Big Oil is sneakier than the sneakiest

Here's a nice little link released by the Sierra Club. It outlines the amount of land already leased by major oil companies in the US. This does NOT include the Arctic Refuge in Alaska.

So the question is: if they already own so much, why are they telling us they need to drill in some of the last remaining wildlife sanctuaries in the US?

http://www.sierraclub.org/bigoil/map.asp

Gap-Toothed Guardian Angel

My faith in the inherent goodness of the universe has wavered of late, admittedly by own doubts as to whether it has a compass to dish out the "good" and "bad" occurrences to those with some sort of moral compass. But this past week, something broke in me. That essence that has long given me that meager light when all seemed lost, I squashed it in fury. Too long, I thought, I had believed in goodness, and too long I had reaped no results.

In my own self-pity, I spiraled ever inward, spitting and hissing at my loved ones, cursing my own self-inflicted wounds, wishing for death not of the body, but of the spirit.

I have never been one to believe in signs. Having been raised in the guilt-nurturing culture of the Irish Catholic church, I rapidly developed a loathsome air toward forced Sunday school, geriatric moan fests (aka "mass"), and poorly recited acoustic guitar renditions of white bread church hymns reminded me for the umpteenth time to feel bad for existing. Faith, in my mind, has always been a farse, a lie, a fool's errand.

A conversation with my sister yesterday evening spurred my inner fires, when amidst a flurry of self-pitying diatribes and "fuck you" rants toward all the accoutrements of the modern world I have grown to believe are against me, a silence came upon us and she whispered: "Philly. Don't give up. I need you. You are my rock."

Lingering in my mind were these words, all evening, all morning, and into the following day. I carried them, for they stung me, not with any sense of hurt, but with the real life wake up and stop fucking blaming yourself because other people need you truth that it represented. Faith or no faith, through my sister's words, the universe was reminding me why to stay alive.

And then, on my walk back from the grocery store at sun down, I seemed to tap into some sort of invisible wave of joy and elation. Crossing the street, a young, beautiful Brazilian girl in a tattered brown Volvo jerked to a stop, then accelerated, then jerked again to allow me to pass. I chuckled to myself, and found that she too was laughing. We shared our moment and the light changed.

Down the block, I pondered my brief encounter with a chuckle--the kind where the joy seems almost unfair to share aloud, so you grin and tip your head to your chest to compress it and squeeze it into you for a moment longer.

"Hey!" cried a cholo voice, the thick accented Mexican/East LA accent called out to me.

"Don't you ever lose your sense of humour man."

I stood and watched, a half-cocked smirk, attentive to my newfound street preacher as he gave me a friendly fist jab and took out his earphones. His curled mullet was tucked behind his non-descript backwards ball cap, his teeth were gnarled and yellow from tobacco, but he stood erect and sharp, his eyes never left mine.

"You may get a lot of shit thrown at you man, but you gotta keep your sense of humour. Cause you know man, people will try and wear you down, but if you can sit back and laugh . . . Fuck, man! In thirty years they'll look back and go, "Shit! We threw all that shit and him and he STILL happy?!" That's cause you got it together, man. You know how to laugh. Don't forget it. Love."

He tapped my fist, grinned, and walked off. How a complete stranger could so effortlessly and poignantly tap into the pursuit that has been plaguing me for ages since my arrival into LA, and perhaps into "Adulthood," I do not know. I've never been one to believe in the presence of guardian angels, but today, I met him, and he came in a form I did not expect, at a time I did not expect, in a moment where only in hindsight could I see I needed it most.

Perhaps a little faith is growing in me. There's a goodness out there in this universe, and it's looking out for all of us. Suppose you just have to keep your eyes open to see it.

Urban Domesticity: The Struggles of the Restless City Dweller

After months of restless nomadic wanderings, I find myself returned to the metropolitan spread that is Los Angeles. It is an illustrious relationship, the one I share with this vast land that at times seems to embody all that is wrong with America.

But Los Angeles is a land of contrasts, primarily those that will not willingly reveal themselves to the passive onlooker, the weekend visitor hoping to get an imprint of city's spirit and essence by placing their hand in Clark Gable's imprinted palm on Hollywood Blvd, only to be disturbed by an overly-aggressive "performance artist" with a criminal record dressed as Spiderman that demands you offer him tips for accosting you. Or the labryinthian freeway system designed merely to test the limits of man's anxiety before he either a) becomes violent or b) inevitably bursts into flames and evaporates.

We urban dwellers are at odds with the world, not just because of the break neck pace of city life, but because the more cement blocks that we place in the soil, the more estranged we become from the Earth and the serenity the natural environment provides. I have countless friends that speak of a pervasive loneliness they simply cannot combat, despite being surrounded by several million individuals. And so the challenge in Los Angeles is to find the hidden joys, the small pleasures, and the every day surprises that help offset the imbalances of the daily metro grind.

My neighborhood alone is teeming with characters ripe for a future memoir, from senile used bookstore owners who only put books on sadomasochism as their "Weekly Feature!" on counter top display, to vintage clothing store employees who openly discuss their plans to visit AA meetings to pick up "hot and vulnerable men".

"I think you should consider N.A.", a male co-worker responds, tossing his angular bangs aside apathetically.

"Good idea," she chimes in without hesitation.

Just a block away from my home I came upon a group of Mexican labor men, artists and photographers who play flamenco together every Saturday. Entranced by their music, they beckoned me into their gated complex, handed me a Bud, and proceeded to discuss the struggles of the Latino population transitioning to life in California and Los Angeles. They sang with whiskey soaked and accented rasps, plucking at rusted strings with fingers callused and marred from meticulous day labor. And as the sun set across the hills, the fluorescent orange and purple rays of the smog-filtered sun washed across their leathered faces, and I was, almost secretly, in awe of my surroundings.

It is rather trying to "settle" at this age, when the restlessness of one's feet seems to occupy all other thoughts. When the yearning for foreign lands and new cultures is the topic of nightly dream scapes and daily ponderings, but even in stillness I find one can be awed by the world directly in front of them. Perhaps, as I am seeing, the only way to persevere in the urban experience is to seek the unknown, to make oneself a vessel for spontaneity and continue to rewrite the paradigm of your surroundings until it has no definition. Then, and only then, it will become an ever unfolding experience of newness.

This is How It's Done, So Do It Differently

Having recently returned from my 7 week immersion into the worlds of Argentina and Brazil, a few days of contemplation and meditation have helped provide perspective on the contrasts between these United States and those of our fellow global citizens below the equator. Even more so, I've developed some sure fire travel tips that will aid even the most green of backpacker en route to their next adventure:

1. Grow a beard! Although my Robinson Crusoe facial ode resulted from forgetting my electric razor plug-in, it turned out to be a sure fire point of social conversation. Whether you're of the Jesus persuasion or not, having the facial chops to even resemble the biblical man inadvertently earns one free drinks, free appetizers, and shortcuts in airport security.

2. Remember that no matter how many items you get rid of in your travels, your backpack will ALWAYS become heavier.

3. Your adventures will never go as planned. Reduce your attachments and remain flexible, as more often than not, you will end up somewhere you didn't expect that has a dramatic impact on your adventure, and quite possibly your life.

4. Travel with Italians and you will meet women AND eat well.

5. Go out with any group from England, Ireland, Scotland (male or female) and you will be convinced their bodies are made of beer.

6. Keep a journal. E-mails and blogs--like photos--preserve the memories, while your personal scribing will give you an insight to your spiritual and emotional transformation.

7. This one might be controversial: leave your Ipod at home. Without the presence of headphones and a musical soundscape, one gains a greater visceral awareness of their surroundings. Sites, sounds, smells--all are heightened by an ever present mind that is only in the moment--and you will meet and connect with far more strangers without the barrier of headphones in your journey.

8. Persons with less material possessions are generally kinder and more hospitable.

9. Be prepared to fall in love. Strangers you know only for a few short hours to a few days will capture your heart. Embrace it. You will never regret living in the moment.

10. Learn the language. There's nothing that will earn you more instant cred than a savviness of the local lingo. Unless you want to spend your entire trip miming "hunger" by rubbing your belly in a circle and putting your fist in your mouth (which I warn you, is not universally understood), grab some Rosetta Stone's and get to yer
studyin'!

11. Live with a family. I'm convinced that we all unconsciously seek
familial bonds when abroad, and the memories of explaining what a transvestite is while watching "Priscilla: Queen of the Desert", playing UNO with a Brazilian boy who truly BELIEVED he was Spiderman, and playing hide and seek with a 10-month old as if he were your own son, well, they will always stay with you.

12. Learn to be still. It's not all about seeing every site, so don't be afraid to stick around for several days to several weeks in one spot, even if it isn't an UNESCO World Heritage Site. Off-the-beaten path spots are where the real magic happens.

13. In the end, it's about the people you meet along the way. I've had more fun riding overnight buses and being called "fat bastard" by my local compatriots because of my preference for alfajores (Argentinian cookies) over actual meals, than staring at Christ the Redeemer for 30 seconds only to realize, "YES, it is Jesus, and YES,
he is big!"

14. Now go out there and make your own rules!

Peace and Wellness,

Phil

Gastric Singlehood

Time does not move here. Clocks are nonexistent, and the only meter
for sleep is the crashing tide of the rising river, an ever constant
sonic exhale from the mouth of the mountains. At night, it helps me
battle the clash of present and future thoughts, those kinds of
calamitous images and memories that can flood through the portholes of
the mind when the subconscious opens to welcome a new stream of
dreams.

By day, I pass the time strumming the guitar for 10-month-old Cawan
(Indian for "bird of the Amazon"), the youngest of the family clan
whose fascination for beating the instrument like a tribal drum is
matched only by his curiosity to open ever door and cupboard in the
house. And when the family sings "Cawan, Cawan, Cawan!" his arms
raise to the sky, his body rocking to off-kilter rhythm in his mind
that only he hears, exciting his voice into giggles.

When the monsoon rains die down, one can even make attempts to swim in
the upper stream at the base of the waterfall. In an attempt to
convince myself of some form of mild adventurer status, I rock hopped
half-naked to a steady pool, staring blankly upon the brown waters,
pondering what over-sized animals awaited my submersion so they could
nibble on my toes, or nip at my flesh. Alone and unaccompanied by
onlookers, I clutched my arms across my nipples (a common and often
pointless attempt to fight off chill that we all seem to practice),
muttering incomprehensible hoots and hollers until I finally worked up
the nerve to dip one foot in with the grace of a nearsighted
ballerina.

Once submerged, I somehow reverted back to the style of swimming
common to a water-phobic child wearing water wingers (e.g. me from age
5-10 in ANY pool), performing some butchered version of the doggie
paddle that miraculously kept my head afloat. After a few moments of
swatting at imaginary leeches (which turned out to be stray leaves), a
more syncopated breathing pattern returned to me, and I was able to
raise myself onto an ant-infested mud patch next to a rock, and crawl
my way to shore. But dear God, I had gone swimming in the jungle!

My body has even adjusted to the wholely vegeterian diet, which at
first induced spells of light-headedness which my sense memory had
associated only with that time I forgot to eat breakfast in third
grade, played a legendary game of dodgeball, and then proceeded to
pass out from lack of nourishment (the impact of my head hitting the
gym floor actually woke me up). I've actually become quite fond of
the buffet of organic fruits and vegetables that make up each meal,
and being a boy who previously only ate brown foods for a almost 5
years straight, the copious ladles of beans are a welcome substitute.
(Admittedly though, being a bachelor has made this experience much
easier, considering the gastric responses beans induce. Praise be
singlehood in the presence of beans.)

I've even started making legitimate attempts at meditation. Of
course, when I am finally able to clear my thoughts into an objective
flow of non-thinking with my breathe, Stevie Wonder's "Uptight" keeps
invading my conscious mind. This morning I even visualized my brain
as an antique FM radio, changing the station whenever a song became to
prominent in my thoughts. At first, the results were immediately
fruitful, as I tuned in almost instantly to the ambience of the
natural surroundings. But when Creed's "Higher" abruptly began
blaring (probably from some cob-webbed channel in my brain connected
to the early high school nu-metal memory bank), I had to give up.
Meditation, it seems, cannot defeat Scott Stapp.

For now I am passing the time in the shade of the porch overlooking
the water, marveling at how I once again managed to get sunburnt in
the shape of my palm across my chest (thank you book reading on my
back!), why Brazilians seem so fond of spandex and lycra (think early
90s BayWatch montages) as semi-formal beach attire, and whether or not
those Argentinian cookies I smuggled across the border will have
melted after being wrapped in long underwear for two weeks . . .

I think it's time to meditate.

Peace and Wellness,

Phil

Rump Shakin' Bee Gees

Contrary to popular belief, rhythm is not a genetically inherited Latin trait. Brazilians, known for the complex movements of the samba, forro and numerous unpronouncable Carnaval dances, have long held the torch of dances that are only performed by Gringos under forced resort settings or the false confidence of tropical vacation drinks. What is less known though is that the common Brazilian does not spend their youth practicing intricate two steps to Sergio Mendes, and that wallflowers, men who only resort to what is best described as "joke dancing" (dance floor staples such as "the lawnmower", "the shopping car", or the retro "wind up doll" come to mind), camera happy rump shakers, and the ever present tall-guy-with-shirt-off-who-seems-to-be-staring-at-nothing-but-with-a-menacing-glare, well, they are all there.

And they like the Bee Gees.

Lapa, Rio's defunct Bohemian hotbed has slowly transformed into the late night mecca for dance floor hungry youth, offering a line of bars and discotechs ranging from hip hop, goth s & m, American 80s techno and the cultural favorite: baile funk. Outside, vendors barter prices for french fries, fried hot dogs, cheap beer and coconut juices, while young children struggle to sell overpriced Trident gum to inebriated tourists while still relishing the bright lights and elation far from the daily violence of the favelas. The sweat and heat is immediate and by midnight, most of the crowd is stripped to close to nothing, a mass of therapeutic perspiration and nirvanic movement, without thought or pretense of to "properly" move. Some do the robot, some do the booty clap, and some simply swirl and spin, lost in their own private, impenetrable euphoria under the smoke glazed lights below the DJ.

Every color co-mingles, every race exalts to the frantic pounding of baile funk, chanting in unison to the lyrics for "More, more, more!", grabbing hands, spinning in circles, tilting their heads to the ceiling and wailing in an almost tribalistic joy. From one hour to the next, the music transitions from Madonna to Chuck Berry to New Order to aggressive Brazilian hip hop, and the crowd never falters nor do they boo or hiss. They simply continue moving, celebrating the freedom to move without judgement, under flashing strobes and pounding bass until first light brings about a new day.

Rio is alive.

Peace and Wellness,

Poached by the People

As I embark upon my next adventure in the land of capoeira, acai berries and the forro, I thought it best to reminisce on the quirks and eccentricities of this odd little country called Argentina:

1. Women--only women--shush people on buses in a particularly unique manner. Rather than the accepted "shh" or "shhush", the sound emitted is closer to that of my cat fighting off the gang of neighboring felines at 5 am outside my window in high school.
2. Taxi drivers are poachers. Wear a fanny pack, ponder your life by looking upward, or simply make eye contact and you will be attacked. And by attacked I mean spoken to in broken English and Spanish with overly dramatic hand gestures that seem to be the model for actors in Barilla pasta commercials (Mind you, most Argentinians are of Italian descent).
3. The most famous rock band in Argentinian history is called Soda Stereo, and after ten years they have reunited for a "Welcome Back Tour." Imagine U2 with a thick South American cadence and you get the picture. Thankfully, they have since dropped their Flock of Seagulls style haircuts.
4. Breakfast is always coffee and croissants, AKA known as EVERYONE is grumpy by 10 pm.
5. The President´s wife was just elected as the new president. She just happens to look like an Ex-Fellini heroin, and her mastermind election slogan: "I am YOU!"
6. This country is a vegeterian´s nightmare. The general diet here consists of bread, pastries, red meat, beer, ice cream and potatoes. The marvelous thing is, not that many people are fat.
7. Mullets and unibrows are considered sexy. As are capri pants and pink t shirts. Hence the close kinship with Southbeach Miami.
8. Che Guevera is bigger than Jesus.

And now a new land calls. 24 hours on a bus! And a new language barrier. Oh how splendid it will be.

Peace and Wellness,

Phil