The Awful Truth About Climate Change

From Vox:

Yet here we are. The fact is, on our current trajectory, in the absence of substantial new climate policy, we are heading for up to 4°C and maybe higher by the end of the century. That will be, on any clear reading of the available evidence, catastrophic. We are headed for disaster — slowly, yes, but surely.

Even as many climate experts are now arguing that 2°C is an inadequate target, that it already represents unacceptable harms, we are facing a situation in which limiting temperature even to 3°C requires heroic policy and technology changes (or some very, very good news about climate sensitivity).

And yet ... the world doesn't appear to be ending; there's no big, visible threat. Climate change moves so slowly that its pace is evident primarily through graphs and statistics. It rarely rises above the background noise.

Remember that episode of in season 3 of the Newsroom, where Will McAvoy interviewed a  climate change expert and humanity, it turns out, is already doomed? This is almost like that.  

About My Wife

Vida.

I don't talk about my wife much. I'm not sure why that is, considering that if I could package her up in to a book or a television show, she would make millions.

She's that funny. That smart. And just a teeny bit tempered due to her "Mexi-rican" genetics, but I'm going to be honest, her temper just makes me laugh most of the time.

She says the craziest things over breakfast. For example: 

"Look at me. I have a sweater, jacket and scarf to keep me warm. That girl (pointing to a blond who looked like she had just finished working out) is in a halter top and Lulu Lemon shorts. It must be her hotness that keeps her warm." 

Or this gem:

When she's gone for work or whatever, I revert to horrible patterns pretty fast. It's only because of her that I don't smoke cigars every day and exercise regularly and go to bed at a decent hour. If left to my own devices, none of these things would happen. 

More importantly, she's the light that keeps me hopeful that I can be better. Do better. Think better. The reason I make any attempt at all to be a capable and successful human being. I'm not sure I would make these attempts of my own accord. My will can be, more often than not, compromised by depression or hopelessness or anger, usually triggered by the goddamned news.

I don't tell her enough that I love her and that I'm thankful for her and that I would be lost, desperately lost, without her. That I believe her to be beautiful and hilarious and ridiculously intelligent.

That I don't deserve her.
That I never have.
That I'm ridiculously thankful for her fire and her brown eyes and the comfort of her hands when she touches my face.