The Middlesex County Candidate

Last week I aided a friend of mine in the buying of one car and the selling of another. Reflecting on this experience, I find that the government is far too invasive into the private lives of citizens through means that people accept with the inevitability of the American invasion of Iran (Soon to be the secular republic of Iran brought to you by Nike and McDonalds, I’m loving it while I just do it). Some might accuse me of being Orwellian, facetious, childish or just slow to think a thought that a hundred people have thought before me. But let us begin this adventure into the dark place that you don’t want to think about. If the movie Grease was any indication of the simplicity of times past, transferring ownership of a car was simply a matter of losing face before a rival gang and handing over your pink slip in shame. Now, the process begins with a safety inspection. A smarmy mechanic telling you that you need a new flux capacitor, starboard power coupling and four new tires before the car is road ready. Several hissy fits later comes the provincially legislated emissions test. Assuming it passes that, to the Ministry of Transportation where you present the aforementioned information to a disgruntled provincial employee who, while only doing their job, will appear to be doing all that they can to foil your transaction. After presenting the safety and e-test, the ownerships are transferred, wherein you provide the government with your personal information, a receipt of transaction, pay the provincial used car sales fee, buy new license plates and assuming that you have made your insurance company aware of the auto you are attempting to purchase, you can drive away in your new, used car. Driving forth into the mid afternoon traffic, DJ prattle spouting from the factory built sound system, you can rest assured that you are a good citizen who plays by all the governments’ rules on transfer of property from one person to another. But why should you? Regarding a car, the government, both provincial and federal have received tax on the sale of the car when it is new. Not only that but they taxed all the means of production that went into the construction of that car. Why should they get to tax the transaction of two private citizens making a private exchange? The King’s tax collectors never got a cut when one farmer sold a horse to another two hundred years ago, why should he now? Fact of the matter is that those fees and taxes that were assessed upon my friend, were not taxes for king and country. Some will say that they fund the maintenance of roads and other such renewal projects. I say that it is taxation that goes to finance the self perpetuating un-elected bureaucracy that exists within our country. Ask yourself, do you remember voting in any elections where sales of car taxes were on the party platforms? I have voted in every election, federal, provincial and municipal since I was first enfranchised nearly seven years ago and never once have the nickel and dime fees that crop up in organizations like the ministry of transportation been on the platform. The fees that you pay when you renew your driver’s license, purchase vanity plates or sell a used car to a friend, fund a branch of the government that you did not elect. Even more disturbing is that this bureaucracy is so entrenched within the infrastructure of the province/country that it can not be ousted…at least not quickly. An homage to Guy Fawkes targeted against the M.T.O. would not get rid of this cancer within government, in fact, it would strengthen the system. There would always be more forms to fill in triplicate, committees to decide on the rebuilding contracts to be outsourced and, land requisition and rezoning permits to be filed all of which is fodder for the machine. No, friends, Romans and country people, these unelected oligarchs of orthodoxy can only be dislodged by attacking the sinews of power, the coin purse of the government. I’m not encouraging anybody to break the laws of their province, but suggesting that people make use of the grey matter to find ways around the system such that the unelected branch of government administration is rendered insolvent. For example, if I were to sell my car to a colleague of mine, I would do so for one dollar. All paper record of the transaction would indicate one dollar being paid for the car. Naturally, my partner in non violent social protest would have given me a substantial cash donation prior to the sale of the aforementioned car. When the tax man came around to assess me, all that I would have to report is the purchase of a car for one dollar and I can spare the fifteen cents tax albeit begrudgingly and having spat on the coins before handing them over. I’m not so naïve to think that it would make a difference. Perhaps if everybody did it maybe the system could be changed, but even then, probably not. Bureaucracy seems to be one of those organisms that reproduces asexually and with reckless abandon. But, people should be more aware of the fact that there is a branch of the government that exerts great influence over your life (If you do things above the board) and you have absolutely no say in how the execute their affairs. And if you didn’t vote for the minister of transportation, nor any of the middle managers under his or her command, perhaps there are more elements of your government that are in power without your permission. All this time you thought you could plod through life, never thinking for yourself beyond who you want out of the big brother house and because of that the virus of bureaucracy has prospered. Shame on us. It is all too easy to grumble about things that we don’t like with respect to national and provincial administration. But, we should take a page from the mafia and remember that nobody gets away with anything, they only do what you allow them to do. Government only does what we allow it to do and the more apathetic people are towards the way they are governed, the more you legitimize the unelected elements of government. Because if you won’t find a way to change the system, or at least a way to cheat the system, then maybe you deserve to be herded through that line like sheep and talked to like a child for not filling out for 10A-16.

Salsa Conquistador

Once again, apologies for the delay. Without further adieu, here is this week's episode of Copyright Adam Durrant. If I was a gambling person (I am) I would have to wager that everybody and their cousin is blogging about the new suspect in the Ramsey murder case. Crime is one of those things where all people feel entitled to their opinion be it educated or otherwise. But, we do things a little differently here at Copyright Adam Durrant and to be blunt, I have neither the background nor motivation to put forth a blog about a decade old murder. Perhaps one day I will, but not today. Today’s musing comes to you straight from an associated press article that I read on Yahoo news while riding out the post-sushi drowsiness that always seems to hit me forty five minutes after I finish that last sweet piece of raw fish. To summarize the story: The Aztec civilization resisted the Spanish exploration/invasion force led by Hernando Cortez, rather than capitulating to the invaders as was previously believed. The recently un-earthed remains from the city of Tenochtitlan, where Mexico City now stands, show the Aztecs boiled and ate the bodies of captured Europeans as part of their resistance. Why am I taking issue? Because apparently this is a revelation in Meso-American historical studies. My Master of Arts in History is not focused on the aforementioned region, but to assume that the Aztecs just rolled over for the Spaniards and said, “Rape our women and take our gold, we weren’t doing anything with it anyway” has to be one of the most Eurocentric, colonial minded discourses I have ever had the misfortune of hearing. Had I the time, I would find some examples of this line of thought such that I could shame them in my blog. However, I have other things on my plate at the moment. Rest assured comrades that I shall find examples of this shameful history such that they may be lambasted properly. For now, I would like to partake in an exercise of the “Come on?!” discourse of history. Let’s set the wayback machine to the year 1520 in the city of Tenochtitlan. A thriving metropolis of around a quarter of a million people, this city sat as Rome did, the capital of a group of city states all under the iron fist of the Toltec Emperor Mocteuzma II. (I have learned, the term Aztec is a blanket term that is applied far too loosely to all the peoples of Mexico. The city of Tenochtitlan, I have been told, is properly viewed as a Toltec culture). As pre-industrial civilizations go, the Toltec civilization was quite advanced. They had a command over agriculture, engineering, medicine, and astronomy. Their culture was deeply religious, comparable to Rome fifteen hundred years prior. Not a bad place to live so long as you are mindful of the laws, lest you end up on a sacrificial altar. Capital punishment for all, miniature Toltec flags for others. But things had not been going so well during the reign of Emperor Mocteuzma II. The tributary cities around Tenochtitlan had risen in revolt. Stars foretold the fall of the Toltec empire at the hands of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god. Specifically, a prophecy concerning Quetzalcoatl stated that he would return to the Earth as a fair skinned and fair haired man riding a horse and bring about much destruction. Personally, I think a fifty foot tall snake-bird would have been a better instrument to wreak pestilence upon a city, but that’s just me and my eccentric ways. So there I am, out working in the fields just beyond the city’s walls. Farming beans like so many other people. It just so happens, by virtue of one of my ancestors, I own the land I work. Although not noble born, I live in an apartment building in a not entirely filthy part of the city. I’m happily married with seven children, all of whom will survive childhood since we have a home with running water. Self employed, lots of kids that I can afford to feed, life is good. Sure I’m worried about the bad portents, I’m just as religious as anybody else, but I have a bean crop that’s at the forefront of my mind. Sometime around noon word reaches my bean field that something is going on near the city’s gate. Surprised, because I don’t remember hearing about an execution planned for today, I go investigate. And what do I see when I get there? Why, it’s a white man with a pointy metal hat riding a big horse. Enter Cortez. There are a few people whispering that this might, in fact, be Quetzalcoatl come to smite us all. But I am still suspicious of this white man on his horse, and even more suspicious of the other white men that are with him. What are those funny metal and wood things they are carrying? “He’s white for Huitzilopochtli’s sake,” Juan from down the street said. “We were told that when Quetzalcoatl returned to wreck up the place he would look like this.” “Does anybody notice how he doesn’t speak Toltec?” I ask after hearing Cortez say something to his minion. “I mean Quetzalcoatl is our god, wouldn’t he speak our language?” However the rest of the bean farmers, being the ignorant folk that they are, drop to their knees, begging that Quetzalcoatl spare their wretched lives. Now obvious that nobody was being executed or could otherwise entertain me, I go back to my beans. Meanwhile, word reaches the city that a white guy riding a horse has shown up with a bunch of other white guys and the ignorant peasant farmers think it’s Quetzalcoatl come with a big bowl of wrath. This is where 21st century Adam must invoke a “Come On?!” Granted, we now have archeological evidence to back up Toltec resistance. But, if I may invoke common sense, do we really think that the priesthood, although willing to sacrifice humans to the invisible gods, would really let the people believe that this white man was the returned Quetzalcoatl? The corporeal existence of this so-called god undermines the political power and wealth that the priesthood accumulated being the sole ecclesiastical authority of the empire. Do we really think they would let people believe in Cortez as a god and sacrifice all of their gold and privilege? Come on! It doesn’t help that while “Quetzalcoatl” is camped outside the city, people start dieing en masse due to the fact that Cortez and the boys brought disease to dwellers of Tenochtitlan like America brought democracy to Iraq. But, once Cortez took an interest in slaves, gold and land, things that gods of any culture don’t bother with, it must have become evident that he was not in fact a god, but just a white devil worthy of sacrifice to the true gods. In the ensuing conflict, of which we now have archeological evidence, we see Toltec priests cutting out the hearts of captured prisoners, offering their entrails to the gods and feasting on the flesh of their enemies. For historians to assume Cortez was victorious because the Toltecs were ignorant is the height of impropriety. You don’t see people in European cultures surrendering to bearded Jewish men on the grounds that they look like Christ? No Norse warlord ever threw down his axe on the grounds that the opposing horde’s leader bore a striking resemblance to Odin? Iroquois war parties never surrendered to the French on the grounds that they were the spirit of the bear in human form. So why would anybody assume this level of ignorance in a Latin American civilization? Notions such as this embody an aging and highly suspect enclave of historians who place too much significance upon European sources when forming historical arguments. This Eurocentric approach to history plagues research in that, when presented with an absence of proof proving contrary, historians will draw suspect conclusions based on questionable evidence. With respect to this instance, Toltec capitulation to Cortez had, according to the associated press on Yahoo, become the dominant discourse in the field. While the evidence may have seemed sound at the time, historians ought not to abandon reason in the face of one-sided doccumentation. We must take ourselves as much as possible out of our offices and libraries and be a part of the period we study. A conscious effort to understand events from the perspective of a participant, and not that of an observer years in the future, will lead to better assumptions when presented with incomplete information. Speculation will always be part of history, but it should be contextualized as much as possible, not manipulated so the book is an easier sell to the academic community. As much as it scares us as historians, we need use our independent thought as a tool of research not just depend on a potentially faulty historiography.

Grandmother Warned That Self-Promotion Leads to Blindness

M'Lords, M'Ladies, Gentlemen and Nobles, Kinfolk and Countrymen, Well Wishers and Sycophants, Detractors and Malcontents, Advocates and Inquisitors, Saviors and Heretics, welcome to this, most deviant, post of Saturn's day. I have no high handed words for you. There is no lesson in morality. Nor shall I provide you with an anecdote and a scathing editorial thereafter. On this day, I draw your attention to the newly HTML coded links on your right. Primus et secundus link to the first and second, respectively, pieces of science fiction ever published under my name. While my writing may have matured in the last six years, I still find these to be stories of worth and opt to make them readily accessible to the world at large. The third link will direct you, gentle reader, to the blog of a fellow scholar who I hold high in highest of esteem. May you find her words as insightful and thought provoking as I do. Go forth and read. Are you not entertained?

Caucus Envy

Nothing good ever started with a cliché such as, “the older I get” concordantly I shall avoid making such a statement in this particular line of thought. Sufficed to say I no longer want to conquer the world, as I did in my youth. What else was an ambitious fifteen year old to do while being bored by mediocre tenth grade English teacher with a penchant for persecution of heretics within the classroom? Brian Stapley, I am talking about you. Inquisitional remanding aside, my hobby that year was to divide the world, as seen though the two page political map in my school mandated organizer, and appoint my friends as defacto governors. Meanwhile, I would bask as only a soon to be imperator can. While most of the old governors have since fallen out of my favor, my political aspirations remain steadfast albeit more reasonable than establishing myself as a global sovereign. For that reason, I took it upon myself to become actively involved myself with my chosen political party. In my mind, the plan was sound. Deliver an impassioned speech or two within the riding, wait for the inevitable collapse of the current minority government and then announce my candidacy within the party. My local activity would then make me easily recognized when the riding would vote on the candidate. As for winning the actual seat in parliament, I would depend on my youthful optimism and media savvy. Thus, the first step in my Caesarian rise to power began at the Howard Johnson hotel on a muggy July afternoon. I had convinced my friend and fellow party member Ken to join me that evening. Our theories on the meeting itself split between old men in true parliamentarian style thumping books and mumbling inaudibly, or a hodgepodge of the elderly with nothing better to do then attend as an excuse to leave their house. The latter was more correct with the addition of social misfits and those who have not yet mastered the science of dental hygiene. I won’t lie, there’s a sense of power when you look around a room and know that you are the most educated. There is a realization of said power when you listen to the conversations around you and are affirmed that you are not only the most educated, but most affluent and well read. However, when you are on top looking down, you see the world in a different light and begin to lose faith in the system. In this instance, the biggest flaw in the system is the people who are allowed to vote therein. Of the fourteen people assembled at this riding association meeting, eight were elder folk in attendance for the social interaction. Another gentleman was there to wag his finger and tip his hat accordingly to everything everybody else said. His hat, for the record, was a green trucker cap embroidered with the word “Simpsons” on the front. A late comer to the gathering was a woman who wore a face mask as was the rage back during the S.A.R.S. outbreak. Her role was to divert discussion away from the agenda of foreign policy resolutions to her own personal agenda of “pity me for I am a loser”. The final two men to arrive missed the voting but were present for the plethora of off topic discussion. Seemingly, their function was to mention they were unemployed and that they had been hard done by the system. The details of the legislation that I opposed are inconsequential to the story. In short, it was proposed by the leftist caucus of the party whereby they demanded the United States alter their foreign policy to suit the leftists’ desires. I delivered an impassioned speech against said resolution and was then referred to by the chair as, “The well spoken brother in the back”. I enjoyed my laurels but they were to be short lived. The discussion that followed my speech was most disheartening. One of the executives in attendance ranted, and trust me this was a rant, about Canadian neutrality which both supported and rebuffed my statement. ‘Mask Lady’ became angry at his words. She demanded that somebody define for her the word ‘caucus’. Then, she slammed her fist on the table disgusted with the fact nothing she cared about was on the table to be voted upon and wanted to know why she couldn’t make her own resolutions. The chair kindly explained that the deadline for resolution submission was three months ago, but she would not hear it. For fifteen minutes she yelled about her plight and personal frustration with the system. At which point the elders became aware of their surroundings and asked questions about the marine industry. Another septuagenarian began her diatribe with, “I’m not politically savvy but…” That lasted for ten minutes. After half an hour the Chairman asserted his authority and brought the meeting back under control citing my speech and asked somebody to motion for a vote – which I readily did. The resolution to dictate foreign policy to the United States was defeated and shortly there after the meeting was adjourned. I had struck my first blow. But looking around that the rabble that had helped form policy I could not help but be disappointed. My painstakingly crafted words that eschewed the third runner up of the Canadian Parliament from dictating terms to America was misinterpreted as objecting to the wording of the resolution and not its essence. A vote on delegates to be sent to Quebec City for a federal party meeting wholly broke down into a forum for singing sad, sad songs and putting to rest the confusion of the elderly. These are the people that care about politics. Are they a microcosm for all those within society that take up the mantle of participation in the democratic process above and beyond mere voting? I certainly hope not. I must ponder what the meeting would have been like had I not been there to speak. I’m sure that the plebs would have eventually voted down the resolutions on grounds of “It is too hot in here” or some other non sequitur. But what if a member of the left caucus had been there to argue as passionately for his cause as I argued against? “By withdrawing supporting this policy you ensure that people with (insert special interest here) will receive more federal funding.” Judging from what I observed, those people voted not with their values or their principles, but in support of the most skilled orator. Plebeians and Optimates – notions that I thought were confined to antiquity but were readily apparent within that meeting. There may be a measure of arrogance involved in casting myself as an Optimate, but I would not trust a person who has to ask “What’s a caucus” with setting my party’s policy. Over beers that night, Ken and I discussed how our mutual faith in democracy was shaken. I was feeling nostalgic for the days of a Means Test determining your right to franchise. Obviously, I don’t think the people from that meeting, so woefully ignorant of seemingly everything on the agenda, should be disenfranchised but I fear for the future of my political party when people like this are allowed to set policy. But, in a society that stresses personal responsibility, I suggest that those who do not understand a topic avoid voting in political forums where policy is ratified. Attend, learn about topics from interested parties, but abstain from voting unless you have a clear stance of the issues at hand. As it would be irresponsible to trust a nine year old with a revolver, it is irresponsible of a person who is ignorant of a topic – in this case foreign policy – to exercise a policy setting franchise such that they could detrimentally affect the entire nation. Take your limited sentience to the polls on election days – I would never encourage somebody to forsake their right to vote – but do not impose your vapidity in a situation that has the potential for broader implications than a single vote within a riding. What is a caucus indeed!

Soylent Lean

There was a time, several years ago, when I was working a cushy, comfortable office job. Up to a point, I could make my own hours, the pay was decent and considering I was living with my parents at the time, I could have a rather extravagant lifestyle well beyond that of the average twenty one year old. There were a few downsides to this job. For like all offices (insert obligatory Office Space joke here because I know you’re all waiting for the comparison) this one had its quirks which took me a little while to learn. Part of fitting in with these co-workers, six of which were in a position of being able to order me about, was taking joy in culinary indulgences. Like many lower management I often would be tasked with daily ice cream acquisition and appropriation. I’d occasionally indulge but more often than not, I found satisfaction in the daily half hour away from the office and the following twenty minutes when my coworkers would gorge and leave me to my introspection. One August day when most people were on vacation, only three other people and I were in the office. We had all abandoned the pretense of actual work by ten. To celebrate, I took a 20 minute break and went down to the market. I returned with a bag full of produce, fully prepared to share with my other co-workers. One apple later, I found myself discriminated against for the first time in my life. Being a heterosexual, caucasian male, age eighteen to fifty, it was shock. A certain shall we say, amply fed member of staff, remarked how ‘disgusted’ she was by my snack choice. At her desk she enjoyed some refined sugar in twinkie form. Now what she meant to say was, “Your healthy snack makes me feel bad about my weight and the fact that I put on the pretense of being on a diet while sitting here and eating the devil’s own snack food.” For the rest of my tenure at that office, it would continue like that. I’d bring a bag lunch, everybody else would eat fast food and I would suffer their slings and arrows. There was a time not so long ago when the over-weight people of the world were ridiculed by the rest. They were the minority and the majority, by right of mob rule, had the duty to throw snack cakes at them and oink. The ensuing suicides and eating disorders of the sixties and seventies curtailed the public ridicule, probably for the best. But now, things have gone terribly wrong. If a person were to look up the word ‘Ubermenche’ in the dictionary, you would not see my picture. But, you would see me listed under ‘self-respect’. Exercise, proper diet, they’re important parts of my plan to live to see the twenty second century and own a flying car. Sadly, it seems that self-respect can also be found under the sub-heading of ‘endangered species’. When I go out for a run, pass by a gentleman who takes up so much of the sidewalk that I have to run on the grass and over the heroic guitar playing of Jimmy Page I can still hear him letting loose a snort of contempt in my direction, I must take issue. Perhaps he was violently loosening some phlegm and I am over reacting. His being out that night could be part of his plan to regain his self-respect and reduce his girth to something his limbs can support. If that is the case I commend him for taking the effort. Yet, it seems that those that chose to take a healthy approach to life are now in the minority. Furthermore, I stand resolute that people who take ownership of their bodies ought not to have to endure the passive-aggressive jibes of the over weight. Every time I have to hear about how my eating habits make another person feel bad about theirs and then be robbed of fifteen minutes of my life hearing about some their new half baked diet, puts me one step closer to throwing those seven-eleven nachos and cheese at their feet and demanding they dance like a drunken gun fighter in a John Wayne movie. But, I am better than such things. But, even with my self control, the cycle will go on. The balance of svelte versus robust will be toppled thanks to fast food franchises spreading faster than the West Nile Virus. In twenty years stubby arms will throw protein bars at joggers from rascal scooters. And the joggers will go home and cry while doing one armed pushups bellowing, "Why God? Why did you curse me with the potential to be my ideal weight for my body type?" Meanwhile, “It’s genetic,” others will say as the rascal scooter gang, which long since replaced the biker gang, rolls up to the modified drive through window. “I have high bone density,” will come another voice. Any excuse justifying the situation and allowing for the consumption of mass quantities. But in the end only one out of one hundred will have a legitimate genetic predisposition to obesity – if that even is something on the human genome – the rest will just go home look in the mirror and cry. Why? Because they know that in the final analysis they lack the one thing that would turn their life around self-respect. We’re not a fat society Peter Mansbridge, we’re just one that doesn’t hold itself in very high regard.

Gas Hysteria

If only it was the heat that created a lack of civility among motorists on the night of August 2, 2006. My attempts to repair my computer had come for naught and rather than sit and obsess about the problem all night, I decided that I would go rent a movie. The trip from my house to Blockbuster video takes me past three gas stations. As I drove past the first of three, two things caught my attention: One, the price had dropped from a dollar seventeen per liter in the morning to ninety seven cents per liter. Two, the phalanx of cars lined up, over flowing to the road, all wanting to drink from the cup of slightly less expensive gas. No, there will be no ranting about excessive expense of gas. Furthermore, there will be no conspiracy theories involving the international oil conglomerate price fixing to drive up sales during peak hours. Heeding little attention to the feeding frenzy, I drove on. At the second gas station there was a similar situation. The tableau of oil oligopoly was on public display at the third station as well. I imagine I could have spent the night driving around all of North West London to see similar sights. Like coma patients sluggishly opening their eyes to the world, people would be pulling their H2’s out of the garage for a taste of the sweet sweet nectar of the Texans. In what can only be described as morbid curiosity, I decided to pull into third station after obtaining my movie. Ensuring a safe distance from the lines to the trough, I observed the drivers in their natural environment. There, I witnessed the complete breakdown of civilized behavior and the onset of gas hysteria. What I had perceived to be order while driving past at sixty kilometers per hour, was in fact a Machiavellian scramble for position. There was no clearly defined in and out at the pumps. Nor were motorists using logic to keep to the side of the pump where their gas tank would be most easily accessed. But, as an aside, perhaps I’m asking too much of motorists in pursuit of twenty cents per liter savings to use logic. The three pumps that allowed for six lanes of fueling created a rush to reach the pumps from opposing sides. West and East were converging in the middle and only the swift of gas and break would achieve dominance. Anger became the companion of the slow of foot, as the suffered the smug grins of those swiping their air miles card. Gas attendants, fearing the angry cleat of a soccer mom, cowered inside the station’s convenience store. Those who dared to abstain from a debit or credit payment at the pump were scorned and jeered by those who waited and feared that the price would suddenly spike and their efforts would have been wasted. This culminated in what can only be described as an Orwellian ‘Two minutes of hate’ as a befuddled octogenarian sauntered away from the pump to pay inside and had the gall to make conversation with the attendant. How dare that old bastard be courteous? While it chills me to the bone to think this thought, could George W. Bush and his ‘Bushism’ that Americans are addicted to oil have more than a grain of truth therein. Could it be that we as Canadians are also jonesing at the pumps for a cheep hit on the high octane? Obviously, oil is married to the North American economy and perhaps to the world economy although I would argue on a lesser extent. But what I witnessed last night had nothing to do with commerce and economics hinging on a single commodity. Last night, I saw people, who in other circumstances may have been just as willing to wish somebody a pleasant day, tell their fellow person off and give them the finger for not fueling up fast enough. I bore witness to parents yelling at their children while waiting in line because the children were bored, hot, and sticking to the seats of their astrovans. And, like the donkey that brays for its water, I attended a mass honking of horns which set against the dull noise of passing traffic at Richmond and Fanshawe Park Road created a venerable symphony of the night. Robert A. Heinlien stated that there is a direct correlation between societal decay and the level of courtesy within said society. The more brash and boorish a society, the closer it was to collapse. If what I saw last night is the rule and not the exception then perhaps we are a much more decadent people then any of us are willing to admit. I may yell and carry on about my computer troubles, but I would not go so far as to tell off another person over three dollars in savings on gasoline. GO HYDROGEN FUEL CELLS GO!