Of course, the current spasm of "green religion" (and someone has already used just that phrase, and in all seriousness) must run its course before any sense can emerge from our re-re-re discovered awareness that 1) fossil fuels aren't inexhaustible, and 2) we are fouling our own nest.
Nevertheless, it's simultaneously tedious and frustrating to read the 87th iteration of what amounts to the same mantra. Today's selection is "I'm running a mix of Wesson Oil, used french-fry squeezings, and the renderings of chit'lins in my '77 Mercedes 240D, after Alf the Diesel Doctor worked on it. I'm saving the world, now if all of us just...."
Ignoring the fact that you can act locally in such a situation, but you cannot apply it globally, I'm just on overload with the whole thing.
When Robert Benchley was writing as critic in The New Yorker back in the 1920's, he expressed this kind of frustration well, but on a different topic:
I am now definitely ready to announce that Sex, as a theatrical property, is as tiresome as the Old Mortgage....I am sick of rebellious youth and I'm sick of Victorian parents and I don't care if all the little girls in all sections of the United States get ruined, or want to get ruined, or keep from getting ruined. All I ask is: don't write plays about it and ask me to sit through them.
...and I don't care if the importance of french-fry oil is earth-shaking (which it's not), I just don't want to hear any more about it.
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