistics? Men can remember detailed statistics of every sporting event from the past half-century, so recalling the newborn’s birth weight, length, APGAR score, clocked time in the 40 yard dash, and decibel level of that first squeal would be a breeze.
Naturally, our competitive tendencies would come into play and we would start to embellish the facts, making them more impressive with each telling, until delivery times would be whittled down to fewer than 20 minutes and the average reported birth weight would be 41 pounds.
And yes, the women would laugh at us. After centuries of ensuring the survival of our species they’ve earned the right – but since they laugh at us already, maybe it’s just as well if we leave things as nature intended. Please?
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Timberdoodle Time
It’s time for the show, and I’ll be in the audience – if I’m able to locate the venue.
The migratory bird known variously as the bog-sucker, mud bat, big-eye, night partridge, American woodcock, or by what some may describe as the more socially acceptable moniker of timberdoodle, is due to arrive in Central Ohio any day now. The timberdoodle is an odd looking bird that upon its arrival commences an entertaining courtship display.
Early this past summer I spotted my first timberdoodle. I visited a pond, and was walking its edge surveying the springtime plants emerging there. This pond's overflow passes into moist, low-lying woodland.
As I walked, I heard what sounded somewhat like a solitary cicada flying near the edge of the woods. While I continued walking, it occurred to me that it was too early in the season for cicadas, or their cousin the Dogday Harvestfly. Looking to the spot from where the sound had come, I spotted a stumpy, chunky, long billed, caricature of a bird – it was a timberdoodle. The sound that I had heard was the twittering sound that is produced by wind passing through the flying bird’s outer wing feathers.
A seasonal inhabitant of brushy, moist wooded areas, the timberdoodle arrives in late February or early March when the male will attempt to woo the female with what she-timberdoodles have described as embarrassing and foolish, but the males know to be extremely cool.
The male chooses a woodland edge or clearing to call his own then, as dusk approaches and young avian hearts turn to thoughts of amoré, the courting ritual begins. After producing a regular buzz, or what is often described as a “peent, peent, peent” sound, the male takes off and flies as high as 300 feet into the air, before spiraling and darting downward, while producing a variety of twittering sounds in his descent to the launch pad. From there he will repeat this show of machismo until (he hopes) a female arrives to satisfy his need for an ego-massage... among other things.
The woods that surround my home and lie along the creek and its adjacent floodplain are perfect habitat for the timberdoodle. Many a March sunset has found me on the fringe of a woodland opening, listening and waiting - eyes pointed skyward. My family finds my motionless, sentinel-like watch in the frigid dusk to be their own amusing form of springtime entertainment, since, after some years of trying, I’ve yet to personally witness the timberdoodle’s annual display of aerial acrobatics.
Franklin County Metro Parks offers free opportunities to view this event in programs called Woodcock Watch, Woodcock Walk or Timberdoodle Time. Anyone interested can find scheduled dates and times at: http://reservations.metroparks.net/programs/
Myself... I’ll be in some of my usual places, waiting patiently as squirrels curse me and the sun drops over the horizon. This year I believe I’ll start my vigil at that pond where I saw my first timberdoodle - it’s been awhile since I’ve visited and I’m long overdue.
The migratory bird known variously as the bog-sucker, mud bat, big-eye, night partridge, American woodcock, or by what some may describe as the more socially acceptable moniker of timberdoodle, is due to arrive in Central Ohio any day now. The timberdoodle is an odd looking bird that upon its arrival commences an entertaining courtship display.
Early this past summer I spotted my first timberdoodle. I visited a pond, and was walking its edge surveying the springtime plants emerging there. This pond's overflow passes into moist, low-lying woodland.
As I walked, I heard what sounded somewhat like a solitary cicada flying near the edge of the woods. While I continued walking, it occurred to me that it was too early in the season for cicadas, or their cousin the Dogday Harvestfly. Looking to the spot from where the sound had come, I spotted a stumpy, chunky, long billed, caricature of a bird – it was a timberdoodle. The sound that I had heard was the twittering sound that is produced by wind passing through the flying bird’s outer wing feathers.
A seasonal inhabitant of brushy, moist wooded areas, the timberdoodle arrives in late February or early March when the male will attempt to woo the female with what she-timberdoodles have described as embarrassing and foolish, but the males know to be extremely cool.
The male chooses a woodland edge or clearing to call his own then, as dusk approaches and young avian hearts turn to thoughts of amoré, the courting ritual begins. After producing a regular buzz, or what is often described as a “peent, peent, peent” sound, the male takes off and flies as high as 300 feet into the air, before spiraling and darting downward, while producing a variety of twittering sounds in his descent to the launch pad. From there he will repeat this show of machismo until (he hopes) a female arrives to satisfy his need for an ego-massage... among other things.
The woods that surround my home and lie along the creek and its adjacent floodplain are perfect habitat for the timberdoodle. Many a March sunset has found me on the fringe of a woodland opening, listening and waiting - eyes pointed skyward. My family finds my motionless, sentinel-like watch in the frigid dusk to be their own amusing form of springtime entertainment, since, after some years of trying, I’ve yet to personally witness the timberdoodle’s annual display of aerial acrobatics.
Franklin County Metro Parks offers free opportunities to view this event in programs called Woodcock Watch, Woodcock Walk or Timberdoodle Time. Anyone interested can find scheduled dates and times at: http://reservations.metroparks.net/programs/
Myself... I’ll be in some of my usual places, waiting patiently as squirrels curse me and the sun drops over the horizon. This year I believe I’ll start my vigil at that pond where I saw my first timberdoodle - it’s been awhile since I’ve visited and I’m long overdue.
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