When I began work on this article, I had plans to chaff the participants of ICOA, the International Civil Aviation Organization; International air carriers and their backers, who, in a parade of paradox, have juked through the major cities of the planet for last ten years under the flags of ecological concern and integrated commerce for the purpose of hustling atmospheric physics. Displaying no shame in stalling climate remediation, even though ICOA had been instituted to design and invoke that remediation, their hypocrisy called to me like drums to the march. I had to respond.
An easy thing to do, I thought. A quick overview of the science, a blistering attack on economic shortsightedness, a heart rendering, yet elegant discourse on the lunacy of introducing GHGs directly into the atmosphere–exact coordinates of where GHGs will do the most harm–followed by a witty summation. All wrapped in jaunty costumes of urbane mirth.
Paint the target. I’m going in hot. Ready to unleash my dancing Valkyries of alliterative metaphors into the sneaky skies, mouth watering with an anticipatory wash–sanctimony, superiority, and a pristine environment–my ensemble of colorful decking lay in wait upon a float of thought. I began to pound a keyboard cadence.
In seconds, my carnival faltered. Rather than developing into a glistening promenade of humor and reason, the dance slithered onto the ground like a deflated parade balloon. I readjusted my intellectual tempo and once again tapped boldly upon the console in an effort to shimmy into the boundary between absurdity and truth–only to discover a more compelling tune on the street.
I couldn’t establish where my jokes ended and ICAO jokes began. Like some ancient war chant between warring tribes of humor taunting each other, my call of the absurd, and their return of daft indulgence, rather than declaring sides the calls simply evaporated into an atmosphere of whoopee.
It began with this gem: In a criticism of the EU plan to cover the emissions of the entire plane flight, not just the section over Europe, the ICAO secretary said, “This is an extra-territorial principle, which is illegal.” Thereby rendering aircraft related GHG reduction to theatre–they couldn’t be serious.
Comedic angst displaced pique; I pondered which joke belonged to whom? Could the daffy have denatured farce? Had humor become an undifferentiated exhaust entering the lyrical atmosphere and dispersing beyond my border? Or worse–was I like that aforementioned rain-man who claimed ownership of airspace-sans-atmosphere?
The competition was so determined: “The Air Transport Association of America, together with American Airlines, and the United Continental Group is challenging the EU initiative at the European Court of Justice–the EU’s highest court. They want the EU to apply the GHG reduction program only to its airlines.” In this class of competition, to be gauche adds points.
These highflying rascals were labeling an effective rule illegal because it takes into account the entire planet and its atmosphere, while ignoring national borders. They had to kidding, right? My competition seemed so brilliantly mad, the vividness of their humor made my ink (jet) pale. I became frantic, but would it be right for me to pick at their flag-man? What could my good-natured challenge be? And if they weren’t serious, how could I satirize these jokesters? Didn’t ICAO deserve a call at their whimsy, that competitive poke at joke-dancers as they cavort along the digital parade? I began to trip over their zany words. They had the masterpiece of folly and I, only a keyboard’s beat.
Then came the tour de force: Said ICAO, “We think that the EU’s proposal is illegal because it seeks to charge airlines (to reduce GHGs) for the journey outside the EU’s airspace.” The ICAO claimed an imaginary Cold-War-Wall in the atmosphere. I was doomed. All I could hope was to add the flattery of imitation on how ICAO was stonewalling the implementation of GHG reduction from aviation when–for heaven’s sake–that was why the ICAO was formed. A poor drum beat at best.
I finally had to admit the ICAO owned a lever I would never have: A UN sanctioned troupe. I was beaten. There was nothing for me to add. They had displayed the best jokes in the most bizarre costumes. I was forced to tip my flag at their lunacy and depart. To taxi out onto the digital thoroughfare, a beaten wag hoping tomorrow presents an easier, less ridiculous target.
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