A Rain of Frogs

“We thought,” he said, “that you were meant to be telling the Truth, the Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth.”

“Oh, that,” said Prak. “Yeah. I was. I finished. There’s not nearly as much of it as people imagine. Some of it’s pretty funny, though.”

He suddenly exploded in about three seconds of manical laughter and stopped again. he sat there, jiggling his head and knees. He dragged on his cigarette with a strange half-smile.

Ford and Zaphod came forward out of the shadows.

“Tell us about it,” said Ford.

“Oh, I can’t remember any of it now,” said Prak. “I thought of writing some of it down, but first I couldn’t find a pencil, and then I thought, why bother?”

There was a long silence, during which they thought they could feel the Universe age a little. Prak stared into the torchlight.

“None of it?” said Arthur at last. “You can remember none of it?”

“No. Except most of the good bits were about frogs, I remember that.”

- Douglas Adams, Life, the Universe and Everything

I am having a serious life realignment right now, so posts might be a little scarce for a little bit. Do not worry. Most, but not all, is well. I merely need to concentrate more energy on those things than on writing right now.

Thank you for your continued readership. I value the time you spend here. This will not be a long delay – I will return shortly.

Countries all over the world are banning the ubiquitous incandescent light bulb, ostensibly in order to protect the environment

While I applaud any changes that render the average home more efficient and makes better use of the world’s already strained energy generation infrastructure, I lament the short-sightedness, bandwagoning and lack of understanding that is catapulting our spiraled, green friend to the top of the light bulb charts.

Has a single government done an exhaustive cradle-to-grave study of the compact florescent (CF) light bulb?

Traditional incandescent bulbs contain 35 grams of materials, most of which is glass and 0.5 grams of which is tungsten – probably the most exotic and potentially dangerous material in a incandescent light bulb. There is also copper, tin and iron, and the material that “glues” the glass bulb to the contact base. All this material works together to provide approximately 1,000 hours of light with an average energy usage of 60 watts.

Contrast the CF with its average energy usage of 15 watts and a reported life expectancy of approaching 12,000 hours.The average CF bulb is comparable in weight to a standard bulb. Like a standard bulb, they contain glass, copper, tin and iron. While the CF bulb does not contain tungsten, it does contain approximately 5mg of mercury in the form of mercury vapor. An average CF also contains plastics, a phosphor,and the materials associated with ballast circuitry.

When one accidentally drops an incandescent bulb, one gets the broom a and sweeps up the pieces. When a CF is dropped, one must open a window and leave the room for 15 minutes. After this, the materials are discarded in a similar way to a standard bulb, while avoiding skin contact with the remains.

Once these bulbs are in the landfill, the incandescent bulb is leaching tungsten into the ground and surrounding water. While tungsten is not a particularly safe metal, it is infinitely safer in the environment than heavier metals like mercury – which is exactly what that CF bulb will be leaching into our drinking water.

According to wikipedia, mercury is a very dangerous toxin which affects the central nervous system, endocrine system, and kidneys. Long periods of exposure can result in severe brain damage and death. Pregnant women exposed to mercury may have children suffering from birth defects.

Mercury is frightening, but governments that enact bills that will put hazardous chemicals in every home, in bathrooms and kitchens and living rooms are even more frightening. This is unacceptable.

CFs do indeed last longer and use less energy, but CF’s contain dangerous chemicals. It is true that far fewer bulbs would make it to the landfill than if they were normal lights, but we’re still putting highly toxic and dangerous chemicals into our ground water and food chain every time we throw away a CF bulb.

Governments have made no provisions to force manufacturers to take these dangerous CF bulbs back at the end of their service lives. If companies were required to take back these bulbs and safely dispose of the hazardous materials, it would go a long way to making the CF a more environmentally friendly choice. But it still introduces mercury to the home.

Less dangerouns alternatives might already exist. LED – light emitting diodes – contain no mercury, and rival or surpass CF technology in terms of light produced per watt of energy used. LEDs have a specified lifetime of over 100,000 hours (more than eleven years!) before the light level produced drops below 80% of the rated brightness. LED lights are more expensive than standard incandescent bulbs, but would likely rival the cost of CF technology.

Many people find that LEDs produce a harsher light than incandescent or CF technology, due to the very narrow bandwidth of the light produced. It is not a perfect technology. But CF bulbs also produce a harsh light with strong coloring that can change the apparent color of paint on walls and upholstery on furniture.

While governments are jumping on the CF bandwagon in order to capitalize on public demand for greener initiatives and encouraging CF technology and adoption, shortsightedness may be dooming future generations to the threat of mercury poisoning.

Other technologies exist that may have fewer drawbacks than CF. LED may or may not be the answer, but before we fill our landfills and waterways with toxic metals, government should at least investigate all available technologies and support the ones that do the least amount of harm to our ecology and put the fewest dangerous toxins in the bedrooms of our children.

Today was no different than any other day. I was standing on the platform, waiting for the morning commuter train into the city. I had my iPod on, listening to the BBC radio drama/comedy the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. It’s good, I recommend it.

There is an unwritten rule about both commuter trains and men’s public bathrooms – one doesn’t talk to others. I cannot explain it, I merely observe it. Right up to the moment that the union man tapped me on the shoulder, my day was no different than any other day. I was startled that someone would touch me on the platform. I popped my headphones out of my ears and turned to look at the union man.

“Hi, I’m one of the guys who maintains the tracks you people use to get to your jobs every day.” he said to me as he handed me a photocopied information sheet.

Again, I was taken aback by his forward manner. I looked down at the sheet, skimming it briefly.

“Right now office workers are maintaining these tracks. It’s dangerous. The company has office workers maintaining the tracks.” he said, searching my face for an opinion.

“Why are you going on strike?” I asked him as my eyes read the reasons listed on the information sheet.

He hesitated a moment, then plunged on “We haven’t had an agreement since December. We’ve been bargaining since last July.”

I nodded.

“It says here that your union believes ‘wages, benefits, seniority, work rules, safety, quality of life and other issues’ are the principal issues, and that you and the company cannot agree on them. Does that sound about right to you?”

I could see he was getting uncomfortable, but he nodded. He had been counting on human nature – that I’d take the sheet and say nothing. But he was wrong. Wrong guy. Wrong train station. Wrong day.

“So, you guys are on strike right now, and while I agree it is absolutely irresponsible for the company to be running trains on dangerous tracks, and while I also agree that the company has likely mismanaged itself, you guys want more money, more benefits, and more security, and you’re willing to risk the lives of thousands of commuters – who pay your wages, if you think carefully about it – because you can’t come to an agreement with the company?”

He was visibly uncomfortable by now, but I didn’t care. I respect unions. I respect their necessity. But when unions become as greedy, as self-serving and short-sighted as the companies they oppose, it upsets me. Unions are businesses, and act in the interest of business.

“How much does the average guy doing your job make? I asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I can answer that.” he responded.

“How does seniority affect the safe operation of these railroads?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” he stammered.

“I won’t even ask about how medical benefits help repair train tracks. You don’t know how much you guys make, and you don’t know how seniority affects the work you do, but you’re supporting a strike based on these issues?” I asked.

“Well…”

“Listen. Safety on the job? Sure. I think that’s a noble thing to make a stand on. Nobody should have to work in a dangerous environment. But there are government regulations to protect workers in the workplace. Safety is a really important issue. And there it is, listed on the flyer you just handed me, after wages and benefits and seniority.”

It was strangely quiet around us.

“But putting at risk the employment – not to mention lives – of ten thousand people who rely on these trains to take them to the jobs that allow them to feed their families because you want better dental or even more money for doing something that a lot of people would be happy to do for less is terrible. There’s other avenues. There’s arbitration. Did you try that? There’s rotating work stoppages – things that inconvenience the company but don’t inconvenience your customers – people like me that you’re asking for support. Did the union think of that? Did you? Did you vote to strike so that you could force the company to give you a raise? Did you even pay attention to the issues?”

I was on a roll, by this point. I was calm, but I was pointed. I believed in what I was saying, and the small group of commuters who were gravitating toward us seemed interested in his response. There was tension in the air, a sense that this situation could go one way or the other.

“We are your customers. The company hired you so that it could better serve its customers. And here you are telling us you are going to cause us problems because you think you need more money? I am disappointed. No, I’m ashamed for you.”

He was torn. Torn between getting in a shouting match with me or leaving. I could see it. I wondered if he’d start yelling. I am sure he felt I was threatening him somehow. The world teetered on the edge of a knife.

“...dunno…” he muttered.

“Maybe you should go ask your union before you start asking us.”

He didn’t answer me, but turned and left. Everyone could feel the tension dissipate as he walked away. There were a few approving glances from other passengers as they caught my eye. But then, like the tension, the small circle of onlookers that had gathered broke up and went back to their own thoughts.

I put my headphones back on and started listening to the adventures of Arthur Dent again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the union man walking down the platform, handing out his information sheets to other commuters waiting for the train.

I would like to thank the Teamsters union for inspiring today’s post, and look forward to any clarification or additional information any Teamsters union representative wishes to provide.

The car sat forlorn at the edge of the gravel lot. It was at the end of a long life, a long, eventful life. It was already an older car by the time the twin towers had collapsed, already old when the second space shuttle exploded in flight and left a train across the morning sky.

It was meant to be so different, so much more. The car had been built to order, a unique model – the only one at this trim level with a sunroof. The owner, a recently married young man with brains and a six-month old child was buying his first ever new car. The world was full of promise and potential.

And the young man drove and loved the car. He washed it every weekend, vacuumed it out lovingly and kept it looking fresh and new. He drove it to work, listened to the radio, and proudly showed it off to his friends. The car sparkled and shone – black cars might look better in the shade, but this car looked good in the sunshine as well.

And then the young man turned the car over to his wife. She needed it more. She was home with a new baby, as well as the rapidly growing young boy who was almost as new as the car. So the young man gave the car to her and went back to driving the old car. He changed jobs, to support his growing family, traveled more – even half way across the country at one point – to provide for his family.

She tried to take care of the car. Sometimes she missed washing the car, and it was too hard with two children to vacuum the car when there was so much else to do. Meanwhile, the young man – now not quite as young as he once was – worked harder and longer to provide for his family. He drove the old car to and from the train that he took into the city. Eventually he found a job close enough for him to walk.

And so it went. A third child came. More jobs with longer hours filled the man’s days, and the car was no longer washed, no longer cared for. There was just no time any more. Weeks and weeks would go by without the man driving the once new car, and when he did drive it, it was only to take care of his ever growing family and their needs. Children grew. Premature rust marred the cars now dull black paint. Parts that should last forever suddenly required replacement.

One day the man bought the wife a new car, a shiny new car that more adequately fit the needs of an on-the-go stroller mom, her dynamic children and their busy lifestyles. The wife told the man that her brother would borrow the car she no longer needed, just for a week, while he searched for a new one. The man agreed – after all, his wife’s brother had always been good to him, it was the least he could do.

Time passed. The children grew more. The man and his wife separated. It had been a long time coming, and though it was hard, the man felt in his heart that it was better for both of them. He asked for the car back from her brother, so long after that first week had expired. He now needed it to get from his mother’s house to work. It took another few weeks, but the car came back.

It was a shadow of its former self. Rusted and barely running. The interior was grimy from years of not being washed. The muffler was falling off. The tires were bald, brakes were worn, the suspension shot.

The car was used up, spent. He took it to the scrap yard, parked it at the end of lot and went in to the office to make arrangements for it. When he stepped out half an hour later, he looked down the row of cars – a row of broken dreams.

His dreams sat forlorn at the edge of the gravel lot. They were at the end of a long life, a long, eventful life. They were already empty by the time the twin towers had collapsed, already lost when the second space shuttle exploded in flight and left a train across the morning sky.