Actions, Not Words

In his quest to become the guiding light of the US, and maybe even the world, Al Gore has been Mother Nature's attorney in the fight with the Greenhouse effect. Like any good lawyer, Gore makes sure his tongue is quick on its proverbial feet, and when the audience was cast as judge, jury and executioner in Gore's now epic documentary, "An Inconvenient Truth," he proved just how slick he could be when given the numbers to back him up. All he did was lay the facts out there and let us lap them up. That was undeniably a very effective tactic in promoting global knowledge of the environmental crises we face. But guess what. The gospel is out. Now, I do not doubt Gore's brains - I don't know anyone who would, but his resolve seems a little shaky.
Granted, "An Inconvenient Truth" was a powerful piece of cinematography, but at the same time, hypocrisy was more rampant than the Plague was in the Middle Ages. Other than in the auditorium, a lot of scenes were shot in airplanes or cars. What kind of message does that send out? I know I'm being a cynic, but if Jesus was an Infidel, his words and actions would have carried a lot less clout. I congratulate Gore for drawing together a posse determined on negating the Greenhouse Effect, but now is the time for action, so we need a role model who can show us the next step. Preferably not one who accumulates more airmiles in a year than most will in a lifetime. Sure, integrity and charisma are different things but it would be nice if in Gore's case there was some correlation.
Still, I understand his messiah-like status. In the years following the release of “An Inconvenient Truth,” global understanding and appreciation of the problems that could wreak havoc on mankind has increased tenfold. The Toyota Prius is one of the hottest-selling cars there is, thanks in no small part to celebrity endorsements from stars such as Leonardo Di Caprio and NHL defenseman, Scott Niedermayer. Likewise, hydrogen cars are now a reality. Recycling schemes are sprouting up everywhere. Gore has got the message through. Now time for direct action and deliverance of the gospel.
Point is, Al Gore said during a recent C-SPAN press conference that 100% of America’s energy needs could be derived from solar installations. I wasn’t listening very closely, but I didn’t hear any supplementary, hard fact. That amount of solar paneling would set the Treasury back quite some distance, probably well into the billions and so whilst there is potential, there are other important considerations to be made. More over, why such reluctance to adopt nuclear power? No current power source is as efficient, so if we are in the dire straits illustrated by Gore, urgent action is required. What should we do? Go Nuclear. No greenhouse emissions is all we need to know. Sure, nuclear waste is hazardous, but it’s not like a little vitrification can’t sort things out.
Modern humanity relies on power to live and simply couldn’t go cold turkey. Pollution of some form is a given, and we can control things, but at the same time, its about time we stopped hypothesizing and actually did something about this "impending disaster".

Snakes and Coffee

Several hours after detailing the trials and tribulations of my stop at In-N-Out Burger on the way home from the Bay Area, we pulled into Moncenito, near Santa Barbara after a driving tour of UCSB. After around 5 hours on the road, our faithful, unerring driver was in dire need of a caffeine fix, so we strode in a restaurant and inquired as to where the nearest coffee shop maybe.
Low and behold, Trattoria Mollie, the pride and joy of Ethopian-born owner Mollie Ahlstrand has been cooking up quite a storm. The clientele includes Catherine Zeta-Jones, Oprah Winfrey and Mikhail Gorbachev. After some well-placed chit-chat from my grandmother, we all got to talking and Mollie graciously took care of our bill (3 triple espressos). She inquired in Italian-accented English what we doing in town After explaining that we were looking at colleges in the Bay Area and were on our way back south (with us, the “English Grandsons” in tow), Mollie seemed to be under the impression that I had been accepted to Stanford, which is my personal hypothesis as to why she fathered the bill.
However, like all good scientific debates, there was an alternative hypothesis. My grandmother argued that Ahlstrand’s kindness was due to Gran recognizing her Ethiopian, which would probably be a rare occurrence in a sleepy California town. Whatever the reason, Mollie’s generosity is greatly appreciated. Maybe, next time, the coffee could be a little stronger.
Anyhow, we got back to the Palisades several hours later and sat down for dinner, our fifth consecutive night at a restaurant. So, in preparation to break the streak, we went to the Farmer’s Market the following morning and stocked up on everything from Hummus to Salsa.
We arrived back home in the late morning to shrieks from Maria “Mother” Theresa and barks from the golden retriever, Louie. Then it struck us. The commotion was thanks to a large rattlesnake coiled up near the back door. Keeping my distance, I attempted to reconnoiter the situation but shortly the mustached local firemen arrived on the scene, clad in thick boots and armed with what appeared to be shovels and hoes.
Several brazen minutes later and the snake was captured, a drawstring pole (???) around its neck and a rattle shaking violently. To think it took me 16 years to catch a glimpse of a snake in an area known for them seems weird, but shortly you can share that experience, or rather just as soon as I find the camera transfer cable.

Fast Food Fatah

When that moody old guy who lives somewhere north of Cloud Nine dumped us in Atascadera, Calif., he delivered a mission. Unearth the secret behind the wholesome, red-necked goodness behind our dear In-N-Out Burger. What could I do but oblige? The Big Guy needed an answer. So, smarting from the sight of my fellow diners, many of whom were either "Supersized" or wore spurs, or both, I meekly ordered an "Easy #2," a delightful combination of "Cheese Burger, Fries and Medium Drink," which turned out to be a Root Beer.
My hopes were rising as I read how the potatos were peeled and cubed onsite, that the beef was never frozen (is that really such a good thing?), but alas I looked at my lunch. And then touched it. And then tried to remove the paper wrapper from the burger. It...wouldn't...come...free, or at least not until I severed the umbilical chain of orange plastic (cheese?) that was busy smothering an already patty-shaped cow.
Shaking, I put the burger to my mouth, all the while grease and hollandaise sauce dripping onto my fries. I was surprised. In-N-Out burgers taste good. Really good. Apparently, there is a purpose behind the alleged freshness of the food. Sure, my fingers were inch-deep in a healthy layer of grease, by my tongue was thanking me for withstanding such an experience. All in all, if you can imagine a McDonalds meal with multi-faceted substance, you have in your hands an In-N-Out Burger. Clearly, the owners are confident enough in this selling point to offer fanware for dedicated customers. For just $15, you can have yourself a replica uniform. As to whether such an option if attractive to the somewhat country Atascadera clientele, I don't know, but considering that the mean weight of the restaurant hovered around 200lbs, I was in the presence of awesome dedication.
So Mr. Big Guy, here you have it, the secret behind the success of the "Hokepoke" Burger is this: McDonalds without the guilt is an attractive meal choice for many Californians. Apparently.

There is a God!

Prior to Wednesday, I viewed the next two years as a long march towards the hallowed lawns of People's Park, more specifically UC Berkeley. Ironically, all that changed thanks to the grandeur of the long entrance road of Stanford University. Thanks to some very persuasive tour guides/ great uncles/aunts, in combination with the hard to miss splendor of campus. Obviously, there is a lot of noise about their academic and (supposed) athletic prowess, and indeed the only advantage the guidebook cedes to their cross-bay rivals, Berkeley, is the ownership of a better college town. So despite the stigmatic problems I discussed in my last post, Stanford seems like a pretty irresistible place.
Heck, it even appears that the recently mentioned Big Guy in the Sky wants me to swing the axe and favour Berkeley over Cal, even though his methodology seems to be a bit perverse. For starters, he only granted me 1.5 hours on campus, possibly paying off the guide to chuck in some lethargy. The rest of the day was spent meandering around Oakland and Piedmont, so my ability to suss out what Berkeley is really like was somewhat blurred, compared to my 4.5 hour initiation at Stanford. Likewise, I could almost feel the Holy Beam of Light encase me in Chinatown when a boiling cup of tea somehow wiggled free from my grip and deposited itself on every inch of my body, the food and the floor. Point is, the Big Guy wanted to chisel an ominous sensation into my head, but I will not be deterred. So long as the tumultuous dice that is residency lands in my favor, Berkeley remains Numero Uno, although I would feel happy on either side of the Big Game.
Anyway, Mr Big Guy, you've had your fun, but please, go easy on me.

I'm Sold

Stanford University, no, sorry, Leland Stanford Junior University, is quite some place. I wasn't meant to like it - coming from a family ingrained in the public University of California, LA. On the other hand, Stanford has an "old-boy" stigma, and boasts strong associations with Donald Rumsfeld and Condoleeza Rice, so for a liberal kid from a liberal family, I had a hard time convincing myself that I could belong at such a place. Boy, that task became easy once I actually stepped foot on campus.
The campus itself is on an aesthetic par with UCLA, my benchmark for beautiful, relatively urban schools, so that made for an ideal first impression. Then consider the fact that weather is great (not far off 250 days of sun a year), big cities like San Jose (with entailing NHL franchise) and San Francisco are under an hour away and the urbanish feel of campus and you can see why I'm so smitten with Stanford. Then figure in big-time sports and the academics don't even need to be that great for the school to strike a very marked impression.
But wait a minute. Stanford has fantastic academics, a great library and the financial capabilities to make it work for any admitted student. Academic flexibility is emphasized, there is a strong international focus and...prices on campus generally don't correspond to its private status.
The old-boy stigma was perhaps my biggest stumbling block in thinking about Stanford, but hearing that it a source of great agony to students, faculty and alumni alike, I felt reassured that, whilst no Berserkeley, Stanford is not a pure republican haven.
Point is, if the Big Guy in the Sky has mercy on my sinful ways and lets me come to this palace of education, I am sure I will become one of those 86% who are happy they came to The Farm.

Banana Slug Banter

Note: Whilst in California, I/we will be visiting several of the state’s university campuses, prospecting for the ideal college when matriculation rolls around in 2 years time. So far, we have looked at UCLA and UC Santa Cruz, with Stanford and Berkeley coming in the next few days and the Claremont Colleges in suburban Los Angeles some time while we’re here.

After a bright and early 11am start, we reached Santa Cruz shortly after noon and picnicked outside one of the school’s ten colleges, Crown. My initial feeling was that the campus was basically a farm, hardly the sophisticated, academic environment I was anticipating. My fears were soon allayed, for nestled among the pine forests are a beautiful collection of buildings that make for a very peaceful learning environment. Obviously this is no Harvard or Berkeley, but there is a good, activist vibe about the place and for what I would regard as a safety school, it would be a fun place to go to school. However, the town itself seems slightly deadbeat, but with Monterey half an hour to the south and San Jose barely an hour away, it’s not as though urban junkies will find themselves at a complete loss at UCSC.

Indeed, along with the pine scent, there is a refreshing ambiance around the university known for its tree-hugging, hippy students. Even the school’s mascot, the Banana Slug represents the laidback attitude with which they treat themselves, and that relaxed attitude is just what some kids need to establish their potential. Me? I’m looking for the buzz and energy of a big city, smitten with the electric air of Nanjing University, so I’m probably best-served by a larger, more urban campus. Despite the idyllic atmosphere of the place, I just feel the $44,000 p.a price tag is just a little much for a safety school.

Encore

Musings from Meldreth is back by popular demand. Those random thoughts on random things (well, mostly my beloved Canucks these days) were withering like Goleta these last few days. Admittedly, no fire swept through this blog, more a lackadaisical attitude to jotting down those empty nothings surging through the cavernous black-hole I call a brain. But thanks to some well-timed flattery from my grandmother’s boyfriend, live from Carmel, it’s Musings from Meldreth.

What to write about? Hmm…let’s start with some reflections from a long day on the road. Heck, I might even throw in some revelations.

For starters, McDonald’s milkshakes contain a lot more sugar in the stateside version in comparison to its relatively suave, somewhat subtle European brother-in-law.

But hey, I guess that fits the brash American stereotype. However, the combination of staling milk and existing thirst is not a good combination when the water bottles sit empty whilst slogging through the 100-degree-plus highs of California’s inland valleys. Still, I could withstand my lactose-tainted words as Salinas was emerging from a mere speck on the horizon. All is well that ends well.

However, that doesn’t necessarily mean things started well. Our departure from the Palisades was an hour behind schedule, but that pales in comparison to what the people of Goleta and Big Sur are up against. Huge pillars of smoke ebbing from Goleta can be seen from nearby Santa Barbara whilst the mountains around Big Sur are encased by a thick, smoky, blue-tinged haze. Not fun stuff. Let’s just hope my earlier words of wisdom apply to those people. In the words of colorful hockey color commentator, Don Cherry, “God Help Ya, God Bless Ya!” Given that would I be a considered a radical atheist, those words might not carry that much weight, although the sincerity is there.

Similarly, my hands are also knotted in prayer for those aforementioned Canucks. The foundations of the team have been rocked as captain and all-time leading scoring leader Markus Naslund jumped ship and signed with Mike’s hated New York Rangers. My adoration and sympathy for a long-suffering hero will continue, but the fabled West Coast Express line of the enigmatic Burke-Crawford era has only caused problems since the decline of its heyday and now that Morrison and Naslund look to be on their way out of Vancouver, a whole-hearted changing of the guard can finally begin.

Likewise, I could do with a whole hearted sleep right about….now.

Time for a little of the ol' Fireband

Well the big splashes Mike Gillis promised to make in the free agent market have transpired into small, Alex Bolduc-shaped ripples. Marian Hossa, Nik Hagman, Kristian Huselius and Sean Avery could have, at the salaries they have signed to, fit under the salary cap. Instead, Vancouver has spent about $3 million, leaving around $17 million in cap space and not much to spend it on. Mats Sundin turned down the obscene $20 million per year offer tabled by Gillis and looks headed to retirement. Likewise, Pavol Demitra would only take a small chunk out of the cap. So here's what I propose, Mikey-boy. Pull a Kevin Lowe:

Sign Andrei Kostitsyn and Steve Bernier to offer sheets, (4 million per)
Trade Bieksa and a 1st rounder to Chicago (who currently sit over the cap) for Martin Havlat and Kyle Beach, (2 mill increase in salary.)
Sign Markus Naslund, Todd Bertuzzi and Brendan Morrison for 7 million total.

Dunno what you guys think, but being an armchair GM sure is fun.

Stand and Deliver

When former player agent, Mike Gillis was hired as Vancouver Canucks GM in the aftermath of predecessor Dave Nonis’s dismissal, he gave a frank assessment of the team, stating that talent, size and speed were all lacking on offence, also mentioning the overall reliance on perennial All-Star, Roberto Luongo.
Gillis promised that we would see an entirely different makeup come training camp. In not going off the board with Vancouver’s five entry draft selections, he bucked a trend, and may even have made a steal, drafting two highly regarded players past the first round: man-child defenseman Yann Sauve was taken in the 2nd Round whilst high-flying Norwegian center Mats Froshaug was snatched 4 rounds later.
However, it its unlikely one, let alone any, prospects will see ice-time with the big club this year, so whilst the future is bright, we live in the present. Unfortunately, Gillis was on the other side of the negotiating table from his new colleagues, so he enjoys frosty relationships with a number of counterparts. Indeed, the package Vancouver put together for talented Kings center, Mike Cammalleri was rumoured to be the best one going, but due to Gillis’s role in helping take the player to salary arbitration last summer, Kings GM Dean Lombardi sacrificed the future and sent the playmaker to Calgary in a move that saw Los Angeles wind up with a 17th overall pick, seven selections lower than the one Gillis offered.
Still, it works both ways. Mike Gillis enjoys significantly more cordial relationships with his ex-clients, and rumours abound that versatile forward Pavol Demitra is set to land in Vancouver in the next few days. The Canucks have also been heavily linked with Marian Hossa, who has reportedly expressed a desire to play along fellow Slovak, Demitra. Likewise, rumour has it that Gillis also extended a $10 million offer to future Hall of Famer Mats Sundin, widely regarded as one of the league’s finest leaders.
But this is what worries me: 36 hours after the free agency period started and Gillis has just stocked the fourth line with more plugs: renowned fighter Darcy Hordichuk and PKer, Ryan Johnson, all the while letting perfectly achievable (and reasonably cheap) targets such as Nik Hagman, Radim Vrbata and Michael Ryder slip through his fingers. Admittedly, the Canucks have signed Kyle Wellwood, a 5”10 center from Windsor, Ontario who proved his ability as a top-two centerman a few years ago whilst the aforementioned Sundin was out injured. Still, nothing radical. Man, those words look tasty.

Still Not Sure

It’s not like I lose sleep over this, but I sure would like to know what exactly I am. Sure, I know I’m a 16 year old (male) teenager with a passion for sports but also a hankering to succeed in the classroom. But let’s put it this way: I still feel like a foreigner in the UK, the USA and Holland, even if I am a citizen of each country. Even a phalanx of bureaucratic red (orange?) tape has failed to convince me that I’m not Dutch, even if can barely claim to possess a cursory knowledge of the language.
Still, I’m uncomfortable with the brash yet cushy American way of things yet also feel lost with the meek, gritty, direct (how’s that for paradoxical?) scheme of things back in Europe. As you can see, I’m just about lost for plausible reasons to this indecision. I have one theory.
See, I live in the UK, but have never gained any real appreciation for say, the Scouse or Geordies, but likewise the formulation for my interpretation of America is more or less reliant on the white upper-class avenues of Southern California. Point is, my grassroots knowledge of the UK, US and Holland is so lacking that it is nigh impossible to translate my experiences to myself. Effectively, that little section of the fatty, watery mass that constitutes my brain is like a ticket to Wimbledon’s Centre Court for today’s (yesterday by now) match up between Andy Murray and Rafael Nadal: Non-transferable, no matter what the holder does.
However, neither love nor money can help solve my identity “crisis,” to toss in an overused catchphrase. Pure, damned hard work. Speaking of which, a belated good luck to you, Andy.