Virginia is the new Arizona

It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

I hope our infamous Attorney General Ken “The Cooch” Cuccinelli doesn’t get any craz(ier) ideas from today’s blog title. I’m not referencing immigration law in comparing Virginia to Arizona, nor do I want the Old Dominion to sink into that negative canyon of thought.

No, it’s all about the heat.

It’s blisteringly hot in Virginia right now, with nary a raindrop in sight. And, where we normally have withering humidity that we, admittedly, complain about constantly, without it, we are not getting those daily sub-tropical late afternoon thunderstorms that cool the evenings and make life bearable.

Did Elijah come to town? Is this a harbinger of things to come? Will it stay this way until we stop worshiping the Baal of oil and the almighty freakin’ dollar? Or can we just blame it on global warming, cuz this ain’t no Virginia weather I know.

That got me to thinking. I wonder what kind of dwelling Senator James Inhofe would build now? Back when the champion of the anti-global warming movement built Al Gore a new igloo home from the bounty of a D.C. snow storm (and bragged about it on his Facebook page) I bet he sure wasn’t thinking much about how, you know, it snows in winter and its, uh, hot in summer.

Well, in what amounts to an adult version of “I know you are but what am I,” I’d like to build, at least in the recesses of my mind, a hut for Inhofe out of the increasingly dry and cracked Virginia soil. He can throw snowballs at me, and I’ll pelt him with clods of earth. Of course, violence doesn’t solve problems, but, it still sounds like fun. Except the building it part, particularly in this unforgiving nuclear heat.

Did I mention how how it is?

I tried my best to do something about it. In the past I’ve noticed that whenever I plant something, it rains later that day. I attributed this to some supernatural powers on my part, like a subtle flapping-of-butterfly-wings relationship to the cosmos type thing. So, this morning I finally planted the four remaining sunflowers left over from Transition Staunton Augusta’s Earth Day project where we gave away 250 sunflower plants.

Needless to say, today’s planting yielded no rain. The day remains horrifically hot and I’ve had to confront the unpalatable notion that my ability to control the weather may not, in fact, be real.

You know, I have a degree in dance and choreography and I would go outside RIGHT NOW and do a rain dance in the middle of the street if it wasn’t so damned hot!

But seriously folks, there’s not a lot that a layperson like myself can say about global warming. But I do know a hot day when I melt under one, and after about 15 in a row (save the minor respite late last week), the region appears increasingly grim. From here to Harrisonburg, all the farmer’s fields look baked to a crusty brown. Normally lush Virginia trees sport nearly lifeless, wilted leaves, shriveling in on themselves. While temperature in and of itself is not a global warming indicator, and daily weather is not to be evaluated through the global warming lens, drought is one of its features. If this is a preview, I don’t want to see the real show.

I’m afraid. I’m afraid of peak oil and afraid of global warming and afraid of my society for not paying attention, or enough attention, or the right kind of attention. I’m afraid when instead of dealing with the most serious matters of our time, we engage with gross distractions, reward cheaters, and enact halfway measures. I’m afraid that we’re not boldly taking on these life and death matters with nothing short of a war footing and committing to a comprehensive plan of action with meaningful, measureable results that would change for the better the way every single one of us live and do business.

If I’m afraid and yet still willing to deal with the problem, I think its a safe bet that America is ready now, too. Run the matchbook campaign, Obama. Run the matchbook administration. Begin the peak oil conversation, and put the global warming tussle to bed. Break out the bully pulpit and start kicking ass and taking names. The time for debate is over.

Please, God, let it rain.