Wednesday, October 28, 2009



I was talking with a newly found acquaintance the other day about the future of America.

This conversation came about while the two of us were aboard Air Force One.

We were just two of the many other dignitaries on board this airplane who upon returning to the U.S. only after failing to receive the bid to host the 2016 Olympics were lamenting the fact that we indeed did fail. As Catherine and I talked and listened to others as they talked, it soon became apparent to the two of us that we had a slightly different perspective on the meaning of failure than those we were flying with. As most, if not all of our fellow passengers were hoping that Chicago’s successful nomination would have meant that Chicago had finally been recognized as a world class city, Catherine and I were discussing the fact that world class status wouldn’t hide the larger fact that world class poverty was in fact the foundation of this city’s and our nation’s world class economic problems.
Needless to say, while the two of us became enraptured in our separate world of thought, all the udders continued munching on their own. After finally having had enough of udder ear ringing nonsense, there came a moment when we felt the need to be alone and of course talk more intimately about how we felt about America and the Olympics.

As the plane was equipped with all sorts of state of the art surveillance technology, the thought of finding a private place to be alone on Air Force One was somewhat impossible for either one of us to imagine. But, as the two of us were determined to find such a place, we began to politely wander about the floor plan of this Airborne White House. In the process of doing so, we opened and closed door after door only to discover time after time that those who filled the compartments of Air Force One still felt as is if the world actually thought that Chicago was a remarkable 21st century global metropolis.

Needless to say, as two people wanting to escape the throngs of world class egos lamenting the loss of their absurdly over inflated virility, our plans of escape took on the tone of a somewhat grand if not wholly mischievous misadventure.
Having said this, the last door we approached, the one labeled “cockpit”, struck us both funny.

Even funnier was the fact that as we put our ears up to that door, there was virtually no sound to be heard other than an occasional “moo” coming from the other side of this particular door. Whereas all other doors opened to highly exaggerated ran ting’s and ravings of sore losers, the only sound coming from the other side of this door was a moo.

That’s right, a moo.

I mean you’ve heard moo’s before and I’ve heard moo’s before and even though Catherine and I had just met and she’d heard moo’s before, it was really quite odd that the two of us found ourselves within the technologically advanced environment of Air Force One hearing of all things “moos” coming from behind a door labeled “cockpit”.

As we stood and listened and softly and bemusedly argued back and forth over whether we were actually hearing a moo or hearing instead the sounds of some sort of advanced intelligence gathering device, Catherine became increasingly more excited and animated.

“I know that moo” she said.

“What do you mean, you know that moo?” I said.

“I know that moo” she repeated.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I know that moo!” she reiterated.

As the moo became louder and more forceful, Catherine became more insistent.

“I know that moo” she said again.

“Are you from Munich?” I asked in bewildered amusement.

“No, I’m not from Munich. I know that moo” she said again.

“Are you nuts?” I asked.

“No I’m not nuts and this isn’t an oak tree” she said.

“What is the matter with you, this isn’t an oak tree it’s Air Force One” I said.

“No it’s not an oak tree, this isn’t Air Force One….and….this is definitely not a ‘cockpit’.”

Knowing that up until this point Catherine and I had been having a wonderful and I might add, very intelligent conversation, the two of us just stopped and within our silence looked at one another as we stared as well at the door labeled “cockpit”.

“This is not a ‘cockpit’. This is not Air Force One. This is the door to my barn….and…no, I’m not from Munich, I’m from Chicago. My name is Catherine O’Leary, I work for the CIA and I’ve come to get my cow back” she said.

(yes, this is a true story)______________________________

“The CIA, that’s counterintelligence” I said in disbelief….and………..what is your cow doing in the cockpit”?

“It’s not a cockpit it’s a barn,,,,,,,,and,,,,,well……….your right about the CIA being counter intelligent,,,,,,,,,,,but, well……….actually, I work for the CIAA” she said.

“What is the CIAA”? I asked.

“Cows Infiltrating America Again” she said.

“I thought you were a hockey player” I said.

“No, I’m a hockey puck maker” she said.

“Look Catherine, either it’s the altitude, you’re nuts or I’m nuts or all of the above” I said.

“I make hockey pucks out of cow dung” she said.

“Are you sure you’re not from Munich”? I asked.

“I make hockey pucks out of cow dung” she insisted. Then she asked……….”What do you do?

“I make hockey sticks out of oak trees and acorns”.

Needless to say, in an udder state of confusion we both just stood there wondering just what we could possibly say to one another next when all of the sudden the door labeled “cockpit” swung open.

Dressed in a remarkably well tailored full bodied, all leather flight suit, the pilot looked at the two of us and said “Are you coming in or not”?

I mean Holy Cow, what can you possibly say to the pilot of Air Force One after a greeting like that?

Catherine and I walked through the door and sure enough we entered a barn as we did so. I mean a flying barn complete with horse tack and fresh bales of Alfalfa. I was absolutely shocked and of course Catherine was overwhelmed with joy. As Catherine and the pilot took an instant liking to one another and wandered off together, I was left to explore the “cockpit” on my own.

Curious as hell as to how Boeing had designed the cockpit of Air Force One to resemble a barn, I spotted the hay loft. Finding the ladder that led to the loft, I climbed it only to find myself staring at the back side of another remarkably well dressed pilot at the real controls of Air Force One. On the back of her suit was air brushed the words “Moon Jumper 2020”.

Somewhat aghast and still hanging on to the ladder, Moon Jumper turned in her seat and said “HAY, c’mon and have a seat”………talk about a fiberglass reality?

…….to be continued after 2016.

My name is M.Patrick. I am a 21st century green industrial American essayist. I am as well, an architectural designer, master carpenter and master urban organic gardening engineer (I design sustainable irrigation, heat and air transfer systems among other totally whimsical 21st century sustainably green industrial gardening gadgets, devices and fantasies).

Having said this, let me add that I have spent the greater part of the past forty years designing and building alternative energy homes that overflow with personal creativity, remarkably advanced applications of alternative energy technologies and equally remarkable doses of healthy personal energy. Thus American homes are in my mind remarkable expressions of the genius that emanates from the minds of the forward thinking family members who reside in such “care filled dwellings”.

Because I feel so strongly about what I have just described, I am considered to be a visionary.

Yet as I am a visionary and one that should after decades have found at least some measure of respect from those who clearly are not, myself and many others just like me have instead been forced into the role of being useless and therefore totally inconsequential dreamers whose visions of national self sustainability have no tangible economic consequence for the greater good of the America we as highly intelligent and extraordinarily well disciplined “Master American Industrial Visionaries” collectively believe in.

While the fictional tale told above might be considered as humorous, please be assured that this author is not laughing. I’m angry as hell over the fact that I have devoted my entire adult life to the advancement of alternative energy technologies only to be considered as an illiterate ass by the larger asses that have destroyed our nation’s economy in every bit the same manner as they systematically attempted to destroy our nation’s right to express genuine individual as well as group and community wide sustainable and organic economic growth.

As laughter is within this author’s eyes a wonderful tool that helps us all to see just how much we can do together, it is as well a cloak of tears wrapped around the bodies and hearts of men and women across America who dream good dreams but are left leaderless by insolvent men that still insist upon manufacturing dysfunctional and wholly irrational “industrial cockpit nightmares”.

This is my first essay cross posted on another blog. The reason it is my first is that up until just a few days ago, I had no idea that

La Vida Lacavore

actually existed.

None the less, as I happened across this blog in my ongoing “search for organic American community members”, something inside told me to dig deeper and explore the thoughts that fill the pages of this remarkable blog that is all about regional organic farming and specifically how such farming is affecting her small group of followers. As I did so, I realized that the architect of this blog was a remarkably gifted woman – a human being by the name of Jill Richardson who upon her life journey has become in quite a remarkably short span of time, an “encyclopedian” documenting in earnest, a wholly disjointed national legislative agenda as that agenda pertains to the negative nutritional and intellectual health of all Americans. A compassionate, 21st century legislative earth mom whose purposeful devotion to her own dream of identifying and exposing non organically bred political nitwits who would still rather have us all eating “Barbie Doll Sized Olympic Twinkee’s” manifests itself in her willingness to allow others of equal intellect and insight to express their own ability to do the same.

As a nation that does not eat right cannot in any manner whatsoever think right, the International Olympic Committee’s immediate rejection of Chicago belies the fact that two thirds of Americans are obese in body weight in every bit the same manner in which they are obese in arrogance while being in the same breath thin with intelligence and even thinner in self fortitude. After emailing Jill for the singular purpose of inviting her to visit my blog, she in turn, invited me to contribute an essay or two to her remarkably rich blog on American human health potential.

And so, here we all are comingling in the cockpit of a grounded Air Force One talking to the imaginary fiberglass cows that just a few years ago lined the same trendy streets of Chicago that today in 2009, the IOC has deemed completely unworthy of representing the greater and more enlightened sustainable nations of the world.

Anyone care for a game of 2020 moon hockey?

You bring the pucks, I’ll bring the sticks!

M. Patrick Dahlke